“…I like going to the movies. And Monster Trucks. Do you like monster Trucks?”

Buffy sighed. She was seriously fed up. This evening was nowhere near as fun as she’d thought it was going to be. When Willow had found the ad in the local paper, it had seemed like just the thing to cheer her up, something to stop her moping over Riley’s departure to the jungle or worrying about whether Glory might snatch Dawn. ‘Speed Dating Night!’ the advert had proclaimed. ‘Find your perfect date in minutes!’ and for a while Buffy had looked forward to it. Dating she could do, and twenty-five choice hunks eager to romance her couldn’t be bad, could it? Maybe one of them would be that elusive one.

Some hope.

So far, hunks had been in short supply. Not one of the suitors had matched the image in her head of whom she’d thought she’d meet - a lean and muscular hottie, tanned and chiselled, and witty to boot. Instead, they had proved to be a parade of Sunnydale’s’ finest geeks and losers. They were a pathetic bunch: stamp collectors, gangsta rap never-bes, and college boys looking for an easy lay. Not one of them had listed weaponry or even Kung Fu amongst their interests, and who knew how un-fascinating Babylon 5 could be? And. Every. Single. One. of them had listed ‘going to the movies and hanging out with friends’ amongst their hobbies. How original.

“Not really, no,” she replied to the latest one, a skinny, pimply kid whose body swam in what looked like his father’s out of style suit.

The young man was oblivious to her lack of enthusiasm, however. “Maybe I’ll take you sometime…”

Luckily, Pimply’s offer was interrupted by the tinkly bell, which indicated that the five minutes the suitors had to sell themselves to their potential dates was up. Buffy shrugged as the boy got up to leave the table. There was no time to swap numbers - not that she would have - the next suitor was on his way. Hopefully this time it would be that perfect handsome bachelor that would appreciate her super strength, her tendency to roam cemeteries at night and her occasional icky wounds. She wasn’t asking for much. Right?

She just had time to plaster on her best dazzling, yet insincere, smile for the next guy, who at first glance, was really drop dead… Spike.

“What are you doing here?” she said through gritted teeth as he settled into the chair opposite.

“Finding a date, if you must know.”

“These are living people Spike!” She couldn’t believe his nerve. “You are dead; as in, not living.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged loosely. “So? Demons won’t bloody have me anymore. Have to take it where I can find it.”

“Please leave. Now.”

He sprawled back in his chair, getting comfortable. “I believe I get five minutes first.”

“Here? With me?” A mild panic began to send her heart rate into some jittery freeform jazz jam. Groovy. She didn’t want to be in the same room, planet, universe, with Spike any longer than she had to. Five minutes was going to feel like an eternity.

“If you’re offering,” he grinned and waggled his eyebrow in a way she was sure was obscene. “Bit public, but I’m not fussy.”

“I am so not offering. Leave.”

“Can’t,” he waved an arm towards their host. “Valkyrie lady over there gets a bit put out if the dates walk out. Buggers up the numbers.”

Buffy glanced at Miss Morris, the Reubenesque woman who ran the night with an iron fist. She was, indeed, stalking the hall, watching for anyone who might get out of line, in the same manner that she might survey a battlefield for the corpses of the brave.

“She’s a Valkyrie? That explains a lot,” Like the bulky gold armour she’d glimpsed earlier under the woman’s voluminous white dress, Buffy thought. “You’ve been here before?”

“Every Friday, now Harmony’s buggered off. Gives the old wrist a rest.” He unnecessarily demonstrated what he meant with an obscene hand gesture that made her blush.

“You are so gross, Spike!” she spat out a little too loudly.

Miss Morris’ uncannily acute hearing picked up her sharp tone and she was over in an instant. “I hope there isn’t a problem?” her voice thundered in a booming soprano.

“No, no problem,” Buffy said weakly. Something about this woman terrified even the Slayer.

Miss Morris smiled, which was a frightening sight in itself, and Buffy doubted that many of those dying warriors were carted off to Valhalla by choice. “Good to hear. Play nice. This evening is supposed to be fun!”

Buffy smiled back, reassuring the woman. “We’re good. Thanks.”

Miss Morris seemed satisfied with that, and she disappeared as quickly as she had arrived, and Buffy was left with her main problem. Spike.

There was a moment’s pause, an awkward silence that neither of them was exactly sure how to fill. Buffy glanced at the clock, which seemed to be running in slow motion. Four minutes left. Predictably it was Spike who managed to find something to say, much to Buffy’s disappointment. The silence might have been uncomfortable but it was better than having to listen to Spike’s big mouth.

“I believe I get to ask you some questions,” he said.

“Like what? What would Spike like to know about Buffy? What colour my underwear is?” she replied tersely.

“I already know what colour your underwear is,” he licked his lips. “I particularly like that red set with the lacy…”

She wanted to punch him. Wipe that leer off his face. Right Now. She even balled her fist ready, but when she felt Miss Morris’ looming presence, she thought better of it. Maybe later. “You disgust me,” she hissed.

Spike smirked, and Buffy checked the clock again, only three and a half minutes of his company left to survive.

He leant in closer. His eyes were doing that earnest puppy dog thing he seemed to think might get her to forgive him. “Look, I know I might have gone a bit far the other day; Dru was in town… it was a bad moment.”

“‘A bad moment’?” She was incredulous. “What about the chains, Spike? Like chaining me up would get me to announce my undying love for you!”

The puppy eyes shifted into a more sheepish expression, but she still wasn’t going to forgive him. “Worked with Dru. ‘Sides was the only way I knew to get you to listen to me!”

“I’m not some mental case vampire, Spike! This is not going to make any difference to how I feel.”

“You’re still angry, I get it. One day you’ll see.”

“See what? I could never be with you, Spike. I want a living boyfriend. I want to have picnics in the sun and…”

Spike made a short humourless snort. “Huh, a white picket fence? Believe me, you’re not made for that.”

Buffy wondered how he came up with these bizarre notions about her. “You’ve been theorising about me since we met – and sometimes you are even good at it, but this time you are wrong.”

“Am I?” His eyes caught hers again.

She wrapped her arms around herself, uncomfortable under his scrutiny, right then any other subject would be better than his amateur psychoanalysis. “Ok, what do you want to know?”

“Right then,” Spike straightened. “What does the Slayer look for in a man?”

Her tone was acid. “I dunno, Spike. A heartbeat? A soul? Good taste in footwear?”

He looked at her as if she was insane. “A soul? Like what Angel has? Complete with a right royal pain of a curse? Bugger that.”

“I’m not talking about vampires! And certainly not you. I want a…”

“Human? You need more than that, Slayer.”

“You’re right,” she nodded in faux agreement. “What have I been thinking? A serial killer is just what I’ve been missing in a boyfriend! Should I ask out the Boston Strangler?”

Spike scowled, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Why are you such a bitch?

She leaned in. “Why can’t you take no for an answer?”

He leaned forward to meet her, his stare boring into hers, their lips closer than either had planned, a fact the were both acutely aware of.

“Answer my question.”

She looked into his eyes, they blazed in the subdued romantic lighting and she was drawn in. She found herself breathless, her mind groping for a witty put down. The bell tinkled.

“Time’s up,” she whispered.

Spike pulled away sharply, glaring at her. She saw a hundred expressions of annoyance and disappointment cross his face like clouds in windy weather sweeping across the sky in turbulent time-lapse. Angrily, he stood up, pushing his chair in with an aggressive shove, not caring about the racket it made as its legs tangled with the table’s in a noisy metallic clatter. He was gone with a dramatic swoop of his duster.

As he walked away, Buffy felt all the tension that had built between them ebb away with the tide of her emotions. There was something about him got her so riled every time they spoke to each other. He was infuriating, and he was always hanging around where he wasn’t wanted – which was everywhere. And to think that he desired her as well… Ugh, that was a thought she firmly rejected. She hated him. Why didn’t he understand that?

She looked over to where he was settling into the chair at the next table. It would be just her luck though that Spike would be some sort of chiselled Adonis beneath that stupid leather coat - which was way too big for him anyway – and the punky radioactive hair.

He was starting to turn his charm on to his next date, a pretty black girl. The young woman looked up at him, radiant with the open desire that sparked in her eyes. Spike leaned in close to whisper what was probably some filthy inconsequence into her ear. Buffy wondered what kind of line he was feeding her when she giggled with delight. Then he glanced over and met Buffy’s eye, sourly holding her gaze for a moment, before turning his back on her.

So that was how he was going to play it. Fine with her, she thought. She had her next suitor, her last for the evening, to talk to, and maybe even seduce too if he was cute. But when he plopped into the chair opposite, she hardly noticed him; she was a world away and she barely listened to what the young man said. Fortunately, he seemed to like the sound of his own voice and Buffy was free to spend the remaining time wondering what business a Valkyrie could have in Sunnydale and watching Spike seduce his date. Didn’t that woman notice the deathly pale skin or the bad fashion sense?

Apparently not. The woman fluttered her eyelashes at him in wanton invitation and Buffy felt kinda sick.

“So what daring escapade is the Slayer up to tonight then?”

Buffy’s heart sank into a dark abyss she’d never known existed in her stomach. She slammed the door of the hall behind her in annoyance, not caring whose face it flew back into. Jonathan protested, but the annoying vampire who’d decided to wait outside for her had caught all her attention and nothing else at that moment mattered.

She did the only thing she could in the circumstances and pretended she hadn’t heard Spike lurking.

Except her evasive action didn’t work. As she left the street and snuck into the alley beside the hall, he followed her like an unwelcome shadow tagging at her heels. Unfortunately, when Spike wanted to be noticed, he was hard to miss.

He fell into step with her despite the absence of any encouragement. “What’s going on?” he asked again.

Buffy kept walking, determined not to look at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Something’s up.”

“No. It isn’t.”

He laughed. “Yeah right, that’s why you’ve got that look.”

Buffy stopped, suddenly feeling a little vulnerable. She didn’t want Spike analysing every little expression she made. “What look?”

He gave her a sly smile and shoved his hands into the pockets of his duster. “Your cute little Nancy Drew face. C’mon you’re on to something.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose in irritation. “So what if it is?”

Oh no, he was doing the puppy dog eyes again. “I could help…”

“No! No, times infinity.” He was persistent; but she wasn’t giving in. “Plus one.”

His frown was puzzled. “What?”

Happy with his confusion, she strode away. “Go away, Spike.”

“That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? ‘Go away, Spike’.” He shouted after her, “You can’t ignore me forever, you know! You need me.”

She stopped again, whirling around on the heel of her pretty new boots, all the more special as she’d got them on sale. “How could I possibly ignore you? You’re always here! Always in the way!”

“I’m not in the way, and you know it.”

Exasperated, she threw up her hands in an open shrug. “Spike. Today I had a deranged robot girl on the loose. I have a hell god that will stop at nothing to get what she wants. My mom goes out on more dates than me. I do not need some pathetically lovesick vampire following my every move!”

“Hey! I helped you protect your mum and sister. I…”

“Are you trying to score points?” she said, aghast.

Spike sighed with frustration. “I’m trying to get you to notice me!”

“It’s working. Not in a good way.” She started to walk away.

“You think Valkyrie lady is up to no good,” he called to her retreating back, his smirk firmly back in its customary place.

Buffy didn’t reply, but she paused mid-step.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” he said as he joined her again.

“Shut up. I just want to know what’s going on,” her tone was sharp, but it was starting to form a softer centre as she began to relent.

The alley behind the hall was dark, grubby and unlit, ideal for Buffy’s purpose – and probably for Spike’s as well, but she didn’t want to think too much about that. A short search along the wall of the building revealed the fire escape doors on the far side of a large rusting dumpster. Buffy tried them to see if they would open, but as she suspected, they could only be opened from the inside. Force didn’t work either, and all her Slayer muscle managed to do was bend the tough steel under her fingers.

Spike watched with admiration. “Breaking and Entering? You are my kind of girl.”

Buffy chose to ignore that comment and tried to find another way inside. The only other entrance appeared to be a small window on the second floor. It was missing a pane and had been boarded over with a piece of cheap board. It was too high for her to jump up to, but she might just reach it if she had help; she might be super strong, but she was still short.

“Oh crap,” she sighed, realising she would have to ask Spike for his assistance.

Spike was grinning when she turned to him. He raised an eyebrow in question. “Don’t need me, Slayer?”

“I never need you,” she snapped, but the protest in her voice was gone.

“Right. I’ll be going then…”

“Spike!” she warned. She positioned herself under the window, ready. “Don’t look up my skirt.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he breathed in her ear as he moved in behind her.

Any other situation, she told herself, that involved Spike holding her hips and moving in this close behind her would be downright icky, and she wondered if it was really necessary for him to get so close that her ass was brushing his zipper. That bulge she could feel had better be a packet of cigarettes or something else in his pocket, and not any parts of him she wished he would keep to himself; but as he lifted her so that she could just reach the window ledge, she really appreciated the solid strength of his arms and the firm grip of his large hands around her slim waist.

She reached out and caught the ledge with her fingertips. It was filthy, with a layer of grimy grit from years of neglect and she regretted the sacrifice her pretty pink nail polish. Spike steadied her and she was able to haul herself up enough to push the board out from the window frame. As she did so, she felt a large cool hand stroke the curve of her bottom. It might have been her imagination, but the squeeze that followed it sure as hell wasn’t. She gripped the ledge and pulled herself through the window in an undignified slither, content that her cute kicky heel had managed to firmly wallop his smug jaw on its journey upwards.

The room she fell into looked like a storeroom for the various events held at the hall. Tables were pushed against the far wall, one on top of another, next to an ambitiously stacked rack of chairs. They were listing ominously to one side, like the Lusitania in its final moments after the torpedo, and looked about to topple any minute. The rest of the room was filled with boxes, sports gear and other junk, she had to clamber over them to the door. Fortunately, it had been left ajar and she slipped out just in time to duck into hiding as a group of volunteers arrived to pack away the equipment from the dating evening. After they’d passed, too busy struggling with the bulky furniture to notice Buffy tucked into a dark alcove, she nipped, unobserved, down the stairs to the fire escape.

Spike was leaning against the alley wall, smoking thoughtfully. The smoke billowed round him, diffusing the light from the streetlamps and creating a hazy sense of noirish mystery, or was it just a stink? He seemed to be resigned to abandonment anyway, and looked surprised to see Buffy open the back door to let him in.

“Change your mind?” he asked.

“Don’t. Just get in here,” she reached out and yanked him inside. “You’ve been here before. Where’s trouble likely to be?”

“Easy, Slayer,” he said, keeping his balance and his dignity but only just. He pitched the butt of his cigarette out into the alley. The embers skittered across the asphalt; short-lived mayfly sparks in the dark. “Trouble’s always in the basement, I reckon.”

“Show me.”

Spike skipped the stairs and led her all the way to the kitchens instead. They weren’t empty though, a couple of volunteers were chatting about shoes as they washed up plates from the buffet, but their distraction meant they were easily avoided. Stealthily creeping past using cupboards as cover, Buffy and Spike reached the back of the food preparation area and he gestured to a small door that apparently led down to the depths of the building.

Wondering just what had he been doing here to know the place so well, Buffy had to pressed her ear to the door and tried to listen. “Nothing. Guess you’re wrong.”

He leaned over and tried listening himself. Buffy found her face too close to a rather tight black T-Shirt. She was just appreciating the really nice musky cologne he was wearing when he spoke again. “There’s voices.”

She jumped back, mildly embarrassed for letting herself appreciate any part of him. “I… I can’t hear anything.”

He tapped a finger against his ear. “Enhanced hearing, pet. All the better to hear you with.”

She flashed him annoyed pout and pulled the door open to reveal a set of short wooden steps, which wound down a couple of flights to the basement floor. It wasn’t a large basement, but big enough to accommodate the eight women that dominated it.

“Ahem,” said Miss Morris.

Caught.

Miss Morris stood there, massively impressive in her Viking armour and scarlet coverlet. The burnished gold of the metal shone brightly in the light from the hundreds of candles, jagged shadows cutting across it through the glow. Behind her, stood seven other women, all as statuesque as Miss Morris and bristling with spears and shields, ready for war. They watched patiently as they waited for Buffy to reply.

“Valkyries, I told you so,” Spike whispered aside to Buffy.

Buffy’s attention was on the fearsome looking women though. She tried to look small and harmless. “Oops.”

“Can we help you?” Miss Morris asked.

“No… It’s okay,” Buffy spluttered, nervously wringing her hands. “I… We were just looking for the exit. You know how it is, we took a wrong turn and here we are!”

Miss Morris frowned. Obviously, she wasn’t going to buy that lame excuse. “I think we need to talk, Slayer.”

The game was up and Buffy led Spike down the steps. “Who are you? I take it this isn’t Weight Watchers? ”

“No. Let me introduce us. These are my sisters,” Miss Morris stepped forward. She gestured to each of the women in turn. “Hlökk, Göll, Skuld, Skogul, Sigrun, Gunnr and Randgrior. I am Rota. We are the Valkyrja, Choosers of the Slain.”

“Catchy,” Buffy quipped. “But I’m bad with names.”

“You may call me Rita if you wish,” said Miss Morris.

“I think I can handle that,” Buffy replied.

“Dunno if I want to be chosen,” Spike mumbled.

“We select the only the bravest warriors for the hall of Valhalla,” said Hlökk.

He looked suitably chastened and vaguely insulted. “Right.”

Randgrior stared at him. “You are already dead. The choice has been made.”

Buffy noted Spike’s growing irritation and decided to step in. “Okaaay… What do you want here?”

“We have other business,” said Rita.

“One of our number has gone missing. She has taken the Raven Banner with her,” Skogul snapped bitterly.

“The Raven what?” Spike asked, still miffed.

Buffy jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “Shush.”

“The Raven Banner is our battle standard,” Sigrun said in a tone that implied that they should already know. “In times of war, the raven emblem will appear upon it to warn of the conflict to come.”

“What does this banner look like?” Buffy asked.

“It is a long trail of the finest silk,” said Skuld. “It was woven by Freya herself.”

“Can’t say that I’ve seen it,” Buffy turned to Spike. “You?”

“Nah. Any demon nicked it, I’d know.”

“As a love token,” Hlökk told her. “She seeks a man to marry and will offer it as a gift.”

Buffy nodded. “Uh huh. So why the Dating Night?”

“As Brunhilde is looking for a husband, we need to look in places such a man could be found. Hlökk and Gunnr are checking the Personal Advertisements,” Rita told them. “Randgrior, Skuld and Skogul are checking the singles bars. Göll and Sigrun are trying video dating. We hoped to find our sister through these ways, but we are far from Asgard and we seek assistance.”

“I get the hint,” Buffy said. She might have known this would end up as her job. “What happens if we don’t help?”

“The wrath of Odin will be absolute,” Skogul pronounced. “Ragnanok will come upon us.”

“Ragnarok?” Buffy thought for the moment. “Isn’t that something with muppets?”

Spike chuckled. “That’s Fraggle Rock, pet. I think these ladies mean something more serious than angry Doozers. Am I right?”

The candles flickered and went out. The Valkyries, seemingly lit with their own powerful illumination, grew taller and even more imposing. Each one spoke in turn:

“Without the banner, the battle to end all battles will not be foreseen.”

“The world will come to it’s ending. The leaves of Yggdrasil will wither and die.”

“The fell wolf Skoll will swallow the sun whole and there will be darkness for all time.”

“The cock Fjalar will crow and awaken the dead from their slumber.”

“Winter will follow winter and the earth will freeze.””

“Fenrir, the great wolf, will break the bonds that bind him to the shaking earth.”

“The great serpent of the sea will spit its poison forth over the land and there shall be ruin.”

“Each world shall burn and sink to the bottom of the sea.”

Spike blinked. “So not much, then?”

Buffy rolled her eyes as the candles re-ignited and the Valkyries returned to their own personal normal. “Another apocalypse? Hey, I thought we were all already having one?”

“Great. Apocalypses like buses” Spike snorted. “Someone really does want the world to end. To think I thought it wasn’t worth all the bother.”

“If we help…” Buffy started.

“Speak for yourself,” Spike muttered but the murderous look Buffy gave him stopped his mutiny almost before it began. “Right. Ragnarok: not good. No reason to be freezing my danglies off.”

“I so don’t want that image in my head,” Buffy looked suitably disgusted. She looked at Rita again; she at least, appeared to be safe ground. “If we help, we could try a location spell. My friend Willow is wicked with the old mojo.”

“She has shielded herself and the banner from our view,” said Goll. “Magic will not aid us.”

“Then it will have to be the good, old fashioned detective work,” Buffy sighed.

“You will help?” Rita seemed pleased at least.

Buffy shrugged. “Okay. It’s not like it hasn’t been a slow week...”

Back outside on the street, Spike and Buffy strolled in an aimless direction to who knew where. Buffy wasn’t so sure that she should have agreed to spend the night roaming Sunnydale in Spike’s company. Especially because, as he fell into step beside her, matching her stride, it felt way too comfortable; and that made her edgy. She didn’t want to give him any ideas that she was happy with his presence, because she so wasn’t. Nope.

“So then,” Spike asked after a while, not seeming to notice how ill at ease the object of his affections was feeling. “Where does the single Valkyrie about town go to pull these days?”

“The Bronze?” she suggested, not really having the first idea.

He pulled a cigarette out from nowhere, lit it and blew a plume of blue smoke out into the night air. “Lady like that gets noticed.”

“Isn’t that what she wants?”

“Yeah, but not if she wants the Sunnydale Operatic Society back there to find her. Be the first place they’d look.”

“Good point,” she agreed, relieved. The Bronze plus Spike would be too much like a date for her comfort, and there would be none of that. “Okay, recap time. What do you know about Valkyries?”

“Let’s see,” Spike mused. “Scary ladies. Hang out on battlefields choosing the most valiant slain to go to Valhalla, blah de blah.”

She mulled that paltry amount of information over, dissecting it for clues. “She’s not in Valhalla, and there aren’t any battlefields around here – hopefully.”

“Plenty of slain though,” he said darkly, and she wondered if she hadn’t just caught a tinge of sadness in his voice. Eww.

“I don’t think they’re the kind she’s looking for.” She sighed dejectedly. “She could be anywhere by now.”

He nodded in agreement. “Reckon we should ask about. Nip round the demon bars…”

“You said you hadn’t heard anything on the demon grapevine,” Buffy said, indignantly. “You just want to drink!”

“Better that than wandering the streets of SunnyD without a clue.”

“I’m not drinking with you,” she said firmly. Alcohol tonight was a bad idea – for either of them.

“Fine, pet. Suit yourself,” he turned away and set off down a side street. Over his shoulder, he called back to her. “Good luck with finding Viking Girl.”

Left alone under the harsh spotlight glare of the streetlight, Buffy watched him stalk off. God, she hated him sometimes, but she could do with the help, and the night would a lot less fun alone. Who was to say that the demon bars weren’t the best place to start?

“This is not a date,” she told him in no uncertain terms as she caught up with him.

He took a long drag of the cigarette, drawing out the moment before he spoke. “I got the memo.”

“Good,” she replied. “I didn’t want you thinking this is a you and me thing. This is a me thing, with you in it.”

“Sounds dandy.”

She disregarded his remote tone. If he wanted to get all moody, then fine. He should just be grateful that she let him tag along after that night he’d chained her up in his crypt. “Just so we have that straight.”

-o0o-

As usual, the patrons of the dive Spike took her to were less than happy with the arrival of the Slayer and her vampire escort. Buffy took a space beside Spike at the bar as he ordered them drinks, pulling the stake out of her bag and placing it in front of her to show she meant business. The demons got the message; many shrank into dark corners or used their chameleon skin to disappear into the nasty flock wallpaper, although most just tried not to meet her eye in case she singled them out for judgement.

The place was an even bigger dump than Willy’s had been. Tatty and run down, it was smelly too, and not just with normal bar smells. The stench could only be what she thought of as lethal mix of demon B.O. and fried onions, the latter of which was explained by the appearance of a plate of Blooming Onion in front of the vampire. It oozed with unappetising fat as he broke a bit off. Ugh.

She shifted on her stool, trying to avoid the sight of Spike dipping a petal into an evil-looking dip, and tried to get a good look around her at some of the demons that were trying to be inconspicuous; maybe she’d be lucky and find that Jarnsaxa demon that had eluded her on patrol a few nights before. But there was nothing she could see that needed an immediate staking, nor were there any signs of a Valkyrie amongst them, no telltale hint of horned helmet poking above the heads of the crowd. A group of vampires were chatting conspiratorially in a booth near the rear of the bar and she memorised the faces for later reference. Past them, by the back door, a couple of Vidar were staring longingly at each other; the female’s tentacles pulsing with a colourful courting display, rainbows rippling along them like the northern lights. She was in season, and Buffy prayed they’d find room before the mating started. A sight like that might scar her for life.

In the centre of the bar, sitting alone at a stained and battered table, an old man sat in a stoop, a glass of wine before him. He wore a thick cloak of a dark material and on his head large black hat obscured his features. A pair of ravens perched, sleek as obsidian, upon on each shoulder. One was grooming its wing as it waited, primping its feathers aggressively with its sharp beak; the other was watching her thoughtfully, with twitchy beady eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul. As she stared, the man looked up at her from under the hat’s wide brim. His one remaining eye was piercing but regarded her with a keen wisdom. He winked at her slowly and vanished. Just like that.

“I think you pulled.” Spike grinned and sucked the dip from a piece of onion. The petal slid between his lips, out and in, and all over again, caressing that full lower lip…

“What? No! That old guy? Eww,” she said, tearing her eyes away, flustered. “I’d rather have you!”

That remark won her the famous cocked eyebrow, the one that came with its own posse of the curious tilt of his head and dirtiest smirk she’d ever seen. “Oh yeah?” he purred.

“Only if, like, we were the only people left, and I was drunk… and maybe not even then,” Buffy spluttered, mortified that she was even having this conversation with him. It was unfair! She had been caught off guard by his sultry tone. Voices like his should be made illegal, she thought, especially when it sounded like that, rich and dark and sinfully chocolaty, promising all sorts of sexy goodness. Or badness. Definitely badness. Eep.

“A bit of booze might loosen your twisted knickers,” he said miserably.

Okay, time to finish this. “You are not my type.”

“And that pathetic wanker at the party, was?” he asked incredulously.

Where did he get off thinking like that? Ben would make a fine boyfriend, she was sure. “I think Ben is very handsome and he’s a doctor. Mom always said I should marry a doctor. And he doesn’t want to kill me. That’s a definite plus.”

Spike looked doubtful. “Huh, right. And what does Gentle Ben think of the Slayer? Think he’ll be up for the killing?”

She felt her grip loosening on this conversation. It was time to finish it and get back to business. “Can we just get on with what we came for?”

“Alright.” Spike looked a little disappointed, but she had little sympathy. He knocked back another shot and slid off his stool, scrutinising the room as he did so. “Just a second.”

Buffy followed him curiously as he looked for someone likely to know anything about a Valkyrie. He finally picked a green… something, with big tombstone teeth and a spiny dorsal ridge. It was propping the far end of the bar, and Buffy was surprised to notice that the demon was doing the crossword in the Sunnydale Press, but by the frown it was pulling, it wasn’t getting very far.

“Spike,” it hissed nastily as it looked up at them, a forked tongue tasting the air as it spoke.

Both Slayer and vampire tensed, ready for any fight that might be coming.

“What’s a large seabird? Nine letters?” the demon asked.

Spike looked confused. “Valkyrie, Dreng.”

Dreng fussed over the puzzle, trying to make the word fit. “No, not enough letters.”

“Not the sodding crossword, you nit! Valkyrie. Have you seen one?”

“Oh yes,” Dreng nodded eagerly.

“Where?” Buffy jumped in.

“Oslo. 1956, I think. Beautiful woman. Enormous…” Neither Spike nor Buffy needed the graphic gesture the demon illustrated his point with.

Spike cut him short. “Recently!”

Dreng thought it over. “No, don’t think so. But if you see one, tell her I’m sorry about the carpet.”

Buffy sighed heavily. This was pointless. She went to walk away, planning on giving Spike a further hard time before trying someone else, when she noticed a headline on the newspaper that looked very interesting.

She snatched the paper from the demon’s hands. “Give me that!”

The demon went to protest, but stopped as Spike mouthed the word ‘Slayer’ at him. “Hey! Take it. It’s yours.”

Buffy showed Spike the headline after skimming the story. “MYSTERY WOMAN HIT BY CAR. She fits the description too. It says here she was badly injured.”

“Sounds like our gal,” Spike agreed.

“Best try the hospital. Let’s check it out.”

As Buffy slung the paper back into the bar, Spike said to Dreng. “Albatross, mate. Albatross.”