10th Century BC
Connacht, the Ulster Cycle, near the city of Armagh. Northern Ireland

"What of the child, my king? The prophecy speaks of balance—a kingdom restored through their veins."

The High King laughed. "The child is but a myth. A fairytale told by old crones. There is no balance—only power."

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

Realm of Nature Spirits, Year Unknown

The night displayed a breathtaking show of kaleidoscopic hues; wavelike curtains of fluorescent green bounced around streamers of delicate pink and dark purple, all beneath an umbrella of shimmering stars. The lake reflecting rainbow spirals on its flat surface like an ethereal mirror.

The forest itself was dark, and the sky’s glowing aura seeped through the tree's branches and cast ghostly shadows that danced and swayed as a small gust of wind rattled the trees, their branches creaking like rusty hinges.

A woman emerged near the trunk of an especially old willow tree, peering down at a young girl, barely noticeable as she slept.

‘She adores this tree.’

The woman stood idly for some time, allowing her thoughts to take hold of her as she observed the slumbering child, obscured beneath the shielding vines that encased her within an earthly cocoon.

‘She seems so innocent,’ the woman thought, sighing. ‘Almost angelic.’

Almost.

As the woman knelt beside her, the velvety jade satin of her dress flowed and pooled around her while the auburn of her locks sparkled and flickered like a blazing fire, accented by tiny trickles of coloured moonlight that danced around her in the swinging branches.

A gentle breeze blew through the willow’s lowest hanging limbs, its drooping and rather miserable-looking foliage serving as a barrier, keeping the two people inside safe from the evils of the night that lurked beyond its protective screen.

Realising it was almost time, the woman glanced up at the sky through a tangle of knotted branches. When she moved to awaken the child, the braided vines and tree roots naturally shifted out of her way.

“Buffy.” Shaky fingers slowly extended closer as they stroked across her rosy cheeks. “Wake up, honey,” the woman whispered softly.

She did not wish to do this. She had prayed to the goddesses above that she wouldn’t have to. She had intended to safeguard this secret from others, yet already rumours of Medb's return were rapidly spreading throughout the realms. A persistent nagging whisper in the deep recesses of her mind forewarned her that the inevitable would come to pass, but she was convinced she had more time.

There was no getting out of this.

It needed to be done.

‘Damn prophecy!’ She snarled, turning away from the slumbering child. Green flames burst forth and danced in her eyes, transforming gut-wrenching shame into a deep anger that threatened to consume her. ‘And yet you have no one to blame but yourself.’ The truth of the notion burned fiercely and stoked her into a seething rage that crackled the very air around her like miniature fireworks.

A sleepy moan jolted her out of her fury.

Small fists massaged tiny eyes as Buffy attempted to open them and blink away the sleepy fog. She gazed up at the fuzzy image of her mother’s face. Buffy’s stunning green eyes, usually a mirror image of her mother’s, were nearly demonic black in the filtered moonlight.

"Mummy?" Buffy murmured sleepily.

The woman hesitated briefly before drawing near and putting her arm protectively around Buffy’s shoulders. She pulled her daughter into her lap, not wanting to reveal her distress.

Buffy returned her mother’s warm hug, burying her head under her chin, and sighed contentedly as her mother stroked her golden hair to calm her.

Joyce cupped Buffy's face and moved it slightly to better look at her daughter. “My sweet Buffy,” she cooed as her thumb gently rubbed Buffy's cheek. “I'm sorry I had to wake you." She said, urging her nerves to calm. "I have something for you."

"What is it?"

"Here, sweetheart," her mother said quietly, but the young girl had hardly heard her.

Buffy frowned in utter confusion when she gazed down at the centuries-old silver chalice that had mysteriously appeared in her mother's hand.

Her angelic face glanced up at her mother inquisitively. 'This isn't going to be easy,' Joyce realised. Despite being a lovely little creature, Buffy was stubborn as an ox, with a temper to match.

"It's magic!" It will help keep you safe, she whispered the last part to herself, praying to the powers above that Buffy's obsession with the craft would work in her favour.

Buffy's tiny body was suddenly gripped by fear; she knew this gift had not been given lightly. All she could do was stare wide-eyed at her mother and nod.

After a solemn moment, Buffy reached for the chalice and gripped it with both hands. She swirled the cloudy brown liquid until the overwhelming smell struck her – a powerful assault on the senses. Crinkling her nose, she pushed the chalice back into her mother's palms.

"It smells...icky."

"I know, baby, I know,” Joyce whispered as she tucked a loose golden lock behind Buffy's ear. Her stomach wrenched uncontrollably as she pushed the chalice back towards Buffy. "I need you to drink this, Buffy. I'm sorry, but you've got to. Remember what we spoke about? I need to keep you safe. I can't let them find you."

Buffy smiled warily at her mother, then shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and lifted the chalice to her lips. A gentle breeze swept across the leafy foliage, and an icy shiver ran down Joyce’s spine.

'Goddess, forgive me.'

Joyce quickly peeked around their protection as Buffy began to sag in her arms. Her eyes fixed on an eerie figure lurking in the shadows, only discernible by a pair of bright yellow eyes that seemed to float like two lonely fireflies. She wondered how she had missed its presence.

Joyce felt powerless when she realised that she was completely out of her depth. “No! No! No! I will not let you take her!” She shouted, holding an unconscious Buffy to her chest as panic set in, the fire in her eyes reigniting.

Her heart began to beat so fast in her chest that it was a wonder it didn’t explode straight out of it as the beast stepped closer. It chuckled, and shiny white fangs joined glowing eyes, a wicked sneer gradually spreading across its face. Concealed by shadows, it strode towards her as she stood, embracing Buffy protectively in her arms.

Joyce bent down to give her sleeping daughter a kiss on the forehead. "I'm sorry, Buffy. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me," she whispered, and then gently set her down on the ground. Immediately, an intricate web of roots surrounded her sleeping form. With a satisfied grin, Joyce stood up slowly and looked back at the dark creature.

"I won't let you take her."

"The High King has killed her once, and he will again, this time for good!" The creature snarled.

"You stay the hell away from my daughter!" Joyce screamed, raising her left arm as though to shove him defensively, but they were still a few feet apart. Suddenly, thick, prickly vines sprung forth from the ground at the beast’s feet, causing the earth to tremble. Striking faster than a rattlesnake, they seized the beast's legs, holding him there with an excruciating grip, and when long, razor-sharp thorns penetrated flesh, he let out a gruesome wail.

"And now he will never find her." Joyce smiled triumphantly as she began to feel the magic surging through her veins.

The beast was forced to watch as a tiny, pale green spark emanated from the palm of her hand. Joyce guided it towards the thick trunk of the ancient willow, where it softly seeped into the bark. As the spark gradually made its way deeper into the tree, it glowed and expanded in size, tripling its intensity and transforming from a light green to a deep shade of emerald.

Trying to summon every ounce of her residual energy, she closed her eyes and concentrated, knowing it still seemed far too early for her to begin opening portals.

The spark blazed, dimmed, then flickered, and Joyce clenched her teeth and gave and gave of herself until it surged again with an intense brightness to rival that of the sun, engulfing the willow in a blinding flash of light.

Buffy was pulled into the base of the willow tree by the network of roots, where she vanished from sight; Joyce's magical reserves gave out, and she collapsed to the ground with a thud.

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

Human World
October 31st, 1947 - Killarney National Park, Ireland

In a flash of shimmering green light, Buffy awoke, her small form curled beneath the grandeur of a willow tree that looked identical to the one she’d left behind, its branches swaying gently as if to comfort her. The forest around her, a grove of ancient yews and birch, was a silent witness to her sudden arrival.

With no memories to call her own, her first breaths were filled with the earthy aromas of moss and dirt, her eyes wide and filled with wonder as she gazed around the strange land. Her eyes filled with tears and her sobs, soft like the rustling of leaves, stirred the forest into a gentle murmur.

As if called by her cries, the wolves appeared. They emerged from the shadows, their forms ghostly and graceful. Their howls rose to the heavens, a haunting chorus that wove through the trees. There was no menace in their approach. Instead, they encircled Buffy with an air of reverence.

Buffy, sensing their acceptance, found her fears slowly ebbing away. She reached out a tentative hand, and a wolf nuzzled it gently, an acknowledgement of her place amongst them.

In this moment, the girl and the wolves were united, a family bound not by blood but by spirit. They had waited for this moment – the return of their queen, whose spirit has danced through the circles of time.

As Buffy grew, the wolves remained her constant guardians, teaching her the ways of the wild and the ancient laws that governed their existence. Hidden within the embrace of the forest, they stayed with her, awaiting the day she would rise and reclaim her throne.

Killarney, Ireland.
April 1965



Distant echoes of laughter and the clinking of glasses seeped through the old weathered door as Spike lingered outside the tavern, the scent of stout beckoning him inside. His vision blurred and he hesitated, his mind racing with memories of Cecily; each one felt like a stake to the heart, to be relieved only by the promise of oblivion in a bottle—the only solace for his wounded heart.



His hand pressed against the door, Spike could already feel the weight of the stares that would greet him within—a British man in an Irish haunt. With a deep, unneeded breath, Spike pushed the door open and stepped inside.



Inside was a relic of the past, a cosy combination of timber and stone. Dark wooden beams criss-crossed the ceiling, from which wrought iron lanterns cast a warm, inviting glow. Unpolished tables were scattered haphazardly, occupied by boisterous villagers. The bar itself was a solid fixture polished by years of elbows and conversation, behind which stood a wall of rough-hewn stone, its shelves lined with an array of aged whiskey bottles and earthenware jugs.



The patrons' glared as Spike made his way through the crowd, their whispers trailing behind him like a shadow. He leant against the bar, his eyes cold and piercing as he glared at the barkeep, a figure both gruff and kindly-looking. His gaze was wary as he pretended to polish a glass with a ragged cloth that had seen better days.



"Bottle of your finest whiskey," Spike demanded. “The real deal,” he clarified, his eyes narrowing, “not that cheap swill you usually serve.”



The barkeeper's features hardened when he registered Spike's accent, his grip tightening around the cloth. "We don't take kindly to strangers around in these parts.” He clenched his teeth. “Especially Brits." He bit out, his accent as thick as his Irish roots.



"My kind?"



The air suddenly became thick with tension. Spike flared his nostrils and set his jaw in a hard line as his hand twitched and his fists balled up. Right when he was ready to reach across the bar and grab the barkeep by his throat, the tavern's doors flew open with a bang. Doyle burst in, the embodiment of Irish charm and mischief, his arrival cutting through the taut standoff.



"He's with me," Doyle announced. "We're just heading to the backroom, yeah? No trouble here." He clapped his hand on Spike's shoulder and steered him away from potential conflict, knowing exactly the type of mood his long-time companion would be in.



The tension dissolved quickly as they made their way towards the backroom and away from prying eyes. Doyle's hand deftly captured the whiskey bottle at the end of the bar. "For the road," he quipped, sharing a silent nod with the barkeep before they disappeared into the shadows, leaving the murmurs of the patrons behind.



In the dimly lit backroom, Spike, with his hair slicked back and eyes shadowed by recent heartache, tossed back another whiskey, trying to drown out the memories of Cecily. He could barely contain his composure as his hand twitched with the urge to shoo away the kittens that playfully scampered around the table.



Doyle, the ever-watchful friend, dealt the cards with a furrowed brow, stealing sideways glances at Spike. He had news to tell him—news that weighed heavy on his tongue—but the time never seemed right. “So, Spike, how's the single unlife? Looks as though Cecily has left you broodier than a hen.” Doyle joked, eyes dancing with a devilish spark as he broke the silence.



Spike snorted, throwing down a pair of queens. "I don't brood. You know me better than that, Doyle." Eyeing the amber liquid in the bottle, he tilted his head back, taking a long swig. The burn of the alcohol ached less than the sting of memory.



Doyle sighed, his hands hovering over his cards. "Come on, Spike. Cecily’s a dried-up old prune, and you know it," he jibed, shuddering as he remembered her true form as a vengeance demon.



With a scowl, Spike shot back, "You're one to talk, Doyle. You're practically a walking pincushion."



"Now, that's a bit rude." Doyle replied, feigning a wounded heart as his complexion took on a greenish hue and tiny, blue spikes emerged over his face. With a shake of his head, the colour and spikes faded, until he was once again wearing his human guise.



"What can I say? I'm a bad, rude man." Spike replied sarcastically, squinting, the cards in his hands blurring for a moment. "Love's a cruel joke," he muttered, his thoughts drifting, as ever, back to Cecily. "She could've been...you know? The one."



Doyle chuckled, the sound echoing slightly in the close quarters. "Look at you, all heartbroken over a bird that wouldn’t know a good thing if it bit her on the neck.” His expression softened as he stared at his heartbroken friend. "Plenty other lasses that would. And for a vamp such as yourself, I foresee a bloody good time in finding her."



Spike's expression soured as he tossed a kitten on the table. "Ha-ha, very funny. You're a real comedian, Doyle." Taking a long, deliberate sip of his drink. "Continue to make light of my eternal suffering, why don't you?"



"Eternal is the right word, mate. You know life's got a funny way of throwin' us curveballs."



Spike threw his cards on the table. "Life's curveballs, huh? Is that what we're calling it now?” His annoyance started to show. “Well, this one’s landed me in this backwards village, playing poker with kittens as chips."



A silence fell between them, punctuated by the clunk of the whiskey bottle hitting the table. Doyle dealt a new game amid a grumpy chorus of jostling kittens and a cursing vampire.



The night wore on and slowly their words begin to slur, the weight of the whiskey affecting their speech. Spike’s gaze remained distant, his thoughts ensnared by memories, the pain of the past etched into the lines on his face.



“There’s that broody look again, Spike.” Doyle breaking the silence between them once more, eyeing Spike warily as he nursed yet another bottle.



“She saw right through me, Doyle. She saw the man I was...” Spike replied, gritting his teeth as he stared into his drink.



“Oh, come off it!” Doyle snapped at Spike’s continued sulking as he sat up straighter in his chair. “You’re William the Bloody. You’re the scourge of Europe, not some snivelling schoolboy.” He shook his head and carried on to say, “You’re a vampire with a reputation Spike, one that makes even the boldest demon quake in their boots.”



Doyle watched in relief as finally some spark of life returned to his old friend. “You’re right. I’m William the bloody. I’m the big bad.” A hint of a smirk began to form, “I don’t get heartbroken. I break hearts.”



“That’s the Spike I know. May memories stay where they belong – in the past.” Doyle's voice dropped to a hesitant murmur, and now seemed as good a time as any to share his news. “I...ah, I have something’ I’ve been meaning to tell you...”



“What’s eating you, Doyle?” Spike’s curiosity piqued. He arched his scarred eyebrow and eyed him suspiciously, leaning over the table to pick up his cards.



“It’s Harriet. She's...” Doyle's heart was heavy for his friend, whom he knew had longed for a family of his own. “Well, she’s ah...”



“Well, spit it out then.” Spike snapped.



“She’s...well, she’s...” taking a deep breath, he continued. “She’s expecting. We're having another baby. You’re an uncle again.”



The news hung heavy in the air between them. Spike’s mind was a roller-coaster of thoughts, the news a painful reminder of the futures and families he will never have. At his feet, kittens scampered and played, their playful meows a stark contrast to the sombre mood at the table.



“I’ll be...” a tiny grin tugged at his lips. “Another kid, huh?”



“Yeah mate.” Doyle replied, suppressing his excitement as he gauged Spike’s reaction. “I know you always wanted a family,” he said, reaching across the table and clapping Spike on the shoulder sympathetically. “But hey, you got us.”



Rolling his eyes good naturedly, Spike poured himself another drink.



“Hey, who knows? Maybe there’s still a chance for you yet. Stranger things have happened.”



*******



Out in the main tavern the fiddlers bow began to dance, the harpists fingers fluttered, and the bodhráns heartbeat underpinned the haunting breath of the tin flute, as a raven-haired beauty stepped forward with a slow, deliberate step and swayed with the rising music. Her petite frame moved with a childlike grace as she began to sing.



*******



I hear your voice on the wind
And I hear you call out my name



“You know, being an uncle isn’t so...”



Before Doyle could offer any more words of comfort, a voice both heavenly and haunting cut through the din of the tavern. Spike, ever the creature of impulse, rose to his feet without a word, his chair scraping against the floor as he moved towards the source of the siren’s call, leaving Doyle in a momentary state of confusion.



Doyle quickly gathered his wits and followed after Spike. The two men departed the sanctuary of the backroom, and the kittens continued to play.



"Listen, my child,” you say to me
“I am the voice of your history
Be not afraid, come follow me
Answer my call and I’ll set you free"



As soon as Spike stepped into the main room his gaze was drawn to her, the song pulling at something deep inside him—a memory he couldn’t quite grasp. A feeling of familiarity, a sense of a time long since gone but not quite forgotten.



Spike was entranced, his senses dulled to all but the dark-haired beauty. Doyle chucked softly to himself. He’d seen this look before – usually before Spike went and did something impulsive.



“Hard to believe she’s the village crazy, eh?” his words were barely a whisper against the rising music.



But Spike didn’t hear him, and the singer’s voice grew louder. Doyle's gaze wandered, searching the faces in the crowd. “Where’s...” his voice trailed off as he looked for her sister, lost amidst the sea of captivated faces.



I am the voice in the wind and pouring rain
I am the voice of your hunger and pain
I am the voice that always is calling you
I am the voice, I will remain



The enchantress was dressed in a white Victorian-era dress, the fabric hugging her form and accentuating the delicate curves of her corseted silhouette. Her dress whispered tales of elegance and grandeur with every fold and crease. Long black nails, tipped with the crimson of a rose at dawn, caught the flickering candlelight as she traced the contours of her dress.



‘She is but a delicate bloom in a garden of wood and stone,’ thought Spike’s inner poet.



I am the voice in the fields when the summer's gone
The dance of the leaves when the autumn winds blow
Ne'er do I sleep throughout all the cold winter long
I am the force that in springtime will grow



The locals were spellbound, their drinks left untouched, as the song continued to weave its magic through the tavern.



I am the voice of the past that will always be
Filled with my sorrow and blood in my fields



Her dark eyes shone as she twirled, her raven hair fanning out like the wings of a nightbird in flight. Her arms rose and fell in time with the rhythm, her fingers splayed as if to weave the very air into her enchantment.



I am the voice of the future
Bring me your peace
Bring me your peace and my wounds, they will heal



The music had a hold on Spike like a thrall, and for a moment, he was lost. Time bending, each minute felt as if it was stretching out into infinity as the world around him began to fade away, leaving only the melody, as though the singer herself was trying to whisper secrets directly to his soul.



I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain
I am the voice of your hunger and pain
I am the voice that always is calling you
I am the voice



The tavern’s doors burst open once more and shattered the spell. A local farmer flushed with drink and fear ran inside, his voice slicing through the melody as the singer’s voice faltered.



“A wolf! A wolf in the village!”



The atmosphere in the tavern turned to ice that was soon thawed by panic. Slowly their chatter rose to a storm of anger and fear. “Kill the wolf!” they cried, their voices thundering against the walls.



Spike’s unwilling gaze turned to the patrons as they rushed to the man’s aid before casting a final glance back to the enchantress, but she was gone. Amidst the chaos her silhouette blurred as the last echoes of her song faded, leaving behind only the ghost of her lament and the memory of her haunting visage.



Her spell had broken, jolting Spike back to his own soused reality, but its residue lingered, leaving him with a longing for something just out of reach. His mind whirling from a combination of whiskey and enchantments, he nudged Doyle. “Oi, what’s this all ‘bout then?”



“Well, you see Spike, the folk here; they’re superstitious about wolves. See ‘em as beasts straight out of nightmares.” Doyle noted Spike’s scepticism and shook his head. “It's more than that. Way back when, the high king interpreted them as omens. He issued a bounty for them, dead or alive. Mostly dead. Years go by, and the villagers still think a wolf is a bad omen, a sign of darker things.”



Doyle's gaze began to drift, his hand fidgeting with the silver pendant hidden beneath his shirt, He could feel it’s weight; a heavy reminder of the oath he’d taken, though he never truly believed the old tales.



“Ah, Doyle!” the blacksmith bellowed as he crossed the bar, seizing Doyle by his shoulder. “You know these woods better than anyone. You shall lead us."



Doyle hesitated, the pendant's weight now an anchor hanging around his neck. “Alright, I’ll lead you.” Away from danger.



Spike, feeling an itch in his soul that he couldn’t scratch, decided to join the growing mob. “Well, less go an' see wha’ these ‘bad omens’ are ‘bout then,” he slurred, staggering after the now-torch-bearing villagers as they set off into the night.



They stumbled out of the tavern, Spike’s senses dulled by the heady brews of the night. Doyle, lantern in hand, broke through the crowd to lead the motley crew of villagers, now more concerned about the wolf than the British outsider tagging along. They made their way down winding lanes, their shadows dancing on the cobblestone streets like wraiths in the night. The clamour of boots and foul curses cut loudly through the silent town.



The air was crisp, carrying with it the scent of peat from distant fires as they passed thatched cottages and slate-roofed houses. The village was dark and quiet save for the soft glow of embers in the hearths, the occasional bark of a dog disturbed by the passing throng and the faint murmur of radios from open windows, carrying the voice of Frank Hall through the air.



His interview fading away when manicured lawns gave way to the wild brambles of the countryside, the path dwindled down to a mere dirt track, Spike’s nose began to twitch.



He caught a whiff of something tantalising, a scent that beckoned him with a magnetic pull. Rich and savoury, with a sweetness he couldn't quite identify. His head swirled with images that struck him as being from another time, but the muddled scenes were as elusive as the wolf they hunted. Still, they called to him.



Without a word Spike veered off the path, slipping away from Doyle, away from the light of the lanterns, the villagers, and their quest for the wolf. He walked single-mindedly into the embrace of the forest. He walked like a man possessed, moving with a reckless abandon that only the inebriated were capable of. The scent grew stronger, guiding him deeper into the heart of the woods.



*******



The sky was flooded with bright streaks of neon pink and dark purple that spilled over into an iridescent blue, surrounding the moon that hung low and heavy behind a rogue patch of clouds in an otherwise crystal-clear sky. Droplets of dew clung to blades of grass, illuminating the rolling hills like diamonds. A dense fog crept along the earth, devouring each blade before settling over them like a thick blanket.



Her feet moved in time with the explosive rhythm of her heart, and she panted hard as the cool night air scorched her lungs. Her paws kissed the earth with a graceful lightness; her movements were fluid and effortless as she made her way across the dew-drenched hills towards the safety of the tree line. Just yards from her goal, she halted, like a deer caught in headlights. The unsettling sound of intoxicated crooning carried from just beyond the tree line, each word melding into the next.



“Well, I’m so lonely
I’ll be so lonely, I could die”



The wolf closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds and smells around her, homing in on each in turn, searching for him. Within her mind, a hazy vision of a luminous mouse emerged. The scamper of its little feet as it crept along the woodland floor made small, rippling waves, like raindrops landing in a pool. Her ears twitched in an attempt to focus harder. Slowly, the mouse began to swirl and transform into the image of a rabbit as it darted back into the safety of its burrow.



Suddenly, her eyes opened, and a crooked smile with a gleam of fangs spread across her face as the mysterious beast appeared.



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



Spike stood motionless and stared. This was not what Spike had expected to discover when he'd gone in search of the mouth-watering aroma. He could understand now, what about it would have driven the villagers to a frenzy.



He had never seen anything like it—a wolf with thick, glossy silver-white fur that gave off an eerie luminosity in the moonlight, one he was sure would still be there even without the whiskey haze. A garland of wildflowers graced its head in a delicate contrast to the beast’s power that seemed somehow fitting. But most of all, Spike was drawn to its eyes; emerald green and sparkling with an inviting mystery. She was stunning. Spike didn’t understand what it was about the wolf that was driving him insane. All his demon understood was that he wanted it.



It was his.



The fragrant perfume the wolf released hung heavily in the air like thick smoke, causing the blood in his veins to sing and quiver. To Spike’s amusement, when luminous emerald eyes met with his blue, the wolf let out a little whimper, lowered its ears, and tucked its tail firmly between its back legs while its head sank low to the ground. A clear example of submission.



‘Oh! This is just too easy,’ a delighted grin spread across his face, and he began striding towards the source of the most divine aroma to ever strike his senses.



Giving Spike a quick assessment as he approached, her attitude became more confident. Her ears perked and her head angled towards the moon. The wolf let out a terrible howl that pierced the night’s serenity. Her head dipped. Her neck hair and hackles rose, and her muzzle curled back, revealing ivory fangs as a low warning growl emerged deep in her throat.



She waited for the vampire’s next move.



Spike froze, not sure what to do next. He growled back, and the darkness erupted in a sudden chorus of howls that swelled and fell in tone. Panic spread throughout his body. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he felt them approach.



They arrived from all directions, a very powerful and mesmerising sight: an assemblage of these great creatures coming together in stunning harmony and unity. Eight wolves formed a defensive line behind the ghostly leader.



‘The bitch is clearly the alpha,’ he reflected.



Spike was far too sloshed for this. He didn’t want to battle off a half-dozen wolves to get his prize. But he would do it if it was necessary.



He roared again, forceful and menacing.



The moment he finished she snarled back, gnashed her teeth, and rushed forward. The pack remained in a defensive line behind her, awaiting her command. In a swirl of white, her body rushed forward, leap after leap. Her long, muscular legs were moving as if they were composed of the strongest machinery. She had bridged the gap between them before Spike could even think to defend himself.



When she was nearly within his reach, Spike assumed she was going to strike and tear his throat open. Instead, she zagged and danced around him before fleeing to the safety of the woods. Once out of sight, the pack growled in unison and surged forward as one.



Spike whirled on his heels and chased after his treasure, a cascade of inhuman snarls and snapping teeth trailing behind him—the pack hot on his heels. Spike could no longer see the strange radiant wolf; all he had to keep on her tail was her lingering aroma.



He pushed forward, his steps becoming chaotic the faster he raced between the trees. The ground beneath him swayed like an unsteady sea. ‘Bitch couldn’t have gotten far,’ he reasoned. As if listening to his thoughts, the wolf materialised in the distance. She stood motionless, her head turned back, as if she were observing him.



Taunting him.



There was something in the way she stared at Spike, almost as if she were begging him to carry on with his pursuit. Then she turned, taking off with an unnatural speed – her image nothing more than a ghostly blur.



*****



The sound of racing footsteps and the occasional snap of a twig behind her pushed her forward, her chest heaving as she bounced over fallen trees, darted around bushes, and leapt over fern-covered boulders with the agility and grace of a gymnast.



*****



The forest seemed to come alive as Spike ran as fast as he could across the uneven terrain. Branches reached out like skeletal fingers, snagging and grabbing at his leather duster and whipping at his face, leaving thin trails of blood. Increasingly desperate, he pushed his way through the maze of green and brown, twisting and turning as trees blurred, the thrill of the chase and his most primal instincts taking him over.



If Spike had been thinking clearly, he would’ve noticed the wolf pack was no longer hot on his heels—they’d fallen back. He certainly would have pondered his chances of being led into a trap, but he wasn’t thinking properly. He was exhilarated, dizzy and confident, excited about the hunt as his demon screamed for control.



A feral grin crept across his face as he followed the ghostly leader, in disbelief at the elegance and ease with which she moved. Before Spike could react, the wolf veered left and ascended a rocky slope.



*****



Running as fast as she could, paws thudding against the damp, muddy ground she made her way closer to the edge of the cliff, and her powerful hind legs pushed off the rocky ledge. The wolf was sent soaring through the air, her eyes locking on the vampire as he ran ahead of her. Her body was a silhouette in the night sky with paws outstretched, muscles tense, ready to land on the vampire's back.



*****



At the last second, Spike surged forward, and the white wolf landed gracefully on her feet behind him, never faltering as she continued the chase. Then with gnashing teeth, she sprung forward, aiming to throw him off balance.



Spike's senses flared. He leapt out of the way, his fingers reaching and out finding purchase on a moss-covered branch. His boots scraped against rough bark as he swung himself upwards, and for a moment he held himself suspended. Then the branch betrayed him, snapping like brittle bone, sending Spike plummeting to the forest floor, a bellowed, "BLOODY HELL!" following him there, echoing through the trees.



Shaken and dazed, Spike lifted his head in time to hear girlish laughter carried on the breeze as the wolf disappeared once more into the labyrinth of trees towards the river. Above him the nights colourful display began fading as the first signs of daybreak pierced through the sky. Stumbling to his feet, he shook off the confusion, and without a second thought to his surely scratched to hell duster, Spike resumed the chase.



*****



The river churned, and the wolf leapt across, her paws grazing the surface and the vampire still followed, persistent and undeterred, his absent reflection nothing more than a distorted shadow beneath the rippling current.



Red deer scattered and rabbits dove into burrows as the chase disturbed their nocturnal grazing. A crow, a silent witness, soared above, its ebony wings slicing through the sky.



*****



Oblivious to all but his prize, Spike never stopped running, pushing himself harder; his pursuit was relentless, but the wolf was always a step ahead. Always ahead, but somehow, he was gaining on her.



Spike could have sworn he heard the wind whispering ‘Come follow me,’ through the rustling leaves and for a fleeting moment a wave of déjà vu washed over him. He stumbled and the forest morphed as colours bled into one another and the world tilted on its axis. Holding a hand to his head he fought back the vertigo. He shook his head in an attempt to dispel the haze that clouded his vision, and that’s when he noticed he was no longer chasing the wolf.



In its place was a young, blonde woman, her hair a cascade of gold against a green backdrop as she ran through the trees. Spike nearly stopped in his tracks when she looked back over her shoulder, her eyes the same green that surrounded her.



Surely he was dreaming. ‘There is no way she is real.’ As if trying to prove he was indeed hallucinating, Spike blinked and the illusion shattered. Just as suddenly as she appeared, she vanished, the wolf once more snapping into focus as it continued to run ahead of him.



“Damn whiskey,” he growled as his boots continued to pound the soft earth beneath his feet. With a surge of renewed adrenaline Spike lunged, but the wolf pivoted, barely evading his grasp.



Spike hurled himself after her again, and the forest held its breath as he finally caught his quarry. His pale fingers closed firmly around the wolf's throat and in an unexpected moment of surrender, the wolf's breath hitched, and it drew still. Spike growled possessively. The image of the mysterious woman still lingered as his face shifted and his fangs elongated. Pinning the wolf to the ground, he lowered his head to her throat and inhaled deeply as he hovered over her. The wolf lay unmoving beneath him. He had won. He chuckled incredulously and adjusted his grip.



With a surge of primal strength the wolf spun her body, her claws raking down over Spike's face as she slipped free from his grasp. The forest erupted in a thunder of flapping wings and falling leaves as Spike snarled, tasting his own blood.



He grumbled under his breath as he lurched to his feet, touching the fresh wounds gingerly before brushing away the mossy muck that had stained his black denim jeans, marred his combat boots, and his worn out leather coat. Once satisfied that no serious harm had befallen his beloved duster, he turned to face the wolf, still stood there staring at him before she inevitably fled into the shadows. Bruised and breathless, their eyes met, and in that moment, they both knew the dance had only just begun.