Part One

---

After Spike killed the Slayer of Sunnydale, he decided to stick around awhile. Dru was still a bit on the weak side. They’d just gotten their digs set up all nice-like. Had a bunch of minions obeying his every whim. Un-life was good. Why move elsewhere when things were shaping up so nicely?

He had the run of the town, making himself right at home, for close to two years when a new Slayer came to town. He’d been just about to seek greener pastures when news started flickering around about some tiny blonde hanging around the cemeteries. He heard about so-and-so and then what’s-his-height going missing, but they were lackwits so balls to them. Then it was Sasha who disappeared one night. Disappeared from her post right outside the back alley door to the Bronze, while Spike and a few hand-selected others were at his usual table conducting business.

The next night it was the front doorman that got dusted.

“The front bloody fucking doorman, Dru!” Spike cursed. A glass figure shattered against the wall, punctuating his outburst.

Drusilla’s China-blue eyes took in the shards of what had been one of her newest presents, as they scattered across the floor. She pouted and looked back up at the extremely agitated blonde vampire pacing the floor.

“My people are supposed to be a bit more capable than that! She couldn’t possibly have been a Slayer for that long. It’s only been a couple years since I wasted that Jamaican wench. No fun at all, that one was.” He paused, thinking back on his third Slayer for a moment.

With a shake of his head, he renewed his pacing. “Guess I’m just going to have to go ahead and bag my fourth.” He stopped, and looked at Drusilla, sitting on the bed, as if just realizing she was there. “What do you think about that, princess?”

Drusilla mournfully looked at the broken pieces of glass littering the floor. She looked at their arrangement the way a seeress looked for patterns in cast bones. “Breaker,” she declared, low and with venom.

“Break her. Exactly.” Spike was looking at a spot on the bed, eyes distant. He snapped his fingers and his attention was back on Drusilla. “That’s exactly what I’ll do. Have a bit of fun, a bit of tease, before I do her in.”

His eyes followed the curve of her pale, flawless neck as it met collarbone, then trailed the cream-colored lines of Drusilla’s silk dress to where it dipped between her breasts. “Thinks she can toss me about by killing my guards. The frail won’t know what hit her.”

He dropped both hands to the bed, walling her curled up legs, and pressed a kiss to her neck. “We’ll get a bit more excitement out of Sunnydale, yet.” She remained stiff, unyielding against his kisses until his hands joined in the seduction, one sweeping up her thigh, the other weaving through her long hair. “We’ll paint the town red one more time before we go,” he promised softly, pushing her down against the bed.

Drusilla looked up to the ceiling, pushing her mind past the pipes and the metal, into the clear night sky, into the stars, as his kisses wandered downward. She could see what was coming. Her eyes were open. Her eyes were wide open.

---


“I want to get inside next time. Really shake things up.”

Buffy’s Watcher regarded her thoughtfully. She was perched on the side of his living room armchair, despite several past admonishments not to, hugging a textbook to her chest. He slowly shook his head. “I think you’d be pressing your luck, Buffy. Everyone inside the Bronze are his people now. Except for the actual people, of course,” he added ruefully. He wasn’t anxious to push a showdown quite yet, particularly not in a place where everything could go wrong terribly fast. He did not want to repeat Rupert Giles’ mistakes.

“Wesley,” she said, features set, every line in her body stubborn and willful. “If I only stick to guys out by themselves, he’s going to think I’m scared. That that’s all I can do. Pick them off one by one.”

His brow furrowed. “You have a point.”

“Besides, this William the Bloody guy and all his evil minions won’t even know I’m there. They don’t know what I look like.”

“Perhaps not, but they can sense you. They can feel you in a manner very similar to how you feel them. And crowd or no, they will pick you out or force you to reveal yourself.”

Buffy looked dismayed for a moment before brightening. “Willow. She said she used to do magic. She could do a spell.” Wesley looked at her doubtfully. “Like a cloaking spell, but just for Slayer tingles, not the whole me. Something that hides the supernatural.”

“Well…” Wesley started, consideringly, “It’s possible she might be able to whip up something to that effect, but you might have a hard time convincing her to even try. I’m under the impression that she hasn’t dealt in magic since her friends died.” He paused, and looked at the young, blonde teenager in front of him. Barely eighteen, she brimmed with youth, naïveté, and strength all at once. “All right. If Willow can create something that adequately hides your Slayer imprint, then you can proceed to strike within the Bronze.” He smirked slightly, in a rare display of amusement when it came to Slayer business. “If that doesn’t ruffle William the Bloody’s feathers than nothing will.”

“Oh, there will be ruffling,” Buffy said, fingering the print-out of an odd, old-fashioned picture of this supposedly infamous vampire. The Council had faxed it over several nights ago. Wesley had called the picture a daguerreotype. Or rather, a copy of a daguerreotype. When we finally go head to head, I’ll do much more than that.

The whistle of a teapot sounded from the kitchen and Wesley got up from his chair. “If Willow proves unwilling or unable to help, then perhaps I’ll be able to dig up something myself. Though it might take a bit longer.”

Buffy nodded smartly, “Right.”

When Wesley turned his back, she quietly slid the print-out into the pages of her textbook and dropped it into her book bag.

---
Part Two
---

If anyone had asked Buffy why she took the picture, she wouldn’t have an answer for them. She didn’t exactly know why herself. There was just something about it. Something about the look in his pale eyes. The tilt of his chin as he looked into the camera. There had been other pictures – more modern ones; throughout the decades. Some he’d posed for, others taken on the sly. Buffy wondered what the going rate was for photographs of notorious vampires. She wondered how many people died in the process of getting them.

There was no picture of him transformed. Full on fang face. And that was weird. Most vampires she’d come across, that was the only face she saw. But not with this one, apparently.

Buffy sat, one leg bent under, on the side of her bed. She stared down at the print-out, gripping it with both hands.

The shrill cry of the telephone cut through the silence of the room and Buffy jumped before catching herself. Rolling her eyes, she tossed the photo aside. “Geez, morbid much?” she muttered to herself before rolling on her side and reaching the phone on the nightstand.

“Hello?”

“Buffy? It’s Willow Rosenberg. I’m sorry if I’m calling too late, I – ”

“Oh, it’s fine. Trust me, you have to call way later than this before Mom blows her top. So what’s up?”

“Well, I finished it. That spell you wanted.”

Buffy blinked, grip tightening on the receiver. “Really? Wow, that was fast! You must be awesome at this magic stuff, huh?”

Willow laughed, embarrassed. “I-I wouldn’t go that far. It was a pretty simple spell. I put it in a charm, so you’ll just have to wear it and you’ll be good. I can meet you on campus tomorrow if you like. ”

“I really appreciate this, Willow. I know it must be hard after everything that happened with - ” Buffy jolted to a stop, wincing. Hello foot, this is my mouth. “Everything before I came.”

“You know what they say. You have to start somewhere,” Willow said with another nervous, awkward laugh that seemed to say she’d rather not start at all.

“It’s really going to help me out. I mean really.” Buffy glanced at the picture on her bed. “They’ll never see me coming.”

----

Buffy shivered in the fall evening air. Her dress, while party-worthy and super cute, was not ideal for keeping warm, considering her legs below mid-thigh were completely exposed to the cool, night air. They were necessary, however, if she was going to pull off this whole shebang right under William the Bloody’s nose.

She stood, waiting in the line at the door of The Bronze, and passed the first test easy as pie. It was a two-parter. Part the first: see if Willow’s charm really fooled the new door-vamp. Buffy had stopped by Willow’s dorm room, and the girl, rambling and nervous, but pleasant, thoughtfully packed the charm into a small leather sachet that could be worn as a necklace. When choosing her outfit, Buffy’d picked an off-the-shoulder dress made of heavy sweater material that hid the small bump of the sachet underneath rather nicely.

Buffy smiled winningly at the very bored looking vampire as she handed him her ID. A small knot of tension in her gut loosened as he glanced at the ID and handed it back indifferently. She had the feeling that vamp doormen were more concerned with your supernatural qualities than if you were drinking underage. As he gave the ID back, a spark of interest made him perk up. He gave her a blatant once over and smiled in a lecherous, icky sort of way that made the second part of her test – not killing him – that much harder.

“I might have to catch you later, Betty,” he said, with a wink and smile that was all teeth.

Buffy felt something in her jaw tick, but she held her smile firmly in place. “Oh, you can count on it,” she said, not waiting for a reply before quickly walking into the club. A couple more seconds around that skeeze and her plan of dusting some vamps on the inside would crumble to dust. And not dusty in the undead, bloodsucker sort of way, either. But hey, the charm had worked beautifully.

She took in the crowd as she headed over to the bar, intent on figuring out exactly where every single one of the bad guys were before she made her move. Grabbing a stool, she ordered a beer. Both bartenders were vampires. It was hard, turning her back on them in order to scan the packed dance floor, but they hadn’t even blinked twice at her. Buffy reminded herself to thank Willow again. Her vampdar was in overdrive, keeping her nerves completely on edge. Forcing herself to relax, she took a sip of her beer and looked out over the crowd for potential targets.

Slowly, stretching her senses, she was able to pick out the vampires from the humans. There were fewer than she would’ve thought. Unless they had a secret back room where they all lurked and plotted evil plots. Willow had said that this William the Bloody ran a pretty tight ship and didn’t let any of the vamps actually feed at the Bronze. Apparently he didn’t want the humans scared away; he wanted things to stay as they’d been. Wesley had scoffed at the idea, but Buffy had to admit it – it wasn’t the giant human buffet she’d imagined.

Still, that didn’t mean she was going to dust every last one of them.

With a smug smile, Buffy started to take another sip when someone jostled her, knocking her shoulder. A small splash of beer sloshed over the edge of the glass and landed on her boot. She turned to glare at them and almost spit-sprayed beer all over her assailant. Standing mere inches away from her, taking her in, was none other than the Master of Sunnydale himself. His blue eyes slowly traveled over the curve of her body in the russet-colored jumper, and down her smooth, tanned legs to where they met shiny, black leather ankle boots.

With a long a black leather duster and bleached blonde hair, he looked a little different from the pictures, but it was definitely him. As soon as recognition hit, Buffy froze in shock. But by the time his eyes actually made it back up to her face, she’d forced her body to untense. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

Slowly, head tilted to the side as he looked at her, he smiled. “Well,” he drawled, “I certainly haven’t seen you in here before.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t help but give a little nervous laugh, and prayed he just thought she was shy. “I’m new in town.”

His grin widened and she realized her heart was going in overdrive. No doubt he could hear it going a mile a minute. “What’s your name, kitten?”

Did they know her real name? How much info did the bad guys actually have on her? She’d figured he might be here tonight, but she definitely wasn’t prepared for actual, sudden conversing involving whole words and sentences. “Joan,” she blurted out. “It’s Joan.”

“Hello, Joan,” he said, pronouncing the name with care, like he was getting a feel for its edges and curves. “I’m Spike. Let me get you another drink.”

She felt another spill of laughter threaten to bubble over and she quashed it down. William the Bloody was trying to get her drunk. And hitting on her. It was like being stuck in some weird alterna-verse. As if she would actually let him buy her a – “I’ll have an appletini.” The words flew out of her mouth completely of their own volition, and she snapped her jaw shut as soon as she realized what had happened.

His grin widened, obviously pleased, and he nodded to the bartender. Buffy, dismayed at herself, quickly pushed the feeling aside and focused on the job.

“Spike, huh? That’s an interesting name. How’d you get that?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “I’ve picked up all kinds of interesting names over the years.”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice falsely perky. “I just bet.”

The drink appeared on the bar counter and, gripping the delicate stem of the martini glass between two fingers tipped with black polish, Spike pushed it towards her.

Buffy took it. And looking him straight in the eye, without knowing if he thought her Slayer, or easy lay and prey, drank it straight down to the last drop.

Spike went completely still as Buffy put the empty glass down on the bar top, and she finally, well and truly, relaxed. The confidence that came with being the strongest girl in the room made her belly and limbs grow warm. Or maybe it was just liquor. He had no idea who she really was. She knew because he had only just seen her for the first time. Not as warm prey, not as a pretty, interchangeable blonde, but her. Buffy. Real, live, in the flesh, unknown quantity, Buffy.

A small frown crossed his face. A nagging thought was flitting just on the edge of his perception. There was something about the girl that he had seen before. That reminded him of someone. He just couldn’t quite figure out who. “You seem familiar… you sure we haven’t met, pet?”

Buffy smiled, teeth showing. “Definitely not.”

He looked at her, eyes keen, before pushing the nagging thought away and sliding on a lascivious smile. “Well,” he drawled, his hand landing on the side of her calf, “how about we get to know each other a little better, then?” Cool, calloused fingertips slowly slid up her leg, stopping halfway up her thigh. “What do you say?”

Buffy forgot how to breathe for a full five seconds. His eyes and voice were dark with anticipation and a naked throb of want ran through her. She licked her lips, tongue catching the sweetness of her lip-gloss. “I – ” I should stake him now, she thought. Right now. While I can still do it. “I have to go to the little girls’ room. Be right back.” With speed usually reserved for killing the evil undead, Buffy hopped off the barstool and made a beeline for the bathrooms.

She didn’t stop until the door was shut behind her. She leaned against it, heart pounding. A brunette washing her hands at the sink caught Buffy’s eyes through the mirror, giving her an odd look. Buffy forced a smile as she headed for a stall. “Boys,” she said, trying to regain normal points with the stranger, before locking herself in a stall.

She waited, listening for the sounds of paper towels and then the door swing that said the girl had left. Satisfied, she left the stall and stood in front of the sink and mirror. Absentmindedly, she ran a hand through her wavy blonde hair, smoothing it out, before automatically checking out her make-up. Her thoughts raced. Wild, wild things ran through her head. Half a dozen what-ifs, all accompanied by admonishments and no small amount of disgust at herself. But ultimately, everything settled on one single thought: Stupid.

Buffy focused on her reflection, looking at the girl in the mirror. “Stupid,” she said aloud. Her eyes flicked over the bronze-colored sink and royal blue walls. “And way tacky.” She squared her shoulders and opened up her tiny black purse for easy access to the stake inside. Time to do what she came here for.




Spike waited at the bar a good twenty minutes. He’d known the second she jumped up, the blonde wasn’t going to come back. He waited anyway. He waited, and watched the people milling about, not really seeing them as he fantasized about pushing up the russet jumper, running his hands up her lovely thighs and bending her over the bar. Fucking her blind before burying his fangs in her throat. Cock in her hot cunny, fist tangled in her golden hair.

Spike was completely monogamous to Drusilla. In his heart and head. His body was a different matter. If she had really cared, he would’ve stopped. But she didn’t. No matter how much he wanted her to.

He’d well and truly given up on the blonde and was sipping on a beer when he saw one of his minions weaving his way through the crowd. The second Nicholas came rushing over, apprehension took him. He already knew exactly what was going to come out of the younger man’s mouth. He had known it the moment he looked into her eyes as she took the drink. He had seen it, there in those savannah green orbs, some tawny creature. A predator, moving through the brush.

“Holly and Matthew are gone,” Nicholas whispered fervently. “Gone. The Slayer was here. We found their dust.

Spike was silent. Staring into his beer, his thoughts were completely lost. All he saw was the petite blonde. Joan. His lip curled in disgust. Doubtless, she’d made up the name. He should’ve known. Should’ve bloody well known. That look in her eyes. The way her heart had jackhammered against her chest when he came up to her. The peculiar smell lingering around her – an assortment of herbs and other curious scents.

“Wh-what do we do? What do you want us to do?” Nicholas waited, anxious for direction, for someone to take charge. But the current Master of Sunnydale was ignoring him and glaring into his beer. “Spike?”

Some thought flew across Spike’s face and he snapped his fingers. “Witch,” he sneered. “She stank of witch.”

Nicholas blinked rapidly, several times in quick succession. “Who did? Who stank of witch?”

“She must’ve had a charm or talisman or something on her, hiding what she was.” There was only one witch in town that’d be willing to make a charm for a Slayer. Spike ran his tongue over his teeth. He looked at Nicholas for the first time. “Get Tara. It’s time to pay Willow Rosenberg a little visit.”

---

She flicked a lock of hair out of her eyes. Sweat plastered small tendrils against her skin. She tapped a stake against her leg, staring down at the pile of dust. Seeing but not comprehending. Her thoughts were on another vampire. One with bleached hair and a wicked, lazy smile. One who had to be seriously pissed off by the dustings at the Bronze she had done two nights ago. Honestly, she was surprised that she hadn’t seen any sort of retaliation from Spike yet. An increase in attacks. A surge in the Sunnydale bloodsucking fiend population. Anything. But all remained quiet. Or as quiet as it ever was.

Two nights since William the Bloody trailed his hand along her thigh. A shiver crawled up the back of her neck. Their next meeting would be very different. Less with the buying of drinks and more with the fangs and pointy objects.

She wondered if he would put two and two together, realize it was her. More than that, she wondered why she almost wanted him to. She wanted him to know it was her. Buffy was tired of hiding in the shadows, of dusting minions that didn’t have a fighting chance. She wanted to fight him. She wanted it so bad excitement curled in her gut.

Buffy blinked and glanced at her watch. Only eleven. Still a couple hours to go before it was time to head back home. She heaved a weary sigh. She had an anthropology exam tomorrow and hadn’t really studied for it. As in, she hadn’t studied at all. She made a face. The stuff was so boring anyway.

Speaking of school work. Time to do a quick patrol through the campus and various dormitories. With another sigh, she turned and started the trek toward the university. College kids, she’d discovered, were a pain in the butt to protect. They were always out and roaming around at all times of the night, getting themselves attacked by evil things.

Her sneakers crunched through the grass. It had been a long, dry summer.

In the distance, rounding the corner of the library, was a man with his back to her. He carried no books or backpack or coffee. Her grip tightened round the stake, and she followed on swift feet.


----

Tara made a great vampire, in Spike’s opinion.

She wasn’t a moron like most of the masses. And though she may not be a brawler, she was scary as hell.

Case in point.

Tara was pressed against her old lover, all voluptuous curves and velvet-covered malice. She had Willow up against the window of some sciencey student lab room, blinds crackling underneath the girl’s back. One hand twined through her red hair, the other held her chin, holding her in place, maroon red nails gleaming in the fluorescent lights.

“Shh, shh, shh… it’s alright,” she crooned, full lips pouting. “We just came to have a little chat.”

Spike leaned back against the close door, arms crossed, a small smirk playing on his lips.

“Go away,” Willow whispered, eyes closed. Her voice was soft and tired, like she’d already given up. And maybe she had. Who could blame Willow Rosenberg for giving up after all she’d already been through?

Tara smiled with barely subdued glee. “No,” she said sweetly. She trailed a slow finger down the girl’s cheek, relishing the shuddering heaves of breath that shook her fragile, mortal body. “What’s got you so upset, baby? Relax, I’m here, I’ve got you.”

“What do you want?” Willow tried to make the words come out strong and steady. She really did. Instead, they were more like a choke.

“We just want to know what you’ve been up to lately. Made any new friends, perhaps?”

Willow’s heart sank. They knew. They knew about Buffy. Willow knew the second Buffy called she should’ve just hung up on her. She should’ve hung up immediately. “Wh-what do you mean?”

It was ironic really. In death, Tara had lost that old stutter. Now, bringing it out in others gave her a delicious thrill.

It would be nothing, however, compared to tasting her old lover’s blood. Or so she imagined. Tara spent hours planning the different scenarios in which this would occur. All of them ended in a hot rush of blood on her tongue, unbearably sweet, yet laced with electric, raw power.

“Now, now, sweetie. Don’t play dumb. It’s one thing you were never good at. Tell us about the Slayer.”

“I – ” Willow took a deep breath. “I don’t know much. I only met her once.”

Spike rolled his eyes, a flare of irritation going through him. His patience was rapidly disappearing. Nothing new, that. “What does she look like?” he barked. “What’s her name? Where does she live? Who’s her Watcher?”

Willow licked her lips, trying to focus on Spike and not Tara. Spike scared the bejesus out of her, but looking at him wasn’t quite the crippling stab to the heart that looking at Tara was. Tara, whose dyed blonde hair was up in an artsy bun. Her skirt a satiny cream, with a teal knit scarf falling over one hip. Tara, whose fingers were skittering sporadic designs on her stomach, her nails sharp like delicate cat claws. Willow knew if she could get Spike to leave, Tara would go, too.

“Her name is Sara. I don’t know her last name,” Willow said, her voice wobbling only slightly. Spike said nothing, simply stood with arms crossed, regarding her through narrowed eyes. “She – she’s young. Like sixteen or seventeen. In high school. She’s dark. Hispanic, I think. She – ”

With a roar and burst of speed, Spike was across the room, game-faced and golden-eyed. His hand slammed against the blinds next to her head, his fangs bared. Willow couldn’t stop a small scream of fear. “You’re lying to me, witch,” he snarled “I am going to let Tara braid your fucking entrails if you don’t start singing the truth like a good little bird real quick like.”

Willow was terrified. Now she had not one, but two vampires at her throat. Her clammy hands scrabbled at the window ledge. She had to hold onto something. And that’s when she felt it. Little particles singing beneath her fingertips. Pieces of earth, mixed in amongst the manmade materials that built the wall at her back. Tiny, small pieces, but there. And numerous. And usable.

Behind her back, Willow’s hands flattened against the wall. Earth wasn’t an element she had experimented with a whole lot up to this point. But she had read the spells. Had studied them just like she studied everything else. And really, there was no time like the present. Energy flowed from her hands into mortar and plaster, catching and charging the bits of metal and sediment and stone it found full of power. She just needed a few more moments.

“Buffy. Her name is Buffy.”

Spike looked at her incredulously, one eyebrow arched. “You’re not lying. Pity to her then.” He snorted, and pressed on. “A blonde,” Spike demanded.

She just needed a couple more seconds. She had to make sure she got this right, that there was enough power. Willow rapidly nodded her head. “Yes, and short.” Some expression other than menace blazed in his eyes, then faded as quickly as it came, leaving her wondering if she was just seeing things.

“What else? Where can I find her?”

Willow flexed her fingers against the wall and felt her power flex with them. Clenching her jaw, she met Spike’s eyes straight on. “I don’t know. But when I see her, I’ll tell her you said hi.”

Tara’s grip tightened around her. “What are you – ”

Willow didn’t let her finish. She focused her will like a sledgehammer. “Kalik ona roch!”

Like a blast of dynamite, the wall exploded outwards, taking the window, part of the floor above, Spike, Tara, Willow, Willow’s hearing, and a small mountain of rubble along with it.

-----

Buffy was just going past the auditorium when she heard the shatter of glass. She stopped in her tracks, head jerking around. It sounded like it came in the direction of the science buildings. Grip tightening round her stake, she took off at a sprint.

Tearing around the edge of a building, trainers pounding against the sidewalk, Buffy almost fell over when she skidded to a sudden stop. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting but this wasn’t it.

Lying in a pile of debris and glass that explained the brand new hole in the side of the building was Willow, Spike, and some other vamp. Illuminated by the fluorescent light from inside the lab, the three lay unmoving in a tangle of limbs, covered in dust. Buffy stared, brain synapses not translating the scene before her fast enough.

Spike’s hand flexed against a chunk of wall. It curled at a funny angle. His wrist was broken. Buffy fixated on his leather-clad back. Do it, she thought. Do it. She raised the stake. A low moan sounded, and her hand froze. Willow shifted against the rubble, wincing as she struggled to open her eyes. A bloody scrape marred her left temple. Beside her, the other vampire moved, causing the window blinds beneath them to snap in protest.

Buffy shoved her stake into the waist of her jeans. First things first, get Willow to safety. Gingerly picking her way around the vampires, she bent and unceremoniously hoisted Willow over her shoulder into a fireman’s carry. Her strength was more than a match for it, but her small size made it awkward. Holding on tight to the girl, she turned and started jogging toward the dorms, wanting to get out of the area. The faster the better.

The girl moaned again, followed by a small, croaking voice. “Bu – Buffy?”

“I’ve got you, Will. You’re safe. We just, just gotta get out of here,” Buffy huffed, gulping in air.

“Down. Put me down.”

Against her better judgment, Buffy complied, bending to let her roll against the ground as gently as possible. “We gotta get moving, Will. They’re gonna be back in the land of the conscious super fast.”

Willow clutched her stomach, gut churning from the combination of the blast and bouncing against Buffy’s sharp shoulder. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Vomit later. Safety now. Where’s your dorm?”

Willow blinked, trying to clear the dust from her eyes. “Um…”

“Willow.” Buffy seized her shoulders, voice firm. “Where is your dorm?”

“Rhoads House,” she croaked. “Number twelve.”

“Good. Now, c’mon.” Buffy slipped her arm around her, underneath her underarms, and hoisted her to her feet. The Slayer allowed herself a quick look over her shoulder. No sign of the vampires yet. Good. She started into a jog, half-dragging Willow. The girl was moving as quickly as she could, but it was clear the blast had left her worse for wear.

The dormitory loomed ahead in the darkness, door lit up by a light post. “Where’s your card key?”

Willow gasped for air before answering. “Back pocket.”

Using the hand not holding her up, Buffy dug into Willow’s jeans, coming up triumphantly with a white plastic card. She waved it in front of the door’s electronic lock and felt a surge of relief when it buzzed open. Slayer stamina was amazing, but her arms were getting tired and her lungs starting to ache. Quickly pulling Willow through the door, Buffy paused, allowing them both to catch their breath. Even if Spike did track them back here and break in, he’d still have to get an invite into Willow’s room. And she didn’t think he’d really want a confrontation with a broken wrist. Master of Sunnydale and Slayer of Slayers, or not. One whole hand out of commission was a bit of a downer in a fight.

She tightened her grip around Willow and started down the hall. “That was close, Will. Really close. How in the world did you end up in a dusty dog pile with two vamps? One of which being the grand vamp poobah of Sunny D?” Stopping in front of number twelve, Buffy dug her hand back in Willow’s pocket. Pulling out a key, she fitted it into the lock. “I mean, really, ‘cause it looks like it’s going to be a good story.”

Willow said nothing as Buffy ushered her into her dorm room and re-locked the door. She stood, face turned down, hidden by the dark.

Buffy groped for a light switch in the unfamiliar room, jarring a lamp with her elbow in the process. Giving up on overhead lights, she caught the lamp in its slow teeter and clicked it on. A low, warm glow lit the room.

“Willow?” Buffy reached out and brushed the girl’s short red hair away from her face. Tears wet her cheeks, her pale skin was turning blotchy. “You’re crying! Are you okay?” Buffy did a quick sweep for injuries she might have missed, looking first at her neck, then the rest of her body.

Willow gave a sharp, jerking nod. “I – ” A great hiccupping sob cut her off. Willow finally looked up, brown eyes full of misery. “I miss Tara,” she cried out, her fists clenched and trembling.

Buffy blinked. “Oh. Okay… who’s – ”

But Willow wasn’t listening. The tears wouldn’t stop, she was sore all over, her body absolutely drained from the spell, and her heart hurt. Her heart throbbed. Instead of a steady drumbeat, it was a wrenching lurch. “I miss her. I miss her and I need her. I don’t know if I can do this, if I can be here without her, n-not when she’s still walking around like that.”

Slowly, eyes wide, Buffy began to realize who the other vampire had been. The woman with the tangle of long, blonde hair.

“She’s not here, but that thing is, and I can’t help it, I love her. It doesn’t even matter that it’s not really her, I still love her.”

Guilt flared up in Buffy. It came on like a blush, coloring her cheeks. And she didn’t know why. Or rather, she kind of did. Buffy pulled Willow into her arms, holding her tight. Her tongue felt thick. What could she possibly say?

“Shh,” she crooned softly. She ran her hand over the girl’s soft red hair. “Shh…”

Willow’s voice died down, turning her cries into plaintive whispers. “I miss her. I miss her.”

For the second time in as many days, Buffy didn’t know what to do when it came to vampires. Her cheeks stayed flush, and she held Willow until the tears stopped falling and her body stopped shaking.

She held her for a very long time.

----

“What do you mean he knows who you are?” His words came out very even, very controlled. Like a parent making sure they heard their kid correctly before letting them have it.

Buffy fidgeted with the psych book in her arms. “Well, he doesn’t know everything about me, but he knows what I look like, and he knows my name.”

Wesley stared at her, jaw tight with anger. “You didn’t test Willow’s charm before you went in? You’re lucky you made it out alive.”

She shook her head sharply, temper starting to flare. “I did,” she said forcefully, “and it worked.”

Wesley took off his glasses and leaned back in his office chair, arms crossed. “Then how exactly did he find you out?”

“He didn’t really find me, so much as put two and two together.” There. That was close enough to the truth, right? Willow had been so upset last night, she didn’t need a dose of Watcher’s wrath, too. Buffy took one look at her Watcher and rapidly backpedaled. “Okay, okay, I think he just figured it out ‘cause as soon as I left, vamps went poof.”

“How exactly did he know you had left? He wasn’t supposed to know you were even there.”

Buffy took a deep breath. How was it that this man could make her feel all of eight years old? “We were kind of talking.” She was wincing before she even finished the sentence.

“Now, I really must be misunderstanding you,” he said sarcastically. “You were ‘kind of talking’ with William the Bloody?”

“It’s not my fault! I was just at the bar, scoping out the place, being all undercover Buffy, when he just came over and…started…hitting on me,” she finished lamely.

He looked at her, saying nothing, and then buried his face in his hands.

“Uh, Wesley?” she asked hesitantly.

A snort of bitter laughter was muffled by his hands, and he sat back up. He didn’t look at her. Instead, his eyes focused, unseeing, on his broad desk. “Of all the idiotic things to get you killed, it’s his bloody libido that does you in.”

A chill ran through her and she stood up straight. “Hey,” she snapped. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m not dead yet, you know.”

“You’re not ready to face him,” he said, matter-of-factly. “He’ll kill you.”

Buffy hugged her books to her chest. “If you decided not to write me off just yet, you’ve got my number. I’ll be out there killing the bad guys.” When he said nothing, she closed down completely. “I guess Watchers have the luxury of quitting. Not the Chosen One though. We still have to do our job.”

She turned and walked out. Wesley never looked up from his desk. How do you look at a twenty-one year old girl you know is going to die?

----

Buffy pushed her French fry through the ketchup mindlessly. Her gaze flitted upward to settle on the normally perky redhead sitting across from her. Today she was subdued. Better than this morning, when Buffy had left her dorm room. Definitely better than last night, when she’d finally gone to bed, tear-stained. But still not quite her usual self.

“You must really hate me for dragging you back into this, huh?” Buffy asked, not quite meeting her eyes.

Willow stopped slurping at her soda and fiddled with the straw. “No,” she said firmly. “Buffy, I was a part of all this before you came. I was ‘dragged into this’ the first time Kendra saved me from a fang-filled death. I may not be Chosen like both of you were, but I’m in it just the same.” Willow smiled slightly. “I could’ve gone to college anywhere. For a while, I was thinking Oxford. But in the end, I stayed in Sunnydale.”

Buffy shook her head in disbelief. “How? How could you choose to live like this?”

Willow’s eyebrows knit together before her expression cleared once again. “Now that I’ve seen how things really are…how could I do anything else?”

Buffy nodded and shoved the fry in her mouth. “Right,” she mumbled. She could very easily see how a person could turn their back.

Willow looked at her knowingly. “Don’t forget, Buff. You’re not the first Slayer friend I’ve had. Even if Kendra was very…different. But, it’s okay to wish for a normal life. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Buffy stilled. “Is that what we are? Friends?” she asked, guardedly.

“Of course! I mean,” Willow blinked, and a sudden shyness gripped her. “Unless you don’t want – ”

“No!” Buffy cut her off. “No, I want. I want very much.”

“Well, then,” Willow said happily, straightening in her chair, “Now we’re officially friends.” She held up her soda cup.

Buffy nodded, brightening, smiling. “Friends,” she pronounced, and they tapped sodas together before noisily finishing them off.

“You know what my first act as an official friend will be,” Willow asked with a smile.

“What?”

“Keeping you awake in psychology!”

Buffy rolled her eyes as they both got up, clearing away their trash. “Ugh,” she moaned. “You and I may have very different ideas of friendship.”

Willow just laughed, and the two of them strolled across the quad, chatting happily as they went.

Figuring out exactly who the Slayer was and where to find her turned out to be pathetically easy. The witch had crumbled like cheap drywall. And then she had actually crumbled the wall, but that was after he’d gotten what he wanted so who bloody cared. After he had the Slayer’s name, getting the info had been a mere matter of days – or nights, as it were. Of course, the fact that the chit’s name was Buffy certainly helped.

That old familiar burn of anticipation curled through him. But it was different this time, too. The excitement was sharper than usual. He could feel it, like blood laced with cocaine, racing through his system.

This one was bold as brass. She had waltzed right into his territory and batted her eyes until he bought her a drink. And then dusted two of his men. Fuck, he couldn’t wait to get his fangs in that golden neck.

Spike took an automatic drag on his cigarette, eyes distant and unfocused. Tonight was like the last four. He didn’t purposely imagine the tiny blonde. She just came.

His eyes drifted shut. She looked like she did at the Bronze that night. He thought about the strength in those tan thighs. Thought about how smooth they’d been under his fingertips. With a shake of his head he opened his eyes. Drusilla stood there, glaring murder.

Bugger.

She was white with rage, her mouth pursed with fury. Right, she could sleep with whoever she wanted, but the second he thought of some bird’s legs he was in the doghouse.

“Darling,” he began complacently.

“I want to go.”

He opened his mouth and promptly shut it. He’d been expecting something else. Something with a bit more recrimination and possibly violence. He tapped the ash to the floor, brain switching gears. “And we will. Just as soon as I kill this girl.”

“She’s already inside,” Drusilla spat, fists clenched with fury. “Turning everything about!”

Ah. There it was. He usually liked it when she was possessive. Stoked a hot little fire inside him. But tonight it was simply an annoyance; just accusations couched in her usual ravings.

Spike looked at her consideringly, trying to decipher her words. Stepping close, he ran his hands over her bare shoulders. “Do you know where she is, pet? Right now?” he murmured. “Tell me. Tell your Spike and I’ll make her go away. You’ll never have to think of her again.”

As quickly as it came, the fury drained out of her. She looked up at him mournfully, eyes wide. “This has all happened before. I don’t want to see it again.”

Spike looked at her. She was near tears. Giving up on gleaning information, he let the cigarette drop to the ground. Threading a hand through her dark hair, he cupped the back of her head, pulling her close. “Shh… you know I won’t let any nasty Slayer girl hurt you,” he whispered, tucking her head under his chin.

Her low, keening wail was muffled against his chest, and his arms tightened automatically. Even as he held her, his salvation, his black goddess, hazel eyes and blonde hair flashed on the edges of his mind. He had to kill the Slayer. If for nothing else, for making him think of her while Dru was in his arms.

---

Her kick fell just a hair short. Only the heel of her boot caught its mark. Instead of just solid, hard impact, there was impact – and then give.

The vampire howled and stumbled back, clutching his cheek. “Shit! That hurt, you bitch,” he yelled.

Buffy smiled and waggled the stake in her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right, that wasn’t my best work. Let’s try again.” Quick as a flash, she lunged forward and executed another high kick. This one was spot on, and his head snapped back with an audible pop.

“You like that one better?” she asked, perkily, and drove the stake into his heart. With a flurry of embers and ash, he disappeared in the breeze.

Smiling with satisfaction, she bent to grab her backpack. That’s when she felt it, that pull in her gut. Whirling around, automatically falling into a fighting stance, she scanned the darkness of the graveyard.

Nothing. There was nothing.

But she’d felt it. She’d felt – there. A flash of movement by one of the trees. She could make it out now. The shadow in the shape of a man, blending almost seamlessly in the darkness.

She stared at the black figure. It didn’t move. It just stood there, leaning against the tree. Watching her.

“Gonna hide out there all night?” Buffy yelled, putting bravado in her voice. The longer he stood there, just watching her, the more creeped out she got. How long had he been there? For the whole fight? Longer?

There was no reply. No movement. Nothing. And then she knew. It was him. Spike. A rock of fear settled in her stomach. She’d known it was only a matter of time before he found her, before he realized who she was. Still, she’d hoped it was going to take him longer than this.

She took a couple steps forward before stopping. With one hand on her hip, the other tapping her stake against her jeans, she sighed, feigning boredom. “I know it’s you, Spike. Are we gonna do this or what?” She was tempted to roll her eyes, just for good measure, but she wasn’t going to take her eyes off that shadow for a second.

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

“This is kind of disappointing. I’ve heard all these scary stories about you. And here you are, but the only thing I’m fighting is sleep.” She had no idea why these things were coming out of her mouth. Goading the Slayer of Slayers probably wasn’t the smartest of things to do. “Is that how you killed Kendra? Death by boredom?” And yet, the words kept spewing forth. Oh well, maybe if he focused on her words, he wouldn’t hear her heart slamming in her chest.

Moving forward the whole time, until he was only a good twenty feet away, she could finally make him out. He looked much like he did at the Bronze. Tight black T-shirt, tight black jeans, scuffed up, hideous black boots. The only difference was a long leather duster, glistening in what little moonlight there was. His pale skin and paler hair gleamed against the darkness.

He watched her, eyes keen and narrow. His face was closed off, with just a touch of arrogance curling his mouth.

Her nerves were so taut a muscle in her hand jumped, making her stake twitch. She eyed the careless way he leaned against the tree, took in his aura of utter calm and wished she had her sword with her. Swords were of the good. She definitely would’ve brought one tonight if she’d known he was going to be here.

Buffy wasn’t sure she could actually take him. Wesley certainly didn’t think so. But if she ran, he would just chase her down. Like a hound on a rabbit. And if she really had to die tonight, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be while running away.

“C’mon, Spike.” Crap, there she went again. “Let’s – ” She didn’t have a chance to find out exactly what was about to come out of her mouth next, because just then, he moved. He moved fast. Not fast like he ran, but fast like one moment he was twenty feet away, and the next he was behind her.

A solid kick to the back of her knees had them buckling, and the only thing holding her up was him. One hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back, the other resting over her suddenly very vulnerable seeming belly. His lips were at her throat, pressed to the side of her neck.

“What’s the matter, ‘Joan?’ Don’t like making the first move? Or were you waiting to see if I’d buy you another drink?” She heard a shifting crunch and then fangs grazed her skin. “I’m beginning to think you’re a bit of a tease. All strut and come-hither and no follow through. Didn’t think killing you would be this easy.”

She could feel every muscle of his jaw move as he spoke, he was pressed that close. “That’s because it isn’t,” she grit out. Slamming her elbow back into his gut, she forcibly turned her head. Wrapping her teeth around his ear, she bit down hard.

With a yowl, he let go completely. Stumbling forward, she quickly rolled and popped back up to her feet, stake in hand.

He stood, glaring daggers, one hand covering his ears. “What the bloody fuck was that? My ear! I’m supposed to bite you, not the other way around,” he snapped. “What kind of Slayer are you?”

She smiled. “The kind that’s going to kick your ass.”

He shook his head sharply and smirked. “Sorry, little girl. I have a tendency to win this game. And I can promise you that my bite is a bit more permanent.” He lunged forward, fist flying. Ducking back quickly, she grabbed his arm and flipped him forward with his own momentum. Still holding his arm, she slammed her foot into the muscle connecting arm to body, grinding down with her heel. He cursed.

Buffy’d experienced that particular move herself not four months ago. It wasn’t pleasant. That arm had been largely out of commission for the rest of the fight, and sore a couple days after.

Foot still firmly in his armpit, she twisted his arm and yanked. The joint popped right out of the socket. He roared, fangs flashing.

There, Buffy thought, at least now I have a chance of walking away from this.

Suddenly his good hand shot up, grabbing onto the top of her jeans and yanking her down. Her face hit the grass, head grazing the side of a tombstone, and the world tilted. He was on her, snarling, legs trapping hers.

Buffy planted one hand on his collarbone, holding him back, as the other hand groped along the grass for her stake. He found it first.

Picking up the small chunk of wood, he hurled it into the night. Buffy’s breath caught in her throat as she stared into the darkness where it had disappeared. It was her only way of killing him. He wasn’t exactly going to let her have the time to break a branch off a tree. Much less getting one with a proper point on it.

“Now what, Slayer? Your only weapon’s gone. I’ve still got mine,” he said, low and vicious, and snapped his jaws inches from her face. “But what can you do?” he goaded.

Start carrying a lighter in my pocket for one, she groaned mentally. She looked into the golden eyes that hovered just inches above. “Plan hasn’t changed, Spike. I’m still gonna kick your undead, lily white ass.”

She bucked hard, and with only one hand to stable him, it created just enough room for her to scissor her legs around him. She rolled, flipping them so she was on top. As soon as she righted, she let her fist fly, ignoring the way the world was swimming from the hit to her head. It caught him square on the nose, bone crunching under the force.

“Buggering Jesus fuck,” he sputtered around the blood and pain. He gripped the collar of her shirt and with one great heave tossed her to the side. Buffy slid over the grass before rolling to a stop, her hair wild and messy in her face.

“First my ear, and then my nose? You fight like a sodding girl, Slayer.”

Flipping her hair out of her face, she leveled a look usually reserved for high school boys at him. “Yes, and I’m hoping the Slayers you murdered did, too. Either that or you’re tragically confused about this whole Chosen One thing.”

“Oh, did you not catch that, Slayer?” He popped up into a crouch, and lunged before she could get to her feet. “That was me,” his fist slammed into her cheek and she dropped to the ground, “telling you,” a steel toed boot hit her gut at full force, “what a shitty fighter you are.” With joyful glee he kicked her again, cracking her ribs.

The sheer, raging pain made her eyes tear up. If he kicked her again, she was going to throw up. Throw up all over those stupid punker boots. But the next kick didn’t come. Her mind screamed at her to move. Kick, punch, bite, something. Just move. But it hurt. And the world, the ground, wouldn’t stop moving.

A cool hand gripped her wrist, and pulled her arm up. “Don’t worry, Slayer,” came that smooth voice, “you may not have been my first, but you’re still special.” She could hear the grin in his voice. The pleased curl of his lips.

The cold hand tucked her wrist under his arm, against equally cold leather. Wedging her hand tight against his body, he grabbed her palm and yanked it back hard. The bone snapped and she screamed. Her eyes flew open to stare blindly at the grass.

He let her hand fall to the ground. “That’s what your friend’s little trick did to my wrist,” he said casually.

Willow. Willow, who had cried for so long Buffy thought she might never stop. Who had cried because of the things this man did. Anger flushed her veins. She lifted her head to see scuffed boots inches away. “And you what?” she coughed out, before spitting a thick, red glob directly onto one of those boots. Craning her neck, she looked up at him. “Thought you’d pay it forward?”

He looked at the red viscous spittle on his boot, frowning. “Something like that, yeah.” He shifted his weight and moved to kick her again. But this time, right before boot could meet gut yet again, she caught it, good hand firmly blocking its descent, and snapped her leg upwards, foot connecting with his side.

Unable to get his balance one-footed, he fell in an ungraceful heap. She was on him in a flash, one hand pinning his good arm down, knees and legs pressing over his thighs. She smiled at him. “My turn.” She let her fist fly, hitting him square in the jaw. Her side was on fire, broken ribs jerking with every swing, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to die like this.

Buffy saw it in their eyes. Wesley; Spike; Willow. They all just expected her to die. But she wouldn’t. Not like this.

His face was a bloody mess by the time he got enough momentum to throw her off. She gasped for air but managed to climb to her feet just as he did. They stood there, gauging each other warily, both of them sagging and swaying from pain and exhaustion.

Buffy vainly searched her peripheral vision for something wooden and pointy enough to shove in his unbeating heart. There was nothing. And she couldn’t take off his head with a broken wrist. No way.

With a loud sniff, Spike gingerly wiped away the blood on his upper lip. “There might be hope for you yet, Slayer. Thought you were going to be right easy for a minute there.”

“So glad I provide worthy entertainment,” she snapped, trying not to favor her right side. She had to get away. She had no way of killing him, but he could definitely still tear out her throat. And it wasn’t just the ribs jabbing in her side, but the broken wrist making her left hand completely useless, not to mention the throbbing pain.

They were circling one another. His movements a slow, patient stalk. Buffy shut down her mind. Degree by degree, she turned off each stray thought. Pushed herself past the pain and fatigue. She sent herself somewhere else and let that other part, the scary, primitive part that knew exactly how to push her body, take over.

The vampire was talking. “ – been thinking about how you’re going to taste, Slayer. Your kind goes down so well.” He slid his hand down his abdomen, grinning wickedly. “The blood goes straight to all the right – ”

Cutting him off mid-sentence, she executed a roundhouse before he had time to even think of blocking. Her right fist flew, hitting square on his already broken nose. He cursed, but she already had a grip at the base of his skull, fingers grabbing the skin and hair, and slammed his head onto her knee. He staggered and fell, hands flailing.

He moved to get up, and she brought her heel down hard on his spine. His body collapsed to the ground.

Buffy blinked. Spike lay there, hands starfishing, eyes trying to focus. It wouldn’t take long before he was able to get back up. A few more seconds. She stared down at him, pain returning full force, taking her breath away.

“Be glad you broke my wrist,” she said, voice flat.

Buffy turned and ran. She ran as fast as a broken rib and couple solid kicks to the gut would let her.

This was the second night she had looked down on Spike as he was sprawled on the ground. The second time she had run away. Something was wrong here. This just wasn’t going to work.

----

“Buffy, you broke your wrist. You have to go to the hospital.”

“I don’t like hospitals.”

“Well, I don’t like frogs, but I still let them all go free that one time in bio! We all have to do things we don’t want to do.”

“It’s healing fine, Will. Just another day or so and – wait. Frogs?”

Willow blushed and shook her head. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

Buffy looked at her with a small smile, lips curling. “Right.” She adjusted the sleeve of her mint green blouse as it started to slip off her shoulder. “How about we move this lecture off campus and to the Espresso Pump?” she asked with a hopeful smile.

Willow glanced around at the students milling about, as if checking for anything to do. “Yes,” she said consideringly before smiling. “I think we could do that.”

Grabbing their books, they abandoned the outdoor table they’d been so lucky to get and started the walk towards Main St. Buffy looked up at the sun and smiled. On afternoons like this, in the middle of an Indian summer, she almost felt like a normal girl.

But then her side would twinge, or her wrist would jolt, and she’d remember cold blue eyes and moonlight on pale skin. And she’d remember that she had to kill him.

----

As much as she wanted a sharp sword or hefty axe by her side since the fight with Spike, they were way conspicuous. But a knife – even wicked long as this one was – it fit easily in the bulk of her oversized Cheer hoodie.

When Buffy sunk it hilt deep in the smelly demon’s chest, she was definitely glad she had it. A wooden stake to the heart would kill most things, but for non-vampire types it was a bit slow and extra bloody.

Buffy cleaned the blade on what passed as the creature’s clothes, and pressed on with her tour of the cemetery. Her feet moved steadily onward with a mind of their own. Her own thoughts were a churning tide of guilt and anger. She’d gotten in a fight with her Mom. Again.

Her mother just couldn’t understand why Buffy was gone all the time. At all hours of the night. She’d woken up in the middle of the night and gone to check on Buffy, only to find her bed empty and the window cracked. She couldn’t understand why Buffy got so many bruises and…was that blood on her shirt?

And what could Buffy say? Sorry, Mom, I almost got myself killed by a vampire? Sure, right before her mother checked her into a mental institution.

Sooner or later, she was going to have to tell her the truth. And make her actually believe it.

She heard a high, feminine laugh. Buffy blinked. At some point she had left the cemetery without realizing it, and ended up in town. Directly across from the Bronze.

Buffy froze, eyes sweeping up and down the street for any sign of peroxide blonde hair. He was nowhere to be seen and a tiny knot in her stomach loosened just a bit. She definitely wasn’t ready to see him again. To face him.

Satisfied that he wasn’t there, she looked over the crowd again, taking her time. The street was thronging with people. Most going and leaving the Bronze. Some headed to other bars. Everyone young, and happy, and enjoying being alive. And most of them were. Alive. There was a total of three vamps mixed in amongst the crowd, one of which was a new doorman. Buffy smirked. She was definitely going to dust him. If for no other reason than to get under Spike’s skin.

A tingle up her spine, and the opening and closing of car doors made her look over, to her left. Across the street and a little ways down, three more vamps were stepping out of a car. One of them, a large guy in black leather pants and a button down shirt held the car door open and offered his hand as a woman stepped out. If Buffy’s Slayer sense hadn’t already been screaming at her, then the woman’s liquid grace and the unnerving gleam in her eyes would have tipped her off.

Buffy watched her, mind working overtime. There was something about the woman. Something she should know. She eyed the woman’s dress with distaste. It was pretty, but way old-fashioned. The hem went all the way to her ankles, revealing high-heeled, lace-up boots. Her hair hung in a cascade of dark chocolate curls, one side swept back with an ornate comb.

The woman stood there, looking around her with a small pout, like a child recently denied a treat. Her hand rested on the arm of her escort. Suddenly, the woman’s head tilted to one side and her body shook, like she had just been given a tap by God. She straightened, turned, and looked directly at Buffy.

The pieces clicked together in Buffy’s head, and she knew. Drusilla. The woman was Drusilla. The vampire who would never quite look into the camera whenever she posed for her photograph. Who always seemed like she was seeing something else instead.

Drusilla. Spike’s lover for over a century. An old, old vampire who was staring straight at her, recognition all over her features.

Buffy’s stomach tightened. She could probably take Drusilla. But not with the vampire’s accompanying party of two. Nor the three other vamps on the street who’d probably rush right in. She should go. Head back towards the graveyards. If they followed, at least it’d be only one against three instead of six. She should move. Move.

But she couldn’t. She was dizzy. Blood rushed in her ears, drowning out the chatter and laughter and traffic. All she could see was the vampire’s eyes. Large and round and terribly, terribly dizzying.

“Don’t look,” a man’s voice broke in, quick, but steady. “Don’t look her in the eyes. That’s how she works.” A warm, callused hand slipped in hers, and she blinked. The spell was gone.

Buffy looked at the man beside her. He was young; her age. He smiled and glanced behind her. “We should be running away now. Trust me, lady, you do not want to stick around and make friends with that chick and her goons. There can only be badness.”

She was moving before he stopped talking. Removing her hand from his, she grabbed him by the arm and hauled him forward. “C’mon.”

He stumbled, following along helplessly. “You know, you are surprisingly strong for a girl so very tiny.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” she said lightly, leading them farther and farther away from the crowds and late night shops. Suddenly she stopped, tugging him into an alley. Pressing up against the wall, she waited, listening hard.

“Um. I think I liked the crowd of people better,” he said, licking his lips nervously.

“Be quiet.” Reaching in her hoodie, she pulled out her stake.

“Oh,” the boy said. “Oh. This suddenly makes more sense.”

“Shut up,” she hissed. He mimed zipping his lips, and she rolled her eyes before turning back to the street.

Slowly, casually, one of the vamps from the car – face still human – sauntered down the street, past the alley’s opening. He looked bored and vaguely irritated.

Buffy grabbed him from behind and spun him around face first into the dirty brick wall. His skin dragged down the mortar.

“Wow,” the guy at her side said, chocolate brown eyes wide. “That looks like it really sucks,” he said brightly.

Buffy ignored him, completely focused on the vampire. “Was that Drusilla?” The vampire snarled in reply. Buffy slammed his head against the brick again. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

The boy at her side piped up again. “Heck, I could’ve told you that. That was definitely Drusilla. Original, crazy Queen of the Damned. Miss Psychobabble herself.”

Buffy eyed him with a look, before turning back to the vampire. Giving him one more perfunctory face slam into the wall, Buffy took a step back and slammed her stake through his back, into the heart. Before the dust could float down, she turned to the boy at her side. “Okay, how do you know so much?”

The boy’s chest puffed out and he put his shoulders back. “I’ve hung out with a Slayer in my time.” He waved a hand dismissively. “No big deal.”

Buffy’s face hardened to stone. “Yeah, no big deal.” Her voice was flat. “You’ll be around to meet the next one.”

She turned and left the alley. No one else had followed. She could abandon the guy guilt-free. Shoving her stake and hands into her hoodie pocket, she headed for the quickest route home.

“Wait!”

Buffy ignored him and kept walking.

“Stop!” He jogged to catch up and quickly fell into step. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “Really. Sometimes that check between my brain and my mouth just stops working and insensitive, horrible things come falling out making me sound like a big jerk guy. But I’m not. A big jerk, I mean.”

Buffy looked sideways at him. Worry and guilt were all over his face. The iron in her yielded just slightly. “That’s… that’s okay. I’m kind of touchy about the whole subject.”

The guy nodded rapidly. “I get that. I mean. You’re the new Slayer, aren’t you?”

Buffy smiled tightly. “Yup. That’s me. She who hangs out in cemeteries.”

“How long? How long have you been the Slayer?”

“A couple of years now.”

“Oh, good.” The relief in his voice was palpable. She glanced at him curiously. “I mean, it’s good that you’re the one that took Kendra’s place. That there wasn’t anyone… in between.”

The part he didn’t say hung between them. That it was good that there hadn’t been another girl. One that didn’t even make it past two years.

“Yeah,” Buffy replied, voice tiny.

It was silent for a moment. The sound of their feet on the pavement, the only sound.

“I’m Xander, by the way.” He held out his hand. “Xander Harris.”

She smiled, for real this time, and shook his hand. “Buffy Summers.”

He grinned at her name and started to say something before quickly changing his mind. Instead, he settled for, “You should meet my friend Willow. We’re the original Slayer support network. Like the Council. Only American. And not assholes. And… not really like Watchers at all.”

“Actually, we’ve already met.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And she’s nothing like the Council. She actually does things that are useful.”

“Does… is your Watcher not helpful?”

“He’s not winning any awards so far.”

“That bites. Giles was…” Xander’s voice grew thick and he paused, clearing his throat. “He was a good guy.”

Buffy nodded absently. Willow had mentioned Kendra’s Watcher. Her eyes had been bright with tears, too. Buffy thought of her last meeting with Wesley.

“I guess some Slayers just draw the short straw,” she murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing. So where are you headed, Xander?”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Then I guess I’m walking you home.”

“I’m the Slayer. I don’t exactly need anyone to walk me home.”

“Chivalry’s lost on you, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes,” she replied blithely.

---

A slight tingle on the edge of her periphery tugged at her attention. Buffy didn't bother trying to fight the small smile that pulled at her lips, and with a casual twirl of her stake she changed direction, following her senses. It had been a slow night so far, and she hated it when she got all charged up and ready for slaying only to not come across anything that fell in the 'To Be Slayed' column. It left her itchy and restless by the time she finally wandered home to bed.

The tingling sensation pulled her away from the dorms and toward the frat houses, the source steadily moving away from her, no doubt seeking out its own victim. It didn't seem to matter that it was a Tuesday night, loud music drifted from several houses and students loitered along the lawns and sidewalks. Buffy pressed her stake close along her arm. Some of these guys were pretty cute, and you never know. 'Blonde carrying a piece of wood' was not the first impression she wanted to make. She smiled at one particularly tall brunet, as she passed by. He was definitely a hottie, in a wholesome, all American sort of way.

Pushing the thought out of her mind she concentrated on the pulling sensation in her gut. Rounding the corner of a two-story frat house, she stopped short.

"Oh, they told me you would come."

Standing there, in a white gown turned luminescent in the moonlight, was Drusilla. She clutched a student by the throat, pressing his back to her side, and wore a delightfully pleased expression on her face.

Cold fear tightened around Buffy's heart. She didn't know if she could save the boy, and she didn't know if she could dust Drusilla to save herself. "Let him go." Her voice came out firm and strong. The exact opposite of how she was feeling. Points for her.

Drusilla shook her head. "Oh, no," she said, voice and movements languid. "He's mine to keep. Just like Spike."

"No," Buffy said firmly, taking a step forward. "He's mine to save."

Drusilla dug her nails into the boy's neck and he yelped, small rivulets of blood started to trickle down his throat. With a snarl, Drusilla's face morphed, yellow eyes gleaming. "You won't! I was the one who saved him! Me! I won't let you ruin him. Midas fingers ruining everything you touch. Think you can turn my Spike."

Buffy's eyes widened as she tried to follow the turn in conversation. "What in the land of the sane are you talking about?" A light went off in her head and she scoffed in disbelief. "I was talking about him," she cried, brandishing her stake at the frat boy still in the vampire's grasp. "What's there to save about Spike? What part of Vampire Slayer are you not getting?"

"He's mine," Drusilla hissed. "From soft flesh to chitin armor, I made him. My prince." Buffy stood, flabbergasted, as this old, powerful vampire glared at her with murder and hate. "I'll make him kill you. Everything will go back once you're gone."

Buffy stared at her, patience evaporating. "You're insane, and I'm done talking." She moved forward and then something funny happened. The fear in the boy's face smoothed away, and his struggles stopped.

His face morphed into a demon's and he smiled with a mouth full of fangs. "Good. I was getting bored anyway," he said. Stepping away from Drusilla, he lunged at Buffy.

The few seconds that shock gripped her were all the vamp needed to land a punch that snapped her head back. She kept her footing, but only just. Shaking the spots from her vision, Buffy hooked her arm around the back of his neck, bowing his body to knee him in the gut. Following it up with an elbow to the top of his spine, the vampire crumbled. Buffy punched her stake through his back, straight into his unbeating heart, before he could reach the ground.

"Never send a lackey to do a ..." Buffy trailed off, bewildered. Drusilla was gone. ".. Master vamp's job?"

Buffy sighed disgustedly. How many times was she going to have these run-ins with Spike and Drusilla without dusting at least one of them. And what did she mean by 'saving' Spike? "Crazy woman is crazy," Buffy muttered. She shook her head and began the long walk home. "I'm getting a bicycle. Or moving on campus," she grumbled.


----


Xander presented the small globe with a showman's flourish. "There you are, Will. One Orb of Thessela, all the way from Lawrence, Kansas. And you wouldn't believe what a jerk the guy who had it was. He makes Cordelia look pleasant and friendly."

Gingerly, Willow took the small box that cradled the orb. "Xander, you're amazing."

He made an 'aw shucks' gesture before shoving his hand in his pockets. "I mean, if it does as advertised then I figure it's worth it. And it looks like I got it just in time what with Buffy just getting here and already she's all tangled up with our least favorite vampire duo." He paused, looked at the ground and then back up before pressing on. "And it's good to see you being spell gal again. Tara wouldn't have wanted you to give up."

A pang of guilt and pain struck Willow, but she quickly shoved it aside. What she was doing was a good thing. It was. They just... wouldn't understand. She cleared her throat. "Yeah," she nodded quickly. "This should help Buffy loads."

"So, how does it work again? Is it like a protective bubble? Cause a bubble seems like it could be awkward."

"No," Willow kept her voice light as she busied herself with the various ingredients on her desk, not able to look at him. "It's more like a temporary protective barrier that clings to her form. So that if something hits her, it doesn't have as much an impact."

"Ah. So she's invulnerable. Like Wonder Woman. Minus the lasso and star-spangled bathing suit." Xander paused, eyes distant.

"Xander. Gutter. Get out of it."

He jumped. "Right, sorry, so when are we going to do this?"

"Soon. It's almost ready. So, you still down for dinner tonight?" She winced internally as her words came out in a rush.

He smiled, oblivious. "Yup, you bet."


----


Spike tossed the rest of his whiskey back and savored its burning glide down his throat. "So," he said. He propped his forehead up on the heels of his hands, staring down at the now empty glass on the table. The alcohol wasn't working fast enough. He could still see Drusilla's cold face and he could still feel the Slayer's body pulled tight against his. Smell the sweat of her skin.

"So?" Tara said, mockingly, bored.

Spike sat up, took a drag on his cigarette. He signaled the bartender for another before looking at her. He sniffed. "So, when you going to get over this obsession for the witch?"

Her lip curled in a small sneer. "When are you going to get over Drusilla?"

His first thought was to fist her hair and slam her head against the tabletop of their booth. But he liked Tara, and he just wasn't in the mood, so he didn't. He took another drag off his cigarette instead.

Tara pushed her long hair behind her ear and sipped her glass of wine. Rose. He hadn't even known Willy's served the stuff until he first took her here. "Why are you in a bad mood? I thought you liked fighting slayers. Is it because you can't kill her?"

He shot her a baleful look before snatching the whiskey up as soon as the serving girl put it down. "I can kill her," he said around the glass before taking a sip. His hand shot out and grabbed the girl's arm. "Bring the bottle." She glared at his hand on her arm, eyes flashing red to match the stripes on her skin. Pursing her lips, she nodded, jerked out of his grasp and made her way back to the bar.

"Then why won't you?" Tara asked. "The sooner you do, the happier Drusilla will be, and then the happier we'll all be."

He grimaced. It was true. Her nonsensical raging was worse than usual. As were her sexual flirtations with the minions. They always came back cut up and smelling of her and then he had to dust them. Shame, red and hot, seized him as he remembered hearing her moans from another room.

"You were pathetic, you know," he said with a forced smile. "When you were human. So scared, you couldn't find a spell to save your life."

Tara looked down at her glass. "I was scared," she said quietly, not rising to the bait as she swirled the wine around in her glass. "And I don't know."

He raised an eyebrow in question as he ashed his cigarette.

"I don't know when I'll get over Willow." She looked away from her glass and out at the rest of the bar. "I don't know what I want from her."

His hand spasmed around his glass.

She saw it. She looked at him, eyes seeing far too much.

"You already knew her name wasn't 'Sara' didn't you? You already knew it was Bu-"

A cool hand seized her throat, cutting her off. She eyed him warily with large brown eyes as he stroked his thumb over her jugular. "I don't want to think about the Slayer right now," he said, voice cool and measured.

Slowly, he withdrew his hand. Instantly, the serving girl plunked a bottle of Jack on the table and whisked away as quickly as she could.

Spike took the bottle and poured another glass. He downed it and immediately refilled it.

Tara looked bemused. "Are you going to get completely smashed tonight?"

Spike didn't hesitate. "Utterly, and as quickly as possible."

Tara took another slow sip of her wine. She eyed him cautiously. "And what were you like when you were human?"

This is the part where Spike lied through his teeth. "Just like you. Bloody pathetic." Except, apparently, with Tara. "Stuttering and useless and completely besotted over a woman." He looked out over the crowd, pale eyes shuttered. "Except she didn't love me, like yours did." His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and if she was still human she would've struggled to hear him in the noisy bar. "She despised me."

He ran his tongue over his teeth, lips curling into a rude smirk as he looked back at her. "And then I met Drusilla. The demon freed me. I became what I was always meant to be."

"Freedom," Tara murmured. She looked intently at the sticky, scarred tabletop, and dragged a hand through her hair, causing it to fall in cinnamon waves over her shoulders. "That's what we have now."

Still smirking, Spike raised his whiskey glass. "To blood, and sex, and doing whatever the hell we want."

Tara's smile, as she clicked her glass against his, but was just a moment too slow. Spike let the amber liquid flow down his already numbed throat, and wondered if he'd made her wrong.

He hadn't even put his glass down before it happened. An invisible force slammed Tara bodily against the wooden booth. The back of her head cracked against the wood and the headboard splintered.

Spike jerked, startled, sloshing his drink and dropping his cigarette. "Tara, what - "

She opened her mouth and screamed. The sound was hair-raising. The bar fell completely silent save for the wrenched scream. Her eyes blazed gold, light pouring out of them like sunbeams.

Spike grabbed for her, but the possession abruptly let go of her and she fell face first against the table like a limp doll.

Spike stood, bending awkwardly over the table. He ran his hand over her head, pushing glossy hair aside so he could see her face. "Tara." He pushed her up against the seat and her body sagged, eyes shut. "Tara," he said, more urgently.

She groaned and her eyelids fluttered before falling shut again. Spike swiftly slid out of his seat and bent over her, one hand gripping her shoulder, the other cradling the back of her head to hold her up.

"Hey!" came a man's shout over his shoulder. "Y-you can't have magic like that in here." A small quaver ruined his bluster.

With a loud snarl, Spike whirled, baring his fangs at the bartender. The man visibly paled and Spike turned back to Tara. He pulled her from the booth, scooping her into his arms. Her head lolled, body completely limp.

A quiet chatter started up again as he made his way to the door. Every demon in the place practically killing themselves trying to watch them go, but not look like they were watching. Spike was just about to kick the front door open when the bartender's voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"You haven't paid yet!"

Clenching his jaw, Spike slowly turned to look at the man in disbelief. The man's face was flushed, like he couldn't believe he had said the words himself.

With a sigh, Spike sought out the group of vamps in the corner. He couldn't remember their names. It didn't matter. Looking at them, he nodded toward the bartender. "Kill him."

He watched them smile as they turned their eyes to the man behind the counter. Satisfied, Spike readjusted Tara and kicked the door open with a heavy black boot. Cool air rushed to greet him as he stepped outside. As he made his way over to his DeSoto, he only stumbled once on the gravel. He laid Tara down heavily on the bonnet of the car. Normally he didn't mind driving sloshed, but he'd have to be a mite more careful with Tara in the car.

He peered down at her as she lay, still as death on top of the car. As he had watched her convulse under the power of balls knows what, he had come to a dreadful realization. He actually gave a shit about her.

Spike sighed, disgusted with himself, and began rifling through his pockets for another fag. "That's what you get for turning the silly cow instead of eating her and being done with it," he muttered to himself. Fishing a cigarette out of a battered package, he promptly dropped it when Tara suddenly twitched violently. Rolling his eyes at himself, he bent over her and gave her cheek a light slap. "You awake in there, luv?"

Her eyes flew wide open. They were unfocused, staring straight through him. "Make them stop," she whispered. She blinked and her eyes focused on him. Tara lunged upwards, hands grasping either side of his face. "Make them go away," she whispered piteously. "Spike, make them stop. Please."

His stomach turned to lead. "Who, pet? What do you see?" He took her by the wrists and gently lowered her hands.

"A-all of them. All the ones I - " She stopped suddenly. And then she started thrashing.

Spike struggled to hold her down. "Tara." He grit his teeth and pressed his body down over hers, pinning her limbs. "Stop this, you have to stop."

She bucked and slammed her head into his.

Spike cussed and staggered backwards. In a flash, she leapt off the car and started running down the street. Shaking his head clear, he started to take off after her, the whiskey making his steps seem oddly precarious. He came to a slow halt in the middle of the quiet street as he realized she was gone.

He debated tracking her by scent before scowling and turning back towards the car. "Sod it," he said, crossly. "She wants to go crazy, she can bloody well go crazy."

Gravel and broken glass crunched underneath his boots as he reentered the parking lot. The tinkle of a bell sounded across the street. Spike looked over to see a woman locking up a store front. She was small and blonde. He changed course.