He really hadn’t expected to last this long.

Oh, he knew that he could hold his own in a fight. He was aware that his confidence in his own abilities was definitely cockiness bordering on arrogance -- or at least, would have been, had he not been well able to back that confidence up with victory after victory over countless opponents, including two Slayers. Yes, he knew that he stood as good a chance as any of them of surviving through this night.

That was the problem.

With the hordes of hell swiftly closing in on them, countless demons and monsters with weapons drawn bearing down on them in a full out attack -- what chance did any of them have?

Spike would have thought that among them, Illyria would have had the best odds of survival.

Ironic, that she actually went first.

The pouring rain had been thick enough to obscure his vision, as his eyes had searched the surrounding darkness for his comrades; even as he fought for his life, using a broadsword he had taken from a fallen opponent to cut down one demon after another, a part of Spike’s mind was focused on finding the others, making sure that they were all right.

*And when you got here, you couldn’t wait to see the backs of the lot of them,* he reminded himself with a painful sense of irony. *Now the end’s gonna come all too soon for all of us if you don’t…bloody well…*focus*!*

A blood-curdling warcry filled the air, momentarily drawing his eyes to his right, where Illyria had just torn an unfortunate demon’s head from its body with her bare hands. She was just spinning around to face his comrade behind her, to deal to him the same treatment, when a tremendous burst of flame seemed to fall from the sky, consuming the demon who had been her target.

Consuming *her*.

Instinctively, Spike had jumped back, narrowing missing the path of the flames himself, glancing up in startled alarm to see the dragon swooping down, vicious claws extended as he dropped swiftly to join the countless enemies they were already facing on the ground.

He had no choice but to simply keep fighting, as another demon rushed him, and he swiftly brought his sword down to sever the dark creature‘s head, before whirling around to face another three coming up behind him. His enemies were not stopping to see the spectacle of the dying Illyria -- so neither could he.

But her dying, agonized screams as the apparently magical fire consumed her mortal body to ashes filled his ears.

*The death of a common ‘half-breed’ for the once powerful god-king,* he thought with a bitter irony that was more sorrowful than satisfied.

He had been determined to hate Illyria from the moment she had destroyed Fred -- but in the end, he had come to think fondly of her, if not to actually like her. After all, she
*had* been rather difficult to like.

And now -- she was nothing at all.

*Note to self – don’t try to fight the bloody dragon,* he thought, bringing the sword down directly through the middle of some disgusting, reptilian-looking creature that had slithered up in front of him, hissing and spitting some sort of vile, acidic substance aimed toward his face.

Fortunately, it missed -- but Spike didn’t.

He really meant to ignore the dragon completely, and focus on fighting the other enemies that surrounded him – he really did. And the group of about eight demons currently warily circling him was doing a fairly good job of making sure that he did – until he heard another agonized scream in another very familiar voice.

He whirled around in a swift circular motion, slicing a bloody swath through the circle of demons surrounding him, before his eyes locked onto the source of the scream – which was now silent.

Charles Gunn was dead.

The dragon was facing Spike, its powerful wings beating the air, holding it in place just a few yards above the ground – the lifeless body of Spike’s former friend clutched in its fierce talons, as if the foul thing was deliberately displaying it to him, taunting him with it. One razor sharp claw, half the size of the black man’s chest, pierced it where his heart was, and had stolen the life from him in an instant.

Spike felt a blind fury rising up in him in response to the dragon’s silent, taunting challenge, and he raised his sword, fully prepared to go after it now, in spite of his prior, more logical resolve.

Illyria and Gunn were already dead because of this thing, and he would see it dead as well.

Apparently, he was not the only one with that idea.

Suddenly, the huge beast reared backward with a high, piercing cry that set chills and gooseflesh all up and down Spike’s arms to hear it – and a moment later, a dark figure appeared, gripping it’s scaly skin as it climbed up onto the creature’s back, a sword clutched tightly in his hand.

“Okay – I only thought I wanted to kill you before…” Barely carrying to Spike’s ears through the roaring of the battle and the whistling of the stormy wind around them, Angel’s voice was filled with a sardonic humor, somewhat lacking due to the sorrow of loss that had not quite hit him yet. “…now – well, let’s just say I wish I could do it more than once. But,” he shrugged, “this will have to do…”

Without another word he plunged the sword in his hand down with all his strength into the dragon’s back – and it only went about a foot into the thick, scaly hide, nowhere near deep enough to do any real damage. The beast reared back again, shaking its neck back and forth in an effort to dislodge the vampire on its back.

And its effort was successful.

Despite his best efforts to hold on, Angel was thrown from his place atop the dragon, landing several hundred feet away against a brick wall, dazed and unmoving. Spike’s eyes widened in horror as the dragon whirled around with remarkable speed, and began to move toward the fallen vampire.

If someone had asked him aloud, during better times, Spike would have claimed to be willing to pay tickets to see something like what was about to happen to Angel.

Now – his every effort became focused on keeping it from happening.

With a power that he had not known he possessed, he swung his sword in a wide arc, cutting down the thronging demons in his path, trying to keep him from getting to Angel, until he finally was standing behind the dragon, whose enormous head was drawn back in preparation to incinerate the dazed vampire, struggling to rise, still unaware of the mortal danger that was only seconds away from taking his life.

*Killing a dragon – how the bloody hell do you kill a soddin’ dragon?* Spike racked his memory for anything even remotely helpful in this situation, but only came up with cheesy movie references.

After all, he didn’t even know anyone who had ever faced a real live dragon before.

“Had to get ambitious, didn’t you, Peaches,” he muttered, more to himself than to Angel, though the older vampire looked up at him sharply as he got to his feet, just as Spike managed to get around in front of the dragon, his eyes focused on the belly of the beast, searching for any sign of weakness in its natural armor.

“Yeah, well,” Angel shrugged, a completely inappropriate grin on his face as he met Spike’s eyes in a moment that the blond vampire would always remember after that night. “Gotta give ‘em something to remember me by…”

Spike’s eyes widened in surprise at his words, just before the dragon let out a mighty roar above his head. He whirled around in a desperate attempt to stop the beast before it accomplished its goal, plunging his sword through a dark patch in the center of the thing’s chest, where he imagined that its heart might be…

…moments after the scorching flame flew from its mouth, engulfing his sire and reducing him to nothing more than ashes and memory.

“No!” Spike cried out, surprised in a detached sort of way by the anguish he heard in his own voice, even as he swiftly moved out of the path of the suddenly falling dragon.

It seemed that there was something to be said after all for the cheesy movie references.

He was just a moment too late, as the huge, heavy neck of the beast fell hard across the backs of his legs, knocking him – and pinning him – to the ground. His sword had flown from his hand with his fall, and he fought off a sense of panic as he struggled under the dead weight of the monster he had just slain, trying to ignore the agony that tore through his crushed legs with every attempt to pull them free.

And then, the remaining demons were surrounding him, their harsh, triumphant laughter filling the air, as several of them began to grab at his arms, his head. He struggled with true desperation, knowing that his last chance was swiftly slipping away, but there were just too many of them.

One of them placed a large, heavy foot against the back of his neck, pinning his head face down against the dirt, even as he snarled and snapped, trying desperately to fight with the only, best weapon he had left. Several of the demons together managed to pull his arms behind his back, chaining them tightly with heavy iron manacles, and then wrapping the chains tightly around his torso, binding his arms to his body and locking them down tight.

Spike struggled uselessly against them, even as his heart sank with the realization that he was already overcome. His mind raced, trying to think what they might be planning, how he might be able to find some opportunity to stop him.

Apparently they weren’t going to kill him -- not yet, anyway -- or he would already be dead.

And that was as far as the thought process went right then, because at that moment, four of the strong demons lifted the head of the dragon between them, dragging it carelessly off of Spike’s shattered legs and laying it aside.

He bit back a strangled cry of anger and pain, as two other demons lifted him up on either side, holding him on his feet between them.

Or rather, he would have been on his feet, if his feet had been capable of holding him up at the moment. Really, the two demons were supporting him almost completely; but the fire of agony that shot up his legs and through his body as his feet brushed uselessly against the ground made his back arch with pain, though he managed to hold back the second cry, unwilling to allow these creatures to see his weakness.

Well -- any more weakness than they had already seen, anyway.

The fighting was over now, with Spike’s friends dead, and him captured, and the demons surrounded him in a maliciously gleeful circle, laughing and cheering in some language that Spike did not recognize, clearly thrilled with their victory.

Then, strangely, they all began to grow quiet, their laughter turning to hushed whispers of excitement, as the circle shifted slightly, and then opened, revealing a tall, dark-clothed demon, taller than the others, and flanked by two similar to the ones who were holding Spike. They seemed very attentive to him, ready to jump at a moment’s notice should he give the command, and Spike easily concluded that he must be the leader of this hellish army that had laid waste to what was left of Angel’s crew.

*Well -- except me,* Spike acknowledged a bit reluctantly, inwardly rolling his eyes as he mentally added, *and they’ve obviously been saving me for the Big Bad over there, for some reason. Any moment now…*

His suspicions were confirmed as the tall, humanoid demon made a swift, subtle gesture with his hand -- and all of the demons fell to identical bowing positions on one knee, moving as one, as they had clearly been well trained to do. The only exceptions were the two still holding him, who stepped forward, dragging his useless legs under him and causing him to grit his teeth to stifle the moan of pain that rose in his throat.

When the roughly threw him down on his knees in front of the demon general, Spike fell forward onto his face, not in submission, but simply so overwhelmed with pain that he was certain for a moment that he was going to black out.

*So he does it while you’re soddin’ unconscious…easier way to go…*

But with an extreme force of will, drawing in deep, ragged breaths, he managed to maintain consciousness, and slowly, with an effort, raised his head to look boldly up at the calm, studious expression on the general’s face.

“Well, why don’t you bloody well get on with it,” he ground out, his voice low to disguise the weakness and shaking from his battle injuries. “You got your big victory, million to four odds, lots of cheers all around, yeah?” he sneered sarcastically, his eyes narrowed in derision as he pointed out the extreme advantage the demon army had had. “And I don’t know what you think you’re gonna get from me, but I’m not gonna beg, and I’m not gonna scream, and I’m not gonna roll over and do a trick, so you might as bloody well end it.”

The demon did not respond for a long moment, and Spike wondered if he understood English at all -- but then, the demon’s smile widened in begrudging amusement, and he shook his head slightly, wonderingly, and Spike had the vague satisfaction of knowing that his defiance had not escaped the notice of his captor.

*And why exactly that’s a *good* thing, mate, remains to be seen,* the dark thought crossed his mind, as he steeled himself to bear the force of the general’s anger.

Still, he was not prepared as the smiling demon stepped forward to stand beside him, and suddenly stepped down with one heavy booted foot across both of his crushed legs, bearing down with all of his considerable weight.

Spike could not hold back the choked cry of anguish at the brutal punishment, his back arching with pain before he collapsed forward, unable to support himself through the incredible pain that shot through his body.

Removing his foot from the vampire’s injured legs, the demon general crouched down beside him, gripping his hair and yanking him back upright. Spike opened his wide, shocked eyes to meet a pair of cold, dark ones smiling cruelly into his, set in a surprisingly human face.

“That’s one down already,” a low, soft voice full of menace spoke in quiet amusement. “That wasn’t even difficult. And the things you listed are only the beginning of what I’ll make you do, vampire.”

He released Spike’s hair, rising to his feet in a fluid, graceful motion, his voice changing, hardening, as he addressed the assembled demons in their own language, his tone severe and commanding.

The two who had held Spike before moved forward and yanked him to his feet, eliciting a muffled moan of pain at even the slight weight that was placed on his mangled legs, more badly damaged now than before.

The general smiled wickedly at Spike, striking his legs out from under him with a sharp blow with the hilt of his sword, commenting softly as the vampire struggled to keep his composure in the face of the merciless pain.

“They’ll heal up well enough -- when I want them to. You’ll walk again, Spike.”

Spike looked up at him sharply in surprise, through his pain, his apprehension rising as the demon’s smile widened in understanding.

“That’s right,” he went on with a nod. “I know who you are. Or rather -- who you were. Now -- you’re nothing but mine. And in time -- I’ll see that you come to know that.”

Those were the last words that Spike heard, spoken just as the unseen demon behind him brought his club down sharply on the back of his head, sending his world swirling into a darkness from which he would not soon escape.

Spike woke up several hours later -- and immediately wished that he had stayed asleep.

His damaged legs were a mass of raw, screaming nerves, sending an urgent message of fiery agony to his brain -- which obviously could do absolutely nothing about the situation.

He opened his eyes, looking around in an effort to regain his bearings -- and immediately found that he was lying on the floor on his stomach. A quick attempt at rising revealed that although the chains that had been wrapped around his torso had been removed, his arms were bound behind his back -- and his legs were in no condition to attempt movement, anyway.

The slightest motion was agony.

Giving up on the idea of escape, if only for the moment, Spike looked around the room, trying to get an idea of his surroundings -- and was amazed to see that he was in an elegant, lavishly decorated bedroom, rather than the dank dungeon setting he had expected. It was difficult to make out much of the room’s furnishings from his position on the floor, near a large bed -- but he could not help noticing the general air of wealth and privilege surrounding him.

Not exactly what he would have expected in a typical demon’s lair.

*Then again,* he reminded himself flatly, *I always had better taste than your typical demon, too…not that that means me and this bloke are gonna be getting along -- not likely…*

He knew better than to try to move his legs again, knew that they would require quite a bit more healing before they would be ready to carry him out of here; but he could not help testing the chains at his wrists again.

Unfortunately, he found that they held firm.

He rested for a few moments, and was about to give it another try -- when he heard the sound of a door opening in the next room, followed by the sounds of calm, conversational voices on the other side of the bedroom wall, and steadily approaching the room where he lay.

He made a split second decision and closed his eyes again, going perfectly still, not even breathing, thinking that it might be in his favor if his captors did not know yet that he had regained consciousness.

And at this point, anything he could get in his favor would be a step up from what he had.

“…only for a few short months…surely we can handle anything for a few months…”

“It’s *supposed* to be for a few months. But if *they* get involved, who knows how long it’ll take for Wolfram and Hart to get themselves together?” The second voice Spike recognized as the voice of the general from before, and he sounded weary and discouraged. “This whole thing is the result of incompetence and stupidity. The Senior Partners should never have brought Angel and his people to Wolfram and Hart in the first place.”

*Too bloody right,* Spike thought darkly, feeling a moment’s satisfaction at how thoroughly Wolfram and Hart’s plot had blown up in their evil faces -- though the moment was short-lived, lasting only until the memory of what *he* had lost as well -- what they all had lost -- came back to him.

He swallowed hard, and focused on the voices again, forcing back the tears of grief for his sire and his friends, that would surely have given him away.

“Well,” the second voice pointed out matter-of-factly, “it was a fairly good bet that he would do as they hoped…and he almost did…”

“No. He made them *believe* that he almost did,” the general snapped, and Spike could tell by the sudden increase in the volume of his voice that the pair of them had just entered the bedroom. “And there is a vast difference in those two things.” He paused, before going on in a hard voice, “Yes, it was a good bet -- but it was a *bet* -- and they lost.”

The second voice, a bit higher and with much less authority than the general’s voice, sighed in concession, before adding darkly, “And now it falls to us to do the clean up.”

“This wretched dimension,” the general muttered, and Spike could sense by the weight of his footsteps, and the sound of his voice, that had his eyes been open, he would have just walked within his line of vision. “I’m sick to death of it. Filthy, disgusting humans everywhere -- and everything that goes with them. I’ll be glad when we finally get back home, and I can breathe the fresh warm sulfur again.”

“Agreed,” his companion replied, a slightly wistful note to his voice. “The sooner the better.”

Spike could hear the smile in the general’s voice, and that he was facing him, probably looking down at him, as he remarked with amusement, “At least I’ll have a very interesting souvenir to show off back home.”

Spike felt a sense of indignant fury rising up in him, but wisely pushed it back for the moment, though his mind firmly rebelled against the idea of what the general was saying -- speaking about him as if he were some sort of trophy, an object -- and worse, speaking about taking him to some other dimension as well.

*Not on your infernal existence, wanker,* he mentally directed the words at his captor, while still feigning sleep.

“Yeah,” the other demon added, a disturbingly gleeful note to his voice. “They’ll all be very much impressed with him, I’m sure. Perhaps you might even decide to…”

“*No*.” The general’s voice was suddenly sharp, with a note of warning to it that Spike just knew had the other demon flinching. “You will not broach that subject again.”

“Yes, Master,” the other demon immediately replied, his tone a drastic shift from his mild, conversational manner a few moments before, instantly subservient and humble.

“Perhaps at some point,” the general relented slightly, though his voice was still firm and slightly warning. “At some point in the distant future I may tire of whatever amusement he might provide me -- and at that point -- who knows what may happen. But as of now -- well, he hasn’t even been trained yet. Doesn’t even know what he’s here for…though I’m quite sure he’d like to. Perhaps we ought to go over it again. You know, for his benefit.”

Spike could almost hear the confused frown on the face of the other demon, as his own apprehension began to rise at those strange words. “But -- he’s still asleep…”

“No,” the general interrupted calmly, his voice suddenly softer. “He’s really not. Are you, Spike?”

Spike kept up the ruse a few moments longer, not sure how he had been found out -- and therefore, not quite convinced that he actually *had* been found out. He supposed it was possible that the general was merely attempting to test whether or not he was secretly conscious, but really had no idea.

“If you’re still unconscious, then I suppose you’d sleep right on -- no matter what I do to those troublesome legs of yours, eh?”

The general’s voice was still mild, almost conversational, but Spike felt what was probably the edge of his boot suddenly brush against the side of his tattered jeans, which had not yet been removed from his damaged legs.

He had no desire for them to become any more damaged than they already were.

“Right,” he muttered, opening his eyes and rolling them at the same time. “So you caught me out. I’m awake. So what’s next, then? Interrogation? A round of torture, perhaps? Stereotypical villainous gloating about your soddin’ diabolical plan? Excuse me, but I think going back to sleep would be a lot less bloody boring.”

He looked up to the face of his captor, surprised again by his very human appearance. Though Spike’s own vampire senses were screaming out *Demon!* whenever the general was nearby, any physical traits that would have given away his lack of humanity were apparently in places covered by the strange, dark uniform he wore. His hair was dark, cut in a conservative, professional sort of style that was perhaps more befitting his office, and his hands, his face, seemed perfectly normal and human.

Except, Spike realized suddenly with a little chill of apprehension -- for his eyes.

At first glance they seemed mostly human, if very dark, until one looked closer, and saw that the irises of his eyes were only slightly lighter than the blackness of his pupils. And the longer Spike looked at them, the more those eyes seemed to be fathomless depths of darkness, mysterious and malevolent, and beginning to inspire the seeds of panic, with just that single look.

He found that he had to look away, though he rolled his eyes again as he did it, not wishing to let on to the demon how intimidated he really felt at the moment.

The general’s face formed a smirk of reluctant amusement, as he waited a moment before shaking his head slightly and replying, “See -- that’s why I thought it’d be so interesting to take you with me, Spike. So -- bold. Outspoken. Over-confident.”

When he leaned down, Spike tensed, but did not flinch, as he gripped Spike’s hair and yanked him painfully up from his lying down position, to his knees.

Speaking softly, calmly, smiling close to his face, the general finished, “It will be such a pleasure to break you.”

“Yeah,” Spike sneered with a sarcastic huff, boldly meeting the general’s eyes, “if you’ve got a couple lifetimes. ‘Cause it sure as bloody hell ain’t happening in this one!”

The demon laughed softly, still apparently more amused than angered by Spike’s defiance. Still holding Spike’s gaze, but speaking to his underling, he said quietly, “It appears it’s time for me to explain his current situation to my new slave. Leave us, Serak.”

The other demon, whom Spike could now see was of the same sort as the general, if perhaps a bit smaller, nodded in a respectful way that made the gesture almost a bow, taking one backward step toward the door before turning around and leaving the room, discreetly closing the door behind him.

“Well, Spike -- I suppose it’s time I introduced myself.”

“Suit yourself. I do like to *know* who I’m killing, so that information might come in right handy real soon,” Spike shot back, narrowed eyes full of smoldering fury locking onto the demon’s again for just a few moments -- long enough to make his point, without allowing that strange quivering sensation to begin in his stomach, that strange fear that those eyes seemed to somehow inspire all on their own.

“Not as soon as you might like,” the general remarked mildly with a smile, standing up straight again, leaving Spike kneeling on the floor. “Not ever, in fact. You will quickly find, Spike, that your place -- your power -- is not quite what it once was. Things have changed. You haven’t got your little human friends to back you up here -- they’re all dead. At the moment, you haven’t even got the use of your own hands. I don’t know what you expect to accomplish, but at the moment -- you really have nothing, Spike. Nothing but what I choose to give you.”

Anger slowly rose in Spike with the general’s little speech, his calloused, flippant reference to the deaths of his friends, his pompous, self-assured tone as he spoke of Spike’s current helplessness.

He hadn’t even realized he had shifted to his game face, but it *did* help his point along as he snarled softly, “I’ve still got a few things at my disposal, mate.”

The general did not flinch, his smile widening slightly, the malice in his eyes deepening, as he replied without hesitation, “That too, is subject to change whenever I wish it, Spike.”

Spike’s golden eyes widened with shock, as he understood the implications of that subtle threat, and once again his face shifted again without his conscious effort, almost as if in a subconscious defense of his threatened fangs.

“Now, if you’re quite finished for the moment,” the general went on softly, pacing slowly in front of where Spike knelt. “I’ll go on with the introduction, as I said.” He stopped directly in front of Spike, and though he was not looking up, the vampire could feel his dark, piercing gaze on his face. “My name is Siron, and I am commander of the army called in to this plane to defend Wolfram and Hart.”

Spike snorted derisively. “Seems they called you a bit too late.”

A brutal kick from Siron’s powerful leg into his stomach silenced Spike’s commentary, doubling him over in pain, coughing and gasping for breath, as the demon general crouched down in front of him again, pulling him back upright by his arm, and smiling calmly as he waited for him to recover.

When he was sure that he could hear him again, he explained patiently, “I was talking. Something you are not to do without permission -- not anymore.”

Spike’s eyes widened in indignation, and his tone was alarmed and angry as he replied, “Now you just bloody well listen, here, mate -- Siren, or Syrian, or whatever your bloody name is -- you’re just the latest in a long line of blokes who’ve learned it’s not that easy to shut me up…”

A punch, directly in the same spot as the kick and landed, and just as forceful, silenced him again, as the general’s free hand fisted in Spike’s hair, jerking his body backward into a painful arc, as the vampire choked and gasped again, trying to catch his unneeded breath.

“I know it won’t be easy,” the general conceded calmly with a nod. “But I also know I can and will accomplish it -- no matter how long it takes, or how badly I have to hurt you to do it.” He released him suddenly, allowing his body to double over again, breathing hard, struggling to recover from the painful blow, and stood up straight in front of him.

“And by the way,” he added with a smirk. “It’s ‘Siron’…but let’s make it a bit simpler for you and leave it at ‘Master’ to you.”

Spike’s voice was raspy, hoarse with pain and breathless -- but his words were still firm, defiant, and clearly pronounced when he replied.

“Not on your bloody life.”

“No, Spike,” Siron agreed, a deceptive patience to his voice, as he casually pressed one foot into Spike’s back, between his shoulder blades, pushing him forcefully back down onto his face on the floor. “On yours.”

And with those words, he leaned over to pick something up from his bed, but before Spike could raise his head, his foot was back on his neck, pressing his face down into the plush carpet -- the moment before something terribly hard and heavy came down across his ankles, hard enough that Spike both felt and heard his damaged bones cracking at the impact.

And Siron left it there, pinning his useless legs to the floor, smiling grimly at Spike’s desperate, agonized attempts to pull out from the excruciating pressure that sent searing pain shooting up his legs and throughout his entire body. But whatever it was that the demon had laid across Spike’s legs was far too heavy for those weakened legs to move.

Spike bit back a strangled cry of pain, struggling not to give his captor the satisfaction of knowing how badly he had hurt him -- but Siron noticed his attempts, and seemed to take pleasure in them.

Crouching down near his head, the general remarked almost pleasantly, “Perhaps I’d better gag you. I’m not sure how long you’ll be able to keep yourself from screaming, Spike. And we’re not the only ones living here, you know. We must be courteous of our neighbors, mustn’t we?”

Before Spike could even process the words through his pain, let alone begin to respond, Siron had wrenched his clenched jaw open, and shoved what felt like a soft washcloth inside his mouth. A moment later, he had tied a thin leather strap painfully tight across his mouth, holding the cloth in despite Spike’s instinctive efforts to spit it out.

“Shhh,” the general said softly in response to the muffled, panicked cries that both rose and died in Spike’s throat, as one iron hand gripped the back of his neck and held him down, even as he struggled to rise. “You’re not going to get away, Spike. You’re not strong enough right now. And you never will be again. I’ll be seeing to that.”

The vampire suddenly went still, when he felt the light brush of Siron’s other hand, along the side of his thigh, and then stopping, resting over one clenched, trembling buttock through his tattered, bloodied jeans.

“Yeah,” the demon sneered in a lecherous voice, giving Spike’s rear a light slap, grinning when he saw the vampire’s stunned reaction. “I’ll be seeing to *that*, too.” He paused, before adding in a more serious tone, “You’re mine now, Spike. A slave. A toy. That’s all. And the sooner you get used to that idea, the easier things will go on you.”

As he stood, removing his invasive hands from Spike’s body, he added in a dark tone of menace, “And trust me -- they’re going to go hard enough no matter *how* cooperative you are -- so there’s no sense making things any worse on yourself, is there, Spike?”

Through the haze of relentless pain, Spike heard his slow, even footsteps heading toward the door. At it, Siron stopped, speaking quietly over his shoulder, “I’ll be back later. Hopefully when I return -- you’ll be in a more reasonable mood.”

And he left, closing the door firmly behind him -- shutting Spike in with his own pain and despair.

That first night of torment, spent in excruciating agony without relief, was a sign of the miserable existence that was to come for Spike, as Siron’s slave.

Despite the torturous punishment of that night, Spike still tried to fight the next day, when the demon came into the room again, removed the weight, and tried to maneuver his weakened body from the floor, up onto the bed. Siron’s earlier words had given him enough warning to know what to expect -- and he had no intention of allowing it.

Of course, in the end, he had had no choice.

Siron had bound him face down to the bed, his wrists tied tightly to the posts at the head of it -- his useless legs left alone for the moment. He had shouted and cursed and threatened, though it was increasingly obvious that his words of protest were meaningless. When he refused to be silent upon Siron’s command, the demon general had gagged him.

And in the end -- none of his struggles, his protests, had mattered.

Spike’s humiliation had been completed, as Siron had his way with him, viciously taking his pleasure of him in the most degrading and painful of ways. Taking vindictive pleasure in Spike’s helplessness, the general had employed various means of torture, brutalizing him as punishment for daring to struggle at all.

“It’s useless to fight me, Spike,” he had said softly before leaving, running a surprisingly gentle hand down the vampire’s tear-stained face. Spike jerked away from his touch, not wanting him to see his shameful tears, but was unable to avoid the piercing despair that accompanied his words. “I’ll do what I want with you, regardless of what you do, Spike. If you struggle, or try to stop me -- I’ll just make sure that it’s that much more painful for you. It’s really in your best interest not to fight.”

But the next time he came to him -- Spike *did* fight.

And the time after that -- and the time after that.

And every time he fought, he was severely punished for his useless efforts.

Before long -- it began to feel like nothing more than going through meaningless motions, as Spike began to become convinced that escape was not going to be an option. He was always bound, helpless to defend himself against Siron’s unwanted attentions -- and he was always kept under lock and key, or heavy guard, never allowed a moment alone in which to devise some way of escape.

Not that he could have escaped, anyway.

As long as he was still attempting to resist his new master’s control, Siron did not yet see fit to allow his legs the blood they needed to heal.

So, Spike decided to try another tactic.

All at once, he stopped struggling when Siron would come to him. He did his best to obey every command, to keep from resisting, even when the worst humiliations and degradations were forced upon him, and to all appearances, genuinely tried to please his master.

Oh, as Siron had warned him, he was still violated on an almost daily basis, still tortured for the mere amusement of his master and whatever demonic guests he might happen to be entertaining any given evening -- but his submission *did* seem to lessen the frequency with which he was abused.

Gradually, the amount of blood he was allowed each day was increased, and his injured legs began to slowly heal.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Siron said, a few days into Spike’s “Plan B”. “I told you things would go easier on you if you’d just submit. Now aren’t you glad you did?”

Though he’d nearly choked on the words, Spike had kept his head submissively bowed as he had replied quietly, “Yes, Master.”

Once his legs were strong enough to support his weight again, his world was no longer restricted to the small bedroom chamber in which he had been kept since his capture – he had no idea how long ago it had been. Days had blurred into weeks, and those weeks felt like an eternity.

The simple relief he felt just to be allowed out of that tiny room was incredible.

The fact that he wore a leather collar on his throat, and little else, and was led at his master’s side on a leash, did take away considerably from the thrill of it, but he did his best to remain passive and obedient -- simply biding his time, paying careful attention as he was given a rather limited tour of the penthouse apartment in which Siron lived.

The demon general actually dwelt in a very human style of living, actually -- if one ignored the triple locks on the inside *and* outside of the front door, and the necro-plated glass that made it safe for his vampire slave to move about inside. For all his submission, Spike told himself that he really had no interest in such amenities; he was merely waiting for the right opportunity to make his escape.

Struggling had proven useless, when he lacked the strength to make his struggles effective.

But if he could lull his captor into a false sense of security, make him believe that he had broken him -- well, that could make all the difference in the world.

Spike tried not to think about how naturally that submission seemed to come these days. He told himself it was all part of his plan, nothing more, when he automatically bowed his head and averted his eyes as his master walked into the room; or when he lay down on the bed without being told to, when he knew what Siron planned to do to him. He tried not to think about how much easier submission seemed than resistance at this point, or about the constant flutter of fear that seemed to permanently inhabit his stomach whenever Siron was near him.

The only reason he had not yet attempted to escape, was that he had not yet been presented with a sure enough opportunity, he insisted to himself.

They had *not* broken him -- and they wouldn’t.

He would get away before they could.

One afternoon about two months into his captivity -- though Spike had no idea how long he had been there by that point -- Spike was in what had become his usual position, on his knees on the floor near the feet of his master, as Siron held a rather casual council with several of his higher level associates. The demons were seated around his lush parlor area, quietly discussing some plan of theirs.

Spike had long since started tuning out such conversations, as half of what was said was usually in code, anyway, and none of it seemed particularly relevant to his situation. He simply waited in silence for some command from his master, in case he was needed -- which he usually wasn’t, not during these meetings.

After a couple of hours of quiet but serious conversation, Siron rose to his feet, followed by the other demon officers.

“I’m hungry,” he announced with a predatory grin at the others, who suddenly seemed more like a rowdy group of friends than like the sober, intellectual group they had been only moments before. “Feel like a hunt?”

A chorus of assents was his response, and he led the way toward the door, calling over his shoulder sternly, “Stay put, Spike. Don’t move. I’ll be back later.”

Spike looked up in surprise to watch the group of demons make their way out the front door of the penthouse, shutting it firmly behind them -- leaving him alone. He glanced a bit nervously around the room in which he had been left, aware that he was most likely not actually alone in the penthouse. There were several other rooms, and Siron had several other servants as well -- but this was the first time he could remember since being here, that he had been left alone in any room.

And that was not the best part.

He had not heard the soft sound of the triple locks on the outside of the door.

He waited what felt like an hour before cautiously rising to his feet; glancing around to see if anyone was around to see him rising, against the orders of master, Spike edged toward the door. Taking a deep, unnecessary breath, he slid it open just a crack, looking down the deserted corridor that led to the elevator -- and the building’s exits. He listened closely for a few moments, for any trace of sound to indicate that Siron and his men were still nearby -- but heard nothing but silence.

*They’re gone!* he thought with a sense of elation. *They actually left, and forgot the lock! This is my chance -- gotta make it good…* he decided as he swiftly opened the door and headed out into the hallway.

It was a trap.

He made it into the elevators, and all the way down to the ground level, already breathing a sigh of relief as the doors opened, already able to taste his impending freedom…

But then, the doors opened to reveal Siron standing there, a cold, grim smile on his almost human face, a cruel glint in his impossibly dark eyes, surrounded by his cronies, some of whom were quietly crowing with victory.

“Told you,” one of them gloated to Siron. “What did I say? He’s not broken yet -- far from it.” Turning to another of the demons who was grumbling under his breath, he held out his hand and demanded, “Pay up!”

“No,” Siron shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the stunned, trapped expression on his slave’s face as he responded to his friend’s initial observation. “Not all that far from it, really. In fact -- he’s almost there.”

The exchange took seconds, longer than it would have taken Spike to recover enough to call out for help, or to attempt to get past them -- not that either approach would really have done him any good. The humans at the front desk -- who were probably more than they appeared to be, anyway -- would not have stood a chance against Siron, if they had tried to help him; and there was no way he could get past all of them in his weakened state.

Still -- he had to try.

As Siron reached forward to place a heavy hand on the shorter vampire’s shoulder, Spike yanked out of his grip, drawing back his fist to land a rather impressive blow to the demon’s face, followed by another to his stomach that doubled him over with pain. In fact, he made it through the first few demons that came at him, managing to get past them -- but there were simply too many.

In less than a minute, two of Siron’s cronies had managed to grip his arms, pinning them, and yanking him back into the elevator, with Siron and the rest of his friends, swiftly taking them all back up to the penthouse, and away from any curious eyes that might be watching from the lobby -- though no one appeared to have paid the little scene any notice.

*Yeah,* Spike thought flatly. *Definitely not your average humans working here…*

Once Spike had been dragged back into the penthouse, forced to his knees, his arms bound tightly behind his back, Siron had sharply dismissed his men, turning his full attention on his wayward slave. He simply stared at him for a long moment, his calm face studying Spike’s downcast expression, before finally speaking in a soft voice of command.

“Look at me.”

Spike hesitated, but then obeyed, slowly raising defiant eyes to glare up into those of his captor.

“You can’t keep me here forever,” he ground out the words, his voice low and warning, nearly a growl.

Siron laughed softly, almost silently, shaking his head in weary amusement, though his eyes were dark and angry. “Yes, Spike -- I actually can,” he argued quietly. “And I’m going to prove it to you.”

Without another word of warning, he suddenly gripped the hair at the back of Spike’s head and yanked him painfully to his feet, his other hand firmly gripping Spike’s bound upper arm and leading him forcefully from the parlor, down the hallway, toward a door that Spike knew by now to fear the sight of.

As they reached it, he struggled desperately, aware that once he was in this room, he was not likely to escape it without brutal punishment -- but Siron was simply stronger, and had the benefit of the use of his hands. He easily maneuvered his struggling slave into the room, slamming the door forcefully behind him and locking it with an audible click.

As Spike still tried to pull out of his master’s grasp, Siron’s large hand suddenly gripped his throat, jerking him back against him to snarl softly in his ear, “You’re only adding to your own punishment, Spike. You’d best submit. *Now*.”

Spike’s body was tense, rigid against Siron’s for a long moment, as he debated what he should do. He knew, deep down, that it was a futile struggle. He was bound, unable to defend himself, and fighting right now was only delaying the inevitable. It was best, he decided, to bear what Siron had to dish out, and continue biding his time, waiting for a genuine opportunity.

But what he could not know in that moment, was that this night was not going to be just like all the other nights.

This night was going to irrevocably change him -- forever.

Spike stopped struggling, deciding that it would be best to endure the punishment Siron had planned for him, rather than to simply earn more punishment with a futile struggle that would end no differently than the path of submission – with pain.

Siron pushed him down face first across a narrow operating table that he had often been strapped down to over the course of the past few months – though, never in quite this awkward position.

With brutal, pitiless force, Siron wrenched his bound arms up over his head, holding them there despite the sickening cracking sound of their dislocation, despite Spike’s moan of shocked agony. Smiling grimly, he connected a tiny ring in the shackles at Spike’s wrists to a chain that was attached to a similar ring under the side of the table, thus binding his damaged arms in that painful, helpless position over his head, and leaving the back side of his body exposed and vulnerable to whatever he might choose to do to him.

“Now,” he said softly, one strong hand at the small of Spike’s back pinning him down, despite his desperate struggles to move, to ease the excruciating pain shooting down his arms and through the rest of his body. “For your punishment.”

“You bloody soddin’ bastard!” Spike snarled in frustrated pain through gritted teeth, between gasps for breath, his determination to take what was dished out fading in an instant. “I’ll soddin’ kill you! Why don’t you just bloody kill me, you sick, sadistic wanker? Let me up, or I’ll…”

His words were suddenly cut off in an indignant, muffled yelp, as Siron shoved a large, thick rag into his mouth, following it up with a tight leather muzzle of sorts to hold it in, a device that was both blindfold and gag, covering Spike’s eyes with thick dark leather, and pressing the rag further down his throat with a tight leather strap across his lips.

The suddenly panicking vampire still struggled to voice his protest, but his attempts were useless, as Siron moved around the table to secure his legs, spreading them slightly and fastening his ankles into restraints bolted into the floor to hold him in place.

Spike froze suddenly, when he felt the tight leather shorts that he wore – the only garment he was allowed to wear these days – opened, and pulled down as far as they would go on his spread legs, coming to rest restricting around the middle of his thighs. As Siron’s warm hand slid suggestively up the inside of his thigh, edging toward far more personal territory which was, at the moment, humiliatingly exposed, Spike swallowed back a sick wave of shame, as his master spoke softly.

“Perhaps you’re not in a position that yields itself well to your insolence, Spike,” he observed thoughtfully, mildly, as his fingertips brushed lightly, teasingly up the line of Spike’s buttocks. “Perhaps it’d be better if you watch that smart mouth of yours, unless you want me to take more permanent action to ensure that you do. Do you understand me?”

As he spoke the soft, deceptively quiet threats, Siron’s hand shifted to cup Spike’s bound genitals in a frighteningly tight hand – just barely beginning to be painful. Spike swallowed hard, feeling his stomach fluttering nervously, as he nodded rapidly in response, suddenly desperate to evade the fulfillment of that wordless threat, almost more than he wanted to avoid the spoken one.

Admittedly, neither scenario seemed like much fun.

“Good,” Siron remarked with an audible smile, running his hand possessively over Spike’s firm but slightly trembling rear. “Then we’ll get started. You must be reminded, Spike…” he went on, crossing the room to a table laden with various vicious implements, most of which he had already used on Spike at some time or another, “…who is in control here – and what is your proper place…”

His breath came fast and shallow, as Spike struggled to keep control of his warring impulses, the fight or flight response in him that demanded action from him – action that he knew would only make his situation worse.

*Just get through it,* he told himself firmly, trying to slow his wild breathing, to calm the violent shaking that was beginning in his limbs. *Just let him do what he wants to do, give him what he wants, and get through it. It can’t last forever. It’ll be over, and you can wait for another chance…*

“You won’t get a chance to escape me, Spike,” Siron spoke softly from a place much closer to him than the place where his voice had come from mere moments earlier – and Spike jumped instinctively, prompting a soft, smug laugh from his captor’s lips. “This was a test. And it was not the last time you will be tested. Remember that, Spike.”

The vampire tried not to let his courage fade with those words, though he felt his heart sink with the realization that he really had no way of knowing what was a test and what was not – not until it was too late to do anything about it. And how was he supposed to find a way to escape, if…?

His thoughts were suddenly, violently torn away from that particular line, as he felt the brush of cool, impossibly thin metal along his thigh, and heard a slight rustling that was more than a little unsettling, as his mind tried to place what sort of object might be creating that sound.

“So you know what I’m doing to you, Spike, as I do it,” Siron spoke again with that uncanny, unsettling knack he seemed to have for guessing what Spike was thinking, a cruel smile in his voice, “because it seems so very much more effective when you can imagine what I’m about to do to you, before I do it – I’m holding a very special sort of whip in my hand. It’s strands are made of the very finest, needle-thin steel wires. Very flexible, very light – but very sharp, and deadly if used properly. Well – on a human. You won’t have the mercy of death, slave.”

Again, Spike felt the humiliating, invasive caress of Siron’s hand over his most intimate parts, as the demon growled softly, possessively, leaning over Spike’s bent body so that he could feel the oppressive heat against his cool, trembling flesh, as Siron gripped his hair with the same hand that held the whip, yanking his head back to snarl in his ear.

“You will learn that you -- *this*…” He clutched painfully at Spike’s manhood, causing his back to arch with agony, as he continued, “…is mine, and mine alone – and I will do with it what I wish. I will do whatever I want to do to you, and there is nothing for you to do but to submit. Do you understand?”

His throat dry with fear, his stomach sick with dreadful anticipation of the pain he knew his captor was about to inflict, Spike nodded hurriedly, a soft, pleading moan escaping his throat, though the gag would not allow him to plead for mercy.

“No,” Siron shook his head in mild denial, as he stood up straight again, brushing the fine metal strands across the pale expanse of Spike’s back as he did, trailing it down over his butt and legs. “I really don’t think you do, Spike. Which is why this is necessary – because, when we are finished here tonight – you *will* understand, with perfect clarity.”

The first blow sent a blinding fire of agony through the tender flesh at the tops of Spike’s thighs, shredded instantly by the force of the strike, and the hundreds of needle-like metal strands that sliced into his skin. An anguished cry of pain, muffled by the gag, escaped Spike’s lips against his will – but it earned no mercy from his tormentor.

By the time the fortieth blow had fallen, Spike was barely conscious of the low, piteous moaning sounds that were issuing from his bound mouth, without any conscious effort of his own. The whip, the table, and Spike’s devastated body were drenched with his blood, the backs of his legs, his buttocks, his lower back, shredded by the whip’s cruel bite.

Spike nearly wept with relief as he heard the whip being set down on the table near the bed, his breath coming in deep, frantic puffs through his nose, tears streaming from his blinded eyes. He did not resist as Siron’s large hands manipulated his body, twisting his torso so that he was lying on his back instead of on his stomach, without unchaining the bonds at his ankles.

The chain attached to his wrists rotated freely, not presenting a problem – unless one considered the pain of his weight being pressed against his dislocated shoulders a problem…and Siron clearly did not. However, the unnatural twisting of his legs caused an unbearable tension in the already taut muscles, which were now cramping viciously, unable to find relief – not to mention the unbearable pressure of his twisted thighs against his groin area, thrusting it forward, making him even more vulnerable to Siron’s cruel designs.

But Spike had no idea until that moment, just how cruel he could be.

When he heard him pick up the whip again, Spike almost could not believe that it was possible. Surely…surely he wouldn’t…

But all doubts were stripped violently away from his mind, with the first fall of the cutting lash across his exposed, sensitive flesh.

And with the second fall – and every one after that, for another thirty-eight blows – Spike was beyond conscious thought, consumed only by his own agony.

********************************

By the time Siron finally tossed the whip down for good, Spike was barely conscious, his arms pulled taut with the effort of holding up the rest of his body, which had long since collapsed, no longer able to stand for the pain and blood loss of the beating.

When the demon general abruptly unfastened the chain that held his arms to the table, the shock of his battered body’s crumpling to the floor sent fiery tingles of pain shooting along his every nerve ending -- and immediately brought him around to full, glaring consciousness.

Spike instinctively shied back away from Siron, as he reached down and jerked him up by the collar around his throat, slamming him down on his back on the table, then grabbing his legs and slinging them up onto it as well, so that this time, he was on the table as it was intended to be used -- not that that was necessarily a good thing.

A weak moan of pain was barely audible behind the gag Spike wore, as Siron swiftly strapped his arms and legs down to the table, effectively immobilizing him again, and taking great care with his ankles especially, making sure that he could not move his feet. Once he was sure that Spike would not be able to pull free, Siron moved back to the head of the table and roughly tore the leather contraption free from Spike’s face.

The blond vampire winced at the sudden brightness of the light above his head, turning his head away with his eyes shut tightly against it.

Siron grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head up, snarling a command, “Look at me.”

Spike obeyed immediately, knowing better than to do anything to further anger his already cruel, volatile captor -- and found himself once again caught in that fathomlessly black, cold, terrifying gaze, as the demon general smiled down at him, a cruel satisfaction in his expression.

“You won’t try to run again, Spike,” he informed him softly. “At least,” he shrugged as he released his hair, “not anytime soon.”

“Wh-what…” Spike mumbled, struggling to raise his head as the demon moved toward the foot of the table again. “What -- please…”

In an instant he was back at the head of the bed, his hard hand coming down across Spike’s face in a breath-taking backhand blow. “Shut up!” he snarled, leaning down over him, one hand on either side of his face in an oppressively close, intimidating gesture. “You will not speak unless you are spoken to, given permission. Is that clear -- *slave*?”

Spike nodded without hesitation, biting down on his lip to keep back the bitter, angry response that rose up in him, mostly a reaction to his own helplessness and terror.

“Good,” Siron muttered, moving back to the foot of the table, and farther, and then returning with a strange device on wheels, which he carefully lined up with the foot of the bed.

Struggling to look up at it, apprehension rising in him as he tried to figure out what his master had in mind next, Spike saw that it looked a bit like the frame of a television with the insides hollowed out -- an open square made of stone, and on a raised, wheeled platform, level with the bed -- with a large solid stone square of nearly the same size above it.

Siron lifted the thin mattress up off its metal frame, sliding the bottom side of the stone square under it, far enough that Spike’s restrained feet were resting on the mattress, over the stone slab. Smiling coldly at Spike, watching his reaction, Siron flipped a switch on the side of the strange device -- and Spike watched with rising, horrified understanding, as the large stone block began to slide slowly down into the hollowed square beneath it -- inching steadily nearer to his bare, bound feet.

“N-no,” he whispered, breathless with terror, shaking his head and staring up at Siron with wild, panicked eyes. “No, don’t do this…”

Strolling casually back toward the head of the bed as the heavy stone block continued its gruesome path downward, Siron picked up the leather muzzle and gag again, raising an eyebrow as he met Spike’s eyes again.

“Perhaps I ought to gag you again,” he suggested softly, “before you find it impossible not to scream.”

Spike shook his head frantically, pleadingly, and opened his mouth to protest -- but Siron merely shoved the gag back in, firmly fastening the leather straps over his face again, so that he was once again both mute and blind.

Leaning down close to him, now with his eyes fastened eagerly on the descending stone block, Siron whispered in a tone of dark anticipation, “Tell me, Spike -- does this make it better, or worse? Not being able to see it coming, yet knowing exactly what is coming? Can you imagine how near it is by now? How soon it will be crushing your flesh and bones beneath its weight?” He paused, edging nearer as he sneered softly, “How long it will be before you are able to move of your own volition again?”

A stifled sob left Spike’s lips, a pleading moan that would have been words, had words been allowed him, and he shook his head despairingly.

“It’s not far now,” Siron told him with a smirk. “Not much farther…”

When Spike felt the cold stone first brush against his toes, he jerked reflexively in the bonds, though he could not pull free from them, a strangled, desperate cry of terror choked off in his throat as the stone block continued relentlessly downward.

And then there was pressure, steadily increasing until Spike was certain he could not bear it another moment.

And then -- he *couldn’t* bear it, as pressure began grinding, agonizing pain, crushing bone and skin and muscle into a mangled mass of useless tissue, nerves screaming out in flames of anguish up and down Spike’s body, as he moaned pitifully, wordlessly pleading for a mercy that did not exist.

The scraping of the stone across his tortured flesh was a fresh torment, as Siron carelessly raised the stone just slightly, and slid it back away from the table, examining the vampire’s injuries with a cool detachment.

“Yeah,” he remarked with a satisfied nod, as he removed the gag again, allowing Spike‘s soft, plaintive sobs to escape into the silence around them. “It’s gonna be a while before you’re going anywhere, Spike.”

Spike barely began to dare to believe that Siron might be finished with him -- only to have those fragile hopes dashed, as the demon general moved another strange medical-looking device on wheels to hover right over his face. Spike’s eyes widened with fear, and he shook his head pleadingly, but Siron placed a hand at his forehead, holding his head firmly in place, and Spike soon discovered what the strange, clawed contraption was.

Four biting metal clamps held his mouth painfully far open, relentlessly stretching his jaw so that he could not even begin to close it. Straps at his brow and his chin held his head still, as Siron moved about at a small table to the side of the bed, moving metal implements that clinked ominously in the silence, just outside of Spike’s view, striking fresh terror into his heart at the unknown threat of just what they might be.

But the reality was worse than anything he had imagined -- a horror that even his sadistic sire, in the worst days of his fledging training, would never have considered taking any further than threatening. No human, or even vampire, would ever have inflicted such a cruel fate on a vampire under their power.

But Siron was neither human, nor vampire -- and he simply did not care.

“Change,” he ordered softly, a cruel glint in his dark eyes as he held up the tiny pair of sharp steel tongs in his hand. “Now.”

Of course, Spike refused.

There was no punishment, no torture Siron could devise, that could be worse than what he wanted to do to him now.

“You know it’s pointless to resist, Spike.” Siron’s voice was sadly sympathetic, as he shook his head in disappointment at his reaction. “I can make you do whatever I want you to do -- but it will be so much easier for you if you simply obey.”

Spike did not obey.

Siron returned to his equipment table, and returned with a hypodermic needle. Once he had injected the gold-colored fluid inside into Spike’s body, the struggle was finished. Whatever it was, Spike’s demon responded to it immediately, coming to the fore as he strained uselessly against the bonds, trying to snarl at his enemy, though it was impossible with the painfully tight clamps on his mouth.

“There he is,” Siron sneered softly, advancing toward his mouth with the tongs. “Let’s see who’s the bigger, badder monster, shall we?”

In Spike’s mind -- there was no question.

And with the brutal rape of his identity, of who and what he was, the removal of his most natural weapon from his mouth, came an overwhelming sense of shame, loss, and utter terror. The demon that had snarled and struggled now whimpered, shuddering and cowering away from the other one, the one who had bested it.

When Siron released the bonds that held Spike to the table, he did not even try to move, to fight, his demon face receding silently, retreating in defeat. Tears of trauma and fear streaked his face, as Spike waited in quiet, terrified submission for whatever his master would next see fit to do to him.

With that simple, profoundly devastating act -- Siron had broken his slave.

And when he roughly turned him over on the bed, heedless of the agony in his twisted, mangled legs, Spike did not resist, did not protest in any way. When he took him brutally, with nothing for preparation but the half-dried blood that coated the back of his body, Spike allowed it passively, with only a quiet whimper of pain to betray his distress.

When Siron asked him softly, a low growl in his ear as his hand clutched his throat and dragged his head back against him, “Who do you belong to, vampire? Whose are you?” -- Spike’s response was not in question.

In a barely audible whisper of broken defeat, he replied as Siron desired.

“Yours…”

One month later, on the opposite side of the city from Siron’s luxurious penthouse suite, in which such untold horrors were being visited upon his helpless prisoner on an almost daily basis by this point, other torments of a much different kind were being inflicted on another relatively helpless young male.

Or rather -- they would have been torments -- if he hadn’t loved every moment of it.

Mostly.

It should have been terrifying, living in a house with a dozen young women who were all physically capable of breaking him like a twig any time they felt like it, and yet seemed more inclined to use him as a lifesize Ken doll-slash-shopping buddy than to inflict bodily harm.

Slayers.

The two he had known before this had not even begun to prepare him for the experience of serving as a Watcher-by-proxy to a dozen willful, hormonal, and mostly inexperienced junior Slayers. Truth be told, he sometimes wondered if he was really up to the task, considering his own inexperience, not to mention his dark past as a former minion of evil.

But Andrew was usually more than willing to give it a try.

At the moment, however, he was not quite so sure.

One of the younger Slayers, Cassandra, had placed unyielding hands on his shoulders and held him down in his chair, until he had finally submitted to her desires -- and allowed her best friend Bridget to practice her French manicuring skills on his unfortunately girlish hands.

“You know, I don’t think you guys are really showing me the respect that is due someone in my position of authority,” he observed mildly as Bridget applied a second top coat to his flawlessly feminine nails. He frowned at the finished effect in front of his face and asked dubiously, “This stuff comes off easy, right?”

“I hope *this* comes off!” another young feminine voice declared angrily as three more Slayers strode noisily into the living room. “This is *disgusting*!”

The one who had spoken, Tina, was covered in some sort of bluish tinted goop, most likely the remains of some defeated demon -- and she did not look happy about it. The other two were laughing, still exhilarated from the battle they had just come from -- but Tina didn’t quite look as if she was ready to stop hitting things.

“These shoes are brand new -- and that was my favorite tank!” she griped, throwing herself down with a huff in the middle of the couch.

“And that -- was -- my favorite couch,” Andrew muttered with a sigh. “Actually, it was our *only* couch. So, you might wanna get up and go wash the demon goo off before you ruin every piece of furniture we own, ‘kay?”

Still grumbling, Tina got up and made her way toward the stairs, followed by one of the two who had come with her from patrolling. The third young Slayer, Melinda, glanced at the dampened sofa with a little grimace of distaste, before choosing an armchair beside Andrew instead.

“So I’m guessing patrol was successful then?” Andrew remarked, still frowning at his white-tipped fingernails, as Cassandra and Bridget got up and headed upstairs, following the other two.

“Sort of. A couple of Eilrach demons -- and a couple dozen vampires. But no sign of Siron or his men, no clue what they’re up to at the moment.”

Andrew sighed again, with a visible effort tearing his attention off of his fingernails and looking up at the pretty, chocolate-skinned young Slayer sitting beside him. “I kind of figured. Otherwise you would have said.” He paused a moment before continuing a bit morosely, “How are they hiding so well? I just don’t get it.”

“Yeah,” Melinda agreed, her full, pretty lips forming a slight pout as she frowned into space, considering the dilemma. “You’d think something as big as rebuilding Wolfram and Hart would be a little more obvious, you know? I mean -- it was a huge office complex, right? How do you hide something like that?”

Andrew shrugged, leaning his head against the back of his chair. “No clue. But our recon people haven’t noticed any activity whatsoever on the old site where Wolfram and Hart was. Nobody’s been in and out of what’s left of that building since…well, since all hell broke loose there. Whatever they’re doing -- they’re not doing it there.”

Melinda fought back the urge to roll her eyes at his exaggeratedly dramatic tone of voice and the knowing narrowing of his eyes as he looked at her, but she could not quite suppress a smile, shaking her head to indicate that she was at a loss as to what the forces of darkness were up to this time.

“Maybe they just haven’t started yet,” she suggested after a moment’s thought.

“Oh, they’ve started,” Andrew insisted in a low, dark voice that was incredibly out of place coming from the slight, completely unintimidating boy. “You can feel it -- see it -- the stench of darkest evil in the air…all around us…”

Frowning slightly, Melinda glanced at him speculatively as she asked, “Don’t you just -- *smell* a ‘stench’? And evil’s always all around us, that’s the first thing they teach us…”

“Whatever -- I can feel it,” Andrew shrugged with a dismissive wave of his hand, waiting a beat before adding flatly, “that, and the Council’s seers have picked up on increased activity in this area in the past two months.”

Melinda turned her head to hide the roll of her eyes and the smirk that rose in a natural response to his endearingly pretentious ways, glad that in that moment, the phone rang, and rising to answer it kept the young Watcher from noticing her amusement.

She seemed to see Andrew differently than many of the girls in the house did -- less as an annoying not-very-authoritative authority figure, and more as an eagerly helpful, somewhat more experienced than her, friend. Andrew was just who he was, and though he drove many of the girls nearly crazy with his nasal voice and constant references to obscure American pop culture, Melinda had learned to like him and accept him over the past few months.

After all, he really did mean well, and he didn’t look at the powerful, beautiful girls he was constantly surrounded by as nothing more than pieces of meat to be used to suit his own purposes -- and in her book, that counted for a lot.

As Andrew left the room to get the phone, Melinda rose from her chair and walked to the window, glancing out into the brightly lit city street. Until just about a year earlier, most of the girls in this house had had no idea of what dangers, what darkness, lurked in the shadows untouched by those lights -- and the idea of actually fighting it was the last thing on any of their minds.

Except Melinda’s.

Melinda had been fighting that darkness all her life.

For as long as she could remember, she had lived in L.A. She had probably been born there, as well -- though she would never really know for sure. Someone -- presumably her mother -- had left her on the steps of the hospital one autumn night, with no identification, no anything but the pitiful, ragged clothes she wore, and the thin blanket that had been wrapped around her.

During her entire childhood and adolescence, Melinda had known nothing but the California foster care system, shifted constantly from one foster home to another, with little say in the matter at any point. Some of the homes she had lived in had actually been nice; some others had not been all that bad.

Some had been *very* bad.

The first time one of her foster parents had come into her bedroom at night, uninvited and with no pure purpose in mind, she had been eleven years old, and already knew far more than an eleven-year-old child should have had to have known. As soon as she had realized what he had in mind, she had done her best to fight him off -- even when he covered her mouth to stifle her angry, panicked screams…even when his strong arms managed to pin her down…

Even when he shattered her innocence with his perverse need.

Melinda had always been a strikingly pretty girl, and while he might have been the first to violate her, he was certainly not the last. Melinda learned to be wary of men who willingly took other men’s daughters into their homes. Some seemed to have good, kind motives; others definitely did not -- and many times she was forced to fight for her very dignity.

Melinda might not have always won -- but she had always fought.

The last time she had been attacked -- by the last foster father she had ever had -- she had been fifteen years old.

The man had come to her in the middle of the night, as he usually did, and attempted to force himself on her as he already had done several times before. She knew that he was stronger than her, knew that she could not hold him off for long, but was determined that at the very least, she would make sure that he knew his crime.

There would be no question as to her consent.

The first clue she had gotten that something had changed, was when her first, awkward attempt to push him off of her sent him sailing not only off of her, but off of the bed, and into the far wall. She got up, still partially stunned and expecting him to come after her again, and poised to flee the moment he moved.

Except -- he hadn’t moved.

He had never moved of his own volition again.

The official reports stated that it had been self-defense -- as was the truth -- but Melinda had long since been branded a troublemaker by the social services system, and things had not looked good for her after that incident. She had been headed to juvenile hall, she knew, until her eighteenth birthday.

And then, Andrew had shown up, with the confident, powerful blonde that Melinda would never forget meeting -- and not only because she had explained to her about how her life, her destiny, had been irrevocably changed. That young woman had exuded power and authority, and had a beautiful strength about her that was not soon forgotten.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she was the longest living Slayer ever.

Or maybe it was the fact that she’d died twice, and was still alive.

Either way, Melinda’s life had been forever changed that day.

She had had her doubts as to whether or not this grand “destiny” they had described to her, the reason for her suddenly increased strength, would be able to begin until after her eighteenth birthday, when she would be released into the public again. But apparently, the British based organization they worked with had a lot more power than Melinda had guessed, because by the end of the day, she had been released and was on a plane to England with her new-found friends.

And the rest was history.

She had barely graduated the extensive training program they had placed her in, when news of the apocalyptic occurrences in L.A. had reached the Council in London. Andrew had seemed rather sobered by the news, though Melinda had not really understood at the time why this was any worse than any other averted apocalypse she had been through in the past months.

Neither Andrew, or Mr. Giles, the current head of the new and improved Council of Watchers, had had much to say on the subject, brushing off the girls’ inquiries by stating that it had to do with shared history, and personal connections, and that to anyone besides the few who remained to remember the days before they had changed the world by activating the Slayers, the events in L.A. would really not seem all that climactic.

However, Andrew had said once, in quiet, hushed tones of reluctant secrecy, that Buffy -- known by most of the girls by now as the “original” Slayer -- had not left her Italian apartment for a month after hearing the news.

So Melinda privately thought that it had to be pretty important.

A few weeks later, Mr. Giles had dispatched Andrew, Melinda, and the rest of the girls in the group to the townhouse in L.A., to prevent the rebuilding of the evil law firm that had been Wolfram and Hart.

Only -- there didn’t appear to be any rebuilding.

Oh, every now and then, a few of the girls out patrolling might catch a glimpse of the unusual humanoid breed of demon that were supposedly responsible for overseeing the rebuilding -- but there had only been one or two brief scuffles with them so far, and they always managed to slip away before they could be captured or killed. and they also had managed to give the slip to any of the young Slayers who attempted to shadow them back to their headquarters, to this point undiscovered.

Since there didn’t appear to be any action at the old site of Wolfram and Hart, and the demon general Siron and his men were lying low, there hadn’t been much for the girls to do beside hone their battle skills with routine patrols.

But as overdramatically as Andrew had stated it, Melinda knew what he was talking about.

Something in the air just didn’t feel right.

Something was happening -- they just didn’t know where, how, or what, precisely.

And that was never a good thing, as far as Melinda was concerned.

Andrew’s rushed footsteps -- clearly recognizable by his clumsy gait, and the thumping, clattering sound of a trip midway to the living room -- drew Melinda out of her remembrances, and she turned back toward the doorway to face the young Watcher, gasping and out of breath as he gripped the back of the chair he had sat in earlier, grinning up at her with wide, excited eyes.

“We’ve got a lead on Siron!” he announced, fairly bouncing with excitement. “That was Mr. Giles on the phone, and our witches managed to do a locator spell using that sword that one of them left behind after that fight last week,” he explained, his tone rambling and breathless and almost too quick for Melinda to follow, “and they’ve traced them to a ritzy apartment complex across town!”

Melinda raised her eyebrows, understandably doubtful. “Do demons usually live so high class?”

Andrew shrugged, not surprised by the situation. “Some do,” he answered simply. His grin widened as he asked her, “Ready for a mission? Something a little more interesting than patrolling?”

“Am I!” Melinda agreed emphatically, thrilled at the relief from her boredom promised by his words. “What’s the orders?”

Melinda stood across the street from the large apartment complex where Andrew had said Siron was living, a dubious frown on her face. It still seemed like a rather ritzy sort of place for a demon’s lair. As she watched for any sign of Siron or his men, she saw several average, normal-looking humans going in and out, as casual and ordinary as anything -- but no demons.

Finally, although she wasn’t quite certain about this whole thing yet, she headed toward the door. She was dressed like any other ordinary girl, and was certain that she would not be easily recognized as the Slayer, at least not by the ordinary humans she had seen coming and going. She was sure that she could easily pass for a visitor to one of the human residents she had observed, long enough to get into the building and get some idea of what it was she was dealing with here.

After all she had seen, all she had been through, it was really rather simple for Melinda.

If she got caught, she would fight.

If she fought -- she would win…or lose.

At this point, the result didn’t matter that much to her anymore. The fight was all she knew.

When she entered the lobby, everything still appeared normal. Marble floors and rich red tones gave the enormous room an air that was both intimidating and welcoming, awakening childhood dreams in Melinda that she had long since given up as no more than fantasy -- dreams of having more than she had ever had, of having a better life…

“Can I help you?”

She turned from taking in the expansive view of the lobby to face a reception clerk with a friendly, warm smile, standing behind the check-in desk.

“Uh…yeah,” Melinda replied, leaning her crossed arms on the front of the desk and meeting the clerk’s eyes. She had long since learned the skill of lying convincingly, and had no trouble keeping eye contact. “I’m here to visit a friend of mine. He -- lives in the penthouse suite?”

She avoided the use of an actual name, aware that whatever name the lease was under, it was probably not a single-word name only that sounded like the hero or villain of a fantasy novel.

The clerk’s smile did not falter, and Melinda repressed a smirk at the slightly phony quality of it as the girl replied without hesitation, “The penthouse suite has been unoccupied for two months”

“Oh, really?” Melinda feigned surprise. “He moved out that fast, then? I was kind of hoping to catch him -- well, I guess it doesn’t matter. He told me he was moving out, and I just wanted to check the place out. I’m actually…actually interested in looking into renting it myself…”

As Melinda spun her spur-of-the-moment tale, she could only hope that this woman was really as oblivious to the real goings on in this building as she seemed to be -- and also that whoever the fictitious former resident of the penthouse had been was a male.

Yeah, it was a long shot, she knew.

*Shouldn’t have wasted time asking,* she berated herself with irritation. *Should’ve just gone to the elevator.*

But she was sure that this was not the sort of place where the reception staff let just anyone get up to invade the privacy of their penthouse suite residents -- human or otherwise. Stopping at the front desk first, lending herself as much of an air of belonging there as possible, had seemed like the wisest course of action.

*Yeah -- like they’d ever believe I belong here…*

“The penthouse suite is under renovations at the moment,” the smiling clerk informed Melinda calmly. “There won’t be any tours until it’s finished.”

“And when will that be?” Melinda asked dryly, hoping to catch some idea of the timeframe for Wolfram and Hart’s rebuilding.

“Until further notice, there will be no tours,” the desk clerk repeated her words, rephrasing them slightly, her wide, false smile betraying no irritation, no impatience -- really, no emotion at all.

Melinda frowned slightly, as a vague awareness began in the back of her mind.

As normal as this woman appeared -- perhaps *too* normal? -- something was clearly off about her. Her eyes narrowing with her suspicion, she moved slowly backward toward the elevator, not taking her eyes off the woman, who strangely ceased eye contact with her as she moved away, her blank gaze remaining focused on the spot where Melinda had stood moments earlier.

Melinda pressed the “up” button on the elevator, expecting the woman to say something, to try to stop her -- but the woman no longer seemed aware of her. In fact -- the woman no longer seemed…*real*, at all. She was standing perfectly still, smiling mindlessly into the space where Melinda had stood.

As Melinda waited for the elevator to come down, she watched as another ordinary looking human walked in the door, heading toward the elevator with a newspaper in hand. The front desk lady did not look up, did not acknowledge him or move at all, still frozen in the exact same position she had been in when Melinda had moved out of her line of vision.

“What is she, a robot or something?” she muttered to herself as the elevator doors opened behind her. “A computer? Or -- or magic…?” she murmured, her eyes widening as she considered the possibility -- one that a few weeks earlier she would not have considered, but that Andrew had taught her was definitely something to think of in these sorts of situations.

At that thought, she frowned pensively as she got into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. What was it that he had called the sort of spell used for deceptions -- to make things appear differently than they actually were….?

“A glamour!” she said aloud, watching the lighted numbers above the doors moving slowly higher as the elevator glided upward toward the penthouse level, her eyes lighting up with remembrance. “That’s what it is -- it’s a glamour, to make everybody think this place is totally normal, when really…” She gasped softly, as further understanding came to her, with a sinking feeling of apprehension.

*What if that’s what they’ve got going at the old Wolfram and Hart site?*

With that line of thinking came a more frightening idea, as she realized that this place likely did not house any actual humans at all. If the front desk clerk, the human residents coming and going, were all part of a monumental magical cloak to hide the real inner workings of this building -- then what lay just below the disguise?

What had *really* been in the lobby of this apartment building, where she had seen shiny marble and satin and a pretty, smiling human clerk?

A chill went through her at that thought, and a sick feeling rose up in her throat, as she suddenly thought that it had been very foolish to trust what she saw -- very foolish to come waltzing in here alone on the basis of having seen a few “normal humans” do the same.

Did those “normal humans” even exist?

As the elevator doors started to open, Melinda suddenly felt a sensation of panic, and pressed the “Door Close” button almost desperately, deciding all at once to go back down, to leave, and come back once she knew more about what she was getting into. Clearly, there was more to this situation than Mr. Giles and the Council’s seers were aware of, or they would not have sent her in here unprepared. She would go back to the house, talk to Andrew, tell him what she had seen and the conclusions she had reached…

The relief she felt as the doors started to close again was a physical sensation -- but also a short-lived one.

Just before the doors slid shut all the way, a gleaming silver blade slipped between them, and they automatically opened again.

At the sight of the sharp weapon, Melinda’s eyes went wide with fear and surprise, and she drew a small but lethal battle dagger from her back pocket. She thought it was pretty safe to say that she was not going to be dealing with a vampire when the doors were fully open, so she opted to leave her stake where it was in the other pocket.

No, not a vampire -- it was much worse.

Standing in front of the open elevator doors were a half dozen demons of Siron’s breed, mostly human looking with strange, dark eyes that were terrifying if you looked directly at them. Melinda did *not* look at them, springing immediately into action with her dagger and cutting the throats of two of them before they could move toward her.

Unfortunately -- there were more than two of them.

Once one of them managed to knock her dagger from her hand with the flat side of the sword he held, she really didn’t have a chance. They were nearly as strong as she was, and better armed -- not to mention the fact that she was badly outnumbered.

Still -- she didn’t stop fighting.

Against her best efforts, she was forced to her knees and held there by two of her opponents, while the others tightly shackled her ankles together, and her wrists behind her back. Once she knew that she would not be able to get away from them on her own, Melinda still continued to twist and writhe in their grasp, trying to escape anyway, while screaming at the top of her lungs for help.

A sharp, powerful backhand from one of them silenced her scream, dazing her and stilling her struggles for the moment. The demon who had delivered the blow laughed harshly, gripping her hair and yanking her head up, forcing her to face him as he smirked at her.

“You know, I would say, ‘Scream all you like, no one can hear you’…because there’s no one human here *to* hear you…but I’d really rather you didn’t, because it’s just annoying…”

Feeling a defiant rage building up in her, Melinda jerked away from his hand, opening her mouth to speak again.

“…of course, I could always gag you,” the demon pointed out with a casual shrug. “You might find it in your best interest to pick your battles, little girl.”

Melinda jerked once more against those that held her -- before suddenly stilling, as she had to reluctantly admit the wisdom of his words. Of course, she was sure that they were not intending to give her the chance to fight at all -- but perhaps if she conserved her strength, her energy, for a time when she might have an actual chance at victory, she might actually survive this long enough to get back to Andrew and the other Slayers.

She went limp, allowing them to drag her down a short hallway to the entrance to the penthouse suite itself, and through the door with was promptly triple-locked behind them. Within moments, they had brought her into a large, ornate looking library of sorts. The walls were lined with bookshelves, all full, though the floor of the room mostly empty; where there were furnishings, however, they were lavish and rich and spoke of wealth and power.

Seated in a large, ornate chair toward the back and center of the room, was another demon like the ones who had captured her -- and Melinda knew from the pictures she had seen who he was.

Their leader.

Siron.

He was relaxed, casual in an imperious way that said he knew his own power, and was not the least bit afraid of losing it. He smiled as they dragged her into the room and forced her to her knees once more, and she got the impression that he was not particularly surprised to see her.

*Security cameras,* she thought ruefully, with a feeling of disgust for her own carelessness. *They had to have known the moment I walked in the door.*

Once she was on her knees, Melinda noticed something she had not noticed before -- something that made her heart skip a beat in shock and horrified dismay, and drew her thoughts immediately away from her own foolish mistakes that had led to her capture.

Kneeling at Siron’s feet, beside his huge, throne-like chair, was a young man, nearly naked, with shocking white blond hair and pale white skin. She could not see his eyes at first, as his head was bowed in submission, but she could see the slight trembling of his shoulders, the reflexive swallow in his collared throat that revealed his fear.

Her first impression was that he was human -- but a moment after she looked at him, her Slayer senses registered that he was a vampire. Still, he did not appear able to present much of a threat to anyone, and she felt more sorry for him than hostile toward him. He appeared to be as much of a victim in all this as she was, more even. Judging by his condition -- bruised and battered and covered in various injuries -- and the fearful, submissive posture he was taking, he had been enslaved by Siron for some time now.

And no one, human or otherwise, deserved that.

“So this is a Slayer,” Siron mused, a mocking smirk on his face. “I‘m surprised. Such a remarkable *lack* of skill -- preparation -- wisdom...”

The slave looked up suddenly at Melinda, his eyes wide and startled -- and she was struck by the brilliant blue of that fearful, vulnerable gaze. Siron looked at him sharply, a frown of displeasure on his face, one hand shooting out smoothly to grasp the vampire’s hair and jerk his head back, and he flinched, his eyes closed immediately in a reaction of terror.

“Got a problem, Spike?” Siron asked coolly, his tone frighteningly calm as his dark eyes studied his slave’s taut, fearful expression.

“N-no, Master,” the vampire whispered, his voice trembling as he shook his head as much as he could with the cruel fist tangled in his hair. “I’m sorry, Master, please…”

Siron released Spike’s hair with a harsh slap to the side of his head, and the vampire immediately bowed his head, falling forward onto his face on the floor, his entire body shaking violently. Melinda stared at his pale, scarred back, in which every bone was visible, horrified at the extent of abuse and starvation that the poor creature had apparently been forced to endure.

“As I said,” Siron continued, his attention immediately focused back on Melinda, “I am less than impressed.”

Although his dark eyes were fathomless, terrifying pools of opaque evil, Melinda forced herself to hold his gaze, her eyes narrowing in contempt as she shot back, “So am I.”

The demons surrounding her gasped, looking anxiously to their leader, certain as she was that she would swiftly be punished for her insolence -- but Siron just laughed, looking at his men and shaking his head in amusement at her nerve.

“She’s a cocky one!” he smirked, chuckling softly.

Once they saw his reaction, his men began to laugh as well, until his expression gradually became serious again, and he focused his dark gaze back on Melinda, and they began to silence their own sounds of mirth as well, respectfully waiting for him to go on.

“I love breaking the cocky ones,” Siron informed her in a grim, dark tone of anticipation.

Once again, Melinda felt a chill at the quiet threat in his words.

Glancing down dismissively at the kneeling slave at his side -- whose shaking had stopped at some point during the exchange, Melinda suddenly noticed -- Siron sneered quietly, “Looks like you’re about to have a bit of a reprieve, Spike.” He shrugged almost apologetically as he smiled at Melinda and explained, “Once they’re broken I’m afraid they become -- well, simply boring…”

His smile disappeared in an instant as he addressed his men, still looking at Melinda, “Take her to my quarters. I’ll deal with her later tonight.”

Melinda’s eyes widened as she realized what it was that he intended for her, and she found that she could not take her eyes off the kneeling, terrified slave at Siron’s feet, hardly able to fathom the idea that that was what Siron intended for her to become. Despair came over her at the very thought that she could be so broken, and though she determined in her heart not to let him do it to her, something inside her that was small and afraid was very sure that eventually, he would succeed.

Perhaps if the demons holding her had not dragged her to her feet again at that moment and turned her toward the door, she might have seen something that would have added a sense of hope to soften her despair.

But her back was to Siron, and she did not see, as the slave at Siron’s side rose slowly to his feet -- and brilliant, vulnerable eyes of blue shifted and filled with golden rage.

Spike was not even aware that he had risen to his feet, until the girl had been dragged away, and Siron turned cold, dark eyes on him in a severe question.

All at once, the momentary resolve he had felt, the fury at the thought of this evil creature enslaving the young Slayer, melted away into that all-too-familiar terror, and Spike meekly lowered his gaze, starting to sink back down to his knees.

Siron swiftly stood up and gripped the back of the collar around his neck, choking him as he jerked him back up, holding him on his feet and refusing to let him resume the submissive position he had been trained to maintain at all times, unless otherwise ordered.

“No, Spike…” Siron’s voice was falsely pleasant as he shook his head and smiled with false reassurance at his trembling slave. “…if you’re getting to your feet without my permission, you must have a pretty good reason, right? What’s so important that you felt the need to disobey my orders, slave?”

The last sentence was spoken in a harder tone with a frightening edge of menace, and Spike flinched, expecting brutal punishment to follow. He struggled to respond against Siron’s fierce grip on his collar, one hand rising to just barely touch the taut leather, his blue eyes wide and pleading as they momentarily met his master’s eyes, before dropping to the floor again.

Siron abruptly threw him to the floor on his hands and knees, moving quickly to place his foot across the back of the vampire’s neck, before Spike could even begin to rise to an upright kneeling position.

“Answer me,” he ordered coldly.

“I -- I j-just thought you were -- g-getting ready to leave the room -- Master -- and I thought you would w-want me to attend you.”

Siron removed his foot from Spike’s neck, but the vampire knew better than to move without permission. He shuddered as the hard toe of Siron’s boot slid between his knees, brushing lightly against his abused genitals, barely covered by the scrap of leather tied across them, yet bound cruelly so that the slightest touch caused him excruciating agony.

Spike could hear the deceptive smile in Siron’s voice, as he asked calmly, “Is it your place to assume you know what I want, slave?”

Spike shook his head immediately, desperately, whispering, “No -- no, Master, please…”

“Shut up.”

Spike was instantly silent, as Siron reached down and gripped his collar again, yanking him to his feet, his body moving in close behind Spike’s, so that the already terrified vampire could feel the evidence of the demon’s arousal prodding against him.

“Now,” Siron spoke softly, his free hand wandering across the front of Spike’s body in a possessive gesture of intimidation. “You will go to your quarters -- and I will attend to some household business here, before welcoming our new little guest -- and when I’m finished, you will be prepared to serve my needs. Is that clear?”

Spike nodded, swallowing back a sob, as he replied without hesitation, “Yes, Master.”
Siron released him with a shove, snarling, “Now get out of my sight!”

Spike made his way on trembling legs out of the library, and down the hall toward his quarters -- a tiny, dark room with no light, no heat, furnished only with a hard cot, with no blanket, where he was forced to stay when his master did not have use for him. He was nearly there, when he suddenly stopped, reconsidering.

He glanced anxiously back in the direction of the library. Siron would surely be some time yet in leaving, he realized as he watched two of Siron’s top men walking through the double doors into the room. He looked anxiously back toward his own tiny room, knowing that the safest course was to go there as he had been ordered, and wait for his master to come and abuse him again.

But -- that girl -- that *Slayer* -- was locked up, alone, waiting for the same fate, or worse, to befall her. Surely it would take more to break a Slayer than it had taken to break him -- right?

Before he could talk himself out of it, Spike turned around and made his way quickly toward Siron’s bedchamber, and the young Slayer locked inside.

*************************************

The demons dragging Melinda down the hallway finally threw her down on the floor of a large, richly decorated bedroom, to await whatever horrible fate her captor had in mind for her. As they left the room, she tried to think of what he might want with her -- and then immediately tried just as hard *not* to think of it. She doubted that he planned to simply kill her -- at least, right away -- or he would have done so already, in the library.

However, all things considered, that thought was hardly comforting.

Her mind brought forth the image of the kneeling, trembling slave who had been at Siron’s side, and she shuddered, swiftly putting it out of her mind.

If she allowed her terror to consume her, she knew that she would never get of here.

A moment later, she heard the bedroom door opening, and it was suddenly very hard to remember her resolve. She was lying on her side, facing away from the door, but she quickly rolled over, determined to at least face whatever threat was being leveled at her now.

Her eyes widened with surprise, even as her fears began to fade for the moment.

It was the slave.

What had Siron called him again? Spike? And why did that name seem familiar to her?

Then, her apprehension began to return to her, as her overactive and highly over stimulated imagination once again began to wreak havoc in her mind. Sure, the battered, abused vampire didn’t appear to pose much of a threat; but despite the natural sympathy she couldn’t help feeling for him, he *was* still a vampire -- and a slave to her current captor.

What if he had been sent here by his master? What if he was supposed to bite her, to weaken her, before Siron came to her, to make her more compliant, more submissive to his will?

*What if you’ve heard one too many of Andrew’s overdramatic stories?* she asked herself dryly, inwardly rolling her eyes at the melodrama of the whole situation.

“Um -- hey,” she spoke hesitantly, forcing a weak, half-hearted smile to her lips. “What…”

“Shhh!”

Melinda blinked at the sharp whisper, staring as the vampire held a finger to his lips, before closing the door tightly behind him, looking anxiously up and down the hall outside before he did.

Once the door was safely closed, Melinda tried again, “What…?”

“Quiet, are you daft?” the vampire snapped, holding out a hand for silence, before drawing it nervously back as he began to slowly pace the floor. “Shouldn’t talk to me…or I shouldn’t be talking to *you*…you don’t know the rules yet, so can’t rightly punish you, now, can he? But he will…I know he will…”

His words, and the dark, foreboding sound to his trembling voice sent a shiver through Melinda, and she found herself instinctively fighting against the bonds behind her back.

A bitter laugh left the vampire’s lips, and he shook his head as once again those piercing blue eyes locked onto hers, and Melinda was startled to stillness again. “You shouldn’t be here,” he told her sadly, and she could see tears welling in his eyes. “*I* shouldn’t be here…this is all wrong…it’s just all bloody wrong…”

“You shouldn’t be -- here? In this room? Or -- in this house? As Siron’s -- as his -- slave…” She nearly whispered the last word, her voice softening with compassion and a sort of regret at even having to say the word.

“Quiet!” he snapped at her again, turning in his pacing to face her, hissing his next words in a loud whisper only inches from her face. “Don’t you know you haven’t got the right to talk here! No one talks here unless he lets them -- but you don’t know that yet, do you? But you will…you will, little Slayer…” He drew back, resuming his pacing, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his entire body trembling. “…unless I do it. Unless I…I…I can’t…no, I can’t…”

Melinda’s eyes widened as the vampire’s rambling rant gradually increased in volume and emotion, and she realized with a trace of alarm that this vampire seemed to be on the verge of losing it. There was a slight glint of madness in his anguished eyes when he looked at her, and she could see the conflict in his taut expression.

“I could do it,” he remarked softly, nodding, as he looked at her again, biting his lip in an expression of indecision. “I could do it. Know just how, too. I could do it -- could save the girl…though I’d have to go up in flames again myself to do it…” Again, that nearly maniacal laugh filled the silence, as he lowered his eyes and shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips.

“Done it before -- s’pose I can burn again.” He looked up at her suddenly, his eyes darkening with an aching sorrow, a hollow look of subdued terror. “He likes to burn me. He’d like to burn you, too. I know. Such -- perfect, lovely chocolate skin…he’d love to…”

Melinda felt her spine tingling with the horror of his words, her eyes widening as her throat went dry with terror. She opened her mouth to speak, but all she could do was shake her head.

Suddenly, she wanted to beg him, plead with him to help her if he could, regardless of the cost to him. She was ashamed of her terror, but she couldn’t stand the thought of being a helpless victim again -- and especially not to the monster who now held her captive.

She couldn’t find the words -- but she didn’t need them.

The blond vampire’s conflict seemed to fade as he stared into her terrified eyes, and his shoulders slumped, shaking with dry, soundless sobs as he shook his head in defeat.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, without looking at her. “ ‘S not like I ever had a soddin’ choice in the first place, is it? Gotta do it…gotta save the girl…”

As he spoke, he moved quickly to her side, his every motion fluid and graceful now, now that his choice had been made. In moments the chains at her wrists and ankles were off, and he helped her rise to her feet with an arm that was still strong, despite its gaunt appearance.

“Quiet,” he advised her, his expression suddenly alert and serious. “Can’t blow this by drawing attention to ourselves too soon…”

He opened the door and peered out into the hall again. Satisfied that it was empty, he reached behind him without looking and grasped her hand, drawing her out with him into the hallway.

“You could get out too,” Melinda told him in a whisper, well aware that as a vampire he could hear her clearly. “We could…”

“No,” Spike cut her off in a whisper just barely louder than her own. “We couldn’t.”

She stopped in her tracks, her hand in his easily pulling the weakened vampire to a stop as well, and he turned to look at her with an impatient question in his eyes.

“If I can get out, you can get out,” she reasoned.

“Silly girl,” he sneered softly, sadly, a faint smirk visible in the corners of his mouth. “Doesn’t work that way.” He tried to pull her forward again, but she resisted, planting her feet and jerking him to a stop again.

“Why not?” she demanded simply, her jaw setting with the beginnings of determination. She *really* did not like the thought of his helping her escape, only to remain behind and suffer the consequences for it.

He blinked at her with an expression of slight surprise, as if the answer should be obvious, as he replied, “Because somebody has to create a diversion.”

She was enough taken aback by that that he managed to pull her along again, dragging her toward a stairwell near the end of the hall. He stopped outside the door, which was padlocked shut, and turned to face her again, his soft blue eyes sober and intent.

“The door’s hooked up to an alarm,” he explained. “The minute you break that lock, Siron’s men are gonna come runnin’.” He paused, drawing in a deep breath before he added, “They’re gonna find me. I’ll keep ‘em busy as long as I can. All you need to do is start running and *keep* running until you get to the bottom, then make a run for the front door. It’s not locked down there, you should be able to get out. With any luck, they’ll think it was me that broke it, not even have a soddin’ clue you’re even gone until it’s far too late to catch you. Sound good, love?”

Melinda swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her dilemma as she stared into those troubled blue eyes, touched with a terror that in a few moments, she would not have to feel again -- but that he would be feeling for the rest of his life, if she left him here to Siron’s lack of mercy.

“We can make it out…both of us…” she tried again, though she did not sound completely convinced -- because she wasn’t.

She knew very well that there was no way she would be able to make it all the way down the stairwell and out the door before the alarm drew the attention of her captors and they managed to run her down. Spike’s holding them off was the only thing that would possibly allow her to make it out unhindered.

His painfully expressive eyes told her that he had read her conflict -- and reluctant acceptance -- in her eyes.

“Just go,” he said softly. “Before it’s too late.”

Melinda struggled with the decision for a moment longer, not wanting to leave him to suffer in her place.

“If they find us standing here,” Spike pointed out quietly. “We’ll *both* get it -- and you *won’t* get another chance to get away.”

She felt that shiver run through her again, as she realized that he was speaking from painful experience. She turned toward the door, her jaw clenched in preparation, and delivered a sharp kick that shattered it, before she could change her mind again. The alarm sounded, and she took off down the stairwell as fast as she could, not stopping to think, just running for all she was worth.

The hallway above swiftly filled with demons, their dark eyes fastening immediately on the slave, who caught sight of them and stepped into the stairwell, over the remains of the door that he had apparently just kicked down.

It was only moments before they caught him -- not that he had really been trying to outrun them -- and dragged him back up to the penthouse level.

He fought desperately, for his freedom they assumed -- though that was something he had long since ceased to hope for. Spike was fighting for their attention, their focus, hoping that he could provide enough of a distraction to keep them from thinking of the young Slayer they had left bound in Siron’s bedroom, and the possibility that she might have escaped as well.

And for the moment -- he seemed to be succeeding.

Chapter 8
A Debt Repaid



Spike fought as long and as hard as he could, but he knew from the start that it was a losing battle. Siron’s men would have given him quite a challenge, even if he had been up to his full strength.

And he certainly wasn’t.

He had been enslaved for months, beaten and tortured and half-starved, deliberately kept weakened and injured, to prevent his being able to fight back -- and unfortunately, Siron’s efforts had been mostly successful.

Within minutes he was subdued, forced to his knees on the floor, his face shoved roughly against the floor and held there by a hard foot on the back of his neck. One of them grabbed his wrists and bound them tightly behind his back, before jerking him back up to his knees by the hair.

“What is going on here?”

Siron’s dark, angry tone as he came into view at the end of the hall caused Spike’s stomach to twist inside him with terror, and he found himself struggling instinctively, desperately, though he knew he could not escape. As the demon general made his way nearer to him, however, Spike automatically went still, frozen by his own panic.

He looked up at his master with fearful eyes -- and then immediately looked away, unable to hold that dark, deadly gaze for long.

“Is somebody going to answer my question?” Siron snapped, his warning glare now directed at his men.

“We caught him trying to escape,” one of them finally spoke up, his own eyes respectfully averted, and his tone slightly nervous, as if he expected to be blamed for the near-escape of Siron’s favorite slave. “He was halfway down the stairwell before we caught him.”

Trembling uncontrollably, Spike kept his eyes down, unwilling to see the expression that had to be on Siron’s face by now. The silence was overwhelming, adding weight to his terror, as he waited silently for a reaction -- any reaction -- from his master.

When Siron finally crouched down in front of him, bringing himself to eye level with his frightened slave, Spike flinched violently, trying again to pull away from the restraining hands holding him in place, panic driving actions that logic told him were useless.

“Now Spike,” Siron spoke in a very soft, dangerous tone of voice, a deceptively gentle hand reaching out to turn the vampire’s face back toward him, forcing him to look at him, “you know that’s not going to do you any good -- don’t you?”

Spike swallowed hard, with an effort, as his throat felt like sandpaper by now.

“Why would you do something so stupid, Spike?” the demon general asked, a thoughtful frown forming on his features, and Spike felt his chest tighten with fear at the realization that he was beginning to put the pieces together. “You had to have known you’d get caught. You’ve tried to escape before -- but not in months!”

“Please,” the vampire whispered, shaking his head slightly, though he didn’t dare to move enough to pull his face from Siron’s firm grip. “Please -- I’m sorry…” Perhaps, if he could draw Siron’s attention to him personally, distract him from the line of reasoning he was headed down, he could buy a little more time for the young Slayer who was hopefully nearing the building‘s exit by now. “I just -- just couldn’t take…”

“Shut up,” Siron ordered almost casually, releasing him and standing up straight again, still looking down at Spike as he addressed one of his men. “Karuk -- go to my quarters and check on the prisoner.”

Spike couldn’t help but flinch at the words, glancing up at his master with a trapped, panicked expression for just a moment -- and Siron did not miss the instinctive reaction.

“You little idiot,” he snarled softly, drawing back his fist to deliver a brutal backhand across the vampire’s face, hard enough to knock him to the floor, had he not been supported by several of the demons, who were still holding him down.

“Never mind that!” he snapped suddenly, and the demon he had ordered to check his room now stopped in his tracks, a look of confusion on his face. “She’s not there, she’s getting away. Go after her, all of you!”

The half dozen or so of Siron’s servants who had subdued Spike now took off down the stairwell without hesitation, not knowing how their leader had figured out that the Slayer had escaped, but knowing enough to take him at his word and follow orders without taking time to question.

As they released Spike, Siron grabbed his hair and jerked him painfully to his feet, responding to his startled yelp of pain with another vicious blow to the face, snarling, “Shut your mouth! You think that’s something to cry about, slave? I’ll give you something to cry about!”

Moving at a swift, angry pace, Siron dragged Spike down the hallway toward his room, slamming the door open and glaring down at the floor, at the empty chains that had held his escaped captive. Cursing under his breath, he released Spike with a violent shove that sent him stumbling against the wall.

Breathless and terrified, the vampire spun around so that his back was to the wall, his blue eyes widening with fear as he watched Siron reach under his cloak, pulling out a very familiar object -- the metal-laced whip that he had used on Spike the night he had finally broken him, and had used frequently since then.

Of course, he had never beaten him quite so severely as that first time, never again. To do so would have made his slave pretty much useless, with the extent of the damage that particular weapon inflicted. That one time, it had taken Spike nearly two weeks to heal, even with rather generous amounts of blood to speed his healing, and Siron had found that usually just a blow or two with the whip was perfectly effective.

Somehow, Spike was dreadfully certain that he was not going to be satisfied with such a lenient punishment this time.

He shook his head pleadingly, swallowing back a sob of terror. “Please,” he whispered in a trembling, desperate voice. “Please…don’t…”

**************************************

“This way!” one of the pursuing demons barked out. “She must have gone out this door!”

Without looking back, he ran through the space where the now-shattered wooden door had been, leading outside. He was quickly followed by the others behind him., determined to capture the fugitive Slayer, and bring her back to their master, to assuage his anger before it could be directed at them.

After they had passed, the lobby was still, the empty images of the imaginary human employees of the apartment complex eerily still in the large, empty room. There was no movement at all for a few moments, before the skirting around a small end table next to one of the comfortable sofas in the waiting area shifted slightly, as if in a slight breeze.

Except that there *was* no breeze.

A moment later, dark eyes peered out from under the skirting, looking for any sign of any remaining pursuers. Satisfied that she was alone, Melinda cautiously climbed out from under the small table, looking warily around her, before turning her eyes dubiously back in the direction from which she had come.

The demons chasing her would be out of sight of the exit by now -- and freedom was only moments away.

For her.

For the one who had helped her escape, she knew that there could only be torment. If they were already coming after her, then that meant that Spike had already been subdued by the demons he had tried to fight, and their scheme had been found out. She recalled the many bruises and scars that had covered his body, and her heart hurt at the thought of doing anything to contribute to more of them.

*He likes to burn me…*

The vampire’s haunted words echoed in her mind, and she suppressed a shudder, swallowing hard, sick with uncertainty.

With a heavy sigh, cursing her own stupidity, which would surely lead her back into the clutches of her own doom, Melinda turned and jogged slowly back in the direction she had come from, carefully watching in case there should be others coming after her. She knew that she had to be very careful, and that even if she *was* careful, she was likely to be captured again.

But in the end, it didn’t matter. She simply couldn’t just leave her rescuer to suffer in her place.

*Never had a chance in the first place, did I?*

Again, the vampire’s words echoed in her mind, applying just as well to herself, as she made her way back into the belly of the beast.

**************************************

“You want a fight, Spike?”

Spike flinched as the larger demon moved in close to him, speaking softly into his ear. Siron had turned him so that his face was to the wall, and was now, much to his surprise, unfastening the chains at his wrists. He then spun him around to face him again, slamming him hard against the wall and smiling coldly, his dark eyes inches from Spike’s blue, terrified ones.

“N-no,” he whimpered pleadingly, his shoulders shaking with repressed sobs. “No, I don’t…please…”

“Oh, but I think you do,” Siron insisted, cruel amusement in his voice. “You were fighting my boys out there, weren’t you? Thought you could take them?” He paused, his voice softening as he added thoughtfully, “Maybe you could have, one at a time…”

His voice was even lower, chillingly soft and dark, as he shifted in even closer, refusing to allow Spike to look away as he asked in a voice barely over a whisper,

“Think you could take *me*?”

Spike felt his insides turn to jelly, his shaking intensifying, as he shook his head desperately and insisted, “No, no, Master…please, I’m sorry, I don’t…”

His words were cut off with a harsh slap across his face, more insulting than painful, as Siron smiled, “Sure you do. Come on, Spike. You think you’re still the big bad master vampire? You think you can take me on? Give it your best shot.”

Spike was terribly confused and frightened by the way Siron was talking, behaving. He was not sure how to respond, how to react in a way that would not earn him even greater pain. Surely his master did not *want* him to…?

But it was so, so very tempting. Although he knew it was a trap, a trick by this master manipulator to further engrave upon his mind the knowledge that he was helpless, that fighting would only serve to make his suffering that much worse -- he could not help feeling a sense of anticipation and raw, vengeful desire at the very thought of drawing back his fist and plunging it into the demon’s sneering face.

How good it would feel, to feel Siron’s bones crunching under the force of his fist, to draw his blood and cause him even an instant’s worth of the agony he had put him through over the course of the past two months! Although he knew it was foolish, knew he couldn’t win such a fight, Spike felt his hands itching for the violence of it, the vindication that the struggle would provide…

*The others are gone,* a tiny voice reminded him in his head. *He sent them all away after the Slayer…*

*You almost took on six of them…maybe…maybe…*

“Come on, Spike…how many blows do you think you could get in before I strike you down? How bad do you think I’ll hurt you for every one you *do* get in?” Siron continued his soft, menacing words, unaware of the rising conflict within the broken heart of his slave.

Spike’s eyes widened slightly with a sort of wondering hope, his trembling increasing, though now there was a desperate anticipation mingled with the fear that had originally caused it.

Was it so very impossible to think that he might win a fight with Siron -- Siron, who had never once attempted to face him when he was *not* at a terrible, hopeless disadvantage?

“I said *hit me*, you little piece of *shit*!” Siron snarled, raising the whip in his hand.

Spike did not move, and the large demon swung the whip in a wide, vicious arc, aiming it to fall across the vampire’s exposed stomach.

But the blow never fell.

Before the sharp metal strands could connect with Spike’s tender flesh, the vampire’s hand had struck out swiftly, gripping the demon’s fist that held the handle of the whip, shaking it slightly in a gesture that caused the metal strands to fall limp, just short of their intended target.

Siron’s dark eyes widened in disbelief, and Spike could see the incredulous indignation rising there, knew that his captor was moments away from striking back. Before that could happen, Spike slammed his free fist into Siron’s face, with all the strength he had -- but it was enough strength to send the demon staggering backward, dropping the whip in his hand to the floor.

Spike kicked it out of Siron’s reach, even as the furious demon general’s hand scrabbled to pick it back up, following that kick with a second one, aimed at Siron’s stomach. The demon doubled over, coughing and choking from the blow. Even as he did, however, he was struggling to rise on one arm, determined to get back to his feet.

And Spike knew that he could not let that happen.

His meager strength was already waning, and he knew that if Siron rose again, it would be to take him down, and take him down hard. He looked around wildly for some kind of weapon, something to keep the demon master down -- and his eyes settled on a heavy iron candlestick beside the bed.

Behind him, he could hear the struggling demon general groaning, “You stupid little fool! I’ll kill you, Spike!”

His eyes narrowed, and he blinked back bitter tears, at the memories of the horrible ways in which Siron had used the candle that rested in that stick, and the flame that had often been attached to it. He tore the wax pillar from the stick and hurled it against the wall angrily, before turning back to Siron and bringing the heavy candlestick down hard across the back of his head.

The demon collapsed to the floor, moaning slightly as he struggled to keep from losing consciousness -- but could no longer attempt to rise, not just yet.

And that arrangement was just fine with Spike.

His shoulders heaved with deep, trembling breaths of shock, as he was scarcely able to believe yet what he had done -- what he was still doing. He looked around the room again, and his eyes fell on the discarded whip, lying on the floor near his feet. He suppressed a shiver of dread, as he reached down to pick the hated thing up -- and then turned narrowed eyes of bitter hatred on his fallen captor.

Siron was still moaning, making it obvious that he was still conscious, but unable to move much.

Which was just how Spike wanted him.

When the first blow fell across the demon’s back, eliciting a sharp cry of startled agony, Spike felt a sweet sense of vindication, even as his tears began to flow. He could not see where the blows fell through the tears that now blinded him, but he could hear the impact as they hit flesh, could hear the cries of pain -- and finally pleading -- from his former master, as the sharp wires tore through his tough flesh, reducing it to ribbons.

Yet Spike knew, even as he exacted his vengeance, that no amount of revenge could ever undo the damage that had been done to him.

And for that -- that lost part of himself -- he wept.

*************************************

Melinda was surprised by the emptiness of the penthouse when she reached the top level of the building, but was relieved to be able to make her way swiftly through the apartment, toward the horrible sounds she could hear coming from the room where she had been held captive.

Screaming…sobbing…deliriously muttered words of pleading and desperation…all in the voice of the slave who had kept her from becoming one.

She steeled herself at the door, preparing herself for what she might find on the other side, determined only to stop Siron from doing any further damage than he had already done.

She slammed the door open, prepared to attack -- and froze in her tracks.

Siron was lying on the floor, his hideous body still and lifeless, surrounded in a dark pool of his own thick, congealing blood. The blond vampire was standing over him, swinging a whip that looked vicious, painful -- and clearly deadly. It was stained rust red with the blood of the demon, who was obviously already dead -- and yet, Spike kept swinging it.

Melinda’s confusion over the sounds she had heard faded, as she realized that even as he beat the body of his past tormentor, Spike was sobbing, muttering incoherent words of mingled pleading and accusation, hoarse screams of anguish and torment torn from his lips -- and suddenly Melinda knew the truth.

He *was* on the verge of losing his mind -- and if he did not stop soon, he would.

“Spike!” she called out loudly, trying to break through the trance that seemed to hold him, reaching carefully to stop his arm.

He merely shook her off with a warning snarl, bringing the whip down again on the body, sending blood splattering with the blow.

“Spike, stop it!” Melinda insisted, reaching for him again, but this time he tossed her backward hard enough to knock her into the wall.

Melinda glanced around her in desperation, trying to think of some way to stop him -- until her eyes fell on the candlestick on the floor, the one Spike had clearly used to subdue his opponent. She slowly leaned down and picked it up, testing its weight in her hand.

She didn’t want to strike any harder than she had to.

One swift, firm blow to the back of the vampire’s head had him crumpling to the floor neatly -- unconscious, but not seriously hurt.

By her, anyway.

Melinda was just anxiously wondering how she was going to get him out of this house, in the middle of the daylight hours, without being stopped by Siron’s remaining minions -- when she heard a quietly rising, tumultuous sound, like the sound of battle.

She looked around, bewildered, unable to tell where it was coming from, until her eyes fell on something she had not noticed before, a small security monitor mounted near the ceiling in a corner of the room. From the tiny speakers, she heard the sounds of female battle cries, sounds that had become blessedly familiar to her over the past year.

Looking closer at the screen, she saw that the Slayers had realized that something was wrong when she had not returned as quickly as she was supposed to, and had come to her aid. The demons, who had apparently just returned to the building, were swiftly taken down in the path of the powerful warriors, who then hurried toward the stairs, headed for the penthouse from which Siron had once reigned over his followers.

Once. Never again.

Melinda dropped to her knees, gently stroking back the unconscious vampire’s disheveled, dirty blond hair, as she listened to her sister Slayers making their way up the stairs.
TBC....

Spike spent the next several hours trapped in a nightmare world created by his own mind, filled with fractured, entangled images of traumas and terrors from his past -- both recent, and many years old. He struggled and fought and fled through a surreal universe made of memories and fears, until he felt himself floating slowly back toward consciousness.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Vague, echoing voices drifted to him through the fog that seemed to surround him, drawing him unwillingly back toward the surface of reality. That, and the dull, throbbing ache of the injuries he had sustained in his fight with Siron, not to mention the abuse he had endured in the weeks before the fight, abuse which had never been able to heal on the starvation rations on which Siron had kept him.

As reality gradually won the battle it was waging with his dark, tumultuous dreams, Spike realized with a nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach that the voices -- mostly young, female voices -- seemed to be arguing with each other.

“I don’t like it. I’m sorry, but I don’t. See, there should only be one solution to this little problem here, and I don’t understand why you don’t get that, Melinda…”

“Look, he rescued me! I wouldn’t have gotten out of there at all if he hadn’t helped me!”

Spike recognized the voice of the young Slayer he had helped escape from Siron’s penthouse, coming from very close to him, on his right, and turned his head instinctively toward her, seeking the support that he knew he would receive at least from her.

“Um, yeah, except that you would have,” a third young female voice replied flatly. “About twenty minutes after he showed you the exit and all. We were on our way already by then, remember?”

“Yeah, and twenty minutes is all it would have taken for that *thing* to…”

Melinda’s suddenly furious, trembling voice sounded a bit farther away now, as if she had quickly stood up, and Spike felt his body tense, beginning to tremble, at the rising mood of anger and hostility in the room. He kept his eyes closed, his mind trying to catch up with all that had happened.

The last thing he remembered was being taken to Siron’s room, after he had been caught helping the Slayer…

Where was he? What had happened to Siron? Had the Slayers come looking for their missing sister and taken him away with them?

And if they had -- was that a good thing?

“Oh, shit…oh, shit, it’s waking up…!” a trembling female voice announced, and Spike could hear a rising murmur of alarm in the room, several voices speaking at once, and very quickly.

He didn’t know much at the moment, but he knew that he was the cause for the turmoil, and it was a frightening thought -- especially if he was surrounded by Slayers, as he thought he was. He opened his eyes, squinting and blinking against the light of the room that felt painfully bright, thin arms crossing defensively over his torso, his legs drawing up under him in a subconscious attempt to make himself invisible.

“Okay, this is insane…does he really look like…?”

“Do something! Do something before it attacks!”

“Please!” Melinda scoffed angrily at the fearful voices of the other girls, and as Spike’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw her move to stand protectively between him and the other Slayers. “Come off it! Does he look like he could hurt anyone right now? He’s hurt and starved, and he’s been a slave to that monster for who knows how long…he needs our *help*…”

“Last time I checked, we weren’t in the business of helping vampires!” another voice snapped, and Spike flinched, looking up with fearful eyes to see a tall blonde stepping right up into Melinda’s face, clearly trying to intimidate her. “You know, our job description is pretty much the opposite of that!”

Melinda refused to back down, taking a step forward to counteract the other girl’s advance. “Well, typically vampires don’t help Slayers, either, do they?” she retorted.

“Look -- if he’s so bad off -- maybe it’d be *kinder* just to stake him,” another girl put in timidly, earning herself a pair of dark looks from the two Slayers on either side of the argument. “I mean, look at him -- he’s terrified.”

Melinda turned suddenly toward Spike, her eyes wide with surprise, not having noticed when he had awakened. As she moved toward him, he instinctively looked down, his wide blue eyes focusing on the comfortable bed he was lying on, taking in the soft brown comforter that covered him, and the clean, cool white sheets beneath him -- mostly just trying to avoid the conflict that was already centered around him.

“Hey,” Melinda said, her voice suddenly soft as she sat down on the side of the bed beside him, reaching out to take his hand, frowning slightly when he flinched away from her. “Hey…it’s okay…you’re safe…nobody‘s gonna hurt you…”

When the blonde snorted in contempt at that, Melinda shot her a fierce glare, and she turned away, rolling her eyes in frustration.

“Don‘t worry about them, Spike,” Melinda advised him gently. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you. You’re free now…”

Spike looked up at her, shaking his head in confusion, trying hard to focus on her, and not the varying degrees of hostility he could still feel rolling off the other girls in waves. “W-what…?”

“We stormed the compound. Siron and all his men are dead,” Melinda explained with an encouraging smile. “They can’t hurt you anymore, Spike.”

His eyes widened in wonder at those words, as a vague memory began to press its way through the fog that was still clinging to the edges of his consciousness. “S-siron…”

“He’s dead,” Melinda repeated quietly, hesitating a moment before adding with a grim smile, “You killed him.”

Spike was silent, the fuzzy images of what had happened starting to come back to him -- and with them, an overwhelming sense of confusion and uncertainty. As the girls around him began quietly arguing again with no regard for his feelings on the matter, Spike tried to make sense of what had happened.

Was it possible that he was really free? Siron was actually dead? Then what would happen next? Where would he go? Was he now a prisoner to these Slayers, instead of to the demon master who had so brutalized him?

And if so, was this position really that much better than his last?

“Just stop it!” Melinda went on beside him, her harsh tone momentarily silencing the other girls, and a single word from her next statement drew Spike’s attention out of his thoughts instantly. “It’s not up to us. It’s up to Andrew, and he should be back any minute. Let’s just leave it up to him, and stop going on about it!”

Spike stared up at her through wide, startled blue eyes. “Andrew?” he whispered uncertainly.

Melinda looked at him with a puzzled frown, but before she could respond, the blonde Slayer was moving toward them again, and Spike’s eyes focused on her in alarm as he noticed that she held a hypodermic needle in her hand.

“Yeah,” the blonde said shortly, “we’ll leave it up to Andrew. But in the meantime, I refuse to be in a room with this *thing* unless it’s kept under control. You can get all chummy with it later, Melinda!”

“No,” Melinda argued forcefully, reaching to hold her arm back as she reached toward Spike’s arm. “No, you don’t have to…”

But it was too late. The blonde had plunged the needle into Spike’s arm, despite Melinda’s protests. Within seconds, Spike felt the fog of confusion and exhaustion washing over him again, pulling him back down into the darkness of oblivion. Before it took him completely, he heard the faint sound of voices, increasingly muffled and distant.

“What are you, crazy?” Melinda objected furiously.

“It’s just to sedate him, Melinda. He’s a vampire, it won’t hurt him, it’ll just keep him from hurting us…”

“He’s *not* going to *hurt* anyone!”

“No,” the blonde answered calmly, smugly. “He’s not. This’ll keep him nice and quiet and unconscious until Andrew gets here and gives us permission to stake him.”

Above Melinda’s indignant objections, Spike heard a familiar male voice speak from the doorway, in a quiet voice of certainty, tinged with a sort of awe and disbelief -- and his voice silenced the others. Spike would never have thought before that he would ever be so grateful to hear Andrew’s voice; but in this particular situation, it made him feel safer, reassured.

“I’ll be doing no such thing. *No one* is going to hurt that vampire. He’s a hero. A *champion*. And there will be no staking of any kind.” Andrew was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was much closer and the last thing Spike heard before losing consciousness. “We’ll call Mr. Giles. He’ll know what to do.”

************************************

When Spike next woke, it was to a sudden jarring motion that shook him from the heavy sleep that had enveloped him for -- he really had no idea how long. He looked up, blinking into the darkness that surrounded him, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After a moment, he realized that he was in the backseat of a car, and the jolt that had awakened him had been a particularly rough pothole in the road.

“Sorry,” a voice beside him spoke up apologetically, “these roads are a little torn up. Didn‘t mean to wake you.”

Spike’s head snapped up at the familiar sound of that voice, and he was surprised to see Andrew sitting beside him in the backseat of the vehicle. He glanced around, taking in the lush interior of the car, and realizing that it was most likely a limousine. He looked back at Andrew, who was looking at him with a sort of curious, anxious, hopeful expression on his face -- as if the boy wasn’t quite sure *what* to feel.

“Are you okay?” he asked hesitantly.

Spike just stared at him for a moment longer before looking away. “What -- what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice hoarse and low, and trembling in a way that made him wince.

“Right. Sorry,” Andrew replied uncomfortably, clearing his throat in a self-conscious way.

“What -- what was in that -- what did they give me…?” Spike found that his words were slurred slightly, and his thoughts were still coming too slowly, most likely the aftereffects from whatever drug the blonde Slayer had pumped into his arm.

“Oh, that. I gave her a piece of my mind for that, Spike, I promise! I’m so sorry about that. Some of the girls -- well, they don’t understand. They didn’t feel safe unless you were -- sedated.”

Spike swallowed hard, a faint, bitter smirk rising to his lips at the irony of that idea.

“And then -- well, there was the plane ride here, since you can’t exactly get to England by land, and since we couldn’t let you be exposed to sunlight, we had to send you in the cargo hold, which involved a wooden box and claustrophobia and coffin associations, so I sort of decided that maybe the sedation idea might not be such a bad one…and anyway, it should be wearing off pretty soon,” Andrew assured him, rambling nervously. “I mean -- it shouldn’t last too much…”

His voice trailed off as he finally looked at the vampire beside him again and saw that he was, once again, fast asleep.

Andrew stared at him for a moment longer, swallowing hard, and wondering what Mr. Giles would do when they reached the new Council headquarters. He had assured Andrew that he would help Spike deal with his ordeal, the things he had been through, and Andrew had been relieved to hear it. Although he would have been willing to do anything in his power to help Spike, who even now was still his ultimate hero, Andrew knew that he was by no means equipped to deal with the kind of trauma Spike had certainly endured.

As the limousine entered the city limits of London, Andrew breathed a weary sigh of relief.

Soon, the weighty responsibility would be out of his hands.

**********************************

For the third time in less than forty-eight hours, Spike woke up in an unfamiliar place.

Only this time, thankfully, he woke up alone.

He found himself in a soft, comfortable bed, in a large bedroom that was well-decorated and warmly lit, though not too bright. The overall atmosphere of the room made him feel safe and reassured. Though he knew better than to accept that feeling without question, not until he knew where he was, and who had brought him…

*Wait…Andrew…* he remembered, feeling a sense of relief wash over him.

Andrew might be an annoying little ponce with a disturbing fascination with him, but Spike at least knew that Andrew would not let any harm come to him, as long as it was in his power to stop it.

Of course, that wasn’t saying much, either.

But -- something else Andrew had said was niggling at the edges of his mind. What was it…?

Just then, there was a quiet knock at the door. It was by no means a threatening sound, but Spike flinched, nevertheless. The events of the past two months had left him constantly apprehensive, expecting pain and punishment at every turn.

Nevertheless, it didn’t matter, because whoever was at the door did not wait for a response before edging the door open slowly and stepping into the room.

And then, Spike felt his relief grow stronger, letting out a slow, shaky breath that he hadn’t known he was holding. He and Giles had not always agreed on everything -- okay, well, on much of anything, for that matter -- and Giles *had* tried to have him killed, but Spike knew that the Watcher had thought it was for Buffy’s own good, and he couldn’t say for sure that if the situation had been reversed, he would not have done the same thing.

Giles would be fair, of that much at least, Spike was sure.

The Watcher’s smile was slightly guarded, but reassuring, as he closed the door softly behind him and turned to meet Spike’s eyes. He walked across the room, waiting until he was seated in the chair next to the bed to finally speak.

“Hello, Spike.”

“I trust you’ve slept well?” The Watcher spoke with a calm, cultured tone that was painfully familiar, though the years and experiences that had passed for Spike made it sound somehow foreign and unsettling as well. “How are you feeling?”

Spike simply looked at him blankly for a long moment, hardly able to imagine how he might answer such a question.

“Hungry?” he replied finally, his voice hoarse and uncertain. It was the only thing he felt at the moment that he would dream of sharing with Giles.

The Watcher smiled tolerantly with a brief nod. “We will see that you get some blood right away. You’ve been asleep for…well, for several days now.”

Spike studied the Watcher’s guarded expression with increasing perception, as the memories came back to him, and his eyes narrowed as he flatly observed, “Not without some assistance, I take it. Yeah?”

His own voice sounded strange to him, like this, in normal conversation. Speaking without seeking permission first was a strange thing to him now, and a part of him still feared punishment for doing so -- a rather large, strong part of him. But, subconsciously, he also recognized that to show such irrational fear to the Watcher would reveal something of the horrors and humiliations he had experienced, and the last person he wanted to know of the things that Siron had done to him was this man, who had often been his enemy, and never his friend.

Well -- not quite the *last* person. But close.

Giles acknowledged his words with a nod and a vaguely apologetic smile. “The girls -- the Slayers -- are not accustomed to the concept of a vampire who is not the enemy. They could not tolerate your presence unless you were sedated. Then, of course, there was the trip by air, during which we had no recourse but to send you crated in the cargo hold. And we rather thought you’d not handle it well if you happened to awaken in such a state.”

Spike said nothing, looking away, though he had to admit the logic of Giles’ reasoning.

“So what happened exactly?” Giles asked quietly, a note of mild curiosity in his voice. “We heard about the battle between Wolfram and Hart, and Angel’s group, but we were told that there were no survivors on Angel’s side.”

*There *weren’t* any survivors.*

“Well, you can see that wasn’t true.”

Spike’s voice was low, humble, and he knew it was nothing resembling the way he used to speak, but he simply couldn’t help it. The confidence that had once characterized every facet of his outward persona was gone, and he was not sure that he could ever get it back.

In fact, he was quite sure that he could not.

“Obviously,” Giles conceded with a smile. “I’m -- quite curious as to how you managed to survive such tremendous odds against you. Would you mind telling me about it?”

*Yes, *yes*, I mind! You can’t know! I won’t ever tell you, so *don’t* ask me! I can’t let anyone know…*

“Yeah,” Spike murmured, his eyes downcast, focused on the sheet he was slowly folding and unfolding between his fingers. “Yeah, all right.”

He realized suddenly with a sick sensation of mingled shame and panic that, when he had been found, he had still been wearing the horrible little slave’s costume that Siron had forced him to wear. They had to know already; they all had to know his shameful secret! He couldn’t look up at the Watcher, couldn’t speak, his throat constricting with a mixture of fear and humiliation.

Gradually, as his body shifted uncomfortably beneath the bedding, Spike realized that the feeling was different than it had been in the slave’s clothes he had worn. Shifting the sheet back slightly, he saw the top of a pair of dark jeans that someone had thoughtfully put on him at some point during his unconsciousness.

He didn’t know whether that development made the situation better or worse.

He knew that Melinda and the other Slayers had seen him in the other clothes, and Andrew as well, if his memory served him correctly, but how long had he been dressed, and how much information had been passed around in the days of his unconsciousness -- and how much of it was even true at this point?

How much did Giles know?

“Spike?” The Watcher’s unusually gentle voice drew him out of his thoughts, and he looked up from the bed to Giles, a startled expression on his face.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I -- I was -- what were we talking about?”

“The battle,” Giles reminded him patiently.

“Right,” Spike repeated flatly, trying to pierce through the fog of confusion and fear that still shrouded his thoughts. “The -- the battle…”

It felt like a lifetime ago.

“There were -- more demons than I could count. More than I’d ever seen in my bloody life. There was -- a dragon…”

Spike found that the memories of the battle came with difficulty, and he struggled to remember the details -- and then gave up. Between the traces of the sedative still in his system, and his own reluctance to think about the things afterwards that he *could* remember, he found it impossible.

“They all died,” he stated. “It was just -- just too many of them. We couldn’t…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head slowly.

“Except you,” Giles persisted softly.

Spike swallowed hard, closing his eyes against the flood of images that filled his mind, only to find that they found him more easily with his eyes closed.

“Yeah. I was -- was taken prisoner.”

“By Siron.”

Spike couldn’t help his flinch at the sound of his former master’s name. “Yeah,” he whispered.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Spike,” Giles sighed heavily. “Why would Siron kill all the others and spare you? Do you know?”

“*Why*?” Spike gave him a lost, uncertain look, looking away very quickly before the perceptive Watcher could read too much in his haunted eyes.

“Why,” Giles echoed. “Why he spared you.”

Spike swallowed hard, fighting back a sob. He couldn’t, *couldn’t* let Giles know.

But -- did he know already?

“He -- he made me a slave,” he admitted in a low voice, his gaze locked onto the sheet between his fingertips once more. “I -- I don’t know why…but…”

“Hmm.”

Spike looked up at the Watcher’s soft sound of surprise. “What?” he asked defensively.

Giles shook his head. “I just -- I’m sorry. It just surprises me to think that you could be made to serve as a slave under any conditions, Spike. You have always appeared to me as the type who would fight and die before he would allow himself to be enslaved.”

“I *did* fight,” Spike insisted, his voice trembling and rising slightly in desperation. “I fought him as long as I -- I mean…” He hesitated, quickly breaking eye contact with Giles again, alarmed by the growing understanding in the Watcher’s sympathetic eyes. “I fought,” he repeated in a voice of quiet, intense emotion. “I did.”

Giles was silent for a moment before asking softly, “What did he do to you, Spike?”

Spike felt his body shaking with the effort to repress the truth of what had happened to him as he forced a calm, casual tone, shrugging weakly.

“The usual for the breaking of slaves. Torture, beatings -- nothing I hadn’t been through before. Psychotic hellgod, Angelus -- remember?”

“Odd, then,” Giles responded, his tone mild and disarming, yet piercing and persistent, “that it’s effect on you was so -- extreme. What made the difference? What caused you to yield under the same torture you’d endured before without breaking?”

Spike felt his face flush with shame, and he blinked back tears of humiliation, as he swallowed back a sob. “It’s -- it’s that obvious. That he -- he broke me,” he whispered, his tone hollow and haunted, the words a statement of fact rather than a question of the Watcher’s opinion.

Giles was tactfully silent, but Spike already knew the truth.

The Watcher cleared his throat before finally breaking the silence. “Yes, well, I’m certain that it took quite cruel and heinous tactics to -- to break you. More -- personal, and invasive -- than you’ve disclosed to me thus far. Am I correct in that assumption, Spike?”

Spike could not hold back his tears by now. His head bowed, he nodded silently, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“I can understand your shame, Spike,” Giles went on after a few moments, his tone mild and compassionate. “God knows I would be ashamed as well, in your position.”

Spike looked up at him, startled by the words, before his gaze was driven downward again by the pitying knowledge in the Watcher’s eyes.

“Of course,” Giles added, almost as an afterthought, “it *was* a terrible ordeal, I’m sure. I’m certain that many others would have broken just as easily.”

Spike flinched at the last word, certain that it was not intended to be hurtful, but shamed by its use just the same.

*It wasn’t easy,* he insisted desperately in his mind. *I tried. I tried so hard! It wasn’t ‘easily’ at all -- was it? Am I just a pathetic little ponce who couldn’t take it? If I’d been stronger…if I’d fought harder…?*

“I’m assuming you’ll want me to contact Buffy right away?”

The Slayer’s name drew Spike’s thoughts momentarily away from his ordeal, and he looked up at the Watcher sharply, a bit lost. “What did you say?” he asked in a hushed, apprehensive tone of voice.

“I’ll call Buffy for you, let her know what’s happened. She’s been terribly busy in Rome, with the new Slayers there, but I’m certain that when she becomes aware of the fact that you’re alive, and of what’s happened to you, she’ll be quite sympathetic and eager to help you, Spike…”

“*No*!” the vampire objected forcefully, almost frantically. “No, I -- I don’t want her to…don’t call Buffy.”

Giles raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, studying Spike’s expression for a long moment before remarking quietly, “I would think that you would want very badly to see her, Spike. Of course, it would be difficult for her to accept what’s -- happened to you. And I know you’re aware that I’ve never supported your relationship with Buffy. But after what you’ve been through, Spike, I will not stand in your way if you wish to seek out her support. I’m sure in time she’ll be able to get past…”

“*No*.”

The Watcher fell silent, waiting for the vampire to go on.

“I -- I don’t want her to know. I couldn’t -- couldn’t take that. Please.” Spike turned desperate, anguished eyes on Giles. “Please don’t tell her. Just let her go on thinking I’m dead. Thinking I -- I died a -- a hero. Please.”

The Watcher reached out a gentle hand to rest on the vampire’s shaking shoulder, and Spike felt his sobs rising up in him again at the sympathetic touch.

“You *were* a hero, Spike,” he reassured him quietly. “Whatever has happened to you now -- whatever you’ve become -- cannot change that now.”

Spike knew that Giles was trying to be supportive and reassuring, but his words only served to make him feel worse, to remind him of what had once been -- and all that he had lost.

“What do you want, Spike?” Giles asked him after a moment. “What can I do to help you?”

“I want to get out of here,” Spike replied without hesitation, his voice hoarse with tears, barely over a whisper. “Please -- I just want to -- to go away…”

Giles nodded slowly, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before withdrawing his hand. “I’ll help you, Spike,” he stated. “Your physical injuries have almost completely healed. You should be able to travel whenever you are ready to do so. There are many places besides L.A. and London -- places where you’re not known -- where you can escape the past, and still do a great amount of good.”

Spike nodded without looking at him, his distant haunted gaze focused downward again. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Please. I’d -- I’d like that.”

After a moment, Giles replied with a nod, “I’ll make some calls. I should be able to make some arrangements for you by the end of the day.” As he spoke, he rose and moved toward the door.

“Giles,” Spike stopped him, and the Watcher turned to look at him expectantly. “I -- I’m not sure I’m ready yet -- to fight again. Might -- might take a while. What I really want right now, it to just -- just…”

“Just what, Spike?” Giles gently pressed him, a concerned frown creasing his brow.

Spike was silent for a moment, before the word fell from his lips in an anguished, desolate whisper.

“*Disappear*.”

Giles studied his expression, his own face softening with compassion. “Don’t worry, Spike,” he assured him quietly. “That can be arranged.”

************************************

Andrew made his way down the hallway toward Spike’s room, wanting to look in on his friend and see if he had awakened yet. The powerful sedatives they had used to make his flight more comfortable had yet to wear off, and Andrew’s own flight back to L.A. to supervise the Slayers in the clean-up following Siron’s defeat was scheduled for that night.

He would be returning to London within a few days, if all went according to plan, but he still wanted to see his friend before he left, to offer his support. Spike could use all the support he could get right now, of that much Andrew was sure.

As soon as they had arrived at Council headquarters, the staff physicians, skilled in dealing with the supernatural, had examined Spike thoroughly -- and the nature of many of his injuries had left Andrew horrified. He had been grateful for his friend’s sake that he had been unconscious throughout the exam, and had made sure as soon as it was finished that the wretched, insulting clothes he had been wearing were thrown out and replaced with clean, comfortable jeans. Spike’s chest had still been too badly injured -- from multiple recent beatings, apparently -- to be covered, for the time being.

As he neared the door to Spike’s room, Andrew began to feel nervous. What exactly did one say to comfort a friend who had been raped and tortured and treated as a slave? How could he express his sympathy, his concern, without further humiliating the ex-Big Bad vampire, the one who had been his hero for the past three years?

He was both relieved and disappointed to find Spike still and silent, lying down in the bed. His back was facing the door, so Andrew could not see his face, but he appeared to be asleep.

With a regretful sigh, Andrew turned and made his way back down the hall.

He slowed down as he neared Giles’ office, wanting to speak with the new head of the Council, who had been keeping watch over the invalid vampire for the past few hours. Perhaps Spike had awakened already and had simply gone back to a much more natural, non-drug-induced sleep.

As he reached the door, Andrew saw that it was open a crack, and the light inside was on. He paused before opening it the rest of the way, when he heard Giles’ quiet voice inside. He was apparently on the phone, so Andrew waited politely outside for him to hang up before entering.

He wasn’t trying to listen in -- he really wasn’t.

But the hall was quiet, and the door was cracked, and Mr. Giles’ voice just carried through it, clear and quiet, yet plainly audible.

“Yes, he’s just regained consciousness. He’s not very strong at the moment, hasn’t fed in a couple of days, but he’s awake. You can come for him whenever you’re able -- the sooner the better.”

Andrew found his interest piqued by those words and smiled. It sounded as if Buffy would be making a trip to London soon.

“Yes, I’m quite certain, you stupid git!” The Watcher’s voice sounded irritable and exasperated as he spoke again, and Andrew’s smile faded. It did not sound as if he was talking to his Slayer. “I’ve spent nearly six unfortunate years with the creature. I would think I should know. I assure you. We are speaking of William the Bloody.”

Andrew felt a sick sensation beginning low in his stomach, and found himself nervously listening more closely to the conversation. Who was Mr. Giles talking to?

“I assure you that he will be no trouble whatsoever. He’s been quite thoroughly -- broken, recently, and quite frankly, I don’t believe he has the strength of will left to resist.”

Andrew was feeling worse with every word. Whomever Giles was talking to, whatever he was planning, it did not sound particularly good for Spike.

“No, she believes him to be dead in the recent battle with Wolfram and Hart, as did we. As it turns out, he was merely captured and enslaved. Yes, by a rather brutal demon general, as I understand, who seems to have done your work for you. He’ll be coming to you already trained and unresisting to whatever his lot might be.”

“What lot?” Andrew whispered under his breath, almost frantic. “What is he *doing*?”

“How soon can you be here? I’d very much like to have him out of my life for good. Yes, of course, hers too. Naturally. The farther he is from Buffy, the better I will feel.” Giles’ voice was filled with disgust and resentment, and Andrew thought that he had never heard it sound quite so ugly -- except perhaps once before.

*He’s tried to hurt Spike before,* he reminded himself uneasily. *For Buffy’s good, he thought. Is that what he’s doing now? Trying to keep Spike out of her life? Surely he wouldn’t do anything to really *hurt* him -- would he? Not after everything that’s happened? Not after all Spike’s already been through, after he sacrificed himself to save the world?*

“Thank you. I’ll see you soon, Ethan.”

The click of the receiver being set down sounded impossibly loud in the sudden stillness of the hallway, and Andrew stumbled backward in his haste to get away before Giles caught him eavesdropping, catching himself against the wall on the opposite side of the hall, before he could fall and make a noise to betray his presence.

Hurriedly regaining his balance, he quickly moved down the hall and into an alcove, leaning against the wall and trying to catch his breath.

*Mr. Giles wouldn’t -- he wouldn’t do anything like…*

He swore he could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his chest as he heard Giles locking his office door and hoped desperately that he would go the opposite direction down the hall.

He breathed a very quiet sigh of relief as he heard the older man’s slow footsteps going back in the direction of Spike’s room. His heart sank at that thought, and Andrew leaned his head forward into his hands, trying to compose his thoughts, to make sense of what he had heard. Only one thought seemed to continue to run through his mind again and again.

*What am I going to do?*

Andrew tried to tell himself that he had misunderstood what he had heard.

No, Giles had never really liked Spike, especially not when Buffy’s feelings for Spike had become so apparent just before the battle with the First. But surely the Watcher had to acknowledge the tremendous amount of good Spike had done, the fact that he had literally saved the world! Surely that was enough to protect Spike from any further attempts at harming him from Giles -- wasn’t it?

The telephone conversation he had just heard was not terribly reassuring of that idea.

*You just misunderstood…he’s just bringing someone in to help…that’s all…he’s not going to do anything to hurt Spike…not after everything he’s been through already…*

Andrew took a deep breath, letting it out with a shudder as he struggled against the sick feeling of apprehension in the pit of his stomach, trying to slow the frantic pounding of his panicked heart in his chest as he paced back and forth in the now-empty hallway.

*Okay…think, Andrew…think…*

*Buffy…*

*But…Buffy’s…who knows where? Only Giles knows where the real Buffy is…only he can reach her…but what if she’s the only one who can help Spike?*

Andrew continued his pacing, glancing anxiously down the hall toward Spike’s door, trying to come up with something he could do that might actually be helpful to his friend.

*Okay…can’t talk to Buffy…need to talk to Spike, figure out what Giles told him, and if it’s the same as what he was telling that guy on the phone…find out what he thinks they’re going to do…but…but Giles is in there with him, and I don’t want him to know I was listening…*

Andrew frowned, letting out a little cry of frustration as he stopped his pacing long enough to slam his fist against the wall beside him. Immediately his face twisted into a grimace of pain as he shook his battered hand, drawing in his breath through his teeth in reaction to the impact.

“*Ow*.”

***********************************

“So…so this friend of yours…when’s he gonna show up?”

Spike’s voice was low, subdued, and he did not look up as he addressed the question to the Watcher, once again seated beside him. He felt a sense of mingled relief and intense disappointment at the plan Giles had described to him, but did his best not to let it show to the man, who was being quite decent, all things considered, and going to quite a bit of trouble to help him.

He felt lost, bewildered, unsure really of what he *should* be feeling at a time like this, given all that had happened to him.

And the things that had happened to him…

At the very thought of Siron, and the violations that had been forced upon him, night after night, for so long, Spike felt an unintentional shudder come over him, a sick sensation of fear that made his throat go dry and his stomach lurch within him. He silently reassured himself that Siron was dead -- he had killed him himself -- and that painful, horrific chapter of his life was over.

But it did not *feel* over.

He longed, ached for the presence of the Slayer that he loved. She had come for him, before, when he had been captured and tortured by another enemy, what felt like a lifetime ago. Her strong yet compassionate voice reassuring him that she believed in him was what had gotten him through the days and nights of torment at the hands of the First and its minion.

He wanted her comforting embrace, her firm but gentle touch, so desperately that he could almost feel the soft warmth of her hands against his skin…but when he opened his eyes, he was faced with the bitter truth that she was not actually there.

And this time -- he could not let her come for him.

Spike felt broken, damaged, dirty, overwhelmed with a constant sense of shame and unworthiness because of the things that had been done to him. Though he knew it was not rational, knew it could not really be true, there was a part of him that was firmly convinced that anyone who looked at him could see it in his eyes…his shame, his helplessness, the terror that still filled him, despite his rational knowledge that he was reasonably safe now...

He could not begin to imagine allowing Buffy to see those things in his eyes.

“Tomorrow morning,” Giles replied quietly to Spike’s question, oblivious to the inner turmoil of the vampire’s mind. “My associate will be arriving first thing tomorrow morning, and if you wish to do so, you may expect to be able to leave before the end of the day.”

Spike nodded slowly, his face carefully expressionless, still refusing to meet the Watcher’s piercing gaze.

Nevertheless, Giles’ firm, steadying hand still ended up on Spike’s shoulder, as the Watcher rose to walk out of the room. “Give it some time, Spike,” he advised gently. “It may not seem like it now, but in time, your recent ordeal will be nothing more than a distant memory.”

Spike swallowed back a sob, infinitely relieved when the light touch -- so near to bringing him to tears -- was removed, and the Watcher finally left him alone.

He could not imagine ever being able to forget.

“Meanwhile,” Giles continued in a quiet, mild voice, turning away from Spike momentarily and opening a drawer in his nightstand, taking a small object from it and moving around to stand facing the vampire. “Allow me to help you to rest, while you await my friend’s arrival.”

Spike looked up at him uncertainly, before his eyes widened with understanding on the object in Giles’ hand.

It was a hypodermic needle.

Instinctively he shuddered at the sight, shaking his head slightly in rejection of the offer. As tormented as he was in his waking hours, unable to escape his anguished memories and the endless questions that flooded his mind -- the thought of being trapped in his nightmares was worse. The idea of being out of control, unaware, was a frightening one, considering all that had happened to him in the past few months.

“It’s a magical sedative,” Giles explained gently. “It induces a restful, dreamless sleep. There’s an antidote, which I would administer when my associate arrives.”

Spike opened his mouth to refuse, when one of the Watcher’s words registered with him, echoing in his mind with a tempting sound.

*Dreamless…*

The shake of his head became a slow, reluctant nod, as he held out his arm for Giles to inject the drug into his system.

********************************

*No, no, no!*

Andrew’s eyes went wide, and he silently clapped his hand over his own mouth, wondering momentarily whether or not he had spoken his protest aloud. When no unusual sound made its way through the slightly cracked door of Spike’s room to his ears, he let out the breath he had been holding in relief…though a short-lived relief.

Neither Giles nor Spike had apparently heard him outside the door -- but the soft hissing intake of breath from Spike’s lips told the boy that the Watcher had already administered the sedative.

*Shoot, shoot, shoot!*

There was nothing but silence from the bedroom for a few moments, and then Giles’ slow, steady footsteps could be heard making their way toward the door. Andrew staggered blindly backward into the room directly across the hall, closing the door quickly but quietly behind him, before the older Watcher could open the door and catch him there.

He waited with bated breath as he heard Giles make his way down the hallway, waited for thirty seconds longer after he could no longer hear his footsteps, before stepping cautiously out into the hallway and creeping across to Spike’s door. He opened it without knocking, well aware that he did not have any time to waste.

*Might be out of time already. Crap!*

He was relieved to see the vampire’s blue eyes look up at him as he entered; but the utter lack of surprise -- or of any reaction at all, for that matter -- was a bit less encouraging.

“Spike! Spike, you have to listen to me…” he began, his voice hushed and urgent, though he knew there was no one left to overhear their conversation.

“Ever…ever hear of knockin’?” Spike asked him, though the bite was stolen from his words by the slurred, unnaturally slow tone of his voice. “Wanker,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

But his eyes kept on rolling, back into his head, as his eyelids slid shut and his body went limp on the bed.

“Crap.”

**********************************

By the next afternoon, Andrew was unbearably nervous.

He had no idea what to do.

He did not know how to reach Buffy, to let her know that Spike might be in danger; and with Spike drugged unconscious, there was no way for him to warn his friend or even to find out if the vampire knew anything about what it was that Giles had in mind for him. It was true, he kept reminding himself, that Giles’ side of the telephone conversation had not made things all that clear. It was *possible* that he had nothing sinister planned for the unsuspecting blond vampire.

Possible -- but not likely.

If only there was some way to find out…

But Giles’ “associate” had already arrived at the Council’s airstrip in the countryside well outside of London. Giles had gone to meet his plane, to bring him back to Council Headquarters, to set into motion whatever plan he had in the works for Spike.

Spike was still unconscious -- and Giles was due back any minute.

Andrew was sitting in the chair beside Spike’s bed, his head in his hands, when he heard quiet voices approaching the door from down the hall. He swallowed back his momentary panic, reassuring himself that there was nothing suspicious about his being here. Spike was his friend; Giles knew that. It was not the least bit out of the ordinary that Andrew would want to say goodbye before he left.

*Except you’re not supposed to know he’s leaving, stupid!*

*Crap.*

*Well…nothing strange about just wanting to *visit* a friend…is there?*

The creak of the door opening made Andrew jump, and he gave Giles and the strange man walking with him a too-bright smile. The elder Watcher seemed a bit surprised by his presence in the room, but not upset.

Giles smiled politely at Andrew, waving a hand toward Spike as he explained, “I’ve given him a sedative. The poor chap’s been having nightmares…understandably so. I thought he could use a night or two of uninterrupted sleep. I‘m about to administer an antidote to wake him.”

“That’s nice…” Andrew began, alarmed by the high-pitched squeak that was his voice, before clearing his throat and beginning again in a comically lower tone, “That’s nice of you, Mr. Giles.”

“Yes, well…” Giles nodded, his tone becoming dismissive, “…thank you, Andrew, but if you don’t mind, my associate and I need to speak to Spike alone.”

*Yes, I mind, you treacherous fiend! I will never abandon a fallen hero to your foul betray…*

“Andrew…” The Watcher’s voice took on a warning note.

Andrew leapt to his feet, hurrying toward the door, as he replied without hesitation, “Yes, Mr. Giles…”

His heart sank as he left the room, closing the door almost completely behind him, but remaining close by so as to hear the conversation inside.

“Does he know…?”

“No.”

Giles’ friend sounded cautiously amused as he pointed out, “I didn’t finish.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Giles informed him, still dismissive. “He knows nothing. And I do mean that in the truest literal sense.”

Andrew did not have the time or energy left to invest in being offended by his words. Finding out what was happening to Spike, where this stranger was about to take him, was all that mattered at the moment.

And the fact that Giles and his friend did not want him to know was certainly a bad sign.

“All right. I’m going to wake him. Follow my lead.”

A few moments later, Andrew heard Spike’s sleepy, uncertain voice. “Wha…oh… mornin’, then, is it?” A brief pause, before he spoke again, his voice low and cautious, “This is him, then?”

“Yes,” Giles replied. “Spike, allow me to introduce my associate, Ethan Rayne.”

“A pleasure,” the unfamiliar Englishman replied smoothly, and Andrew could hear the slight shifting sounds inside as he moved forward to shake Spike’s hand, and the vampire quietly returned the gesture.

“You’re a Watcher.” There was a question behind the vampire’s skeptical statement.

“Yes,” Rayne replied immediately, but Andrew knew it was a lie.

“So…what’s the plan again, then?”

“You’ll fly as soon as you’re ready, to Ireland. Ethan is stationed there over a group of young Slayers, and you should find yourself…useful, there, once you have sufficiently recovered from the aftereffects of…well, again…as soon as you’re ready.”

Spike was quiet, and when he finally spoke, the pain in his hushed, restrained voice made Andrew wince.

“Might -- might be a while. Need some time to just -- just be let alone, yeah?”

“Of course,” Rayne spoke up, cutting off Giles’ attempt to respond, and Andrew found his hopes lifting slightly at the sympathetic sound of his voice. “As much time as you need, Spike, of course. But whenever the time comes that you feel you are ready to take up the good fight again, I assure you, you will find that your particular…skills, and talents, will indeed prove quite useful to our cause.”

There was a moment’s silence inside the room, and Andrew wondered suddenly what would happen, what Giles and Rayne would do, should Spike refuse the offer. He never found out, as the vampire’s unusually subdued voice spoke up softly.

“How soon can we leave?”

************************************

It was barely thirty minutes later when Spike was led out of the building, Giles and Rayne on either side of him in what appeared at first glance to be a protective formation -- but Andrew could not help but see it in a more sinister light.

He waited until Giles’ car had pulled out of the driveway, and he was certain that he would not be caught, to make his hurried way to Giles’ office. Glancing around to be sure he was not seen, he tried the door, which was fortunately unlocked, and made his way inside.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, drawing in a deep breath as he closed the door behind him and scanned the room. “If I was Buffy’s contact information…where would I be?”

He made his way to the desk, pulling out drawers and searching urgently, until he found a large, leather bound address book.

With a lock on it.

“Paydirt.”

He hesitated just a moment, before deciding and tearing the book open, tearing a hole in the leather of the front cover. He knew that it would be obvious that someone had been in Giles’ office, going through his things, but it would not likely be obvious that it had been *him*.

Not that he had a choice at the moment.

He had to get help for Spike before it was too late.

He turned to the S’s first and was not surprised to find no “Summers” listed there. He paused, frowning, before turning to the B’s with no better luck. He next tried the D’s, hoping perhaps to find Dawn’s number. If he could contact Dawn and let her know that Spike was in danger, then perhaps she would help him get in touch with Buffy.

When that proved just as unsuccessful as his other attempts, Andrew flipped idly through the book, breathing out a frustrated sigh, unsure where else to look. He stopped suddenly around the middle of the W’s when he noticed a listing for “Winters”.

*Maybe…*

“Joyce A. Winters,” he read aloud, frowning.

*Wasn’t Buffy’s mom named Joyce? Spike used to talk about her…*

Andrew decided not to waste any more time wondering. With trembling fingers he picked up the telephone and dialed the sequence of numbers to connect him with what was clearly an international line.

*It might not be her, might be coincidence, might just be…*

“Hello?”

It was Buffy.

Andrew took a deep breath, considering how much he should tell her, what he *could* tell her to ensure her help, without betraying the confidence Spike had entrusted him with in Rome the year before.

“Hello? Anybody there?” The Slayer’s tone said that she was clearly losing patience.

“Buffy, this is Andrew Wells, and I wouldn’t be calling you if it wasn’t a matter of life and death. You are the last hope of defeating an unspeakable evil beyond the power of language to describe.”

There was a moment of total silence on the line, before Buffy let out an exasperated sigh and demanded, “Andrew…how did you get this number?”

“For the love of God, Buffy, *don’t hang up*!”

Andrew’s tone was one of intense desperation, though his words came out in a voice that was barely over a whisper, yet distinct enough to be heard over the international telephone line.

Unfortunately.

Buffy sighed wearily, her fingers twitching with the desire to do just what he was begging her not to do. “What do you want, Andrew?” she asked in a voice of barely restrained irritation.

“It’s not about what I want, or what you want, Buffy…It’s about what is *needed* from you…to stop a terrible crime from coming to pass against one of mankind’s greatest heroes…even if he’s not exactly a part of…mankind…”

“Do you even *speak* the English language?”

“Buffy, you have to listen to me!”

“Okay! But you’re not exactly making it easy,” the Slayer countered.

“I’m trying, but you keep interrupting, and if you’d just let me say what it is I need to say…”

“Okay. You have ten seconds. Talk.”

*Click*.

“Andrew?”

*********************************

Andrew hastily replaced the receiver in its cradle, instinctively moving behind the desk as he whirled around to face the door…and the sound of footsteps he could hear just beyond it. His heart pounding in his chest, he looked frantically around for another exit from the tiny office, but found none.

And the single set of footsteps was gradually moving closer and closer.

*Okay…okay, calm down, Andrew…you have options here…you do!*

*Option number one…act completely normal, like you were just looking for him and he wasn’t here…in which case he’ll probably buy it…until he goes to use his address book and sees that it’s been torn open and comes after you to send you off to the same terrible fate he’s just imposed on Spike!*

*Okay, option one sucks…option two…fight my way out like a hero…even if he’s all quietly powerful and mysterious and possessing a dark past full of dangerous secrets, I could probably get a blow or two in before he managed to knock me unconscious…*

*Um…no…option three…hide under the desk and hope he doesn’t see me…*

Andrew hid under the desk.

When he heard the door to Giles’ office creak open, Andrew had to suppress a powerful urge to scream and completely ruin the entire effect of hiding. Somehow he managed to keep his mouth shut, huddling back in the hollow space in the front of the desk, trying to make himself invisible, but remembering all at once that he didn’t know how to make himself invisible. Instead he tried to take up as little space as possible, hoping desperately that Giles would not notice him if he did happen to move around the desk.

He heard several quiet sounds of papers shifting around on the desk, followed by the sound of the receiver being lifted from the telephone’s base once more. After a few quiet moments, the elder Watcher spoke softly into the phone.

“Yes, Rupert Giles here…I’m assuming you know that what you’ve just seen is highly confidential. No one is to be informed of the vampire’s presence on that aircraft…Yes, that’s right…Well, you needn’t tell anyone anything, because you don’t *know* anything, do you?”

Giles’ voice took on a sharper edge on the last statement and remained severe as he continued, “Yes, that’s right. The entire compound is aware of his arrival. And like everyone else, you are aware of nothing more than that,,,My guest, Mr. Rayne, took his leave of us alone on an airplane which I provided him, and that is all you need tell anyone. Not that that’s anyone’s business. Very well, this should do: if anyone asks you about it, answer them as directly yet cautiously as possible…and inform me immediately. Is that clear?…Good. That is all. Good day, Mr. Osment.”

Andrew jumped as the phone was hung up, inches above his head, and felt his body tense as the older Watcher’s footsteps slowly moved around the desk. He drew in a slow, silent breath, holding it, as Giles stopped directly behind the desk, everything above his waist outside Andrew’s range of vision. He closed his eyes, unable to look, certain that he was about to be found out…or had been found out already.

But then, Giles’ footsteps began to move again, away from the desk and toward the door. Barely daring to hope, Andrew listened to the click of Giles’ locking the door, and the quiet sound of his pulling it firmly shut behind him. Andrew still held his breath -- uncertain as to whether the Watcher had just locked himself in or out -- until he heard the muffled sound of footsteps outside the door, slowly receding into silence.

Doing his best not to hyperventilate, Andrew crawled out from under the desk on shaking legs, leaning against the desk for support as he considered the telephone on the desk for a moment before opting against it. He quickly jotted Buffy’s private telephone number on a scrap of crumpled paper from his pocket and hurried to the office door, waiting just long enough to be sure that Giles would not still be in the hall.

***********************************

“Who was that?”

There was clear interest in Xander’s voice as he walked into the room that served as Buffy’s office at the Slayer training center of which she was currently in charge just in time to see her hanging up her cell phone. The number was carefully guarded as Buffy was in high demand lately -- and mostly by people who simply *wanted* her attention, rather than actually needed it. At any rate, it was usually a matter of some importance when the telephone here actually rang.

“Andrew.”

Xander’s single visible eyebrow rose at that as he echoed dubiously, “Andrew?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d he get your number?”

“That’s what I would like to know,” Buffy replied darkly, her lower lip jutting out in a slight pout. “It’s supposed to be a secret, and Andrew is like the *last* person I’d want to have it. I oughta call Giles up and complain.”

“Why don’t you?” Xander shrugged.

“Because he probably wouldn’t call back for a couple of days anyway as busy as he is these days…and by then I won’t be mad anymore.” Buffy’s pout was more pronounced now as she was beginning to talk herself into a bad mood.

Her bad moods were much more frequent lately…ever since Sunnydale, actually. It had taken her a long time to get past Spike’s death in the Hellmouth, but eventually, she had appeared to come to terms with it, to move on.

But it had not lasted long.

The last couple of months, she had become withdrawn and moody again; and though Xander tried hard to make himself believe that it had nothing to do with the blond vampire -- the vampire that she had obviously cared for much more than she had allowed anyone to believe while he was alive -- her behavior now was almost exactly as it had been immediately following Spike’s death.

It was a bit too big of a coincidence to be accepted as…well, a coincidence.

“So…what did he want?” Xander forced a smile as he tried to distract Buffy from the morose thoughts that appeared to have come over her again in the last few moments.

“Huh?” Buffy looked up at him blankly, shaking her head slightly, momentarily at a loss.

“Andrew. What’d he want?”

“Oh.” Buffy sighed as she replied, “He said something about some unspeakable evil…blah, blah, blah…the world needs me…etc., etc….whatever.”

“Hmmm,” Xander frowned, thoughtful. “Maybe you *should* call Giles. Maybe it’s important.”

“If it was important, Giles would have called me himself.”

“Well, Andrew wasn’t supposed to have your number. Maybe Giles gave it to him.”

“No, Giles wouldn’t do that,” Buffy insisted. “Giles would have called me himself. Andrew must have found the number somehow on his own…which is pretty creepy, actually.”

“Oh, Andrew’s annoying, but I don’t think he’d…”

“No, not because of Andrew,” Buffy clarified with a dismissive wave of her hand at the thought of Andrew as any kind of threat. “Because if an inept little dork like Andrew could get his hands on my number…well, obviously, it’s not as well-guarded as I thought. I guess I probably should call Giles after all. Just to let him know.”

Just as Buffy took her cell phone from her pocket again, it rang once more in her hand.

***************************************

Andrew glanced anxiously up and down the hallway for any sign of Giles -- or anyone else, for that matter, because really, how could he be sure who he could trust? -- before ducking into a much-neglected storage room and flipping his own cell phone open.

He hesitated just a moment, considering the monstrous bill that would undoubtedly eventually cross Giles’ desk, as well as the fact that the bill would link his phone to Buffy’s private number, thus incriminating him as the person who had broken into Giles’ address book.

*It’s not like I want to work for the guy anymore, anyway, if he’s gonna do something to hurt Spike…gotta call her, haven’t got a choice…so there’s really no option here. In or out, all the way, *either* way…but make a choice, Andrew, for once in your life, be *not* a total wuss…*

His fingers were trembling, but they managed to dial the number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Buffy, it’s Andrew again…”

“Lovely. What do you need, Andrew?”

“Buffy, this is an emergency, really! I need your help…and not just me…someone very important -- a hero -- is going to be in serious danger very soon…maybe already is…if you don’t help me…”

“Who?” Buffy demanded, sounding impatient. “Who’s in danger? And I’m asking you again, Andrew, how did you get this number? I need to talk to Giles. Is he around?”

Panic seized the boy, but he valiantly fought through it, his mind racing to come up with an explanation that would both satisfy the Slayer and keep his secret for just a little longer -- hopefully for long enough to save Spike. After all, he highly doubted that the Slayer would believe him if he told her that Giles was fighting on the wrong side in this particular instance.

He hardly believed it himself.

“N-no, he’s not. He’s…really busy right now. Helping. With this…um, this case. So he can’t…talk to you…on the phone. He -- he gave me your number, Buffy, so I could call you, since you…can’t talk to him right now…”

“I’ll just call his cell; wherever he is, he’ll pick up…”

“*No*!” Andrew yelped out his protest, and he could almost hear Buffy’s blink of surprise on the other end before she responded.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s…deep under cover. If you call his cell phone, and it rings, it could…could give him away and place his life and countless others in terrible danger.”

Buffy was silent for a long moment, and Andrew held his breath, sure for a moment that she had not believed him. She would call Giles anyway, and the older Watcher would make him “disappear” somehow, to silence him, because he knew too much…and no one would ever help Spike…

“Oh.”

The Slayer’s simple, single word response was not spoken with any suspicion, although perhaps with some surprise and concern.

“Is he…is he okay, Andrew? I mean…‘deep under cover’ sounds kind of dangerous for Giles…”

“Oh, he can handle himself. He’s fine, but listen to me, Buffy…There’s this guy…Ethan …Ethan Rayne…and we need you to…”

“Ethan Rayne?” Buffy echoed, and Andrew was unsurprised to hear her voice darken with anger. “What does he have to do with this?”

“Um…he’s…he’s…” Andrew’s voice trailed off as he realized that he had no idea what exactly to tell Buffy that the man had done.

What did he really know after all? Not much. He was going almost completely on instinct here…though he was certain that his instincts were right. Whatever this Rayne and Giles had planned for Spike, Andrew knew that it could not be in the vampire’s best interests.

What was he supposed to tell her when he knew so little in the way of details? He had to get more information, he realized, his heart sinking at the thought of returning to Giles’ office to look for more evidence. By this point, however, he was certain that that was exactly what he was going to have to do. But even then, would Buffy believe that her Watcher could do something as underhanded as this seemed to be? Would she believe him about any of it? About Spike?

She didn’t even know that Spike was alive.

*Thanks to me.*

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made his heart lurch with fear, and he whispered loudly into the phone, “Gotta go, Buffy…I’ll call you back. Don’t do anything…don’t call anyone…we’re all in danger if you do…”

“Andrew, wait! *Andrew*!”

He quickly closed the phone, afraid that the Slayer’s voice was loud enough to draw the attention of whoever was making their way down the hall. But the footsteps moved briskly on past the door, and Andrew’s panic subsided…a bit faster than it had the last time.

*I’m getting pretty good as this undercover agent stuff.*

************************************

Once he was sure that the hallway was empty again, Andrew made his way back down the hallway to Giles’ office. The door was still closed, but unlocked as he had left it. He knocked softly, just to be on the safe side, before sliding the door open and slipping inside.

He locked the door behind him as Giles had left it earlier, thinking that doing so would buy him at least a few moments’ warning if the Watcher should return. Then, he made his way to the desk and began carefully searching through the drawers.

It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for.

In the lower right drawer was a collection of manila file folders, each marked with a name. Many of the names Andrew recognized as enemies that the new Council had faced or from stories that had been told to him by Giles or what was left of the former Scoobies.

One was labeled simply, “R., E.”

*Rayne, Ethan?*

Once again, his impressively developing instincts proved beneficial to him as Andrew found that the file did indeed contain many documents on one Ethan Rayne, detailing the various contacts that Giles -- and Buffy as well -- had had with the sorcerer over the past few years.

Buffy had been required to fight him, despite his human status, on numerous occasions when his worship of chaos had led him to make some very inventive trouble for her and her friends. On all of those occasions, Giles had assisted her in stopping the schemes that Rayne had come up with.

But those occasions were not the only connection Giles had with Ethan Rayne.

Andrew’s eyes widened with dismay as he read some yellowed pages he had found, apparently torn from a journal of some kind, tucked in the bottom of the file. Giles appeared to have written them, some of them very long ago, while others appeared to be more recent.

All of them detailed the less than professional relationship that the Watcher had had with his old college friend over the years.

There were also various clippings, transcripts of telephone conversations and such, which told Andrew of the activities in which Ethan Rayne had been engaging over the past few years. None of them seemed very reputable, and many of them were out and out disturbing.

Andrew felt his heart drop to his stomach as he reached the last of the records in the file, detailing Rayne’s activities over the past three months.

Suddenly, he understood with horrible clarity just how thoroughly Giles had betrayed the one-time savior of the world.

His hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly dial the numbers as he called Buffy again. “Please answer, please answer…” he whispered as it rang…three times…four times…

“Andrew, what is going on over there?” Buffy’s voice sounded worried and tense.

“Buffy, you need to listen to me. I don’t have long to talk. You need to get on a plane to Ireland. Use your Council expense credit card and buy a ticket on the first flight leaving…um…”

“Scotland. Why didn’t you know that, if you know so much…?” Now she sounded just a little suspicious.

*Not good, not good…*

“I did know that, I just…can’t think…This is serious, Buffy. Please listen…”

“Listening.”

Andrew breathed out a sigh of relief that she had let the question go so easily as he continued, “You need to get there as quickly as possible. Don’t let anyone know where you’re going, though…It’s…it’s not safe. We don’t know for sure who…who we can trust…”

“Andrew, what are you talking about?” Buffy sounded utterly bewildered…but no longer suspicious.

“There may be a spy in your group,” Andrew blurted out off the top of his head, just trying to come up with something to keep her from telling the wrong person…any person who might contact Giles. “You have to keep this quiet. Just fly to Ireland…I’ll be…um…gathering intel here, and when you get there, call me…but only on this number! I’ll have more instructions for you then.”

Buffy was quiet for a long moment before she finally spoke, her voice low and controlled, “Andrew. Are you *sure* that Giles told you to tell me this?”

“Buffy, I’m telling you the truth. You have to believe me!” Andrew insisted, wincing at the outright lie he was telling. “Giles would tell you himself if he could, but he can’t…Please, Buffy, please believe me…” Andrew was not terribly ashamed to realize that he was on the verge of tears.

If nothing else, at least it made his story a bit more convincing.

“Okay, Andrew. I believe you. I’ll do it, just…just know one thing.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” Andrew breathed out in relief. “What one thing?”

The Slayer’s voice was saccharine sweet as she replied, “If this is just some crazy idea of yours and you’re sending me on an international wild goose chase…I’ll personally tie you up in the middle of a cemetery in the middle of the night and leave you for the vampires. After inflicting hundreds of tiny paper cuts all over your pale, tiny body. You know. So they’ll come to the scent of blood.”

Andrew swallowed hard, though he was almost certain that she was joking.

Almost.

“Okay,” he nearly whimpered. “Got it. I’m -- I’m telling the truth, Buffy.”

“Okay,” the Slayer agreed with a heavy sigh of resignation. “So what’s Ethan Rayne doing in Ireland?”

“He has to be stopped, Buffy,” Andrew replied, the tremor in his voice no longer out of fear for his own safety. “He can’t be allowed to keep on doing this…to keep operating this…this…”

“What, Andrew? What’s he doing? Operating what?”

Andrew’s voice was quiet with repressed emotion as he answered, “A slave ring, Buffy. An inter-species slave ring.”

As the jet that Giles had assigned to transport Spike and his strange British escort -- emphasis on the strange -- to wherever it was that they were going sped across the sky toward its destination, Spike sat in pensive silence by the window.

Rayne kept trying to draw him into conversation, but for his part, Spike was content simply to gaze out through the specially treated glass, viewing the sunlight -- which should have been denied him at any distance -- from a point of nearness that he had never imagined. Still, Giles’ odd associate seemed determined to pull him out of his reverie despite his pointed, deliberate silence.

Ethan Rayne smiled too much.

He talked too much, too, and the more he said, the less Spike cared for him.

“So how long have you known my old friend Ripper?”

Spike glanced distractedly at the man beside him, not trying very hard to mask his irritation as he stated flatly, “Don’t know that I *do* know him. Don’t know that I’d like to, either.”

“Rupert,” Ethan clarified with a quiet laugh. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t know him by his former name, would you now?”

Spike cocked an eyebrow at the grinning man beside him as he replied dryly with the first suggestion of interest, “No, don’t suppose I would. Wouldn’t have thought the old ponce’d have an alias like that. How’d he get it?”

Ethan laughed again, and the sound was somehow dark and unsettling to the wary vampire. “Oh, that’s a story for a much longer flight, Spike, my friend. Suffice it to say that he truly earned it during the years of his youth.”

Spike stared at Rayne a moment longer in surprise before slowly looking away, out the window again, thinking about his revelation as he watched the lush, green landscape gliding by beneath them. A sparkling lake shimmered directly beneath them as a group of large, stone buildings came into view.

“Yes,” Ethan was continuing in a voice of nostalgic affection. “Ripper and I, we go way back, Spike. Back as far as our youthful glory days. You find it surprising that he was ever known as ‘Ripper’…while I find his current undertakings rather amusing, myself. My, how he’s changed over the years!”

There was a moment’s silence as Ethan seemed briefly lost in his memories, and Spike simply did not know what to say.

When Ethan finally spoke again, his voice was strangely soft with an odd tone that set Spike a bit on edge. “We haven’t always agreed on everything. There’ve been times we likely would have killed each other if we could have…but in the end, the old git knows I’d do anything for him.”

Spike was gazing out the window again, transfixed by the view, so he missed the calculating look of appraisal that the Englishman was giving him as he spoke again quietly.

“And he for me, as well. Anything I need…”

*****************************

When Buffy hung up the phone with Andrew for the final time, it was 10:00 in the morning.

The next flight to Ireland was leaving at 3:42 that afternoon.

Buffy had pondered over Andrew’s insistence that she tell no one of her plans, but ultimately, she had opted to err on the side of caution -- not to mention the side of her considerably better judgment than Andrew’s. Despite his instructions, she confided to Xander what Andrew had told her, while warning him not to tell anyone else…not just yet, anyway.

It was Xander’s idea for her to take a few of the best-trained young Slayers with her to assist her with…whatever she might need assistance with.

She really had little idea why she was even going, and no idea whatsoever of what she was supposed to do once she got there.

The girls she had chosen to accompany her, fortunately, didn‘t know that. They thought that she knew exactly what the mission was on which they were going and was simply keeping the information to herself until the time came to reveal it. And that was better, in Buffy’s opinion, than allowing them to see how completely and utterly clueless she really was as to the specifics of this particular mission.

*If Andrew is pulling me into one of his stupid Andrew-schemes, I’ll kill him. I’ll fly to England and drag his bony little butt out of that office complex and beat his pathetic little self to a painful and bloody death.*

But Andrew had not sounded as if he was making his story up.

In fact, he had sounded nearly panicked…desperate, even.

*I hope Giles is okay.*

It had been the mention of Ethan Rayne that had drawn her attention, and had been the deciding factor in her actually listening to the little nerd and making the flight to Ireland on as little information as he had given her. After all, Andrew had not been around when Ethan Rayne had last invaded their lives. The only way Andrew would know of the sorcerer was from Giles, and the only reason Giles would have to tell him about it was if Ethan was around and causing trouble for them again.

*If he hurts Giles…this time I *will* kill him…I don’t care if he’s human, if he hurts my Watcher…*

Her dark, ominous thoughts were interrupted by a quiet whimpering sound at her side. She looked up at the pale, taut face of the young girl seated beside her. Her eyes were screwed tightly shut, and her hands were bone white, clenched on the armrests of the seat beside Buffy’s.

“Is it supposed to be this…this bumpy?” the girl asked, her voice breaking slightly as she spoke.

“Kari,” Buffy reassured her with a firm hand on her cool arm. “Kari, it’s all right. It’s just because we’re about to land. Haven’t you ever flown before?”

Kari shook her head rapidly, still not opening her eyes. “No. Never. And…and I don’t think I ever want to again.”

Buffy laughed softly without cruelty as she shrugged and suggested in a teasing voice, “I guess we could leave you here in Ireland if you like. Otherwise, that’s probably not going to be avoidable.”

The other two girls, who were seated facing Buffy and Kari, giggled at her words.

They were highly trained Slayers, impressively skilled and intelligent, but none of the three was over sixteen years old. They seemed to be looking at the entire trip as a big adventure, more fun than work. Buffy hoped that she was not leading them into a situation that was too dangerous for them to handle.

Of course, if it was Ethan Rayne they were dealing with, the matter was likely to be more annoying than truly dangerous.

*But a slave ring?* she doubtfully reminded herself. *Ethan Rayne’s definitely in the realm of the bad guys, but that seems a little dark, even for him.*

“Okay, when we land,” she began briskly, sitting forward in her seat and putting on her best authoritative Slayer face, “I want you girls to stay close to me. Listen carefully to everything you’re told, and don’t take unnecessary risks. Okay?”

“So basically,” a young blonde named Larissa smirked, “be exactly the opposite of the kind of Slayer *you* were?”

Buffy stared at her, her eyes wide in disbelief.

Larissa shrugged, averting her eyes and suppressing a grin. “What? I’ve heard stories.”

Buffy opened her mouth to answer, though for the life of her she had no idea how she was going to refute Larissa’s very accurate words; but she was saved by the sound of the crisp, professional voice of the British pilot.

“We are now preparing to land. Please remain in your seats and fasten your safety belts. We will be landing in approximately five minutes.”

He repeated the announcement in another language with which Buffy was not familiar as the girls obeyed the instructions, two of the three bouncing in their seats with excitement. When the plane finally stopped moving -- and Kari stopped hyperventilating -- Buffy led the girls off the plane and down a long corridor, through the customs line, and finally into the large, open baggage claim area.

“What now, Miss Summers?” Sarah, the youngest of the three Slayers accompanying her, and by far the most proper and respectful, asked eagerly. “What do we do next?”

“Shhh,” Buffy distractedly muttered, taking out her cell phone and frowning thoughtfully as she flipped it open, turned it on, and scrolled down to Andrew’s number. “Hang on.”

As it began to ring, Buffy turned slightly away from the girls with her, absently scanning the busy room. Suddenly, she found herself face to face with a pretty girl with dark skin and chocolate brown eyes. She had a cautiously friendly smile on her face as she waited patiently for Buffy to finish her call.

Andrew had not answered yet, and Buffy flipped the phone closed, giving the girl a wary, expectant look. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Melinda. I’m here to help you. Andrew sent me.”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed slightly as she considered. “Just a second…I need to make that call after all…”

As she spoke, the phone rang in her hand. She opened it and held it to her ear, but before she could say a word, Andrew’s shrill, nervous voice was already speaking.

“Buffy, I’ve been trying to get away long enough to call you, but I…haven’t been…able to…to do that. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’m having someone meet you at the airport. She’ll be able to help you get started…her name is…”

“Melinda?”

“Oh, good, so you’ve met her. She’ll tell you what you need to do first…”

“Andrew, wait!” Buffy tried to stop him, sensing by his tone that he was about to hang up. “Andrew, when exactly are you going to…?”

But a loud, audible click informed her that the boy was no longer listening to her. As she put the phone away with a weary sigh of frustration, she turned to face Melinda again.

The girl smiled as she said simply, “Come on. Let’s get your luggage. I’ve got a car waiting outside.”

*********************************

From the moment the plane landed on a tiny airstrip in the center of a deserted clearing, Spike began to feel uneasy with the entire situation.

Perhaps it was the three large, mostly silent men that had greeted him and Ethan Rayne as they had exited the plane.

Or perhaps it was the fact that they were armed, though there was no sign of any life but theirs anywhere nearby.

“Come,” Ethan instructed quietly, nodding with his head toward a path leading off through the woods at the edge of the clearing, barely discernable from the rest of the forest floor around it. “The compound is this way.”

“We’re going on foot?” Spike asked, surprised.

Ordinarily a walk would not have bothered him in the least; but at the moment, he was still weary, exhausted in fact, as he had not had much of a chance to recover from the whirlwind events of the past few days, let alone the brutality of the beating that had preceded them.

“It’s the only way,” Ethan explained with a sympathetic expression on his face. “There are no roads leading to the compound. No one who does not work directly with us even knows of its existence.” He paused, meeting Spike’s eyes as he pointed out, “Not even Ripper knows precisely where it is located.”

Spike nodded, accepting that.

Actually, the extreme level of privacy didn’t sound half bad.

“This entire operation -- which you’ll learn more about, Spike, as soon as you’re ready -- is highly confidential, very secretive, you’ll find. There are powerful, dark forces which would love very much to wipe us out of existence completely…if they could find us, of course.”

Ethan’s smile was conspiratorial, intimate…and more than a little unsettling.

Spike nodded again, not sure what to say in response, and just wanting to get to the compound and a comfortable bed where he could sleep for as long as he wanted, as he had been promised on the way.

After they had been walking for about fifteen minutes, Spike saw large stone structures, mostly obscured by the trees, at a distance in front of them. He felt an incredible sense of relief, as his entire body was aching with weariness and the pain of his not-quite-healed injuries.

Ethan was leading the way, with Spike walking behind him, flanked by the three others in a sort of protective enclosure around the weakened vampire. Spike tried to feel an appropriate measure of appreciation for the gesture, but couldn’t manage to feel anything but intimidated by the nearness of the three clearly strong, well-armed men.

When the door of the main building was in sight, Ethan stopped, and Spike had to stop as well, looking uncertainly at the man in a silent question.

“There is one thing,” Ethan informed him with an apologetic look. “One thing we’ll have to see to before you can enter and join our group.”

“What’s that?” Spike asked, swallowing hard as he tried to suppress the suspicious feeling against which he had been fighting throughout the flight and the walk that had followed it.

Ethan reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a small silver ring with a hinge on one side and a latch on the other, allowing it to be opened and closed. Spike eyed it warily, looking back up to catch the easy gaze of the man now facing him.

“Before you can enter, you must put this on,” Ethan informed him. “It’s a means of identification, by which everyone here knows that you are a member in good standing of the group.”

Spike stared down at the seemingly innocuous metal ring, a sick sensation rising in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t consciously aware of the subconscious connotations his mind was coming up with, comparing the ring to a collar, a manacle, a mark…a mark of slavery. He did not really understand why the sight sent a shiver down his spine.

All he knew was that he did *not* want to wear that thing.

“What if I don’t want to wear it?” he asked quietly, holding Ethan’s gaze, studying his face as he asked the question.

Ethan’s expression did not change, though his eyes grew serious as he held Spike’s gaze and replied without hesitation, “Then you’ll likely be killed on sight by the first member of our number who is unaware of your identity. Which would be the first member of our number not with us right now.”

Spike hesitated, staring down at the ring again.

“It’s all right, Spike,” Ethan assured him, his voice growing gentle, compassionate, as he explained, “It’s only until the next group assembly, at which you will be introduced. Once everyone knows who you are, you will no longer be required to wear it.”

That made Spike feel a little better, but even as he slowly reached to take the metal ring from Ethan’s hand, he felt a sense of dread building up in his chest, tightening, constricting, like the iron bars of a trap locking into place around his heart until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think…

“It’s all right, Spike,” Ethan repeated softly. He hesitated just a moment before offering gently, “Let me help you.”

Spike realized in that moment what the other man probably already had: there was no way that he was going to be able to bring himself to put on the ring himself, no matter how well his conscious mind understood its necessity. Before he could stop himself again, Spike nodded quickly, holding his arm still as the Englishman stepped forward and carefully positioned the cool metal.

And the simple metal bracelet locked into place around Spike’s wrist.

That day, Spike slept in peace for the first time in months.

His rest was peaceful and uninterrupted by the nightmares that had plagued his sleep for so long, whether in the form of actual dreams or the living nightmare of Siron, dragging him from his bed to forcibly have his way with him.

Of course, Spike knew that the sleeping potion Ethan Rayne had offered him just before he had lain down had probably had something to do with it -- but for once, even the use of magic could not induce him to complain.

It was good just to be able to wake from a full, blissful period of much-needed rest.

As Spike sat up in the bed where he had spent the last -- bloody hell, fourteen hours! -- he glanced around the room, relieved to find that he was finally alone. No hostile Slayers watching him suspiciously, no well-intentioned Watcher looking on while he lay vulnerable in the bed.

As he took in the lush, comfortable room that surrounded him, Spike began to allow himself to feel a vague sensation, one that had almost been lost to him completely over the past few painful months.

Hope.

He rose from the bed and removed the pair of jeans that had been his only garment since his escape from Siron, slowly and methodically looking himself over for any trace of the wounds his former master had left on his body.

There were a few nearly faded bruises, and the faint remains of what had once been a deep, livid gash across the side of his face -- a remnant from one of many beatings that Siron had dealt him with his favored weapon of choice -- but other than those relatively mild remaining marks of his slavery, Spike was outwardly healed.

*Not the outside that bloody counts, though, is it, mate?*

He deliberately ignored the dour voice of his own self-doubt as he regretfully put the dirty garment back on, not because he felt any shred of confidence in his own ability to eventually recover from the horrific things that had been done to him, but because he simply did not want to think about it any longer.

He wanted to enjoy the first moments of solitude granted him in as long as he could remember.

He went to the closet and opened the door, easily locating the soft robe and clean change of clothes that Ethan had told him he would find there. Gathering the clothes in his arms, he stepped cautiously out into the hallway beyond his room, heading in the direction in which Ethan had told him he would find the bathroom.

It had been months since Spike had enjoyed a long, hot shower.

He set the robe and clean clothes down on the counter and turned to close the door firmly, frowning when he found that there was no lock on the door. Of course, he was not accustomed to any semblance of privacy at this point anyway, but it was still a little unsettling.

*Oh, well…nothing you can do about it anyway. And after all you’ve been through, ’s a small price to pay...*

He carefully adjusted the water, bringing it to just the right temperature, before climbing in under the steaming spray and pulling the curtain closed behind him.

Within moments, his worries about the unlocked door had vanished.

Spike could not remember the last time he had experienced such sheer, simple bliss. Not needing to breathe was a definite advantage, as he stood directly under the stream of hot water, allowing it to flow down over his aching, weary body and soothe away the stress and worry of the last few months.

A little of it, anyway. He was fairly certain that, for him, the last few months would never be really over.

*Don’t think about that…Don’t let it…Don’t think…*

Spike’s acute hearing picked up the faint sound of voices in quiet conversation, and he tensed automatically, his eyes opening under the water. But it was quickly apparent to him that the voices were distant, coming from at least as far as outside the bathroom door.

*Not a threat, not a threat…Just some blokes talking, you stupid ponce…*

He mentally berated himself for his silly fears as he picked up a bottle of body wash and poured a little into his hand. The fresh, clean scent was soothing to his frayed nerves as he smoothed it over his body with his hands, bringing some of it up to wash his tangled, dirty blond hair.

When the same voices he had heard before passed in the hallway again, this time headed in the opposite direction, Spike steeled himself against the momentary instinctive flight reaction, breathing deeply as he focused on the pleasure of the shower rather than his groundless apprehension.

He lathered up a second time, already clean, but unwilling to leave the shower just yet -- for more reasons than one. He was not quite ready for the pleasurable sensations to end…and he was not quite ready to face the world outside the bathroom door, either.

*You’re safe now,* he insisted to himself with irritation at his own weakness. *You’re with the bloody good guys, so stop acting like a bleedin’ poufter and buck up, or you’re never gonna…*

The thought cut off abruptly, and his heart leapt up into his throat as he heard another, very different sound coming from outside the bathroom door, though he could not quite tell from which direction it was coming with the sound of the running water filling his ears.

It was a scream.

Spike froze, allowing the water to wash the fresh lather from his body as he listened closely…but did not hear the sound again.

*Imagined it…losing your bloody mind, is all…nothing out of the ordinary…*

But a few moments later, he heard a second cry, a strangled groan of pain and terror, and knew that it was not just in his head.

He swallowed hard, dreading the idea of facing whatever was going on outside the bathroom, but knowing that he could not simply ignore it. He leaned down and turned the water off, stepping out onto the bathroom rug and reaching for the soft, terry cloth robe.

Another voice was clearly heard outside the bathroom, though Spike could not tell by the sound how many walls separated him from the owner of the voice. And this voice did not sound calm and conversational as the voices had sounded before.

“Please…*please* don’t…no, no, I’m sorry, *don’t*…”

Spike’s hands began to shake as he quickly dried his body and hair and pulled on the clean clothes Rayne had left for him. He took a deep breath, his hand on the handle of the bathroom door, hesitating a moment before opening it.

*This is a top secret organization…’s likely they’ve captured a spy or two in their time…Perhaps that’s all it is…gotta be all it is…*

Spike stepped cautiously out into the hall, looking one way and then the other, but the dimly lit hallway was deserted. Not really sure where he was going or why, Spike wandered down the hallway, frowning slightly as he stopped outside the first door on his left, pausing to steel himself before pushing the door open.

It was dark and empty.

As Spike quietly closed the door, he heard another desperate cry for mercy coming from much nearer now and across the hall. His throat felt hot and dry as his trembling hand rested on the handle of the door, two doors down and across the hall from the first one he had opened. Steeling himself for whatever he might find on the other side of the door, Spike slid it silently open.

The sight that met his eyes was a shocking one indeed.

Across the room, two vampires, one male and one female, were chained to the wall at their wrists and ankles, their bodies naked and vulnerable and spread out, clearly to the great amusement of the two human males who were standing in front of them.

The man standing in front of the female vampire was holding a black leather whip in his hand. As Spike watched in horror, the man drew it back and brought it down sharply across her bare thighs. Spike winced at her hiss of pain and the sight of the bright red welts that instantly sprang up on her pale skin…not to mention the agonizing memories, only days old, that the scene drew to his mind.

“Master…please, more, Master…please punish me more…”

Spike’s eyes widened in surprise at those unexpected words from the girl’s lips. Her tone was low, subservient, and yet fervently pleading. She genuinely sounded as if she really wanted more of the human’s lash.

*Willing…kinky as all get out, but a consensual act between two willing partners…*

Spike turned his attention momentarily to the other pair just in time to see the human unchaining the male vampire’s wrists and pushing him roughly to his knees on the floor. The vampire did not resist, did not offer any protest, but he was barely kneeling before the human had backhanded him hard with one hand while unzipping his pants with the other.

“Suck it, bitch!” he snarled.

The vampire’s true face came to the forefront in reaction to the blow, but he did not attack. Obediently, he took the human male’s swollen erection first in his hand, and then in his mouth, tending to it with an intensity that made Spike think that however violent, this must also be a consensual act.

*It *has* to be…Can’t be what it looks like; it just can’t…*

Just then, the female vampire’s eyes locked with Spike‘s, and he felt an unreasonable sense of panic, suddenly certain that he could not let the humans in the room know he was there. He backed quickly and quietly out into the hallway, closing the door silently behind him, panting as he continued backing away until his back was against the opposite wall, still staring at the closed door and seeing the things that were going on beyond it.

*It was just a game…just bloody games that they were playing, nothing more…nothing to get all bloody worked up over…*

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, something kept pushing at the edges of his mind, trying to make its way through despite his subconscious efforts to evade it.

Finally, it occurred to him.

Although there had been a considerable amount of violence involved in the sexual encounter upon which he had accidentally stumbled, no one had been screaming in agony. No one had been pleading for mercy and sobbing, begging another not to hurt them.

*If they weren’t making those sounds…saying those things…then who was?*

As if cued by his thoughts, Spike suddenly heard a panicked, agonized scream yet again, coming from a few doors further down the hall.

*Don’t…go the other way…don’t open that door…*

But it seemed that he could not resist. Something in him pushed his legs forward, his hand already outstretched toward the door handle that he was terrified to turn.

“Please…please, don’t…*no*!” someone screamed in desperation before his words were abruptly cut off with a hoarse, choking sound.

Spike stopped outside the door, sure now that he had the right room, but unable to bring himself to actually open the door.

“Shut up!” he heard a menacing snarl from the other side of the door, followed by a resounding slap.

All was quiet for a few moments, besides the hoarse, ragged breathing of someone – most likely the one who had been screaming and crying – and the rather strange, monotonous sound of someone chanting in a language that Spike did not understand.

After a moment, the pleading voice rose again, panicked beyond control.

“N-no, *no*, please, I’ll do anything! Please don’t, please, *please*!”

This time, the cries all at once became muffled, and Spike knew that the pleading victim had been gagged.

“There,” a satisfied voice spoke above the hushed whimpers that could still be heard. “That’s much better. Easier to concentrate.”

Apparently the victim had been gagged not because his tormentors were afraid of being caught, or they would have done so long ago, but rather simply because his incessant crying and screaming was a source of irritation to them.

Afraid to do so, but somehow unable to do anything else, Spike slid the door open just a crack, then just a little more, until he could clearly see inside the room. Three humans in black robes stood around what appeared to be a magical symbol on the floor, and one of them was holding a candle and chanting. The other two were standing on either side of a long stone slab that appeared to be an altar of some kind.

It was what was on the altar that transfixed Spike’s horrified attention.

A male vampire, his face streaked with tears and blood, was bound to the stone, his body stretched taut so that he could not move at all. One of the humans held a knife in his hand and was slicing into the naked vampire’s exposed abdomen while the pitiful creature’s body arched with pain, and he screamed against the gag that silenced his cries.

As Spike watched, the human lifted the vampire’s non-vital organs from the cavity of his abdomen, dripping with borrowed blood, and placed them carefully in the center of the symbol on the floor as the vampire on the stone went still, his body trembling violently, but his eyes distant and glazed with pain, clearly in shock.

All at once, the human woman who was chanting looked up from the book in her hand -- directly at Spike.

Her eyes widened, and she drew in a sharp breath.

One of the men turned to follow her gaze and saw the intruder in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” he demanded angrily. “This is a private proceeding! Do you want to ruin it? We’ve paid good money for this room, not to mention the sacrifice! You think you can just barge in here any time you want?” The man’s question trailed off as his eye seemed to be caught by the silver bracelet on Spike’s wrist. A slow, cruel smile rose on his lips as he met the vampire’s eyes and added, “*Slave*?”

Spike’s mind stubbornly resisted putting the pieces together, fought against the dreadful truth…until his own eyes found something that made it horribly undeniable.

The glint of silver on the bruised wrist of the naked and bound vampire sacrifice.

Spike shook his head slowly, backing away, his eyes locked onto the silver bracelet – a perfect match for his own.

“Hey…wait a minute…easy…” the man warned him, his hands stretched out in a soothing gesture, his tone suddenly solicitous and soft. Dawning understanding in his eyes revealed that he was just figuring out that Spike did not know about the ways of this place just yet. “Wait just a second. Don‘t…”

Spike backed away faster before stumbling slightly and turning away from the man.

“Wait!” the man demanded, the sly softness gone from his voice. “Hey! Somebody help here!”

Spike did not wait to see who would answer the man’s request or what they would do when they did. All he knew was that he had to get away, had to escape this dreadful place.

Despite the frantic cries of the humans now in the hallway, Spike took off running as fast as his shaking legs would carry him.

“So -- where do we go from here, exactly?” Buffy asked the pretty young Slayer who was currently serving as their guide, as she grimly watched the car bearing her luggage and that of the girls under her care speed away, leaving the six Slayers standing by the side of the road.

“Into the woods,” Melinda replied with a bright smile and absolutely no hesitation. “That’s where Andrew’s sources led him to believe the slave compound is located.” At Buffy’s dubious look she assured her, “Don’t worry. I have a brilliant sense of direction. I can follow the directions Andrew gave me without any trouble.”

“*Andrew* gave you the directions?”

Melinda nodded. “Why? Is there a problem?”

Buffy shrugged. “No, no problem. As long as we don’t mind wandering the forest in circles until we finally starve to death in the middle of the woods where no one even knows where to look for us except a bunch of slavers who specialize in supernatural beings.”

She realized her own careless error when her words were met with total silence, and she looked around to see the startled, horrified expressions on the faces of the young girls with her. She realized a bit too late that they did not know either her or Andrew well enough to understand the sarcastic nature of her comment.

Melinda *did* know Andrew, and was trying very hard to suppress a smirk, her eyebrows raised expectantly toward Buffy in a “what are you going to do now?” sort of expression.

“Kidding,” Buffy reassured the younger Slayers. “Andrew may be a nerd who’s never gotten anything completely right in his whole entire life…but I’m sure he’s great with directions.” She turned toward Melinda as they started walking. “How did he find this place again?”

“Google.”

“Huh?”

“He got online and googled Ethan Rayne and demon slave trade.”

Buffy stopped in her tracks, staring at the girl in disbelief. “He found this place *online*?”

“Yep.” Melinda did not seem surprised.

Buffy took a moment to recover before starting to walk again, following the younger Slayer. A slow smile became a soft laugh, as she shook her head in disbelieving amusement.

“Man, evil crime lords just aren’t what they used to be! That’s almost funny!”

“That *is* funny,” Melinda agreed, with a slight correction to Buffy’s words.

“So…how did he get directions?” Buffy asked. “It’s not like they’d have an official website or anything, ‘find us *here*’…did they?” Her tone suddenly became sharper, as she looked at Melinda, all at once wondering if that was actually possible.

“No,” Melinda laughed. “They don’t have a website. It was all round about sort of stuff…blogs and such by people…or things, too, probably…that have been connected with Ethan Rayne at one point or another…that’s not where he got the directions, though.”

“Where’d he get them?” Buffy asked, calming down a bit.

“Mapquest.”

“*What*?”

******************************

They had been walking for all of ten minutes when Buffy’s curiosity got the better of her once again. The other girls were far enough behind, lost in their own light chatter, that Buffy knew her questions would not be heard by them.

“So, I know Andrew said this whole mission has to be on a strictly need-to-know basis…but I really do *need* to know. Do you know anything more than I do about what exactly we’re getting into here?”

“I’m really not sure,” Melinda admitted. “All I know is that this Ethan Rayne character is operating a slave ring out of an old deserted military compound out in these woods, and we’ve got to stop him before he does any more damage to any more…any more people.”

“Human?”

“Maybe some,” Melinda shrugged. “‘Inter-species’ was the word Andrew used. I’m thinking, whatever and whoever he thinks would draw a high price, *and* he can get away with taking.”

“Andrew said something about…a hero. Getting hurt, if we didn’t stop Ethan Rayne. Do you know what he’s talking about? Is it a Slayer, maybe?”

Melinda shrugged non-committally as she considered the two questions.

“Yeah,” she answered quietly. “And no.”

Buffy frowned, taking that in. “Who is it, then?”

Melinda gave her a brief assessing look, before apparently making a decision. “No one you’d know.” A soft, wistful smile crossed her lips as she added, “Just your average, every-day sort of hero. You know…the kind of guy who sees someone in trouble, and *has* to help them…no matter how much danger it puts him in. But…he’s just a guy. No one you’ve ever met, I’m sure.”

Buffy was quiet for a moment, seeming to accept that.

“What are we supposed to do when we get there?” she finally asked.

“Andrew will call us as soon as he has any new information for us. For now, he just said to scout out the place…see what we can find out about it, before we go barging into who knows what,” Melinda explained. “Like you said…it could be pretty bad for girls like us to get captured in a place like this.”

Buffy grimaced at that thought, and then rolled her eyes at the sound of a loud giggle behind her. She sighed.

“Then I guess I’d better tell the Babysitter’s Club back there to tone it down a little.”

********************************

Twenty minutes later, Buffy was beginning to think about her sarcastic comments on Andrew’s sense of direction in far more literal terms. They had been walking for nearly an hour, and to her, the place where they were looked no different from the place where they had started.

Except for the complete absence of a nifty road leading back to civilization.

That was a difference she could not help but think about.

Melinda, however, did not seem worried at all. In fact, to all appearances, she seemed to know exactly where she was going. Buffy had to admit that she was impressed by the girl’s obvious skill and confidence.

“No offense,” Buffy spoke quietly, once again to keep her words between her and Melinda alone. “I mean, you’re obviously incredibly capable and all…but was there any specific reason why Andrew picked *you* to help me with this top secret mission that he told me not to tell *anyone* about?”

Melinda smiled, apparently not surprised or offended by the question.

“I know I’m young,” she admitted. “But I’ve seen a lot over the past few years. I can handle myself, Buffy.”

“I’m sure you can,” Buffy conceded with a smile, surprised to realize that she truly meant it.

Melinda seemed far more prepared for this mission than most of the young Slayers Buffy dealt with on a daily basis would have been.

“I was part of a detail that recently took out the demon crew in charge of rebuilding the L.A. branch of Wolfram and Hart,” Melinda informed Buffy after a moment’s silence.

Buffy felt a pang of regret as she realized that the girl was searching her own history for credentials she could offer, to reassure the senior Slayer of her capability…and that really was not necessary. She had already opened her mouth to respond, to say something to that effect, when part of what Melinda had said finally registered with her.

*L.A.*

*Wolfram and Hart…*

A very different kind of pang went through her, and she swallowed hard, her eyes suddenly focused on the woods in front of her, rather than on the girl walking beside and just slightly in front of her.

“I lost some friends in that battle,” she stated after a moment, not really sure why she was telling Melinda that. “When they took down Wolfram and Hart’s L.A. branch in the first place. Some of the people involved were…were very close to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

A moment’s silence passed between them, not uncomfortable, before Melinda asked quietly, “Could you tell me about them?”

Buffy suddenly realized that this girl was wise beyond what she had given her credit for. She was already longing to talk about the dear friends…and more than friends…she had lost in that terrible battle, but did not want to cross that line in the sand and get too personal, to make the other girl uncomfortable.

Melinda had just taken her metaphorical foot and obliterated the line completely.

“Um…one of the men who died in the battle was…was my Watcher, once,” Buffy began…of course, with the part that came easiest to her.

Wesley’s death had saddened her, of course, but it had been nothing in comparison to the loss of…certain others.

“Was your Watcher *once*?” Melinda echoed curiously, uncertain as to her meaning.

In her understanding, before there had come to be such an overabundance of Slayers, the original Slayers had had one Watcher each, who remained their Watcher until the death of either the Watcher, or the Slayer.

“Yeah…right before I…I quit.”

“Oh, yeah.” Melinda’s face lit up with understanding as she nodded. “I think I remember hearing about that.”

“You probably do,” Buffy replied dryly. “I quit because the old Council…well, sometimes they weren’t very appreciative of the…the sacrifices Slayers have to make. My…my boyfriend was dying…poisoned…and they refused to help, even though he had helped me over and over again, even though he was more of a hero than they were…just because of one itty bitty, insignificant thing.”

“What…one thing?” Melinda asked, hesitant. She did not want to seem rude, but her curiosity had been aroused.

“He was a vampire.”

Buffy steeled herself as she spoke the words, expecting Melinda’s shock and indignation.

The young Slayer impressed her yet again when she simply shrugged and concluded, “But he was a *good* vampire…right?”

“Yeah…” Buffy’s voice was thick and wistful as she replied softly. “Yeah, he was.” She was quiet for a moment before admitting in a careful, controlled voice, “He was…one of the ones I lost. In the battle with Wolfram and Hart. His name was…Angel. You might have heard of him…”

“Yeah.” Melinda nodded. “He caused quite a scandal while I was in training. No one really knew why he was there at all, you know? Wolfram and Hart’s big evil…and it looked like he was signing on.” She was quiet, and when she spoke again, her voice was low, respectful, and soothing to Buffy’s grieving heart.

“No one really understood, did they? Not until it was all over, and Wolfram and Hart was in shambles, thanks to him.”

“No,” Buffy agreed. “No one really understood.” A bitter smile passed her lips as she observed, “Good thing the original Council wasn’t still in place by that time…or they would have taken him out long before he could have accomplished what he did.”

Both girls were quiet, lost in their own thoughts, before Melinda pointed out, “The new Council’s not quite so…so hard, you know? I mean…not if *my* Watcher’s any indication. They seem to be more…willing to accept the possibility that humans aren’t the only species with the capacity for good.”

Buffy nodded thoughtfully, aware that Andrew would have a healthy awareness of the gray area between humanity and demonkind -- the gray area that she had not really understood existed, until it was far too late.

“Me, I’m convinced.”

Buffy looked up at the girl, returning her thoughts to the conversation, giving her a curious look. “Why’s that?”

“Because a vampire saved my life, while we were working on taking out the rebuilding crew for Wolfram and Hart. I was…was captured…and…and this one vampire…he helped me escape,” Melinda explained quietly, and Buffy could hear the emotion in her voice, the remnants of the trauma she had experienced, and her relief and gratitude at being delivered from it.

Her thoughts turned inexplicably to the other that she had lost to the battle, the dearest to her heart…the one she still could not bring herself to speak of to this stranger, this brilliant, understanding girl who still would have no concept of what he had meant to her. Her own heart longed to pour it out, to yield catharsis to the loss of Spike as well as her loss of the others…but something in her would not allow her to voice that deepest, most personal grief.

She thought of how Spike had so boldly introduced himself into her life -- along with his blunt intentions to take it -- and how in the end, that same vampire had given his own life…*twice*…in defense of the world.

“Yeah,” she remarked softly after a moment. “You can never tell. The line between good and evil isn’t…as easy to see sometimes as we think to begin with. Sometimes… sometimes, someone will surprise you.”

******************************

Spike ran without looking back from the horrific scene of the brutal “sacrifice”.

His mind had not yet processed all the implications of what he had seen, and the silver bracelet locked onto his wrist, and all the other details of everything that had happened to him from the moment he had arrived in London, under Giles’ care. He could not have known the details of the deception, the betrayal, that had been inflicted upon him, by a man he had mistakenly believed that he could trust.

All he knew was that he had to get away…*now*, before it was too late.

*It’s already too late,* a dark, despairing voice deep within him warned him, but Spike ignored it, running through the compound as fast as he could, back toward the entrance through which Ethan had led him earlier that day.

Near the large double wooden doors, a bored guard was seated, and he looked up in surprise as Spike neared his escape. The terrified vampire threw the doors open and rushed out into the night, and the guard rose from his seat, but did not give chase, choosing instead to raise a small handheld radio to his mouth.

“Mr. Rayne…we have a situation.”

Spike ran through the woods, stumbling over the unfamiliar and overgrown terrain, sustaining minor injuries several times as his face, his arms, his bare feet, came into painful contact with stones and branches and other natural obstacles…but he did not stop.

He *could* not stop.

He came to the edge of a large body of water -- the lake they had flown over on their way here -- and he slowed his pace somewhat, carefully walked along the side of it as he tried to find the way around it. If he had any way of knowing how large it was, he might have tried to swim it; but in the darkness of night, even his enhanced vampire eyesight could not quite see its far boundary, and he did not want to risk getting captured because he could not swim faster than the boats that Ethan Rayne surely had at his command.

Spike glanced furtively over his shoulder, but to his relief, saw no signs of pursuit, as he made his way cautiously around the edge of the lake, noticing when it began to curve, and he realized that he was moving toward the clearing again, where the plane had landed.

Not that that meant anything.

He had no bloody clue where the nearest road was, where to find help or shelter…

…why this was happening to him…

*But that last bit’s not quite true, is it, mate? What’s a little slavery and torture compared to a century of murder and mayhem, yeah?*

He tried to ignore the dark taunts of his inner self-doubt as he kept moving swiftly toward the clearing, telling himself that he would figure out what to do once he got at least that far.

He had only gone a few short yards past the lake, when his progress came to a halt…though not of his own will. In the darkness, at first he thought that he had run into something…a tree, perhaps, or some other natural barrier.

But as he blinked into the space in front of him, all he saw was the empty blackness of night. He started forward again…only to find himself once more running into the invisible barrier. Only the second time, he noticed something else -- something that made his blood run colder in his dead veins, as a sick feeling of understanding began to steal over him.

As the silver bracelet on his wrist made contact with the invisible barrier, bright sparks of white light cascaded from it on impact.

Spike pounded his fists against the barrier, desperate to break through it, but found that it was impenetrable, as a shower of sparks fell around him, illuminating his tear-streaked face in bright, brief flashes.

“No,” he cried out hoarsely. “No, it can’t…this can’t be…*no*!”

Hopelessly, desperately, he kicked and punched and pounded the invisible wall with his fists and feet in a vain struggle for freedom which he now understood was not to be his…not ever again. His barely recovered strength failing him, he collapsed to his knees, painful sobs torn from his sore, aching throat…and he realized that he had been screaming, shouting, crying out in despair.

He tore at the latch on the bracelet he wore, frantically trying to remove it, but it would not open. His trembling fingers fought at it until they were raw and bleeding, but to no avail.

Despairing, Spike fell forward onto his face, his arms crossed over his chest as he sobbed out his confusion and terror and utter hopelessness at the overwhelming revelation of the betrayal that had been dealt him, on his knees at the side of the lake, with freedom so painfully near, and yet too far away to touch.

Eventually, Spike’s battered, weary, malnourished body ran out of tears.
 
His shattered heart, however, was still filled with them, bottled up inside, crying out to be poured forth with his pain, his despair, onto the grass where he knelt beside the lake.
 
But what was the use of his tears?
 
He rose slowly to his knees, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared blankly out over the crystalline water sparkling in the moonlight. Now that the initial shock had passed, his mind was trying to work it out -- to make sense of it somehow -- how he had come to be here, a slave again, when only hours ago his freedom had been restored to him.
 
Questions swirled around in his mind, seeking elusive answers that refused to fully form. How could this be happening to him? Hadn’t Giles meant to *help* him? Was the Watcher responsible for this? Did he even know Spike was here at all?
 
Every time his thoughts neared the truth, Spike’s mind seemed to shut down, refusing to know it, refusing to acknowledge that he was really here, really enslaved once more -- perhaps in a worse position than he had held even in Siron’s possession -- and most likely at the command of a man he had trusted to help him.
 
He couldn’t think about it; it hurt too much. The questions flooding his mind overwhelmed him, exhausted him, until finally he stopped trying to figure out how things had come to this and allowed his thoughts to shut down until his mind was filled with a numb, grey fog.
 
By the time he both smelled and sensed a recently familiar human slowly, calmly approaching, only one question still filled Spike’s mind. He looked up at the man through dull, despairing eyes, lacking the energy even to rise to his feet, as that single question escaped his lips in a low, rasping whisper.
 
“*Why*?”
 
Ethan Rayne just stood there for a long moment, regarding the broken vampire pensively. Then a slight smile rose to his lips as he replied quietly, “Because you were getting in the way, Spike.”
 
Spike shook his head in confusion, staring up at the sorcerer through wide, incredulous eyes. “In the way of *what*?” he asked, his voice hoarse from screaming and crying, breaking slightly over the words. “I’m a bloody wreck! What in the bleedin’ hell was I getting in the way of?”
 
Ethan gave him a little sideways half-nod, acknowledging the apparent accuracy of his words, before answering the question with a frank honesty that Spike would not have expected from this man who had already so thoroughly, pitilessly deceived him.
 
“Ripper’s plans for his Slayer.”
 
At the mention of Buffy, Spike felt his throat close up and tears prick at the backs of his eyes, but he fought them back, unwilling to allow Ethan to see him break down again. Still, there was a suspicious sheen in his blue eyes as he glared up at the man in frustrated confusion.
 
“What plans?” he demanded as a dark, frightening thought occurred to him. “What plans does he have for Buffy?”
 
If Giles was capable of such deception…was it possible that he might even be willing to betray the girl who had been like a daughter to him for so many years?
 
“Plans for a normal, happy life,” Ethan stated, emphasizing the words with a patient smile, a knowing look of sympathy in his eyes as he added, “A life that does not happen to include love-struck vampires to muck it all up and ruin her chances at little things like *marriage*…*family*.”
 
Spike flinched at the words that had filled his own mind on more than one occasion, his head bowed as he swallowed back a sob that rose in his throat.
 
“I want that for her, too,” he whispered in a low, desolate voice. “I don’t even *want* to see Buffy. The Watcher *knew* that!”
 
“You don’t want her to see *you*,” Ethan corrected, the words striking home with vicious accuracy. “Isn’t that what you mean, Spike?”
 
The vampire could not bring himself to respond.
 
“But eventually…you would have changed your mind,” Ethan went on casually. “Ripper knew that. That’s why he wanted to be sure that you were out of the way. That’s what I do for him, you know…the reason why I’m still in business, despite the fact that the bloody do-gooder organization he runs knows all about me. I do him a favor every now and then…and he turns a blind eye to my…well, less-than-reputable activities.”
 
Spike looked up at him, frowning with confusion. His head still felt fuzzy and numb, his thoughts slow to connect. As the sorcerer began to explain, Spike found his gaze drifting out over the water again as he struggled to focus on what Ethan was saying.
 
“If he has a problem that he needs to…well, to disappear…he sends it my way, and I see that it’s never heard from again…except by paying customers,” Ethan smirked, and the cold, predatory look in his eyes started a sick sensation deep in Spike’s stomach. Rayne’s tone was darker, subtlety menacing, as he added, “You’re one of those problems, Spike. Or rather -- you were. You’re no one’s problem anymore. You’re no one’s…but mine. You may not like the way things have turned out, Spike. In fact, I‘d be rather more worried if you did…but you belong to me now, and you will do as I tell you.”
 
Spike’s gaze found its way back to Ethan’s, the traces of his little remaining defiance glittering in his eyes as his jaw clenched with repressed anger.
 
“And if I refuse?”
 
Spike felt a perverse sense of satisfaction, however slight, at the anger he saw rising up in the sorcerer’s eyes. It gave him a vague, nearly insignificant feeling of control to be able to break through that terrible calm, that utter self-possession Rayne had, which was more frightening in many ways than the violent, raving rants in which his former master had indulged so often.
 
“If you refuse,” Ethan answered quietly, his voice still carefully controlled, a cold smile pasted onto his face despite the fury in his eyes, “you will swiftly learn that it is in your best interest not to do so. That bracelet you’re wearing -- just like those worn by every slave in my possession -- is covered in magicks, Spike. Not only will it prevent your leaving my property, but it will also inflict severe punishment for any disobedience.”
 
Spike stared down at the metal ring on his wrist, his raw, bloodied fingertips picking at it again, though this time the action was idle as he no longer expected to be able to remove it himself.
 
“It will not come off either,” Rayne confirmed the conclusion he had already reached. “Not unless I decide to take it off.”
 
“Which I don’t suppose you’d ever be inclined to do.”
 
Ethan smiled indulgently, shrugging his shoulders. “You’ll find it’s really not so bad here, Spike,” he said in a soothing, reassuring voice that was as false as the smile on his face. “You’ll be well fed and well rested, and you won’t spend your nights in chains…well, unless you’re working and the customer desires it. And I’ll be certain that your previous wounds have healed and you’re physically able before I’ll be putting you to work. My customers are not allowed to inflict any permanent damage either…”
 
Spike looked up at him sharply, disgust in his eyes. “Yeah…tell that to those soddin’ humans who were cuttin’ up that poor bugger upstairs.”
 
Ethan’s smile took on a dark, evil glint of amusement as he pointed out, “He’s a vampire, Spike. They didn’t take his heart -- so he’ll recover. And that sort of thing…that’s not the ordinary way of things, not at all. I reserve the fulfillment of those sorts of requests only for the slaves who are most rebellious and disobedient…those I wish to punish.”
 
Although Spike did not want to let the man see it, his words had their desired effect. His previous slavery had him thinking not of escape, but of ways to ensure that he pleased his new master enough to avoid such vicious, sadistic punishment as he had seen inflicted on the vampire being sacrificed upstairs.
 
All at once, he realized the nature of his thoughts and what that said about his own mindset…and a deep anger began to boil up inside him, a dark resentment for those who had brought him to this place of slavery and submission.
 
“So the magicks…all linked to you then, are they?” Spike guessed after a moment, not looking up, his gaze focused carefully on the bracelet. In the same low, almost casual tone, he added, “S’pose something were to happen to *you*…what would happen to the bracelets?”
 
The man moved more quickly than Spike would have thought possible and, in an instant, had gripped his hair, yanking his head back at an awkward angle, exposing his throat in a move designed to make a vampire feel most vulnerable. The conditioning of Spike’s former slavery made him react by freezing, not daring to move, rather than by fighting as he once would have done.
 
“You’ll never get the chance to find out the answer to that, Spike,” Ethan informed him in a deadly soft voice, crouching beside him and gripping the wrist that bore the magic bracelet as he explained.
 
“A built in factor of the spell is that, if a slave should ever attempt to harm me or any of my customers in any way, the bracelet will administer a severe punishment...painful enough to incapacitate the slave for…well, a full day at least. And that’s not to mention the secondary punishment I would personally choose to inflict in recompense for the loss of that day.”
 
Spike tensed as the sorcerer moved in close, and he could feel his breath against his ear as he added, softer still, “I hate to lose money, Spike…and I can assure you that a lost day of *your* time due to your being incapacitated in such a way would be quite a loss indeed. I should be quite displeased with you if that were to happen.”
 
As he spoke, Ethan’s grip on Spike’s wrist tightened, and the vampire gasped as a deep, fiery pain shot from his wrist up his arm. He tried to pull free, but the sorcerer whispered a Latin word, still near his ear, and suddenly he could not move. Just when Spike was sure that he was going to be overcome with pain and panic, Ethan released him suddenly, standing up straight, and Spike’s body was his own again. The pain vanished as well, as suddenly as it had come, leaving the shaken vampire trembling with shock.
 
“You will find that I am not a man you will wish to cross, Spike.”
 
Subdued by the pain and fear of the last few moments, the vampire did not respond, his eyes downcast, gasping for breath as he struggled to recover.
 
“Take as much time as you need to allow your mind to adjust to the idea,” Ethan went on mildly, glancing up at the dark sky. “However, if you’re not in by half an hour before daybreak, my men will come out and bring you in. And if I think that you had an attempt at suicide in mind, Spike…I will not be pleased. And in addition to the punishment you’ll receive, I’ll reset your bracelet to prevent you from leaving the building.”
 
Spike’s heart sank with those words as they stole away the one remaining option he had held in hope.
 
Even the ability to end his own suffering by ending his existence had been stolen from him.

*************************************

“Okay. Is this the result of getting directions from Andrew, or is this lake *supposed* to be here?”

Melinda laughed at the senior Slayer’s words and the skeptical expression on her face as she nodded toward an area several yards away from where they stood along the boundary of the lake they had just reached.

“It’s supposed to be here. We have to go the rest of the way by boat,” she explained. “Hope you’re not too tired from the walk because now we’re gonna have to row.”

****************************************

When Ethan Rayne had been gone for a few minutes, Spike finally found the strength of mind and energy to rise to his feet again. He had no doubt that the invisible boundary tied in to the bracelet on his wrist went around the entirety of the sorcerer’s property, but some part of him -- well-buried under the weight of his recent suffering, but still present - was clinging to a last shred of hope that there simply had to be *some* way out of this place!

He walked along the edge of the lake, wondering how far out into it the boundary lay, until he had passed the water. Then, he continued walking slowly along, testing the perimeter of Ethan Rayne’s property, gauging just exactly how much area there was in which he was free to move about.

It took him a little less than an hour to reach the spot where he had started out.

He glanced in the direction of the building he had fled earlier that night, a listless expression on his face, his eyes aching and scratchy from the torrents of tears he had shed. He no longer felt like exploring the grounds -- not that he ever had felt like it to begin with -- but he had even less interest in returning to the dark, frightening place where others, slaves like him, were being tortured and used by Ethan’s human “customers”.

With nothing else to do and a couple of hours yet before dawn, Spike sank back down on the bank beside the lake, his knees drawn up in front of him, his head pillowed in his arms across them.

And he found that his body had managed to replenish its supply of tears.

**************************************

In less than an hour, the five Slayers in the two boats were nearing the far edge of the lake.

Buffy found herself strangely pensive, and all of the girls had fallen silent, aware that they were drawing nearer to a place that held great danger for them, if they were not cautious.

It was perhaps this silence that allowed Buffy to hear the faint sound that touched her ears…the sound of…was someone crying?

“Do you hear that?” she asked in a low voice, barely over a whisper.

“Hear what?” Melinda frowned, squinting as she peered at the far bank shrouded in the darkness of the pre-dawn hours as well as the fog that was rising over the lake in the cool night air. “I didn’t hear anything…”

“Shhh!” Buffy hissed, frowning, her oar going still in the water as she listened for the sound she had just heard again.

************************************

Spike raised his head and cast a morose glance out over the lake, mostly concealed now by the short-lived fog that the coming morning would consume. He wished in that moment, more than ever, that he would just be allowed to stay out here until the impending sunlight reduced him and his suffering to ash.

But he knew that was far too much mercy to expect.

Suddenly, he went very still as he heard a faint sound out on the water. A soft, rhythmic splashing sound. It could be a fish or a water bird of some kind -- except for the steady timing of the splashes. He rose to his feet and edged closer to the water, staring out into the cloudy blackness that even his night vision could not fully penetrate; and the longer he looked, the more certain he was that he could see movement out on the water.

Someone was on the lake.

*************************************

Buffy’s attention was focused on listening for the crying sounds she had heard which seemed to have faded away. At any rate, that was why she was taken by surprise when Melinda hissed behind her.

“There’s something over there,” she whispered, her voice low and intent. “Do you see that? On the shore?”

Buffy looked…and she did see a brief flash of movement through the mist, a shadowy figure moving nearer to the edge of the lake. Then, for just a moment, the mists shifted and she got just a moment’s clear view of a head of bright blond hair above a black-clad form.

Her heart briefly stopped.

*It can’t be…he’s dead…I just…I just *want* it to be…so much…*

But as the boat drifted closer to the shore, the figure only became *more* defined instead of receding into her desperate memories as she had expected.

“Ready,” Melinda whispered, drawing her attention.

Buffy noticed with alarm that the girls had all drawn their weapons and were preparing to fire. Panic seized her as she glanced back toward the male form, apparently staring out across the water as if searching for something, and realized that the girls were preparing to shoot him.

“No!” she said in a sharp whisper. “Hold your fire!”

“Buffy?” Melinda frowned, clearly uncertain.

“I said *hold your fire*,” Buffy snapped, her voice still low, her eyes fastened on the decreasingly distant form, and she now imagined that she could see the glint of dark blue eyes in the moonlight…though at this distance, it was impossible.

But as the boat drew nearer to the shore, her heart began to race with the knowledge that somehow the impossible had come to be. As much as she knew that he could not be there…there he was, standing on the shore, staring back at her, apparently unaffected by her presence…or perhaps too stunned by it to venture a reaction at all.

*He’s dead. He’s dead…it can’t be…can’t be. Buffy, don’t do this to yourself, it just *can’t be*!*

But it was.

It was Spike.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever as Buffy stared across the water into the piercing eyes of her former lover…supposedly dead, yet standing right there in front of her, undead as ever.

“Spike,” she whispered under her breath, too low for the others to hear her.

And then, the moment shattered.

The platinum-haired figure on the far shore suddenly vanished, slipping away into the shadows. Buffy blinked, startled, shaking her head slightly in disbelief. He was somehow alive, in spite of all she had heard to the contrary, and *here*, so very close…and he was running away? Was she really losing him again so quickly?

*Not if I can help it…*

“*Spike*!”

Ignoring the startled cries of the Slayers accompanying her, Buffy stood up in the boat, and, without hesitation, dived over the side into the icy water. The others tried to call her back, confused and fearful, but she swam for all she was worth, wide, powerful strokes carrying her swiftly toward the distant shore.

***********************************

Spike did not know what else to do.

What else *was* there to do when confronted with what was either an apparition or one’s beloved who was about to get close enough to see the pitiful state to which he had been reduced?

He ran.

A part of him was desperate to stop, to go back to her…but the greater part was terrified that she would take one disgusted look at the wreckage that was left of who he had once been, turn, and walk in the opposite direction. A picture filled his mind of her face and the overwhelming pity that would be her *best* possible reaction…and he simply could not stand it. Conflicting voices cried out in his head.

*Can’t let her see…can’t let her know that I’m not the hero she remembers me as…*

*But I need her! I need her so much…*

*She’ll leave me. She’ll hate me. She’ll be so disgusted and awkward and won’t even be able to look at me…can’t stay…can’t face her…gotta run…*

*Buffy, *Buffy*, I need you…please, please…*find me*…*


***********************************

Buffy reached the shore, soaked and freezing, but already running as her feet hit the ground. The voices of the other Slayers, now rowing frantically toward the bank and calling for her urgently, were distant…and utterly insignificant to her.

All that mattered was getting to him.

“Spike! Wait! It’s me…Buffy! Spike!”

A brief flash of white gold gleaming in the moonlight drew her, and she rushed in the direction from which she had seen it, calling out his name breathlessly every few seconds. She did not know why he was running from her, why he would not want to see her, and a part of her spoke up in warning, reminding her that finding him might not be the blissful reunion she was hoping for -- not if he did not want to be found by her.

*Doesn’t matter, don’t care. He’s *here*. He‘s *alive*…have to find him…have to *know* it’s really…*

“*Spike*!”

***********************************

He heard her calling for him, and the mere sound of her voice sent a bolt of agony through his chest that nearly dropped him to his knees right there, sucking the unnecessary breath from his body. After so long without her presence in his life, the knowledge that she was really there was overwhelming.

Spike longed to turn around and run the other way -- but his shame and uncertainty kept him running.

The invisible barrier around Rayne’s property stopped him in the middle of a clearing with no trees or anything nearby to serve as cover.

Panic built within him as he heard Buffy’s voice drawing nearer and nearer. She could only be a few hundred feet away now. Any moment she would catch up to him. In useless frustration he pounded the barrier with his fist, only realizing after he had done it that the shower of sparks that fell from it would only serve to pinpoint his location for the Slayer who was seeking him.

He whirled around toward the sound of her voice, peering through the darkness, trying to spot her.

“Spike! Spike, please, wait!”

The pleading note, the catch in her voice, tore at his heart, and for a moment he just froze, longing to go toward that sound.

Regardless, at this point…there was nowhere else to go.

**************************************

Buffy’s steps slowed to a halt as she entered the clearing and saw that the white-blond head she had been following had stopped moving, and her quarry was now facing her, standing stock still in the center of the clearing. In the clear, bright moonlight, the piercing blue of his glittering eyes was obvious, even from a distance.

As she slowly moved toward him, it occurred to her for the first time that it could be a trick -- a deception of some sort, designed to trap her. Ethan Rayne was, after all, a very talented sorcerer.

Her hand moved subtlely to hover over the battle dagger she wore on her belt, though she did not touch it, as she cautiously approached the still form. He did not speak, did not move, as she neared him, and his familiar, painfully dear features came into focus.

“Spike,” she whispered. “Oh, God…Spike…is it you?”

He did not respond, though by now she was near enough to see the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed reflexively and finally moved, taking a hesitant, jerky half-step backward, only to take it back again.

Her voice was hoarse, raw with longing and pain, and she barely recognized it as she whispered the question that filled her heart, the question whose answer would elate or devastate her.

“Is it you, Spike? Is it really you? Are you -- are you real?”

****************************

*Are you real?*

Spike could not stop staring at her, could not take his eyes from her wide, pleading gaze. Now that she was within his sight, he found that running was impossible. She was *here*, only a few short feet away…and he wanted nothing more than he wanted to be in her arms, to be *hers*.

“Are you real?”

He didn’t know what he was going to say, how he was going to respond, until the words had already left his mouth, aching and awestruck and haunted with memories of past love and present torments.

“I…I don’t know…but…but *you* are…aren’t you…It’s you…Buffy, Buffy, love…”

His words seemed to spur her forward, and she moved more swiftly toward him, her wary hand forgetting her weapon as she reached cautious, tender fingers upward toward his face, her fingertips brushing his cheek as he whispered her name in a voice that was thick with tears.

“Oh, Spike…Spike…” she whispered.

Tears filled her eyes, her heart swelling with a beautiful hurt as he leaned unconsciously into her touch, her hand cupping his cheek as his thick, dark lashes fluttered closed, forcing out tears as they did. The longing, the sheer need in his reaction touched a chord deep within her, and suddenly she could no longer stand to not have him in her arms.

*************************************

“Spike, oh, my Spike…”

*My Spike…*

*Hers.*

Spike felt something within him break as the Slayer’s strong arms suddenly embraced him, drawing him close to her. For a moment he felt his body instinctively tense in preparation for the pain it had come to expect with every touch; but then, he relaxed into her arms, his own arms wrapping around her, holding her close to him with a desperate intensity.

His face fell to rest in the crook of her neck, and he breathed in deeply, taking in the sweet, familiar scent of her for the first time in far too long. He felt her hands running slowly up and down his back and gloried in the sweet simplicity of her gentle touch.

They were both perfectly silent, too stunned for words, or questions, or tears.

For this intense moment, which neither of them had ever expected to have, it was enough simply to *be* in the other’s presence.

For that moment, the agony of the deception he had discovered mere hours earlier did not seem to exist. The slave compound, Giles’ betrayal, even his prolonged torment at Siron’s hands, seemed very far away, almost as if they had happened to someone else. It was almost as if all those things were nothing but a terrible nightmare, and he had awakened to find himself right where he had always wanted to be, where he belonged.

In his Slayer’s arms.

***********************************

Buffy was holding him, touching him, but she could hardly believe that he was there.

“Spike,” she whispered almost fiercely, running her hands over his body just to reassure herself that he was really real. “Oh, Spike…my Spike…”

Some tiny part of her mind was worrying, wondering how he had come to be here, *alive*, when she had believed him to be lost to her forever, and why, if alive, he would be *here*, so near to a demon slave ring’s headquarters; but, her heart was simply too overwhelmed by the beautiful shock of receiving him, back from the dead, to allow her mind to think too hard about it just then.

It was enough just to have him with her.

Just to be here, in his arms…where she belonged.

***********************************

Spike was blissfully lost, so deeply consumed with the scent, the feeling, the presence of the Slayer that he loved, that he almost didn’t hear it at first.

“Buffy, there you are!” a vaguely familiar female voice breathlessly declared as rapid footsteps stumbled to a halt beside them. “You gave the girls a scare…”

Spike jumped, looking up with apprehension at the girl who now stood a few feet away -- and his eyes widened with recognition. It was the Slayer he had helped to escape from Siron’s lair…the girl who had stayed by his side until he was safe…

*Safe…that’s a bloody laugh…*

…in Giles’ care.

Melinda, wasn’t it?

Just as he remembered her name, her eyes met his, and her face lit up in a brilliant, delighted smile. “Spike! Man, what are *you* doing here?”

And in that instant, faced with this link to his painful past and the present that had been swallowed up in Buffy’s embrace…the agonizing truth closed in on Spike again.

**********************************

Buffy felt Spike’s body tense in her arms at the same moment she heard Melinda’s voice beside her. She drew back, regarding the vampire with a concerned frown. Concern quickly became alarm when she saw the expression on his face.

Spike’s eyes were wide, terrified, and he was shaking his head slightly as he stared at the pretty black girl. A tremor began to go through his body as he began to fight to free himself from Buffy’s embrace.

“Spike…Spike, what is it?” Buffy whispered, bewildered by his reaction.

“What’s the matter with him?” Melinda asked anxiously, reaching out a hand to touch his arm, jumping back, startled, when he jerked it away. “Spike?”

“No,” he choked out, not taking his eyes off the confused young Slayer. “No…no…”

“Spike…it’s okay,” Buffy insisted. “Spike, look at me!”

But he did not seem to have heard her. Frantically he tore himself out of her arms with a frantic shove, pushing her away from him so hard that she stumbled backward a few steps before regaining her balance.

“Spike…wait…Talk to me!”

Buffy protested as he began to back warily away from where she stood beside Melinda. Cautiously but quickly, aware of how fast he could move when he wanted to, Buffy edged closer to Spike, wanting to stop him before he fled as he seemed poised to do. As she moved toward him, however, he shied away from her, clearly terrified.

“Spike…calm down…what’s wrong?”

He did not answer, only took a couple more backward stumbling steps before apparently realizing that he was not going to get far that way and turning to run as fast as he could away from them. That was the first time that Buffy noticed the large stone structure in the distance, eerily illuminated by the bright moonlight. A sick sense of dismay filled her as she realized that it must be Rayne’s slave compound.

*Why is Spike…why would he…?*

Her mind refused to complete that troubling, terrifying question, which had several possible answers, none of which could possibly be good.

“Spike!” she cried out, starting after him.

“What the heck?” Melinda wondered aloud behind her. “What in the world is he even doing here?”

Buffy suddenly froze in her tracks, her eyes going wide as the girl’s words reminded her that it had been Melinda’s presence that had set off Spike’s mysterious reaction. Without hesitation she spun around and stalked back across the clearing toward the confused girl. Melinda’s eyes went wide when she saw the fierce expression on the older Slayer’s face, and she took a wary step backward as Buffy reached her.

“You know him,” Buffy stated, not asking.

Melinda blinked. “Yes.”

“How?”

“It’s…it’s a long story…”

Buffy smiled, though Melinda thought uneasily that it was not really a very nice smile, as she spoke again in a commanding voice that put use to her full authority as the original Slayer.

“Tell it anyway.”

A/N: Thanks to our wonderful beta, Immortal_Beloved :)


“Good evening, Mr. Giles…I need to talk to you about…”

“Not now. Can’t you see I’m terribly busy?” the senior Watcher snapped.

“Yes, Sir…sorry, Sir…”

The senior Watcher brushed carelessly past the young man standing almost but not quite in his path as he strode swiftly down the hallway that led out of the office building of the compound. The young man moved respectfully back out of his way, though his expression was a bit troubled, and it crossed Giles’ mind to wonder briefly if what he was going to say had perhaps been important.

At the moment, it did not seem to matter much.

“Of all the times for that boy to choose to disappear, it would have to be the one time I *don’t* wish that he would!” Giles grumbled aloud as he made his way out of the building and crossed the breezeway leading to the residential section of the new Council’s property.

For the last two days, he had been looking for Andrew, searching the grounds for him, calling his cell phone, all with no success. Usually, the eager boy was annoyingly underfoot, almost unavoidable. Now that Giles, for once, actually needed him, he seemed to have vanished into thin air.

“Well, he’s got to bloody sleep, doesn’t he?” Giles muttered as he made his way down the hallway toward the rather lavish apartment that was Andrew’s. “At some point, he’ll return to his quarters…and then, I’ll find him…and perhaps my mind can finally find some peace.”

Someone had gone through Giles’ office, his personal possessions. At first, he had not noticed, until he had taken his address book from its drawer in preparation to make a call and found that its lock had been broken, the leather torn in someone’s haste to open it. Alarmed, he had inspected the office, but had found nothing else out of place. Apparently, whoever had been there had been in search of nothing more than a phone number or address.

It would not have been such a dangerous situation had the invasion of his privacy not taken place on the exact same day that he had sent Spike away with Ethan Rayne. Giles wanted to believe that it was nothing more than coincidence, but he could not quite bring himself to accept that.

He had seen Andrew in the hallway minutes before it had to have happened. Giles frowned as his suspicions returned with renewed strength, heaving a weary sigh as he hastened his pace toward Andrew’s apartment.

*He may not have been the one to do it…but perhaps he saw something,* he reasoned, hoping that that was the case.

If Andrew had somehow managed to happen onto knowledge that he had no right to…well, it could complicate matters, to say the least.

*He could be easily silenced…the boy has the courage of a mouse…not that it’d be much of a sacrifice to lose him entirely…*

He shook his head, feeling a moment’s uncomfortable guilt for the things he was considering…not that he would ever actually harm the young man. He knocked impatiently on Andrew’s door, then used his master key to open it and walk inside. There was no sign of Andrew inside, and nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.

With a heavy sigh, Giles headed toward the couch, intending to have a seat and wait for Andrew to return. As he passed a small table between the door and the sofa, however, his attention was drawn to Andrew’s forgotten cell phone, vibrating and emanating a weak, tinny version of the theme to “Mission: Impossible”. It was mere passing curiosity that caused Giles to glance at the number flashing on the tiny screen.

It was alarm and dismay that caused him to snatch the small object up and stare when he recognized the number.

Someone from Buffy’s group in Scotland was calling Andrew.

It was just one more uncomfortable coincidence that was unfortunately probably much more.

Giles hesitated only a moment before pushing the button to retrieve the call and holding it to his ear. “Hello?”

There was a moment’s total silence on the other line before Xander’s familiar voice spoke incredulously…and far too loudly…into the phone.

“*Giles*? Oh, my God, Giles! I’m so glad it’s you! I’m so glad you’re okay! We were so worried! Buffy thought you’d gone off and gotten yourself killed! You have no idea how glad I am to hear your voice!”

“Actually, I’m afraid I rather do,” Giles replied dryly, smiling in spite of himself at the concern and relief evident in the young man’s voice. “Which is fortunate as I doubt I’ll be able to hear at all much longer due to your shouting in my ear.”

“Oh…sorry…it’s just…you’re okay!” Xander explained in a marginally quieter voice.

“And just why did you think I might not be?” the Watcher inquired, a frown creasing his brow, though he kept his tone mild and vaguely amused.

“Well, Andrew called and said that you’d gone off on some secret mission that was very dangerous, alone, and…and…and why exactly didn’t we get the fact that that was a total and complete lie?” Xander finished in the same tone in which he had begun. “He must have made the whole thing up, the creepy little geek! I swear he needs to get off the video games and role playing junk because he’s losing the ability to distinguish between them and real life! He said you were in Ireland and deep undercover, and that’s why we couldn’t talk to you, and he said that you said for him to tell us that Buffy needed to go there and help you…she’s on her way now…”

Giles felt the blood drain from his face, a cold sensation creeping over him from his head to his feet, as he began to put the pieces of the puzzle together. He was grateful that Xander did not seem inclined to stop talking because, for a few moments, he felt completely incapable of speech. A feeling of cold, deadly rage began to wash over him as he realized that Andrew must have somehow caught on to his plan and had, at the very least, made an attempt to inform Buffy of it.

Just how far his attempts had gotten remained to be seen.

“Xander, I have no idea why the boy would have made up such a tale, but he did in fact make it up. I’m right here at Council Headquarters, not by any means in Ireland…and if Buffy’s on her way to Ireland, I’m afraid Andrew’s sent her on a wild goose chase, Xander.”

“I knew it…I knew it from the start, but Buffy thought maybe you were in danger, so…”

“Well, I’m not. Xander, you need to call Buffy right away and let her know that it’s all been a mistake. There is no need whatsoever for her to be in Ireland. I’ll find Andrew and deal with him myself. Just let Buffy know that all is well here, yes?”

“Okay. Good to hear your voice, G-Man…”

“And yours as well, Xander…though I’d still quite prefer you did not call me that.”

Giles’ mild voice did not change as he exchanged pleasantries with the young man who had been like a son to him for so many years and hung up the phone. He stood there for a long moment, his mind racing with the various possibilities and implications of what Xander had told him, his tension building and his blood boiling with rage at having his well-laid plans revealed to the one person in the world from whom he most wished to keep them…

And the tiny plastic cell phone snapped in two in his hand.

***********************************

Buffy sat on the bank of the lake, staring off into space, lost in her own thoughts.

The other Slayers had caught up to them mere moments after she had demanded an answer from Melinda, and the younger girl had promised to tell her everything if she would first help her get the other girls settled back on the bank -- farther from the ominous stone building that was in plain view of their current location.

Buffy had grudgingly agreed, ignoring the other girls’ questions as to why she had jumped out of the boat as they walked back toward the lake. Once there, Buffy instructed the younger Slayers to take out the provisions they had brought along with them in their packs and eat while she and Melinda moved a little ways away to talk.

What Melinda had to say was devastating to her.

The idle chatter of the girls, only slightly muffled by the warnings she and Melinda had both given them about being too loud and giving their location away, did little to distract her from the horrific mental images that filled her mind following Melinda’s story.

“Spike. A slave,” she murmured as much to herself as to Melinda, who was seated quietly beside her. She shook her head in dismay. “I just…I just can’t believe it.”

“I had no idea he was here,” Melinda stated softly, nervously picking at a blade of grass on the ground between them. “I mean…Andrew didn’t tell me much more than he told you…just that…that there was a hero in trouble…who’d been sold to this slave ring…and we needed to help him. I had no idea that it was the same vampire who saved me…or the same Spike he’d told us about so many times…or that the two were one and the same for that matter…”

“How was he?” Buffy cut her off, looking up at her anxiously, and the abrupt tone of her voice told Melinda that she had not even realized that the other girl was talking. “When you saw him in that demon’s apartment? How was he? I mean…was he hurt? Hungry?” She swallowed hard, and Melinda could see tears glittering in her eyes as she added in a whisper, “Afraid?”

A sympathetic grimace crossed the girl’s pretty features as she replied, “All of the above. But…but he still managed to save me…to get me out of there. He was…was so brave. I tried to get him to come with me, and he was suddenly so terrified…like he just knew that, if he tried to get away, they’d catch him, and he was so scared of what they’d do to him…but…but he risked it to save me, a stranger to him.”

Her tears fell as Buffy listened to the words, which were not in the least surprising to her, really, and in spite of her fears for Spike, a faint smile of affectionate pride rose to her lips.

“That’s my Spike,” she murmured, her throat and heart aching as she turned her tearful smile on the other girl. “Always the hero.” Her smile faded into a worried frown of confusion as she shook her head and added softly, “I don’t understand, though. You said you guys got him out of there…the L.A. group of Slayers. Andrew was there. So…how’d he end up here? Was he kidnapped?”

Melinda opened her mouth to respond, though the beginnings of a helpless shrug indicated to Buffy that she likely had little idea of the answer. At any rate, before she could speak, Buffy’s cell phone began to ring in her pocket. With an impatient sigh she took it out and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Buffy, it’s Xander. You’re going to have to kill Andrew.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well…at least beat him to an unrecognizable pulp…”

“Xander, what are you talking about?”

“The little geek lied to you…sent you off on a wild goose chase. I don’t know what his deal is; he’s playing some kind of weird game or something. I called his cell phone, and Giles answered it. He said he’s still in London, he’s just fine, and he had no idea what Andrew was talking about. So, you can come home anytime now because this whole thing -- whatever this ‘thing’ is -- has been orchestrated by Andrew for no good reason. And I can just imagine how well *that* might turn out. You know, he *was* evil at one time,” Xander finished by reminding her matter-of-factly.

Buffy felt an uncomfortable sick sensation building in the pit of her stomach as her frown deepened. Andrew had been right about the slave ring, apparently, and its location. He had been right about the hero being in trouble, though he had not seen fit to tell anyone that the hero in question was Spike. It was obvious that at least parts of his story were not made up.

But why did Giles not know anything about it?

Or…*did* he know about it? And just not want *her* to know about it for some reason?

“Um…okay…thanks, Xander…”

“Buffy? Are you okay? You should be furious. Why aren’t you furious?”

“I’ll call you back when I’m on my way home, okay? ‘Bye, Xan…”

Against her friend’s slightly muffled protests on the other line, Buffy absently pressed the disconnect button and replaced her phone in her pocket, her mind racing as she tried to put together a puzzle that seemed to have more than a few pieces missing. But despite her confusion, one thing was clear.

Something was off about this whole thing.

“Buffy? You okay? Who was that?” Melinda asked her, concern in her dark brown eyes.

Buffy slowly turned to face her, a troubled expression in her own emerald gaze.

“Melinda…when you guys rescued Spike…are you sure that it was *Giles* you took him to?”

*Stupid, stupid…I’m going to get caught. I just know it! If Mr. Giles finds me…*

Andrew unlocked the door to his apartment with shaking hands, glancing anxiously up and down the hallway for any sign of the elder Watcher he had managed to successfully avoid for the past few days. As he slipped through the door and closed it quietly behind him, Andrew breathed a sigh of relief to be once more out of sight in the privacy of his own room.

Not that this was really a safe place at all.

As he walked through the empty living room toward his bedroom where he thought he was most likely to find the item he sought, Andrew’s worries formed a disjointed, panicked, and completely unhelpful monologue in his mind.

*This is the first place he’ll look for you…which means…he’s…probably already looked here, so…maybe it *is* safe…except it’s probably not, which means you should just grab the stupid cell phone you so stupidly left behind before he finds it and finds Buffy’s number on it and decides that you know too much to be allowed to live! Where is it? I was sure I left it…come on, Andrew, just find the stupid freaking phone and get…*

“Hello, Andrew.”

Andrew spun around at the sound of the one voice he had most hoped *not* to hear, jumping and nearly stumbling backward across his bed as he found himself face to face with Rupert Giles. The older man was leaning casually against the doorframe, idly tossing Andrew’s cell phone in his hand in a gesture that seemed strangely out of character for the usually proper English gentleman.

Until Andrew remembered that Mr. Giles also had another persona…a darker, more dangerous aspect of his personality with which Andrew had only come into contact in stories.

Ripper.

In that moment, Andrew felt the odd impulse to introduce himself to the stranger that Mr. Giles seemed to have become with a simple shift in posture and tone. Aware that doing so would be strange and off-putting, Andrew tried to regain his composure and answer Mr. Giles in a normal manner.

“Um…hi, Mr. Giles. Wh-what…what’s up? I mean…can I…can I help you with… something, or…um…”

“I believe this is what you’re looking for, yes?” Giles suggested, holding up the cell phone in his hand, his tone unsettlingly casual and even, not so much as acknowledging Andrew’s stammered words.

When Andrew’s eyes focused on the cell phone, he suddenly noticed that it was damaged, nearly crushed, even, perhaps by the powerful fist of a very angry, prone-to-violence, ex-demon worshipper.

He swallowed hard, unable to tear his gaze from the tiny piece of twisted metal, unable to stop the unbidden comparisons that filled his mind between the strength and durability of that metal and, oh, say…his skull.

“Um…yeah…y-yes, thank you, Mr. Giles. Um…I was just looking for that, thanks…” Andrew’s rambling, shaky words were cut off abruptly as the Watcher practically threw the mangled phone at him, and the boy fumbled to catch it before it fell to the floor.

“I was looking for you, in fact, Andrew, a little while ago. I actually have been for the past two days, but you seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth for some strange, unknown reason. While I was waiting for you to return to your apartment, your telephone rang, and I’ll confess I took the liberty of answering it,” Giles explained in a cold, painfully civil tone of voice, his ice blue eyes narrowed and piercing over a frightening smile. “You’d never imagine who I found on the other line.”

Andrew felt his heart drop, his throat going dry as he suddenly found that he could not meet the Watcher’s eyes. “Um…no, probably not,” he agreed shakily, taking a step backward, only to find that his bed kept him from placing any additional distance between himself and Giles, who was appearing far more intimidating than usual at the moment. “Wouldn’t have a clue…since I…um, wasn’t there to see who called, so that…um…kind of usually leads to…not knowing…who called, and…”

“It was Xander, Andrew. Now why would Xander be calling you in the first place? We’re all aware of how annoying most people find you, and Xander is far less tolerant than most,” Giles pointed out flatly. “And most especially, why would Xander be calling you from Buffy’s private line in Scotland?”

“I, um…really don’t know,” Andrew stammered, his voice coming out higher than usual as Giles took a couple of slow, casual steps closer to him. Warily edging along the foot of his bed, the boy cast a longing glance toward the bedroom door. “Did…did he say what he wanted?”

A knowing smile crossed the older man’s face as he very deliberately moved directly into the path Andrew had been hoping to take. “He said, in fact, much more than that, Andrew. It seems you’ve been making up stories again, haven’t you?”

“Stories? Um…no, that’s not really my thing anymore, remember? I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to telling stories…”

“Everyone knows that you have a propensity for lying, Andrew. It’s no use arguing an already established point. However, you’ve no idea the amount of damage you might have done with your lies this time. Now, I’ve spared you the embarrassment of admitting what you’ve done yourself,” the Watcher interrupted, a severe note to his voice. “So you needn’t contact Buffy or Xander again. I’ve informed Xander to have Buffy head back to Scotland on the next available flight.” He paused, taking a breath before continuing, “What’s in Ireland, Andrew?” Giles’ voice was deceptively mild, and Andrew knew that he was trying to figure out just how much he knew.

He also knew that it would be in his own best interest not to let Giles do so.

“Huh? I d-don’t understand; what are you t-talking about?”

“Well, you must have had *some* reason for sending Buffy there, didn’t you?” Giles pressed, the humor gradually fading from his eyes, replaced by a slowly smoldering anger as he closed a bit more of the distance separating him from Andrew. “Surely not mere coincidence, was it?”

“Coincidence?” Andrew echoed, simply stalling for time. “Um…I don’t quite…don’t get…”

“Andrew,” Giles cut him off patiently, a polite smile on his lips as he continued quite calmly, “I’m afraid that if you lie to me even one more time, I may have a difficult time restraining my temper.”

Andrew fell silent, again looking away from the fierce, piercing gaze of the larger, older, and far more powerful man standing in front of him. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, or what to think or to do…or if he was even going to make it out of this encounter alive.

“Um…okay…”

“I’m not quite sure what you had hoped to accomplish, Andrew,” Giles went on. “But you’ve failed. You will not contact Buffy or Xander or anyone in the Scotland group again. And you will make no additional attempts to interfere with my decisions on matters that are of no concern to you. Is that clear?”

Andrew nodded hurriedly, the finality of Giles’ tone causing him to wonder with a wild hope if it was possible that he was actually going to get out of this with no more than a simple warning. “Yes, Sir,” he replied humbly. “I’ll just…um…get out of your way…”

As he spoke, he edged nearer to the door, hoping to slip past Giles the very moment that the conversation ended.

Unfortunately…Giles had other ideas.

Without warning, he caught Andrew by the collar and slammed him forcefully against the wall beside the doorway, leaning in close as the boy let out a frightened yelp of protest.

“We’re in *your* bloody apartment, you daft little pillock. And do shut up, Andrew. I’m already on the verge of hurting you for the simple satisfaction of it. Not that you haven’t given me more than sufficient reason to do so anyway. If you’ve an ounce of intelligence, boy, you’ll keep silent and listen,” Giles advised Andrew, his calm, almost pleasant tone in direct contrast to the violence of his actions.

Andrew nodded slowly, his heart pounding with fear. He knew that Giles had a dark, dangerous past and was fully capable of violence if angered enough; and, at the moment, he seemed quite angry enough. They were alone in Andrew’s little apartment, and no one would hear him if he called out for help -- not that anyone would have believed him over Giles, anyway.

He was pretty much screwed.

“As I said before,” Giles instructed quietly, calmly, still holding the young man up against the wall, smiling coolly into his wide, terrified eyes. “You will make no further attempt to contact Buffy, or anyone else for that matter, on this subject. If you do, if she’s in any way drawn back into this ugly matter, I’ll hold you personally responsible, Andrew, and I swear to you that you will be unbelievably sorry that you defied me. Do you understand?”

Andrew nodded again, his breath coming fast and shallow as he struggled to maintain control of his rising fears.

“For that matter,” Giles went on, “if my efforts to rectify the consequences of your foolish interference in any way fail, again, I will hold you responsible, and you will experience a side of my personality which I‘d just as soon not bring forth again. And I assure you, my boy, that is not something that you wish to happen.”

Without waiting for a response, Giles abruptly released him with a slight shove back into the wall, backing off a step or two as he added, “And I’m quite sure that it’s not necessary even to say so, but I’m sure you know enough to keep this conversation…confidential, yes?”

Andrew nodded, swallowing hard as he replied in a whisper, “Y-yes, Sir.”

As Giles simply walked away, leaving him alone in his apartment, Andrew hoped against hope that Buffy would manage to get to Spike before Xander got to her, because he was afraid that he had used up the last of his courage when it came to defying Mr. Giles, especially in light of the terrifying conversation they had just had.

*Come on, Buffy,* he thought desperately. *You’re his last hope!*

************************************

“His injuries are healing up quite nicely, Mr. Rayne. In fact I’d say he’s fully functional at this point, at least as far as your purposes are concerned.”

Spike suppressed a shudder at the dark implications of the words spoken by the doctor who had just finished examining him. He tried not to think about what “purposes” he was referring to, but knew that sooner or later, there would be no avoiding the truth of what was happening to him.

Apparently, sooner.

He had been subjected to a rather invasive medical examination, forced to disrobe in front of both the doctor and Ethan Rayne, who simply observed impassively while the doctor inspected the remaining signs of Spike’s previous injuries with no trace of compassion or sympathy.

For once, Spike found that he would have preferred normal, more slowly paced human healing to his supernatural healing powers, which only served to bring his miserable fate that much closer to him, that much sooner.

Less than twenty-four hours away, in fact.

As the doctor left the room, Spike made no move to put his clothes back on until Rayne instructed him to do so. His conditioning during his previous time of slavery had shredded any sense of pride or dignity he might have once had, leaving him painfully accustomed to the idea of others’ inspecting and studying him like some sort of prized, valuable -- but completely expendable -- commodity.

“Tomorrow,” Rayne informed Spike quietly with a cool, satisfied smile. “Tomorrow, you will begin your service here. As for today…enjoy it. It’s the last free time you’re likely to have for a while.” His smile turned cruel as he added slyly, “I’ve already amassed quite the client list for you, Spike. There’s a waiting list months long by this point.” He fell silent as he rose and headed for the door, stopping in the doorway to add with a smirk, “Enjoy your evening.”

Spike shuddered at the unwelcome thoughts and images that filled his mind with Rayne’s words. A sense of overwhelming despair came over him, though a single thought, a single word, echoed through his mind in a weak but clear attempt to fight it back.

*Buffy…*

She was here.

And Spike did not know quite what to make of that startling knowledge.

She had been quite obviously stunned to see him in the woods the night before, so he was clearly not in any way a part of her reason for being here. Had she been sent by the Council to put a stop to Ethan Rayne’s illegal activities? And if so, what would that mean for him, exactly? What did the new Slayers and Watchers intend to do with Rayne’s non-human victims?

By now, Buffy surely had to be aware of the low status to which he had been reduced. Melinda had been with her, and if Buffy had not known before last night about Siron and all that had happened to Spike at his hands, she had to know by now. Spike’s face flushed with humiliation at the thought of Buffy’s learning of the horrific degradation through which he had been, but he tried not to think about it as he put his clothes back on and headed out of the examination room where he had been left…alone.

Unguarded.

His thoughts began to take a new, dangerous turn as he wondered again what Buffy was here to do, and when she intended to do it.

His original hope to preserve, if only in her memory, his status as sacrificing hero had faded away with the painful knowledge that, by now, she already knew of his slavery. Yes, he had panicked the night before, unwilling to face her as his past was revealed; but now, what reason was there to hide?

What good would it possibly do?

If Buffy and the other Slayers intended to raid the compound, it would in no way benefit him to be found hiding inside it. All that would serve to do would be to prove him an even greater weakling and coward than Buffy had to already think him.

Perhaps it was too late to spare his last shred of pride and dignity.

But maybe…just maybe…it was not too late to help his Slayer one more time.

Spike’s mental debate continued throughout the afternoon as he wrestled with the question of how to handle his secret knowledge of the Slayer’s presence on Rayne’s property. He vacillated between simply staying put and allowing Buffy to do what she was so very good at on her own, and doing what he could to reach out to her, to help her, to make her battle easier in any way he could…

…just as he had always done.

Throughout the afternoon, Spike remained undecided.

But when sunset came, he found himself slipping out the front door of the compound into the gathering darkness…in search of the Slayer he believed already lost to him.

Spike made his way swiftly through the gathering darkness, glancing furtively behind him every now and then to see if he was being followed by Rayne or his men. Fortunately, no one seemed to have observed his exit of the building…or perhaps it was simply that no one really cared.

Where could he go, after all?

Despite the fact that he was not being pursued, Spike found his hesitant footsteps slowing as he neared the spot where he had last seen Buffy and found that, suddenly, he was not quite sure that he wanted to find her, after all. He imagined, with some longing, coming across her just a few yards ahead, her turning to face him…the look on her face of mingled pity and disgust as she read in every aspect of his expression, his demeanor, how thoroughly broken and degraded he had become.

His halting footsteps stumbled to a stop at the side of the lake, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

*Can’t do it…can’t let her see me like this…not again…*

With tears in his eyes, Spike turned and gazed out over the water, his arms folded over his chest as he wondered once more how far out across the water Rayne’s magical barrier lay. Perhaps…perhaps Rayne simply relied on the water itself as a barrier; perhaps there *was* no magic wall on that side of Rayne’s property.

Spike considered simply swimming the distance, seeing how far he could go before the invisible wall stopped him; but, the thought of getting halfway across the lake only to find that he could go no further made him feel sick to his stomach. His despairing heart could not find the strength to make yet another attempt that was surely doomed to failure.

There was no escape for him.

This was all that was left to his existence.

****************************************

Buffy felt him the moment that he came near.

She glanced anxiously in the direction of the sleeping girls behind her as she rose smoothly and silently to her feet. She had volunteered to keep watch while the others slept the daylight hours away, waiting for nightfall when they could move freely without being detected, mostly because the idea of actual sleep had seemed like an impossibility to her, given her brief, shocking reunion with Spike.

Still, as the hours had worn on in silent solitude, Buffy had found the quiet and the peaceful sounds of the woods soothing enough to lull her, until she found her eyelids drooping and her head nodding wearily.

Until she sensed the presence of a vampire nearby…and not just any vampire.

*Her* vampire.

She had passed the point of mentally challenging her heart’s choice of terminology when it came to Spike. She had thought that she had lost him long ago; but, regardless, her heart and mind and every part of her still thought of him as unequivocally *hers*. She had never appreciated him before, she knew now, and had sworn over and over in her heart that, if he should ever by some miracle return to her, she would do her best to make amends for the hurt she had caused him.

And now…he was here.

And she was terrified.

Fear warred with hope and longing as she moved silently through the woods in the direction that her Slayer sense was pulling her…and found herself standing at the edge of a clearing as the lake and the vampire standing beside it came into her view.

Spike had always seemed larger than his rather slight stature and frame, had always had a boldness and a bravado -- a strength of spirit -- that had more than compensated for any physical advantage that he might have lacked. Now, in the waning dusk, standing there with his shoulders slumped and his arms crossed tightly across his chest, Buffy thought that she had never seen him look so small…so vulnerable.

In an instant, both the lake and the vampire were obscured from her sight, their images impossibly blurred with the onset of her tears.

***************************************

It was the soft sound of her ragged breaths that first drew Spike’s attention from his thoughts, making him aware of her presence only a few short yards away from him now. He looked up bleakly from the water to meet her anguished gaze and saw the wide-eyed sorrow and sympathy in her emerald eyes, glistening with fresh tears.

He found that he could not hold her gaze, could not face the painful understanding he saw there.

“You know,” he acknowledged in a low, rasping whisper, his eyes downcast again as he swallowed back a sob that rose in his own throat.

Buffy felt her throat constricting painfully as the tears in her eyes were freed to flow down her face by the utter despair, the heartbroken sound in Spike’s voice. She edged nearer to him, afraid to move too quickly lest she startle him and cause him to flee again and yet desperate to touch him, to put her arms around him and hold him and reassure him that he was safe now; she was not going to let anything else happen to him.

“Spike,” she whispered hoarsely, conquering her nerves enough to awkwardly close the distance between them, reaching out to put her arms around him. “It’s okay. Yes, I…I know. Melinda told me…but…but it doesn’t matter. I just…”

“It doesn’t *matter*?” Spike echoed incredulously, jerking backward away from her attempted embrace, his wide eyes staring at her in disbelief.

“That’s not what I meant.” Buffy shook her head emphatically, alarmed at the way he had apparently taken her comment, trying again to get close to him as he shied slightly back away from her. “Spike, of course it matters…but…but it doesn’t make a difference to me…to the way I *feel* about…”

“Of course it matters,” Spike agreed, nodding as he cut her off, his voice trembling with emotion, low and thick with repressed tears, though his eyes were strangely dry. “Of course it matters, Buffy. Everything’s…everything’s changed…I’m not even…I’m not the same…nothing can ever be the same…”

“Spike.”

Buffy’s soft, compassionate voice stopped his anxious rambling as she took a cautious step toward him again, her hands extended in front of her in a gesture that was meant to be very obviously non-threatening. Spike instinctively leaned backward away from her, but his feet remained planted where they were. He made no attempt to flee, just stood there facing her awkwardly, his arms crossed defensively over his chest, his eyes focused downward.

Slowly, carefully, Buffy reached out a hand to softly touch his arm. The moment her warm skin brushed his cool, trembling arm, Spike flinched, but he did not pull away. The tension in his body was evident in every aspect of his posture, and Buffy was sure that at any moment he was going to jerk away from her and run the other way.

“Melinda told me what happened to you, Spike, and…and I can’t begin to imagine what could have happened to…to bring you here. And, it *does* matter, a lot! I’m telling you, Spike, if that Siron guy wasn’t already torn to pieces…”

Spike flinched visibly, and Buffy quickly checked her dangerously rising voice, growing steadily louder and more out of control with her anger and anxiety, before falling silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, softer.

“…I wish that I could kill him myself for what he did to you, Spike. It matters. What I meant was…it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change…how I feel about you. I…I meant what I said, Spike. I know…it was too late. I know you didn’t believe me. But I meant it…down in the Hellmouth. I love you. And nothing that you’ve been through…nothing that’s happened to you…is ever going to change that.”

Spike was quiet for a moment as Buffy’s nervously rambling speech came to a close, his thin frame still tense and unyielding as her arms slid around him…not pulling away, but not exactly responsive, either. He took in her words, fighting for control of his own emotions, before winning the battle and replying in a carefully controlled voice with just the slightest hint of a tremor.

“Easy enough to say, love. But…but not so easy when you come face to face with the ugly truth of it…”

“No, Spike, I mean it!” Buffy insisted. “I don’t care what’s…”

“I’m going to be sold tomorrow.”

Buffy’s words cut off abruptly, and she stared at him, blinking in startled dismay as her mind processed what he had said.

“They say…I’m healed up enough. From…from Siron.” Spike winced slightly at the demon’s name again, despite the fact that he had been the one to speak it. “They say…tomorrow…” He raised his eyes to hers with an effort, blazing with a defensive defiance as he concluded, “I’ll start my work as one of Rayne’s whores. I’ll have my first customer.”

Buffy shook her head in instinctive denial, her heart refusing to accept that Spike could be subjected to such a fate. “No…it won’t happen…”

Spike shrugged in feigned indifference, his eyes averted again as he continued as if she had not spoken, “It’s a wonder they’ve given me this long. Demons’ve gotta earn their bloody keep around here. Got a waiting list a mile long from what I’m told…”

“Spike…no…” Buffy objected, distressed by the horrible facts he was stating so casually. “No…we’ll get you out…”

The vampire’s voice was harsh and bitter as he continued, “Lotta customers looking forward to gettin’ their piece of the legendary William the Bloody, I s’pose. Guess it’s not so surprising, is it? Always was a special talent of mine…”

“Spike, stop it!” Buffy cried out, tears streaming from her eyes as her shoulders shook with sobs, and she suppressed the urge she felt to shake *him*, too, if only to stop his horrible diatribe. “Spike, why are you doing this? Why are you talking about it like it’s…like it’s…*okay*? Like it’s normal? Because it’s…”

“Because this is my life now, Buffy!” Spike snapped. “This is what I am now…and you have to see that. You can’t do anything about it…can’t take me out of here…so…”

“Yes, I can!” Buffy argued desperately, her hands tightening on his arms as she clung to him, unwilling to lose him again. “I’m going to take you out of here right now, Spike! They’re not going to hurt you anymore…”

“No,” Spike stated in a voice that was suddenly soft, sad. “You can’t. There’s a…a magic barrier.” He held up his wrist between them, his eyes averted in shame as he explained, “Linked to this bloody bracelet. I can’t leave, Buffy. Can’t get out as long as this is on…and can’t get it off, either.”

Buffy shook her head, a troubled frown creasing her brow with that disheartening revelation. “But…but there has to be a way. We might not have found it yet, but there *has* to be a way!”

Spike shook his head in a response of despair, pulling slightly away from her, suddenly just wanting to escape. He couldn’t stand the pain, the dismay in her voice, all out of concern for a man who, as far as he was concerned, no longer existed.

“There isn’t,” he stated simply, quietly.

Buffy was quiet for a moment, her jaw setting with anger, her eyes narrowing with determination.

“There is,” she countered softly, though there was an underlying steel to her quiet words. “And I swear to you, Spike, I’m going to find it! I’m going to get you out of here!”

Spike did not respond, certain that she was wrong, but unwilling to further hurt her by arguing with the hope to which she was clinging so desperately.

“I am going to find a way to break through his magic…or to get that bracelet off, or…or something…and I promise you, Spike, you are going to get out of here, and you are going to come home. With me. I swear to you, Ethan Rayne is going down for this! I am going to take him down so hard, and *no one* is going to touch you again, do you hear me?”

Spike was quiet as he slowly, deliberately pulled himself free from her embrace, crossing his arms over his chest again in a defensive attempt to put a bit of distance between them, a bitter smile rising to his lips as he replied, “How soon you figuring on finding this way, love? Because first thing in the morning…he’s set on proving that wrong.”

Buffy was quiet for a moment before declaring in a voice of icy, protective rage, “If anyone *touches* you before I manage to get you out of here…Ethan Rayne is going to pay for it. Dearly. I am going to make him suffer every bit as horribly as you have, Spike. I promise you. This is not going to go unpunished.”

Spike was silent, a part of him glorying in the righteous fury he heard in his Slayer’s voice, so familiar and every bit as awe-inspiring as ever…and a part of him sinking further into desolation with the firm conviction that this was one fight she could not win.

All he could bring himself to say was, “I hope you’re right, love.”

Buffy was quiet, a thoughtful frown on her face, before she raised troubled eyes to his again and asked softly, “Spike? How did you…I mean…how did you come to be here? Melinda said…Melinda said she left you with Andrew and Giles…and Andrew said something about…a mission? Deep undercover? Is…is that what happened? Did Giles send you hear to help bring down the slave ring, and…and something went wrong? Is that what happened?”

Spike heard the underlying note of uncertainty in her voice, recognized the doubt to which she was struggling not to give any credence, and his heart sank further under the weight of the knowledge that Buffy’s heart was divided in this matter. A part of her was already beginning to suspect her Watcher’s involvement in what had happened to him…but was steadfastly attempting to deny it.

He raised his eyes to hers again, his lips parted to bitterly shatter her denial…but the desperate hope in those knowing green eyes stopped him. Her heart had been broken so many times, devastated by the betrayals of men that she had trusted.

Could he really bring himself to break her heart again?

“That’s it, Buffy,” he nodded, looking away again. “It was…a mission. A mission gone wrong.”

Her frown deepened, troubled by his tone, and she opened her mouth to question his words…but before she could speak, he had turned away from her.

“I…I’ve gotta go, love. They’ll come looking before long. Can’t let them…find you here…”

Spike’s halting voice spoke of tears he was trying to conceal though Buffy could not see his face, and she was well aware that his words were an excuse for his departure, his escape from this conversation that had become too much for him. As Spike started to walk slowly away from her, Buffy debated for a moment in her heart, longing to go after him, to take him back into her arms and hold the hurt away…yet wanting to for once in their long, confusing relationship, respect his right to his own space, his own dignity.

In the end, she let him go, returning to the woods where the girls slept to wake them.

They had much to do…and not a lot of time in which to do it.

“Okay. Wake up! Come on, girls, up and at ‘em! Wake up!”

Buffy’s loud order was met with muffled groans of protest as the young Slayers at her command mostly just rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Melinda yawned, but sat up in her sleeping bag, her dark eyes at once alert as they focused on the senior Slayer, immediately aware that something important had happened since she had fallen asleep.

“What is it, Buffy?” she asked in a hoarse, sleepy voice as she rose from the ground and immediately began rolling up her sleeping bag. “What’s happened?”

“Get up,” Buffy commanded, yanking the woolen blanket off one of the girls, not answering Melinda's question. “Don’t make me make a trip down to the lake to wake you up.”

“Okay, okay,” Kari grumbled, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

“What’s going on? Did they find us?” Sarah, the youngest of them all, stared up at Buffy through wide, fearful eyes.

“No,” Buffy replied, her voice hard, her jaw set with determination. “But we’re going to find them.”

“Now?” Larissa asked incredulously, just the slightest hint of a teenaged whine to her voice. “But it’s the middle of the night…”

“We strike when they least expect it,” Buffy declared, cutting off the girl’s weak protest without a glance. “We strike before they have a chance to prepare for it. We take Ethan Rayne’s operation down *tonight*.”

“But…”

“Do *not* argue with me,” Buffy snapped, whirling around to face a fourth young Slayer whose name she could not remember, her eyes narrowed in her best menacing General Buffy expression. “Who’s in charge here?”

It took a moment as the girl glared defiantly back at her, attempting to muster up the nerve to talk back…but eventually…it worked as well as it always had. The girl stepped backward, averting her gaze with a sigh as they all waited for further explanation from Buffy…if she felt inclined to give any, that was.

“You are.”

“Right. And I say that we are not wasting any more time lying around while Ethan Rayne is in there doing God knows what to…” Buffy bit off her angry words just an instant short of losing control of her emotions, taking a moment to steady herself before she went on, her voice lower and barely controlled, “We are not wasting any more time. Is that clear?”

No one dared offer a word of contradiction.

Buffy’s voice was quiet but firm when she continued, “Good. Everybody, get your packs rolled up, get your weapons out and ready, and be right back here in five minutes.” As she spoke, she pointed down at the ground at her feet before turning away from the other girls and moving toward her own abandoned pack a few feet away from where she had sat up, keeping watch over the others while they slept.

Her eyes welled with tears as she thought again of Spike and how utterly lost and broken he had seemed when she had seen him. Anger rose up within her as she thought of what torment, what psychological and physical abuse he must have endured to bring him to such a place. Something dark and primal within her cried out in protest, struggling to break free and wreak bloody, agonizing vengeance against those who had harmed her vampire.

*Soon,* she soothed her outraged warrior’s heart, her lips pressed together in a tight line as she tucked a vicious battle dagger into the waistband of her jeans and reached back into her pack. *Soon…I’ll have you out of here, Spike...I promise…*

She returned to the group of girls, carrying three shimmering silver orbs in her hands. The attention of everyone was riveted on her and the strange items she held as she stopped in front of them, looking at each of them in turn, studying their expressions and trying to gauge their readiness for the task at hand as well as their commitment.

“We’re going to make two teams,” she declared without preamble. “Melinda, you’ll lead the second one. The first thing we’re going to do is to take down Rayne’s support system…his guards, anyone who might in any way connect him with the outside world. Not that I think he’s going to have much of that; this place is pretty isolated. But we have to be sure.”

She bounced one of the balls idly in her hand, her voice calm and even as she went on, “There’s not going to be anyone out here that doesn’t know about Rayne’s business or isn’t in some way connected with him. While we’re scouting, these are *my* rules of engagement. If it’s a demon…kill it. If it’s human…or vampire…bring it back to camp *alive* and unharmed if possible…”

Larissa frowned, clearly bothered by those words, opening her mouth in protest. “But, if it’s a vampire…”

“I said no arguments!” Buffy snapped, her voice instantly hardening. “I have my reasons, all right? If it looks human, you take it alive. Until this mission is completed, anyone who stakes a vamp without checking with me first is going to find out firsthand what it felt like for hundreds of demons, a hellgod, and the First Evil itself when I wiped the floor with their asses. Is that clear?”

Melinda was quiet, staring at the ground, as she nodded slowly. “Clear,” she replied, her tone making it obvious that she intended to set the example for the others.

Though Larissa was stubbornly the last to do so, they all echoed Melinda’s response, subdued and respectful to the one among them who was the first of them all, whose power and skill was renowned throughout the world at this point.

“Good. Melinda, you and your group will take one side of the compound. My group will take the other. Have your weapons ready in case you're attacked. And be careful; Rayne is a very dangerous man. He may not look like much when and if you actually see him, but he’s extremely powerful. He uses magic…and that makes him a very unpredictable threat.”

Buffy looked around with solemn eyes at the sobered, wide-eyed faces of the girls around her and felt herself softening a bit toward them.

She reminded herself that it was not their fault that Spike was here.

*Whose fault *is* it?* she wondered. *Who did this?*

“I know you’re scared,” she continued to address the girls, her tone more gentle and understanding now. “Of course you are. If you weren’t, you’d be stupid. And you’re not. But you can do this. You’re Slayers, every one of you. Some of you have been tested before and know the heat of battle. For some of you…*this* is your first test. But if you’ll listen to me and follow my orders, you’ll do just fine.”

The irony of her words had just occurred to her when she caught the eye of Kari, who was giving her a raised eyebrow, her dark eyes sparkling with mirth in the moonlight. Her mind went back to their conversation on the plane.

“I’ve heard the stories about you,” Kari had said.

Buffy had to admit, she had a point. She was a rather surprising choice to tell anyone about the benefits of obedience to orders and authority.

Before the girl could say a word, Buffy pointed a finger at her and muttered good-naturedly, “Shut up.”

Though they had not dared to show it, most of the girls had been thinking exactly what Kari had, and Buffy’s petulant tone broke the tension in the air as they all let out a soft laugh. Buffy breathed out a sigh, her shoulders relaxing as she shook her head at her own overly commanding manner. As her own silent laughter faded, her eyes focused on the orbs in her hand, and her expression became serious again, her thoughts returning to the mission at hand and the vital part in it that these magical tools would play.

*Thanks, Will…*

“There’s one other reason I know you’ll all be just fine,” she continued, her no-nonsense tone returning, though her eyes were dancing with satisfaction as she tossed one of the glowing globes to Melinda, who caught it easily, giving it a single brief glance before refocusing her attention on Buffy.

“These are a gift from a friend of mine. They’ll hide us from any form of magical detection Rayne might have in place. We’ll leave one here at the camp site at all times to keep our stuff from being found. One will go with each group to keep him from knowing anyone is here.”

She smiled at the renewed courage she saw on the faces of the girls at this added advantage before nodding decisively and declaring, “All right. That’s it. Let’s get a move on. I want us to be on our way home before morning.”

*With Spike,* she added to herself. *I'm going to save you, Spike. And once you're safe...the person responsible for this is going to pay.*

****************************************

*Why doesn’t that blasted telephone bloody well ring?*

The elder Watcher paced frenetically back and forth across his office floor, intermittently glaring daggers at the frustratingly silent device on his desk. It had been over a day since he had spoken with Xander and instructed him to tell Buffy the “mission” in Ireland was all a hoax. Xander had assured him that he would pass the message along and have Buffy return to Scotland at once.

Over twenty-four hours later…Giles had still heard nothing.

“I told Xander to have her call me the minute she got back,” he muttered irritably under his breath as he paced the floor. “Of course, it *is* Buffy I’m talking about…and she’s not known for her punctuality or reliability. Perhaps she simply forgot to call…”

*Or perhaps…she found *him*…*

That was a thought that sent a shudder down Giles’ spine, at this point for more than one reason. He knew that he was doing the best thing for his Slayer in keeping her away from the love-struck vampire who would only continue to muck up her life as long as he was allowed to do so. He had simply done the most logical thing and ensured that he would *not* be allowed to do so.

And if the results for Spike were slightly less pleasant than one would think befitted a hero who had saved the world once and helped to save it several other times, well…that was a simple enough answer.

Spike was *not* a hero. He was a vampire…and nothing he could do would ever change that. In the long run…Spike was expendable.

Buffy’s future was not.

With an impatient sigh, Giles decided that he could not wait any longer. He picked up the phone and hurriedly dialed Buffy’s personal line in Scotland. He felt a momentary relief when it was picked up after only two rings…which died as soon as he heard the familiar male voice on the other line.

“Buffy’s phone, what’s up?”

“Xander?”

“G-Man! How’s it going?”

“Is Buffy there, Xander?” the Watcher asked impatiently, too anxious to even bother to correct Xander’s insistence on calling him that despicably annoying nickname.

“Not yet,” the young man replied, and Giles felt his heart sink. “She sounded really distracted when I talked to her. I told her what you said, but she just said she’d have to call me back and hung up really quick. When I tried to call her back, she didn’t pick up. She hasn’t picked up since.” Xander was quiet for a moment, and when Giles did not say anything either, he continued, alarm in his voice, “You don’t think she’s hurt, do you? Like, maybe something’s wrong and that’s why she’s not...?"

“I’m really not sure, Xander, but I would have thought that she would have returned by now…or at least called. It *is* rather disconcerting…”

******************************

Outside Giles’ office, Andrew stood near the door, listening anxiously to the side of the conversation that he could hear, which was more than enough to tell him that Buffy had not yet returned to Scotland.

He did not know whether to be relieved…or terrified.

If Buffy had not yet returned, then that meant that she had probably found Spike before Xander had called her; and if she had found Spike, then surely she knew the truth by now, about how Giles had betrayed him into Ethan Rayne’s hands and lied to everyone about the whole sordid arrangement.

In which case, Andrew himself was as good as dead.

Or perhaps, Buffy was simply delayed in her return or had forgotten to call as Giles had suggested. It was not exactly unusual for Buffy to forget to make a call, after all. Perhaps she had never come into contact with Spike at all and was already on a plane headed back to her own personal headquarters.

In which case, Spike was better off dead.

Andrew leaned in closer to the door, biting his lower lip anxiously as he listened closely to hear the rest of the Watcher’s conversation with Xander, hoping against hope that things would turn out all right…because at this point, that was all that he knew to hope for.

*************************************

“Well, what should we do? Should we send somebody after her? And, I mean…well…if it’s trouble that *Buffy* can’t handle…who should we send?” Xander reluctantly asked, his tone worried and doubtful.

“Try not to worry, Xander,” the Watcher advised in a soothing voice of calm authority, though his heart was pounding with apprehension and his mind was racing in an attempt to come up with a solution, though he wasn’t quite sure how far the problem had gone yet. “I’m going to try to reach Buffy myself. Perhaps she’ll respond to my call where she did not to yours.”

“Gee, thanks…”

“I have to go, Xander. I’ll speak with you later, as soon as I can.”

“Why does everybody keep...?"

Giles never heard the rest of whatever it was that Xander was about to say because he hung up the phone before the boy could finish. His fingers trembled as he fumbled for the number of Buffy’s cell phone in his phonebook and finally found the correct entry.

He dialed the number and drew in a deep, shaky breath, mentally preparing his story as he waited for his Slayer to answer her phone.

The guard post at the rear of Ethan Rayne’s slave compound was quiet as usual. The single guard assigned to it, a large and somewhat slow Greechnok demon named Rakor, paced idly back and forth in front of the back exit to the building, not sure whether to feel grateful that his job was so easy, or irritated that it was so boring. He carried a heavy broadsword in his hand…but he bore a magical binding bracelet on his wrist, just like every other demon in Rayne’s possession.

He supposed, really, that he should be grateful to have such a position at all instead of being used as a pleasure slave like most of the other demons on which Rayne had managed to get his hands.

Not that there was really that much call for Greechnok demons as pleasure slaves.

Perhaps it was the random spiny growths that covered their bodies that served as such a turn off to most of Rayne’s customers. Or, perhaps it was the blue slime that oozed from those spiny growths.

Rakor was pondering that question when it became his final thought. A wooden arrow flew threw the air, well-aimed and hitting its mark directly between his eyes, piercing through bone and cartilage into the demon’s brain.

He died instantly and without a sound.

****************************************

Michael Gordan stood guard a few hundred yards away and around the corner on the eastern side of the compound, near an exit which was usually very quiet this time of the night. It was kept locked from the outside; and, since no one ever came near Rayne’s property, Michael usually had a reasonably quiet job.

Too quiet.

In fact, some nights, like tonight, he would deliberately leave the door unlocked, hoping for some hapless demon slave to make an attempt at escape, if only to give him something to do. Besides, he hated demons with a passion, and was always looking for a reason to lay into one of the disgusting whores Rayne kept at his command.

He was well paid by the British sorcerer, but Michael would likely have done the job without as much pay just for the access it gave him to the hated creatures he so loved to hunt down and punish for their very existence. Rayne’s slaves were generally too well-cowed to say anything about Michael’s frequent abuses…not that Rayne would have cared much if they had.

As long as no permanent damage was done, he usually didn’t care much about the welfare of his property.

An unfamiliar noise, a sound out of place, drew Michael’s attention from his thoughts, and he turned eagerly toward the door, his hand going swiftly to the club he wore at his side. His eager expression turned to a puzzled, suspicious frown when he saw the large rock lying beside the door where it had apparently fallen.

But…who had thrown it?

Alarmed, Michael spun around, realizing too late that the threat was coming from behind him rather than from inside the building. Before he could even complete his turn, a heavy blow to the back of his head sent him collapsing silently to the ground.

Without a word, Melinda directed two of the young Slayers with her to carry the man’s unconscious form back to camp while she and the others continued around the side of the building.

**************************************

Near the front entrance to the building, Melinda and the others remaining with her saw what appeared to be a young man, slim but muscular, with dark hair, apparently standing guard, though he held no weapon in his hand.

As soon as they drew near enough, their supernatural senses told them why.

He was a vampire; he already had his weapon.

Melinda exchanged a glance with Larissa, who nodded with a grim smile, knowing exactly what she was going to do and how to go along with it; they had discussed possible methods to use before leaving the campsite.

Melinda motioned with her hand for the others to stay put and then headed quietly out across the edge of the trees that surrounded the building, where she knew the vampire would be sure to notice her. Sure enough, he looked up sharply toward the spot where she hid, his body tensing in preparation to strike.

She slipped subtlety closer to where he stood, feigning ignorance of his presence near the door, taking care not to even glance in his direction. The vampire began to creep cautiously toward her, and Melinda expertly led him away from the door into the trees…away from any source of help that might be available to him.

She allowed the vampire to grow gradually closer and closer to her until, finally, she spun around with a frightened gasp, her eyes wide as she stared at the monster visage before her.

The vampire grinned at her. “What are you doing out in the woods all alone, little…”

His voice trailed off abruptly as he closed the distance between them, his golden eyes widening in stunned realization as his own senses revealed to him -- too late -- the danger that she posed.

“Slayer!” he hissed, taking a quick backward step away from her…and directly into Larissa.

He spun around, glancing wildly between the two girls, rising panic in his expression.

Larissa moved forward and roughly gripped his arm, Melinda swiftly closing in on the other side, a stake in her hand, which she pressed firmly against the vampire’s chest, giving him a wide, false smile.

“Believe it or not, we really don’t want to stake you,” she informed him matter-of-factly.

“Speak for yourself,” Larissa muttered.

Melinda shrugged as she clarified with a nod, “*She* wants to stake you. But, we’d really rather not if we can help it. So…are you going to come along quietly like a good little vampire? Or, are we going to have to do this the hard way?”

********************************

The guard on the west side of the building was completely unaware of the dramas taking place all around him, simply walking casually back and forth beneath the shelter of the overhanging branches that brushed against the west wall, enjoying the usual peace and quiet of the evening.

Which was suddenly shattered by a shrill, tinny noise that sounded almost like…

…a cell phone?

Frowning as he glanced around for the source of the sound, which seemed unnervingly close, the demon jumped backward a step when something suddenly dropped to the ground in front of him. He slowly stepped forward again, staring in surprise at the tiny glowing object, which was indeed a cell phone.

Shaking his head, he muttered to himself, “How in the…?”

He never finished the thought, let alone the voicing of it. Two powerful legs suddenly fell around his neck, wrapping tightly around his throat and twisting sharply. His neck broken, he fell to the ground, dead instantly.

As his body slumped to the ground, the Slayer dropped lithely to the ground next to it from the tree where she had hidden, crouching down to retrieve her ringing cell phone.

Her eyes widened when she saw who was calling, and she wondered at the sick, uneasy feeling she felt in the pit of her stomach.

*Why should Giles calling make me nervous?* she wondered uncertainly, hesitating just an instant before answering the call.

“Hello?” she said in a hushed voice, glancing cautiously around for any sign of anyone who might overhear her conversation.

“Buffy?” Her Watcher’s voice sounded intensely relieved as he added, “Oh, thank goodness! I’ve been unbelievably worried, my dear. Are you quite all right?”

Buffy was quiet for a moment, mentally debating as to the best way to handle this encounter. Her instincts were telling her to exercise caution, though her heart saw no reason to hide anything from the man who was like a father to her. Still…Spike’s reaction when she had asked about Giles’ part in the situation echoed painfully in her mind, and she knew enough to know that there was at least something she did *not* know.

And until she knew what that something was, caution was the order of the day, she decided.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “I’m sorry I haven’t called, Giles. I just…I’ve been really busy here…”

“Xander was expecting you home in Scotland already, Buffy,” Giles reminded her, a strangely cool note to his voice. “I was hoping to hear that you were already on your way there.”

Buffy felt something within her heart go cold at his words, and the strange tone with which he spoke them. Xander had told her that Andrew had made up the entire story -- which she knew for a fact to be false, now that she had found Spike.

What was still unclear was Giles’ role in the whole thing.

Why was it so important to him for her to go home?

Surely he hadn’t *known* that Spike was here, a prisoner, about to be sold as a sex slave, and still attempted to hide that knowledge from her? Surely he hadn’t…had anything to *do* with…?

*Maybe…maybe Xander just got the message confused…there has to be some mistake…*

Even as she desperately clung to that hope, the cold, numb sensation of dread that had begun in the pit of her stomach began to slowly spread throughout the Slayer’s body and mind.

“Giles…I’m a little confused here. What was Andrew talking about, about the top secret mission you were on? And, coming to Ireland and everything? What’s up with that? I mean…Xander said that there’s nothing here…but…”

“There isn’t, Buffy,” Giles assured her calmly. “Andrew…honestly, my dear, I don’t know what got into the boy. He’s spent too much time making up stories, I’m afraid. It seems perhaps he’s beginning to have trouble differentiating reality from fiction. At any rate, it was all a hoax, and you need only turn around and return to your duties in Scotland as soon as possible. I apologize for allowing him to find your number and waste your time, Buffy. I thought it was secure.”

“Oh,” Buffy replied flatly. “Okay. I -- I understand. I mean…if he was determined to get a hold of me for…for some reason…it’s okay, Giles. I don’t really mind…”

Her mouth was automatically producing words that seemed appropriate to the conversation, but her mind was racing steadily toward panic, struggling to find an explanation other than the one that was swiftly becoming apparent.

*Giles couldn’t have known. He wouldn’t have done that to Spike. Maybe he doesn’t even know he’s here…but…then how did *Andrew* know? How did Spike even get here in the first place, when Giles was the last one to see him after rescuing him from Siron? Unless…unless *Giles*…*

She shook her head, drawing herself out of her thoughts with an effort as she tried to focus on what Giles was saying…more apologies for Andrew’s thoughtless, foolish invasion of her privacy, as well as the waste of her time and the Council’s money in sending her all the way to Ireland for no apparent reason…

“Giles,” she cut him off abruptly, her voice trembling slightly as she struggled to conceal her own uncertainty. “Giles, are you sure…I mean…is there any reason at all why he might have sent me here? Is there anything…anything you’re not telling me for some reason? I mean…maybe there’s something you’re…protecting me from?”

“Buffy, I assure you, there’s nothing for you there in Ireland. It’s all the imaginations of that foolish boy’s mind, I assure you. You need only book the nearest ticket back to Scotland as soon as you can,” Giles replied without hesitation.

“Okay,” Buffy replied, forcing the word out with an effort though she felt completely numb, barely able to react at all, as her breaking heart struggled to process what was happening…what her emotions screamed at her *couldn’t* be happening. “I’ll…I’ll be home as soon as I can. I promise.”

“Very good, Buffy,” Giles replied, relief evident in his voice. “I…I’ll be making a trip there to see you soon. I…I miss you, Buffy.”

“I miss you, too,” Buffy replied, though there was an underlying meaning to her words that the Watcher could not have recognized.

*Giles…God, Giles, what happened to you? Where did you go?*

When Buffy hung up the phone, she simply stood there for a moment in numb silence, staring into space through wide, stricken eyes as the cell phone slipped unheeded from her fingers to the ground at her feet.

***********************************

Giles hung up the phone, staring grimly down at his desk as he slowly set it down, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out with a weary sigh of resignation. His mouth set in a grim line, his eyes narrowing as he murmured to himself,

“Bloody hell. She knows.”

“I don’t care *how* tired you are, we can’t stop until this job is done!”

Buffy deliberately ignored the various expressions of resentment and anger and disappointment on the faces of the young Slayers surrounding her, determined to hold her ground. They couldn’t afford to waste a moment…not until Spike was safe. The girls did not understand her sense of urgency about this particular mission…but they didn’t have to understand, didn’t have to like it.

They just had to *do* it.

One of the Slayers in Melinda’s group protested with a typical teenage whine, “But Buffy…it’s almost sunrise! We won’t be able to operate under cover of darkness for much longer, and besides…we’re all exhausted…”

“I’m exhausted, too, but that doesn’t matter. When you’re a Slayer, sometimes you have to just suck it up and deal with it. This is one of those times. We can’t stop until Ethan Rayne has been stopped.”

“But some of us have been injured, Buffy. And we’ve already taken out all the security around the complex,” a younger Slayer pointed out hesitantly. “Don’t you think that’s enough for one night?”

“No, it’s absolutely not!” Buffy snapped. “That’s just more reason for us to finish this while we have the chance! We’ve taken out the guards, but we still haven’t found an entrance we can actually use. What do you think’s gonna happen when Rayne’s security guards fail to report to him? We have to find a way in and take him out before he has the chance to prepare for us…while we’re ready, and he’s not.”

“Buffy,” Melinda spoke up softly, and the older Slayer whirled around to face her, frustration evident on her face, though she seemed more inclined to listen to the one among the group of Slayers who had actually proven herself in battle. Melinda’s voice was quiet and apologetic, yet firm, as she pointed out, “We’re *not* ready.”

As she spoke, she gestured toward the group of girls, and Buffy grudgingly turned her eyes toward them again, giving them a closer look. As much as she hated to admit it with Spike’s life hanging in the balance, they were all visibly exhausted, many of them battered and bruised from the various fights in which they had engaged that night.

“If they’re too tired, they could end up doing more harm than good,” Melinda added, her voice low and confidential, intended only for Buffy’s ears.

Buffy hesitated only a moment longer before releasing a weary, impatient sigh and turning away from the girls with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Melinda was right.

If the girls were so tired that they slipped up, made mistakes, they could end up putting both their lives and Spike’s at risk. It would not do at all to rush in desperately to rescue him, only to end up losing because they were in too much of a hurry to take some time to rest and recuperate.

*It’s not wasting time,* Buffy reminded herself firmly. *It’s a necessary part of any battle plan…we have to take a little time…but…but Spike…*

She blinked back tears as she turned toward the swiftly brightening sunrise, staring into it bleakly. She swallowed back the sick sensation of fear in her throat, trying hard not to think about the horrible things that could be happening to Spike, while she and the others were resting here in the woods.

*I’ll get you out, Spike,* she vowed silently, closing her eyes against the rising sun. *I promise…I’ll get you out…*

**************************************

In a dim, sunless room deep within the compound, the focus of her fears was completely unaware of the all-out effort that was being made to rescue him from the terrible fate that was only moments away from becoming reality.

His first customer.

Spike waited in the empty room, furnished only with a large bed – equipped with strong restraints, of course – and a large wooden cabinet with mesh windows in its doors, revealing ominous partial glimpses of various sinister-looking “toys” for the pleasure of Rayne’s well-paying customers.

Spike was exhausted, but the idea of sitting on the bed that would soon become an instrument of his torment and degradation made him feel sick to his stomach. Despite his weariness, he chose to stand near the wall, his eyes cast down and staring hopelessly at the thick black leather cuffs that bound his wrists in front of him.

A matching piece of black leather was strapped tightly around his throat, just barely tight enough to restrict his speech and breathing, and plenty tight enough to make him constantly aware of the humiliation and shame of his current status. He could feel the cool metal of the thin chain attached to the collar as it hung down his bare back, swinging slightly when he moved, and sending chills of a far less physical kind through him with each reminder of his helpless position.

At least they had allowed him to wear pants – not that they were likely to stay on for long, Spike reminded himself grimly. They matched the collar and cuffs, made of black leather that was far too tight for comfort, designed more for the pleasure of the beholder than the comfort of the wearer.

The door to the room swung open, and Spike jumped despite himself, glancing fearfully upward as Ethan Rayne entered the room, followed by a man in a long, dark grey robe. At least – at first glance, he appeared to be a man. When the figure raised his head slowly to meet Spike’s eyes, the vampire felt a shudder of revulsion go through him at the depths of evil he saw in the visitor’s strange, glittering dark eyes.

“Spike,” Rayne began in an incongruously pleasant voice, giving Spike a smug smile, “This is Mordrin. Your first customer.”

Spike flinched slightly, taking an involuntary step backward toward the wall, his eyes moving swiftly, warily, between the sorcerer and the strange, robed man. Before he could move far, Rayne caught the chain in his hand, jerking him back toward them abruptly and holding him there, his falsely cheerful smile never faltering, though there was cruel warning in his steel grey eyes.

“You needn’t fear, Spike,” Rayne assured him in a deceptively gentle voice. “This is only your first customer, and I’ve gone easy on you. He doesn’t desire to cause you pain.” He paused before adding with a shrug, “He’s usually satisfied simply by enjoying the pain that’s already there.”

Uncertainly, Spike glanced up at Rayne, and then back at Mordrin, whose strange eyes were, thankfully, averted. When Spike looked back to meet Rayne’s gaze with a hesitant question in his own, his heart sank at the sadistic amusement he saw there, as the sorcerer spoke in a soft voice, barely over a whisper.

“And there’s quite enough inside you already to keep him satisfied…don’t you agree?”

Spike lowered his gaze, swallowing hard, fighting back tears of humiliation.

Rayne went on casually, unmoved by his slave’s emotional pain. “Mordrin has special…talents. He is a very valued customer of mine, and often assists in the…the breaking of new slaves, in exchange for the privilege of having his pick among them. However, in this case, I don’t believe the breaking will be necessary. Do you, Spike?”

The warning in his voice made the expected response clear, and Spike felt his face flood with shame as he delivered it, shaking his head slowly, his eyes closed and downcast. “No,” he whispered.

“Nevertheless,” Mordrin spoke up, in a silken voice, disarmingly mild, yet still carrying a note of something dark and frightening, “Ethan, I find I’m quite interested in seeing what could reduce such a bold, powerful creature as the renowned William the Bloody to the trembling, shattered mess I’m looking at right now.”

As Spike winced at his words, Ethan smiled coldly, shrugging slightly, his eyes remaining focused on Spike as he pointed out, “I merely said it wasn’t necessary…not that it wasn’t an option. As always, my friend, you are free to do as you will with the slave. It’s of no matter to me, so long as my property is not destroyed.” His smile widened into a smirk as he added pointedly, “Physically.”

Without another word, he took the chain in his hand and placed it in Mordrin’s, and turned toward the door. Casting a smile over his shoulder, he remarked cheerfully, “Enjoy!” as the door closed firmly behind him.

Spike could feel the cold smirk of the strange man, his dark, piercing eyes focused on him, though he dared not look up to meet that frightening gaze. Finally, however, as the silence spread between them, he ventured a brief, hesitant glance upward – and felt the cold claws of terror clutching at his heart at the sight of the darkness in Mordrin’s gaze.

Spike took a stumbling step backward, vaguely surprised when Mordrin dropped the chain and let him go…before his vision suddenly faded away into a terrifying, heavy blackness.

***********************************

As an hour, then two, passed with agonizing slowness, Buffy paced anxiously back and forth in the middle of the clearing, glancing impatiently now and again at the sleeping girls surrounding her.

“I can’t take this,” she muttered. “This…just waiting. Doing nothing. We should be doing something.”

No one responded to her, and she realized with irritation that no one was really listening to her. Various tents had been set up throughout the clearing, and most of the girls had disappeared within them. In fact, the only one of the girls who appeared to be awake at all was Melinda. The pretty young Slayer was seated on a large boulder, her arms crossed over her knees as she calmly watched the Slayer’s frenetic motions.

“I mean, Ethan Rayne has to be stopped. I’ve allowed him to go on long enough, and now people are suffering because of him!” Buffy insisted, her voice trembling with anguish and anxiety. “I let him get away with the smaller stuff, and now it’s my fault that he’s getting away with this now! We have to stop him; there’ll be plenty of time to rest later, but *now*…”

“Hey!” a male voice protested irritably, just before a head poked out from one of the tents, positioned carefully in the shade of a large oak tree. One of the vampires the girls had taken prisoner glared at Buffy as he snarled, “Some of us are day sleepers, here! Can you have your little gripe-fest somewhere else?”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed in fury as she stalked toward the tent, grabbing the vampire up by the throat. “You don’t like it?” she snapped, meeting his eyes for a moment before flinging the bound creature roughly out into the sunlight beyond the tent. “Take a walk!”

The vampire let out a brief howl of pain that was instantaneously swallowed up in silence as his body disintegrated in the deadly sunlight. Buffy stared impassively at the spot where he had been for a moment, before resuming her pacing, deliberately ignoring Melinda’s speculative raised eyebrow in her direction.

“We can’t just sit here, anymore, while who knows what could be going on in there?” she insisted. “We have to take him down, now, while we have the chance! I don’t know what we’re waiting for, I’m not even tired, and we need to go in, while…”

“Buffy…we’re going to get him back.”

Buffy stopped momentarily, giving Melinda a startled look through wide, panicked eyes. The compassion in the younger girl’s dark eyes caught her off guard, and before she knew it, her own eyes were blurred with tears. She lowered her gaze, crossing her arms over her chest and vying for control of her emotions. Melinda rose from the boulder and came to stand in front of her, gently taking her arms in her hands.

“We’re going to get him back,” she repeated softly. “We are. I promise.”

Buffy shook her head despairingly, raising a hand to swipe roughly at her tears. “You don’t understand,” she sniffled, her voice hoarse and thick with emotion. “This…this always happens!”

Melinda frowned in confusion. “This…?”

“*Something*,” Buffy amended with a sad little shrug, her eyes downcast. “Something always happens to…to mess things up with us. It’s like…we can never just be happy, and together, you know? Something always has to go wrong. And…and this time…”

She shook her head again, raising her eyes to meet Melinda’s searchingly, almost pleadingly.

“I’ve never been good at the…the emotional stuff, Melinda. The…the healing and comfort junk…you know?”

Melinda nodded sympathetically, quietly waiting for her to go on.

“I can get him out of there,” Buffy continued. “But…but what if that’s all I can do? And he…he needs so much right now...even when he got his soul…he’s never been…I’ve never seen him so…so *broken*…” Buffy broke down over the word, a hoarse sob torn from her throat as her shoulders began to shake. “What if I can’t help him, Melinda? What if it’s too late?”

***********************************

“You’re a perfect well-spring of torment and suffering and shame and degradation…it’s all through you…saturating your hard-earned, worthless *soul*…I can feel it all over you…can taste it…”

Mordrin’s soft voice hissed in Spike’s ear, though all he could see around him was darkness, so black, so thick he could nearly feel it. He flinched away from the voice, which seemed far too near, only to find it coming again, closer, from the other side, as the sadistic…whatever he was…whispered in a tone of cruel glee,

“It’s *delicious*…”

Spike shook his head, stumbling forward in a useless attempt to get away, as all around him was the same all-encompassing, consuming darkness. “No,” he choked out hoarsely, desperately, “No…”

“You’re pathetic,” Mordrin reminded him with a sneer. “From a deadly, powerful monster…to a cringing, pitiful worthless wreck…take a good look at yourself, Spike…look at what you’ve become…”

As the strange creature spoke, an image began to take shape before Spike’s eyes…an image of himself, huddled and trembling in a corner, staring up through wide, panicked eyes at some unseen threat approaching him. He was naked and chained, bruised and bleeding from various wounds…and pleading for mercy.

Overcome by an overwhelming sense of shame, Spike backed away from the image, finally turning away from it in disgust…to find Mordrin standing directly behind him, glaring at him with cold revulsion in his dark eyes, a vicious, derisive smirk on his face.

“What could possibly have reduced you to this, Spike?” he demanded. “What could have turned you into such a pathetic, loathsome, *worthless* little worm?”

As he spoke, he stepped slowly closer to the vampire, who was backing away, his eyes averted, shaking his head in denial.

“What broke you, Spike? What destroyed the powerful creature that you were? *Look at me*!” Mordrin snapped.

Spike’s conditioning would allow him to do nothing else.

Dread in his heart, he slowly raised his eyes to meet those of the monster before him, who was smiling at him with chilling pleasure. To his horror and dismay, once he had met that frightening gaze, he found that he could not look away, as by some dark magical power, Mordrin held his gaze with his own, locking it down and refusing to let go.

As Spike felt himself swallowed up once more in darkness, dozens of images crowded in before his eyes, memories of horrors he had experienced, pain and torment and shame that had marked his life and led him to this broken moment.

*“You’re beneath me, Spike…it would *never* be you…”*

*“Gotta learn to be a proper vampire if you’re gonna be seen with *me*, boy! I’ll teach you…”*

*“I see what he wants…something…glistening…*effulgent*…”*

*Buffy’s broken body, lying on the concrete beneath Glory’s tower, and his heart seeming to implode within him at the knowledge that she was gone…and it was his fault…*

*The dragon consuming his sire in a rush of agonizing flame, before he could reach him and save him…slaying the dragon…too late…*

*“I could never love you, Spike…I could never trust you enough for it to be love!”*

*“You felt it, Buffy…I’ll *make* you feel it!*

*Breaking her, destroying her, with his love…driving her deeper into her darkness merely by his very destructive presence…*

*Angel…Illyria…Gunn…all dead…all gone…all gone…*

In an instant the tumultuous cacophony of voices and images vanished, leaving him in pitch black and utter silence, consumed with the pain and shame of the past. Spike felt a sob rising up in his throat as his hands rose to cover his face, but the painfully tight collar around his throat choked it back. An instinctive feeling of panic began to close in on him, as he gasped desperately for breath that would not seem to come, staggering backward, clutching and clawing uselessly at the thick, coarse leather around his throat in an attempt to escape a far less physical torment.

Suddenly, abruptly, he felt a hand press down on his shoulder, and he froze, flinching in an instinctive reaction of fear, but knowing better than to try to pull away. A familiar, terrifying scent filled his nostrils, and a voice that haunted his nightmares hissed dark, vindictive words softly in his ear, reminding him of his place, the devastation to which he had been brought…and the one who had brought him there.

*Siron*.

“You should be on your knees, Spike.”

Spike spun around in a panic, tearing free of the heavy hand on his shoulder – only to suddenly remember that such an action was worthy of the most severe punishment. He had been away from his master for only a few short days, and had already become unaccustomed to his rules.

Too soon, apparently.

Siron was here.

*Can’t be here, can’t be, he’s dead, I killed him…but…but he *is*! He’s here…here to hurt…here to break…no, no, *no*!*

Spike’s mind raced with confusion, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, smelling, hearing, and always coming back to the same impossible conclusion. The fact that the demon master was dead, that Spike had killed him with his own hands, did not seem particularly relevant given the situation. Spike’s every sense told him that his cruel former master was standing before him now, his huge fists clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed in menace.

*You should be on your knees, Spike…*

The words had barely registered with him when he had first heard them, so overwhelming had been his shock. Now, however, Spike’s mind brought them back to him, and his eyes went wide in panic as he fell immediately to his knees, terrified and able only to think of one thing – somehow finding a way to appease Siron before it was too late.

It was likely too late already.

“Pathetic little fool,” the demon sneered, advancing slowly on the kneeling, trembling vampire. “We’ve talked about pulling away from me – haven’t we, Spike? You’re *mine*, you disgusting little nothing! I’ll do whatever I want with you, and you will *not* resist me! Is that clear, Spike?”

Siron’s voice was low and calm, and infinitely terrifying, as he loomed over his frightened victim, glaring down at him in menace. Spike struggled to force his mouth to respond, to form the answer he knew was required of him, but his throat was too dry to swallow, much less speak, and all he could do was remain there on his knees, stricken silent with panic, staring up at his tormentor.

“You will answer me when I speak to you!” Siron snarled, taking a step forward and drawing back his meaty fist in preparation to strike.

Spike flinched back against the wall behind him, fighting the impulse to raise his arm to block the impending blow, well aware that doing so would only result in worse punishment. He cringed as Siron’s powerful fist flew toward his face, but dared not move away…

…but the blow never fell.

There was a cracking sound, like ice breaking, and the image of Siron before him literally shattered, falling away in a thousand tiny pieces, which shimmered momentarily before dissipating like mist in the air.

Spike blinked in confusion at the spot where the demon had been, looking around the room in bewilderment to find it the same sparse room where Ethan Rayne had left him to meet his first customer. There was no sign of Siron, or the oppressive darkness that had surrounded him a few moments earlier – only Mordrin, standing across the room from him, looking annoyed as he was approached by a small humanoid-looking demon who had just burst through the door.

*A trick…all a trick,* Spike reminded himself over and over, struggling to regain his composure as the pieces fell together, and he realized exactly what had happened. *It was just an illusion…all fake…and that…that Mordrin bloke…lost his focus when that other one came in the door…let the illusion fall…that’s all, wasn’t real…wasn’t ever real at all…*

Despite the fact that mentally, he knew that was what had happened, Spike’s shattered heart and spirit had a hard time accepting that the vivid, utterly realistic images he had just seen had not been real at all. Siron’s voice still echoed in his ears, sneering vicious words of menace and degradation.

He fought off a fresh tremor of fear, attempting instead to focus on the scene taking place across the room from him, where Mordrin stood listening impatiently to the smaller demon, who was speaking to him in hushed, hurried tones. Spike tried to focus on what was being said, if only as a distraction from his current harrowing thoughts.

Before he could, however, Ethan Rayne followed the demon through the door, protesting with indignation, “What do you think you’re doing?” He turned to address Mordrin directly, his tone apologetic, as he added, “I tried to tell him you weren’t to be disturbed. I’m terribly sorry, my friend…”

“What’s this I hear about your current lack of security around the premises?” Mordrin cut him off sharply, a warning edge to his voice.

Ethan blinked at him in surprise, before shaking his head and replying, confused, “I…I beg your pardon?”

“My aide here informs me that he’s just inspected your perimeter, as usual, and found that you’re lacking any sort of security whatsoever,” Mordrin clarified, irritation obvious in his voice. “That is completely unacceptable. I am a well known man, Ethan, and always at risk of attack by my enemies. I simply can’t stay here if you don’t have the proper protective measures in place…”

Spike frowned, confused by the conversation, as Rayne objected hotly, “That’s quite simply not true, Mordrin! I have all the usual security measures in place, I assure you! There are guards at every entrance and exit, and magical barriers in place to prevent our detection! You are in no danger here, I…”

“You’re not going to appease me with lies,” Mordrin snapped, gesturing for his aide to follow him as he headed imperiously toward the door. “Let me know when you’ve straightened out this…*situation*…and perhaps at that point I’ll *consider* returning to your establishment. I regret to tell you, but I am quite dissatisfied with this particular visit.”

“Mordrin…wait!” Ethan objected, following him a few steps before stopping in the doorway to the room, watching the half-demon disappear down the hallway.

“Good day,” Mordrin cut him off pointedly, calling the words over his shoulder without turning as he swept down the hall and toward the main entrance to the compound.

Ethan stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, before turning back into the room, for the moment completely ignoring the trembling vampire huddled in shock in the corner of the room. The sorcerer took a handheld radio from his pocket and pressed a button, speaking into it in a low, terse voice.

“Station one, come in.”

Only blank static was his response.

“Station one, please respond.”

Again, nothing.

Rayne cursed softly, turning a dial on the radio and speaking again, “Station three, do you hear me?”

The silence was his only answer.

“What the bloody hell…?” Rayne muttered under his breath, shaking his head in confusion as he replaced the radio, frowning thoughtfully. “No one knows we’re here…and they know better than to leave their posts…”

His idle gaze gradually came to focus on Spike…and his dark eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. Spike tensed, already badly shaken, his fears intensifying as the sorcerer crossed the room to him in a few brief strides, reaching down to roughly snatch a handful of his hair and jerk his head up, forcing him to face him, while remaining on his knees before him.

Rayne’s voice was deceptively soft, though his eyes were flashing with fury, as he observed, “You were out nearly all night last night, weren’t you, Spike? Doing what, exactly?”

“N-nothing,” Spike managed to get the single word out in a stammered whisper. “Please…I didn’t…”

“Did you do something to my guards, Spike?” Rayne demanded, his voice hardening as he shook the helpless vampire hard by the hair. “Do *not* lie to me!”

“I’m not!” Spike insisted desperately, wincing at the painful grip the man held on his hair, the searing pain that shot through his scalp. “I swear it…I didn’t!”

Ethan was quiet for a moment, studying his expression coldly. Finally, he replied, “I surely hope you’re telling me the truth, Spike. Because if I should find that you’re lying to me…that you had anything at all to do with this…you’ll plead with me to trade places with that poor vampire chap you felt so sorry for before…the one who’s body was used as a sacrifice? You’ll only wish that was the extent of your suffering. Do I make myself clear?”

Spike nodded as best he could, swallowing hard, panting with pain and fear as the magician released him with a harsh shove into the wall behind him. “Y-yes, master,” he whispered, out of sheer habit, but feeling immediately ashamed of himself for it.

Rayne had not even asked him to call him “master”.

Ethan’s smirk told Spike that he had not missed his accidental slip, either; but the slaver did not have time to dwell on it at the moment. Rayne dragged the frightened vampire across the room to the large bed in the corner, gripping his wrist tightly as he reached for one of the manacles attached to the headboard.

“Whatever you’ve done,” he muttered, “you won’t be causing any more trouble for me, until I get this sorted.”

Spike fought off a sense of rising panic at the thought of being bound and left in this room, this room that was now saturated with the memory of Siron. He was terrified that once he was alone, the images of torment, however false, would return.

“Please,” he whispered, resisting slightly despite himself as Rayne struggled to open the manacle with one hand. “Please…I didn’t do anything!”

“I’ll determine that later,” Rayne snapped. “But for now…I need you out of my way…”

Before Rayne could manage to get the manacle open, however, the tumultuous sound of a struggle outside the door drew his attention toward the hallway. There was an inhuman roar of some kind of demon, accompanied by the frustrated, fearful shouts of its human captors, before someone hurriedly peered in the doorway, panting breathlessly and seeking out Ethan with frantic eyes.

“Mr. Rayne! Hurry! Some of the slaves overheard the rumor that the security’s out, and it’s chaos out here! There’s a Fyarl out here that seems to have gone mad! He’s already knocked out two guards, and doesn’t seem to be responding to the correction of his wristband…”

Spike was momentarily forgotten as Rayne followed his employee out the door, and their anxious voices gradually faded away.

Apparently, Rayne was not all that suspicious of him after all. Or rather, he did not seem to pose as great a threat as a mad Fyarl on a rampage.

Bloody big surprise, that.

He hesitated only a few moments, before rising to his feet on shaky legs and making his way toward the door. The hallway was alive with activity, servants rushing about in an effort to discover what had gone wrong with security, and to control various demon slaves who saw the security lapse as perhaps their only opportunity to ever escape this place…but no one seemed to be paying him any attention at all.

Taking advantage of the current state of confusion, Spike made his way swiftly and quietly toward the main entrance to the compound, vaguely hoping that the rumors were true, and the security was down. He had reached a point where he hardly dared to hope that he might yet escape what was evidently his inevitable fate of slavery, but at any rate, he would rather be outside than here in the cold, sterile atmosphere of this room of shame and torment, surrounded by the memories of his brokenness.

***************************************

Andrew tore through the halls of the empty Council headquarters building, breathless and exhausted…and utterly panicked.

He turned one corner after another, doubling back where he could and retracing his steps -- simply doing the best he could to lose the older Watcher who was calmly, coldly tracking him through the deserted building.

*Should have known better when he said he wanted to meet me to discuss something he didn’t want to tell the other Watchers about,* Andrew ruefully chided himself, glancing fearfully over his shoulder as he made his way down a darkened, unfamiliar hallway. *Should have known he was just trying to get me alone…*

When he had reached Giles’ office that evening, long after everyone else had left the building, the older man had not wasted much time in making his intentions clear. Andrew had fled his office, only to find that the new head of the Council had activated the code to place the entire building under lockdown.

There was no escape…and Andrew knew that despite his youth, he did not stand a chance in a fight against Giles.

There was nothing but to flee.

And he was quickly finding out that he wasn’t very good at that, either.

He stopped for a few moments at the end of the dark hall, willing his panicked, harsh breathing to quiet, gripping the banister of a staircase beside him as he listened closely for any signs of pursuit.

Unfortunately, he heard them. Footsteps, slow and even, approaching from the other end of the hall.

He glanced around in panic, finding that there was no other exit out of this hallway, besides the one down which he had come…the one that was currently blocked by his pursuers. There was a door on either side of him, but a quick check made it clear that both were locked.

Andrew glanced with dread up the winding staircase. Years of movie and television viewing made him all too aware of the stereotypical foolishness of fleeing up a flight of stairs, deeper into the building, and leaving himself even more cut off from any potential help than before – but in this instance, he really had no other option.

He hurried onto the stairs, stumbling and cursing his clumsiness as his faltering steps betrayed his location. He staggered at the top of the stairs before regaining his footing and looking around at his surroundings. The stairs led to a small alcove with a single door directly in front of him. Andrew swallowed hard as he reached to test the door, hoping against hope that he would find it unlocked.

It was.

But after Andrew hurriedly opened the door with trembling hands, he froze when he looked out into the darkness beyond it. The door opened onto the roof of the building, several stories above the ground outside, and the possible freedom it represented…if only he had not been a couple hundred feet above it.

He turned back toward the stairs, wide eyes searching the darkness below for his pursuer, his heart pounding in his chest as his hands gripped the doorframe on either side of the doorway, mentally debating with rising panic whether or not to go out onto the roof. A faint tremor began in the pit of his stomach as he realized that he did not really have any other choice.

While flight onto the roof held risks, staying where he was held the greater danger.

Andrew couldn’t see him through the dense darkness that engulfed the stairs below him…but he knew the Watcher was there.

And then…he *could* see him.

Giles stepped out of the shadows, placing his first foot on the bottom stair before pausing, smiling up at the boy with cold, satisfied menace. Andrew had never heard the older man’s voice sound so dark and sinister, as when he next spoke, shattering the tense silence with words of deadly, restrained rage as he made his way slowly up the stairs.

“Did you really think you could get away with it, you little pillock?”

Andrew did not respond, swallowing hard, though his throat was dry with terror, as he turned and fled onto the roof, searching desperately for someplace to hide.

**********************************

Buffy gazed off into the distance, watching the lengthening shadows, the fading colors of the sunset, as she listened with some satisfaction to the various sounds around her, the sounds of the girls’ preparations for the impending battle.

She had made her own preparations hours ago.

Apparently, so had Melinda.

The younger Slayer approached her silently, coming to stand beside her, staring into the last rays of golden light for a moment before speaking.

“We’re gonna stop them, Buffy. We’re gonna save him. Tonight.”

“I know,” Buffy stated simply, without looking at Melinda. Then, she turned toward her, a hint of a hesitant smile on her lips as she added, “Thank you.”

“Thank *him*,” Melinda clarified with a little shrug as she met the older Slayer’s eyes matter-of-factly. “He’s the reason I’m doing this…the reason I’m *alive*. At this point, there’s not much I wouldn’t do to help him, either.”

Buffy opened her mouth to respond, but was distracted by a sudden crashing sound coming from the woods beyond their campsite. Before she could offer even a word of caution or instruction, five or six of the young Slayers charged off toward the source of the sound, weapons drawn in preparation.

A moment later, Buffy heard a familiar snarling sound – the roar of a vampire.

Her heart leapt up into her throat as she hurried after the girls, Melinda at her side. One thought consumed her mind as she rushed to catch up with the eager Slayers.

*What if it’s him? What if it’s him?*

Sure enough, when they found the half-circle of Slayers, all their weapons drawn, clearly awaiting an opportunity to strike, they were surrounding a familiar platinum blond head, barely visible in the shadows of the trees behind which he was taking shelter from the fading sunlight. Spike was in game face, clutching his right arm in his left hand, and Buffy noticed with dismay that it was badly burnt, apparently by the patch of sunlight that was filtering through the trees, alarmingly close to where he now stood.

As she watched, one of the Slayers lunged toward Spike, causing him to stagger backward, dangerously close to the sunlight again, before overcorrecting in his attempt to get away from the deadly light, and falling to his knees. As he scrambled desperately back against the tree without bothering to stand, Buffy suddenly realized with rising anger that that was probably how his arm had been burnt in the first place…by an over-zealous Slayer, driving him into the sunlight.

“Stop!” she shouted immediately, rushing forward toward the over-eager Slayer who was brandishing her stake at Spike. “Stop it, now!”

“Look at it!” the girl objected angrily. “It’s dangerous! It’s ready to attack!”

“It’ll bite us!” another put in fearfully.

“I said *stop*!” Buffy ordered sharply as she pushed her way through the girls, stopping abruptly a few yards from the huddled, trembling vampire who was staring at them all blankly, his back pressed against the trunk of the tree behind him. She stared at him for a long moment, dismayed by the haggard, exhausted look of him, as well as by his injuries.

“Spike?” she said quietly, gently, relieved when he turned his eyes toward her, blinking in confusion for a moment before obviously recognizing her, tears of relief welling in his crystal blue eyes.

“Spike?” one of the younger Slayers echoed in a whisper, turning toward her neighbor. “Andrew told me about him…he’s not evil…he’s…he’s a *hero*…”

The girls stood still, confused, but mesmerized as Buffy slowly closed the remaining distance between herself and the shaken blond vampire, very slowly, holding out one hand in a non-threatening, welcoming gesture as she spoke to him in a voice that was far more gentle and compassionate than any they had ever heard her use.

“Spike…it’s okay…it’s okay…”

She reached him, and dropped to her knees in front of him, her hand still stretched cautiously out in front of her…reaching slowly, cautiously, to touch him.

“Spike…it’s me…please…please trust me…”

Buffy thought that she could hear her own rapidly pounding heartbeat in the tense, awkward silence that surrounded them all – herself, the junior Slayers…and Spike.

Ordinary forest sounds were still audible in the dawning morning – birds and wind and the rustling of the leaves – but Buffy’s mind had tuned it all out, focused completely on the power of the moment at hand. Instinct seemed to dictate to the girls that silence was of import, and none of them said a word, even moved, as Buffy edged cautiously nearer to the trembling, frightened vampire huddled against the base of the tree that sheltered him from the deadly sunlight.

Each step was painstakingly slow as she gradually closed the distance between them, her heart hammering in her throat with the very real fear that any movement too sudden might cause him to bolt. As she came within a few feet of where Spike crouched against the tree, she carefully extended an open hand, palm upward, toward him, wincing inwardly at the knowledge that the same gesture might be used to reassure a skittish dog that one was not a threat.

Spike watched her hand warily, his wild eyes darting between her face and her hand, his body visibly tensing as she approached, though he did not move.

“What’s the matter with him?”

The curious, concerned question was spoken in a hushed voice, barely over a whisper, but it was a shrill, teenage voice with a nervous quiver in it, and Spike immediately flinched back, away from the sound as much as from Buffy’s approaching hand.

“Nothing,” Buffy snapped, frustrated and afraid. She looked up briefly at the girls as she ordered sharply, “Get back.”

As one, the girls shifted backward a few steps, though they were clearly reluctant to move too far away from the dramatic, intense scene. Buffy’s eyes narrowed when she saw their interpretation of her command, and she added in a low, warning tone of voice that could not be ignored,

“*Farther*.”

As the girls grudgingly moved away from her and Spike, back toward the main area of the camp, Buffy turned her full attention back on Spike.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay, Spike…it’s just me. It’s okay, you’re safe…”

As she spoke, she cautiously reached toward him again, tears of relief springing to her eyes when he allowed her to make contact without pulling away. Gently, she stroked trembling fingers down the side of his face, swallowing back a sob when he hesitantly started to lean into her touch, and she caught a glimpse of the aching longing that filled his eyes before they drifted shut.

*You worthless, disgusting little piece of crap! Do you think you deserve for her to touch you? Do you think she can without it making her *sick*, you little slut?*

Spike jerked back slightly with a soft gasp, and while Buffy could not know the painful thoughts that filled his mind in the voice of a part tormentor, she could tell that his reaction had little to do with her own touch.

“Spike,” she whispered, edging nearer. “It’s okay…nobody’s gonna hurt you, okay? You’re safe here…you’re safe with *me*…all right?”

Spike swallowed hard, his eyes remaining closed for a long moment as he visibly fought off the mental attack of his memories before he opened them and focused on her again, apprehension in his guarded gaze. Buffy bravely forced an encouraging smile despite the fact that she was falling apart inside. She nodded, her hand caressing his cheek tenderly as she continued to speak in a soft, reassuring voice.

“That’s it…it’s okay, Spike. It’s okay…”

After a few moments, when Spike began to seem a bit calmer, Buffy reached down to take his hand in hers before rising cautiously to her feet. Spike gave her an uncertain look, but rose with her, clinging to her hand as if it was his only lifeline – and in a way, it was.

Strangely, now that Spike was actually looking at her without the confusion that had filled his eyes moments before, Buffy felt oddly shy and utterly at a loss as to how to respond to him in this state, after so long apart. She lowered her gaze, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as she said softly, “Come on. Let’s get you some shade.”

Spike’s unusual silence only contributed to Buffy’s feeling of discomfort as she led him by the hand toward the outer edge of the camp, careful to keep to the shadows. The way he just meekly walked along, at her side and slightly behind her, was completely foreign to everything she remembered about the vampire she had known.

She had Spike wait in the shade of a large tree while she found a folded canvas tent that was not being used and brought it back to him. Within a few moments she had spread it out across a few low-hanging branches of the tree, creating a makeshift canopy that would protect him from the deadly sunlight without confining him to a small tent which would not even allow him to stand.

“I’m…sorry I can’t do any better than this,” she told him with a grimace. “It’s just that we mostly just use the tents for sleeping, and they’re not really designed to…to even stand up in, and I was pretty sure you wouldn’t want to feel all closed in and trapped or whatever right now. So, I just figured this was better than a tent, you know? It is…isn’t it? Better than a tent?”

Spike just nodded once, his eyes averted as he leaned back against the tree behind him.

Buffy nodded, too, a little shakily, as she went on, perfectly aware that she was babbling, yet seemingly incapable of doing anything about it.

“Is there anything I can…can get you? I mean…I guess I really don’t *have* anything to give you…like…like blood, or whatever, and I know you must be hungry. I mean, I’m sure it’s not like they’re feeding you well in there or anything. I’m sorry. And…and the girls…they don’t mean any harm, but I know their staring must be making you feel kind of weird, and…and I’m sorry about that, too, and especially about their…attacking you like that. I told them not to attack any vampires at all until I found you, but…but they listen about as well as I did at that age, and…and I guess what I’m trying to say…once you decode all the insano-babble…is…is I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.”

Spike’s uncharacteristically soft words stopped Buffy’s rambling, and she finally looked at him, to see that he had slid down against the trunk of the tree so that he was seated with his back against it, his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around them.

“I…really shouldn’t have even come here,” Spike continued apologetically with a little half-shrug. “Could have been followed. Not hardly safe.”

Buffy thought it wise not to mention the fact that, in spite of his words, he appeared to be making himself more comfortable right where he was; Spike obviously – and for good reason – had no desire to make his way back toward the slave compound anytime soon. With his crystal blue eyes focused on the ground at his feet, Buffy finally felt the freedom to really look at him, to take in his trembling hands and the subdued, downcast posture he held.

“Really should be going back soon,” Spike insisted softly. “Shouldn’t…shouldn’t stay.”

Hesitantly, Buffy closed the distance between them, falling to her knees in front of him, solemn green eyes studying the heart-rending array of emotions parading across Spike’s all-too-expressive features. Shame, fear, pain that she knew he did not deserve, were all roiling just beneath the surface, obvious in his glistening blue eyes, which somehow could not seem to find the courage to look at her.

She knew that she was stepping out onto an emotional minefield, opening herself up to all that pain and devastation…and yet, somehow a part of her felt that it was only right for her to feel it…to share some of the burden Spike was unfairly bearing. Spike had once told her that she had a yen to punish herself, and she knew that was what she was doing now.

*But you deserve to be punished…you let this happen…you weren’t there for him…weren’t there to protect him…*

“Spike,” she whispered, her eyes lowered briefly before she forced herself to look at him again. “What…what happened? How did this…I mean…how did they…?”

Her voice trailed off awkwardly as she found that she could not finish any of the dozens of questions circling in her mind; so, she just sat there in silence, waiting for a response from Spike, which did not seem to be coming. The vampire swallowed hard, but remained silent, his eyes lowered.

Buffy felt a hard knot form in her throat, her eyes blurring with tears, as she reached out a cautious hand to rest on his larger, trembling one. It was easier to look at his hands than into his eyes. As her anxiety rose with his failure to answer her questions, Buffy found herself focusing more intently on those familiar, powerful hands, running her fingertips lightly over his in a soothing caress, even as her mind returned to all the intense, painful, gloriously wrong things those hands had done to her.

Each moment of silence that stretched between them seemed to carry him farther and farther from her grasp; but, Buffy held out hope, reassuring herself with the fact that he had not pulled away from her touch.

Almost without realizing that she was doing it, Buffy laced her fingers through his, raising their joined hands slightly between them in a mirror of the position they had held on that last day in the Hellmouth, moments before she had thought she had lost him forever.

She was losing him again.

Buffy’s heart ached with the thought that this time, this time, he wouldn’t even look at her, as Spike turned his head away with a painful swallow, his shoulders shaking slightly – but still unwilling to so much as speak to her. So lost was she in the pain of this perceived reaction that Buffy failed to realize that, though he turned away in shame, Spike was clutching her hand tightly in his, clinging desperately to it as his own thoughts returned to that day as well.

Feeling incredibly awkward and unnecessary, Buffy cleared her throat and, with an effort, disentangled her hand from his, and rose slowly, reluctantly, to her feet.

“Well,” she said in a quiet, nervous tone of voice. “I…I guess I need to go talk to the girls. Figure out – where we need to go from here. I’ll…I’ll be back…”

And, believing it was what he wanted from her, Buffy turned her back and walked away, unaware that the vampire she was leaving behind was silently screaming a plea for her to stay.

**********************************

*Okay, bad idea…bad idea…how many classic slasher movies have you watched? And you *still* end up running out onto the roof?*

Andrew’s heart was pounding as he raced across the roof of the Council Headquarters building, his eyes desperately scanning the area for anything that he could use for a weapon, or a means of escape, or…something to hide behind.

There was nothing.

He stopped a few feet from the edge, peering anxiously over the side and realizing that he was directly over the Council’s private airstrip.

*Maybe…maybe a plane will take off at just the right moment, and maybe I could manage to time it just right to land on it just as it passes, and make a daring, last-second escape from right under the nose of the dastardly…*

“There you are, my boy. I’ve been looking all over for you, you know.”

Andrew spun around with a little yelp of surprise at the unexpected nearness of the Watcher’s chillingly soft voice. He had known that Giles was right behind him, had expected him to catch up quickly, but was still taken by surprise at the speed and stealth with which the older man had done so.

Dread in his heart, Andrew looked up at the taller, older man, who stood with a sort of casual grace a few short yards away, his hands just barely grazing the tops of his pockets, a smile that would have been disarming had it not been so cold firmly in place on his lips.

“What’s the matter, Andrew? Running, hiding like some sort of cornered rat…one would almost get the impression that you’ve done something *wrong*,” Giles observed in a deceptively mild voice, as he began to close the short distance between them with slow, measured steps, his smile widening ironically as he asked softly, “Now whatever might that be?”

Andrew’s throat went dry with fear as he watched Giles’ approach, and he automatically began to move backwards, away from the subtle but clear threat he posed. As he did, the young man’s mind raced to think of some explanation that might appease the older Watcher, and save his life.

“I didn’t…I mean…I wasn’t trying to…to do anything…this is all a big…big mistake…I wasn’t really…I mean…” Andrew glanced fearfully over his shoulder, painfully aware that the edge of the roof was nearer to him now than it had ever been. His eyes returned warily to Giles, and he fought off panic, desperately searching for the right words to appease him.

*Except…why should I?*

The thought suddenly occurred to Andrew, clear and resounding through the panic in his mind…and he froze where he was, considering.

*Why should I justify myself to him? Why should I make excuses for what I did when all I did was to save someone who deserved saving? Giles is the villain here…not Spike. And not me.*

With one more brief, anxious glance over the edge, Andrew turned to face Giles again, swallowing back his fear and squaring his shoulders slightly as he answered in a voice that was trembling, but certain.

“Nothing. I haven’t done *anything* wrong.” He paused before adding defiantly, “I’m not the rat here, Mr. Giles.”

Giles raised a single brow. His eyes narrowed in anger, but he did not say a word.

Andrew could not prevent himself from taking another step backward, but then winced as he felt the wind at his back, and realized how very near to the edge of the roof his retreat had taken him. He steeled himself, knowing he had no more ground to give…and there was nothing left for him but to stand what ground he had.

He was trembling all over, his voice shaky and higher even than usual, but Andrew forced himself to meet Giles’ eyes as he went on.

“And you know, the funny thing is…I looked up to you. You were…my hero. Until Dark Willow captured me and brought me to Buffy’s lair, I’d never had any real heroes to look up to. It’s no wonder I turned to the dark side…but you guys…you guys changed all that for me. You helped me to see that I could do good things…become a hero, despite my tragically wicked past. And you…you’re the one I looked up to the most…the one I tried to pattern myself after,” Andrew confessed, his voice softening slightly with sorrow and regret. “Because…because you were just a normal guy…just a normal guy who gave his entire existence to a cause greater than himself, greater than anyone around him, knowing that it could cost him his life some day. But…but it’s cost you more than that, Mr. Giles…”

To Andrew’s surprise, his rambling words seemed to have struck a nerve with the older man because Giles’ eyes flashed with anger as he cut him off, fairly snarling, “Shut up, you little pillock! You haven’t the first bloody clue…”

“Yes, I do!” Andrew interrupted, raising his voice to speak over Giles with brave defiance in his voice. “In a tragic twist of cruel irony, I learned what good and evil is from *you*, Mr. Giles!And in spite of my dark past life of crime, I’ve seen true heroes…I’ve lived with them…and I know enough to know that what you did to Spike was petty, sadistic, and disgusting! What I did…”

He shook his head sadly, his eyes glistening with tears, sparkling and impassioned with the intensity of the moment…better than any comic book or movie climax he had ever seen. He lowered his voice dramatically as he concluded.

“…what I did was to save a good man from the evil plot you devised. A *hero*. So, I’d say that makes you the villain of this piece, wouldn’t you, Mr. Giles?”

Losing his patience completely, Giles lunged forward, snatching the collar of the boy’s coat, at the same time advancing far enough that Andrew’s feet barely touched the ground, a bare inch from the edge of the roof.

“That ‘evil plot’ as you’ve described it was to put a known killer away for good, to keep that reckless, uncontrollable vampire from doing any further damage to the work I’ve spent my life building…not to mention Buffy’s life!” Giles snapped, fury blazing in his eyes as he shook the boy hard. “That monster has brought chaos to every life he’s touched, and it’s time the world was through with him!”

Andrew let out a panicked yelp as Giles shook him, and he nearly lost his footing, the wind whipping at his back reminding him of the perilous position in which he was. He glanced fearfully at the ground behind him, shaking violently as he struggled with his own panic, but managed to subdue it long enough to make his point again.

“When was the last time Spike ruined something?” he demanded, his voice quiet and trembling, but bold and certain in the conviction that he was right. “When he braved untold trials to get his soul back for the love of the Slayer who should have been his mortal enemy just to ensure he’d never hurt her again? Or maybe when he gave his own life to close the Hellmouth and avert the apocalypse? Oh, I know! You must be talking about when he nearly died again and was captured and put into slavery while trying to take down Wolfram and Hart!”

Andrew thought of his true hero, Spike, and did his best to deliver a smirk worthy of the brave vampire.

“Yeah. I see your point,” he sneered.

“You stupid little fool!” Giles’ voice was full of disgust as he jerked the boy away from the edge of the roof with one hand, his other hand sliding down to push back the long overcoat he wore. “You have no idea what you’re talking about! You don’t understand the nature of vampires, boy…but you don’t have to. If you had simply done as you were told, then none of this would be happening…”

Andrew’s eyes followed the movement of the Watcher’s free hand warily and widened with fear when he made out the handle of a pistol nestled in the waistband of the older man’s pants. With renewed panic, certain that Giles was about to end his life, Andrew struggled violently, pulling away from the older man’s hand with a jerk that sent him stumbling off balance.

His feet tangled together as he realized that he was about to topple backward over the edge of the roof onto the unyielding concrete five stories below…and that it was too late to regain his balance. There was nothing he could do to stop the fall…and its inevitable result.

“*No*!” he cried out as he felt the precarious stone beneath his feet give way to open air.

Giles let out a gasp of surprise, instinctively reaching for the boy, his hand grasping only the wind.

“*Andrew*!”

Spike sat quietly in the shade Buffy had provided for him, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them as his mind was once again assailed in the silence by the tormenting memories that had flooded his mind in the slave compound.

*Get on your knees, you disgusting little whore…I’ll teach you to look at *me* like that, you filthy little…*

Spike shook his head, trying to clear it of the painful voice that filled it, closing his eyes and lowering his head to rest in his cradled arms, his breath coming deep and trembling as he fought off the drowning, suffocating feeling of panic that filled his chest. He tried to focus on the sounds and scents of the reality that surrounded him rather than the remembered horrors that pressed in upon his heart and mind.

And when he did, he caught a familiar scent and heard a soft rustling in the bushes nearby.

He raised his head slightly, his eyes still focused on the ground as he smiled and spoke softly to the not unwelcome intruder.

“You know, you might as well come out of there. Vampire, here, remember? Can smell you…hear you, too, love.”

The person in the brush went very still for a moment, the slight rustling Spike had heard vanishing instantly…before a soft sigh of resignation preceded Melinda’s rising to her feet. Spike looked up at her questioningly, and she gave him a nervous, self-conscious smile.

“Caught me,” she admitted with a little half-shrug.

Spike made a weak attempt at returning her smile before his gaze dropped once more to the ground at his feet. Melinda watched him for a moment, her own smile fading into a solemn expression as she took in the undeserved shame that the heroic vampire who had saved her life now obviously felt. Finally, she made her decision and walked under the canopy Buffy had made, sitting carefully down beside Spike, mimicking his position with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped comfortably around them.

They just sat there in silence for a few moments, Spike unable or unwilling to bring himself to meet her gaze, his own eyes darting anxiously in the direction of every ordinary forest sound around them. Melinda felt her eyes well with tears of sympathy at the state of fear to which her brave hero had been reduced.

She hesitated just a moment before reaching out a cautious hand to rest on his arm, squeezing gently in a silent display of support and understanding. To her surprise, Spike did not flinch in reaction to the unexpected touch. He merely turned his head to look at her, a sort of dread in his eyes at what he might see on her face.

His mind went unwillingly back to the first time he had met her as Siron’s slave, and he prepared himself for the disgust and pity she must surely feel for such a pathetic creature as he had become.

It was not there.

She was smiling at him in encouragement, concern in her eyes, but nothing more. “You know,” she remarked quietly, “I really wish the circumstances were different…but it *is* really good to see you again.”

Spike felt his throat close up with a surprising surge of emotion that unexpectedly accompanied her simple, sincere words, and he realized that, in spite of the situation, he was pleased to see Melinda – safe and healthy and free – as well.

He looked away again, swallowing back his emotions, struggling to retain his composure. Her gentle touch on his arm threatened to break his fragile control as he fought to keep the nightmare images at the back of his mind from breaking through to the surface once more.

“It was him.”

The words came out in a hoarse whisper, and Spike was barely aware that he had spoken them out loud at all.

“What?” Melinda asked, her brow creased with a slight frown. “Who?”

Spike winced slightly, not really wanting to get into this conversation with Melinda, but aware that he had already spoken and that it was too late to change his mind now.

“Siron.” When Melinda just shook her head slightly in confusion, Spike elaborated in a hesitant voice, “In the compound. It was him. I…I saw him.”

Melinda’s eyes widened with alarm, and she shook her head emphatically, leaning in closer, her hand still resting on Spike’s arm as she tried to catch his gaze. “No,” she objected firmly. “No, Spike, that’s not possible. Siron’s dead. You killed him. I saw his body, Spike. He’s gone, and he can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I know,” Spike whispered, shaking his head in defeated shame. “I know that. It wasn’t…it wasn’t real. It was just…there was this guy…this bloke that Rayne brought in. He…he brought him back. It wasn’t real, except…except for me. Only I could see him. And now…” He lowered his head, swallowing hard and blinking back tears as he finished, his voice barely over a breath, “…now, I see him everywhere.”

Melinda said nothing, sensing that Spike needed to get this out. Her only response to his silence was a gentle squeeze of his arm, silently encouraging him to go on.

“He’s there,” Spike continued, his voice a little stronger now, but trembling dangerously. “In every shadow…I can hear his voice in the back of my mind…all the bloody time.” His treacherous tears spilled over, dropping to form tiny dark spots on the thin pants he wore, and he swallowed hard, choking back a sob.

When he spoke again, his broken voice carried a note of disgusted anger, and it was immediately obvious at whom it was directed.

“Pathetic, isn’t it? Right useless soddin’ ponce I turned out to be! A couple of months with Siron, and I turn into a pitiful, cringing mess. Gotta be bloody disgusting, even looking at me after…how I used to be. Worthless, pathetic…”

“I think you’re amazing.”

The soft, honest words brought Spike’s bitter monologue of self-hatred to a sudden stop as he looked up at her in startled disbelief. He shook his head in denial, a single word of confusion escaping his lips.

“H-how…?”

Melinda looked away a bit shyly with a little shrug. “It’s just…well, here’s how I see it, okay? Will you hear me out, Spike?”

The blond vampire stared at her for a moment before nodding slowly, unable to find words.

“So, there I was, in just about the worst trouble I’d ever been in my life, about to become some nasty demon’s sex slave…and…and there you were. I was trapped; there was no way I could have gotten out of there on my own – and you saved me, Spike. You didn’t know me; there was no reason for you to risk yourself for me. And it’s not like you were in the best position yourself. You were…were hurt and afraid…and you knew that he’d most likely punish you for helping me. God, Spike, you didn’t even expect to get away yourself!”

Melinda’s voice was awed and impassioned as she turned further toward him, her hand tightening slightly on his arm as she emphasized her point.

“I’m a Slayer, Spike; I’m supposed to be your mortal enemy – and you risked everything to save me! And then in the end, you stood up against him! You stood up to him, and you killed him, Spike! Because of you he won’t ever hurt anyone again! And even now, when you’re still going through the worst kind of hell, you’re sitting here worrying about how you think you’re not good enough somehow – how you wish you could do more to help Buffy and the others…all of us…”

Melinda leaned in closer, and Spike tensed automatically at her nearness, his downcast eyes focused on the ground at his feet, though he did not quite shy away from her. Melinda reached out a gentle hand to touch his cheek, gently guiding his head up, silently urging him to meet her compassionate gaze.

“I think you’re amazing, Spike,” Melinda repeated emphatically. “I *know* you are.” Her smile softened as she went on, “Andrew told us a lot of stories…a lot of incredible things that I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe, about the things you’ve done. Risking your life to gain a soul so that you could be a better man…giving your very life to close the Hellmouth in Sunnydale…even before you got the soul, he said, you weren’t like other vampires. You helped the Slayer even then…”

Spike shook his head, his eyes lowered miserably, silent tears streaking his face as he opened his mouth to form a trembling protest.

Melinda did not give him the chance, her dark eyes wide and worshipful as she gazed up at him in awe.

“You did incredible, impossible things in order to overcome your past and change, Spike, and that was *before* you got the soul. Even back then, Spike…you had something inside you that’s different…powerful…and no form of slavery could *ever* take that away!”

**************************************

“Stupid, stubborn vampires,” Buffy grumbled to herself as she stormed across the camp back toward where she had left Spike. “So…so stupid and stubborn and…and *annoying*!”

She absently rubbed the sore knuckles of her right hand as she glared at the ground at her feet, her troubled mind going back over the events of the last few minutes.

When she had left Spike in the shade of the tree, she had simply needed to get away for a few minutes. She had felt so…so useless and awkward. It had been so obvious that he really didn’t want to be around her right now, and she had just needed to find something to do with herself…preferably something that would help her work out her frustrations.

Disposing of the vampire prisoners the younger Slayers had taken during her ban on slaying seemed like just the solution.

After all, now that Spike had been found safe and sound, and all the girls knew exactly what he looked like and that he was not to be harmed, there was no further reason to keep the prisoners alive.

Yes, it seemed like the perfect solution.

Until one of them just *had* to open his smart mouth and fill her head with doubts.

Three captured vampires were being kept in one of the tents. Buffy dispatched two of them with ease, not bothering to loose their bonds or deliver any unnecessary blows, simply aiming her stake with her usual deadly accuracy and dispatching them with ease. But when she had turned toward the last one, his words had stopped her momentarily in her tracks.

“Yeah, that’s how you Slayers get your kicks, is it? Killing creatures that can’t even fight back?”

Buffy had closed her eyes in frustration, drawing in a deep breath, before biting off a response. “Okay. You want a sporting chance? Fine. I could use a good fight right now, anyway.”

She had swiftly broken the bonds that held the vampire’s wrists behind his back, and followed up the action with a swift blow to his face before he had time to react. However, the vampire had quickly recovered, returning her blow with a couple of his own.

Buffy went through the motions of fighting him, but soon realized that it was really not much of a challenge. The vampire’s blows were weak and poorly aimed, and she quickly had him pinned against the trunk of a nearby tree by his throat, her stake perfectly aimed to plunge into his heart.

“You call this sporting, Slayer?” the vampire choked out the words in a taunting voice. “We’re half-starved and beaten and tortured for months…and you call this a fair fight?”

“You’re a vampire,” Buffy bit off the words in frustration. “It doesn’t *have* to be fair.”

“Oh, yeah?” the vampire countered, his hands weakly clutching at hers around his throat as he struggled to draw the breath to continue. “What about that other vamp across the camp? Somehow he gets a free pass from the Helpless-Vamps-It’s-Okay-To-Beat-On club?”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed in anger, and she dropped the stake in a sweeping arc that reduced the vampire to ash. But even as he disappeared, she lowered her gaze to the ground, swallowing back a hard lump that formed in her throat.

“No,” she whispered, feeling sick as her mind returned to a dark, terrible night in an alley thousands of miles away. “No, he doesn’t. He’s already been initiated into that club.”

As she made her way across camp, her mind replayed over and over the images of her terrible behavior that painful year following her resurrection when she had used Spike so mercilessly, physically and emotionally abusing and exploiting him until she had reduced him to a broken shell of the vampire he had once been. By the time that she had finished with him, Spike had been so desperate and crazed with a need that she had only fed, that he had crossed a dangerous line and shattered what little she had left of the twisted pseudo-relationship she had allowed him to have with her.

*But it wasn’t his fault,* she reminded herself, her heart heavy in her chest as she fought back the tears in her eyes. *I was the one in control back then…and I hurt him so many times before he ever hurt me…no wonder he doesn’t want me near him…*

Her eyes narrowed with determination as she hurried her pace toward the shelter where she had left Spike.

*There has to be a way to fix it…*

She knew that repairing their damaged relationship would likely be a more difficult battle than defeating any demon she had ever faced, but she was up to the challenge. She had long since admitted to herself that she loved Spike, though she had thought him lost to her long ago.

Now that she had him back again, she was willing to do whatever it took to fix things between them, to have the relationship with him that she had never allowed in the past.

She looked up as she neared the shelter…and froze in her tracks, her racing, hopeful thoughts stumbling to a sudden halt in her mind as the sight before her eyes stole her breath and caused her heart to both sink with despair and race with rising fury.

Melinda sat under the shelter beside Spike, her knees against his, one hand on the back of his neck and the other resting on his leg.

And she was kissing him, tenderly, like a long-lost sweetheart.

Buffy stood rooted to her spot, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene before them.

Melinda’s hand moved gently through Spike’s hair as she tenderly kissed him, leaning in closer to him as her hand slipped unconsciously further up his leg…and for his part, Spike did not seem to be putting up much resistance.

Buffy felt a sick sensation of mingled anger and shock and hurt wash over her, and suddenly, she knew that she could not stay and watch any longer, not without reacting with just the sort of violence she had resolved in which not to engage only moments earlier.

Not against Spike. Never again.

And with that resolve in mind, there was nothing for her to do but to walk away.

**************************************

The vampire and Slayer across the clearing were as oblivious to Buffy’s leaving as they had been to her entrance, lost in the moment that had overtaken them.

Spike was stunned by the girl’s cautious advances and froze momentarily…before his mouth softened against hers. Warning alarms in the back of his mind told him that this was a bad idea; and yet, it was the first tenderness and compassion he had experienced in as long as he could remember. He couldn’t find the strength to reject it…until he felt Melinda’s hand slide slowly up his thigh, and her mouth searching his, deepening the kiss.

*Buffy…*

It was more of a struggle than he wanted to admit to show any protest to the young Slayer’s advances. After all, Spike had spent the last several months in a situation where saying “no” was not an option. He knew that Melinda posed no real threat to him, had no desire to harm him in any way, but still, a quiet, fearful part of him panicked at the thought of her reaction to his rejection.

Reluctantly, he pulled back just slightly, turning his head away from her just enough to break the kiss, his cool breath shallow and shaking against her skin as he struggled to regain control of the mingled fear and longing that filled him to overflowing.

Melinda froze, all too aware of the trauma through which Spike had been recently. The last thing she wanted to do was to make him feel uncomfortable with her. She cleared her throat awkwardly, lowering her head as she leaned back, withdrawing her hands from his body as an apologetic smile crossed her lips.

“I…I’m sorry,” Spike whispered, swallowing hard, his eyes focused on the ground. “I didn’t…”

“No,” Melinda gently cut him off. “No, Spike…*I’m* sorry. I shouldn’t have…I mean…I totally understand if you don’t—*that* you don’t…” Her voice trailed off as she found that the right words would not come to her, and an awkward silence descended between them for a few moments.

Finally, she broke it again, her voice soft and sympathetic as she explained, “I do care about you, Spike. Admire you. I mean…you saved my life. Can’t blame a girl for being a little bit sweet on her hero, can you?” When the weak attempt at humor fell flat, Melinda went on in a more serious tone, “I know that you…you still have feelings for Buffy. And…she still has feelings for you.”

Spike looked up at her sharply, a dubious question in his eyes; but Melinda held his gaze firmly, refusing to back down from her statement. After a moment, she reached out to close her hand over his again in a brief gesture of support before rising to her feet.

“I’ll just…see you later, okay?” she said quietly. “Again…I’m really sorry.”

Spike watched her walk away for a few moments, then looked down again, thinking over what had just happened and the things Melinda had said. Buffy’s hurry to get away from him had made it clear: whatever feelings she might have once held for him, they were gone now. Melinda was wrong about that. In fact, Spike found it amazing that Melinda herself even held any feelings for him. At this point, it was hard for him to see himself as she saw him – a hero.

He glanced idly around the clearing, his gaze rising to take in the swiftly darkening skies, and he felt a sense of alarm as he realized how late in the day it was. He felt sick at the thought of returning to the compound, to the emotional and mental anguish – not to mention the physical degradation – that Rayne no doubt had planned for him.

But…did he really want to bring Rayne and his men down upon the Slayers simply because he didn’t have the courage to bear the lot that had been cast to him? He knew that, if he were gone much longer, the sorcerer and his staff would be searching for him; and once they began to search the woods surrounding the compound, it was only a matter of time before they found Buffy and her group.

He waited impatiently for the sun to sink below the horizon enough to make it safe for him to move about again. After what felt like an impossibly long time had passed, the shadows grew long as the afternoon faded into twilight, and Spike rose to his feet on shaking legs, scanning the campsite for any sign of the one Slayer in particular who still held his interest.

Nervous under the scrutiny of the younger Slayers, he made his way out of the shelter and across the camp, searching for Buffy. It didn’t take him long to find her; all he had to do was follow the steady thumping sound.

He found her standing in front of a makeshift punching bag made of various bedrolls and such packed into a large knapsack that she had strung up from a nearby tree,. She was pounding the thing with brutal force, her eyes narrowed and occasional grunts of effort passing her lips as she delivered blow after blow, shaking the unfortunate punching bag until Spike was quite sure that, any moment now, it would burst.

Something had his Slayer on the warpath.

*Not your Slayer,* he reminded himself grimly. *Never yours…never again.*

His every instinct warned him to just walk away. Buffy’s mood was one of the more volatile in which he had seen her, but Spike knew that he could not just disappear back into the compound without telling her what he was doing. That could only serve to cause more problems for the Slayers than they already had if Buffy decided to launch some kind of a rescue not knowing that he had left willingly of his own accord.

He cleared his throat quietly, hoping to gain her attention, but Buffy remained oblivious to his presence behind her.

He tried again, hesitantly, “Slayer?”

Buffy stopped for a moment, her movements frozen, her eyes closed, her jaw set in a terse line, and Spike watched her visibly struggle with her temper. For one panicked moment, he was certain that, if she turned around, it would be to light into *him* instead of the punching bag.

Thankfully, she did not turn around, just resumed her attack on the helpless equipment; but she did not respond, either.

Spike frowned, wondering what he might have done in so short a time to merit her rejection—her completely ignoring him like this—but he could think of nothing…nothing recent, anyway. He swallowed back his rising apprehension, drawing slowly nearer to where she stood. She did not respond or acknowledge his presence in any way, so he moved around until he was standing beside her, almost in front of her, so that she could no longer pretend that she did not know he was there.

He tried one last time, his voice hushed and uncertain, “Buffy?”

Her lips pressed into a firm, irritated line for a moment before she huffed out the words between her continued blows to the punching bag, “Whatever it is…it’s not…my business.”

Spike flinched slightly, hurt and unsettled by the barely bridled fury in her voice. He fought the desire he suddenly felt to just walk away, to leave her to her anger; after all, it didn’t seem that she really wanted him around at the moment, anyway. Still, he cared too much for her to simply walk away without letting her know what he was doing.

“I just…just wanted to tell you,” he persisted softly. “It’s time…time for me to go back. To the compound.”

The blow Buffy had been throwing flew to the right of the punching bag, missing it entirely. She stopped her pummeling immediately, whirling around to face him fully, so suddenly that Spike took a step back in irrational, instinctive alarm.

Buffy did not seem to notice his reaction, too stunned by his words. “Huh? *What*?”

Suddenly uncomfortable, Spike looked away.

“Are you insane?” Buffy demanded, taking a step forward into his personal space in a subconscious attempt to force an answer.

Spike kept his gaze averted, painfully aware of the scorn and disapproval he felt in her voice and her gaze. His age-old defense mechanism of sarcasm came back momentarily as he retorted quietly, “Thought it was none of your business?” When Buffy seemed taken aback, he swallowed hard, immediately regretting his defiant words and tone. “’S just…can’t let you all be put in danger ‘cause of me,” he explained in a softer voice. “If ‘m gone much longer they’ll start searching. Wouldn’t want you lot to lose your advantage.”

Buffy’s voice was furious, but held a slight edge of panic as she cut him off, demanding, “Who told you to play the martyr, Spike? Your new groupie?”

Spike’s eyes widened in surprise at her words, and his mind raced as he began to put the pieces together. He studied her face, the flash of possessive anger in her narrowed eyes, the taut, defensive stance of her body, and realized, all at once, that she must have walked in on the brief moment he had shared with Melinda…must have walked in and walked away with the wrong impression.

Months of conditioning to believe that he was low and unworthy made his heart flood with shame at the accusation in Buffy’s eyes. Guilt overcame him at the near betrayal he had committed against the love he had held for her for so long – and strangely, with it, a near hysterical feeling of amusement.

For so long, he had desperately sought her affections, and she had rebuffed him at every turn. Had he shagged Melinda in front of her a couple of years ago, she likely would have done no more than call him disgusting and walk away – or perhaps stake him for his lewd conduct in public.

And now, now when he had all but given up on the idea of ever experiencing anything with her again…

“You’re jealous,” he murmured, amazement in his eyes, which were twinkling with a subdued mirth in spite of his fear and confusion. “You’re *jealous* of…”

“*Not* my business!” Buffy snapped, cutting him off again as she turned away from him, resuming her attack on the punching bag. She added under her breath, “Not anymore.”

Spike winced slightly at the finality he heard in her voice, though he still felt the wild impulse to laugh at the sad, stressful irony of the whole situation. He stepped closer to Buffy again, feeling the need to reach out to her.

“Girl has a crush, love. Can’t see why…why she’d want me at all, really. Can’t even see why you’re doin’ all this. But…but she knows where I stand…where I’ll always…” His voice faltered over those words, and he suddenly looked away, swallowing hard as he struggled with his own tears.

He heard her frenetic blows stop abruptly and sensed rather than saw when she turned toward him again, but he could not bring himself to look up at her again. His tears made him feel ashamed under the scrutiny of her gaze, and he tensed as he felt her move toward him.

But then, her small, warm hand had closed gently around his, and she was pulling him closer to her, though he was still not facing her, his eyes averted as he tried to avoid her knowing gaze. Buffy shifted in closer to him, his side bare inches away from her as she reached out a hand to brush his cheek softly.

“Always, huh?” she whispered, and the tenderness in her voice broke something within him.

Relief and fear and uncertainty mingled in Spike’s heart in a tumult of confused emotions as he yielded to her encouraging hand and rested his forehead wearily, gratefully against her shoulder.

“Always,” he whispered, his voice nearly a sob of anguished devotion. “Always.”

*************************************

Giles hardly dared to move any nearer to the edge of the rooftop from which the boy had just fallen, fearful of what he would see on the unyielding concrete five stories below. Hesitantly, he took a couple of steps forward, staring down in shock at the crumpled form, legs and neck bent in unnatural directions that spoke of the finality of his actions, however unintentional they might have been.

Giles’ eyes widened in alarm as he heard soft footsteps and saw a familiar figure slowly approaching to crouch down beside Andrew’s still form. As he watched in trapped horror, the figure raised her head to stare up at him through dark, accusing eyes. Her piercing gaze held his, even at a distance, as she slowly straightened until she was standing.

As bold and confident and powerful as ever she had been, Willow stared up at him in unyielding accusation, and her words stated the irrefutable fact of what he had done.

“He’s dead. You killed him.”

“If you think for one second that I am going to just let you walk back into that place, Spike, you are completely and totally insane.”

Buffy stood with the blond vampire at the edge of the encampment as the last light faded out over the horizon, glancing anxiously over his shoulder toward the compound, though it was no longer visible in the gathering darkness. Her heart pounded with fear, and her mind raced as she tried to think of a way to make him see reason.

It was hard to make him see anything when he could barely look at her.

“I haven’t got a choice, Buffy,” he insisted, his voice low to disguise the slight tremor it carried, though he wasn’t quite convincing her. “I’ve got to go back if only for tonight, love. If I don’t, they’ll come looking for me…and most likely find you, and…and I can’t let that happen, Buffy. I can’t.”

The sound of low, whispered voices drew an irritated glance from the Slayer as she noticed the group of younger Slayers that had gathered near where they stood, trying to appear as if they were talking amongst themselves, while listening in on the rather interesting exchange between her and her vampire ex-lover. When her death glare was met only with averted glances, Buffy decided to ignore them for the moment.

Getting through to Spike was more important.

“Spike, I can handle Ethan Rayne, all right?” Buffy argued, reaching out to grip his arm and hold him back as he tried once more to back away toward the compound. “If he comes looking for us…”

“You won’t be ready,” Spike cut her off gently. “Buffy…you don’t understand the kind of power he has now. This isn’t the same as the Halloween pranks he used to try. He’s…he’s powerful, Buffy. You can’t…”

“*You* can’t go back there!” Buffy snapped, but the sting was taken from her tone by the tears that glittered in her eyes, making it obvious that her anger was only a result of her fear for him.

Spike was silent for a moment, drinking in the look of love and concern in her eyes, desperate for it even as he tried to fight it. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly as he ran a nervous hand through his disheveled hair. Reluctantly, he met her eyes again as he gently pulled his arm from her restraining hand, immediately softening the gesture by taking her hands in his arms and pulling her closer to him.

Feeling terribly self-conscious under the none-too-subtle scrutiny of the baby Slayers, Spike lowered his voice as he edged in nearer to her, trying to keep his words outside their range of hearing.

“I know you don’t like it, love. I don’t…don’t like it either.” Buffy winced at the tremor she heard in his voice, the way his eyes darted away from hers in an attempt to hide the mingled emotions there. Spike’s gaze remained downcast as he continued in a low, controlled tone of voice, “But…but what if I stay…and he comes after me, and…and finds you…and the whole soddin’ mission is blown, love? What then? What good will that do me, or you, or…or any of these girls countin’ on you?”

Buffy opened her mouth to argue only to find that she had no argument for those words. She couldn’t stand the thought of Spike going back into the compound to be abused again; and yet, if her reckless actions caused the entire mission to fail, then they could all be killed, or Spike could end up stuck there for good. Her stomach twisted inside her at the thought of herself and the others being beaten by Rayne and his men in a surprise attack.

If that happened, Spike would certainly be re-captured…and there would be no one there to help him get away.

“He’s not gonna kill me, love,” he assured her, his voice very soft and quiet, hushed to protect his words from the inquisitive ears of the other Slayers. “I’m…I’m too valuable to him alive.”

Buffy’s throat went dry at those words and the painful reminder of just what value Spike held for Rayne and his slavery operation. Her eyes welled with fresh tears as she tried to block out vivid, unbidden mental images of the sorts of things for which Rayne wanted to keep Spike alive.

“They’ll hurt you.” The words were out before she knew she was going to say them in a tearful whisper as her hands found his arms, clinging to him as he held her, her head falling forward to rest her forehead against his as she closed her eyes against her tears. “If you go back…they’ll hurt you.”

Spike forced his usual smirk to his lips, though it did not quite reach his eyes. His mildly sarcastic tone drew Buffy’s eyes back up to his in surprise as he countered, “Think I don’t know that, pet? What? Sayin’ you won’t be interested anymore if I’m sullied?” He swallowed hard before adding in a voice barely over a whisper, “Little late to worry about that, love.”

Buffy’s heart broke within her at the thinly veiled sorrow and insecurity she heard in his voice, and she reached a gentle hand up to touch his face, her other arm slipping down around his waist to draw him closer to her. It hurt to know that he felt that he would mean less to her because of the suffering and abuse he had endured. It was not his fault and did not in any way change the way she felt about him, but Buffy was not sure how to make him see that, especially with the girls standing about, not-listening to their conversation.

She tried to catch his eye, but Spike kept his gaze lowered, swallowing hard in a visible attempt to control his emotions as Buffy pulled him gently in closer to her, raising one hand to stroke tenderly through his hair. His eyes closed at the desperately needed touch of affection, and Buffy’s heart broke a little more when she felt his hands trembling on her waist, unconsciously clutching her tighter as if afraid that she might vanish away at any moment.

Her hand trailed from his hair, down his back, as she leaned in closer, his lips parted slightly, her warm, shaking breath falling softly against his throat as he let his head fall slightly to the side, allowing her access as his shoulders shook with the sobs he was so valiantly suppressing. When Buffy’s lips pressed gently against his cool skin, Spike drew in a nearly silent gasp at the contact he had longed for, for so long, even as tears stung his eyes.

Because he knew that he could never be worthy of her…never again.

Still, he thirstily drank in the affection she offered while it was within his grasp, well aware that all too soon the chance would have passed completely. Buffy held him close to her, cherishing the closeness of the embrace she had desired so strongly over the last two years without him, simply savoring the simple pleasure of having him so near at last.

However, the trembling of his body in her arms, his soft gasps as he struggled to control his own emotions, soon reminded her of the troubling dilemma of the moment, and Buffy wrapped her arms around him more tightly as she tried to think of the words to soothe the vicious torments of his self-doubts.

“You’re not sullied, Spike,” she whispered, the words falling against his throat with her breath, inaudible to the curious Slayers around them, yet clearly heard by the vampire in her arms. “I don’t care what they’ve done to you…what they’ve made you do. It doesn’t begin to *touch* who you are…what you mean to me.”

Just slightly, without meaning to, Spike turned his head away, swallowing painfully against the hard knot in his throat, his eyes closed against her words, trying to shut them out, because he knew they were only an illusion.

*If she really knew…what I’ve done…what’s been done to me…she’d be sick. She’d never want to touch me…look at me…ever again.*

“I love you, Spike,” Buffy whispered in his ear, her hand once again running through his hair as she held him close. She gently turned his face back upward toward her with one hand, the fingertips of the other against his temple so that her hand shielded him partially from the staring eyes around them. Once he had reluctantly met her eyes, she gave him a warm, encouraging smile as she declared in a soft, tender voice, “I always will. *Nothing* can change that.”

Spike stared at her in wonder, shaking his head slightly, barely able to fathom the idea that after all the time that had passed, all the things they both had been through, she might still love him.

*She wouldn’t…not if she knew…*

“Always, Spike,” Buffy insisted, her words falling into perfect time with his own painful thoughts. “Wasn’t that what you said? Well, it’s how I feel, too. I will *always* love you. Ethan Rayne and the others…they don’t matter to me. All that matters to me right now… is you.”

Spike found that although the words were still hard to believe, to accept, he could not bring himself to look away from her. He was as lost in her as always. All had vanished from his sight but her face; all sound was drowned out by the impossibly beautiful words she was speaking to him.

Even the ever-present voice that had haunted his thoughts…the voice of his former master.

Spike’s eyes widened with the realization that the tormenting memories, the images that had been brought back to his mind with vicious clarity by Rayne’s frightening associate, had disappeared. Somewhere between the startling kiss he had received from the confused young Slayer earlier that evening, and now, finding himself once more in the safety of Buffy’s arms, Siron’s tormenting influence had vanished away.

Somehow, he had escaped it.

*But you have to go back.*

“Buffy,” he whispered, looking up at her again with an effort. “I…I…”

“What?” she prompted him gently, her hand caressing down his cheek, her eyes hopeful and questioning on his.

“I have to go.”

Spike’s heart was smitten with regret as her face fell, her eyes averted as she pulled back slowly, reluctantly. She swallowed hard, and he watched her face working with the visible struggle between her desires, and what she knew had to be done. Finally, she looked up at him again, sorrowful resolution in her eyes.

“Okay,” she whispered with a nod. “I…I know.” Her jaw set, her eyes narrowing as she added, “But you’re *not* staying. I’m going to get you out of there.”

Spike nodded, knowing better than to express the doubts that filled his mind, forcing a smile to his lips. “I know,” he agreed softly. “I know.”

“Really,” Buffy insisted, easily reading the uncertainty in his eyes, as always, all too expressive. “Spike, I’m going to stop Ethan Rayne, and I’m going to take you out of here. Okay?”

“Okay,” he echoed, nodding more emphatically, blinking back tears, and well aware that he had to go *now* while he still had the strength to make himself do what had to be done. “I’ll…I’ll see you soon.”

“You will,” Buffy assured him, still sensing the doubts he was trying to conceal. “You will, Spike. I’m going to…”

Her words broke off as he abruptly tore himself from her grasp, mumbling, “I…I’m sorry. I’ve gotta…I’ve gotta go…”

She longed to go after him, but knew that she had to let him go. Her eyes welled with tears until she could no longer see him disappearing into the darkened woods, and she turned her back, sniffling as she rubbed angrily at her eyes with the back of her hand. She glanced up in irritation to see the girls still gathered around, looking uncomfortably away from her, but still casting surreptitious glances in her direction out of the corners of their eyes.

“What are you staring at?” she snapped in a tearful voice, wincing inwardly at her own display of weakness. “Get to your tents! I’ll let you know when it’s time to leave them.”

It only took one look at her face for the girls to know that it was definitely in their best interest to give her distance. Within moments, Buffy found herself alone in the clearing. She sank down onto a large rock behind her, covering her face with her hands as she finally allowed the tears she had been suppressing for Spike’s sake to flow down her cheeks.

Behind her, one of the young Slayers slipped unnoticed past her and toward the slave compound, on a mission of her own.

*********************************************

By the time Spike made it back into the compound and to his own room, he was shaking violently. He took several deep breaths, struggling to regain his composure, to slow his rapid, unnecessary breathing, aware that, if someone walked in and found him in the state in which he was, it would be more than obvious that he was hiding something.

With a weary, trembling sigh, he opened a cupboard and took out a folded towel, running a nervous hand through his hair as he headed toward the door, deciding that a hot shower might be just the thing to relax his nerves a bit and help him prepare for whatever Rayne decided to throw at him next.

In spite of his resolve, he jumped as the door opened before he could touch it, and suddenly Ethan Rayne stood before him. The sorcerer gave him a questioning look, one eyebrow raised, as he took in Spike’s hand reaching toward the door and the towel under his arm. Spike lowered his gaze, afraid that the man would read in his eyes the truth about where he had been, what he had been doing, while Rayne had been bringing the chaos within the compound under control.

“Security has been restored,” Rayne informed him with a cool smile, which did not falter as he added calmly, “I thought I’d instructed you to stay in this room.”

“I…I did,” Spike replied, his voice low to disguise its trembling. “I haven’t…”

“Until now.”

Spike looked up, startled by Rayne’s words, and then followed his gaze to the towel under his own arm. His eyes widened as he realized that Rayne had been referring to his preparations to leave the room *now*, which meant that he was likely unaware that Spike had left the room at all. He thought fast, nodding as he ran a hand through his hair again, taking a step backward as the magician moved into the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

“Right. Yeah. I just…things sounded quiet, and…and you hadn’t been back, so…I thought it might be all right if I just…”

“You don’t ‘think’, Spike,” Ethan snapped, a dangerous note in his terse voice. “You follow orders. Anything you might ‘think’ that contradicts my orders should be immediately disregarded as a bad idea. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Spike said softly, his eyes lowered humbly as he put the towel away again and stood awkwardly with his back against the wall, his hands clasped and wringing anxiously behind his back. “I…I’m sorry.”

“Yes, what, Spike?”

Spike grimaced, knowing immediately what Rayne was seeking. “Yes, *Master*.”

“Very good.” Spike could not bring himself to look up, but he could hear the smirk in Ethan’s voice, could feel his nearness as the man slowly, casually approached him. “I can already tell that you’re going to do very well here, Spike, as long as you can remember your place, and be careful not to…step outside the bounds of that place.”

Rayne remained silent long enough that Spike finally had to look up at him, raising fearful eyes to those of the sorcerer, now standing just a few feet in front of him, his piercing gaze locked onto Spike’s face skeptically. Once Spike looked at him, Rayne smiled, his eyes narrowed in menace as he reached out a hand to slowly grasp Spike’s arm just above the bracelet locked around his wrist.

Spike did not resist as Rayne raised his arm between them, deliberately stroking his thumb across the metal, and somehow, with that touch, sending tiny warning sparks of electric pain shooting from the bracelet up Spike’s arm. The knowing look in the magician’s eyes made it clear that he knew more than Spike had hoped, but was not going to openly mention it.

He had already said more than enough without words.

“Do we understand each other, Spike?” Rayne asked softly.

“Yes…yes, Master,” Spike whispered, his eyes averted, struggling to control his quickening breath and the fear that caused it. “Please…”

Rayne dropped his arm abruptly, and Spike instinctively clutched it in his other hand, backing up another step against the wall, swallowing convulsively as he closed his eyes in relief that the encounter had not gone any farther.

“Your next customer will be here in a few hours, Spike.”

The vampire looked up sharply again, apprehension in his eyes.

“She’s a well-respected American government official, and you will treat her with the utmost respect, Spike. You will give her no trouble of any kind and will do exactly as she tells you.”

It was a statement, not a question, but Spike nodded his assent as he voiced it.

After all, he had no other choice.

“Yes, Master.”

************************************

Buffy stayed in the clearing where Spike had left her for a long time, trying to make sense of her swirling, tumultuous thoughts and feelings. The girls were content to leave her alone now that the drama had passed, and she found when she finally glanced at her watch that nearly an hour had gone by.

She sighed as she rose to her feet, resigning herself to heading back into the camp.

A soft cracking sound behind her had her spinning around to face the unknown source of the footstep she had heard, her hands already raised in front of her in a fighting stance. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice hardened and unafraid as her eyes narrowed, peering into the darkness.

“Whoa, whoa,” Melinda’s familiar voice brought her hands down again as the girl stepped close enough to be seen. “Just me…relax.”

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” Buffy snapped without really meaning to. Then, frowning, she added, “I thought I told you all to get back to camp. Where have you been?”

“I had something I had to do. I’ll tell you all about it, promise.” Melinda smiled as she took a step closer to the older Slayer. “But I’ve got a question for you first.”

Her smile remained enigmatic as Buffy raised one eyebrow, waiting for Melinda’s question. When it came, it made the girl’s intentions no less mysterious.

“Have you ever considered going into politics?”

Buffy and waiting were definitely very unmixy things.

Especially when her vampire was locked inside a slave compound waiting to be violated and abused in ways she did not even want to begin to imagine. Of course, on the rather meager bright side, at least she knew that he would not be abused again until the person she was waiting for arrived – and if all went well, not even then.

*Never again,* she vowed silently as she crouched at the edge of the clearing that Rayne used as an airstrip. *No one’s going to touch him ever again.*

She glanced up at the clear evening sky, still showing no sign of any activity, before sighing as she glanced at the girls around her. A half dozen of the junior Slayers accompanied her, waiting on the edge of the airstrip, keeping a careful eye on the few demon guards Rayne had dispatched to guard the perimeter of his property. Apparently, the airstrip was just outside that line, only a few hundred yards from the beginning of the mystical field that kept the slaves inside.

Suddenly, Buffy heard the soft beating sound of an approaching helicopter and gestured sharply for the girls to keep low and quiet as she edged closer to the clearing while still remaining out of sight. Within a few minutes, the helicopter had landed, and the demon guards moved forward to meet the new arrival.

A rather severe-looking woman with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun emerged from the helicopter, flanked by two security guards of her own in dark suits. A few words were exchanged between her and the demon guards, though Buffy and the others were too far away to hear what was said.

At any rate, within a few minutes, the woman’s guards got back into the helicopter and left, leaving her to be accompanied to the compound by Rayne’s men. As soon as the humans were out of sight, Buffy gestured the girls forward, and they slipped into the clearing, swiftly moving up behind the little party and easily dispatching the pair of demons on either side of the woman.

Much to Buffy’s disappointment, she seemed to be quite human. As much as she wanted to make her suffer as she had no doubt intended to make Spike suffer, Buffy knew that she could not seriously harm this woman, could not do much to her beyond taking her prisoner.

Of course…there was no rule that said she had to be gentle.

In minutes, she and the younger girls had their prisoner gagged and bound and back at their campsite. The woman was seated on a fallen log, glaring in outrage at her young captors, struggling uselessly against the tight ropes that held her wrists behind her back.

Buffy brought out a small duffel bag from her own tent and rejoined the group of girls surrounding the prisoner, sitting cross-legged on the ground and opening the bag.

“So, how does this work again?” one of the girls asked uncertainly. “I mean…what exactly are we doing? What is all that stuff?”

“Just some gifts from a friend,” Buffy murmured distractedly as she began to remove various magical articles, herbs and powders and other things, from the bag. “Complete with full, step-by-step instructions on how to use them.” As she spoke, she took a sheet of paper from the bottom of the bag, smiling a little to herself as she began to read it, whispering, “Thanks, Will.”

As she scanned the paper, Buffy rose idly to her feet and approached the prisoner. Without even looking at her, she reached over and abruptly ripped the tape off her mouth with a bit more force than was necessary.

The woman let out an indignant cry of pain, jerking her head away from Buffy, before glaring back at her again defiantly.

“What do you think you’re doing? I demand to know what is going on here! Who are you people? Do you really think you can get away with this? This is kidnapping! I am an American government official! Do you realize what can happen to you for this? What I can *do* to you all? I have connections…I have power…I have…”

“Okay, that’ll do,” Buffy cut her off in a bored voice as she grabbed her hair to hold her head still and placed a fresh piece of tape tightly over her mouth. She smirked as she met the woman’s eyes and ripped a good-sized chunk of hair from her head, her smile widening at the woman’s muffled cry of rage and pain.

“Sorry.” She shrugged, sounding not at all sorry. “Need it for the spell.”

As the woman struggled to continue her threats and protests, Buffy’s smile slowly faded, her eyes on the woman narrowing in a dangerous way as she thought again of what the woman had been going to the compound for – all the things she might have intended to do to Spike.

Barely restraining her fury, Buffy gripped the woman’s hair again and yanked her head backward, leaning in close to her face. Her voice was softer, but had lost all trace of its casual tone as she spoke.

“You know, you’re in no position to make threats, honey,” she informed the prisoner. “At the moment, it’s all I can do to remember that you’re supposedly human and therefore off limits to me as far as slaying goes. If I were you, I’d just relax and try not to draw attention to myself, because the longer I think about it—what you are, what you were going to do—the easier it is for me to forget that.”

She jerked the woman’s head back harder as she added softly, “Are we clear?” As she spoke, she moved the woman’s head for her in a parody of a nod, though by now the politician’s eyes were wide with fear, and Buffy was pretty sure she would have nodded on her own.

“Good.”

The Slayer smirked as she released her head with a sharp slap to the back of it and returned to the magical supplies laid out on the ground in front of her, adding the clump of hair to the pile.

“Okay, girls,” she said in a voice of grim determination, holding out her hands to the girls and gesturing for them to sit down on the ground with her in a circle. “Let’s get to work.”

***********************************

One moment Giles was standing on the rooftop, staring down at Andrew’s broken body and the young witch standing over it.

The next, he was surrounded by swirling blackness, his thoughts a whirl of confusion as he tried to remember where he had been, what had happened. He had been…following the boy up to the roof. He had to find him, had to stop him before he did any more damage.

And then…what had happened?

He stared uselessly into the darkness that surrounded him, trying to get his bearings, trying to remember what had happened.

“Andrew?” he called out quietly, almost hopefully.

Suddenly, his memories came flooding back, filling his mind with the nightmare image of the innocent boy’s body crashing to the ground with a sickening cracking sound and the strange, unnatural angles of his body as Giles had stared down at him.

Andrew was dead.

He could not answer. But…

More cautiously, Giles called out, his voice softer and uncertain, “Willow?”

The girl materialized out of the darkness directly behind him, though Giles did not see her at first. Her voice startled him, and he spun around to face her with a jump.

“It’s funny, the kinds of things you can find out in deep meditation…even from across the ocean.”

Willow’s hair swirled around her face in an unnatural wind, her eyes black as midnight as she stared at him coldly, and Giles was dreadfully aware of the immense power the girl possessed. Willow’s feet did not touch the ground, and she hovered a good foot or so off it so that she seemed taller than usual – taller even than Giles – and far more frightening.

“Willow,” the Watcher began carefully, his voice low and even. “You do not know what has happened here. You didn’t see…”

“I didn’t have to,” Willow cut him off, her voice soft and calm, though her fury was obvious in her demeanor, the expression on her face…and the power Giles felt all around him. “I felt it.”

Giles stared at her, shaking his head slightly, confused by her words.

Willow was quiet for a moment, studying his face as she continued, “His terror. He knew you were going to kill him, Giles. He also knew he didn’t deserve it…but he accepted it. I *felt* his acceptance…and his courage. He was willing to die to stop you from doing something terrible.”

Giles found that the excuses he had been preparing mentally no longer seemed adequate, and he was struck silent by her words. He closed his eyes, trying to shut them out, but found that he was faced instead by only the nightmare image of Andrew’s terrified face as he had fallen from the rooftop.

He shook his head, raising a hand to his forehead as he tried to escape the image, and opened his eyes with a gasp…to find himself no longer in the darkness of Willow’s making or on the rooftop, but in the quiet, warmly lit library of the Council Headquarters.

Her eyes back to their normal green, Willow was standing in front of him dressed in a rather ordinary, youthful pair of jeans and a jean jacket as she looked up at him, her feet firmly planted on the floor. Her eyes were full of sorrow as she studied his expression.

“So what was it?” she asked matter-of-factly, though the look on her face was solemn and unyielding, a fire in her eyes that reminded him that the power she had just displayed could be accessed again at a moment’s notice. “What did you do that was worth committing murder to hide?”

***************************************

As Buffy and the girls completed the spell, Buffy drew in a deep breath, steadying herself as she opened her eyes and looked at the others. It was a positive, yet unsettling sign that they were all staring at her with stunned expressions on their faces.

“Okay,” she sighed. “Anybody have a mirror?”

One of the girls silently obliged, reaching into her pocket and taking out a compact and handing it to Buffy, all without taking her eyes from the older Slayer’s face. Buffy opened the compact and looked warily into the mirror, and though the spell had achieved its desired effect, her eyes widened with shock at the sight in the mirror.

Well…not exactly *her* eyes.

Buffy looked exactly like the bound woman on the log who was now staring at her in wide-eyed horror, struggling to speak again behind her duct tape gag. Her blonde hair had been replaced by dark brunette, and her green eyes were now steely grey. The woman was considerably less pretty than her, too, but that was not the worst of it.

Buffy’s lips turned downward in a pout of dismay as she gasped, “Ewww! This is terrible; I have crow’s feet!”

“It’s just…temporary, right?” one of the girls guessed uncertainly. “I mean…how long’s it gonna last?”

Buffy’s smile faded as she stared grimly into the mirror a second longer before snapping it shut and handing it back to its owner. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Hopefully long enough.”

She left the girls guarding the prisoner and headed toward the compound, well armed and alert to any sign that her disguise might not be believed as she approached the two weak, weary-looking guards Rayne had posted at the main entrance to the compound.

Fortunately, they seemed to recognize her, and Buffy wondered uncomfortably how many times this woman had come here in the past. The demons bowed slightly as she neared them, one of them speaking to her in a tone of respect.

“Welcome, Senator. Mr. Rayne has been expecting you.”

As he spoke, his partner took out a hand-held radio and let Ethan know that she had arrived. Buffy waited stiffly for the sorcerer to arrive, trying her best to keep her nerves under control. Of course, it became increasingly easier as the demon guards made it clear that they suspected nothing; they thought her to be exactly who she appeared to be.

Of course, Ethan Rayne knew her – the *real* her – and she was aware that facing him would be the real challenge. There was a definite risk that he would recognize her mannerisms, her voice, if she was not careful to keep them well-disguised.

There was also that danger that she would tear his limbs from his body on sight and ruin her chances of actually getting to Spike at all.

As Rayne approached her, holding out his hand in a welcoming gesture, she forced herself to smile stiffly and shake his hand, deliberately restraining her grip so as not to hurt him and give herself away.

“Welcome, Senator,” Rayne echoed the words of the guard. “Please do come in. It’s been quite a while since your last visit. How have you been?”

“Very well,” she replied curtly, in an impatient tone of voice. “And in no mood for pleasantries, thank you.” She hesitated just an instant, fighting back the bile that rose in her throat at the very thought of the next words, even as she forced them from her throat in a clipped, authoritative voice.

“Just take me to what I’ve paid for.”

Buffy tried to affect a calm, authoritative air as she made her way through the halls of Ethan Rayne’s compound, eyes alert and observant as she tried to take in every detail she could, every turn, every door that might be important to know later. Her heart was pounding with a mixture of anxiety, adrenaline, and sheer rage as she fought to control the ever-rising anger and disgust she felt for the sorcerer and maintain her façade for as long as was necessary.

She glanced discreetly through the open doors of some of the rooms, wanting to take note of any possible useful information, but found that most of the rooms whose doors were open were unoccupied. It was the sounds coming from the closed doors they passed which were most disturbing to her.

Desperate screams of anguish…tearful, babbled pleas for mercy…despairing sobs of those who had lost all hope of escape. Buffy’s every instinct cried out for her to kick in those doors and free the pitiful creatures who were so cruelly enslaved. Her mind envisioned Spike behind each closed door, his broken voice pleading for mercy, and it was all she could do not to give in to her instincts and blow her cover.

As heartless as it felt to do so, she had to ignore the others…at least until she had gotten to Spike.

When Rayne came to a sudden stop outside one closed door, Buffy felt her heart drop, and her throat went dry with a sudden, irrational fear that had nothing to do with the idea of getting caught.

“Here we are, Senator,” Rayne announced with a dramatically elegant wave of his hand in the direction of the door. “Your purchase for the evening is just beyond this door.”

Buffy was doing her best to avoid actually talking, not sure if the glamour extended to her voice or not, and definitely certain that it would not extend to her particular unique way of speaking. Rather than take a chance on Rayne’s recognizing her voice or mannerisms, she simply nodded once in a terse, businesslike manner.

Ethan gave her an ingratiating smile as he took a key on a leather cord from around his neck and used it to unlock the door before placing it carefully in her hand and leading her inside.

Buffy’s breath caught in her throat, and she struggled not to show any visible reaction to the sight that met her eyes.

Spike.

He was standing beside a small, simple bed, just…waiting. His wrists were shackled together in front of him in heavy cuffs. His chest was bare, and he wore only a simple pair of black pants and a thick black leather collar with a chain leash attached to it around his throat. His head was bowed respectfully, and he dared not look up at her and Rayne as they entered the room.

“He’s been thoroughly trained,” Ethan explained to Buffy, not acknowledging Spike in any way. “He’s very obedient and will do exactly as you tell him to do. However, should you feel the need or desire to punish him,” the sorcerer continued with a wicked smirk, “do feel free. I only require that you do him no permanent damage and that he remains alive…in a manner of speaking.”

Buffy was too angry to speak, her protective fury rising with every suggestive word; so, she just nodded curtly, raising a single eyebrow in Ethan’s direction when he did not leave immediately. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, the mage returned her nod in courtesy and quietly left the room.

At first, Buffy could do nothing more than to just stare, taking in Spike’s submissive posture, his bowed head and the slight tremble of his limbs which she had not noticed in Rayne’s presence. She had never seen him so subdued, so obviously fearful – and it was heartbreaking.

Drawing in a deep breath, she crossed the room toward him, stopping when she was close enough to reach out a gentle hand and touch his arm. Spike did not flinch…did not move, in fact.

At all.

He froze completely under her touch, not even breathing as he so often tended to do. He didn’t look up at her, just waited in silence for her command.

The thought chilled her blood.

“Spike,” she whispered, making her voice as gentle and reassuring as possible. “Look at me.”

A slight frown formed on his face, and he raised hesitant eyes to her face – but not her eyes. It was clear from his reaction that Spike had no idea who she was; but, then, how could he? she realized, suppressing a small, ironic smile despite their situation.

“Spike,” she tried again, deciding to come straight to the point. She couldn’t stand to let him linger in fear another moment. “It’s me. The girls are still outside, taking care of some last minute preparations.” She hesitated, her voice softening as her fingers trailed back and forth on his arm, and she added, “I’m here to make sure you’re safe when everything goes down.”

Spike’s eyes, focused on her mouth rather than her eyes, widened with wonder as he recognized the way her lips moved, the way the bottom one quivered as she fought to suppress the most difficult of her emotions. He cautiously raised his gaze to her eyes, noting the earnest intensity there.

The moment his eyes met hers, Buffy knew that he recognized her. Still, there was hesitation in his expression. Of course, she couldn’t blame him. Who knew what sorts of vile deceptions and mind games Ethan and others had played with him since he had been here? She did not appear in any obvious way to be herself, so why should he believe that it was anything but a trick?

Spike was going to need proof.

Buffy took a small bundle of hair tied together with herbs from her pocket and held it up between them, silently calling Spike’s attention to it for a moment before slowly, deliberately setting it aside on the table. She held his gaze the entire time, never looking away, waiting for his inevitable reaction when the effects of the spell faded away once her body was out of contact with the senator’s hair.

Spike drew in a sharp, startled breath, his fear melting away into disbelieving relief when he saw that it was really her, really *Buffy*…her eyes staring back at him, her reassuring smile on her perfect lips, and most importantly, her familiar, unmistakable scent assuring him beyond all doubt that this was no trick. This was real.

Buffy had come for him.

Spike tried to hide his elation at the simple fact that she was really *there* with him. He wanted nothing more than to hide himself in the comfort of her arms, to cherish her very nearness and lose his fears, the shadows and ghosts that haunted him, in the scent and feel of the woman he loved.

He knew that their position was very dangerous, and Buffy had a lot to think about at the moment, but he could not help but to reach out toward her, raising his cuffed hands to touch her.

The sight of the cold metal that bound him was enough to bring him down from the blissful pleasure of her presence, to remind him of where he was…*what* he was. His joy turned to ashes, a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and he bowed his head again, dropping his hands without touching her, suddenly overwhelmingly ashamed that she was seeing him here, like this.

Buffy’s warm hands on his wrist drew his attention reluctantly back to her as she carefully unfastened each cuff, loosing his wrists and then dropping the shackles to the floor with a careless clatter. Spike swallowed hard, fighting back tears from the very gentleness of her touch as she tenderly soothed his raw, reddened wrists with her fingertips, caressing in gentle circles over the abraded flesh.

“You’re safe now, Spike,” she assured him softly. “I’m staying here with you tonight…*all* night. No one’s gonna hurt you again.”

Spike grimaced slightly, feeling terribly awkward and ashamed by her open reference to the abuse and degradation he had endured. He forced his eyes up to hers, drawing a suggestive smirk to his lips from sheer habit, trying his old leer on for size in an attempt to ease the tension of the scene.

“You’re my mistress for the night, then?” he suggested in a tone that was trying for playful, but didn’t quite reach it. “Gonna remind me what a Slayer is?”

Confused by the conflicting feelings that filled her at his words, Buffy blushed, averting her gaze. His words and even the shackles she had removed reminded her of the games they used to play, the things they had done during those dark, unforgettable months; and, in spite of herself, she felt a brief rush of arousal. Even so, she was horrified by the very thought, forcing it down…because the chains, his words, also reminded her of the torment his existence had become, all the things through which he had been.

Of course, Spike had already noticed the faint trace of arousal she had felt. Emboldened by it, he reached out with tentative hands and pulled her gently closer to him. She had come to him, come to take care of him, and he wanted to please her. Whatever Buffy wanted from him, he would gladly, gratefully give it to her.

Buffy froze under his touch with a sharp intake of breath, her heartbeat quickening at the smooth, cool feel of his familiar hands running slowly up and down her arms. It was the first touch they had shared since his death in the hellmouth that had felt truly intimate. She wanted him – God, how she wanted him! – but she knew better than to accept what he offered her now.

Tenderly she reached up and placed her hands on either side of his face, moving slowly so as not to startle or frighten him. Spike tensed slightly, but then relaxed under her touch, holding her gaze and not looking away as she stroked soft fingertips over the fine planes of his face, re-memorizing what was already so intimately familiar to her.

He waited, a silent question in his eyes, for her to let him know what she wanted from him. To his immense relief and overwhelming joy, there was no disgust, no revulsion in her eyes. She was clearly cherishing the contact with him, the feel of his skin under her fingertips and his touch on her own skin.

However, there was no trace of the blind, mindless hunger he had seen there so frequently during their brief affair, either. She was calm, seemingly content, even smiling in simple pleasure as she shifted slowly in closer to him, one hand dropping to his waist, the other sliding down to cup the side of his throat as she leaned in and gently kissed him.

As she slowly, thoroughly explored his mouth with hers, reacquainting herself with his taste, his responses, Spike found his anxieties about pleasing her, about her seeing him differently, fading away. All there was was him, and her, and one of the sweetest connections they had ever shared. The dreadful place around them, the danger of their situation, all was forgotten in the sweetness of Buffy’s tender embrace, telling him without words that he meant far more to her than a mere physical desire.

When Buffy pulled back from the kiss to draw breath, Spike lowered his head, breathing hard as well. His eyes caught the chain leash hanging down his bare chest, and he smiled a sort of sad, ironic smile as he lifted it, held it out and placed it in Buffy’s hand. She stared down at it through wide eyes before looking up at him in confusion, pulling back slightly as she shook her head.

Spike bravely put on his best mischievous grin, winking at her as he remarked softly, “Always been your willing slave.”

Dismayed, Buffy drew back farther, still shaking her head as she objected in a horrified voice, “No! No, Spike, I…I don’t want…”

“Buffy.” His quiet, sympathetic tone stopped her protest as he reached out to close his hand around hers. “Joking.” When she stared at him in bewilderment, he looked away again, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Gotta laugh or cry, love,” he explained in a low, cautious voice.

Buffy swallowed hard, momentarily torn, before pulling gently away from his hand and dropping the leash emphatically. She opened her mouth to explain that she did not see him that way, never would see him that way.

Before she could say anything, Spike withdrew slightly, suddenly sure that she was not just rejecting his attempts at humor, but him as well. It was just as he had feared, he decided, his heart sinking in anguished humiliation. She was hiding it well, but she *was* disgusted by what he had become.

She didn’t want him anymore.

“Spike…no…” Buffy spoke in a low, urgent voice when she realized his misunderstanding. “It’s just that it’s not supposed to be…”

Still, he turned away from her, and as he did, Buffy caught the end of the leash again, almost without even meaning to, trying to get him to face her. At the first slight tug on the leash, Spike froze, and Buffy froze, as the impact of the very fact that he was wearing the thing at all struck them both afresh.

Buffy felt tears spring to her eyes and fought them back, wanting to stay strong for Spike’s sake. At this point, her tears would only serve to reinforce his false ideas of what she thought of him. Neither of them could find words for a few moments as they struggled to come to terms with all that was happening between them, all around them.

“What’s going to happen tomorrow?” Spike’s voice was quiet and hoarse with unshed tears as he abruptly broke the silence between them.

Buffy took advantage of the subject change to close the distance between them, dropping the leash like the hated thing it was and moving in close to him, her hands resting on his arms and pulling him gently nearer to her. “Tomorrow I’m going to take you out of here,” she promised, her voice earnest and intense, shaking with determination. “I’m going to get you away from this place. Tomorrow…it’ll be over.”

“Over?” Spike echoed, a bitter smile on his lips, his eyes searching and fearful as they locked onto hers. “Sure about that, pet? How’s this plan of yours shaping up? Sure it’s gonna work out how you’ve planned, end the way you think?”

Buffy opened her mouth to assure him that she was, but found all at once that she could not give him that assurance. His honest question was like a blow, knocking her backward in time, back to the Hellmouth and the night before the battle, when she had allowed Spike to hold her in his arms and had never dreamed that it would be their last night together. She had been certain in that moment that for better or worse, they would be *together*.

And she remembered all too well how *that* had turned out.

Sobered, Buffy studied Spike’s anguished face, seeing clearly his need for her, as open and obvious as ever it had been. He longed to believe her, to trust that everything would be all right, but he clearly had his doubts.

And she could not blame him.

“Spike,” she whispered, shaking her head in apology. “I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t want to…to make promises that I’m not sure…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head again. “I mean…I don’t want to make things any worse for you…”

As she spoke, Spike drew in a deep, shaky breath and managed to regain some of his composure. Putting on a brave smile, he took her hand and laid her palm lightly against his chest, right above his heart, at the same time pulling her closer with his other arm around her waist.

As she stared up at him in waiting silence, he softly kissed her forehead, her temple, then sighed as he brushed his cheek across the top of her head and rested it there, just savoring the feeling of holding her.

“Love,” he reminded her softly, “doesn’t matter how it turns out. You know I’m willing, whatever you’re doing. Did you ever think I wouldn’t be?” He paused as he drew back, his expression solemn and intent as he met her eyes and added in a whisper, “Willingly bled for you…died for you, Buffy…and nothing’s changed…’m still yours, love…”

At those words, the tears fell, and Buffy wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him, so grateful to have found him again, despite the circumstances, and silently vowing to herself to never let him go.

“Oh, Spike,” she sighed tearfully. “I love you so much.”

At that, Spike broke down, his shoulders shaking as he lowered his head to her shoulder, clutching her to him and breathing deeply in an effort to control the sobs just below the surface of his attempt at calm.

“I’d do anything for you, Buffy,” he reiterated. “Anything…you know that.”

Buffy pulled back slightly, blinking back tears as she focused on his face, willingly losing herself in him once more. “Lie down with me?” she whispered, the words a tentative plea. “Just…just hold me…like we did that night? Please?”

Spike’s eyes widened with wonder, as he nodded slowly. A soft, rapturous smile spread across his face as he took her hand and led her to the bed.

“I don’t want to go home just so I can screw up again.”

“What exactly are you afraid of?”

“What if I go all veiny and homicidal again? And what if…?” Willow could not quite finish the question, her penultimate fear.

“…they won’t take you back?”

Giles knew. Giles always knew.

“Uh-huh.”

“Willow, we could spend another two years here training and practicing and learning to hone your powers, and still there’d be no way of knowing for sure that the friends you left behind you are still your friends.”

“Well, sure. I mean, if you put it that way. Duh.”

“I'd love to offer you some guarantee that you'd be welcomed back to Sunnydale with open arms, but I can't. You may not be wanted, but you will be needed.”

It meant more to her than she wanted to admit, as she replied with mild sarcasm, “That all you got?”

That patient, familiar smile was a greater comfort to her than anything Giles could have said. “For the moment, yes,” he admitted honestly.

Willow sighed, standing and turning toward the sidewalk. “Okay. I guess I’d better…”

Giles stood with her, opening his umbrella and picking up her suitcase.

“Trust yourself, and the others might follow.”

************************************

Giles felt sick to his stomach, his vision blurring in and out as he tried to adjust to what felt like a very sudden shift in position. All at once, he found himself with his back pressed against the ceiling, watching as his glasses fell from his face, the lenses cracking ominously against the floor.

He had no idea how long he had been there and struggled to make sense of his muddled, mingling memories of the past few hours. He remembered watching Willow below him in this very room, hearing her demanding accusation; he remembered several employees of the Council coming in, carrying Andrew’s still body; he remembered the boy’s wide open eyes, seeming to stare up at him, while the living people carrying him were completely unaware of Giles’ presence.

His attention was torn from his thoughts as Willow slowly moved to stand directly beneath him, her arms crossed over her chest as she regarded him in a coolly speculative manner, her eyes narrowed in accusation. He glanced around to see that they were once again alone in the boardroom before turning his eyes warily back to her. She watched him for a moment longer, a tight, humorless smile forming on her lips.

“You know, Giles, I always looked up to you.”

His fear and self-consciousness manifested themselves in anger as he rolled his eyes at her unoriginal joke and snapped, “How very droll. Willow, you must control yourself!”

Willow’s smile widened slightly, softening as well with a sort of sadness in her wide green eyes, and Giles realized that she did not appear to be under the influence of her magic as he had seen her several times before. Her eyes were their ordinary shade, as was her hair, and while she was solemn and clearly troubled, she did not seem obviously angry.

Confirming his own observations, Willow stated calmly, patiently, “I’m perfectly in control, Giles. But you really, *really* aren’t.”

Suddenly, with a dizzying, spinning motion, Giles found himself seated in a sturdy armchair in front of the fireplace. With a groan, he let his head fall back against the back of the chair, gasping for breath and struggling against the sense of nausea and unbalance that accompanied the sudden, unnatural motion. He closed his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass, vaguely aware of Willow’s soft footsteps on the hardwood floor as she approached him.

He opened his eyes with apprehension to see her crouched in front of him, more than a little afraid of what she was capable of doing in her anger, with her knowledge of what he had done; but when his eyes met hers, he was stunned to see that she appeared every bit the same girl he had known and loved for so many years – the same uncertain, trusting child, looking up at him with confusion and bewilderment in her wide green eyes.

Searching his face earnestly, Willow softly reminded him, “You were my mentor, Giles. You helped me…more than you could ever know, when no one else could get through. You helped me come back to myself, and…and I’ll always be grateful for that. I want to help *you*, too, Giles…but you haven’t even answered my question yet.” A bit of her anger returned to her trembling voice as she demanded, “What was it that was *so important*…that it had to cost Andrew his life?”

Giles held her gaze, but his mind was replaying distant images from the past, images of the vampire he had betrayed into the hands of Ethan Rayne: Spike’s first arrival in Sunnydale when he had promised to kill Buffy “on Saturday”; his sitting idly by and observing while Angelus had tortured him nearly to death; his betraying them to Adam; stalking Buffy during the early days of his doomed sexual obsession with her, even to the point of chaining her up in his crypt, proving the danger he posed to her and requiring Buffy to disinvite him from her home.

And then, Giles saw the vampire, sobbing brokenly on his knees, on the freshly turned earth of Buffy’s grave…saw Buffy, admitting that Spike’s obsession with her had not been so very doomed after all – she had slept with him. Xander had told Giles about Spike’s attempt to rape Buffy, and it had been all Giles could do not to track the vampire down right then and punish him for daring to violate her in such a way.

He remembered his grim satisfaction, his firm belief that he was doing what was best for his Slayer, as he had kept her busy, waiting for Wood to end Spike’s useless existence.

But then, his mind filled with a series of very different images: images of Andrew’s over-eager smile, the excitement the boy had carried into everything he had ever done; the way he had gradually been growing, maturing into something far more than the simple annoyance he had once been.

And then…Andrew’s terror-filled gaze as he had swayed on the edge of the roof, locking onto Giles’ eyes in a combination of pleading and accusation before toppling over completely and falling to his death.

Giles’ voice was soft, shocked and haunted as he shook his head, at a bewildered loss.

“For the life of me, Willow…I can’t remember anymore.”

************************************

As the evening hours passed slowly into night, Buffy and Spike lay together on the bed in the room that had been provided for them, still and quiet, simply enjoying the tender nearness and the precious moments they had been allowed to share it. Buffy leaned against the headboard of the bed, half-sitting, half-lying down, while Spike rested his head against her stomach, his hands gently clutching her sides and holding her close to him.

Every now and then, he raised his head, placing a tender kiss against her barely exposed midriff as her hand smoothed slowly up and down over the cool, bare skin of his back. She couldn’t take her eyes from him, watching him in wonder as he silently worshipped her, caressing her skin with kisses before laying his head down again and closing his eyes in contentment.

Neither of their hands seemed content to stay put, constantly moving, sliding over the surface of the other’s body as if in a subconscious attempt to prove the reality of the reunion they were experiencing.

Quietly, her voice trembling with emotion, Buffy confessed, “I never thought you’d be with me again.”

Spike looked up at her for a long moment, the intensity in his blue eyes nearly taking her breath away before he finally whispered, “I didn’t either.” He stared into her eyes, drinking in the very sight of her for which he had longed for years now, scarcely able to believe that she was actually here with him.

Buffy’s eyes lit up, her expression softening with affection as she promised softly, “We’re gonna make it right this time, Spike. I promise. I’m not gonna let anything come between us this time, and we’re gonna be together. For…for as long as you want me.”

“Well, then, that’d be forever.”

Spike replied with a tender smile, a vulnerability in his eyes that touched her heart, bringing to mind the memory of a quiet, close night they had spent together in a dark, abandoned house a few nights before Sunnydale had, quite literally, fallen into hell.

As if his own words had brought an uncomfortable conflict to his mind, Spike abruptly looked away, swallowing hard, all at once strangely awkward. Buffy frowned, reaching down a tender hand to tip his head back up toward her, her frown deepening when he passively submitted to the gesture, almost as if by habit.

A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as she realized that it probably *was* habit. Spike had been trained to submit to any manipulations that happened to be forced upon him.

Buffy pushed those troubling thoughts from her mind, waiting until he reluctantly met her eyes to give him a reassuring smile. “What?” she gently pressed him. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

Spike shook his head, his eyes averted for a moment before he met her gaze again with a sigh of resignation. “Can this last?” he asked softly. “I mean…something always seems to happen, love. Doesn’t seem we can ever be really happy, does it? Not for long. Makes this seem…not quite real, yeah?”

“But it *is* real,” Buffy insisted softly. “We’re gonna make it. We’re gonna take this place down and get out of here, and afterwards…afterwards…” She hesitated, her expression growing serious as she emphasized the words again, “We’re gonna make it.”

Spike studied her expression for a long moment before allowing his tension to fade into a soft smile, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “All right,” he agreed at last with a nod. “I trust you, love. I love you, and…and I believe you.”

His open, trusting words warmed Buffy’s heart, and she leaned forward, pulling him up slightly to kiss him as she did, slowly and tenderly, taking her time and enjoying the simple sweetness of intimate contact. When they separated, she met his eyes again, her own glistening with tears.

“I love you,” she whispered. “You know I love you…right?”

Spike nodded, smiling through his own tears. “I know.”

They lay there together in peaceful silence for a while longer until they began to hear distant noises around the compound, what seemed to be the sounds of combat. Spike raised his head, his brow creased with worry, but Buffy gently smoothed her fingertips across the worry lines on his forehead, drawing his uncertain gaze up to her calm smile.

“It’s all right,” she reassured him, nodding. “It’s a good thing. Trust me, it’s progress.”

“You sure?” he asked quietly, still frowning.

“It’s the girls,” Buffy insisted.

Spike hesitated, glancing between her face and the door for a few moments before reluctantly sitting up.

“Spike…”

“All right, I believe you. It’s the girls. But…all the same…think I’ll lock the door. Wouldn’t want the wrong person walking in on us, would you? Seeing me here with you, looking like…well, you?” Spike pointed out, one brow raised as he waited for her response.

Buffy relented with a sigh and a shrug. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Spike rose from the bed and approached the door, already feeling better in the knowledge that they would at least have some warning before anyone walked in on them, if it was nothing more than the sound of Rayne’s key in the door.

He was only a few feet from the door when a blinding explosion of light and thunderous sound demolished it, reducing it to so many splinters of shattered wood and metal. The force of the explosion sent Spike flying backward and into the cabinet against the wall, where he fell to the floor dazed and disoriented by the power of the impact…and the magic he felt in the blow.

Buffy rose from the bed with a small cry of alarm, but before she could make a move toward Spike, Ethan Rayne was standing in the suddenly very empty doorway. A smug smile formed on his lips over eyes full of anger and malice as he demanded, “Did you really think I wouldn’t sense the presence of a foreign spell in my own home?”