chapter 1: the womb

He was wet…

As he glanced down at his bare forearms, they appeared to glow in the moonlight with perspiration like so many neon pebbles dotting his skin. It was always too hot for him in this part of the world. It was stifling. He preferred London 's chilly moist nights and gentle waltzes to this town's blazing sun and mariachi bands. Even in the middle of the night, it was too hot. He touched his lower lip with the index finger of his left hand before sucking it into his mouth, moistening his fingertip with his tongue. As he pulled it out and held it in front of his face, he cursed. “Not even a fucking breeze.”

With a groan, he stepped through the archway of the outdoor café. It was brimming with over-heated couples dancing and jerking feverishly against each other, lost to the rhythms of the guitars and drums. These dull fools didn't even seem to care that they were boiling alive, he snarled, knowing the sound couldn't be heard above the clapping hands, howling shouts and banging drums. Still, he had to remember that this was their town, their home. He was only a visitor.

Leaning lazily against a choppily carved mahogany pole (meant to pass as décor he assumed), he allowed his gaze to explore. A row of dried bushes at the edge of the cafe's dirt dance floor served as a barrier between the partygoers and the deserted alleyway. Shifting his eyes slightly to the right, he could see the sweat pouring from the faces of the bartenders; their fat hands were busy grabbing empty bottles of beer and refilling the plastic cups pushed into their palms with dark, cheap rum. Opposite the bar, a group of big-breasted women sat huddled together, whispering. Their jiggling bodies, bent heads and hushed tones reminded him of a herd of cattle munching grass. Swallowing his disgust, he returned his attention to the dance floor. It was time to concentrate on the business that had brought him to this place. Straightening, he pushed away from the pole and strolled toward the dancers, eyes searching for his prey.

Almost instantly, he found her and stopped to marvel at the vision. She was barely a woman, still a girl really, with long brown hair and bright, round eyes, innocent and seductive all at once. She was not a deliberate temptress. He believed it was simply her gift to tantalize. Tall and coltish, she wove through the dancers with grace and ease, her erect nipples pushing through her white cotton blouse, unbuttoned delicately low, as she twirled her full skirt around and around.

Then she glanced at him, tossing a brief smile his way before continuing to dart through the crowd. She didn't see him return her smile. He didn't care, though. She was majestic, flaunting her power over the others like a sparkling white diamond in a dusty coal bin. He was glistening, watching her dance, smile and work her magic, leaving broad grins on the souls she touched with her full lips and friendly words.

“She is beauty,” he whispered.

Stepping onto the dance floor, he kept his eyes cast down. Now he could follow her with his senses.

He waited patiently, and when she finally moved to the edge of the dance floor, he pounced. He dragged her into the alley, and there in the dark corner he began the ritual. The music was loud. The girl was afraid. She screamed and twisted her body violently, trying to punch and kick him away from her. He was too strong, though, and her struggle quickly became pointless as he pressed one hand over her mouth and the other hand held her firmly around the waist. Pulling her ass against his hardening cock, he sighed into her neck, his breath scorching his lips as he rested against her cool skin. Then he bent her forward at the waist, lifted her skirt and tore away her panties. Freeing himself, he entered her from behind, thrusting into her hard and brutally splitting her slim body. His cock hammered away at her cunt until she was no longer capable of screaming. Now he could take his time and slowed his pace, raking in and out of her dry pussy in earnest as her small pained cries echoed through him, caressing his damaged soul. As their grunts and groans mingled with the music and laugher of the café's guests, he felt close to exploding. Then suddenly everything, except for the sensation of his cock pounding into her taunt flesh, seemed to disappear.

After a time, he withdrew from her, spun her around, ripped open her blouse and roughly squeezed her breasts, bruising her savagely with his hands. Then he used his teeth, sinking them into the softness of her neck. He devoured her throat, drawing her pure blood deeply into his body. Even in the silence of her pain, he felt her stiffen as he began to orgasm, his seed spewing against her bare chest and stomach. He did not need to be inside her to relish this. Her blood was his sex and his desire.

“Yes, God, yes,” he cried aloud softly. “You are my gift.”

Turning her to face him, he gently kissed her pale lips. The girl whimpered. She was still alive. Lifting her under her arms, he dangled her in front of him as he took one last look into the doe-shaped eyes. Then with one hand, he ripped her head from her shoulders. Holding the blood-dripping object up to the moonlight, he saw the face of the next creature he'd need to hunt. He dropped the body, and then the girl's head, and walked slowly from the alley.


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“Oh please god, help me! I can't stand it. Make it stop. Please, Buffy, please make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!” Dawn was crying, screaming and flailing her arms frantically while jamming her fingers into her face, trying to pull her own eyes out of their sockets.

Buffy pushed Dawn onto the bed and pressed down on her shoulders hard with her hands (but not too hard). Then she planted her knees firmly on either side of her sister's pelvis. Sure, there were easier ways to control Dawn. She was the Slayer after all. But this wasn't Slayer time. Buffy wasn't going to treat her sister like a demon. She refused to chain Dawn up in the bathtub; she wouldn't rope her to a chair. She was going to help Dawn like a normal big sister. She'd wrestle her into submission.

From room to room, upstairs and downstairs, all through the Summers' house, Buffy had battled Dawn for three days. Now they were in the witches' bedroom where the memories of their Mom still lingered in the sheets, the dresser, the soft pastels of the wallpaper. Even the lace scarves that hung over the lampshades had Mom-smell. Sometimes, this room seemed to calm Dawn. But not today, Buffy realized too late. So she'd had no choice but to throw Dawn onto on the bed and pin her down.

It had started only three weeks after Buffy had returned from the dead. She'd found Dawn on the bathroom floor one morning, screaming and grabbing at her eyes and face. Immediately, she lifted her into her arms and ran as fast as she could to the hospital. Buffy had decided after her Mom died that she'd never dial 911 again in her life. So she ran. When she finally burst through the doors of the emergency room, she was screaming, “Help her! Help her!” over and over again. She couldn't lose Dawn. Not after losing Mom. Not after stopping Glory. Not after being brought back to life at the whim of her friends. So she couldn't lose anyone or anything else. No matter what.

Twenty stress-filled hours later, it turned out that Dawn didn't have a brain tumor or an aneurysm or high blood pressure, or poor eyesight. She didn't have any of those things. She had migraines. But these migraines weren't physiological, according to the doctors. They were psychological. Yeah right, Dawn is a perfectly healthy 16-year old girl, except for these pesky headaches that are so painful she was trying to kill herself, Buffy had snapped. She'd stormed out of the hospital with a shivering girl in her arms and no answers. Then after dealing with Dawn's blood-curdling screams and self-inflicting wound obsession for an entire night, Buffy called Giles and asked that he and Willow check out the demon factor. The monster trying to destroy Buffy's family this time had to be something she could kill. She hoped.

A day later, the watcher and the witch confirmed that magic or demons or prophecy was the culprit. But that was all they could figure out. Neither one of them could tell Buffy what kind of big beasty was causing Dawn's headaches or why. It wasn't the ghost of Glory returning from wherever she'd been vanquished. Giles also assured Buffy that Dawn's headaches weren't a cross-dimensional brain suck. Dawn was sane, just in a lot of pain caused by an unknown demon or other badness yet to be determined.

Then suddenly Buffy was pinned against the bedpost, jerked from her musings by an armload of Dawn in full thrash mode. Seconds later, a stray fist caught her in the jaw. Damn, that stung, she thought, rubbing the spot Dawn had claimed with one blow while taking a tighter hold of her sister with her free hand. Dawn wasn't ready to calm down, though. She jumped forward, catching Buffy's jaw – again – with another strike from a wild forearm. Quickly, Buffy adjusted her grip and added a little super strength to help Dawn stay still, at least for a moment.

“Can't keep falling asleep on the job,” Buffy muttered.


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Dawn's eyes flew open. Searching, she looked around, desperately trying to find something or someone in the room besides her and Buffy. Then she spotted the darkness swirling in the corner near the closet door. Watching it carefully, she struggled to keep from screaming. She needed to warn Buffy. She looked up at Buffy, and she could swear that from this angle, Buffy should have been able to see it. Why didn't Buffy see it? Why wasn't she protecting her? It was right there in the corner. It wasn't trying to hide. It was there! There! Dawn's anguished eyes stared into Buffy's face who was mumbling about her ‘job'. She didn't even seem concerned about what was in the corner, to Dawn's disbelief. Buffy didn't seem to care that much about too many things since she'd returned to life, thought Dawn, returning her attention to the thing moving in the corner. Studiously, she eyed its movements as the black gash grew and slid from floor to ceiling and windowsill to closet door. Dawn was close to screaming aloud again. But instead, she kicked, scratched and actually pawed at the dark madness. Still it kept inching closer.

Then all of a sudden, she became aware of Buffy's hands and knees pressing down on her limbs. Dawn recognized Slayer strength, even when gently applied. She wasn't a fool. She tried to stop struggling, but the pain was searing, and it helped her deal with it if she hit it. Hurt it. Shoved it away. That worked sometimes, didn't it? Like being in her dead mother's bedroom helped Dawn win some freedom from the pain. She could find a place in her mind where monsters and demons did not exist – a place only the Key could reach. Then the pain would ease, the blackness retreating, shrinking into a tight ball and moving to the edge of her vision. It was working. Finally, she took several deep breaths, pulling the sweet oxygen into her lungs. For the first time in more hours than she could count, she wasn't gasping in pain. The agony stabbing the back of her eyes had disappeared. The clear image of a monster smashing her skull, grabbing her head and twisting it from her body, was gone.

“Better, Dawnie?” asked Buffy.

“Getting there.” Dawn spoke softly as she watched Buffy lean forward to place a soft kiss on her dry lips.

The pain had nearly dissolved. All that was left was a sweet taste floating over her tongue that she couldn't describe. Exhausted, Dawn relaxed in her sister's arms.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too, Buffy. Thank you, thank you for being here.” Dawn didn't feel like playing the independent teenage girl for a change. She wanted to be at the receiving end of Buffy's hugs and kisses.

“Let's get you cleaned up. How about a nice hot bath – okay?

“Sounds good, Buffy.”

In the dark corner near the closet, Dawn kept an eye on the tiny trace of blackness that still lingered. She knew Buffy hadn't seen it. Maybe because Buffy wasn't the Key. Dawn was. And Dawn had a feeling, a strong sense, that the darkness in the corner was Key business. Even without Glory, she was still what she was.

Free my heart. So my soul can fly.

Dawn mouthed the words silently so that Buffy could not hear. It was her private chant to calm her nerves. She needed a few hours of peace before the blackness returned. Because she knew it was coming back, and she could only pray that she'd be ready.

to be continued…

chapter 2: the way

“I do have more Scotch.” Rupert Giles announced reassuringly to the empty glass he held in his hand.

Massaging his temple with his other hand, he allowed himself to sink down deeper into his chair as he tried to focus on the closed fifth volume of the Zy Qasdor resting on the desk in front of him. An immense book, it covered a quarter of the surface. When he'd lifted it from its hiding place at the bottom of his weapons chest, he'd hurt his lower back even though he'd bent his knees responsibly. However, it hadn't mattered. He'd still hurt his back. Giles sighed as the pain traveled up his spine. Then slowly he removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. It hadn't been a good day, or week or month. Indeed, the past five months had most assuredly been lacking in any redeeming qualities.

He leaned forward to open the book again as he'd done every ten minutes or so for an hour or more. Then keeping to his pattern, he closed it abruptly, pushed himself out of the chair and strolled (well, it was more of a stagger as the evening wore on) into the kitchen. He'd convinced himself that the bottle of Scotch in the cabinet there would last longer if it were more of a chore for him to refill his glass. He was confident that no good would come from leaving it on the desktop. Of course, his plan was foolhardy. He was thoroughly intoxicated and had been ever since shortly after Willow had stormed out of his flat. The argument had been his doing, too. He'd admit that fact readily. He'd lost his temper. However, the child was too bloody arrogant for her own good. Sod it all to hell; he simply wasn't going to allow the witch to intimidate him. He was a Watcher. His task was epic. He taught Slayers how to destroy demons and survive their calling.

“Except you bloody pompous fool, you've failed Buffy…twice,” he snapped, wrenching the top from the bottle and sloshing half its contents into his tumbler. “Utterly reprehensible.” he groaned, throwing back his head as he dumped the contents of the glass down his throat.

Making his way back to his desk, he paused suddenly struck by the idea that he wasn't angry at Willow . Not completely. He was angry with himself and…jealous of her. He hadn't even considered the possibility that Buffy could be returned to them. Even with his formidable knowledge of magics, it hadn't crossed his grieving mind. However, Willow had considered it. Indeed, she did more than consider. She'd done it. Brought Buffy back.

“Witches,” he muttered.

Then his attention returned to the book on his desk. Willow had played only a small part in his anguish this night. The real offender was what he'd discovered right after she'd left him. On the pages of the ancient volume, he'd found the image of a man emerging from the words he'd finally been able to translate. As he researched to find the source of Dawn's mystical headaches, he'd decided to pull out a book he hadn't bothered to examine in years. Even in London with his best classmates and Watchers around him, he'd never been able to decipher any part of it before this day. Then suddenly he was able to figure out a handful of words and as he read them aloud, the image had appeared. That is what drove Giles to consume a bottle of his best Scotch in such short order. That image, the face of the Monster.

Caressing the ancient manuscript with his fingertips, he inhaled the still lingering smell of the beasts from which its cover had been sewn. In the world of the Watcher and their all too important diaries, this find represented a magnificent breakthrough. Buried amongst the legends of ancient gods and hell dimensions where idiots like Glorificus had ruled, he'd found it. He could save Dawn. Couldn't he? He could save them all. He just wondered if he could live with the sacrifice.

“Enough procrastination, Rupert,” he said aloud as he stood and made his way slowly back to the kitchen.

Placing the kettle under the tap, he watched as the water streamed into the pot. He needed to be sober before he called Buffy.


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Spike awoke abruptly, nearly bolting from his bed. He'd heard a noise. He looked around the room, eyeing the shadows carefully, searching for a possible intruder. But there was only daylight sneaking through the tightly drawn curtains and the stench of the garbage from the filthy streets outside his doorway filling the air. He sat up on the edge of his bed, he could feel the heat of the day coming through the cracks in the walls and the breaks in the plaster as it spread throughout the already muggy room. Grumbling about the illogic of vampires visiting tropical climates, he dropped his head into his hands. He should get out of bed and drink some blood. Needed his strength.

Instead, he lay back in the bed, placed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “Been gone much longer than planned,” he mumbled.

The long-weekend away from Sunnydale had turned into nearly a month. He'd left a few days after they'd brought her back. Couldn't explain why he did it. He just had to get away. Couldn't bear the look in her eyes. For five months, he'd thought about nothing but her. Everything he'd done had been his attempt to do right by her memory. Then he learned it hadn't made a difference to any of them. They still shut him out. They'd brought her back and hadn't told him a damned thing.

“Ungrateful bastards,” he cursed, solemnly.

Spike jumped up from the bed, and rumbled over to the small icebox in the corner. He opened the door and pulled out two plastic bags of blood. Might as well feed, he reasoned. He'd be stuck inside for hours. At least full, he'd be able to rest more peacefully, he hoped as he shifted into his demon face and slit open the bag with his fangs. He drained the first in seconds, and was just about to open the second bag when he was stopped by a knock at the door. He placed the bag on top of the cooler, and moved to the door carefully. He smelled the motel manager on the other side, and opened the door slightly, keeping to the shadows as the daylight flowed into the room.

"Hola, Senor Spike.”

“Hola”

"Usted gozó del cantina ayer por la noche?”

“No, didn't make it to the café last night,” answered Spike.

“Usted comprobará fuera de esta noche o permanecerá con nosotrosotra tarde?”

Spike turned from the man at the door to reach for a stack of pesos on the dresser top.

“Checking out tonight, mate,” Spike answered as he noticed the watery, bloodshot eyes staring at him blankly. Maybe this chap didn't understand English very well, he figured.

"No, Ahora me estoy yendo,” repeated Spike in the manager's language as he placed a fistful of pesos into the man's dirty hands before closing the door in his face.

Gathering his belongings and stuffing them into a duffle bag he'd liberated from Dawn, Spike prepared for his trip. If he moved quickly through the night and was very careful in the daylight, he'd be back in Sunnydale in a week.


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“Hello.” Giles could hear the exhaustion in Buffy's voice from this one word.

“I am very sorry to be ringing you up so late at night, Buffy, but I believe I have uncovered some new information that may help with our concerns about Dawn.”

Giles wasn't surprised she was awake. He knew that Dawn's latest bout with the headache most likely had only ended an hour or so earlier.

“Okay…Magic Box at ten?” said Buffy.

“No, we will gather at your house at nine. I will contact Xander, Anya, Tara and Willow , and we will see you and Dawn in the morning.” Giles had worked with Willow and Tara to conjure the strongest protection spell they could find to surround the Summers' house. It was by far the safest place possible for them to meet.

“Okay, see you then,” said Buffy.

Giles hung up the phone. There was no point in saying more now. She was going to do what he wanted her to do this time. She wouldn't like it. She'd argue. Then she'd do it. She had no choice.

The witches were ready and had sworn to follow Giles' instructions exactly. They'd collected all of the ingredients required to prepare the spell. True, Willow had botched a few enchantments in the past. But she was now operating on an extraordinary high after her success in bringing Buffy back. This spell should be a breeze for her. Bloody hell, they had to do this one right. His eyes sought the sky through the dark ceiling overhead. Summoning the gods he was wary of believing in, Giles prayed that this time Willow would not make any mistakes.


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Xander was nervous as he sat on the stool in the Summers' kitchen waiting for Giles to launch the Scooby meeting. He felt all fidgety and not at all like his usual self. He couldn't relax, even with Anya rubbing his shoulders and kneading his tight neck muscles firmly. Nothing was going to dispel the queasiness in his stomach or stop the jackhammer racing up and down the back of his head. Buffy looked awful. Dawn worse. Giles? Had he aged 10 years in the past six weeks or what? Damn it – simply never a good sign for Scoobies to look like shit at dawn and not a hell god, demon horde or Big Bad in sight. Buffy was back. That was good. Spike was gone, that was good. He'd run off almost as soon as Buffy got back. Smartest thing he'd ever done, nodded Xander, agreeably. With Buffy back, they no longer needed Spike hanging around. Best bet for Spike was to stay out of sight and avoid a pointy object through the heart courtesy of the Slayer once she got back to her old self.

“I found a drawing hidden in the etchings of Zy Gasdor,” began Giles. “A small image buried in the icon of Glorificus with the likeness of the Monster.”

“A who? A what?” Xander burst in before Buffy could utter a word – which he expected her to do any second. But he couldn't stop himself from speaking. “A picture of Glory and a monster. Yeah – and so? Monsters we get sort of daily here in the Hellmouth.”

“Xander, please!” snapped Giles. “This is something we have never faced before, and I will not allow it to destroy Buffy – or any of us.” Giles voice seemed to echo through the house. “Buffy, you and Dawn must leave Sunnydale, immediately.”

“Why do Dawn and Buffy need to leave town?” asked Xander, his tone shrill.

“Giles, Xander's right.” Buffy said sounding a lot calmer than Xander imagined possible considering what Giles had just suggested. “What makes this monster any more frightening than anything else we've ever fought?”

“I-It can control its prey through their thoughts, and uses those thoughts to find its next victim,” said Giles, focusing his attention on Buffy.

“Okay, sounds like mind-control. We've dealt with that before,” said Buffy.

“Yeah, there was that hyena gang,” Xander began. “And robot Ted's chocolate chip cookies, and…”

Giles glared at Xander for an instant then he pulled off his glasses for a quick wipe before returning them to the bridge of his nose. “We haven't seen anything that compares to this monster's skills.”

“Come on, Giles, you've got to give me more to make me believe that leaving town is our only choice,” interrupted Buffy. “If this monster wants Dawn – too bad. It can't be any stronger than Glory. She was a god. We'll fight this. Besides, I won't run again.”

“The monster wants more than Dawn.” Giles glanced at Dawn before returning his attention to Buffy. “If you and Dawn do not leave Sunnydale immediately, it will be able to destroy everyone in this room. We will all be dead within a week.”

“What?” Buffy said, incredulously.

“Giles is right.” Anya's voice surprised Xander; he'd been concentrating so hard on the exchange between Giles and Buffy, he'd forgotten she was there.

“I never met the Monster. Not in a thousand years. ‘Sides, if I had wouldn't be here to talk about it. It doesn't leave anyone around to tell stories.” Anya was fidgeting as she spoke. “I only know it exists. I can guarantee that. I've seen towns where it's hunted. And it can kill anywhere, and can never be stopped…It's also a jumper.”

“A what?” Buffy asked intently.

“Jumper,” said Anya.

“The Monster is a portal jumper,” Giles and Willow spoke simultaneously.

“It may believe that Dawn is a jumper, too,” continued Giles.

Xander squirmed. “What's this jumper business mean?”

“They can move through space, time, and dimensions, without pause or hesitation. They are seamless travelers who seduce their prey, and tear away the soul,” said Anya, who sounded like she was reciting a passage she'd learned in school. “That's how the Monster and his journey have been described, like forever.”

“That's doesn't sound too good.” Xander said worriedly.

“Buffy, there is a way we can protect you and Dawn, and all of us, really, but only if you two leave Sunnydale.” Willow spoke so quietly Xander wondered if anyone beside him had heard her.

“We have a plan. Well, it's really a spell,” said Willow, her voice stronger.

“And again, with one of your spells, Willow?” said Buffy.

“It's not my spell. It's Giles' and well, Tara 's spell,” she countered.

“Buffy, the monster finds its prey through thoughts, yours and ours,” said Tara, who had remained standing near the kitchen door since entering the house. “The spell will change one thought.”

“It's a simple spell,” added Willow.

“Remember the will be done spell? This is sounding a lot like one of those, and that didn't work out well at all,” said Xander.

“This is not changing memories; this spell only adjusts one single thought. But that change will be enough to create a barrier between you, us, and the Monster,” responded Willow .

“Giles, you really believe it would be able to kill all of us if Dawn and I don't leave town?” asked Buffy.

“It will have the desire, and the power to kill us all, if you and Dawn are still here.” Giles touched Buffy's hand, which rested on the counter top.

Buffy stood stiffly and folded her arms across her chest. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as we cast the spell,” Willow answered.

“First tell me, what thought are you taking?” Dawn had sat quietly at the end of the kitchen counter – unnoticed until she spoke, realized Xander. Odd, he reasoned, since she was the cause of it all.


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Dawn hadn't said a word until then. She'd just watched and listened as the Scoobies talked about the Monster. She didn't have much to add, anyway. Sure, she could have told them about the blackness upstairs in the corner near her Mom's closet. They didn't know about that. But she needed to keep that to herself. She'd seen through it and knew what was on the other side. No way could she tell them about it either. Tolerance and patience were not traits of Scoobies. In her 16 years or, in this reality, less than 24 months of watching them, she'd learned that her sister and their extended family judged fast and hard with swords, axes and stakes in hand. Strike first and question never was the Scooby philosophy when it came to demons.

Still it might help them to know what she'd seen. But Anya had said the Monster didn't leave anyone alive who'd seen it to tell stories. If any part of the blackness in her mother's room was the Monster then there was no way she could admit to what she'd seen and remain alive long enough to help.

As Dawn looked from one set of steady eyes to the next, her gaze didn't waver as she waited for an answer. Ignoring the small pain at the back of her neck that had begun to throb against her spine, she held her tongue as long as she could. Then she had to know.

“What thought are you taking from us?” Dawn asked again, breathlessly.

to be continued…

chapter 3: deuteronomy, part I

Spike's motorcycle was bouncing on top of the broken road; he could feel the wheels tremble inside his gut as they rose up, over and into every other pothole and gash on the highway leading him back to Sunnydale. The 2001 Triumph Bonneville he'd proudly nicked a week earlier, literally right out of the clutches of a drunken Xindung demon, was bloody well over-rated he growled. It was nowhere near the quality ride he'd lifted from the Hellion road pirate in Sunnydale almost two months before. Pity he had to abandon that beauty on the Carretera a Toluca motorway as the daylight was chasing him out of Mexico. The bike had gulped and gurgled, though freshly filled with petrol and a quart of oil, and died whimpering, leaving the vampire about 15 minutes to find shelter before the phrase a ‘pile of dust' was all that was left to define him.

When Spike had first set out for Sunnydale, finally ready to leave the dirty village he'd found refuge in outside of Mexico City, his idea was to get back in a week by riding all night and keeping out of the sunshine all day. It was a sodding simple plan. A week at most was all it would take. ‘Course, he was bloody wrong. Three weeks later he was still on his way back to Sunnydale. He hadn't counted on his mode of transportation giving out or it taking two weeks of night walking from poor village to poorer village to find something with an engine that worked. By the time he ran into the Xindung demon, he was desperate. He needed to be on the road and he was hungry as hell, too. Precautions tossed aside, he'd jumped the demon and its gang, recklessly ignoring their razor-edged claws and venomous spittle. Damned thing couldn't ride a bike with those claws anyway, Spike figured. Twenty minutes later, with a broken nose, a few ribs rearranged, and a huge slice of his flesh dangling from one or more demon claws, Spike had killed several demons, snatched the bike away from another and rode unhindered off into the night. He even had a chance to feed during the scrimmage, chomping on some tough demon hide and sucking down a pint of bitter blood in a matter of seconds. It was all he needed to get back to Sunnydale.

He'd finally been making some progress when a drop of rain hit his face. That drop was quickly followed by another and then a sudden deluge of water was beating against his body as he maneuvered down the highway. Spike concluded that even he should take care riding a motorcycle on a wet bumpy road, especially if the speedometer was inching toward 150 miles per hour. He imagined his fingers slipping from the handlebars, then his body, hurling through the air, striking a tree and ending up impaled through the heart by a sturdy branch. He shuddered, without losing control of his bike. That persistent ‘pile of dust' syndrome was sneaking into his head again. But Spike had spent enough time away from Sunnydale…and Buffy. The Triumph Bonneville claimed speeds up to 180 miles. “Bugger this sodding rain!” he cursed. Might as well put the pedal to the metal, he thought, then quickly he remembered that turn of phrase worked for the DeSoto, not the bike. At any rate, it was time to see what this damn machine could bloody well do. Sure, it had failed the smooth ride test, but now he had to see for himself if the hype about speed was real or not. Relaxing his thigh muscles and clutching the bike firmly with his hands, he revved up the engine as the bike glided to 180 miles an hour over the slick road. A few minutes later, he caught sight of a sign out of the corner of his eye. Only 50 miles to Sunnydale, he leaned into the rain.


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A few miles outside of town, Spike sensed there was something off about Sunnydale. It was about 4 a.m., still dark, and the roads were beginning to dry after the night's rainstorm. Slowing down, he could see a few lights shining brightly. The Hellions had ran off months before after getting a good tossing from the Slayer. Certainly, her being back was keeping most baddies from venturing into Sunnydale. But still, Spike could smell the fear spiraling out of the town in huge waves. Until that moment, he had considered heading straight to his old crypt to shower and change into dry clothes before seeing Dawn and the Slayer. Also, he might have benefited from a little rest before facing them, too. But as he'd determined earlier, there was something off here. Kicking the bike into gear, he sped toward the only part of town where anything of importance in his un-life resided. Then as he neared Revello drive, his senses picked up the next wrong thing about Sunnydale. Buffy wasn't there and neither was Dawn.

“What the hell is going on?”


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For several hours, Anya had alternated between pacing, standing rigidly while worrying her hands together and slumping bonelessly onto the sarcophagus. By now Xander had figured out she'd left him. But she still expected him to barge through the crypt door at any moment, demanding that she explain herself. What could she say, though? She could barely understand it herself. Here they were engaged, having announced it to everyone in Sunnydale who might care, and now she couldn't be with him anymore. Reluctantly, she forced herself to sit still on the stone slab for a moment and think about what Xander had seen when he'd gotten home that evening.

Signs of her betrayal were scattered all over the apartment. First, there were her empty dresser drawers and the bathroom cabinets no longer overflowing with her favorite girly fragrances and scented soaps. The twin 100-thread count oversized white cotton towels she used to dry Xander's body after his evening bath were folded and stored in the hamper in the hall closet. Usually, they were set out, clean and warm (fresh out of the dryer), ready for when he'd come home all tired, hot, and smelly in that enticingly musky manly way. She'd take his lunch bucket out of his hands, throw his hard hat onto the couch, pull his dirty shirt over his board shoulders, and lead him into the bathroom where a hot, sudsy tub awaited them. And of course, the towels were there, too. Now, he'd never find them in the hall closet. He'd never look there. That meant those towels would never be used by anyone else ever again. Anya nodded, satisfied with that thought.

But the towels were only part of her vanishing act. She'd gone on a cleaning binge. She'd washed all his laundry, and folded and shoved it into a closet in the bedroom. Then she'd placed the dishes from yesterday's lunch, dinner and that morning's breakfast into the dishwasher. That alone would certainly raise his curiosity. And the bed, yes, she'd cleaned the sheets, fluffed the pillows and made the bed. She signed as she remembered in a year, she'd never made the bed. Never a need. And with that she slid from the stone slab onto the floor, tears flowing from her eyes. She was going miss the orgasms – his and hers. Wiping her nose ungracefully on the back of her hand, she chewed on her lower lip for a moment. This decision couldn't be helped, though, she whimpered. Just had to be made.

Sniffing rather loudly, Anya gulped harshly between sobs as she raised her head to look around her new home. It wasn't beautiful. But it was the only place she could think of that was livable – well, not by much – but livable for a demon. Besides, it was free. Spike's old crypt didn't have a monthly fee attached, unless you counted avoiding fledging vampires and entertaining demons. It was perfect as long as that wasn't a price you were unwilling to pay. Spike had been gone for what seemed like forever. Well, okay, it had been only a few months. But she doubted he'd be back. Indeed, it had surprised them all when one day he was gone. Especially since he left shortly after they'd brought Buffy back. She really believed Spike loved Buffy. Then again, she'd learned today that love was too fragile to count on.


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Spike smelled someone – the demon girl – she was in his crypt. Pushing open the iron door, he burst through and spotted her slumped form huddled on the hard dirt flow in front of the sarcophagus. Immediately, he scanned the top floor of the crypt. He could tell she hadn't been there long. They were alone in the dusty and unkempt tomb. During the past summer, he'd kept the crypt clean and comfortable for him and Dawn. They'd been nearly inseparable in their grief, and she'd made frequent visits here to see him. Just like he'd spent time with her on Revello Drive. He swallowed hard at that memory. Then, sharply, he turned to Anya.

“What are you doin' here?” He asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Spike?” she whispered. “Jeez. Spike!” Her voice suddenly very loud, echoed through the crypt.

“Yep, that's me,” he said. “But bloody small surprise compared to you alone in my crypt with no sign of monkey boy anywhere nearby.” He sniffed the air to punctuate his point.

“Sorry, didn't think you'd be back.” Anya said as she rested her hands on the sarcophagus and pulled herself to her feet.

“Where's Buffy?” Spike was being uncharacteristically patient, but he'd decided that he could wait indefinitely to find out why Anya was in his crypt. He just needed to know about Buffy and Dawn.

“Gone.”

“Yeah, knew that,” He glared at her, but asked quietly. “Where?”

“Something bad happened. Really bad,” mumbled Anya, rubbing her hands together, and focusing on the ground at her feet. That was odd, thought Spike, Anya was usually anything but evasive. She was the most straightforward person he'd ever met. He'd seen her snippy, very candid about her sexual appetite and mildly fearful when battling a fledgling or two, but mostly, he'd seen her talking too much. Now, she was barely able to string together more than one sentence at a time.

“Changed everything. Everyone.”

“Anya, look at me.” Spike walked across the room, and stood a few feet in front of her. “What happened? Tell me.”

“Maybe since you weren't here, it didn't get you.”

“You're babbling,” he tried to sound soothing, but his patience was...well, frankly, he didn't have any left. But another moment of control might serve him well, he decided. Spike took a step closer to Anya, and reached out slowly, taking her hands into his. “Come on, pet. Tell me what happened.”

She looked into his eyes then. He hadn't seen that kind of pain in a long time. He gently massaged her palms, encouraging her to relax and talk. When she began, her voice was barely a whisper. “There was a monster and it came for Dawn.”

“Okay, go on.” Spike's voice was calm as his guts twisted with fear.

“It was a portal jumper. No, actually, it was the portal jumper.” Anya was breathing heavily now, and had eased her hands out of Spike's grip. “You've heard the stories. Every 700 years it journeys through dimensions to cancel its debts.” With a quizzical expression on her face, she sat down on the stone sarcophagus and said, “Odd, how it chooses to reward those it cares about, isn't it?”

“Can't believe every fairy tale, Anya.”

“Don't patronize me,” she warned, her eyes furious. Now this was what Spike was accustomed to seeing from Anya as she shot out another sentence. “Thousand-year-old vengeance demon, here. Lived many lives compared to your sorry century and a few decades of purposeless wandering.”

“Don't know about that,” he held back a sneer. “This so-called monster, did it take Buffy and Dawn?”

“You really don't believe, do you? But no, the monster doesn't have them,” she shook head, a small smile on her lips. “You'll love this, though… Willow came up with a spell.”

“A fucking what?” Spike growled.

“Yeah, another spell by Willow. Except they all swear it was a joint effort between the watcher, Willow and her lover. But I only smelled Willow's power.”

“Where the hell is she?”

“Don't bother with Willow. She's probably consoling Xander about now.” Anya suddenly became distracted, her sad gaze drifting toward the crypt door. “Go to Giles. He'll tell what you need to know.”

Spike was out the crypt door before Anya finished her sentence.


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The muscles in his back were cramped. He'd been hunched in the corner of the barn a long time, waiting. But he hadn't been bored. There were things to notice and observe. Unlike the last few places he'd been, there weren't any human beings around to distract him from his purpose. Here in this quiet farmhouse, he could take his time and appreciate the small wonders that a dimension like this one had to offer.

He liked rodents and bugs, and the barn was filled with a variety of species. The last time he'd encountered this powerful lot, they had ruled a continent. But time changes everything; he shrugged accepting the inevitable nature of his own existence.

He unfolded himself from his shrunken pose, stretched his arms to the rafters, craned his neck from side to side, and took in a deep cleansing breath. Unfortunately, the stench of the horses waste and urine filled his nostrils. He lurched forward, nearly vomiting. Quickly shaking off the sensation, he puckered his lips and kissed the air. Nothing was ever too bad if you could accept it for what it was, he believed.

He then heard the voice of the child and small feet shuffling in the dirt outside. It was a buoyant and joyful noise. He smiled as his pleasure entered the barn. Patiently, he watched the boy's bright green eyes examine the space, playfully seeking contact with one of his animal charges. The horse was first, making a gentle neighing sound as the boy moved in his direction. A cow on the other side of the barn adjusted itself lazily, waiting comfortably for the boy to rid it of its excess juices.

The raven-haired child picked up a tool and began raking the hay in the horse's stall, making neat piles and removing the dung that covered the soil. As he became absorbed in his chores, he began to hum a tune. His beautiful tenor, echoed through the barn.

Stepping from the shadows, he crept closer to his prey. The animals in the barn could now sense him and immediately distanced themselves from their keeper. The boy sensed him, too. Turning, the child dropped the rake and stumbled over the bucket, in an effort to escape. Too late, he grinned.

Several moments later, the horse neighed as the crunching sound of the boy's head being twisted from his body filled the barn.

Holding his prize in his hands, he smiled, but then his brow suddenly creased in annoyance. As he looked into the boy's dead eyes there was a veil shrouding the image of his next victim. Something or someone was trying to trick him off of his course. He despised interference.

“Then we'll have to play the game,” he said. Dropping the boy's head onto the dirt floor, he stalked out the barn.

To be continued…

chapter 4: deuteronomy, part II

Spike slapped his palms against the invisible barrier preventing him from entering Giles' apartment. “Invite me in!” he demanded. “It's almost bloody fucking sunrise and Anya said you could tell me about Dawn and Buffy. So let me the fuck in!”

“Well, I see your sense of tact hasn't blossomed beyond that of a hedgehog in heat,” replied Giles, who for an instant reminded Spike of one of the grizzled headmasters from the Montpelier School in London. He hadn't thought about the small boarding school and its repressed teachers in more than a century.

“As you might imagine, I'm not the least bit compelled to invite you into my home, let alone have a conversation with you regarding the whereabouts of Dawn and Buffy.” Giles stood wide-legged, an arm braced on either side of the doorframe. His voice, cold and dismissive, hadn't wavered as he spoke. But to Spike's satisfaction, the Watcher hadn't slammed the door in his face.

"Well, at least not yet," he muttered as he backed a few inches away from the barrier, his eyes studying the man in front of him.

Just like the town and Anya, something was off about Rupert, thought Spike as he bit his lower lip to help him keep his mouth shut for a moment as he took in the Watcher's appearance.

Red-rimmed eyes peered at Spike over the top edge of black spectacles and Rupert's jaw actually quivered under Spike's gaze. The dark gray shirt and black pants he wore looked wrinkled and his shirt was unbuttoned, hanging open and exposing sallow skin and a few gray chest hairs. Obviously, he'd slept in his clothes, noted Spike. Maybe for more than one night by the stale odor of dried perspiration he sniffed. However, that smell wasn't as prevalent as the double malt Scotch seeping out of his pores. Rupert had been drinking quite a bit for quite a few days in a row.

“Tell me what happened,” Spike implored, his voice striving to sound friendly, which wasn't that much of a stretch to him. That summer the two Brits had managed to form the beginnings of something approaching a mutual understanding. At least, that's what Spike believed. After Dawn was in bed and had fallen asleep, the two men, more often than Spike imagined possible, ended up sitting at the counter in the kitchen on Revello Drive polishing off a bottle of Rupert's good Scotch or a pot of fresh brewed tea. They talked about England, the Slayer, and her leap from the tower. Or more accurately, Spike talked about Buffy and Giles listened. After a time, they'd gotten somewhat comfortable around each other, Spike liked to think, and even joked occasionally during patrols, sharing a chuckle in response to a remark or gesture that only two Londoners could thoroughly appreciate no matter what century they called their own.

Now as Spike searched Rupert's eyes, he saw despair, pain and guilt. He'd seen the same in Dawn's face that past summer and imagined he looked that way, too, especially when he allowed himself to dwell on what he hadn't been able to do for Buffy. One of the reasons he'd left Sunnydale after she returned to life was that he couldn't bear seeing his failures reflected in her eyes.

Spike's stomach muscles tightened as he forced his attention back to the impenetrable entranceway in front of him. He took a step toward Giles, leaving his hands at his side. He was so close to the barrier that his skin was tingling and the blood was rushing up and down his spine. “What happened?” encouraged Spike. “Did the Council of Wankers get the Slayer into a jam?”

“Seems you've gotten your culprits twisted,” mumbled Giles, taking a step backwards and breaking eye contact with Spike. “The Council is not involved in this debacle,” he added, looking down at his hands. “Only Buffy's friends could make a deplorable situation this bad.”

Giles then turned his back on Spike and walked toward the kitchen. Spike waited, as the door was still open, and soon heard Rupert's dull voice above running water, ice cubes hitting glass and the clanking of dishes. “I invite you in,” he exhaled.

Spike stepped into the apartment but remained in the foyer.

“Come on in and sit down, Spike,” said Rupert moments later as he walked out of the kitchen carrying a tray with two steaming cups of tea, two tumblers (filled with ice) and a bottle of Scotch. He gestured for Spike to sit on the couch.

"When did you dis-invite me, Rupert?"

Giles glanced at Spike as he stumbled, ever so slightly, toward the sofa. "Didn't know I had until you came to the door." He seemed baffled by this realization, thought Spike as he moved to his spot on the couch. Giles shook his head, appearing to brush aside a memory as he placed the tray on the table. He sat down in the chair opposite Spike and reached forward, grabbed the bottle of Scotch and filled both tumblers to the rim.

As hard as it was for Spike to remain silent, he didn't ask Giles why he was pouring Scotch at dawn. Instead, he watched as Giles gestured to him to select from the beverages offered. He picked up a tumbler for himself, settled back in his chair and gulped down his drink. Following Giles' lead, Spike chose the remaining glass, lifted it to his lips, threw back his head and poured the brown liquid down his throat.

Suddenly, Spike's calm façade collapsed and he slammed the glass down on the table. “Rupert,” he snarled. “Where are they?”

Looking intently into the empty tumbler as he spoke, Giles said slowly, “New York City".

“Where?” Spike exclaimed, his eyebrows knitting together. Even though he'd heard Giles the first time, he couldn't stop himself from asking him to repeat his words.

“New York City,” said Giles again.

“You used a spell to send them to New York City?”

“What?”

“Anya said you and Tara, and the marvelous Willow, had to do a spell because of Dawn and a portal jumper…and something went bloody wrong, as per usual,” Spike explained.

“Yes,” Giles whispered.

“Yes, there was a spell or yes, it went bloody wrong.” The irritation in Spike's voice was apparent to him, but the Watcher, who looked practically catatonic, didn't seem to notice as he mumbled his response. “Yes…a portal jumper and a spell.”

Giles leaned forward and filled his glass quickly with more Scotch before repositioning himself back into the cushions of the chair.

“Rupert, snap out of it!” A spasm of pain ripped through Spike's head as he grabbed the Watcher's wrist, causing him to spill half the Scotch on the table.

“Put the drink down, please.” Spike inhaled, trying to calm himself as he let go of Giles' arm. Abruptly, he stood up and began pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. “How long have Buffy and Dawn been in New York ?”

“Nearly two months.”

“Two months?” Spike repeated, alarmed and confused. “So the spell didn't send them to a demon dimension or alternate universe, but to New York City …two months ago?”

“The spell didn't send them to New York . They took a plane,” explained Giles.

Exasperated, Spike shoved his hands into the pockets of his duster to avoid the temptation to strike the Watcher repeatedly about the head and face. “Okay…let's forget about New York then.” He stopped pacing and glared at Giles. “Anya said a portal jumper was after Dawn…that's why you performed the spell, to protect her, right?”

“Not a portal jumper, Spike. The portal jumper,” interrupted Giles. “And yes, it came after Dawn, and gave her headaches. Devastating headaches.”

“Did the spell stop them?”

“Pain is just the means by which the Monster prepares its quarry,” began Giles. “The portal jumper tracks its prey through the thoughts of each of its victims' friends and loved ones.”

“I ask again, Rupert,” managed Spike without screaming while knowing the look in his eyes had to be a few millenniums beyond agitation. “Did the spell stop Dawn's headaches or not?”

“Yes, it did.”

“But still, the damn spell went bloody wrong?”

“Yes, horribly wrong,” whispered Giles as he slowly rose from the chair and stepped closer to Spike. “Because the spell was more than a cure for a headache. It was meant to keep us from helping the Monster find Dawn. So, we cast the spell on each of us. Me, Tara, Willow, Xander, Anya and, of course, Buffy.”

“You all had headaches?”

“No, damn it!” he cursed. “Listen to me, Spike. We had to make certain that the portal jumper wouldn't be able to find Dawn. We figured out that if we could just take away one thought, we'd be able to keep the creature away from her. And it worked. The spell took away one thought from each of us.”

“So, what was it?” Spike asked as he stopped pacing and stood a few feet from the Watcher. “The thought. What was it?”

“I don't know,” said Giles, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. “None of us can remember what it was.”


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Buffy scrutinized Dawn's face as she lay sprawled on the sofa bed. She had to be joking. “No, you can't.”

“Why not?”

“Well, there's this whole thing having to do with sixteen year old girls and almost eighteen year old boys that spells trouble, with a capital ‘T', which rhymes with no freaking way.”

“God, Buffy, you're such a prude.”

“Huh?” she scowled. “Don't think so.”

Dawn rolled onto her side so that she was facing the bay window in the small apartment's living room area that also served as her bedroom. “Jeez Buffy, I mean Carlo is like the perfect guy. His parents own the restaurant where I work, he's one of your students and you like him. You said so yourself.”

“Yeah, well sure. But liking him and allowing you to date him are way major different.”

“You just don't change, do you?” sighed Dawn as she swung her legs onto the hardwood floor, pulled her nightshirt over her head and headed for the bathroom.

“Wait a minute, Dawn,” yelled Buffy. “You can't just get up and walk away from me in the middle of a conversation.”

“Well, I just did,” shouted Dawn from the bathroom, a second before slamming the door behind her.

“You're turning into quite a bee-atch, Dawn,” said Buffy quietly as she stomped the three feet from the living room to the kitchen's miniature refrigerator and flung open the door. The rush of cool air made her moan as it hit her damp skin. For early-December, it was freakishly hot in New York City, or was it just the Bronx that was too hot? Or was it the fourth floor walk-up's two-room apartment and the heating system, automatically turned on by the landlord on October 1, that made her skin all hot and sticky. “Too many options,” she muttered to herself. Buffy then shrugged as she eyed the contents of the refrigerator. There had to be an egg or slice of bread, something that might pass for food. But nothing, as per usual.

“Damn,” she cursed, slamming the door shut before calling to her sister. “Hey Dawn, hurry up, I've got to get ready for work, you know.”

Walking into her bedroom, which happened to be the largest room in the apartment, Buffy glanced around, searching for a pair of clean tights and the company T-shirt she had to wear. Working six days a week out of seven as a personal trainer to neighborhood moms, unemployed actors and soon-to-be next year's professional sports sensation (that would be Dawn's Carlo, she smiled) wasn't the best choice for a young woman who didn't like to do laundry on a regular basis, she decided. Her room was beginning to smell like her locker at the gym, especially with these maddeningly weird hot days.

“Then throw in vampire slaying and demon hunting and you wonder when a girl has time to have a life,” she complained aloud before snatching a hopefully clean pair of tights from under a stack of gym shorts and jeans. Pulling the garment in front of her nose, she smiled. “Yep, these will do.”

Buffy strolled out of the bedroom and down the hall to hurry Dawn out of the bathroom.


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“Give me four double-burgers rare, fries on the side, and three extra tubs of hot sauce,” barked Dawn over the counter as she placed her order sheet in the revolving turnstile. She then smiled at the cook, who placed his hand on hers as it rested on top of the counter. He smiled back, but then swirled suddenly to shout at the fry guy to turn down the grease before he toasted the joint. “Hey man, you'll piss off my Mom if her place burns down,” joked Carlo. “And you know she can kick your ass.” He laughed, as he seemed to bounce from one spot to the other. Which he probably was, thought Dawn. Bouncing, that is. He was a boxer. One of the most promising talents in the city or so he'd told her a number of times. He was some kind of weight class Dawn couldn't remember, but it sounded like how he looked. Sleek, tall, dark and really hot. Well, not that tall, Dawn amended herself. At least he was a little taller than she was which meant he wasn't short since Dawn had grown at least another inch since her and Buffy had left Sunnydale.

“Dawn, you gonna take these cops their drink orders or just stare at the cook,” said Tommy, the other evening shift waiter and a classmate of Dawn's from Christopher Columbus High School.

“I'veI got it,” she answered, filling a tray with two cups of coffee, two diet cokes and four plastic glasses filled with tap water.

As she walked over to their table, the four police officers stopped talking and turned to greet her. “What's up, blue eyes,” winked Darnell, an African-American beat cop from the 43rd Precinct. He ate dinner at Mom's Restaurant every day when he was on duty as far as Dawn could tell. Well, at least for the past month that Dawn had worked at the restaurant. Nonetheless, a few days earlier, he'd gotten into the habit of teasing her about Carlo. It couldn't be that obvious, she thought, pursing her lips in mock annoyance as she placed the drinks on the table.

“Sorry, Dawn,” said Darnell. “But you kids crack me up with this lovey dovey, shit.” The other three cops at the table laughed.

“Leave the children alone, Darnell,” said the female cop. “Your old butt is just jealous.”

“Could be,” smiled Darnell. “Hey, Carlo.”

“Yeah, man.”

“Walk your lady home tonight, okay?” advised Darnell.

“Her sister walks her home, and believe me, her sister can take care of both of them,” said Carlo, pushing four plates filled with burgers and fries to the top of the counter.

Quickly, Dawn caught his eye and gave him a ‘shut-up now' look.

“Seriously, some bad shit happening over in Fort Lee,” warned Darnell. “Got what looks like a serial killer.”

“Hey, don't say that,” said the female cop, tapping Darnell on the arm. “We don't want to panic the community, you know.”

“Yeah, right?” said Darnell as he continued. “Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah, this killer is real nasty, boy. A fucking lunatic from what we can tell.”

“How many bodies?” asked Carlo, walking two plates over to the table and placing them down as Dawn delivered the other two plates.

“No bodies, man,” said Darnell, shoving a half dozen French fries into his mouth. “Just heads.”

to be continued…

chapter 5: ecclesiastes - free my heart

Spike's head snapped backwards as Jacob's fist sliced a gash across his left cheek, spraying blood over the faces of both vampires. Reeling, he tried to duck under the next blow, but misjudged it. Strong meaty fingers closed around his throat and Jacob's other hand latched onto a clump of Spike's hair. Then he was dragged across the basement floor. An instant later, he was dangling in the air like a rag doll while being pulled closer to Jacob's leering full lips and dripping fangs.

That's when Spike saw his opening. Spinning quickly, he dislodged Jacob's grip on his throat and hair by twisting his torso sharply to the right, throwing the other vampire off balance. Spike had reversed their positions and now stood behind Jacob. He wrapped a forearm tightly around the vampire's throat, and leaning forward sunk his fangs into Jacob's esophagus. Then Spike turned his head from side to side, ripping the wound open.

“Blast you, William,” cried Jacob, his voice raspy as the blood spurted from his neck. “You win, you sodding Aurelian bastard.”

“The name is Spike,” he corrected him as he withdrew his fangs from the vampire's throat. “Told you that a hundred years ago, at least a thousand times.”

“Certainly, but I was just a fledging and your slave, master,” Jacob chuckled.

“Not my slave,” Spike pointed out. “You were Darla's and Angelus' servant – never mine.”

“Mmmm…true enough, brother,” agreed Jacob, adjusting his bloody and rumbled designer shirt as he eased himself from Spike's grasp. “What brings you to New York?” He asked, licking his lips in apparent appreciation of the taste of the blood he'd found there.

“A Slayer,” Spike answered, matter-of-factly, wiping the blood from his own mouth with the back of his hand.

“So you're here for the little girl in the Bronx.”

“You know about her?” Spike kept his voice level.

“Everybody does. We haven't had a slayer in town since 1977, thanks to you,” he bowed his head slightly as his demon eyes brightened to a reddish yellow hue. “This new girl's been the talk of the town since she showed up a few months back.”

Jacob began to stroll idly around the basement. “But she stays out of Harlem, and I don't give a fuck how many fledglings she dusts over in the Bronx."

“I'm surprised. I thought you enjoyed playing cat and mouse with Slayers, Jacob,” said Spike, turning slightly to keep the other vampire positioned in front of him. “What changed?”

“Only did that to humor you, dear Spike,” he emphasized the pronunciation of his name. “Slayers were always your thing, you know?”

“Well, true enough,” he replied.

"Besides, something nastier than a vampire wants that bitch's blood,” he said, sucking his teeth. “And I say, let the devil have her and her bratty little sister, too.”

"What's the nasty's name?"

"Come on, Spike," chastised Jacob. "Don't you feel it? Don't you sense it?"

Spike kept his expression blank and didn't respond. He waited for Jacob to continue.

"Damn, you're a bloody fool not to believe." Jacob shook his head. "It's the essence of what we are, man."

"I don't sense a sodding thing.”

"You sure about that?" The vampire said removing a rubber band from his wrist and pulling his shoulder length black locks into a ponytail behind his head. "Made any pilgrimages, lately?”

"It's a myth," said Spike, his eyebrows drawing together as he blatantly ignored the question.

"Well, you'd better not get in between this myth and its prey," warned Jacob. "Your ass will be in a dusty sling if you do."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

"Who sent you to see me, Spike?” Jacob snorted, appearing suddenly bored. “This ain't no visit from an old friend. You're here to pump me.”

Spike frowned.

“Pump me for information,” Jacob continued.

“A Slayer's Watcher suggested I visit you.” Spike offered.

“I don't know any Watchers.”

“He said you'd know him by his…well,” Spike paused, and tilted his head. “By the name the demons call him most often…”

“What's that?”

“Ripper.”

Jacob huffed. “Oh, that right bastard still alive? And now he's a Watcher. That group of fools in London must be hard pressed to allow that crazy Brit to join ‘em.”

“No matter,” said Spike, dismissing the topic with a wave of his hand. “Tell me more about this myth. How do you know so much?”

“The Bible, man." he stated. "Book of James tells you everything you ever wanted to know about the portal jumper."

“You believe then.”

“Every 700 years, it returns to cancel its debts and reward his debtors.”

“Yeah, I've heard that blimey shit before,” said Spike.

“You do know who the debtors are?” asked Jacob, incredulous.

“Who?”

“You and me,” said Jacob. “Vampires.”


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“Here's how this is going to work,” Buffy began as she circled the young man opposite her in the boxing ring. “You show up, we work out, you go home.”

“Come on, Buff.” Carlo bounced up and down on the balls of his feet while moving his head from side to side eyeing her. She knew he was looking for an opportunity to get in a good blow and the chatter was his way of distracting her – or so he thought. “Dawn is like magic, man…and I just want to spend some time with her.” He swung suddenly but Buffy was ready and easily sidestepped the punch.

“Unless you're available, sweetheart?” he smiled, recovering quickly and returning back into his fighting stance. “Dawn's the only piece of a…I mean girl, I've ever wanted to check out…I mean, date, you know?”

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” said Buffy, raising an eyebrow.

Consciously, she pulled her next punch to avoid connecting with Carlo's nose. He must've noticed and started doing some kind of shuffle with his feet. He then began throwing jabs in quick succession: left, left, left and then an upper cut from his right that nearly caught Buffy on the side of her face. She suddenly remembered why she enjoyed sparing with southpaws and smiled. “Almost got you,” he laughed.

“Okay, time out,” she held up both her hands in mock surrender. “And by the way, Dawn's too young to date.”

“Come on Buffy, she's only a year younger than me.”

“You look older. Besides, we're California girls and not used to being out in this big bad city,” Buffy said, trying for a joke, but Carlo's expression became serious.

“Why'd y'all move cross country anyways?” he asked.

Why, New York? Buffy sighed. Well, that was a good question she couldn't answer, at least not honestly. No way could she tell Carlo that Dawn had been or still was a mystical key and that a portal jumping Monster was trying to kill her. How about explaining the whole vampire slaying, Chosen One deal? Or, the thing about Buffy's Watcher insisting that she and Dawn move to New York. She sighed again.

Giles had said it was the only place in the United States where, outside of Sunnydale, a fully commissioned Watcher resided. This out-of-work Watcher didn't have a Slayer but he was a chap that could be trusted, according to Giles. He was not the usual breed from the Watcher's Council, Giles assured her. “He won't muck it up, Buffy. He's an excellent researcher and will help out with Dawn in case something goes wrong with the spell,” Giles had promised. “But most importantly, you don't know him and the Monster can't use him to find you or Dawn.”

Buffy met Bertram Ross her first day in New York. Immediately, she found herself liking the rumpled old man. He was extravagantly British – even more so than Giles – a stiff upper lipped kind of guy, and such a pompous know-it-all. During the drive from the airport he gave Buffy and Dawn a case of the giggles with his thirty-syllable words, well-worn soiled tweed jacket and extra bushy clenched eyebrows. Dawn had even whispered to Buffy that she liked the way he smelled. All cigarettes and whiskey, just like Spike. Buffy hadn't made that connection, though. She just figured she liked him because he reminded her of an older, stuffier, cigarette-smoking, periodically drunken Giles.

Within a week, Bertram Ross had secured an apartment for them, enrolled Dawn in a nearby high school and arranged a job for Buffy at the gym. Buffy's only question had been to ask him why they had to stay in the Bronx instead of in the upper West Side of Manhattan where he lived. “More vamps and demons for you to kill in your part of the Bronx, dear,” he'd said.

Carlo's voice interrupted her musings.

“Just a question, girl…didn't mean to stop your world or anything,” he shrugged. “You and your sister love the secrets, man.”

“No, it's not that,” Buffy started. “Just a lot of things we'd like to forget about, that's all.”

“Okay then, I'm good with that. Forget I asked, okay?” said Carlo. “I'd rather talk about Dawn anyways.” He had that big smile going again, noticed Buffy. It had to be one of the reasons teenage girls were attracted to him. Okay, there was also his huge dark eyes, tightly muscled body, and eyelashes that reached down past the tip of the nose. “You know with my skills. No sane creature in the Bronx would dare touch your little sis if she's with me.” He was raising his shoulders up around his neck and had brought his fists together in front of him, giving Buffy the classic boxer pose.

“You'd be surprised, Carlo,” Buffy mumbled.

“What?” He dropped his hands, a broad grin on his face. “Did you say I can take Dawn out Saturday night?”

“Nope. Didn't say that.” Buffy strolled over to her corner of the ring, grabbed her duffle bag and placed her workout gloves, towel and extra sweat shirt into the oversized bag. “Enough for tonight, I've got to go and pick up Dawn.”

“Okay, then. We'll talk tomorrow. But right now, you'd better put your butt in over-drive, girl. Dawn don't wait for nobody once she gets off work.” Carlo was already heading toward the exit sign. “Hey, sorry about the Q and A. Didn't mean to bring up bad memories,” he said over his shoulder as he walked out of the gym.

“You don't know the half of it, Carlo,” whispered Buffy to the empty room. Then as she lifted her bag, she started thinking about the last time she'd seen Bertram Ross.

A week after getting settled in the new apartment, Buffy had gone to visit Ross. She wanted him to make a phone call to Sunnydale. Giles had made her swear not to call anyone in Sunnydale directly. At least not for a while, and Buffy had agreed. But after seeing Ross that afternoon, she knew she'd have a hard time keeping that promise.

She'd found Bertram Ross, or rather his head, sitting on the sofa in the living room of his apartment. Large and square with short-cropped gray hair and terror-filled brown eyes, Buffy saw him as soon as she walked through the unlocked door. After taking a few deep breaths to compose herself, she'd searched the apartment for any signs of what had killed the Watcher. He'd definitely died in the living room. The walls were covered in blood. That sight was enough to cancel out vampires as the culprits. They didn't waste blood. She'd dipped her fingers in a nearby pool of the dark red liquid. It was still warm.

It was 2 o'clock in the afternoon and a bright, sunny, and too hot to be true November day, in New York City. Ross lived on the 42nd floor of the high rise, and even with the best underground sewer system in the world, most vamps or even demons would choose to skip a meal that lived in this apartment. Too high and way too many windows, observed Buffy, glancing once more around the room. There was nothing else for her to do there. So she'd made an anonymous phone call to the police and grabbed an armful of the Watcher's books before heading out of the apartment. She stepped into the elevator unnoticed and while traveling the 42 flights down to the lobby, she decided not to call Giles or anyone in Sunnydale. A bodiless Watcher simply wasn't a good sign that she and Dawn were safe.

Buffy didn't tell Dawn about Bertram, either. She explained the missing Watcher as having been called back to London by the Watcher's Council because of an emergency.

Poor Carlo, thought Buffy suddenly. “No way are you ever taking Dawn anywhere. Not in this city.” Buffy walked out of the gym onto the crowded street, threw the duffle bag over her shoulder and began to run to Mom's Restaurant.


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Spike watched Buffy dust six fledglings in about five minutes from his perch on the ledge of the rooftop overlooking the alley behind Mom's Restaurant. It hadn't taken him long to find her after his visit with Jacob. Giles had been right. The vampire was the best source of information in New York.

Sure, Spike knew the city, but he hadn't been back since 1977 when he'd broken Nikki the Vampire Slayer's neck just before dawn on a subway traveling uptown from lower Manhattan. They'd been on the Lexington Avenue train, which she took home to Harlem on Friday and Saturday nights. That had been one of Nikki's biggest faults. Or perhaps, it was part of her death wish, mused Spike. But either way, she'd been too predictable. Always the same train, the same time, heading in the same direction. Buffy, on the other hand, never did the same thing twice. Never dusted a vampire the same way. Always distinctive. That was his girl. Routine was just not her way.

He'd only seen Buffy a couple of agonizing times since she'd been brought back to life. Now she was less than a hundred yards away from him and she looked more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. She was grace in motion. Flying kicks, rotating flips and deadly strikes to the heart with her wooden stakes. She wasted nothing. Not time, not energy. He could smell her strength, vitality and fearlessness from where he sat.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “She's so alive.”

After his encounter with Anya and his chat with Giles back in Sunnydale, he hadn't allowed himself to consider what he might find in New York. Giles said the spell had taken one thought away from each of them. He'd also said that the spell had gone horribly wrong. But as he watched Buffy, Spike couldn't sense anything wrong about her.

Still he had to let her know what Jacob had said about the portal jumper. He'd also made a promise to Rupert.

“Hope she doesn't stake me on sight," he muttered.

Spike swallowed hard and let out a long sigh. Then he jumped down onto a ledge a few feet from where the slayer stood.

to be continued…

chapter 6: leviticus – collections

It was frigid in the bedroom. Tara glanced over at the open window and thought about getting out of the bed to close it. She rolled her eyes at that prospect though and gazing down at her naked body, inspected the itsy-bitsy goosebumps pebbling the skin of her bare breasts. Shivering, she looked around the room and saw the blanket on the floor, the sheets knotted together at the foot of the bed and the body lying on top of her. She sighed. Her only cover was Willow. She stared intrigued by the mass of wavy red hair splayed across her chest and the cool moist lips suckling her left breast.

“I'm c-cold.” Tara twisted a fistful of Willow's hair in her hand and turned the witch's head so that she could see her wide round eyes.

“Let go…I'm busy.” Willow pulled away from Tara's grasp and returned her attention to Tara's nipples, licking, biting and drawing them into hard points.

Tara was still cold. “Make me, warm.”

Willow twisted her head, still resting it on Tara 's chest, and stared at her. “You sure, baby?”

Tara nodded slowly, reaffirming her request.

Willow adjusted her body, giving herself more room to maneuver. She began depositing wet kisses on Tara's chest, moving deliberately from one nipple to the other. Her lips and tongue, beginning at the groove between Tara's breasts, traveled down her torso to her abdomen. There Willow plunged her tongue into her navel.

Then Tara watched awestruck as Willow suddenly floated away from her to the ceiling. An unexpected shudder gripped Tara's body. Her stomach muscles clenched sharply. Her gaze locked in on Willow's darkening eyes as she hovered above her. Tara could feel the magic being drawn from her own body. She knew that Willow was the only one with power now.

Tara's fingertips curled and flexed in anticipation as a slow warm sensation began to pulse through her groin. Willow then dropped from the ceiling, her head immediately between Tara's legs, her tongue burrowing deep into her pussy. Writhing and squirming mindlessly, Tara gasped and cried out as Willow's fingers slammed into her, roughly jabbing into her swollen center. Two, then three fingers and then a fist was shoved slowly into Tara's soaked cunt. Raising her head, Willow leered, displaying an inhuman tongue that slid tauntingly past cracked lips before lapping greedily at the juices flowing from Tara's body.

“Open your legs, wide…” instructed Willow. “Yes…good…now wider.” Willow's tongue pressed against Tara's clit as her fist worked in and out of her.

Tara looked away from Willow and focused on the floral printed curtains that billowed and swayed against the windowpane. Things were so different now; she couldn't remember when they'd changed. She just knew they weren't the same.

Then slowly, she noticed the warmth leaving her body. Tara looked down at the edge of the bed where Willow was sitting cross-legged, her arms resting easily, one hand on each knee. Her eyes, still black, were glowing and clouds of dark energy swirled around her as the magic flowed. Tara's eyes fixed on Willow's open mouth. She had asked for this. She always wanted it this way, now. Therefore, fear was pointless.

Nostrils flared, Willow pursed her lips and blew.

Tara roared as the orgasm drenched her body.


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“Was it good?” Willow asked not really needing an answer.

“Always,” whispered Tara lying motionless on her back on the bed, legs still spread apart, arms at her side and her chest heaving.

Willow unfolded her legs, rose from the bed and walked over to the open window. She leaned forward, relishing the cool breeze against her hot skin. “I'm going to talk to Giles, today.” She turned to look at Tara. She chuckled as Tara's eyes grew wide and a look of wild panic soaked through them.

“Time to tell him about the spell, don't you think?”

“Are you sure?”

“Why not?” Willow's voice was hollow as her head swayed from side to side bidding the air to caress her face. “Nothing's changed. Not really.” She glanced from one end of pre-dawn Revello Drive to the other. Then she pushed away from the open window to scan the floor until she spotted the pile of clothing she sought.

“Will you tell him…that you remember the thought?”

“No.” She strolled over to the heap of jeans and t-shirts, picked up the items she wanted and stood with the clothes in her arms. “I'll tell him the truth.”

“Which is?”

“That…” she paused. “I never forgot the thought.” She pulled the white t-shirt over her head, and walked over to the bed.

“You c-changed the rules,” said Tara.

Willow frowned as she watched Tara ease away from her as she sat next to her on the bed.

“What rules? Don't talk to be about rules,” scolded Willow. “For the past two months, power has come to us from every corner of the universe. That precious thought we eradicated with a simple spell was the best fucking thing ever to happen to me.” Willow smiled slowly and leaned forward, pinching Tara's still bare nipple. “The best thing to happen to us.”

Biting her lower lip, Tara sat up, and inched closer to Willow. “Honey, you've got to be careful.” She swallowed. “The book you took from Giles explained a lot about the Portal Jumper. Sure, with the thought, you've become more powerful. But Willow …can you really stop him?”

Willow held her breath and forced herself to relax the fist she'd formed so quickly with her right hand at Tara's words. “I'm the most powerful witch this universe has ever seen, and yes, I can stop him.”

“But we still don't understand the extent of the consequences of the thought spell?” Tara 's voice was so soft; it made nearly no sound whatsoever. However, it was enough for Willow to hear.

“Not without consequences,” murmured Willow, shaking her head. “Damn magic and its consequences.” Looking down for a moment, Willow was thoughtful. “We know most of the consequences so far, and they've been….well, minimal.”

“Wouldn't exactly call a chronically depressed drunken watcher, a practically suicidal thousand year-old vengeance demon and…Xander…God only knows what's up with him…minimal, Willow.” Tara's words were pointed, but her voice, gentle and careful.

“Damn,” Willow whispered leaning forward to rest her head on Tara's chest. “I almost forgot about Xander.”

“Okay, that's not good,” said Tara. “We can't afford to forget about him.”

“And what about Spike?”

“Giles is a fool for sending Spike to New York,” snapped Willow. She stood abruptly and marched over to the open window.

“S-sorry. Didn't mean to mention, Spike,” said Tara.

“You know, maybe Giles still has some of the old smarts left in him,” sighed Willow. “Spike is bait. If nothing else, he can't hurt and he can't really help. So maybe, he won't get in our way, baby.”

Willow turned and sidled back over to the bed. Caressing Tara's thigh, she bent forward and placed a kiss on her hip.

“Too early to talk to Giles, you know,” she grinned at Tara out of the corner of her eye. “Feel like some more…magic?”

Tara felt a chill and saw the goose bumps beginning to form on her stomach and breasts.

“Always,” she whispered.


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“Spike?” Buffy was drop-jawed, wide-eyed and okay, generally stunned beyond stunned. However, almost instantly, and of course all Buffy-like she thought proudly, she recovered from her shock, closed her mouth, and was now just plain angry.

“Spike! What the hell are you doing here?” She stood with her arms folded over her chest, eyes blazing, and feet set wide apart as she glared at the blond vampire she hadn't seen…well…hadn't seen in a damn long time. She huffed. “Spike, I asked you a question! What are you doing here?”

He just stood there staring at her as if she was some sort of Dali statue. All angles and wings, she recalled, instead of arms and legs. She'd seen her first Dali the week before at the Museum of Modern Art or MoMA as New Yorkers called it. She'd been more than a little freaked by the entire Dali mystique. What was up with that man's moustache anyway? Her lip curled in disgust, as she got lost in the memory before she reconnected to the sight in front of her.

Spike! What was he trying to do now? She nearly shuddered as her imagination began to run amuck. He couldn't still be all goo-goo eyes over her. Her shoulders slumped. Not after all this time.

“Jeez, don't you ever let anything get through that gin-soaked brain or yours?”

“Scotch…” he began slowly, his voice rich and low. “Jack Daniels, preferably, and on occasion a nice snifter of a good brandy. But Gin? Never Gin, pet.” He placed his hands on his hips, flaring his duster on either side, and tilted his head, his eyes slits as he stared at her.

Well, that was all too calm for the Spike she knew and abhorred. Buffy was itching to punch when suddenly she gulped.

“New York? I'm in New York City and how did you find me?”

“Wasn't as hard as you might expect, love,” he said.

“Oh my God!” cried Buffy, running to Spike and suddenly flinging her arms around him and pressing her body against his in an earnest embrace. “Giles sent you!” she exclaimed. “It's over! We can go home.”

Buffy released him and stepped back. Spike hadn't returned the hug. Fact was he was standing as still as that same damn Dali statue. Maybe the hug was a little much.

“Ah,” she started. “Sorry about that.” Still she was hoping against hope that Giles had sent him to tell her she could come home. She hadn't realized how much she missed Sunnydale until Spike dropped from the sky and landed on top of the dumpster next to her.

He had to be here because of Giles. Didn't he? She wondered. He hadn't just shown up for no reason. Of course, he could be in town because of something or someone else. Hadn't he left Sunnydale right after she'd been brought back to life? He'd stayed in town all of what? Two days. She could barely remember. Damn. When was the last time she'd seen Spike? For a few moments there, she'd forgotten she'd died for the second or was it the third time only a few months back. A year ago, Glory had been everywhere and Spike had had a crush on her. Then he'd almost died to save her and Dawn….

“Spike…seriously what are you doing here?” Her voice was softer than she'd planned.


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Tommy Dugan sat slouched in the back corner seat of car number four on the Lexington Avenue subway heading toward the upper West Side from the Village. At least that's what he hoped. It had been a long, hard night. He'd had a gig at a club on Bleeker Street off Eighth Avenue. He'd gotten it down cold, though. Played his horn like nobody's business. How many seventeen year-old musicians got opportunities like that? Playing with the man. Damn, it was too sweet. He hugged his encased trumpet to his chest.

He then decided that the very next day, at Mom's Restaurant where he worked after school part-time, he was going to invite Dawn Summers to come hear him play. Yeah, he knew she was all caught up in Carlo, but shit, she was just the sweetest thing he'd ever seen in his whole life. He really liked her, and she was nice to him. Didn't matter that he was short and thick, and couldn't always remember to wash his stringy brown hair. Let alone get it cut on a regular basis. This girl just liked people for what they were. That shit was rare, man. He shrugged and settled lower in the seat, getting even more comfortable. Then he noticed the train was pulling into Grand Central Station. Not much further until he was at his stop, he thought.

Sleep was pestering him, though. Tommy sat up as the train pulled away from the station, hoping that sitting up straight and tall, or as tall as he could get, might help him stay awake. He only had about ten more stops to go before he got to where he needed to be. He usually was so geeked after a show that he managed to stay awake during the ride home. He just never liked falling asleep on the subway, especially with his horn on him. He didn't know what kind of creep might board the subway from the Village to the upper West Side.

"Okay, then," he said aloud. Maybe thinking about Dawn might help him stay awake, he decided. Let's dwell on some of her more exciting attributes; he smiled, gripping his case more tightly. Okay, great hair. She had the best long…silky. Shit, did dudes his age say silky? Naw...she had good hair. Great eyes and a kicking behind. Okay, did dudes say behind? Nope. She had a great ass. Okay, that was better.

Tommy looked around as the subway pulled into the next station. Odd, it was pretty damn empty. Just him and a guy seated near the front dressed in black.


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His senses throbbed. This one had been near the gift. He'd touched it. He'd smelled its beauty. Oh, but so much more lovely was the fact that he himself was his own prize. Excellent, he exhaled. He coughed as he breathed in the stale air of the underground vessel.

Challenges, however. New York was a bestial city. All dirt, girt and arrogance. Too many seeking too little. All about satisfaction. Never mindful of the journey. If nothing else, he knew he was a patient man. How could he be anything else after all this time? A few moments in each dimension every seven hundred years built character.

Turning his head sharply, he sensed a sudden change. The veil was beginning to slip. Whatever sorcerer that had tried to cripple him had made a mistake. He laughed aloud. Silly, how these creatures' attempts never really got in his way. Nothing had touched him since 95BC. Nothing had diverted his attention from his beauties, except that one.

He tilted his head from left to right, encouraging the blood's flow into his brain and behind his eyes. This train was predictable. At around 2 a.m., it entered a tunnel after leaving Grand Central Station, heading toward the Bronx. The horn player had made a mistake. He hadn't gotten on his usual train. He'd gotten on the wrong train. No matter, though. It was the right train for him.

He took a deep breath. Soon, he'd have at least fifteen uninterrupted minutes. No one else was going to board. That was definite and an easy glamour for him.

He stood, and turned.

“Tommy,” he called him by name. The boy jumped up, holding a big box to his chest. “You are my gift.”

to be continued…

chapter 7: leviticus – fools

The dark alley was lined with steel dumpsters overflowing with rotten fruit and grease-stained bags of filth so vile that Spike thought he might heave. But that wasn't likely, he decided. Not with Buffy standing a few feet in front of his nose with her arms crossed, glaring at him.

Spike had landed softly on top of one of the oversized wastebaskets before tumbling to the ground feet first onto a patch of pavement next to Buffy. Standing motionless, his hands resting on his hips, he'd stared into her eyes as the dust of a half-dozen vampires swirled in the air around them. She had looked like a goddess from the rooftops, her body moving magnificently as she took out one vampire after another. Now she was yelling, gesturing with her arms, a forgotten stake clenched in her fist as she shot question after question at him. He had to stop himself from smiling as he watched her. She was so beautiful up close, temper unchecked, skin glistening. Bloody hell, he thought, she was lovelier than he remembered.

Spike cleared his throat. “Giles did send me,” he said, finally answering one of her questions. “But not to bring you back to Sunnydale.”

“Why then?” Buffy's hand trembled slightly as she pulled it through her hair, sweeping a few long blond strands from her face.

“Something went wrong with the spell,” Spike watched Buffy's expression change from curiosity to dismay. She walked stiffly over to a stool-shaped canister next to the dumpster upon which he'd landed. She plopped down on the makeshift seat with an exhausted thud. After a moment, she looked up at him, eyebrows rising, imploring him to continue.

“The spell had consequences. Changed the Scoobies…or at least Giles and Anya…quite a bit,” explained Spike. “Didn't see Xander or the two witches, but from what Giles and Anya said they're all pretty much running a tank short of something.”

“I haven't changed. Neither has Dawn. We're just fine, except for…missing our friends, and things,” Buffy looked away from Spike's face and appeared to tighten her grip on the stake.

“You may be okay, but they're different, believe me,” he said. “It's as if they've lost their souls.”

“Are they evil?”

“Bollocks, Buffy,” exclaimed Spike, trying to hide his annoyance by shoving his hands into the pockets of his duster. “Not evil, just different. Less than what they were, and in some cases, more than what they should be.”

“Sorry,” said Buffy, looking down she began to twirl the stake with her left hand. “But Dawn hasn't had a headache since the spell. She's been fine. We're both fine.”

“I can see that,” Spike said reassuringly, but at the same time he wondered if he'd heard her correctly. Had Buffy just apologized to him? The answer was obviously yes. He could hear the scampering feet of a hundred rats running behind the dumpsters on either side of them. He definitely had heard Buffy say “sorry”. He tried to recall the last time she'd used that word in a conversation with him. Could it be – never? He tilted his head, listening to Buffy's heartbeat as it began to thump wildly in her chest.

“I think the Monster is getting closer.” She glanced at Spike.

The look in her eyes told him she was telling him something she hadn't admitted to anyone else. “You're right,” he said to her, taking a few steps closer to where she sat. “But Giles said the Portal Jumper doesn't know it's looking for Dawn. Not yet." Spike gestured to the open spot next to Buffy. She nodded. He sat down.

“How does it find its victims?”

“Through the thoughts of its last kill,” Spike said. “Giles said that's why the spell was so important. He didn't tell you?”

She shook her head. “How come it didn't take a thought away from me, though?” Buffy looked at Spike. “I mean it took away Dawn's pain, but nothing else from either one of us.”

“Do you remember the thought the spell took?”

Buffy closed her eyes. Spike could hear her heartbeat returning to a steady rhythm. “No,” she said slowly. “I can't remember.” She opened her eyes.

“Giles said he couldn't remember, either,” said Spike. “None of the Scoobies remember.”

“Is that why he sent you here?”

“He asked me to tell you and Dawn it was time to move in with this Watcher, Bertram Ross. He'll be able to help you keep the Portal Jumper off your trail.”

“Too late,” said Buffy, her eyes fixed on her hands. “He's dead. Found his head in his apartment about week after we got to New York.”

Buffy's lower lip quivered ever so slightly. Spike reached forward, instinctively placing his hand on top of her hand as it rested on her knee. "Well, how 'bout if I just hang around for a bit,” he offered.

"You know, I can take care of me and Dawn,” she said. But as Spike looked into her eyes he was surprised to see that her words weren't spoken in anger. In fact, he thought he saw a small smile crease the corners of her mouth.

"Right. You're the Slayer, love." He smiled. “Guess you can handle whatever comes along. Just like you handled these Bronx vamps tonight.”

“You were watching me?” Buffy returned his smile. “I sensed another vampire, someone stronger than the pile of dusty fledglings here.” She waved her hand over the dirt. "It would be good to have some help. Maybe you can join me on patrol. You've always been a good fighter."

Spike's stomach was doing flip-flops. Who was this girl who was inviting him to join her on patrols? Could it be the same Slayer who apologized to him a few seconds ago? He found himself looking down at his own hands, hiding his eyes in an attempt to avoid showing her just how much her words meant to him.

Of course, the good times never lasted, he would claim later. Both he and Buffy jumped to their feet simultaneously as a row of new and soon-to-be-dusted vampires crowded into the entranceway at either end of the now incredibly short and narrow looking alley. Spike felt Buffy's back settle against his spine, her body bracing for battle.

“This is not all of them,” she whispered. “Look up.”

Raising his head to the sky, Spike saw Jacob standing on top of the rooftop almost in the same spot where Spike had stood less than twenty minutes before.

“Come on, man. What the fuck are you doing talking to a Slayer?” shouted Jacob, as he appeared to fly off the ledge into the air. He fell slowly to the ground and landed only a few inches in front of Spike's face. “What happened to killing the bitches, Spike?”

“What do you mean, Jacob?” Spike could feel Buffy's body stiffen against his back as he heard her whisper, “You know this vamp?”

“Yes, darling, we're old friends. Go way back,” snarled Jacob.

“Thought you didn't care about what a Slayer did in the Bronx, Jake?” interrupted Spike.

“I just came to watch you take her out, man. And what do I find? Your Aurielian ass hugging our mortal enemy,” leered Jacob. “The Portal Jumper isn't going to like this, Spike. He expects more of his brethren.”

Spike felt Buffy's body move away from his back. Shit, he thought. This wasn't good.


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Giles heard a light knock on the front door of his apartment, but continued to thumb through the pages of the second volume of the Zy Qasdor as he sat at his desk. He'd seen Xander out of the corner of his eye jump up from the sofa and scurry over to the door, pulling it open so quickly he caught Willow with her fist in mid-air. Giles shook his head, and whispered, “She's finally here.” He knew it was Willow at the door. He'd been expecting her.

“Good day, Willow,” he said. The fake graciousness of his greeting was obvious to him, but what Willow heard, he could only guess.

“Hey there, Giles,” she said, her voice bouncy as she strolled into the living room of the apartment, her dark eyes exploring the space thoroughly before resting their gaze on him. Giles noted she hadn't even acknowledged Xander. He chuckled at the perennial best-friend of all things Scooby who had moved aside sheepishly after opening the door. Now he sat shoulders slumped and eyes downcast, huddled in a corner near the foyer in a half-witted attempt to keep out of harm's way Giles imagined.

Turning his head away from the boy, Giles decided to give Willow a bit of the once over she'd just extended his way. She appeared as she often did these days. Dark red hair curling gently around her face, her eyes were two big round disks that changed from green to black so quickly he had given up on using them as a barometer of her mood. He exhaled slowly. There was too much to see when he looked at the new Willow. So he decided to focus on one aspect of her face. He fixed his gaze on her mouth. It was too big, he reasoned. Stretched wide and appearing like a gash cut lengthwise between her cheeks. It was always open, too, as if she couldn't breathe through her nose anymore and had to gulp air constantly through parted lips. He might be exaggerating the ferocity of her appearance, he admitted. But she just looked that foul to him any more.

“Giles, you can't keep avoiding this,” she began. “We've been hiding out in Sunnydale too long. We can't just leave Buffy and Dawn in New York, unprotected, forever.”

“Buffy does not need our protection, Willow,” he remarked, casually. “She's the Slayer. Or have you forgotten that, too?”

“Let's not argue, okay?” Willow edged her way closer to Giles' desk.

“I've got something I want to tell you about the spell.”

“Then tell me, Willow.” He closed the book.

“I changed it. Before we cast it, I changed it. I mean seriously, Giles. A monster that uses horrific pain to track its prey cannot be forgotten with the snap of a finger. So I tweaked it, just a little. The spell that is…I altered it.”

Slowly he stood up and took a cautious step toward Willow.

“You think I hadn't figured that out already?” He growled. “Look at Xander! Is he the same young man you loved? Where's Anya? Have you even seen her lately? And Tara ? Heaven help her,” he exclaimed, leaning forward and moving dangerously closer to Willow. “And what about me? You sodding bloody fool! I research for hours all day long, every day since they left but I can't remember a word. Nothing. Everything about me that was a Watcher is gone!” Giles turned abruptly and slammed his fists on the desk before picking up the volume of the Zy Qasdor and flinging it across the room.

“Calm down Giles,” implored Willow.

“Don't you tell me what to do.” Giles countered.

“If you don't calm yourself, I'll do it for you,” she warned.

“No Willow, please don't,” Xander's soft plea stunned them both as he and Willow turned to the man in the corner.

“Okay, Xander,” she said her voice shaking a little. “I won't do anything. We'll just talk.” Willow looked at Giles sternly. “Let's sit down. We don't want to upset Xander.”

Giles was panting heavily, his anger not nearly abated. But even with his nerves threadbare, he was thankful that Willow chose not to make Xander mad. One of the reasons he'd insisted on Xander moving in with him after Anya left was his effect on Willow. Whatever thought they'd taken, the change in Xander was the most perplexing to Giles. The boy appeared fearful and nervous most of the time, except when Willow used her threatening voice, as Xander called it. And for some reason Giles couldn't comprehend, Willow didn't seem to want to use magic against Xander.

Giles sat opposite Willow on the sofa as Xander retreated back into his corner.

“The original spell took away any thought of the monster's existence,” said Willow. “I just upped the ante a bit by changing that thought to fear.”

Giles glared at Willow. But he remained silent and waited for her to continue.

“Think about it. We remember the monster but aren't afraid to fight it,” she explained. “The monster thrives on fear. Without it, it can't find us or Dawn.”

“If the spell took away any thoughts of fear Willow, why are we all so afraid?” Giles reached up to pull his glasses from his nose, but then remembered he didn't wear them anymore.

“I'm not afraid,” she said.

“You're afraid of Xander,” he glanced at the corner.

“Well, I can't quite explain that, right now,” she mumbled. “But I do know about the Jumper. I know what he is, and how we can stop it.”

“How?”

“Well first, Tara and I have got to go to New York.”


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Carlo's morning run always started on the track at Christopher Columbus High School. His coach had given him a key so that he could get into the gym at 5 a.m. He was up at 4 a.m. every morning so it was never a hassle for him to get there to do what he needed to do. He believed that hard work always paid off. He changed into his special sweats, extremely stinky special sweats according to Dawn, and his favorite pull-over hoodie – the one with the letters USA emboldened in bright blue on the back and given to him by Mohammad Ali at the Olympic camp the summer before – and he was ready to rumble, as he liked to say.

God, he loved running at dawn nearly as much as he loved boxing. The ache in his thighs, the hardening of his calves and the tightening of his forearms as he pumped the air while sprinting over the hard concrete, wet mud or slippery streets and alleys of New York was heaven on earth to Carlo. Wherever he tread he devoured the path with winged feet, rushing blood and a focused mind. He was a contender. He thrust his shoulders up and down from side to side, fast, fast and faster. Fists pounding against the wind as he ran. "This is all good, man. All good," he laughed.

Today, he felt better than good, though. He felt unstoppable. Dawn had promised him she'd get out that weekend. Sneak away from her overly protective but definitely cute big sister. They were going to a club in Harlem. It wasn't just a date. It was going to be a first. He was going to kiss her. Yeah, it sounded lame. A freaking kiss. That's all he wanted from her right now. She was that kind of girl. You didn't jump the bones of a girl like Dawn. You worked for it. Since he believed in hard work, she was his perfect prize.

He'd been running for at least an hour. Circling the neighborhood and catching his second wind a few blocks from the alley behind the apartment building where he and his Mom lived. She'd be awake by the time he got back. A pan of bacon, scrambled eggs and a large tumbler of fresh-squeezed orange juice waiting for him on the kitchen table.

He reached the alley in what felt like seconds. Leaning forward, his hands tugging at the fabric of his sweatpants over his knees, he inhaled, sucking the cool morning air into his lungs.

Suddenly, he spun around and snapped into his boxing stance, startled by a thudding sound behind him. He peered into the blackness. In mid-winter it was still dark at 6 a.m. Eyeing the shadows, he tried to get a glimpse of what might be attempting to sneak up on him. Immediately, he forgot about his fatigue and need for oxygen. Fists held up in front of him, and loosely clenched, he prepared himself for the attack.

“Carlo,” a familiar voice came from the darkness. “What's up, kid?” It was Darnell, the cop from the 43rd Precinct.

“Hey man, what you doing in the hood at the crack of dawn?” asked Carlo, relaxing instantly.

The cop took a step forward, putting him in the spotlight of the beam shining down from street-lamp onto the pavement.

“G-got some news,” Darnell stuttered.

Carlo looked up at the kitchen window of the apartment where he and his Mom lived. He could see a light on, saw a body move past the window and he sighed. He could see his Mom fixing his breakfast. She was okay. He looked back at Darnell. Whatever the cop had to say, Carlo could deal.

“Your boy, Tommy Dugan," began Darnell. "He's dead."

Carlo shook his head as if his hearing had suddenly gone bad. He took a step backwards, putting some distance between him and the cop.

“What the hell are you talking about, man?” he asked. Tommy dead? That was some bullshit. “What happened?”

“Serial killer got him,” said Darnell. “This fucking bastard is doing his thing in the Bronx now and he doesn't care who he tags. Teenage boys, old men, they even say some dead ten-year old farm boy in upstate New York has the same M.O.”

“Is this the one with the...”

“Yep. All he leaves is the head.”

“Tommy, dead. Man, my Mom's gonna be upset." Carlo leaned against the side of the building. "Damn, he's worked for Mom since we were kids."

"You're still a kid," Darnell pointed out, quietly.

"You got any leads?"

“We're working on the answers, boy," said Darnell. “In the meantime, this bastard is getting awfully close. You and yours just be careful, okay?”

“Sure man, I'm all about careful,” said Carlo. He headed toward the front of the building, but then he paused. “Hey Darnell, thanks for telling me about Tommy. Would've hated to hear this shit on the nightly news.”

“No problem.”

Carlo walked into the building and ran up the four flights of stairs to his apartment.

to be continued…

chapter 8: leviticus – blood on the ears

When the portal jumper grabbed him by the throat, he didn't scream.

Giles slammed his fists into the mattress on either side of his body, struggling to pull himself out of the dream. He rolled over onto his side reaching out blindly, searching in the dark for the small table he knew was there. Finding it, he slapped his hand down on the surface. Hard. Then he did it again.

A thin pale hand spread sinewy fingers over his stomach and began clawing at his naked torso, brittle nails sliced small cuts into his belly and chest.

He had to wake up. Patting around the tabletop, he touched a stack of leather-bound books piled three high, a sticky half-filled tumbler of whiskey and the bulb-shaped base of his antique Victorian Cranberry lamp. Suddenly his throat closed and he pulled his hand to his mouth as he began to cough.

I'm choking.

Bolting upright in the bed, he grabbed his chest as a sharp, burning pain spread across his sternum. He had to swallow, get air into his lungs. His heart was being torn apart and his windpipe was closing shut.

If I could just take a few deep breaths—

But he couldn't breathe. He fell over onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. He'd read that lying flat, face down, relieved tension. He waited a few seconds, but it wasn't working. The retching sounds were still erupting from his throat. Turning abruptly toward the nightstand, he splayed both hands frantically over its surface, sending the books, the lamp, the tumbler and his last fifth of single malt Scotch flying across the room. He barely noticed the splintering noise the bottle made as it crashed onto the floor and broke apart. He had found the curved wire ear pieces of his spectacles.

He had to be awake.

His fingers roamed slowly over the frames of his glasses as he allowed himself the comfort of a compulsion denied for weeks. The vision of the monster in the daylight, sweat pouring from its skin as his eyes shined gold, had faded. Giles had stopped coughing, too.

Using his thumb and index finger, he pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed the soft skin soothingly. Then he eased the glasses onto his face. It was still pitch black in the room, but for an instant, he thought he could see.

Swinging his bare feet onto the floor, Giles grimaced as his toes touched the cold wooden planks. Shoving the matted hair from his brow, he stood stiffly, and stumbled across the floor, heading for the bath. He decided to skip flipping on the light switch and staggered past it through the shadows into the hallway. By the time he flung open the bathroom door, he'd decided he could see better in the dark anyway. He hadn't had any success in the daylight remembering lost thoughts or forgetting new fears.

Maybe I'll become a creature of the night.

He laughed hoarsely, a deep cavernous sound in his quiet apartment.

Taking off his glasses, he searched in the dark for the ridge of the porcelain sink, and carefully placed his glasses down. He turned on the faucet, cupped his hands and splashed the cool tap water over his eyes. Then he paused. The boy was on the sofa downstairs. But he couldn't hear any sounds coming from the living room where Xander was sleeping. There was no indication that Giles' noisy dream had disturbed his guest's slumber.

He splashed more water on his face then raised his head without thinking, expecting to see his reflection in the mirror above the sink. It was still too dark—but he saw a glimmer of light flash in front of him.

“Well, bugger me backwards,” whispered Giles as he grabbed his glasses and placed them back on his nose. “He's a human vampire.” He dropped his head forward, chin bouncing on his chest as he pressed his hands against his temples. "By God, he's more than that," he blurted. "Bloody hell—!” He reeled around as he remembered what he'd seen in the eyes of the monster in his dreams. He stumbled out of the bathroom into the hallway. He needed to examine the passage in the Zy Qasdor, where he'd first found the monster. Memories were flooding into his head so fast, he felt dizzy.

He stormed down the hall, making his way back to his bedroom in a matter of seconds. Flipping on the switch of the ceiling lamp, he stopped in the doorway, the fluorescent light momentarily blinding him. He removed his glasses and squinting, stared down at the floor, searching for the volumes he'd knocked off the nightstand.

A dozen small pools of blood were scattered across the floor amidst the broken glass and books. He leaned against the door jam and crossed his leg over his knee, examining the sole of his foot. He hadn't felt any pain when he'd walked over the glass. Hadn't realized he'd been cut. Too busy thinking about having his bloody head ripped off, he presumed.

Perhaps, the monster had devoured him, cut open his flesh and butchered his soul, and now this was the dream.

He shook his head, trying to shake the remnants of the vision from his mind. Placing his foot back on the floor, he reached down and picked up the second volume of the Zy Qasdor, which had conveniently landed near the entranceway. He brushed a few pieces of broken glass from its cover and opened the book to the page he hadn't been able to read since he, Willow and Tara cast the spell that stole a thought from each of them.

He began thumbing through the pages rapidly, tearing the edges of a few in the process. He inhaled deeply when he found the illustration he'd first seen of the monster hidden within a drawing of the god Glorificus. He had believed that this image had shown him how to stop the monster from finding Dawn. Giles bit his lip and stared at the drawing. The monster held a rose in one hand and a piece of parchment in the other. He hadn't remembered seeing anything in the portal jumper's hands before. But now, etched on the parchment, he could make out the symbol C^, the sign of the legend Lucretius.

Giles swallowed. The dryness in his mouth was nearly unbearable as he gulped and tried to clear his throat. He then rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh God,” he moaned. “Lucretius—and I sent Spike to New York.”

Giles spun around and ran down the hallway shouting to Xander to wake up. Jumping down two steps at a time, he reached the bottom of the staircase and noticed out of the corner of his eye the first rays of daylight coming through the window blinds. He also could see that Xander wasn't there. No wonder the boy hadn't come up to his room to see if he was all right. Xander hadn't been there all night.

“Shit,” Giles exclaimed. He had to make a call, and right away. If he was correct, and the ancient Lucretius—the legend Watchers refused to believe in the daylight, but whispered about fearfully in the dark—was the portal jumper, well, Giles had to warn them all before it was too late. He picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed.

“Willow, Giles here,” he said after listening to her recorded message, mildly conscious of the irony of her girlish voice. “You were wrong about the thought. It was never fear. Call me. Dear God, girl, call me as soon as you get this message. I remember everything, and you've got to tell Buffy, she can't trust—.”

Giles dropped the phone as a sudden deep pain sliced through his skull. “Aaaargh!” he cried. The arteries in his head were twisting like knotted wet rope. He dropped to his knees, the agony traveling throughout his body.

He looked down at the book still clenched in his hands and began to crawl across the floor to the oak weapons chest he kept against the wall near the fireplace. If he had the fourth volume of the Zy Qasdor it was in that trunk.

Bloody hell. He had to have it.

He edged closer to the chest. His mind reeling from the pain and from the effort of trying to remember the ritual and the chant the young Watchers would whisper late at night. They believed it saved them from the legend of Lucretius, the vampire that lived forever in the daylight and butchered his prey throughout the night as gifts for its brethren. Lucretius didn't feed, he hunted for sport. As Giles inched across the floor, he realized Lucretius was more than a legend; he'd met him face-to-face in his dream. As the thought once taken returned to him, he knew that, just like Dawn, the pain in his head was the portal jumper, traversing through his mind, searching for his next victim.

What had Anya said about the monster?

It doesn't leave anyone around to tell stories.

Giles reached the chest, and pushed it open. He had to find the book, perform the ritual and recite the chant.

If he could only endure the pain a little bit longer, he thought dimly.


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It was over in a matter of moments. The heel of her boot caught Jacob squarely in the balls. He doubled over letting out a girlish scream as he grabbed his crotch with both hands. Spike immediately dropped a two-fisted blow solidly on top of Jacob's back as Buffy dropped to her knees, tucked, rolled and then snapped up onto her feet in front of a slim female vampire spinning a metal braided chain above her head.

Buffy buried her stake into the vamp's chest quickly, snatching the chain from the demon's hands as she turned to ash. Swinging the weapon side-to-side, Buffy then knocked down the row of demons that had stood behind the chain-swinging female, staking them one after another, as they tumbled to the ground. As she brushed the dust from her eyes, she wondered why the arrogant bloodsuckers always insisted upon attacking one at a time when they clearly outnumbered her. Teamwork just wasn't a vampire thing, she figured.

A wail behind her drew her attention as she turned in time to see that Jacob had recovered and Spike was paying the price. She impulsively raised her hand to cover her mouth, but withdrew it quickly not wanting any one to see her and misunderstand. She looked around, however, realizing that she was the only one left to notice since the alley, filled with vamps a few moments before, was empty now. The demons Buffy hadn't dusted had retreated to the rooftops and were staring down at the war raging between Spike and his friend, Jacob. The battle had turned into a spectator sport, Buffy noticed, and she decided to join the crowd. She wasn't inclined to help Spike at that moment, anyway.

These two knew each other, and from Jacob's words, he'd expected to witness Spike doing in his third Slayer. He'd also said something about the portal jumper and brethren–and what did brethren mean anyway, she wondered. Sounded like they were family. Still, Buffy wasn't certain how long she could watch Spike being bloodied this badly. Even if it wasn't clear if he was winning or losing. He actually seemed to be enjoying it. How sick was that? Enjoying getting a beat down didn't make any sense whatsoever.

She'd been dusting vampires since she was sixteen years-old. She toyed with them, sure, but she didn't really get into the beating down of vamps like Faith, for example. For Buffy, it had been all about a few well-placed kicks and punches and, of course, puns–then take them out. But from what she was seeing now, it didn't look like vampires fought each other with the goal of killing. These two were trying to find out how much vamp blood they could spill. They were covered in it, too. Blood was oozing from their eyes and throats as they clawed and ripped at each other as if they were peeling potatoes. Pointless, Buffy huffed.

Their growling echoed throughout the alley and suddenly Jacob's large hands held Spike around the throat.

“Care to give a bloke a hand, Slayer?”

Buffy stared at Spike, pursing her lips as she folded her arms across her chest and thought seriously about tapping her boot on the ground. She was still pissed and didn't have any idea what Spike was thinking by not telling her about Jacob. But maybe he was going to say something and just hadn't had time. Still, Spike probably deserved some of this ass whipping. She just knew it. But she didn't want to see him lose his head over it.

Buffy grabbed Jacob by his flimsy tailored shirt, and raising her stake, aimed for his heart.

But the next thing she knew she was lying on the ground as a gale of cold wind stormed through the alley, knocking her on her butt, flinging Jacob into a steel dumpster and dragging Spike seemingly by his boots across the concrete surface.

“Spike,” Buffy yelled. “Hold on to something.”

He grabbed her and both of them skidded across the ground, ending up in a heap, legs and arms tangled. Then the wind stopped. Just like that, it was gone.

“What was that?” Buffy asked, not really expecting an answer.

“The portal jumper, preparing for his visit,” responded Jacob a large toothy grin on his dark face as he stood on top of the dumpster in the middle of the alley. “I told you he wasn't a legend,” he said, looking directly into Spike's eyes. “Ta-Ta, mates.” He gave them a half-salute then jumped straight up into the air to the rooftop, and disappeared with the rest of his vamp crew.

Her chest heaving, Buffy rolled off Spike's body and glared at him. “So, tell me about your friend.”


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A small fat-legged child wobbled by, briefly blocking his vision as he sat on the wooden bench, hunched forward, elbows on his knees and fingers in his mouth, chewing the dry broken skin hardening around his thumbnail. He'd been staring at a clump of shrubs at the opposite end of the crowded park since dawn. He was studying the clusters of pink flora in the bushes. The large spots of reddish-pink bleeding through the evergreen backdrop transformed the horizon with their beauty. He was mesmerized. Even from a distance, the petals shimmered in the sunlight, reaching toward the bright globe in the sky as remnants of the morning rain glistened on their leaves. He closed his eyes and inhaled, languidly breathing in their aroma as he sucked his thumb and forefinger into his mouth. Then he moaned. He didn't care if he was heard. He missed the taste of rose pudding on his lips and the feel of the flower's oil rolling over his skin. The wrinkles on the back of his hands had never been brittle when he bathed in rose water or dined on the essence of the reddish-pink petals.

His mouth suddenly pruned and his nostrils opened wide as the human infant gaggle interrupted his mind's journey. Their chortling pained his ears, and the scurrying bodies obstructed his view of the landscape he'd sought to soothe him.

Chubby, thin, loud and mournful, snuggling against a breast or tugging at the hem of a dress or jean pant bottom, they beamed with self-importance. He despised them. Too strong a sentiment for an ancient, he knew, but for as long as he could recall he had never avoided the truth.

Then he saw her walking across the street. Her head bowed, her too tight skirt stretched over her ass and thighs like warm mud smeared onto a windowpane. He was amused as he watched her jerk then stumble, appearing as if she was trying to remember how to walk. Her awkwardness aside, she still pleased him. She was familiar. He had been like her once upon a time.

He stood, meticulously rubbing his hands over his clothing, straightening the rumpled fabric of his seersucker suit, tidying his appearance for their first meeting.

“Anya,” he whispered, and strolled toward the ancient young woman.

to be continued…

chapter 9: mary magdalene – part I

Dawn nearly fell out of her bed—better known as the living room sofa—when her cell phone rang. Rolling over awkwardly, and in somewhat of a daze, she tried to snatch the phone off the end table before it rang a second time. She didn't want to risk waking up Buffy in case her big sister had already returned from patrolling.

“Hello,” she whispered. It was Carlo, but she'd known that before she flipped open the phone. He was the only person who called her at 4 a.m. outside of Buffy, and Buffy never called her at 4 a.m. on her cell phone because she was supposed to be at home in the bed sound asleep.

“Need to see you, Dawn.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. That okay?”

“Yeah, it's okay.”

They said a few more words to each other, mapped out the signals he'd use for getting into the building, the apartment and past Buffy. When they finished, Dawn snapped the phone shut, rolled out of bed and shuffled over to Buffy's closed bedroom door. Opening it slowly, she peered in. Good, she sighed. Buffy was still out and hopefully she'd stay out a while longer. Carlo had sounded bad. His voice even broke once. When he said he had to see her, he meant he really had to see her. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and he said—actually said—he needed her. Wow! She took a deep breath and tried to steady her galloping heartbeat. Carlo was her first boyfriend. The first boy she wanted to kiss, like all the time, and hold so close neither one of them could breathe. She loved staring at him until her eyes tired out and talking to him until her voice was raw. It was the strangest, most wonderful, most frightening feeling she'd ever had, ever. And she knew she'd do anything to keep it.

Dawn hopped back over to her sofa bed, and plopped down on the tight cushion springs. Here she was not quite 17 years old and this guy, this beautiful, strong, great guy really, really liked her. He liked her enough to call her when he felt bad. He'd sounded all vulnerable, like he might cry even. She'd never seen a man cry except for Spike the night Buffy jumped off the tower. She'd been scared silly by that sight—Spike crying, head in hands, body quaking with grief. If she hadn't been, well, so busy staring at Buffy's body lying on top of a pile of rocks, all quiet and not moving, she'd have freaked out. On second thought, she was lucky she hadn't lost her freaking mind; it had been such a crazy year. Mom dead, Buffy dead, Mom still dead, Buffy back and alive. Then a monster gives her headaches, visions and more pain and agony than she'd ever imagined possible.

Let's not forget finding out you're a key. A mystical glowing green thing that's ancient, powerful, and existed long before giving you a face, a voice or a reason to breathe.

Dawn pulled her fingers through her hair, trying to erase the images flooding into her head. Suddenly, she felt dirty, hot and sticky, which didn't make sense since it was mid-December and she was in New York City in a small apartment in the Bronx that might have heat but most likely did not—never could really tell these days. She jumped up from the couch and made her way over to the weapons chest, which also served as her dresser drawer. A pair of jeans, a t-shirt and underwear. She needed to slip into some clothes before Carlo got there—she had to have on more than the flimsy nightshirt she was wearing now. True, her body always felt like it wanted to be touched when he was around, but that wasn't going to happen, not tonight. Dawn shot a nervous glance around the room, taking in the floral rose print of the wallpaper (truly old-fashioned, most likely late fifties design), the dirty kitchenette, and the large Dali posters that had fascinated Buffy since they arrived in New York. They were plastered all over the walls to cover the flowery paper, Dawn assumed.

She turned suddenly toward the window as a pebble struck the pane. Carlo was downstairs, and that was the first signal. The walls creaked and heaved as beasts with tiny legs ran along the pipes. Okay, not monsters, exactly, but a horde of rats scampering through the open spaces in between the walls more than qualified as big bad nasties as far as Dawn was concerned. Another rock skittered over the window ledge. She walked over to the doorway and pressed the buzzer, letting Carlo into the building. Then she unlocked the door before returning to her seat on the sofa. This was the first time she'd been alone with Carlo, at night, in the dark.

The next sound she heard was at the door. Three light raps, two steady knocks then Carlo opened the door and was standing in the entranceway, waiting.

“Come in. But be quiet, and sit in the corner. Never know when Buffy's gonna show up.” Dawn pointed to the end of the sofa.

“She's not home?” He looked tired. His eyes weren't as bright and his brow was wrinkled and sad. “Tommy's dead. Serial killer got him.”

The man did get to the point.

“God. Tommy dead?” Dawn said, dazed and suddenly very worried. “You sure it was a serial killer?”

“What do you mean?” Carlo had walked into the room and, pushing the covers aside, sat down next to her on the sofa. "Darnell said it was this guy they've been chasing for the past few weeks, a serial killer that cuts off the heads and leaves the bodies behind." Carlo was shaking as he spoke. Dawn placed her arm around his shoulder.

His eyes were rimmed with red as he looked up into her face. Then he dropped his head to her chest, and started to cry. Softly, almost in silence, Carlo cried. Dawn wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him to her breast as close as she could manage.

She knew there was something he wasn't telling her. But she'd wait. As long as Buffy didn't come home any time soon, she'd hold him and wait for as long as it took.


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Buffy pushed open the apartment door and paused, her hand fisting the knob as she mulled over her next words carefully.

“Come in, Spike,” she said quickly. “Follow me and be quiet. Dawn's asleep.”

She grabbed his hand and led him through the living room toward her bedroom, but stopped outside the door, gesturing for him to go into the room without her. “I'll get some bandages and things. Be right back, okay?” She had offered to take care of his cuts and bruises, the jagged slash across his cheek, the torn skin around his throat and the (at least) three broken ribs under his bloodied shirt. Sure, he'd heal in a day or two. She knew he didn't really need first aid. He was a vampire after all. Nevertheless, she couldn't just let him go off alone, so badly injured, into the cold night. Not after he'd come all the way to New York City to see about her and Dawn. Besides, he'd explained why he hadn't mentioned Jacob or the little he knew about the portal jumper sooner. He really hadn't had enough time to say much of anything before Jacob and his gang attacked. Buffy shook her head as she rummaged through the bathroom cabinet, searching for the gauze and antiseptics she'd sworn she'd left there.

A few minutes later, she tiptoed out of the bathroom into the kitchenette empty-handed, and looked around. The breakfast dishes, crusted with dried egg and half-eaten pancakes, were stacked in the sink and an empty wine bottle rested on the countertop. She glanced at Dawn. Her arms and legs were sprawled across the sofa bed, a mass of long brown curls cascading over the sheets, her face smashed into the pillow. She appeared very much the ‘dead to the world' teenager. Buffy didn't buy it though. But she wasn't going to start a mini-war with her sister at 6 a.m. Not with Spike in the other room of their two-room apartment.

Buffy stood in front of the counter and massaged her temples as a dull pain began to throb behind her eyes. She'd deal with Dawn—and the dishes—in the morning.

She continued to open and close cabinet doors, hunting for medical supplies and thinking about the vampire in her bedroom. Spike showing up, well, actually, dropping down from the sky, had completely surprised her. Spike and New York 's version of a 'big bad' being all friendly to each other and then almost killing each other had given her quite the jolt, too. Then there was her reaction to seeing Spike for the first time in months. After being pissed off at first, she'd practically leaped into his arms. In fact, she had put her arms around him. Buffy chewed her lower lip. She'd been, well, honestly, glad to see Spike—or was she just glad to get a message from Giles or hear any news that meant she and Dawn were closer to heading home to Sunnydale. Could be Spike had simply benefited from being the messenger.

“Maybe that was it. I'm just homesick,” she mumbled, still rifling through kitchen drawers and cupboards.

She pulled open the door to the cabinet under the sink and pushed aside a large box of extra-strength powdered detergent and a pile of garbage bags. The first aid kit she hadn't thought about since arriving in New York City sat in the corner. She grabbed the kit and a two-gallon pot and hurried back to the bathroom, filled the pot with hot water, and dropped in a bar of soap and a wash cloth. With her arms full of the supplies needed to clean and mend Spike's wounds, she walked into the bedroom.

Spike was lying on the bed on his back, his arms crossed behind his head. He'd taken off his duster and shirt; from across the room, she could see the black bruises circling his ribcage and the blood still seeping from the largest cut in his side. His face was swollen and his left eye puffy, the lid closing shut. For an instant, all Buffy could think was at least Spike had left Jacob in pretty much the same condition. She'd make certain to tell him that later.

“This is not the way we used to be together, is it?”

“No, pet, it's not,” he said. “Not complaining, mind you. But you never treated me—“

“Like a person?” She finished the sentence for him, emptied her arms onto the nightstand and taking the wet cloth out of the basin of warm water, began carefully wiping the dried blood from his throat and chest. He was looking into her eyes, staring, studying every move she made as if she were some kind of ghost. “I don't know why I'm different, Spike. Didn't know I was different until—well, until I saw you.”

Spike grimaced slightly as she dug the cloth deeper into the cut, cleaning out the blood from the wound on his side. “Sorry,” she said and smiled at him.

“Said that twice in one day, love,” he winced as Buffy poured mercurochrome over his ribcage.

“What's that?”

“You saying sorry—to me.”

As he looked into her face, his eyes seemed to shine from the intensity of his gaze. It made her slightly nervous, but not in a bad way. She smiled at him again, and leaning forward, touched his lips with her mouth.

“Yep—sure is different,” he whispered.

He didn't say another word and neither did Buffy as she finished scrubbing away the blood, sewing the torn flesh, dousing the wounds with antiseptic and covering the deeper cuts with bandages and gauze. Then she stood up, placed the unused bandages, gauze and scissors into the kit and picked up the pot of blood-stained water.

“Stay here today and get some sleep. Tonight we'll figure out how to kill the portal jumper.”

She walked out of the bedroom and closed the door softly behind her without giving Spike a chance to protest, just in case that thought had crossed his mind.


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Jacob knocked the candelabra, which he'd placed on the large dining table as a lark, onto the floor as he stalked through the basement, alternating between curses and recitations of bible verse. He hadn't liked what he'd witnessed that night. How was it that one of the most natural killers he'd ever seen, and had proudly once claimed as his best mate and blood kin, was defending a Slayer? Damn it all to bloody hell. Was there an Aurelian curse or something? First, there were the stories about the vampire Angel, the bloodsucker with a soul and now this. Jacob raised an angry fist to the ceiling.

For fifty years, he had dismissed the rumors that Angel was indeed Angelus until he saw the sorry bastard with his own eyes one night in an alley in Chinatown chasing rats. Jacob had to turn his back on the sight, and literally run away. A cowardly act for sure, but he couldn't help himself. He'd worshipped Angelus. He'd served him for nearly twenty years on his knees, stomach or ass at the whim of the vampire. Whatever the fiend had desired, it had been his duty to fulfill. So seeing Angelus chase rats in Chinatown was truly more than a demon of Jacob's lineage could bear.

And now, there was Spike. Again, he'd ignored the tales of the blond Brit in southern California that was fighting along side the Slayer. He'd refused to believe any of that treason. He and William had been blood brothers. Both fledglings in the house of Angelus and Darla. They'd formed a bond. Even though Jacob was the lowest order of fledgling—a ship's slave turned by Darla as a cruel joke to get back at Angelus, he imagined. She never even acknowledged that she'd turned him, just kept the dark-skinned animal around to “clean up” after their feasts and fuck on occasion. But William treated him like a comrade. Whenever they could sneak away from the insane trio, they'd scamper off and create their own havoc. Feeding with glee and speed, feast and run, teeth glistening and tongues dripping thick red drops from the joy of killing—that was their way. Jacob missed that. The 20th century was far too civilized for vampires like Jacob the Preacher's Son and William the Bloody—oh, excuse me, he thought sarcastically—he wants to be called Spike. He spat the name out aloud.

Grabbing his throat, he felt the dried sticky blood there and recalled being beaten nearly to dust by his so-called comrade less than two hours before. He collapsed in the over-stuffed chair he kept in the corner near his bookshelf.

Raising his legs, he dropped them onto the dark-chocolate leather ottoman, and slid his body down into the cushions. His arms drooped over the sides of the armrests, and his head lopped forward, bopping on his chest. He glanced up at the small holes that served as windows to his basement abode and smelled the advancing daylight. He hoped he had a least a few hours to rest, and maybe heal. He had to prepare for the arrival of the Portal Jumper. Then he could convince Spike to change his evil ways and return to appreciating the nature of things.

Jacob sniggered to himself as he fell into a dreamless sleep.


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Willow trotted ahead of Tara on the crowded sidewalk, her dark red high-heeled boots clicking rhythmically on the pavement as her short tweed skirt swirled around her hips. Tara couldn't help but glare at the passersby, enticed to stare at Willow's fleeting wool-covered thighs. Then the redhead pulled the blue fur collar of her waist-length jacket snugly around her throat and shook her short-bobbed hair flirtatiously from side to side. Tara increased her pace to keep Willow within arms reach.

A gust of cold, crisp wind blew over them and Tara hugged her own full-length cloth coat around her body. Willow wiggled slightly, suppressing a shiver Tara presumed, as she continued to dance through the crowd, looking very much like a born and bred New Yorker. To think they'd only been in the city ten hours, Tara thought as she strained to keep up with the darting figure.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tara caught sight of a street sign. Eighth Avenue and 14th Street to be exact. The building they were looking for was on 13th Street. “Willow!” she called. Tara had to skip through the throng of rushing bodies to catch up with her. “We passed it. The address we're looking for—it's back there.”

They turned and walked quickly down the avenue toward the block where Willow had said they'd find a red-brick building.

“Willow, don't' you think we should tell someone where we're at in case something goes wrong?” said Tara. “We could call Giles, you know.”

“No,” said Willow, her voice hard. “We don't need him. Not now. We're good here.”

She led Tara up the steps of the red brick building and pushed open the door. Willow didn't seem surprised to find that it wasn't chained shut. She simply turned and grabbed Tara's hand, pulling her through the doorway. She looked excited, anxious for whatever was about to happen, thought Tara.

“You ready for this, my darling?”

“Yes,” said Tara. “Always.”

to be continued…


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mary magdalene – part II

Jacob snapped into an erect position in his chair. Instantly awake and fully alert, a low growl hissed through his parted, trembling lips.

He'd been in a deep slumber only seconds before, hell bent on healing his broken and bruised body after being brutalized by Spike and his fucking new girlfriend. Thankfully he'd managed a graceful exit from the pair by flying up onto a rooftop and tossing a few clever, but menacing words over his shoulder before turning and limping home. Once there, he contemplated the horror of Spike's alliance with the Slayer for a few moments before slipping into the most earnest sleep he'd known in more than a decade—until he sensed the witch.

That's what had awakened him. She'd turned the corner onto his block, danced down the street toward his door, and calmly stepped into the hallway of his home. He could feel her dark eyes searching from floor to ceiling; her need seeped through the layers of concrete separating them.

Hadn't Leviticus cursed the existence of witches even more solemnly than half-breed demons? Jacob knew his studies. These twisted brides of angels spoke syllables that changed worlds, ended destinies and maligned the un-lives of God-fearing vampires like himself. Now two of them had dared waltz into his house. He begrudgingly dismissed the big-boned one. She wasn't a threat.

He then cringed as a vision of the other witch crept into his mind, her wide mouth pressed against his cold ear, whispering thoughts and spells into his dead body. He'd been a vampire for nearly 125 years and had avoided witches for the most part, but this one was Shemhazi. She had seen God and had returned to earth unscathed.

And now she'd found him. The bloody bitch.

He pushed his palms against his temples. Things had been going so well. Then came the portal jumper, a Chosen One, Aurelian curses, old comrades and…

“Witches!” Jacob shouted as he leaped from his chair onto his feet. Lightening fast, he jumped from step to step, careening off the walls as he ascended up stairwell after stairwell. He flew over the final flight of steps, and scrambled against some force trying to pull him back toward the cellars. But it didn't stop him. He flung open the last door and then stopped abruptly as he found himself staring into the face of a startled young girl with large brown eyes and full wet lips.

She screamed and stumbled backwards. He leered, posturing mostly, for he knew this one didn't concern him. Still, the ridges of his demon began protruding from his brow. His fangs elongated in his open mouth dripped in anticipation as a deep growl oozed from the back of his throat.

“Tara!” The other one shouted and grabbed the girl by the hand, pulling her close. She angled her body so that Tara was shielded from him, then the shorter witch stood brazenly a few feet in front of his face. She held her head high and her eyes sparkled black and green as she glared at him.

So this was the one.

To be a queen of witches, he thought she was awfully small in stature, but at least she was pretty. He allowed his face to shift back to its human mask.

“No worry,” he hoped he was grinning. It made him feel more fearsome. “I won't bite you.”

“We already know that.” Her words crackled in the suddenly too quiet hallway.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the short witch, Jacob kept his back against the wall as he moved cautiously toward the living room. As quick as he was, he knew he couldn't attack both of them before a spell of some monstrous proportion was cast upon his dead flesh. He believed the more powerful of the two was a word witch. The other worked with roots and herbs, less powerful, but still potent. But the smallest sound from the redhead's blasted mouth, and he was dust. Frankly, he was surprised he wasn't dust already. Clearly, his instincts had been right. She needed his help.

“Right then. So I can't hurt you,” he mumbled, practically to himself as he continued to move slowly along the wall. “What can I do for you then, my ladies?”

“You can stop stalking us,” the red-haired girl said. “Keep still.”

Jacob froze. He wasn't certain if she'd cast a spell or simply given an order. Either way, he didn't want to take the risk. He could only hope that he'd stopped moving on his own volition.

“Willow,” said the girl named Tara. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely” she answered, keeping her eyes fixed on Jacob. “We're looking for the portal jumper. He's tracking some friends of ours and I need to find him before he finds them.”

“You're a powerful witch, girlie. Why can't you just say the word and destroy him?”

“I could,” she said, matter-of-factly. “But then my friends would die.”

“Too bad,” Jacob stepped away from the wall, confidently. “I won't help you.”

“Keep your ass against the wall,” she said as his body flew backwards, her words sticking him to the surface. “He has something I need, and I've got to get it back first, then I'll say the word.”

“If you know about the portal jumper then you know why he's here,” said Jacob, still pinned against the wall. “And you also know that as a vampire, there's no reason on God's earth I'd want to keep him from his prey.”

“He doesn't want you,” she smiled and tilted her small head slightly. “He wants the other Aurelian.”

“How come you know so fucking much?”

“I've seen God.”

“You are Shemhazi,” Jacob whispered, unable to conceal the awe in his tone.

“Only since I forgot the fear of being what I am,” she took a step closer to Jacob. “And got all comfy with what I can do.”

“You did a thought spell?” His eyes narrowed. “And fixing this won't change you back too?”

“No, not if you help me get what I want,” she smiled. Her voice was light, almost childlike. “Then I'll help you get what you want.”

“How?” Jacob barely managed to get the word out.

“The portal jumper is looking for an Aurelian. There were two in California, but one of them has a soul, and he definitely isn't looking for a vampire with a soul. Nor does he want an insane demon, who talks nonsense to headless dolls.” Willow moved away from Tara and walked into the living room. They both followed her.

“So right now in this hemisphere, there are only two vampires of Aurelian descent. We both know that only one can receive the portal jumper's gifts.” She sat down on the sofa in front of the fireplace, and glanced around the room expectantly, as if she were waiting for a maid to bring her tea Jacob thought.

“So you help me, I'll help you,” Willow added.

“And this other Aurelian?”

Jacob was surprised when he heard the other witch's voice.

“Spike. His name is Spike,” said Tara. “And he's here in New York.”

“But you already know that,” interjected Willow, eyeing Jacob.

“You want me to dust him?”

“No,” answered Willow as Jacob noted a slight tremble in her voice. “We just need him—elsewhere.”

Daylight slipped through an opening in the heavy curtains that covered the large glass windows. He walked to the front of the fireplace and rested his elbow on the mantle. He fingered a framed platinum print by Aston Clinton of Angelus and Darla from 1895. Looking back at Willow, who had been joined on the sofa by Tara, he wondered if the witch knew about his relationship to Spike. Then he shrugged. It didn't really matter.

“So where do we begin.”

“You must contact the portal jumper,” she began. “Ask him to come to you tonight.”

“Bloody hell, witch,” he exclaimed. “Jumping right into the middle of things, hey?”

“That's what I do best.”


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“Xander!” Anya yelped as he caught her by the wrist, pulling her into his arms an instant before she could fall face down onto the pavement. She quickly wiggled free of his embrace and righted her carelessly short skirt, trying to recover her dignity he imagined. She didn't need to, he thought she looked good. Not that much different from the day he'd last seen her except her hair was now brown. But then her hair was always some color other than it had been before, so that wasn't a sign of real change.

“Well, thanks for scaring a girl half to death, Mr. Harris,” she pulled away from him, her movements were now nearly graceful after she'd just tripped over her own two feet when stepping into the crosswalk. If he didn't know better he'd think she'd deliberately maneuvered this damsel in mini-distress moment to draw him out.

“I saved you, Anya,” he said softly. “You were a second from being face down—”

“Look, I'm just fine and we have nothing to say to each other. Besides, what are you doing here?”

“It's a public park, Anya,” Xander said, struggling to keep up with her. She was practically running as she scurried across the street. She continued to pull on her clothing as she tried to distance herself from him, alternating between running her fingers nervously through her hair and straightening the too tight skirt around her hips.

“Look Xander, you haven't talked to anyone in months, so what's brought you out of the closet today?”

“You haven't seen me in months, how do you know I haven't been talking to anyone.”

“I know things,” she stopped abruptly causing Xander to stumble into her back. “Get off me!”

“Anya, please. I need to talk to you.” He held her by the arm and noticed she didn't pull away this time.

“For whatever reason, the spell didn't just take away a thought from me. It changed me.” He chuckled and shook his head slowly. It wasn't going to be easy to explain what was happening to him but he knew he had to tell her. He hadn't slept in days thinking about what he wanted to say. He'd left Giles' apartment at midnight and had waited outside Spike's crypt, Anya's new home, all night long, trying to figure out how he'd explain what he'd become.

“Actually, it did more than change me, it gave me a power.”

Anya only stared at him. She didn't even open her mouth in wonder. She just looked at him, her eyebrows arched in disbelief, as if he'd lost his mind. In a way, he thought he had. For the past two months, Xander had focused on Willow. The spell had not only taken away a thought but had given him a gift. He could see into the hearts and minds of those around him, and he'd seen Willow's soul first, and it scared him. So he opened his mind to her, only to her, and he forced her to see what he saw. That's how he controlled her. She didn't want to see what she'd become. She just wanted to be.

It took all of his concentration to make Willow see what she truly was, which unfortunately, turned him outwardly into a shuddering, babbling fool. He'd cowered in corners, barely able to speak and appeared nearly suicidal, even to himself. But Giles had noticed that Willow was less determined when he was around. And that was a good thing.

Then Willow left with Tara, heading for New York City, and Xander began to come back to himself. With his mind almost right again, it was time for him to explain to Anya why he'd let her leave him, and hadn't tried to get her back.

“Anya.” He still held on to her arm and grasped it even tighter, then pausing as a thought crushed inside his head. “Anya.” He managed to say.

“Yes, I'm standing right in front of you.”

“The portal jumper is here,” he whispered. “He's in the park.”

She looked around, her eyes frantically searching. Xander looked at the kids and the moms walking, playing and racing under the trees and in front of the rose bushes at the other end of the park. From the corner of his eye, a sudden movement caught his eye, he turned to see a tall blond man in a seersucker suit. A definitely odd choice of clothing for Southern California in December, he thought.

“We've got to go,” he pulled Anya to him. “Now.”

“Xander, he wants to talk to me,” Anya looked into his eyes and touched his hand with hers. “Go find Giles. Tell him what you've remembered.”

“Anya?”

“No,” she stepped away from him. “Go now. I'll be okay. He doesn't want to hurt me.”

He used his gift to look into her heart and mind, and saw that she was telling the truth.

Then she grabbed his face with both of her hands. “Please Xander. You've got to go. Now.”

He turned and ran out of the park toward Giles' apartment.


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Spike had known Dawn was awake as soon as Buffy invited him into the apartment. He also knew she wasn't alone. He'd heard the galloping heartbeat of the boy hunched in the corner, doing his best impersonation of the invisible man. He'd also heard Dawn's heart race when Buffy called him by name. If Dawn hadn't been sneaking around with this boy, she'd have been really glad to see him.

Spike rolled over onto his side in Buffy's bed. She'd left him alone, which was probably a good thing. He was already feeling better, his body getting the rest it needed to heal. If she had stayed, he would not have been able to concentrate on his body, well not on the parts of his body that needed healing. Bloody hell, he squirmed under the light sheet she'd left over him. He wouldn't be able to think about anything except for the other parts of his body if she hadn't left.

He sighed and rolled over, face down in the pillow.

"Spike. You still sleep?”

It was Buffy. "And if I say yes, gonna call me a liar?"

He flipped over, sat up in the bed and stared at her. She looked really good. He couldn't imagine how she'd managed it, he was certain she hadn't slept all night. Most likely, she'd curled up in the sodding chair he'd seen in the living room and closed her eyes for a few moments during which she worried herself with guilt about kissing him and caring for his wounds.

"No." She stepped further into the room. “Not gonna say that.”

Buffy walked over to the window. “Really came in to check on the curtains. Didn't want you burning up before we had another chance to talk."

“Okay. Let's talk now.”

“Portal Jumper.”

“Yeah, a legend among vampires, in particular, Aurelians.”

“What's the big deal?”

“Can make us human again.”

“Wow.”

“Gets better,” Spike swung his legs onto the floor, stood up and walked over to the window where Buffy was standing, facing him. “We become human, but keep all our vamp powers and needs.”

Spike heard Buffy's breath catch as he moved closer to her.

“Scary,” she said softly. “But if this is all about vampires, why was the portal jumper after Dawn?”

“Don't know, pet.”

“We're missing something, aren't we?”

“Believe so, love.”

“Your friend Jacob,” she started, then suddenly stopped and turned her back to him. “Can he help us?”

“We can ask him.”

“You know where to find him?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, let's find him tonight, okay?”

Buffy's breathing hadn't calmed any as she turned away from the window to look at Spike. He started to smile, but then decided not to. “Yes, love, we'll go at dust.”

“Okay.” Buffy said firmly, then turned abruptly and walked to the door, leaving Spike at the window. “Wanna go back to bed?”

“Definitely.” Spike moved his head from side to side as a small grin creased the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, Spike!” Buffy rolled her eyes, stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

Now that was the Buffy he knew and loved, thought Spike as he hopped back in bed and pulled the covers up over his head.

to be continued…

chapter 11: mary magdalene – part III

It wasn't going to be the way anyone expected, vowed Anya as she tugged at the hem of her skirt. No, not what anyone would expect from her at all. There would be no running away too soon or disastrously inappropriate words falling out of her mouth too often. She'd immediately make certain he understood just how important it was to her that a portal jumper—no, the portal jumper—had chosen her.

Then for what felt like the umpteenth time, she tucked in the shirttail of her bright white blouse and gave herself the pep talk. “Be strong, be brave and calm,” she said loudly as she zigzagged slowly across the lawn toward the man standing near the wooden bench.

He was leaning against the trunk of an old cherry tree in his blue seersucker suit and white gym shoes, casual and confident in his leisurely pose. He reminded her of the tailored young men she'd seen in New Orleans back in the 1930s, except for the shoes. Anya had spent quite a few vengeful nights in the South during that decade, frying the balls of frisky clergymen. She recalled how those soon-to-be neutered men had stood pontificating at the pulpit, not knowing it would be their last sermon. The portal jumper looked quite commanding braced against a length of wood, just like they had during their last hurrah. Too bad she couldn't wreak any vengeance against him, she thought solemnly.

A band of children scurried past Anya, laughing nervously as they fled from their moms and their tail-wagging dogs. She paused, letting them pass as she stopped to straighten her collar and brush the hair away from her face. He had to be able to see her eyes when they met. He had to see that she was not afraid.

A little girl bounced off Anya's leg, and she watched her spin in a circle making tiny patterns in the grass with her feet as a far too excited puppy nipped at her heels.

Anya kept her hands at her side, resisting the urge to tug at her skirt. Instead, she combed her fingers through her hair. It felt messy, out of place. Glancing down, she thought her blouse was too white also. And hadn't she been clumsy all day? Sure, she tripped over her words sometimes. Still, she rarely stumbled over her own two feet. If it hadn't been for Xander, she would have fallen on her face.

Suddenly Anya recalled that until that day, she hadn't seen Xander since she'd walked out on him and moved into Spike's crypt. She hadn't even thought about him that much since the spell, not even during the endless hours she'd spent walking through the streets of Sunnydale trying to remember what was missing from her once shiny human life. All Anya knew was that after the spell she no longer loved Xander, but didn't know why. She feared Willow, but couldn't explain what was different about her. She pitied Tara, without compassion. And Giles had become a drunken spineless buffoon. But mostly, there was Xander and she didn't love him anymore and she didn't know why.

Anya shook her arms as if they'd gone numb and needed fresh blood pumped down from her shoulders to her fingertips. The skin on her forehead felt scratchy and the corners of her mouth dry. She looked up, took one more step forward and stopped in front of the man, leaning against a tree, wearing an old-fashioned summer suit in mid-December. Even in Southern California, he looked out of place.

“Did you ever travel to Rome?” he asked.

Anya stared at his lips as he spoke, but could barely hear his words. She could feel the vibrations of his baritone circling inside her head though.

“Of course, you've been to Rome, a vengeance demon teleports from place to place at a whim to levy her justice. You've definitely seen Rome.”

By his appearance, she guessed he'd been of the same age as she a thousand or so years ago when fate changed both their destinies. “Yes, I've seen Rome,” she said, calmly.

“Well, we won't see it again, now will we,” he stepped away from the tree and extended pale thin fingers out to her. Without hesitation, she took his offered hand. He curled her arm around his, pulling her close to his side and began leading her toward the row of reddish pink rose bushes at the far end of the park.

“What is it that you believe I want from you, Anyaka?”

“You said you wanted to talk.” Her voice felt small in her throat.

“I rarely talk to my prey,” he slowed his pace, and took the fingers of his other hand and placed them on top of their entwined arms and squeezed. “But you aren't prey, are you?”

“What am I?” The words gushed out of her mouth, and she bit down on her lower lip hard to stop it from quivering.

“My muse,” he breathed, smiling.

Anya was mesmerized as she looked directly into his eyes for the first time. They were the color of oceans on a brilliantly bright day. She certainly hadn't expected him to have such lovely eyes or for his skin to be porcelain cream or for his nose to be angled just so. Then again, he'd been a Roman philosopher when his life was his own. He'd studied nature and elaborated upon the virtues of a special kind of romance.

His affair was with birds, plants and the changing sky. Indulgences of the flesh were foreign, evil, and intolerable to him. Anya was surprised that he'd even talk to a vengeance demon, a creature that credited its existence to the arbitrary twists and turns of physical love and romance. But mostly, she thought his blue eyes were incredibly lovely.

“Your muse? Me?” she asked, staring into his face.

“The Greeks, barbarians all, still managed to worship a creature called Mnemosyne. She was one of Zeus' daughters and the goddess of memory.” He stopped walking and touched Anya's face, then brushed his fingertips over her lips. “You will keep my memories while I deliver my gifts.”

“What?”

“You will keep them, here.” He placed his hand on her chest.

“I don't understand.” Anya searched his face and shuddered. “I can't help you kill my friends.”

“You have no friends.” His hands continued to linger over her lips then he grabbed hold of her chin and held it firmly. “You are a vengeance demon, a thousand year old creature that has destroyed nearly as many lives as I have in half the time.” His voice became hard and the ocean blue of his eyes turned violet. “A year from now, the boy would have left you, and you would have wept. I'm sparing you that heartache.”

They came to a stop a few feet in front of the rose bushes. “These humans tricked you into becoming one of them. It wasn't your choice.”

“Are you giving me a choice?”

He chuckled softly. “Yes, if you'd like, you have a choice. Just tell me what matters to you, and I will spare it.”

“What's your name?”

“My name? It's Lucretius,” he said. “But call me Luke and I swear, by all that's right, to protect what matters to you, if you agree to help me.”

Anya paused, but couldn't remember. “Oh God…nothing matters to me.”

“Good.” He grabbed her arm, and began to lead her once again toward the bushes. “You've made your choice.”

She'd never teleported when someone else was at the helm. Riding his wave, Anya was astonished by the portal jumper's movements through dimensions. They were much smoother than anything a vengeance demon could ever conjure. At least not this demon, thought Anya. Even on her best days, she couldn't have pulled that relocation spell off as seamlessly.

“We're not in Kansas anymore, are we?”

“No, they call it, New York City,” the portal jumper said as they came to an abrupt halt in the middle of a dark alley that smelled of grease and filth.


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Xander hadn't run so fast in his entire life, at least not without a few demons chasing him. But this was worse, the thoughts racing through his mind were more dangerous than any demon clan or vampire that might choose him as its prey. He'd left Anya with the portal jumper. He'd turned his back and set his feet down on the pavement one foot after another in a mad dash away from her and the monster that wanted to talk. The rational side of his brain understood he'd had no other choice. But he wasn't at all accustomed to dealing with that part of Xander Harris.

Panting, he turned the corner of Giles' street in no time, and rumbled through the courtyard to the Watcher's door. As he took out his keys, he noticed it was dark and absently wondered why in the middle of a bright sunny day, the treeless garden was in shadows.

Xander walked into the hallway of the apartment and called out to Giles an instant before he saw him lying on the floor near the weapons chest. He lay face down, arms spread eagle. His glasses were clutched in one hand and in the other his fingers were wrapped around a book. Xander moved swiftly across the floor, and dropped to his knees.

“Giles?” He nudged the Watcher's body. He didn't move. “Giles.” Xander said again and bending over, gently rolled the man over onto his back. Still nothing.

Jumping up, he ran into the kitchen, searching for a rag and pitcher for water. Giles wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead, thought Xander as a small thread of panic buried itself in the pit of his stomach. No one was going to die. No one, he said stubbornly to himself.

Seconds later he was back at the Watcher's side, a pitcher of water in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. Large drops of perspiration were dripping from Giles' face. Xander hadn't noticed that before. A sweating man was a breathing man. He was alive.

“Come on, Giles,” he pleaded. “Wake up, please, wake up.” He dipped the washcloth in the pitcher and wiped Giles' brow and squeezed a few drops of water onto his lips. He stirred, but only slightly.

“What happened here?” Xander said, practically to himself, and looked around the room. He didn't see any signs of a scuffle. The only thing that looked out of place was Giles' weapons chest, which was open. Then there were Giles' hands that didn't seem capable of letting go of the book or the glasses. Xander took a breath and allowed his eyes to access Giles' condition more closely. He was dressed in plaid pajamas. A British thing, Xander imagined. His feet were bare, and there was blood. Not a lot, but blood nonetheless. Leaning forward, Xander looked down at Giles' bare feet. They were cut, small slices covered his bare soles and small pools of dried blood were spattered on the floor next to them.

This was odd, thought Xander. He looked at Giles' hands and the book in held in his left one. The name emblazoned on the black cover of the book caught Xander's eye. No, he decided. The cuts on Giles' feet weren't as odd as finding him laying on the floor unconscious with the King James Version of the Bible clutched in his hand.

A low moan slid from Giles' lips. His eyes were still tightly clenched but Xander could make out the words coming from his raspy throat. “He was here.”

“Still here,” replied Xander, knowing immediately that Giles was referring to the portal jumper.


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“Buffy love. Come on, wake up, pet.”

With her eyes stubbornly held closed, she raised her arms and groped the air, blindly searching until she found the offensive party's hand, grabbed it and pulled its owner close. “Go away,” she whispered. She then pushed the arm away gently and nuzzled deeper into the cushions of the overstuffed chair, burying her face in the crook of the armrest.

“Buffy!” At the sound of Dawn's shrill voice, Buffy's eyes snapped open and she jumped from the chair in one smooth motion. Her quick movement startled Spike, knocking him backwards a couple of steps into Carlo, who nearly fell on his face before righting himself.

“Carlo?” she opened her eyes wider, momentarily bewildered. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Calm down, Buffy. You were dreaming, love.”

She turned her head sharply and glared at Spike.

“Hey Buffy,” said Dawn. “How was your nap?”

A violent scenario played itself out in Buffy's mind as she imagined herself smacking the silly grin off her sister's ridiculously cheerful face, but she decided to ignore Dawn for the moment.

“I'm not dreaming. I'm wide awake.” She said pointedly to Spike. Then swiveling her head slowly, she leveled her gaze on Carlo. “And again, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, ah—just dropped by for dinner.” He answered hesitantly as he inched toward the front door.

“What do you mean dinner? It's like barely dawn.”

“Actually, love, it's more like dusk,” said Spike. “You slept all day. Kind of like a vampire, wouldn't you say?”

She spun around, her eyes narrow and zeroed in on Spike. He was smiling almost as broadly as Dawn had been a moment before.

“Just saying, you were really out of it. But it gave us all a chance to get to know each other better, learn a few things 'bout who we really are? Right, Carlo?”

Carlo swallowed and took a step closer to Dawn. “Yeah, I mean, you being a vamp and all was kind of weird. You know, that shit is pretty out there man. But I can deal with it.”

Buffy couldn't believe she'd slept through all of the introductions. She had been exhausted, but she didn't really think she was that out of it. Wasn't like her to sleep so soundly.

“Well, glad everyone has had a good day, chatting and the like, but Spike and I have some business to take care of since you say it's dusk,” she said turning to Spike. “You ready?”

“Always, love.” Spike strode out of the living room and headed for Buffy's bedroom.

“Hey, where you going?” said Buffy.

“Get my coat,” he answered, giving her his ‘what the fuck' look.

“What's it doing in my bedroom?”

“Brought me home last night, mended my wounds, gave me some nourishment,” he smiled. “Let me sleep in your bed. You don't remember?”

She smacked her lips. “Yes, I d-do," she said reluctantly, remembering more than just tending to his wounds.

“Where you guys off to?” asked Dawn. She and Carlo were no longer hovering over Buffy. They'd moved to sit down on the sofa in the living room. “Going after some big baddies like in the old days back in Sunnydale?” Dawn sounded giddy to Buffy.

“This is serious business, Dawnie,” she snapped. “Spike and I have to find and kill this portal jumping guy before he can hurt you, or any of us.”

Buffy was standing in the middle of the room, and Spike, duster swirling, had strolled out of the bedroom, and was now standing next to her, waiting.

“We'll be back soon,” said Buffy.

She grabbed her coat from the hallway rack, opened the closet door and dug around for an instant. When she stood up, she threw an ax to Spike, which he snatched from the air. She held a sword.

“Where we headed, Slayer?”

“To that alley, where we ran into Jacob.”


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The heat followed him everywhere. Even in this cold, chilly alley in the middle of a city made of brittle stone, he couldn't hide from the scorching arid heat. That's why he jumped so often. He wanted to feel cool, crisp air and soft gentle breezes. That only existed for him between dimensions. But the nature of things wouldn't allow that for him on earth. He had to sweat. He had to be wet. He had to be the portal jumper.

Luke glanced at his muse. She was standing next to him. Her eyes fixed on his face. He didn't need to look at her, he could feel her gaze. Thankfully, she was pretty. A small ancient soul. She didn't really understand why she'd come with him. He knew that. But he understood why. If he remembered later, he'd tell her. He might even try to explain everything to her. Then again, maybe not.

He pulled Anya to him and hugged her to his chest. She returned his embrace and buried her face against him. He always loved this part of the game. The hours before he gave away his gifts were the most pleasant, especially with his muse in his arms. He might not even jump tonight. He'd stay here and let them come to him. Let the alley fill with fools and vampires.

Damn it, though. He just hadn't counted on that witch. She was something he hadn't considered. They usually didn't last this long or get as powerful. But his vengeance demon would help him with her. He tightened his arms around Anya.

Then Luke inhaled deeply. The air was putrid. The stench curled the hair in his nostrils.

They'd better arrive soon. He missed the smell of roses.

to be continued…

chapter 12, god shiva - part I

Luke was struggling with her head. He hadn't had that problem before. Usually all it took was a quick snap, a two-handed tug and presto, another trophy to add to his collection. But this one was different.

When he'd walked through the door from the alley, she was perched on the stool behind the cash register, humming and swaying in her seat. Impervious to his presence, her dark-skinned hands were thumbing through paper money as if they were stacks of gold. With her head bent down and her long, thick black hair touching her thighs, Luke couldn't see her face. But he knew what he'd see when she looked up and saw him. Wide oval eyes swollen with fear and unshed tears, and stained red lips quivering in terror. Then she'd scream. He liked that, the screaming. She'd be very beautiful then. All of her edges would melt into round curves, her large firm breasts would bounce as she inhaled sharply. He nearly sighed aloud at the picture in his head of him fucking her from behind and of her collapsing and falling into his arms, blissfully accepting her destiny. He smiled slowly, savoring just how much he loved imagining her like this.

He relaxed his body against the doorframe and watched her.

She hadn't noticed him yet. She was too preoccupied with her cash box and her song. Still he couldn't help but linger. He wanted to remember her looking and sounding like this forever.

Then quickly and silently, he moved across the floor and touched her on the shoulder.

She jumped from the stool, spun around to face him and immediately attempted to flee. But his body blocked her path. She was shorter than he thought she'd be, he consciously noted as he ripped open her blouse, popping off one button after another viciously. He then tore away her bra and placed the palms of his hands over her breasts, pinching her protruding nipples with his thumbs and forefingers. He'd known they'd be hard, long and eager for the touch of his fingertips to squeeze and tease them.

Suddenly, she smashed a fist into his face and rearing back, slammed a forearm into his chest. More than slightly puzzled, Luke stared at her for an instant and started to ask her if this was a joke. Why was she fighting him? How was she fighting him?

“You fucking bastard,” she screamed. “Get away from me.” She kept swinging and cursing.

He'd never encountered such a creature; at least not one that could reject his power. His prey had always accepted their fate easily as far as he recalled. They'd occasionally cry out or whimper just before the end. But mostly, they'd succumb to his will in short order and treasure the bliss of transcending. Why was this one different? He pressed the fingertips of his left hand against his temples and groaned. Maybe she wasn't a gift. He pondered the possibilities. Could it be she was a test? But who or what would dare test him? He latched on to the woman's flailing arms and wrapped his long thin fingers tightly around both of her smooth wrists. She kept twisting and turning her body, fighting to free herself. She also was wailing like a demon hound that had lost its mate.

“Shoosh,” he instructed her and placed his free hand over her mouth and pressed down hard, forcing her into silence. “My muse is waiting for me in the alley outside, and she mustn't hear my business.” He closed his hand more firmly around her mouth. “You see, you were to be a gift.”

He circled the fingers of his other hand more tightly around her wrists and hypnotized, watched her hands turn a deep shade of blue. “Your blood flows to your extremities," he murmured. "You're not in my thrall."

Luke stared into her face intently. “I was bored waiting in the alley. Couldn't tolerate the smell. It reeks out there."

She looked at him without blinking.

“You smell like flowers in a garden,” he whispered and let go of her wrists as he grabbed a handful of her dark hair and pulled it to his nose.

“You're going to kill me." She spoke so softly, he could barely hear her.

“Yes, it is what happens when I collect my gifts.”

“Please before you do, let me make peace with my maker,” she begged.

Caught off guard by her request, he cleared his throat and took a long slow sniff of the air. He couldn't find any power within her. Still he couldn't explain how she'd avoided being under his thrall. He glanced down. The look in her eyes made him feel hot, tiny beads of sweat began pooling at the base of his spine and he flinched. There was so much hope in her eyes he nearly turned away.

“You pray? To whom?” he asked, sincerely interested.

“To the angels of mercy and I beseech them to strike you down and damn you to hell, Satan!” She pulled free from him then, reached down, pulled a large wooden cross from underneath the counter, and promptly buried it in his chest.

“You Spanish whore!” He shouted. “You can't kill me. I'm Shemhazi, not a common vampire!”

He took hold of her hair again and dragged her body to his. He'd have to forego the usual ritual. No fucking this one. He pulled his face as close to hers as possible and captured her eyes with his gaze.

“Oh, god,” she cried. “Not the children! Not my baby!”

Luke had decided to let her see the faces of his next gifts. He grinned broadly, pleased with her reaction as he began to wrench her neck from side to side. But her stubborn thick neck wouldn't come.

“Let go, you silly bitch,” he hissed. “Let me have your fucking head!”

She was taking much longer than any gift he'd ever collected. But then again, he'd already figured out that she wasn't even a real gift. Right? She might be a test. He exhaled slowly. “Oh, god,” he moaned as he sensed the other. A damn witch was nearby, and she was one of his.

"Luke." Anyaka's excited voice sounded agitated as she called to him from the alley. "They're here," she shouted from the other side of the door, beneath the exit sign at the rear of the restaurant's kitchen.

"Good, my love," he called back to her. "I'll be right there." He pulled on the woman's neck one last time, and finally freed it from her body. Dipping his long fingers into the open wound, he sucked her blood into his mouth. She tasted bitter. She wasn't a gift. Not a gift at all.


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“How long have I known you?” Buffy was walking slightly ahead of him, but Spike heard her clearly.

He didn't answer right away, though. He wasn't certain where she was going with the question and wanted to hear what more she had to say before he dove into the briar patch. They'd marched out of her apartment and walked five blocks in friendly silence. He'd been enjoying the quiet and how comfortable he'd felt being close to her, being needed by her. It reminded him of their walk from Revello Drive to Glory's tower, except this time he'd make certain the night ended differently. It was during that walk nearly a year before that he'd fallen more deeply in love with Buffy than he thought possible. She'd invited him back into her life that night. Even trusted him with her sister's life. Nevertheless, he'd failed them. Okay, Dawn hadn't died, but Buffy had. Spike stretched his neck from side to side, trying to clear the lump in his throat. This time he swore to whatever god, demon or powers that be that might exist, he'd be dust before he'd let Buffy make that kind of sacrifice again.

Buffy stopped, turned, and looked at him. Her eyes round and wide seemed uncertain. "How long?” She asked him again.

“Well, pet, we met five years ago,” he began. “Though wouldn't say we got to know each other ‘til last year, when your Mom got ill.”

Since Spike had arrived in New York City, Buffy had surprised him more often than she had in all of the years he'd known her (except for the time she'd kissed him for allowing Glory to kick his ass). In the past 24 hours, she'd apologized to him three times, bandaged his wounds, tucked him into her bed and kissed him. Bloody hell, he thought. Not as intimately as he'd dreamed of, but it was still a kiss.

“Five years?” She appeared to be mulling the number over in her head.

“You don't remember?” He paused and tried to focus on what he knew versus what he wanted to believe. But he had to face the soddin' truth. This carefree, happy to see him, Chosen One, wasn't his Buffy. He'd been ignoring the signs since he dropped into the alley. No matter what she claimed about not being affected by the thought spell, she'd changed and Spike knew it, even if he didn't want to admit it. Now, perhaps, she was finally figuring it out for yourself.

“Can't exactly say I don't remember.” Buffy shoved her hands into her pockets, turned and started walking again.

“Know why you kissed me last night?” Spike blurted out.

“Yes.” She didn't slow down her pace as she spoke. “I always kiss you when you're hurt.” She glanced over her shoulder and gave him one of her radiant smiles. He nearly stumbled. She'd never smiled at him like that before.

Spike reached out, grabbed her by the arm, and squeezed it. "Buffy, what do you remember about Sunnydale?"

"A lot. I remember you, Giles, Willow, Xander, Anya and Tara." She pulled away from him and continued to walk down the street. "I remember Mom getting sick and dying. I remember Glory, Dawn being the key, and I remember dying."

He was walking next to her now. "But you don't remember how long you've known me?"

"Well, it's not about how long,” she stopped walking and looked into his eyes. “It's that I don't remember not knowing you. It's as if we've been forever.”

Spike reached out to touch her face, but before he could, Buffy took his hand into her small hands and pulled it to her mouth.

“Buffy,” he whispered and closed his eyes, cherishing the warmth of her lips pressed against his skin.

“Yes, Spike?”

He opened his eyes. “Love, the spell changed you." Spike didn't want to say it, but he had to. "Never cared this much before, pet.”

“You mean you don't like me.” Her eyes began to fill with tears.

“No, Buffy,” he had to explain, faster. “You don't like me. Well, not this much.” He glanced at his hand, the one she was still holding.

Spike pulled his hand free, and reached into his pocket, searching for his cigarettes. “We tried to kill each other most everyday for nearly five years, Buffy. Only time you looked at me without a stake in your hand was after I got the chip in my head."

"The what in your where?"

"Jesus Christ, Slayer,” exclaimed Spike, exasperated. "Chip. In my head.” He held a finger to his temple.

Buffy stared at him, still confused.

“The bloody Initiative?" He didn't want to say the name, but he had to get through to her. “Captain Cardboard? Bloody hell, you called him Riley.”

"Okay. Okay,” breathed Buffy. “So the spell did change me. But I don't remember how I was before. I just know how I am now. And for now, I know that for the past two months Dawn has been safe. No headaches. No portal jumping monster.”

Buffy grabbed Spike by the sleeve of his duster. “And I like you.”

Spike opened his duster and in the inside pocket found his lighter. He placed a cigarette in his mouth, flipped open the lighter and stared at the flame for a second before inhaling. “We're almost to the alley, Slayer.” He said softly as he tilted his head to the side and looked into her eyes, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs.

Buffy let go of his sleeve. “I hadn't even thought about the portal jumper that much since the Watcher and that head business. Not until you got here, that is.”

“That's right, love. I'm the messenger,” said Spike. “And no matter what you've forgotten or think you remember, we've got to deal with the portal jumper and Jacob tonight.”


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The dumpsters were overflowing with the usual rotten meat and repugnant scents of human shit and urine. Seems human odors carried their own level of disgust, separating them from the typical alley smells, thought Jacob.

He was beginning to feel like his luck was running out. He'd promised the word witch that he'd be able to summon the portal jumper. Of course, he'd been exaggerating. He could only hope that the bastard would appear. But Jacob knew this spot had the best chance of attracting him. Willow was a smart witch, though. She'd certainly figured out his plan. All he needed was a few precious moments to accomplish his task while the witch dealt with the portal jumper and her friends. While she was busy, he'd grab all the gifts for himself. And for once, he predicted, a lowly Aurelian was going to get what he deserved.

A dedicated demon, proud of his lineage and his luck at being sired by Darla, Jacob relished his existence. He'd spent nearly a 100 bliss-filled years in New York City, the perfect town for a vampire of his disposition. Like in London, he could get lost amongst the legion of vampires and demon classes that dwelled above and below the concrete streets that covered New York City. He hadn't needed to complicate his un-life with crusades or plans of world domination. He killed what needed to be killed; fed when he was hungry and fucked whatever struck his fancy. However, as he smiled and hummed an old blues tune, he recalled the truth of its lyrics. Yes, boss. Times, they was a changing.

The sun had settled behind a wall of dilapidated high-rise apartments across the street from the alley where he and Willow had materialized. They'd left the big-boned girl at his house. He could tell that Willow clearly had feelings for that witch. She seemed to have feelings for quite a few things, thought Jacob, somewhat terrified by the idea of Willow and feelings. Shemhazi should have none of that. Just seemed wrong to think of them that way.

Turning his mind back to the alley where he'd landed flat-footed a few moments before, Jacob nearly groaned. This was the same spot where he'd fought Spike and the Slayer. Two Aurelians, a Slayer and, he looked at Willow who stood with her hands on her hips underneath the streetlamp, and a Shemhazi witch. My goodness, un-life was getting interesting. He watched her as she examined the alley with blazing black eyes and hair shining with bright orange streaks of light.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Give it a moment, my love,” Jacob purred. “The jumper doesn't appear with a snap of a finger or even a few choice words from your deadly lips.”

He placed his back against one of the dumpsters and stared at Willow. She didn't have that California girl glow he'd seen in television commercials. He imagined she liked being cooped up in dark caverns. She looked liked she'd been dipped in vinegar and sealed shut.

He then noticed Willow's hand begin to shake. Was she nervous? Odd, he thought.

“Willow?” A young woman stepped out from the shadows. She looked a little like Spike's Slayer except she was taller and her hair was darker.

“Anya?” asked the witch.

“Jacob, my friend,” said the portal jumper, stepping from the shadows behind the woman named Anya. “It's me, Luke.”

Such a personal greeting, thought Jacob absently as he sensed another vampire approaching from a few blocks away. Damn, he cursed silently. This alley was going to get bloody crowded, bloody fast.


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The hip-hop melody of Carlo's cell phone's personalized ring made Dawn giggle. She could never understand why he liked those crazy lyrics screaming, “I'm a Soldier.”

He was in the bathroom.

“Carlo, your phone's ringing,” she called to him.

“Okay, I'm coming.”

“Hurry up, it's your mom.” Dawn recognized the number on the caller ID.

“Answer it, babe.” Carlo was rummaging around in the kitchen now.

Dawn sat forward on the sofa and picked up the phone.

“Hello, Mrs. Hernandez?” No answer.

“Sorry, Carlo. I missed her.”

“That's okay,” He walked into the living room with a bottle of apple juice and a chocolate-chip cookie. “She's at the restaurant. I've got to get over there to help her with inventory. She's likes doing it at night.”

He dropped down next to Dawn on the sofa. “You wanna come with me.”

“Buffy told us to stay here.”

“And so?” he said, leaning closer to Dawn. “We're just going to the restaurant. You can leave her a message or call her on her cell.”

Dawn didn't want to stay in the apartment alone and stood up. “Okay, let's go.” She would call Buffy from the restaurant. Let her and Spike know she was safe.

to be continued…

chapter 13: god shiva – part II

Giles lay motionless on the sofa with his eyes clasped shut. His pajama bottoms, soaked with perspiration, were sticking to the inside of his thighs and calves. The moist cloth draped across his forehead felt cold, useless. His body ached from head to toe and the pain in the back of his skull pulsed with the precision of a thousand daggers, slicing perfect squares into his brain.

How long had he been knocked out? Might bloody well have been a week. He couldn't hazard a semi-decent guess. All he knew was that his eyelids felt glued together. He started to gag. What if the portal jumper had defeated them, and he was trapped in a dream dimension? Panic rose from his stomach into his chest and the bitter taste of sour eggs lodged in the back of his throat.

No, please God. That can't be it.

Giles willed his eyelids apart slowly. It was time to see what there was to see. A thin line of daylight pierced his corneas and he blinked rapidly, attempting to adjust his vision to the brightness. Another wave of pain traveled up his spine and settled behind his eyes. He slammed them shut.

Sod it all to hell, he cursed silently. Then he lifted his arm to this face and wiped the perspiration from his upper lip.

He had to open his eyes. Get up. Make a phone call. Say something. Tell someone what he'd seen in his dream and what he'd learned from the portal jumper and his precious books. With any luck, he'd be able to explain how to save Dawn and perhaps even Willow. Except to do this, he had to wake the bloody hell up!

“Giles?” The voice broke through the din in his head. It was Xander.

“Close the shades,” he breathed. “Sunlight. Hurts my eyes.”

He heard Xander stand up, walk to the window, and rustle the blinds. Only then did Giles peak through the slits he'd made with his freshly parted eyelids.

“How long?” he asked, trusting Xander to understand his question.

“Nearly twenty-four hours,” Xander said. “You've been in and out of consciousness since yesterday morning.”

Both of Giles' eyes were open now. He could see Xander sitting on the edge of the coffee table next to the sofa. Giles had always disliked Xander's lack of respect for furniture. The boy treated property as if it had no value. He wasn't accustomed to taking care of things. Xander was an architect of basement décor. Giles balked at how a 1000 year-old woman could love such an elemental human being. Even if she was a chattering loon at times, Anya had still traversed more lifetimes than Xander could comprehend.

Giles cleared his throat, and forced his attention away from the random thoughts that helped him deal with the pain in his head.

He looked at the coffee table. A pot of water rested on the table next to Xander. Removing the lukewarm cloth from Giles' forehead, the boy dipped it into the pot and twisted it dry with his hands. He didn't flinch as the ice-cold water streamed over his fingers. When Xander placed the cool cloth on his forehead, the Watcher nodded a solemn thank you and then remembered what he needed.

“Where's my Bible?”

Xander reached behind his back and held out the book for Giles to see. Indescribable pain ripped through Giles' head at the sight of it and he bit down hard on his lower lip.

Xander dropped the book on the table and grabbed Giles' hand, giving him an anchor to hang onto while he rode out the latest wave.

“Open it,” Giles ground out the words.

Xander had marked the pages after prying the book out of Giles' grip when he'd found the Watcher sprawled unconscious on the floor. Now it fell open to a chapter in the Old Testament. Not exactly a Bible buff, Xander did know two things about it. The Old Testament was in the front of the book. The New Testament was in the back.

“First verse, last chapter of Leviticus,” Giles' voice was soft as he spoke. “Last verse, first chapter of Ecclesiastes.”

With one hand, Xander thumbed through the pages, found the passages, and curled the corners of the pages to keep his place. He looked at the Watcher and waited for instructions.

“Be ready,” began Giles. “To recite the verses when I pass out.”

“Okay,” said Xander, not knowing why Giles expected to pass out, but he wasn't going to ask him now.

“Anya is with the portal jumper, right?” Giles' words came out in a rush as Xander watched him turn a sickly shade of gray.

“What's he want with Anya?”

“Don't worry about her. She knows what she's doing.”

“But I don't understand—,” Xander began.

“The portal jumper was cursed by a higher power,” said Giles. “Anya is a refuge for him. I don't believe he'll hurt her. But I'm also not certain if she can help us."

"Is he a vengeance demons?" Xander asked.

“No, he's not a vengeance demon," replied Giles. "He's an immortal. He's also a man and a vampire, of sorts, and his name's Lucretius.”

Xander's breath caught in his throat. “He's a vamp?”

A sharp pain spread from Xander's fingers up his forearm. He looked down to see Giles hanging on to his left hand, and squeezing it tight.

“Listen, Xander,” Giles' voice was stronger, and more urgent. “His vampire lineage is the least of our concerns. L—Lucretius was cursed centuries ago by an angel, banished from heaven. He travels through dimensions blindly collecting gifts—killing for reasons he can't even comprehend. He just knows it's what he must do.”

Giles' eyes grew wide and he began coughing, a deep dry crackling sound. Xander took the cloth from the Watcher's forehead and mopped the deepening pools of moisture from his face and throat.

“What's he want with us?” Xander whispered, posing the question more to himself than to Giles.

"He wants Dawn.” Sweat rolled from the Watcher's brow. “I'm a stupid git, Xander. I saw him in the Zy Qasdor, imbedded in an image of Glorificus, but still didn't understand that his intentions were no different from hers.”

Giles took a deep breath.

“Dawn is the key and we bloody fools missed the obvious," he said, as a jagged row of veins marked a path across his forehead. "I planned to take away the memory of him, so he couldn't find her. Couldn't find any of us. But I was wrong. Dawn's headaches protected her from the portal jumper, and Willow , she—.” Giles stopped abruptly as his body began to convulse violently. Xander pried his fingers away from the Watcher's hand and pressed down on his shoulders, trying to hold him in place as he thrashed from side to side.

“Steady, Giles. No need to talk if it's going to kill you,” warned Xander, but he could see the Watcher wasn't about to stop talking.

“Willow—.” He stared decisively into Xander's eyes. “She changed the spell. Don't know why she did it, but she did.”

“How?”

“M—My spell was specific. Would only take away our fear of Lucretius. But I didn't know he wasn't causing Dawn's pain.” He looked apologetically at Xander. “I thought he needed fear to cast his thrall upon us. But Willow—.” Again, the Watcher stopped as a wave of pain swept over his features, knitting his brow into a distorted pattern that cut his face into sections.

“She took away our joy. She lied to me and said it was fear, but it was joy. S—She believed the portal jumper used joy to find its prey,” he blurted, then sagged back into the cushions of the sofa.

“But if she took away joy, why did losing a thought give me the ability to see?” Xander shook his head. "I don't understand."

Giles struggled to sit up. “It's different for all of us. For you, a thought taken, gave you more than you had. For me, it stripped me of my intellect. My ability to reason, to learn, to decipher was eradicated. I'm not certain what effect it had on Tara or to Anya. I definitely don't know what happened to Buffy. But Willow." Giles paused. "I'm afraid, like you, it gave her something unexpected."

“What does Lucretius want, Giles?”

“He needs Dawn to open the door to the dimension where he was still a man. I saw in the Zy Qasdor that Glory had promised to return him to his home. But we destroyed her and his chances of returning home. So he decided to solicit the key himself.”

"No way, Buffy would never allow that. We'd all fight to the death to save Dawn,” asserted Xander. “We've done it before and would do it again.”

“We can't bloody kill him." Giles said softly.

“So we just let him force Dawn to open his damn dimension?”

“He won't force her,” said Giles. “There will be no chains. No small cuts. She will choose freely to become his key.”

Xander stood up abruptly, and stalked away from the sofa into the foyer.

“Dawn wouldn't do that unless—,” Xander dragged his fingers through his hair. “Unless she had to save Buffy.”

“Yes, or someone else she loved very much." Giles rolled onto his side and looked up at Xander.

Giles was drenched in sweat. Reaching into the pot, Xander pulled the wet cloth out of the cool water, squeezed it tightly, and dapped gently at the Watcher's face, and eyes. It then occurred to Xander that there was still a question he needed to ask.

“Can Willow stop the portal jumper?”

“Y-yes, s-she can.” Giles stammered.

“How?”

Giles lurched forward and pressed his hands to his temples. “Oh God!" he cried out.

“Giles!” Xander wrapped his arms around the Watcher's head and pulled him to his chest, cradling him in his arms. “Come on, Giles. Hang on.”

“In t—the first volume of the Zy Qasdor, study the image of Lucretius. Look into his heart and you'll find—.” Giles' body began to shake, but Xander held onto to him.

“Stop!” He begged Giles. “It's going to kill you. Please, stop.”

Giles' head lolled to one side as he whispered. "Willow is Shemhazi's whore...and the matriarch...of Aurielius."

"Giles, what the hell are you talking about!"

"Shemhazi?" Giles fell back onto the sofa's armrest and his eyes closed slowly.

Xander took the dampened cloth from the brow of the unconscious Watcher and dropped it into the pot filled with cold water. Then he grabbed the book from the tabletop, opened it to the first of the marked passages. Quickly, he recited the verse from Leviticus. As he spoke the last words, he immediately flipped to the last chapter of Ecclesiastes, and chanted the verse there. Just to make certain he'd gotten it right, he started from the beginning and repeated the verses three times.

By the end of the third chanting, Xander was panting. He placed the book back on the table and looked intently at the Watcher. He lay unconscious, but he wasn't dead. The sounds of his labored breathing and Xander's own harsh gasps filled the room.

Good, Xander thought, as he stood up slowly.

He then walked over to Giles' weapons chest, and opened it and stared down into it. He pushed aside an ax, a small sword, and a half-dozen wooden stakes before finding the volume of the Zy Qasdor. Dropping to the floor, he crossed his legs underneath him. He had to read the book quickly. He didn't have much time to contemplate the history of the portal jumper, and his relationship to Shemhazi or to Willow. And heaven help him, Xander didn't really have time to consider what the portal jumper had to with the fucking line of Aurelian vampires.

Damn, he thought. No matter what, the biggest baddest danger to his friends always centered on some goddamn vampire. And always the likes of Angel or blasted Spike led the pack.

Xander reclined his back against the wall and began to flip through the pages of the first volume of the Zy Qasdor. As he skimmed through the book and as each moment passed, he started to feel a little bit more like his old self. Somehow, knowing the thought that had been taken away from him reminded him of who he'd been. Now, he had a better chance of getting over the spell. It hadn't been that bad seeing into the hearts of his friends. It just felt better being Xander.

to be continued…

chapter 14: god shiva – part III

It was darker than Anya was used to, with the no moonlight and the torrential downpour dropping buckets of water on top of her head. Alleys in Sunnydale had never been this wet, or dark. Then again, those narrow passageways only existed in one dimension at a time, not in multiple worlds where eternities were pieced together by a slender black-haired man in a seersucker suit.

Anya's gaze bounced from one blurred face to another. She could barely see Willow or make out the features of the dark-skinned vampire lurking behind her. Nothing much was visible to her at all except for the sheets of water tumbling from the sky, and Luke. He was standing under a swaying beam of light coming from what had to be the only working street lamp in New York City. He appeared relaxed, leaning boneless against an invisible wall, all comfy and smug even though his suit was clinging to his thin frame in soaked patches.

Anya hugged her arms across her chest. Spasms were twisting and turning their way through her belly. She was nervous, not afraid. Just anxious. She knew Luke wouldn't hurt her. She was his muse and held his memories in her heart. Still, her legs were trembling, and her stomach was folding into knots.

Here she was standing in the middle of an alley with a witch, a vampire (she'd sensed his origin as soon as they walked around the corner), a portal jumper, and enough magic to change the world. She felt it, surging from every open crevasse in the ground, bending every gust of wind. There was so much of it she could taste it, even through the rain.

“It is a pleasure to meet a legend, sir.” The black vampire stepped from behind Willow and moved to the edge of the light, closer to Luke. He cupped his hands together as if in prayer, and then bowed deeply while thick drops of water fell in rivulets from his long black braids.

“I am not here for you.” Luke's voice vibrated, low and deep, cutting through the night air. He dismissed the vampire's greeting with a small wave of his hand. Anya took a quick breath as she watched Luke jut his chin forward and slide his crystalline gaze from the vampire to Willow.

“The witch of my dreams, I do believe.” Luke caressed his lower lip with a fingertip as he spoke. “You've been in my way.”

Anya tried to make out Willow's expression behind the torrent. Her red hair, appearing nearly black, was pasted to her face, hiding her eyes. But Anya was intrigued by Willow's mouth as it looped slowly into a wide grin. A completely inappropriate reaction considering the circumstances, thought Anya. There was no funny going on in the alley. Nothing remotely approaching hilarity at all.

“Lucretius,” said Willow, still grinning broadly. “How ya' doin'? I'm Willow, and this here is my friend, Jacob.”

Luke arched an eyebrow, tilted his head in Jacob's direction, but didn't take his eyes off Willow.

Anya's stomach was still doing a dance.

“You know what I am?” Luke's gaze remained unwaveringly trained on Willow.

“Do you know what you are?” she replied, her smile broadening. “You're not a vampire. Not a demon of any kind. Just a creature cursed by destiny. Something like me.”

“Oh, dear. So you know you are Shemhazi's bitch,” Luke closed the distance between him and Willow so quickly that Anya jumped. He'd stepped out of the light, though, so Anya couldn't see him as clearly. She started to move toward them when a cold hand clasped shut around her wrist. Jacob held her firmly. “Let them talk,” he whispered. She pulled her arm free. Anya had no intention of stopping them from talking. She just needed to be near Luke, to witness his words. She was the keeper of his memories, and had to be close.

“No.” Jacob grabbed her again, and this time when she tried to yank free, he didn't let go.

She panicked for an instant, her body trembling from head to toe. Then she noticed the rain easing up. Less rain, less noise keeping her from her duty, she thought, as she stopped resisting Jacob's grasp. She forced her body to relax and concentrated on listening. She had to hear as many of Luke's words as she could. Even if they made little sense.

What did he mean he wasn't cursed? His existence was a reward for his stubborn, pure view of love. Only fools allowed themselves to be manipulated by physical love, he was saying, and Shemhazi's dream had been destroyed by the folly of angels. So Shemhazi found him, and rewarded him, Lucretius the philosopher, for his insight and commitment to righteousness and his unique understanding of the nature of things.

Standing in the rain in an alley in New York City with a witch, a vampire and the portal jumper just didn't seem to be the place for a discussion about angels, or someone named Shemhazi, especially when a power beyond Anya's most vivid imagination was surging beneath her feet. She glanced down at her soaked shoes, expecting to see iron tentacles grabbing her by the ankles. Instead, she glimpsed a patch of darkness out of the corner of her eye. A swirling gust of black wind was rolling into the alley. Anya's eyes widened as she watched it stand, yes, stand, and grow, doubling its size within seconds.

Her neck muscles constricted as she tried to gather oxygen into her lungs, but the witch and the portal jumper weren't paying her any attention. And the vampire was whispering over and over, under his breath like a mantra, "let them talk, let them talk."

Then, all of a sudden, it was upon them, and all Anya could do was scream.


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Carlo was nearly running down the block in front of her. He was so anxious to get to the restaurant he hadn't bothered with his usual leisurely gait. Dawn knew him well enough to have figured out that it was part of the male athletic machismo for him to prefer the slow walk, dangerous look and never show your teeth smile mystique. Then, when you pounced with the speed of a lion, you'd catch your opponent off guard. Or better still, as Carlo professed, the dude dancing opposite you in the ring never suspects the blow that knocks him on his ass.

But tonight, her man was in a hurry. His mom's telephone message hadn't sounded all that mysterious to Dawn. But with Tommy Dugan's death the night before, Carlo had started acting pretty skittish as soon as they'd walked out of the apartment. Add to that, he'd had the luxury of spending the better part of a day with Spike, and jeez, Spike was a vampire. No big must-deal for her and Buffy, but Carlo had been a little - shall we say - wigged. It was a whole new kind of bizzaro world for Dawn's streetwise boxer baby.

“Hey, slow down, Speedy Gonzalez,” she teased.

“Hey yourself, California Girl,” he shouted over his shoulder, not changing his pace. “Not my favorite cartoon there, girlfriend. Doesn't exactly paint the best pic of my peeps.”

"Okay, okay, sorry.” They were turning the corner a few blocks from the restaurant. She hoped Buffy and Spike hadn't come this way. Then she remembered that Buffy didn't know the short cut to the restaurant from their apartment. Carlo had shown her this route a few days after she'd started working at Mom's after school. Cut travel time in half if that was the goal. But for them, it allowed extra alone time for talking, at first, and later for making out – just a little. Not that they'd gone further than second base, she shook her head as she hurried to catch up with Carlo. And what the heck was ‘second base' about anyway? Jeez.

“You smell something?” Carlo suddenly stopped.

Catching up with him, she gave the air a good sniff. “Yeah, and it's not good.”

They were about fifty yards from the restaurant. There were no lights inside. Odd. And she noticed for the first time that it had started to rain. It was also darker than she'd ever thought possible outside. Very odd in New York in the Bronx. The city beamed with lights, noise, and people. But thinking back on their walk from the apartment to the restaurant, Dawn realized the streets had been pretty much void of the things she'd grown used to from the big bad city.

Carlo turned to face her. “Smells like a shit load of dead.”

Dawn doubled forward and nearly fell on the cement sidewalk as a dense wave of pain hit her in the back of the throat. She hadn't had a headache in – god only knew how long. She placed both of her hands over her face as she slumped to her knees. Carlo was at her side in seconds.

“God, Dawn. What's wrong, girl?” He sounded scared. For the second time in 24-hours, she could hear the fear in his voice. First, there'd been Tommy, and now…


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Dawn was laying on the sidewalk. She'd dropped to her knees all of a sudden. It freaked Carlo the fuck out. What the hell was going on? Something was wrong at the restaurant. He could feel it. Something was wrong with Dawn. He could see that. And the streets of New York City stank more worse than anything he'd ever smelled. And in N.Y.C. that was more than a little bit.

“Babe, what the shit is going on?”

Dawn's eyes were wild. She looked – he couldn't explain it. But she didn't look real.

He lifted her up from the pavement. Her body collapsed completely into his arms as he scooped her from the ground. He thought he heard her moan, ever so softly, but he wasn't certain.

He had to get Dawn to the restaurant. Safe. Then his Mom would know what to do. She'd figure out the nasty smell. Tell him what to do next. Mom was something else. She wouldn't even blink an eye if she met Spike. She hadn't even freaked as much as Carlo thought she would when he told her about Tommy.

But as Carlo carried Dawn toward the restaurant, he couldn't help but notice the rain and the darkness. There were no lights anywhere. His mom needed light to sort through the books and organize the kitchen shelves. Make certain every item was in place for business the next day. Once a month was all she ever needed to get her books in order and scope out the restaurant from top to bottom.

Carlo paused, holding Dawn in his arms. This wasn't right. Nothing was right. He hugged Dawn's unconscious body to his own. He didn't want to walk into the restaurant. He didn't want to see what he suddenly knew he'd see. He didn't want to know what he suddenly knew. But most of all, he didn't want to believe he was right.


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Spike's antenna was up. Buffy could tell by how he stayed within arms reach of her. She knew he knew she could take care of herself. But he was doing that thing he did sometimes (okay, not that recently, but before) when he'd treat her as if she were porcelain or china or something nobody bought unless it was on a cable TV show.

"Spike, do you think we'll find Jacob in the alley?" Buffy figured she might as well talk business. Spike liked to zero in on the prospect of a good fight. And most certainly, Jacob had given Spike a good dose of that the last time they'd tussled.

“Yeah.” Non-verbal Spike was always a treat, she sighed.

It had taken them what felt like a long time to make their way to the alley behind Mom's Restaurant. Except they weren't there yet exactly, but at least they were close. The big talk about memories and feelings and stuff had slowed their progress. Sure, neither one of them had forgotten how important it was to find Jacob and convince him to tell more about what he knew about the portal jumper. But the conversation about stolen thoughts and forgotten memories had been a very good thing as far as Buffy was concerned.

However, within the last few blocks, Spike had turned into quiet, sulky guy.

“What's up?” Buffy insisted, figuring he was sensing something she wasn't.

It was dark. Obviously. Middle of the night and all. And it was smelly, too. But other than the dark and the stench, New York City was pretty much being New York City to Buffy.

“Don't know details, pet. But it's not good,” he finally muttered, which wasn't like Spike. Even if she wasn't asking for it, he usually told her exactly what she needed to know. Most important was that he didn't hesitate before saying it. No wish or wash from Spike.

“Hey, we're almost here and…” Buffy stopped talking as she got a jolt of vampire vibe she wasn't expecting, and it nearly knocked her to the pavement. It wasn't coming from the walking dead strolling next to her either. “Damn. Sure are a lot of vamps in the neighborhood all of a sudden.”

“No, love, don't believe that's the case,” Spike said as they turned the corner onto the block where the restaurant was located.

“Meaning?”

Spike stopped and turned to look at her, his hands were tucked deep into the pockets of his duster and his eyes were stern. Yeah, that was the word. For an instant, he reminded her of Giles. All serious and thoughtful and concerned. She almost expected him to pull out a pair of glasses and clean the lenses.

“There are only two vampires in this part of town tonight,” he said.

“Well, okay, but one of them is packing a nuclear wallop if my bat senses are at all reliable,” Buffy added, her voice was slightly nervous as she picked up another wave of powerfully bad vamp energy. She hid the sudden shiver that shook her. The prospect of going toe-to-toe with a sea of vamps hadn't made her nerves this tingly since she was sixteen.

“Spike.” She couldn't pull her gaze away from his. “What's happening?”

“Jacob's here, and he's got friends.”

“The portal jumper?”

“And some.”

Spike grabbed her arm and dragged her into a nearby alley. Not the one behind Mom's Restaurant where they'd met Jacob the night before either. But a new one.

“Why are we stopping here?” Buffy asked. She wanted to keep moving. Get to the restaurant. The bad mojo was coming from that direction.

"Roof tops," Spike raised his head and glanced up. "Want to look down on what's in that alley before meeting it face-to-face, pet."

Spike jumped on top of a nearby dumpster, gripped hold of the iron rail of a hanging fire escape and hurled himself onto the roof of a brick building. Buffy was right behind him, pausing only to wipe the rain from her eyes. It was suddenly falling from the sky in buckets. However, Buffy could see well enough to keep up with Spike as they leapt from rooftop to rooftop toward the alley behind Mom's Restaurant.

to be continued…

chapter 15, who is he? – part I

Something wrong was going on inside the restaurant thought Carlo as he adjusted Dawn's unconscious body in his arms. Signs of wrongness (as his girl might say) had been everywhere since he'd missed his mother's phone call. First of all, it was too dark and too hot in N.Y.C. for December. Where was the snow, the slush or at least the icy wind, tearing the skin off his lips? Instead, it was raining. Gallons of the wet stuff had fallen on top of their heads since they'd walked out of the apartment. And, the stench, he wrinkled his nose. New York had its share of bad smells, but this was extra out there. It was so strong it had knocked Dawn on her ass, and was bringing tears to his eyes.

Shit. Nothing but wrong ass shit. Like what Carlo was looking at now. The door to the restaurant was ajar. His moms never left a door open, especially not the one to the restaurant, unless the joint was open for business.

He pushed the door open with a swing of his hip and stepped cautiously into the restaurant. Pausing, he shifted Dawn's body in his arms again. She hadn't really moved since he'd lifted her off the pavement. Every now and then she'd shiver and make a small moaning sound. Other than that – nothing. He wasn't worried, though. She'd be all right. As soon as he got her to his Mom, she'd be fine.

Carlo walked through the foyer into the restaurant's dining section located next to the sit-down meal counter.

It was very dark in the room. Damned dark. But each time the lightning flashed outside, Carlo could make out the familiar chrome-topped tables scattered throughout the dining area. They were set for breakfast. A full bottle of ketchup, a pair of salt and pepper shakers, and a small white bowl filled with packets of sugar and Equal sat clustered in the center of each table. Carlo glanced around the room. It appeared normal everywhere else, too. The way it always looked in the hour or so before dawn and the breakfast rush. Chairs pushed in, white paper napkins underneath polished forks. No more than four settings per table. Spoons came with the coffee. You had to ask for a knife. Carlo had learned all about setting a table and his Mom's rules for serving customers when he was seven.

He lumbered forward a few more feet. His legs and arms felt like they were buried in blocks of cement. Dawn wasn't a featherweight. He looked down at her and smiled before straightening his spine and taking a deep breath.

“Bad smelling shit, man,” he muttered, curling his upper lip in disgust.

Shaking it off, he took another step further into the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something white lying on top of the counter. He inched closer to get a better look. He was fighting back tears that were welling up in his eyes from the increasing intensity of the bad smell. But despite the stench, he could make out a pile of papers, bills most likely, stacked next to a coffee mug and his mother's reading glasses.

A bolt of super-bright lightning shot through the room, blinding him for an instant. He blinked rapidly as he staggered toward the pile of papers; his eyes fixed on a spot behind the counter near the cash register.

“Moms,” he called out, tightening his hold on Dawn.

Another burst of lightning tore through the dark in short jagged strips, illuminating the room. Carlo jumped, barely managing to hang on to Dawn. It wasn't the thunder or the lightning that had him freaked. He'd seen something during the stroboscope show that looked like a body sprawled on the floor behind the counter next to the dessert display case. The muscles in his neck began to ache as the pulsing light gave him glimpse after glimpse of the body.

Carlo stumbled backward and pressed his spine against the wall behind him. Dawn's arms were still draped around his shoulders as inch by inch, he slid down the hard surface to the floor and slowly stretched his legs out in front of him.

He could move. That surprised him.

His mother's favorite printed blouse and blue strapless heels covered the torso and feet of the body on the floor behind the counter. Blood was everywhere, glistening pools of black shimmering between the flashes of light. He couldn't scream; he was shaking too hard. It was as if his entire body was submerged in ice. He just stared straight ahead, unable to get up and run away.

“Dawn,” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “My Moms—.” The words stuck in his throat. If he said them, they would be true.

“Something hurt my Mom, Dawn.”

He felt her stir. “Please, wake up. My Mom, Dawn. She's dead.”


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The rain was pouring down from the sky as hard as it had been all night. Buffy was wiping the water from her face, and looking over the edge of the roof down into the alley behind Mom's Restaurant. A shimmering green cloud was rising from beneath the concrete and snaking its way around the ankles and knees of the bodies standing in the alley. Straining to see, Buffy inched forward to get a better look at who was standing in the alley in the middle of the green mist. But she couldn't make them out.

She glanced at Spike. He was perched on the ledge next to her in a crouched position. Maybe he could see what was going on below better than she could. But he hadn't said a word since they arrived on the roof, keeping the non-verbal Spike thing going. It bugged her. Still, she wasn't going to beg him to talk. He'd say something when he had something to say, she imagined.

She returned her gaze to the alley as she felt Spike brush her sleeve with his hand.

“Is that Willow?” he pointed.

She hadn't been able to determine if the bodies below belonged to humans or vampires, let alone to someone she knew. She certainly hadn't recognized Willow. “Are you sure?” she asked, squinting through the rain and the dark.

“I can smell her, and Anya, too.”

“Huh?” She dropped to her knees, and gripped the edge of the ledge. “What the hell is Anya? No. Take that back. What the hell are Willow and Anya doing here?”

Buffy turned to look at Spike.


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He had to stop himself from grabbing her hand. Spike desperately wanted to pull Buffy away from the ledge and turn her around to face him so he could shake her. Let's go! He wanted to yell at her. Let's run, now. But he'd already smelled it. The stench from the alley; it was the smell of ancient decaying legends and the bones of the world's first vampires. Spike's nostrils flared as he crouched on the ledge of the rooftop. All he wanted was to get Buffy away from it, but he couldn't. Not after he'd sensed Dawn. In the midst of the stench and the smells of Willow and Anya, and Jacob and the portal jumper, there'd also been Dawn's scent. She wasn't in the alley, but she was very close.

Thunder filled Spike's ears as he peered down through the sheets of rain and darkness. He didn't flinch as he looked into the eyes of the thing standing with Jacob, Willow and Anya. Blue eyes were staring back at him, even in the dark, Spike could see his eyes; just as he knew the thing could see his. Son of a bitch, he thought. It wasn't a bloody demon.

“Spike, did you hear that?”

“What?” He turned abruptly, startled by the sound of Buffy's voice.

A shrill scream filled the alley.

Abruptly, Spike stood up, took a step forward and jumped from the rooftop.


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Jacob was standing next to Red. They were facing Anya and the mythical portal jumper as Spike landed on the ground slightly behind Willow. The slim man standing across from the witch, his suit clinging to his bones in bunches, had skin so white it was nearly translucent. Spike's eyes traveled from his mud covered tennis shoes slowly up his body until his eyes met the gaze of the portal jumper.

He didn't look like a bloody legend to Spike. Definitely not a gift giver or whatever the hell it was Jacob had called him. He looked a lot like Spike had before he was turned, only with thick curly black hair and no glasses.

Spike didn't turn around when he heard Buffy land behind him. His eyes remained on the portal jumper as the green fog wrapped itself around his legs. He was watching transfixed as the pale wet man licked his lips slowly. Spike thought he could hear the raindrops as they bounced off the man's cheekbones.

Spike needed to run. Not away. It was an urge, sweeping through his body, an intense need to move, feel the power of his legs and back racing through the streets and leaping from rooftop to rooftop. His flesh was tingling. He could feel the sounds in the alley expanding around him in surges, and a warm sticky sensation rippled inside his chest.

What the bloody hell was happening?

Still looking into the eyes of the portal jumper, Spike realized he was waiting for everything around him to change.

Rats were scurrying behind the dumpsters, the same tiny feet he'd heard the first night he'd seen Buffy fighting the vampires in the alley. They were making noises like horse hoofs beating on cobblestone streets. The blood racing through the live bodies standing near him screamed in his ears as he felt their pulses slowing down, dangerously close to death. The rain was stopping, and the thunder was drifting far away, only making small popping sounds in the distance.

Sunrise was coming, too. He could smell it and feel it in the dampness of the mist climbing up his legs into his groin. Buffy's scent, the musk lingering on her skin from their rooftop jaunt, brushed over him. He swallowed hard, and clenched his teeth, setting his jaw in a hard line.

Spike tried to pull his gaze away from the portal jumper to stop whatever was happening to him.

When he heard the hesitant footsteps coming from the end of the alley, he was finally able to tear his eyes away from the thin man. He looked toward the exit sign over the back door of Mom's restaurant in time to see Dawn, stepping into the alley with Carlo at her side.


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“Spike!” yelled Buffy, leaping down onto the concrete surface and into the green mist, landing next to Spike and slightly behind Willow. Spike had startled her by moving so quickly from the rooftop. Still, she'd barely hesitated, following him instantly as soon as she'd heard Anya's scream.

She started to take a step closer to Spike so that she could use her body as a shield to protect Willow from the odd looking man in the stripped suit. Since he was the only one in the alley Buffy didn't know, she figured he had to be the portal jumper. However, Buffy couldn't move. The green mist had circled her ankles and clasped onto them like shackles, chaining her to the ground.

to be continued…

chapter 16: who is he? – part II

Six books were lined up on the floor in front of Giles' weapons chest, beginning with the first volume of the Zy Qasdor. Three lay open to similar pages, each showing an illustration of assorted demon gods performing various acts of mayhem, torture or slaughter. Two drawings made Xander shudder. One was of Glorifcus in her original form (definitely not the big-haired diva the Scoobies had coined Glory) looming over the body of a woman who looked eerily familiar. The other was of a gigantic winged angel cradling a small man in its arms. The little man held a rose in one hand and a girl's head in another, and his lips were dripping blood.

“Looks like a fucking vampire to me,” Xander said aloud.

“I've already covered that,” spat Giles as he lay on his back on the sofa. He hadn't changed positions since Xander had recited the passages from the King James Version of the Bible, stopping the pain in his head from killing him. “Lucretius is more than a vampire.”

“Who's the guy with wings holding our boy in his arms like he was Rosemary's baby or something?” said Xander, extending the open book to Giles without getting up from his cross-legged position in front of the chest.

Giles sat up carefully, not wishing to press his luck. The pain might return at any moment. He had to stay lucid as long as possible and suss out an action plan before the chant stopped working and he turned back into a witless idiot and Xander a whimpering fool.

“Let me see,” he said snatching the book from Xander's outstretched hand.

It was definitely the portal jumper in the arms of an angel, a magnificent creature with ocean blue eyes and a soft round mouth.

Giles turned his head away from the image and took a deep breath. After a hundred thousand years, Shemhazi's face still possessed the power to seduce. Holding his breath, Giles looked at the page again and studied the drawing of Shemhazi from the neck down. His limbs were hoofs and claws and his torso scaled and battered with an enormous phallus twisting from between bowed legs.

He looked at the words on the page opposite the drawing, and began reading. Shemhazi, a banished angel, had led an army of heaven's outcasts to earth to find wives in a village so long ago that where didn't matter anymore, noted Giles. It was what happened there that was at the core of the Scoobies' dilemma.

“Pass me volume three,” he ordered Xander. Placing the first volume on the table in front of him, he took the book from Xander and eyed the drawing of Glorificus. She was standing over the body of a woman, a young woman with reddish brown hair and black eyes.

“Do you recognize the woman lying at Glory's feet?” He pushed the book back at Xander.

“There's something familiar…” Xander frowned.

“Look at the head in Lucretius' hand.” Giles spun the book on top of the table around to face Xander who was now kneeling on the opposite side.

“It's Willow,” breathed the boy.

“I believe my assumptions have been incorrect,” said Giles as he placed his head in his hands.

“The portal jumper wants Willow?” asked Xander, mystified.

“No, the portal jumper doesn't want Willow.” He looked up. “It wants Dawn. But the twisted angel, Shemhazi, is more powerful than the portal jumper,” said Giles as he pointed to the drawing of the angel holding the small man in its arms. “And Shemhazi wants Willow.”

“Why?”

“Our spell to save Dawn took away a thought from each of us. But in doing that, it gave you a power, took away mine, or my intellect.” Giles glanced at his glasses on the table before looking up to meet Xander's gaze. “It gave Willow free reign over all of her power and her faults.”

“Huh?”

“We were tricked, suckered, into performing a goddamned simple spell.” Giles stood up abruptly, shaking his head as he began pacing in front of the sofa. “Willow held within her something none of us suspected and the spell freed it—and her.”

Giles stared into Xander's stunned face. “She is the first witch and Shemhazi's wife—and they've got some bloody ugly family business to settle.”


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A tall broad-shouldered vampire and Spike, looking very un-Spike like with a mop of wavy brown hair tied in a ponytail, were standing on either side of a frail dark-haired girl with a broad grin painted across her face. They were dressed in old-fashioned clothing that most likely dated back to the turn of the century, suspected Tara. The girl, who photographed well, had to be Drusilla, Spike's lover of a hundred or more years. Buffy had mentioned her to Tara the year before around the time Willow had to dis-invite Spike from the Summers' house on Revello Drive because of his ‘black beauty'.

Tara threw another handful of herbs and roots into the fireplace in Jacob's living room and then looked back up at the mantle. It was cluttered with photos of Spike and Drusilla and a big dark-haired vampire, who had to be Angel or Angelus, as he was known before being cursed with a soul, Tara recalled.

“È il destino dei diavoli che distruggono i loro giovani permorire alla mano di vita,” Tara chanted and picking up the dozen dried roses she'd found in the kitchen, dropped them into the blazing fire.

Tara's task was simple. Willow had explained it during their brief trip in the Chaos demon's portal from Sunnydale to New York. “Keep burning their memories, and recite the verse over and over again until the last embers die. Anya won't be able to handle what she'll see in the alley. When the vampires and Luke forget, we'll be able to triumph over the angels of god.”

Tara stood up and grabbing an armful of framed photos from mantle, hurled them into the flames.


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The street lamp dimmed as the daylight flowed into the alley. Spike could hear the night creatures slithering away, disappearing into their dark holes as they hid their too round eyes from the rising sun. He grinned. This was his battleground. Vampires had made the alleys of the world their refuge, their heaven and hell thought Spike as he stared up into the brightening daylight. Sunshine had always been the unwanted guest here. It marked the end of creatures like him—until today.

His grin broadened into a leer. He wasn't going to turn to dust, and neither was Jacob.

A roar blasted through the silence and Spike turned at the same instant as the portal jumper to see a lanky brown-haired girl with a boy at her side standing defiantly, blocking the exit from the alley. The two youths, holding hands, moved in unison, like panthers, shoulders hunched, feet seeming to disappear underneath the concrete as they crept cautiously forward.

Spike stepped to his left and sensed Jacob move with him, guarding his back. He didn't have to worry about the three women; they'd been chained to the ground by the green mist.

Cocking his head, he ran toward the girl lightening quick, his hands collapsing around her throat so fast she didn't have time to scream. Jacob held the boy, bent backwards, and was sinking his fangs into his tender flesh. Spike smelled the blood instantly.

Such ecstasy, he thought. The sensations flowing through his body, indescribable, as he lowered his fangs into the throat of the wide-eyed girl in his arms.

“No, Spike!” screamed one of the women. It was the girl with the black eyes.


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Willow stepped away from the mist, free of its chains.

“Spike! Jacob! Come here,” she ordered.

The two vampires released their victims and sped to her side obediently, leaving the bodies of the boy and the girl to slump to the pavement. Willow knew they were both still alive. Their bodies still pulsed with blood, and their heartbeats echoed in her head.

“What in the hell is going on?” Buffy's voice demanded from behind her, but Willow couldn't answer her, not now. The vampires would kill Dawn and her friend if she didn't act quickly, and Anya would give Luke back his memories in a few seconds, making it possible for him to complete the transformation of the vampires. Most of all, Tara 's chanting couldn't stop the green mist from killing all of them—if that was what it wanted. Thank god for the daylight, though. One thing about Shemhazi, he hadn't dealt with sunshine in a hundred thousand years. And it had never liked light.

Willow felt Dawn stir.

“Take them away, Dawnie. Do it now.” Willow spoke to Dawn using her mind as she struggled to hold back the demons at her side.

Dawn bolted upright as Willow watched the concrete surface break apart, and split into two giant slaps. In between the cuts in the earth, Shemhazi was emerging from the pavement.

“Hurry,” Willow screamed to Dawn.

An instant later, Willow, Jacob, Luke and Anya stood alone in the alley, facing a green fog wrapped around a giant angry angel with bent wings.


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Opening her eyes was not an option. Not yet. It was too bright and way too hot. She could feel the sunshine and heat burning through her eyelids. Didn't matter, though. The last thing Buffy wanted right now was to see where she was and what had happened to her sister and her friends. She'd had a really bad feeling when Willow had refused to look at her, let alone answer her question back in the alley. But now, she knew, she wasn't in Kansas anymore. Shit, she wasn't in Sunnydale, New York or any place that resembled earth. She was in one of those damned dimensions where anything might happen, where anything might exist.

But Buffy wasn't a coward. She wouldn't play dead. Wasn't her style.

The last thing she'd seen on earth was Spike holding Dawn by the throat. His mouth buried in her neck. She rolled onto her side and placed a hand over her eyes. She didn't want to see the sight she expected to see when she opened her eyes.

Spike was lying next to her, his eyes wide open, unblinking as he stared up at the sky. She turned to her other side. There she saw Dawn, blood dripping from a wound in her neck. Carlo was holding her in his arms.

“God, Dawnie. Are you okay?” Buffy bolted upright. “Where are we? What the hell happened to Willow? What's wrong with your neck?”

“One question at a time, slayer,” she heard Spike whisper behind her.

“I'm okay, Buffy,” answered Dawn, raising herself up into a sitting position so that she was facing Buffy. “I transported us to this dimension. For now, we're safe. For a little while.”

“How…?” Buffy paused. “You transported us?”

“Yeah, I'm the key, remember?”

Buffy recalled more than Dawn being the key. Spike was a vampire.

“Why aren't you dust?” She spun, reaching into her pocket for a stake she didn't have, as she looked at him accusingly. Her breathing was fast and short as she tried to ignore the daylight shining in his eyes. He was lying on his back in the blue grass with his arms tucked behind his head, staring up at the bright yellow sky.

"Got my gift,” he said as he suddenly sprang onto his feet, reached down and snatched Buffy up into his arms.

He had moved too quickly for her to react; all she could do was look into his yellow eyes as his body blocked the sun.

to be continued…

chapter 17: stay – part I

It was about 7 a.m. and the alley was shimmering with sunlight reflecting iridescent colors off the pools of water on the pavement still wet from the night's rain. Except for the hellish wind circling Willow, it was a beautiful sunny morning in New York City, thought Anya. But that didn't mean it was going to be a good day.

“What did the spell change about me?” She pulled on Luke's sleeve, anxious for him to look at her.

“What did it do to me?” she repeated. But Luke was ignoring her, and following his gaze, she peeked over her shoulder at the whirling cloud cocooning Willow with increasing velocity. The witch was trapped inside, arms hanging at her sides, head tilted up, and black eyes bulging. Flanking her, Jacob was rocking on his heels, vamped out, his yellow eyes shifted from Willow to the morning sky and back. Anya didn't like to bet, but there was a better than even chance he was trying to figure out why he wasn't burnt toast. Willow, on the other hand, didn't appear to be afraid, just intensely pissed.

Anya stepped in front of Luke, blocking his view deliberately as the windstorm buffeted her face.

“Look at me!” she shouted. He didn't flinch when she punched his arm. Luke stood perfectly still, his eyes cold and unblinking as he focused on Willow, Jacob and the giant angel looming in front of her.

Anya placed her hands on her hips and pushed down nervously on the short skirt blowing up her thighs. This was unsettling.

The funnel looked like seaweed in the sunshine as it spun faster and faster around Willow. Anya couldn't tell if the cloud was controlling Willow or if Willow was controlling the cloud. Oddly, Anya could hear Willow 's voice, strong and clear coming from within the cloud, and she was chanting —in Italian. Anya wrinkled her brow and tried to recall if she'd heard anything about chants in Italian becoming the latest must-do for big time mojo. Romanian, Samarian, or some good old-fashioned Latin had worked for witches and sorcerers since—forever. They were the power languages of word magic. But, Italian?

Yes, very unsettling, thought Anya as she watched the vampire standing in the daylight stare up at the sun without burning, and a ten-foot tall angel...

Yeah, it had to be an angel, Anya reasoned. It had wings. Duh? Sure sign of a celestial being. It also had hoofs, scales spread across a massive torso, and hairless limbs shaped like a crippled lion's hindquarters.

Well, okay, it could have been a demon.

When Anya had first seen the creature emerge from the black mist rising through the cracks in the concrete, she'd screamed in horror. Despite endless run-ins with thousands of ugly demons over her thousand years of living, Anya had never seen such a beautiful human face adorning such a hideously deformed body. So, she called it an angel—but it was an angel from hell, decided Anya.

She grabbed Luke's sleeve again. “What is that?” Her voice quivered as she pointed at the angel.

She'd been in Sunnydale what seemed like only minutes ago and there the biggest fear had been the portal jumper. Then she'd left town on the arm of the creature for no good reason she could think of, except this dark-haired immortal with blue eyes had asked her to become his muse. She'd said yes just like that, which didn't make any sense to her now that she was standing in an alley in New York City trembling.

It had to be that stupid spell!

Anya glanced at Willow who looked all power-crazed as she stood inside the cylinder of wind screaming at the giant angel.

This was Willow 's fault.

“You'd better talk to me!” Anya pushed Luke in the chest with both hands as her veins expanded throughout her body, bringing forth her demon face.

Luke staggered backwards a few steps, flashing yellow eyes in her direction. Almost instantly, however, he eased away from her and resumed his stare-a-thon at Willow, Jacob and the angel.

“Talk to me—or else,” she warned.

She had to get his attention, get him to explain what was happening. If she knew what was going on maybe she could figure out a way to escape. Anya chewed the inside of her mouth as she suddenly realized that was exactly what she wanted. Escape. Get away from vampires hanging out in the daylight and angels from hell, and definitely get away from the redheaded witch. Most of all, she wanted to run as fast as she could from this murdering bastard and the effects of his thrall.

“Talk to me now or you can forget all about this fucking muse business,” she shouted, her body braced for his reaction.

He still didn't answer.

Breathing heavily and standing inches from his face, Anya slowly whispered in his ear.

“I'll forget your memories, if you don't talk to me. I swear it,” she said calmly.


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Luke backhanded Anya across the jaw, knocking the loud-mouthed girl to the ground. Her irritating body rolled over twice and stopped next to a dumpster, at last silent. He loathed women, but they were the only ones who could serve as his muse. A little twist of fate from his prisoners.

He snarled silently, as he looked down at her. How dare this one think she could control him by threatening to keep him from his memories? They were his memories and she was nothing more than a fragile vessel, easily broken and replaced. Usually he enjoyed this part of the game, and with Anya, he'd thought he would especially. She was an ancient like himself, therefore more accustomed to letting nature take its course.

But maybe being close to Shemhazi and his luscious power had given her too much access to her own demon strength, diminishing Luke's thrall.

He sidled backwards into a shady corner of the alley, beneath a jagged row of moveable iron ladders, not wanting to attract any further attention. The girl's mouth could have cost him.

He cocked his head, and returned his gaze to the confrontation before him.

Delightful, he smiled. The first witch and Shemhazi were together, finally. He had prayed an eternity for this day.


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His face was blocking the sun making it impossible for her to see Spike's eyes. He was all shadows and halos. The sun beaming behind him had created a circle of light around his head.

It seemed wrong, very wrong to Buffy for Spike to be faceless and angelic at the same time.

She winced as his fingers squeezed her arms tightly. He wasn't holding her gently, that was certain, and he was stronger than she'd remembered. He hadn't been able to control her so completely before, prevent her from moving, even before the chip.

The chip! Her head was spinning.

Spike was hurting her and wasn't in pain. And if he was in pain, he wasn't showing it.

Oh God.

“Spike, let me go,” she ordered. "I. Said. Let. Go."

He tilted his head slightly and adjusted his grip so that he was holding her around the waist. He then pulled her closer, pinning her body against his, pressing his sex against her as he turned his head form side to side. He was studying her, sizing her up. She could feel his breath on her face and he was panting. Jesus Christ! Spike was panting.

“Buffy, what's up with Spike?” Dawn called from behind her. She could tell by the quiver in her sister's voice that Dawn was worried, as she freaking well should be thought Buffy. This was a Spike she hadn't seen in years. Maybe she hadn't seen him like this ever. Dangerous, lethal and he'd tried to kill Dawn. God help her; Buffy would sell her soul for a stake right about now.

“Goddamed, vampire. I told you to let me go!” Her voice was firm. “I'm going to kill you for what you've done.”

Buffy tried to pull away from him, but she couldn't get out of his grasp.

“Spike, come on. What's wrong?” It was Dawn and she sounded concerned, but oddly not afraid.

“Not sure, pet,” he released one of Buffy's arms, raised it to her cheek, and caressed her face softly with the back of his hand. “Daylight and vampires, un-mixy things as your big sis might say.”

He lowered his head toward Buffy, and looked into her eyes. "Guess that's no longer the bloody case. Huh, Slayer.”

"Guess not," she answered, but then he was talking to Dawn again.

“Where are we, Nibblet?” He still had a vice grip on Buffy's arm and she couldn't budge.

Thankfully, Dawn stepped into her sight lines and Buffy could see her out of the corner of her eye. Carlo was standing next to her, looking worried, tense, and angry. Guess the kid didn't know how to be afraid yet. With a bit of luck, Spike wasn't in the mood to teach him about fear, hoped Buffy.

But who knew. He'd taken a bite out of Dawn. Buffy had seen that with her own eyes in the alley in New York.

"Asked you a sodding question," snapped Spike, but then he added more calmly. "Where are we, sweetheart?"

"Don't really know..." Dawn admitted with more than a slight tremor in her voice. “Just know we had to get out of that alley. Way too much bad there, you know?”

“Eye of the beholder, love,” said Spike. Then his head bent forward and Buffy saw that he was looking down at her. “Gonna dust me if I let you go?” He whispered.

“No guarantees.”

“That's a bloody fair answer, Slayer.” Spike released her, and stepped back out of the direct glare of the sun.

Buffy took a deep breath. Spike looked unreal in the daylight. His skin was porcelain white and smoother than she ever thought. She'd often wondered if he ever shaved. She didn't really know why she even thought about Spike shaving. It was just one of those unexplainable Spike moments she had every now and then. But looking at him now, she realized it was unlikely he shaved, that is. The skin on his face was flawless. His hair was almost white and very curly. But the most amazing thing about Spike in the sunshine was the tiny drops of perspiration gathering on his upper lip. Vampires didn't perspire. Then again, they didn't stand in the daylight either.

The vampire Buffy knew had risked his life for her and her sister more than once. More than twice if she wanted to give him credit.

It was a shame that the first chance she got she was going to have to dust him.

to be continued…

chapter 18, stay – part II

Buffy was hiding from the sun in the coolest spot she could find after running as far away from Spike as she could in ten seconds or less. Spike had let her go and after grabbing Dawn by the arm and Carlo by the shirttail, she'd dashed beneath the thick branches of the fruit trees jamming the side of the road where they'd materialized. She had a hunch Spike wasn't going to follow them into the woods. There were no sunbeams cutting through the leaves; no trail of scorching light for him to devour. Just shadows and darkness. She looked up and tried to see through the leaves and branches. Thankfully, there was nothing but night.

Then she looked back at the road.

Spike was busy reveling in the daylight and hadn't seemed to notice they were gone. He stood feet spread wide apart, swaying from side to side, eyes closed, and chin lifted to the sky. He'd taken off his duster, dropped it on the ground at his feet, and had pulled his t-shirt over his head. He then twisted the shirt into a ball with his hands and glanced in Buffy's direction. Even though she knew the dense shrubbery hid her, she could feel his eyes on her skin, burning into her flesh.

“He's sun bathing, right?” Buffy jumped as Dawn whispered in her ear and huddled closer to her.

“Yeah, guess so.” Buffy didn't look at Dawn. Her gaze was centered on Spike as he sat in the middle of the road, cross-legged. His bare torso glistened with sweat as he twisted his t-shirt and dabbed at the water on his chest and forearms. As she watched him, Buffy's hand flew to her neck to wipe away the drops of sweat that had gathered at the base of her throat.

“Why are we hiding from Spike?” Dawn asked innocently as she moved to the edge of the forest.

“Stop!” Buffy pulled her back into the dark. “Have you gone insane? He bit you less than fifteen minutes ago, that's why.”

“He didn't really bite me, Buffy,” explained Dawn. “Well, not hard. If he'd wanted to hurt me, he would have drained me. You know, just like that.” Dawn snapped her fingers.

“Shush!” Carlo snatched Dawn's hand from mid-air, and mimed the words ‘shut up', his face nearly touching hers. He then turned toward Buffy, and for the first time she saw the pain and fury in his eyes as he whispered hoarsely, “That bastard killed my mother.”

“Your mom, she's dead?” No point in being quiet, thought Buffy. Spike could hear them. She sensed that he was still a vampire even if he was standing in the sunshine. “Oh God, Carlo. I'm so sorry.”

Spike had leapt to his feet, his eyes flashing yellow, his features distorting with anger. It was uncanny how he could hear every word. Buffy tensed as she watched him stalk to the edge of the dirt path and stop just before the line of thickened trees.

“Didn't kill your mum, boy.” His words were more of a threat than a denial.

“Then who did, you fucking prick?” Carlo sprang from under the branches and was inches away from the road when Buffy grabbed him by the shoulders and flung him to the ground.

“Good girl, Slayer. I didn't want to hurt the boy.”

“Shut up, Spike.” Buffy glared at the vampire from beneath the tree branches that were sheltering her before turning to Dawn's friend.

Buffy crouched down next to Carlo, and tentatively reached out a hand to stroke his shoulder. “What happened to your mother?” Carlo sat on the ground and pulled his knees into his chest.

“We found her in the restaurant…just before we saw you in the alley,” Carlo's eyes were fixed on Spike. “She was torn apart. Blood everywhere and he…killed…her.”

Buffy looked away from Carlo and at Spike basking in the sunlight. She didn't want to see the young boxer's tears. She shook her head, trying to clear her busy brain.

Dawn was right, if Spike had wanted to kill her, she'd be dead now. Something had happened to him in the alley and he had mysteriously received new fangled powers. He could somehow survive in the heat of the daylight—and he could sweat. Buffy's eyes followed the moisture on his body as it rolled over the muscles of his chest, all taut and sculptured as his chest flexed with each breath he took. Buffy was mesmerized watching Spike breathe, not mimicking breaths, but inhaling and exhaling because he needed the oxygen to exist. She'd only seen Spike in the daylight once without a smoky blanket held over his head, and after that Gem of Amara business, she'd never wanted to see him that way again. But, here he was half-naked on a dirt road, looking somewhat glorious bathing in the sunshine she had to admit, even if only to herself. Jesus Christ, the phrase living dead was taking on an entirely new meaning, thought Buffy.

Her hand still on Carlo's back, Buffy found herself panting as she stared at Spike. Whatever had happened to him in the alley was getting to her, too.

“He didn't kill your mother. You know he was with me all night and all day.” Buffy rubbed Carlo's back as she explained. “He was at my side from the moment we left the apartment, Carlo. Trust me, he didn't kill her.”

“Thank you for that, love.” She heard Spike's voice, sounding surprisingly relieved.

Buffy raised her head to gaze at a piece of black fruit hanging on a branch near her head. She didn't want to look at Spike anymore, but she had to ask him a question.

“Spike,” she called. “What happened to you in the alley?”

“Portal jumper gave me his gifts,” he answered without hesitation. “I told you that.”

“Okay, got that—I think,” she paused contemplating her next words carefully. “Can we trust you?”

“To do what, pet?”

“Damn you, Spike!” she stood up abruptly, leaving Carlo on the ground and Dawn shrinking against the trunk of a large knobby tree. “You tried to kill, Dawn!”

“No, I bit Dawn.” Spike swiveled around on the dirt road and faced her. “If I'd wanted to kill her, I would have. But I didn't want to.”

This was too hard. Buffy wanted to believe him, but she couldn't…could she? And why did she want to, anyway?

“Buffy?” Dawn tugged on her arm. “Is Spike alive? Like in human, breathing alive?”

“Don't know.” Her voice was sharp. “Are you?” She directed her question to the road.

“Yes and no. Or more precisely, don't know exactly what I am.” Those weren't reassuring words to Buffy.

“Why are you hiding in the dark, Slayer?” He was looking at his hands, turning palms up then palms down as if he was searching for a sign.

“Because I believe it's safer for us…in the dark, right now, Spike.”

“You afraid of me, love?”

“No.” she said honestly. “Just don't want to have to kill you.”

“Buffy, no.” Dawn's anguished voice whispered in her ear. “You can't kill Spike.”

Buffy glared at Dawn, and saw the fear in her young face.

“Damn it, Dawn,” exclaimed Buffy. “Do you know where we are? Why we're here? What the hell happened to us in the alley?” Moving next to Dawn swiftly, she pushed her sister against a tree and held her still with her forearm. Then Buffy froze, suddenly afraid. For a brief instant, she had wanted to hit her.

Dawn had brought them to this place. She was the reason they'd had to leave Sunnydale. Buffy had wanted to go home. From the first day she arrived in New York City, she had wanted to leave. The night she'd first seen Spike all she could think about was that he'd come to take her home...to Sunnydale, back where everything would be okay. There would be no need for a spell. The Scoobies would be able to fight the portal jumper without losing a part of who they were. That's what Buffy wanted. Home. But she couldn't admit that. And if she could, to whom? Buffy had been afraid for months because she couldn't remember who she'd been before Willow took away that damn thought. Every night since she'd arrived in New York City Buffy had dreamed about that lost thought. Except for that night Spike had slept in her bed and she'd dozed in a chair, she hadn't been able to rest because of the constant dream.

This had to stop.

Huffing with determination, Buffy marched out of the dark forest to the dirt road and into the sunlight. She'd moved quickly, and stood next to Spike before Dawn or Carlo had time to realize she was no longer standing next to them.

“I don't believe you want to hurt us,” she said to Spike. “But I don't know if you can stop yourself. We're in big trouble here. We have to figure out a way to get back to New York City, or whatever it is, and I need your help. You know what I mean?”

Buffy was questioning everything. What if the too wet, too dark, too smelly New York City she'd been living in for the past three months was a fake city manufactured by the portal jumper? She was panicking, and she knew it. But she had too many thoughts buzzing in her head. Too much, she didn't understand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Spike take another deep breath; it looked good on him, breathing. She inhaled deeply and tried to calm down. Besides breathing, Spike was sweating too much. The heat was something he wasn't accustomed to dealing with. This kind of heat was something she wasn't used to either. She grimaced thinking that there was one thing she was beginning to realize. Maybe something in this dimension was changing her like the alley had changed Spike.

‘We've got to get out of wherever we are and back to Willow,” she paused after each syllable, punctuating every word.

Buffy pushed the air out of her throat, past her slightly parted lips and made a soft hissing sound, as she waited for him to talk.

It took a few minutes longer than she had expected.

“Can't explain what happened to me Slayer,” he said finally. “But won't hurt you or the bint. Promise. Though can't guarantee I'll act the way you expect.” Spike placed his hands on his legs and pulled his knees to his bare chest, and briefly glanced up at the sky. “I've changed. Into what? Don't rightly know. But I'll die first before I hurt you or try to hurt Dawn again. I swear.”

Looking into his eyes, Buffy believed every word he spoke as he matched her unwavering gaze with his own unblinking stare. His expression was so intense and so sincere, she had to stop herself from reaching up to touch his face.

“Dawn, Carlo, come here.” She beckoned to them from the road as she sat on the ground next to Spike. “We've got to figure out a way to get back to New York. And we've got to do it fast.”


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“You think you can show up all scaly and bigger than anything I've ever seen, and scare me?” At least her voice wasn't shaking, thought Willow, looking up at the blue-eyed devil. “Well, no. Not scaring me. You freaking idiot!”

“Shut up, bitch!” Its voice blasted through the alley.

“No!” she shouted right back. “You can't talk to me like that!”

The mist began funneling around her, whipping itself into a frenzy of speed, gathering debris from all corners of the alley and the open dumpsters surrounding them.

Willow needed her voice to be calm, and settled her black eyes on the perfect face of the Shemhazi. He was such a whore. He'd led two hundred of his disciples into a village a million years ago...or according to what dimension they were in, a moment before. It didn't really matter. He had brought with him a heavenly power, or so they'd believed, and no one could resist his charms. But then he'd betrayed them all. His lust and need had destroyed his family and his children. He'd turned them into half-breed blood sucking demons. For what?

Willow 's thoughts were reeling through time and dimensions. She was Willow, and she was Shemhazi's first wife, the first witch of all time. She had been bestowed the all-dimensional magic of the word by one of God's chosen. Except he was an angel that had broken his promise to heaven, and banished to earth, had blithely given the world its first witches.

Willow suddenly was exhausted. She was desperately tired of battling the Shemhazi. The chant was still flowing from her lips as the magical cylinder she had conjured spun out of control. It had shielded her from Shemhazi's touch and from the magic in his eyes, but it also prevented her from punishing him with the full brunt of her own powers.

God, she needed to get away from him for a while. Reenergize her resolve to destroy him at all cost.

Willow scanned the alley, searching for something she could use to distract Shemhazi. All she needed was an instant and she could disappear. She had to get back to Tara and find Dawn before the Shemhazi could sense what had happened.

She glanced at Luke. Tara was still working the memory mojo on him, and he didn't appear to know it. He'd forgotten all about Spike and Jacob and the seven hundred years of blood and the gifts he had given them. The small little man was hiding in the shadows beneath the fire escapes jutting out from the brick walled buildings lining the alley. With his powers diminished, Luke appeared even paler and thinner to Willow.

But the beast towering above her was strong. As much power as she'd mastered since the thought spell, Willow still needed more against Shemhazi.


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Anya had been a demon for a thousand years. Snatching a locket from her throat couldn't give her a new life. Falling for a man who didn't quite get her couldn't make her all shiny and new. Smacking her across the face and shoving her to the ground, didn't change what she was, just like taking away one thought didn't make her a woman who deserved to be saved. Her nature was to be what she had to be. She couldn't be human. She was a demon.

Deal with that, Miss Born on the Fourth of July!

Her eyes opened and she searched for Luke's face.

The coward was huddled in a corner.

to be continued…

chapter 19, stay – part III

Giles folded his six-foot frame into the driver’s seat of his 1999 red Mazda Miata MX-5 convertible and gripped the steering wheel tightly. It had taken him six hours to get as far as the car, and he was feeling the agony of indecisiveness in his bones. He couldn't let doubt stop him, especially now that he was actually sitting inside the vehicle. No, nothing was going to bloody well stop him. He was going to get this done. He slammed the door shut with determination.

He then saw Xander stumbling toward him and released the wheel, avoiding the temptation to drive off without him. His newly asserted conviction faded rapidly as he grappled with the knowledge of how little he trusted Xander. Wasn't the boy's fault, though. A Watcher was trained to aid slayers. Not to cast spells on humans and lead a troubled young man to possible death. Bollocks, he grumbled, maybe he was the one who needed faith. Giles dropped his hands into his lap and closed his eyes. This excursion wasn't going to go as smoothly as it had the first time. He just knew it.

All morning, he’d fretted over his decision about the trip to the desert and returning to the spot where only a few months before he’d helped Buffy call forth the first Slayer. Giles knew he had no other choice. He had to perform this ritual and cast another thought spell to ensure the Scoobies had a chance of surviving.

However, the desert ritual wasn’t about Buffy this time. He pushed his glasses up on his nose as he studied the hulk of a boy lumbering toward his car. This time Xander Harris would be searching for answers from the past.

Giles had made up his mind during the night as he lay on the sofa while he replayed in his head what he’d seen in his nightmare. At dawn, he’d sat up and started talking to Xander, who had slept in the chair in the living room, about the visceral connection between heaven and hell and the origin of demons and witches. The boy had to know these things in order to do what was necessary. Giles was no longer feeling the negative effects of the portal jumper’s visit inside his head, and had to make certain that Xander understood everything he'd seen and what must be done. Giles contemplated locating a Sharpie and a flip chart to get his points across. But he couldn’t remember if he’d kept any supplies in the apartment after the last time he’d used them. All Giles knew was that Xander had to be prepared immediately. He had to be ready to do what was necessary to save the world, and save their girls who were in a battle they couldn’t possibly understand in a city on the other side of the sodding continent.

“So, this is another Apocalypse?” Xander interjected.

“What do you think happens to the world if the devil and his wife get into a really big fight?” Giles queried. He cocked his head in reply as Xander’s eyes stretched wide. “Okay, it’s going to be much worse than a thunderstorm in the sunshine,” added Giles realizing how close his words were to an old wives’ tale.

“But yes, Xander, I’m afraid it will mean the end of the world.”

Giles then flipped through page after page of the Zy Qasdor, volumes one through six in numerical order, showing Xander numerous passages on the first demon societies and their rules. Finally, after a few hours, Giles had said his peace. Xander was blank faced, and ashen with fatigue. Giles shoved the books aside and told him to pack his knapsack. It was time for them to go.

The ‘thought’ spell had given Willow access to the powers of the first witch. Giles believed going to the desert and calling forth the first witch to help Willow was his best shot to save her, Buffy, Anya, Tara and Dawn. If Willow was going to battle the Shemhazi, she needed more power.

“Not the best idea I’ve heard today,” Xander had said when he told him. “But if it’s all we’ve got…”

“It is.” Giles had raised his eyebrow above the rim of his spectacles for emphasis.

Giles quickly packed his bag, tucking in an extra wool sweater and the other tools he would need for the ritual. He gave the room a last inspection, looking for any forgotten items. The King James Bible. He added it to the bag, they definitely couldn’t leave without it. Xander had chanted from the book to ward off the portal jumper when Giles had been under his influence the night before.

Lifting the bible in the air, he'd raised his voice to get Xander’s attention. “Just in case we don’t get this done before my head starts hurting again,” he said risking a slight wink, but then he saw Xander’s pained expression.

“Why can’t you be the one wandering around in the desert, looking for the first witch and I do the bong shaking and sitting cross-legged in the sand, singing without backup in the wrong key?”

“It has to be you, Xander.” Giles couldn't deny that he understood Xander’s lack of enthusiasm. Somehow the two of them had remembered their respective lost thoughts. Xander was operating on old-fashioned Xander time. No frightened little boy hiding in the shadows from everyone except Willow. He was back to being the bloody wholesome Scooby next door.

Giles had regained his lost thought, too. He could think again. Only problem was Giles didn't know why they were back to being their old selves. He also had no clue why the portal jumper or Shemhazi hadn't killed them. It just didn't make sense to Giles for Luke to give him so many clues in the dream and then forget about him, unless some kind of ‘powers that be’ had weighed in with a significant dose of helpfulness. But Giles didn't believe in divine intervention.

So it was up to Giles to sort things out, and he did sort out Xander. His stolen thought gave Xander the powers of an Empath demon. He was the only one who could get inside Willow's head and help her control her rages. And a Willow with more power could bloody well mean more rage, reasoned Giles.

As Xander settled his body into the passenger seat, Giles loosened his grip on the wheel and doggedly started a one-sided discussion on demon hierarchies and their use of magic to enforce their laws. Eventually, he asked Xander if he remembered the tools used by the fallen angels to dole out their justice. “Don’t forget the elements of nature…fire, water, and wind. And the witches, their justice is executed with words and plants grown in the ground.”

Xander leaned back wearily in the passenger seat, his knees nearly pinned against his chest.

Giles knew he was prattling on and on, stalling. He jammed the key into the ignition and revved the engine. “Xander, you’d better listen. We’ll have only one chance. Do you understand?”

Xander cracked the knuckles of his left hand with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He then adjusted his legs, straightening them as much as he could in the small space behind the dashboard.

“No, I don’t really understand.” He looked at Giles. “You make these two bastards sound unbeatable, this Shemhazi and Luke. They’re just a couple of bad asses. Our job, as always, is to help Buffy slay the big bad. But now you want to help Willow gain more power? Why? If a fight between her and Shemhazi means the end of the world, what's she gonna do with more power except get into a really big fight?”

“She can’t.”

“Who? Can’t what?”

“Buffy can’t slay one of God’s angels even if he is the devil. I told you only Willow can deal with Shemhazi, and that’s why we’re going to the desert.” Giles looked over his shoulder, placed the gearshift in reverse, and backed out of the driveway.

“Then what about the damn portal jumper?” Xander raised his hands and rubbed his face. “All of this began because Dawn was being stalked by this bastard, and now all of a sudden the real big bad is an angel from heaven?”

“Fallen angel from heaven,” Giles corrected as he spun the car out of the driveway, pointed it toward Main Street and the Magic Box, and pressed down on the accelerator.

“Okay, whatever!” Xander fumed. “But the portal jumper gave Dawn the headaches. We were robbed of a thought because the portal jumper was gonna kill us all. And god damn you, Giles, the fucking portal jumper took Anya!” Xander pounded his fists on the dashboard.

Giles swerved the car into the right lane as he spotted the entrance to Interstate 10, heading west.

"Let's hope that Spike will be able to deal with the portal jumper," Giles eyes were pinned on the road ahead.

"What?" Xander shook his head and frowned, perplexed. "What the hell does Spike have to do with the portal jumper?"

Giles didn't answer Xander because he wasn't quite sure what to say. All he knew was that only a vampire, a very special vampire, had a chance against the portal jumper. He hoped that by this time, Spike had become that vampire. He also hoped that Spike hadn't forgotten that he cared about Dawn and was in love with Buffy. If he had, then Giles had played the wrong hand by sending Spike to New York City.


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Buffy had taken off her navy blue raincoat, red pullover sweater, and black boots, and was sitting in the middle of the road in her jeans and t-shirt opposite Spike, feeling very hot and sticky. The sun was beating down on her skin, scorching her face, while the giant black forest on either side of her refused to offer even one square inch of shade.

Buffy squinted, her face shriveling into the shape of a dried prune, she imagined, as she looked from Spike’s sunbathed face to the darkness and back. How in the world could it be so perfectly separated, she wondered? No dusky gray or mixed shadows of blinding light and dark overlapping, just black or white, day or night. What an odd dimension for Dawn to pick, she thought as she wiped the sweat from her neck.

“You look quite lovely, pet.”

She stared at him, her lips parting slightly as if to speak. He hadn’t said a word since Dawn and Carlo had gone off in search of water and something to eat. None of them, including Buffy, had been hungry enough to bite into the black fruit hanging from the bushes in the night worlds—that’s what Carlo had named the woods. She hadn't bothered to ask Spike if he was hungry. That wasn't the kind of question you asked a vampire as he sat in the sunlight looking hot and thirsty. Buffy had decided right then and there that she wasn’t going to let herself think about Spike and nourishment.

"Thanks," she finally managed, and then clamped her mouth shut unable to think of anything else to say. It wasn’t that she didn’t have a million questions to ask him, his compliment had thrown her brain into a tizzy. Silly word, she thought, but she had tizzy-brain, nonetheless. He was the same Spike, right? Despite the fact she’d seen him take a bite out of Dawn with her own eyes he was still Spike. Right? He'd explained that. Actually, she recalled, he hadn’t really. All he’d said was if he’d wanted to kill her, he would have. She and Dawn had bought it, though. Carlo, on the other hand, had wanted to go a few rounds with Spike—which Buffy had known would be a huge mistake.

Carlo needed to cool off. He’d just lost his mother and had accused Spike of killing her. Buffy had to watch him every second to make sure Carlo didn’t go after Spike, and she was growing a little weary of being the watch-dog. After a heated discussion, she convinced Dawn and Carlo that she wouldn't let Spike eat her if the two of them went off to search for some food. As long as they stayed on the brightly lit road, Buffy could see them and vice-versa. The middle of the road was a straight line bathed in sunshine for as far as the eye could see, she’d pointed out. At least it was to her eyes.

"Spike, can you see far away?" Since he was all sunshine vampire now, she had to ask. Maybe his acute night vision had turned into really good daylight vision, and he could see what she couldn't—like what was at the end of the road.

"Nothing but sunshine, Love. Everywhere I look." He was staring at her, his eyes smiling.

"Spike, I don't get you." She stood up and began pacing. "You're all different, yet you seem really calm and relaxed as if this is no big deal."

"What else can I do?" Suddenly, he was next to her. Even though she’d been watching him, Buffy hadn't seen Spike get up from where she'd left him sitting in the road. He’d moved that fast.

"Buffy, we're in a dimension that, until Dawn can figure out how to get us out of, we're stuck in." He still had the most annoying expression on his face, kind of happy, kind of sad, thought Buffy as she folded her arms across her chest and listened.

“A little while ago, I stopped being your every day vampire and became your...well...an every day vampire.” Spike raised his head to the sky. He seemed to like doing that lately, Buffy noticed. She imagined that after so many decades in the dark, the sunshine on his face must feel like heaven to him. He must have been too busy trying to kill her back when he’d worn the Gem of Amara and hadn’t taken the time to enjoy the daylight.

“I'm trying to deal with some things here, sweetheart. Changes, major changes, and it's quite a bit to handle." Spike unexpectedly grabbed Buffy by the shoulders; the gleeful look had left his face. He wasn't getting bumpy, but she swore she saw his eyes flash red. Guess yellow was out since he was breathing. That most likely meant he had his own version of blood flowing through his veins.

“You really think Dawn will be able to get us out of here?” Buffy didn’t like the way her voice quivered. She also was having a hard time dealing with the feel of his warm fingers holding onto her hot bare skin. Her eyes must have betrayed her as she looked up at him.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Buffy.” Spike whispered and pulled her so close to him; her sweat-soaked t-shirt clung to his bare chest. She could feel him moving against her, inhaling and exhaling. For a moment, she could feel his heart beating against her breast.

“Spike, what’s happening?” Her voice sounded frightened, but she didn’t care.

“Buffy, I can feel you. Your heart beating, your blood flowing through your body, like I always could. But now, I can feel me, too.” He let go of her shoulder and took her hand into his and lifted it, pressed it to his chest. “Can you feel my heart beating?”

“Yes, Spike.” His face was so close to hers she felt his breath on her lips.

“I’m afraid that when this is all over, I won’t want to live in the dark, Love.” Spike's arms circled her and he pulled her even closer as his lips moved to her ear. “I won’t want to be just a vampire.”

“Spike…” Buffy shuddered, her legs collapsed beneath her as his tongue trailed down the side of her throat, then over her cheekbone. Finally, his lips were pressing against hers, and she was kissing him. And he was kissing her.

to be continued…

chapter 20, bittersweet – part I

“Nothing worked!” Willow yelled as she materialized in the living room of Jacob's apartment bellowing in frustration with the vampire at her side. Tara immediately dropped the last of the herbs in the fire and stopped chanting as soon as she saw them. The two were covered with crusted mud and their clothes were wrinkled and wet. Willow's curly red hair appeared black and was pasted to her cheeks and neck, forming a perfect frame for her wild black eyes and snarling lips. On the other hand, Jacob looked stunned, as if his living room was the last place he had expected Willow to bring them.

Tara wasn’t interested in Jacob’s bewilderment. She wanted to make certain that besides her feelings, Willow wasn’t hurt. Her eyes inspected her lover’s body carefully. There were no visible blood-soaked wounds seeping through her clothing or jagged cuts marring her flesh. Tara sighed with relief. Then she inhaled deeply, pulled her body perfectly erect and waited for Willow to calm down and tell her what had gone wrong.

“Nothing!” Willow grabbed two handfuls of her own matted hair as she stomped on the floor in a childish rant. “I couldn’t touch him. I couldn’t even step out of the wind tunnel.”

Tara hadn’t been surprised by Willow’s and Jacob’s sudden appearance. She’d expected them. The herbs had run out and that meant the first battle had come to an end. It was just that Tara hadn’t imagined Willow coming back petulant and screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Goddamned Shemhazi!” Willow screeched.

Tara shook her head, unnoticed she hoped, and allowed her eyes to drift from Willow to the vampire. That’s when she saw the small drops of blood on Jacob’s lips. She wondered who or what he’d tasted. But it wasn’t the time to ask and she shifted her gaze back to Willow. Eventually, she’d find out about Jacob’s deed as she watched Willow‘s face pebble with angry red splotches bruising her pale complexion.

She was pacing back and forth, her hands dropped to her sides and curled into small fists that pounded against her thighs. “He was right in front of me. As close as I am to you and I couldn’t touch him.”

“Calm down, dear.” Tara placed her hand on Willow’s shoulder, imploring her to stand still. “I chanted until the last of the herbs were in the fire.” She felt compelled to tell Willow she’d done as instructed. Maybe that would soothe her. “I seared the herbs in the flames, recited the verse and burned the photos.”

“Quiet. I know you did as you were told,” snapped Willow. “There were just too many of them in the alley.”

“T…too many of whom?” Tara stuttered.

“Buffy, Dawn, Spike and some kid,” spat Willow. “All there with Anya and the portal jumper. I couldn’t let that bastard…I had to make certain they got out.” Willow hugged herself around the stomach and dropped to the sofa with a soundless thud.

“Buffy and Dawn were there?” Tara hurried to Willow’s side and sat beside her on the couch.

“Yeah…and Spike,” Willow stood abruptly and moved to the fireplace. She kicked at the glowing embers of the dying flames angrily.

“Jacob,” she called to him without turning away from the fire.

Tara had glimpsed him backing toward the hallway. He had been attempting to sneak out, she imagined. But at Willow’s words, he froze.

“What does it feel like?” Turning slowly, Willow leaned her back against the mantle. “Being able to walk in the sun? What’s it like to be almost a man?” She walked toward Jacob like a lioness, closing in on her prey.

Jacob stumbled into the wall as Willow cornered him.

“It feels like I’ve been touched by God,” His nostrils flared as he blurted out the words. “You know how that feels. Don't you, witch?”

“Yes, I do.” Willow paused and examined her hands thoughtfully. She looked as if she expected to see her fingers curving into claws, thought Tara. But Willow balled her hands into fists, quickly opening them close to Jacob's face. She was taunting him, playing a little game of gotcha. Except the game may not have mattered.

Tara swallowed carefully as she watched Jacob lick his lips and slowly lap the drops of blood into his mouth with his fat, wet tongue. She averted her eyes, disgusted by the sight. But then she heard Willow moan. Tara glared at Jacob. The blood had been replaced by drops of perspiration, dotting the vampire’s upper lip.

That couldn't be right thought Tara. Vampires didn't sweat. Or did they? Or was that what the vampire had meant about being ‘touched by God’? She wondered.

“You feel the power that Luke gave you, huh?” said Willow seductively. “But you didn’t get as much as Spike, you know.”

Tara’s eyes widened.

“Yeah, I know. Not the first born, so to speak. But I got enough, thanks to you,” Jacob said, an edge of sarcasm in his tone.

“Yes, thanks to me.”

Tara was confused. “Willow, what did you do?”

“Got in Luke’s way,” said Willow pointedly as she strolled to Tara and daintily settled herself next to her on the sofa.

“I need more power to touch Shemhazi.” She leaned back against the cushions of the sofa and closed her eyes. “We won’t need to worry about Luke. Spike will deal with him.”

“What about Buffy and Dawn?” Tara shuddered, unnerved by Willow’s mood swing.

“They’ll be alright.”

“Are you sure?”

“They will be all right!” Her voice rose menacingly, but then softened as she added, “We’ve got to go back to the alley.” Willow opened her eyes and looked at Jacob, who stood pressed against the wall next to the entrance of the hallway.

“No, Willow,” Jacob straightened his weakened knees and pushed himself away from the wall. He staggered for a moment, his legs unsteady beneath him and gripped the end table near the sofa with one long-fingered hand. “We should make Shemhazi come to you.”

“We?”

“It is the reason you came to me in the first place.” He glared at Willow. “For my help. You knew we’d get Luke’s gifts, and you couldn’t ask Spike to help you. His only concern is the Slayer. So you came to me because you know I want this…and not just temporarily. I want to keep Luke’s gifts forever. Whatever the consequence.”

Tara watched as Jacob pried his fingers off the table and shoved his hands into the pockets of his muddied leather pants. He reminded her of Spike as he walked toward Willow, his body suddenly teaming with energy and confidence.

Tara felt the skin on the back of her neck tingle as Jacob knelt before Willow and took her small white hands into his large black ones.

“We will have more power, and you will touch Shemhazi.” A slow smile curled his moist lips as he looked into Willow’s face. “And I will become eternal.”

“This will work,” exclaimed Willow. She giggled slightly as she pulled her hands out of his and looked at Tara. “This is a very good thing. Don’t you think?” She was grinning. She then nodded to Jacob, indicating for him to stand up, as she reached for Tara’s hand and pulled it into her lap.

“Now, you were saying we shouldn’t go back to the alley?” Her words were directed to Jacob, but she was looking at Tara as she spoke. “Where should we go?”

Jacob was on his feet, his hands on his hips. “The Shemhazi wants to get to you as much as you want to get to him, right?”

Willow squeezed Tara’s hand. “Right,” she answered, turning toward Jacob.

“All we have to do is pick the place and wait.”

Willow pursed her lips thoughtfully and then smiled. “When did you get so smart, Jacob?”

“Just one of my gifts.”


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Anya was sitting on one of the piles of filth that littered the concrete floor of the alley. She could feel the grit and the mud and a balmy liquid coating the skin of her exposed calves and forearm. Its warmth surprised her for a moment. Then she remembered the rainstorm and the daylight.

The sun had been shining in the sky and yet she’d seen the vampires walk in the daylight. They had unexpectedly not turned to dust. She shook her head, loosening the cobwebs in her brain. Maybe she’d imagined it. But she knew better. Jacob and Spike were human and they were vampires. But now…they were his.

Luke was nearby. She could feel him. When she’d opened her eyes earlier, she’d seen him cowering in a corner. Now he loomed above her, no longer mesmerized by the sight of the Shemhazi and the witch. They were gone. He was no longer weakened by the act of giving away his gifts. Jacob and Spike were gone, too. Luke had also taken his memories, she hadn’t been able to keep them from him. He was more himself than he’d been in a long time, and she knew it.

But Anya was pure demon once more and prepared to do what she needed to do to survive. Opening her eyes, she sat erect and reached her hand out to him.

“Help me up,” she ordered and then grabbed his extended hand, allowing him to lift her from the ground. She didn’t even bother to straighten her short skirt. It fell easily over her thin hips as she stood.

“Well, dear muse, we seem to be back where we started our journey,” He leered, his teeth flashing brightly as his eyes shined with soft tears. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah, me too?” Anya tugged at her blouse and pushed it into the waistband of her skirt. His gaze made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t in his thrall any more. No, that part of the journey was over. Seeing Shemhazi had released her from that curse. Instead, his face had given her the strength to accept her demon and let go of her idealistic dreams of humanity and Xander and making love to his body until she died happily in his arms, old and wrinkled and human. No it was time for her to move on. Get back to what she’d known for a thousand years and get away from Luke. Let him go pursue his madness. Willow could handle him. All Anya needed to do was find the right moment to get away from Luke so she could go on about her business.

She stared into the smiling face of the portal jumper. He took her hands in his and held them between his palms. She didn’t flinch as he lifted them to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her fingertips.

“We must go after them?”

“Shemhazi and Willow?”

“No. Spike and the Key.”

“What?” Anya managed to keep her voice steady as the panic crept into her stomach. She’d expected Luke to go after Shemhazi and Willow. She was ready for that. She wanted that. But Spike and Dawn? Why?

“They will help me return to what I was,” he said. “I was a man before I became what I am now. Just like you were a woman, once upon a time. I want to be that man again, and the Key is the one who can help me.”

“Oh.” Anya muttered, and for a few seconds she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Thankfully, that didn’t last too long.

“Dawn disappeared through a portal, and she took half the alley with her. How will you find her?”

“No problem. All I have to do is follow Spike. He will lead me to her.” Luke squeezed her hands tightly. “Let’s go.”

His words were the last she heard before a swirling portal surrounded them.


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“Let’s go, babe,” Carlo was pulling her by the hand, dragging her back toward Buffy and Spike. They were at least a half a mile away, thought Dawn. She could barely make out their bodies standing in the middle of the sun-drenched dirt road. Hadn’t they been sitting down a few minutes before? Didn’t matter though, she shrugged and snatched her hand out of Carlo’s grip. She wasn’t ready to go back yet. They had barely found enough for the four of them to eat, let alone drink. The makeshift containers they’d carved from some of the larger pieces of black fruit were only half-filled with seeds and edible leaves, if Dawn had remembered her biology properly, if biology even existed wherever they were now.

They’d discovered a small hole bubbling with fresh water under the twisted vines of one of the fruit bushes. They were able to fill at least one container with the warm clear liquid. All in all, she expected to rejoin Buffy with a feast in hand.

“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered anxiously. “What’s Spike going to eat?”

“Don’t you think he’s had enough?” snapped Carlo as he stomped away from her and headed in the direction of Buffy and Spike.

Then he turned to face her. “Jeez, Dawn, what is it with you and your sister and this fucking guy? I mean he’s not even human. Shit, if he is, he’s still got a thing for blood. I mean girl, look at your neck!” He threw an angry arm in the air, but managed to hang on to the fruit bowls cradled in his other arm.

“Hey, Carlo. This is not Spike’s fault. Something happened to him in that alley, and for a few moments he lost control. You met him before this all went down. He’s like a good vampire and he wouldn’t hurt me or you or Buffy, ever!”

“What about the other bastard? He bit me, you know.”

“Yeah, true.” She couldn’t argue that point. “But he didn’t finish the job. Maybe he’s a little like Spike and has some good in him.” Dawn had left the sunlit road and wandered into the night world. She pushed aside thick patches of branches and rotten fruit, searching for anything that she could add to the containers.

At least she was looking for food. But part of her was stalling. She wanted to give Buffy time to talk to Spike. Make certain that he was okay, and not one bloody hell away from returning to the Big Bad he’d been in Sunnydale before the chip. She’d been a little girl when he’d been running amuck with Angelus, as Giles used to say. She didn’t remember Spike then. But she’d heard about him. He’d frightened the pee out of his share of Scoobies as Anya had said often enough, and he’d given Buffy a good fight more than once. Even her big sister admitted that.

Dawn’s memories of Spike were more recent, and that wasn’t just because she’d been dropped in Sunnydale the year before by the monks. She and Spike were friends. He’d helped her bunches of times. He’d helped her find out the truth about her past. He’d stayed with her that horrible summer before Willow brought Buffy back to life. Buffy had even trusted him with her life and with her Mom’s, lots of times. So even if he had scared the heebie jeebies out of her with that biting thing in the alley, she wasn’t going to admit it. Not right off anyway, because she trusted him. She had to, he was her friend.

“Dawn, come on. Let’s get back, okay?” Carlo sounded less angry as she crawled out from under a heavy patch of vines with a handful of seeds.

“Okay. I’m ready.” She dumped the seeds into one of the fruit bowls and picked up the handmade bottle filled with water and fell in step next to Carlo.

“You did this, didn’t you?” Carlo asked.

“Oh, you mean like teleported us to this dimension,” she answered. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You know not every girl in the Bronx can teleport, babe. At least not without some serious drugs in ‘em. So you’re like Spike, not human?”

“I’m human. Just got special powers because of my being the Key and all. It’s why we came to New York City in the first place. Something was trying to hurt me and my sister and all of our friends in Sunnydale because they wanted to get to me. Or at least that’s what we thought.”

“Okay, hold on a minute. You got me confused, girl. You’re a key?” Carlo had nearly tripped over his own feet, he’d stopped so quickly.

“Hey, don’t even go there. It would take hours for me to explain the Key business. So just trust me. I can do things but I’m still human.” She was a little concerned about Carlo’s reaction to all of this. He’d met his first vampire, and seen the body of his murdered mother and been teleported to a three-dimensional black and white world, within the span of twenty-four hours. Carlo wigging out was justifiable, figured Dawn, but she didn't want to deal with that possibility now.

“Look, Carlo. For some reason I didn’t even know about until recently, I can travel through dimensions. Get from one universe to another and obviously,” she waved her free hand in the air. “Pull my friends and family with me when I do it.”

“Okay, okay. It’s way too much for me to take in right now, babe. I’ll just go with it, okay?” Carlo looked exhausted. Dawn planted a quick kiss on his cheek as she walked past him.

“Is this bad guy still after you?” Carlo asked as he walked next to her. “I mean outside of the vampires, I saw some really weird shit in that alley.”

“Yeah, it was weird.” Dawn said thoughtfully. She remembered seeing Willow inside a spinning jar of wind and a giant angel flying around her. She wasn’t going to mention the angel, though. It had wigged her out big time. She couldn’t even imagine what Carlo might…

“What made you think of it? I mean damn, bringing us here to this place. It’s odd, you know. Just three long strips of world. Two dark and one, well, nothing but sunshine.”

“Don’t know why, really.” She said honestly. “I just wanted to get out of that alley as fast as possible. Too much bad for us to handle.”

As she turned to face Carlo, she felt a tickle in her spine. Then a twisting pain in her head brought Dawn to her knees.

“Carlo!” she screamed. “Get me to Buffy. Get me to Buffy now!”

“Oh, shit.” Carlo dropped the containers he was carrying, scooped her up in his arms, and ran as fast as he could toward the figures of Spike and Buffy standing in the middle of the road. Good thing he was a runner, he thought as he double-timed his pace. He felt like he was flying over the dirt path.

“God. Oh God. It’s coming. God, we’ve got to hurry,” she was crying. “Run faster, Carlo. Faster.”


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Buffy couldn’t hold Spike’s body close enough. The kiss had started slowly, tongues tasting and entwining as they caressed each other tenderly. Then the kiss was a starved animal, and his arms tightened around her and she was hanging on to her life. She groaned as he pressed his bare chest against her swollen breasts, the friction making her nipples ache. She wanted her skin naked against him, but he was holding her so tightly she couldn’t breathe.

Buffy wished she could think. But she’d left thought behind until she heard Carlo screaming her name. Finally, she had to pull away from Spike.

Carlo was a hundred yards away as Buffy turned to face him. Her stomach dropped as she saw him carrying Dawn in his arms. She sprinted toward the boy running to her. She felt Spike racing at her side.

“What happened?” she yelled as she met Carlo and pulled Dawn out of his arms.

“She…wanted me to…Buffy, damn.” His words were falling out of his mouth in fragments as he dropped to his knees in front of her and Spike.

“Buffy, my head. God, it hurts,” Dawn cried. “Its coming after us. I feel it, Buffy, and I can’t…” Her eyes rolled back in her head and she screamed, clutching Buffy around the neck as the pain seemed to shoot through her.

“Oh, Dawnie. Please hang in there, baby. Please.” Buffy rocked Dawn in her arms and looked up at Spike, her eyes pleading. She didn’t know how to help her sister in this dimension where only trees, a dirt road and sunshine existed.

“Buffy!” Dawn scrambled free of her sister’s embrace and collapsed into a ball of shivering fear. “It’s here!” She screamed as she pointed a finger in the direction from which she and Carlo had just come.

“Spike?” Buffy was reaching for Dawn when she saw Spike begin to morph into his demon visage. She couldn’t even touch her flailing sister, the sight of the vampire was so startling.

He was different than she’d ever seen. The bumpys were still there but his eyes were blood red. The fangs extended from his mouth dripped with blood, too. His own, she wondered?

“Buffy, hold on to her,” he ordered, his voice deep and stern. Carlo was still kneeling near Dawn and inched closer as Buffy pulled her sister’s body to her chest.

His words were the last she heard before a swirling portal surrounded them, and she was leaping through dimensions. Seconds later they landed in heap in the small living room of her apartment in the Bronx.

“Spike?” He was standing next to her, his face covered with sweat, holding his duster in his arms. “What did you do?”

“I’m a portal jumper, Buffy,” he said calmly. “I jumped.”

To be continued…

chapter 21, bittersweet – part II

Spike stood bare-chested in front of the bay window in the alcove in Buffy’s living room staring through the paned glass as the sun shined on his face. New York City had changed since he and the Slayer and Dawn and the boy had disappeared into the portal and escaped to the Night World. This town was barely recognizable with its no traffic or flashing lights or people. Just barren streets and silence. Nothing buzzing about to interfere with him listening to the deeper sounds of the Earth. His mind tuned them in like a beacon. The screams of the first demons blared in his eardrums.

Resting his forehead against the glass, he inhaled deeply, searching for the scents left behind by whatever had lived in this world before he’d arrived with his girls and the boy. But the air smelled ancient and long dead.

Then he accepted what he already knew.

Nothing alive existed in the Bronx, except for the three humans cloistered inside Buffy’s apartment and him—whatever he was. His newly acquired portal jumping skill had brought them to a world very different from the one they’d left behind the day before. This dimension was void of desire, an empty, black hole of a world with a blazing sun, tall deserted buildings and little more.

Spike banished his mind to search further. Find something alive to latch on to and distract his demon’s growing urge to destroy and maim and bash and feast. If he didn’t, the three humans in the tiny apartment with him would become his salvation, and Spike didn’t want that. He couldn’t what that. Not for Dawn, and dear God, not for Buffy.

He forced his thoughts out of the apartment. He had to think about what existed beyond the Bronx, beyond the city.

Willow was out there and Jacob was with her.

His fingers tingled and his breathing quickened. The smell of their blood engulfed him, warming his body more completely than he ever imagined possible. He felt Willow dancing around in his mind and knew that they’d found him as well.

Spike staggered at the headiness of linking with the witch. She was stronger than the last time he’d seen her. His knees buckled and he struggled to keep from sinking to the floor. He grabbed hold of the windowsill with both hands, swaying precariously as the power of the connection flowed through him.

Then suddenly he was standing in two worlds at the same time.

He stared out the apartment window and stood in the Night World, the sweet taste of Buffy's lips on his mouth and the feel of her arms around his neck. Just like when they'd kissed.

He placed his hand on the glass and pulled it back. It burned his fingertips.

“Spike, what do you see? What’s going on out there?” He turned.

Dawn was sitting on the sofa next to the boy, Carlo.

The demon was shouting in his head, screaming at him. Feast, you bloody bastard. Kill them.

Spike’s heart pounded inside his ribcage and his fangs elongated in his mouth.

He had to get them out of the room. Their smell was choking him. The boy had sweated through his shirt and his musk punctuated the air. The scent of Dawn’s youthful lust lingered on the inside of her thighs and her hair had a mild, sour odor like rotten melon.

His senses moved away from the children and down the hall to the bathroom and the Slayer. She was washing the sweat from her body and rinsing his smell from her skin. His cock stiffened at the thought of her nakedness and how it would feel to fuck her so hard she’d only whimper as he ripped open her throat with his fangs.

Spike shuddered and tried to wipe the image from his mind.

He stepped away from the window toward Dawn. “Go tell Buffy I need her and then go into the bedroom and stay there.”

Dawn and the boy had to get away from him. He moved back, closer to the window and pressed his spine against the glass.

“Hey man, don’t talk to her like that.” Carlo was on his feet.

“You insolent fool!” growled Spike as he willed himself to stay connected to the window. “Shut up and do as you are told. I have no prior memory of you and would just as soon snap your bloody neck than deal with your fucking mouth.”

Not since waking after being turned by Drusilla had he ached so thoroughly for the taste of blood and the feel of the warm, thick liquid in his throat. He wanted to gorge on them, fill his belly with their gifts.

“Go get Buffy. Please, Dawn. Do it now.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

If they didn't get the fuck out of there fast, he couldn’t be responsible for what happened next.

“Okay, Spike,” said Dawn as she yanked Carlo by the arm and backed out of the room. She pushed him toward Buffy’s bedroom door and then ran toward the bathroom.

Spike’s body went rigid as the bloodlust roared within him. He had to think of something else. He latched onto a thought and repeated it in his mind like a chant.

He loved Buffy Summers, the Slayer, the Chosen One. He loved Buffy. He loved her.

Willow had to know what was happening to him, and somewhere within her, she had to remember she loved Buffy, too. She had to help him, release him from their connection. He couldn’t do it alone. He needed her and fast.

Spike leaned forward and rested his forehead on the hot glass and waited.

God, he hoped Buffy had a stake. Just in case.

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Buffy splashed the cold water onto her face. She needed the shock to jar her battered mind and help her get unstuck.

Portal jumper? He was a portal jumper. Just like that Spike was a portal jumper. She couldn’t wrap her brain around it. Here the Scoobies had run, hid, cast spells and abandoned their lives to save themselves from the wrath of the portal jumper, and just like that, Spike was the portal jumper?

Or was he just one of a big portal jumping family that also happened to be breathing, living, stand in the sunlight vampires?

She pulled her hair away from her face and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Since arriving in New York, she had stopped highlighting her hair and had touched up her dark roots only twice. Her skin had lost the constant Sunnydale tan, but she still looked…okay. Her eyes were clear and her face fuller, and oftentimes she’d feel unexplainably happy, even though she longed to return home. But in New York City, she'd felt better about being Buffy than she ever remembered feeling in Sunnydale. And a hell of a lot better than she had those first weeks after digging her way out of her coffin.

A twinge of regret drifted into her head. She hadn’t thought about being dead in a long time. All she had remembered was leaping from the tower and waking up buried.

She stared at her face in the mirror and wondered why regret had crossed her mind. Had there been something about being dead that she missed?

She splashed the water on her face again, reached for the towel and patted her skin dry. Such a strange year and now there was Spike.

This particular roller-coaster ride was cluttered with broken track.

Buffy pulled on a fresh white tee, a pair of cut-off jeans and shoved her feet into her black running shoes. She’d been surprised to find summer clothes in her drawer. When she’d left Sunnydale in the fall, she’d never thought they’d be in the city during the warm months. Of course, they weren’t. It was mid-December. But as soon as they’d materialized back in New York, she’d felt the heat. It was like they were still in the Night World. But she didn't have time to deal with that puzzle right away.

She had to get her brain unthawed.

Spike was a portal jumper.

She threw another handful of cold water over her eyes.

“Buffy! Buffy!” Dawn’s terrified voice suddenly filled the room and she dropped the washcloth into the sink.

Now what?

Buffy’s tilted her chin to the ceiling and mumbled a small prayer to the Powers-That-Be. Begging seemed so un-slayery, but she and Dawn needed a break.

She flung open the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway.

Dawn was standing on the other side, breathing hard.

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Xander hadn’t ever gotten used to the whole ritual of chanting—the let’s speak Latin, Romanian or Greek thing when it came to spell casting and other witchy type things had always given him the heebie jeebies. He hadn’t said anything to Willow or Buffy or Anya, ever, but he believed that casting a good spell or calling upon higher beings would’ve been easier for all of them if they’d been able to get the deed done in English. Their forefathers were certainly in the know on witches and things. Remember Salem, he’d said to Willow more than once. Surely, English could have worked.

But he knew his idea would never be taken seriously. The most he could expect was a raised eyebrow, a ‘tsk, tsk’ and an ‘Oh, Xander”. Then of course, Giles would whip off his glasses, handkerchief at the ready, and then wipe away as if his life depended on it.

Now he was the one sitting cross-legged in the desert in front of a bonfire muttering verses in a foreign tongue, reading from a leather-bound book with Giles leaning over his shoulder. Holy shit, he thought. It was way past too late for his ideas.

“We’ve got it now,” said Giles from behind him.

“Geez, Giles. Are you sure this is going to give her enough?”

“Willow knows she needs this, and she’ll figure out the best way to harness the added power and give Shemhazi a match-up he won’t forget.” Giles dumped a bucket of sand on the flames.

Xander stared at the ashes and sparks rising toward the sky. He then inched himself away from the fire and pushed up onto his feet. He’d been skeptical about this entire thing. He hadn’t wanted any part of this, but Giles had said you’ve got to do it if you want to help Willow save herself and Buffy. That meant he had no choice.

to be continued...

chapter 22: bittersweet – part III

Buffy stood in the archway between the kitchenette and the living room and wrapped her fingers tightly around the large spoon.

The wooden utensil had been snatched from the kitchen counter instinctively. The blond vampire facing the bay window in her living room had told her once that a Slayer had to keep her weapon handy. Then he'd shifted into his demon face and whispered menacingly into her ear that a vampire always had his.

She hadn't forgotten the lesson.

“Are you okay?” Buffy asked as she took a cautious step forward, clutching the spoon at her side. She examined the room quickly. The way Dawn had sounded she'd expected the living room to look like a tornado had struck. But there was nothing alarming or unusual about the small space. Except for the vampire standing at the window in the sunlight, everything looked normal. She returned her gaze to him.

Watching his naked back heaving rapidly up and down, she wondered if he was having trouble catching his breath. Whatever had changed him into a living, breathing vampire capable of surviving in the sunlight might be wearing off. Perhaps that was why he was so agitated. Maybe that was the reason he had yelled at Dawn, ordering her to get her big sister to come to him right away.

Buffy moved closer to Spike.

“Dawn said you wanted to see me?” She hoped her voice sounded calm. Certainly, he'd heard every word Dawn had said in the hallway a few minutes earlier about his bad moodiness. Buffy didn't want him to suspect that she was worried about him. Neither did she want to give away what she'd have to do if the conversation didn't go well.

She slowly moved further into the room. When she found a good spot, kitty-cornered from him so that she could see his profile, she stopped. Now from where she stood, near the sofa and almost in the middle of the room, she'd have more space to counter an attack if he suddenly spun and charged.

Precise strategic angle, she decided. That was what she had, a spot from which she could see his face and peer over his shoulder while staying out of his reach.

Jutting her chin forward slightly, she looked down into the street and searched for what was holding Spike's attention. She wasn't surprised when she saw there was nothing to see. The street was empty. She'd almost expected that. They'd just traveled through a portal to get back to New York City in December and it was a hundred degrees, as hot as August in Sunnydale. This wasn't the city they'd left.

“The wiser mind mourns less for what age takes away, than what it leaves behind.”

Buffy jumped and let out a small squeal. Spike's voice had startled her. “The what leaves the…huh …behind?”

“William Wordsworth. Bit of a poem called The Fountain, pet,” explained Spike as he rested his forehead on the glass. “He was talking about loss.”

“You…lose…I mean…you've lost something?” Her words stuck in her throat as she clutched the wooden spoon in her hand. “Is that what you're doing staring out the window… looking for something you've…lost?”

“No, Buffy. I've found what I'm looking for…”

He smashed his palms to his elbows through the window, breaking the glass and slicing his skin. The small cuts dripping blood formed a jagged red pattern on his arms. Buffy stepped backward and pulled her hand up, fisting the wooden spoon and pointing it, ready to strike.

As she stared and waited breathlessly for whatever might happen next, Spike leapt onto the ledge of the window in one smooth motion.

“I've got to...got to go...to Willow." Spike's voice shook as he spoke. Then he glanced at her briefly before turning and jumping from the second floor apartment onto the concrete below.

Rushing forward, Buffy leaned over the windowsill and saw a streak of bleached hair, pale white skin and black jeans zigzagging from the sidewalk to the concrete street until Spike's body grew smaller, and smaller, and then disappeared.

He'd mentioned Willow, she remembered as she let the spoon drop from her hand. There was something else, too. He'd been breathing all fast and hard and just before he jumped had looked—frightened. Very un-Spike like.

“Dawn!” Buffy called as she ran to her bedroom and pulled open the door. “Spike has run off to find Willow and I've got to follow him.” She grabbed a shirt from the bed, tied it around her hips and flew over to her closet. Dropping to her knees, she rummaged through the clothes and bags on the floor. She found an axe and two stakes. She tested the weight of the axe in one hand and shoved the stakes into the waistband of her shorts.

“We'll go with you,” said Carlo.

“No.” she snapped. “Stay here. And I mean here. No portals, no coming after me. No leaving this apartment. No place but here. Understood?” She searched the faces of the two teenagers staring at her, making certain—or as certain as possible— that they had gotten the message.

“Okay, Buffy,” said Dawn finally.

Buffy spun on her heels and raced out of the apartment. As soon as her feet hit the pavement on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building, Buffy froze. There were so many feelings bouncing around in her head, she needed a moment to gather her wits. She hadn't expected Spike to leave. That possibility hadn't crossed her mind, even with his new powers and the whole daylight vampire thing. It hadn't occurred to her that he'd jump out a window and run away. Sure, she'd been ready to stake him if that had to happen. But she truly believed Spike was learning to deal with being a super-strong vampire that could walk in the daylight and jump through portals. True, he'd given in to his bloodlust in the alley and had bitten Dawn. He'd been out of control for a few seconds. But he hadn't drained Dawn and he hadn't tried to bite any of them since. She had to believe Spike would be on her side when the final confrontation with the portal jumper came.

She pushed the memory of kissing Spike out of her mind. She couldn't think about that at all right now.

Buffy shook herself mentally and whirled her body in the direction she'd last seen Spike. She had to trust her instincts and make a guess as to where he was heading.

She started running as fast as she could toward the alley behind Mom's Restaurant.


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It wasn't a tall building. Only five stories high, a typical New York City walk-up. Well, that is if climbing steps was the way you had to travel. The surrounding buildings were postcard duplicates of the one in front of them. Broken stoop with five concrete steps, black iron railing, and about six feet from the edge of the curb to the keyhole to unlock the front door. Typical in every way, except for a few things.

The silence was unearthly. The block was as still as a tomb. Here she was on a big street in a big city and no big crowds or noises. And, it was god-awful hot for the middle of December.

They hadn't jumped back to New York City. Anya frowned, agitated with this latest twist. They had followed Spike to some new world, a place he decided they needed to go.

Luke suddenly leapt to the top of the stairs of the apartment building. In one swift movement, he pushed his fist through the thick wood in front of him and ripped the door from its hinges.

“Look out,” he shouted as he threw the broken door over his shoulder. Anya obliged him quickly and stepped to the side as the door splintered into pieces on the ground next to her.

“Why are we here?” she asked.

Then, stepping daintily around the debris, Anya sprinted up the stairs to Luke's side. She stood in the new entranceway he'd created and waited an extra beat, giving him a chance to answer.

“Spike's not here,” stated Anya hurriedly, the frustration of waiting and curiosity seizing her. “He wouldn't stay here. There's no place to fight unless we lure him into the street or sneak up on him in this apartment building. But that's not likely since we've announced our presence rather loudly.” She eyed the mangled door in the street and then glared meaningfully at the gapping hole where it had resided moments before.

Then Anya glowered at Luke. “Why are we here?”

“Simple,” he grinned without a touch of laughter reaching his maddeningly blue eyes. “We follow them until they can't jump anymore.”

He extended his hand toward Anya. “And you'll come with me because you have no choice.”

Luke had answered the question she hadn't dared ask, she thought, staring at the exposed palm of his hand. “If we're just going to jump, why tear down the door, and make so much noise?”

“Entrances,” he said, the grin still painted on his pale face. “Jumping is so quiet and boring. I wanted to announce my coming with a bang.”

She swallowed nervously and placed her hand in his. Instantly, she felt the now familiar sensation, the spinning, and the gliding as they moved through dimensions.

All of this travel to go up five flights of stairs, thought Anya. Damn, self-indulgent portal jumper.


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The streets were bathed in bright white sunlight. Buffy looked up at the skyscrapers, at the tall brick and steel buildings surrounding her, and at the shining cement stretched out in front of her. Amazing, she thought. In this world the sun didn't cast any shadows. Nothing but endless pools of light covered this New York City. Sure, it still had all the subway entrances popping up at the end of each block. Gigantic buildings reached into the sky and grotesquely large smiling faces stared down at her from meteor-sized billboards. It was the usual cluttered New York landscape. But racing through the deathly silent streets, straining to hear the distant footsteps of the vampire she was chasing had a powerful effect on her feelings about city life.

She longed to be back in Sunnydale.

As she reached the mouth of the entrance to the alley behind Mom's Restaurant, she collapsed against the building wall, exhausted and struggling for air. She could barely stay on her feet. Slayer strength didn't mean she could run a marathon at full speed in less than five minutes.

Her breaths, coming in short bursts, gushed through her empty lungs and burned her throat on their tortuous path out of her body. Her desperation for oxygen was intense, but couldn't compete with her lungs' overwhelming need to constrict. Buffy had run herself nearly to death between the fear she didn't want to admit to and the relentless sun. But something had compelled her to come after Spike. He'd said he had to find Willow. She didn't believe he planned on hurting her. But if he tried, Buffy had to be there to stop him.

She pushed herself upright, away from the wall and, finally able to take a pain free breath, inhaled deeply. Untying the shirt she'd wrapped around her waist, she wiped the sweat from her face and throat and then sopped up the water running down her arms and chest.

God, she hoped Spike was in the alley.

“Why'd you come after me, Buffy?”

“God, Spike!” She squealed. “Scare me to death or what?”

He had stepped from behind a dumpster she hadn't even seen when she'd first entered the alley. He was still shirtless and his skin was covered with sweat. His hair was drenched and had spiraled into a mass of soaked curls. She couldn't remember seeing his hair without the gel that plastered it to his head. He looked younger and his face had a gentleness she hadn't noticed before.

“Sorry, pet,” he said. “But you shouldn't have come here.”

"Well, you said you needed to find Willow, so I thought I'd give you a hand." She forced her voice to sound lighthearted.

"No,” Spike said. “I said I had to go to Willow …I know where she is."

"Oh, so she's coming here?"

“No.” His voice was brusque as he walked into the middle of the alley. “She's already here.”

Buffy suddenly had a hard time staying on her feet. A gust of wind nearly knocked her to the ground. She was choking as the rabid current of air rushed into her lungs, drowning them in debris and dust. She grabbed hold of the ledge of the dumpster's lid to keep from blowing away. Then, as quickly as it had come it was gone. She blinked compulsively to clear the grit from her eyes.

Squinting, she thought she saw three figures behind the rubbish floating in the alley. Willow was standing between Spike and the black vampire, Jacob. The last time Buffy had seen Willow, she had been trapped in a cylinder of wind in this very same alley. Buffy rubbed the heel of her hands across her eyes. Yeah, it was Willow.

She started to run to her, to hug her into her arms and tell her how glad she was to see her. How thrilled she was that she was okay. But Buffy hesitated. The threesome looked odd. They were standing too close to each other as if they were best friends—really close best friends. They had such a familiar way with their bodies it was as if they were intertwined. Their shoulders touched and their hips seemed to lean into each other's personal space.

They looked like they'd been together—you know, sexually, which would be icky, thought Buffy. But when Willow moved toward Buffy, the way Spike and Jacob hung back, watching Willow's ass with chins up and shoulders squared, and their eyes glowing with blatant, shameless—lust. Well, it made Buffy shudder.

“Oh Buffy,” Willow's outstretched arms surrounded her so quickly she didn't have time to react before being gathered up into the smothering embrace. Buffy stood motionless with her arms at her side and allowed the sweaty bear hug.

“There's so much I've got to tell you. But you know, fortunately, we've got to fight Shemhazi first. But I promise. We'll talk. Later. Okay?”

Buffy shimmied out of Willow’s arms.

“What's going on Will? And who the hell is Shemhazi?” Buffy couldn't hide her confusion. Willow's behavior was out-of-sync with being in a alley in a another dimension's New York City with two vampires acting like Willow was the queen of Sheba. Okay, she'd stolen the 'Sheba' expression from Giles as far as the queen business, but this was too strange.

"Calm down, Buffy. You sound like Anya," teased Willow. "Questions, questions, questions. None of them matter, really, except for the one about Shemhazi. You wanna know who he is? Well, he'll be here soon, and you can ask him."

Then Willow laughed as the ground shook and the pavement quaked, and the two vampires behind her leaped onto the rooftops.

Guess Shemhazi was on his way, thought Buffy.

To be continued...

chapter 23: bittersweet – part IV

She heard a loud crash and then a quieter sound she couldn't make out right away. Dawn bolted upright in her sister's bed and shook Carlo awake. “Something's outside, and it isn't Buffy or Spike,” she said through clenched teeth.

Carlo swung his feet onto the floor, shoved them into his boots, and pulled on his shirt. Dawn tilted her head toward the bedroom door and listened. Nothing. The noises were gone. Dawn sniffed the room. She smelled him. The air reeked of his sickly sweet odor. It reminded her of Janice’s baby sister; the scents of soiled diapers and rose water filled her nostrils.

“It's the portal jumper," she whispered.

“That bony bastard from the alley?” spat Carlo as he stuffed his t-shirt into the waistband of his jeans. “Shit.”

“Gotta go,” urged Dawn.

“Buffy said stay here.”

“Buffy didn't know he'd be here.” Dawn stood up, slipped her bare feet into her gym shoes, and fastened the top button of her shorts.

Carlo's large brown eyes stared at her as she grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly. She could tell he knew what she had in mind. His expression was a mixture of fear and excitement.

“Ready?” she asked.

"Always."

The spinning sensation felt surprisingly normal to Dawn as the room turned gray and tiny bolts of light shot through the air. She hadn't known until the alley she could open portals. It had been pretty scary; unlocking a wrinkle in time and transforming it into a doorway to another place, another dimension. But Dawn had made up her mind. She'd do whatever she had to do to protect herself, her friends, and her family.

She closed her eyes. It was time to go back to the beginning and face the reason she and her sister had come to New York City in the first place. Holding on to Carlo's hand as tightly as she could, she opened a portal to Sunnydale.


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Crushed vertebrae, cracked jaw, and a splintered thighbone. Gruesome descriptions, but Buffy knew her body—and it was a broken mess. The thing Willow had called Shemhazi had emerged from beneath the crumpling concrete and clawed various parts of her body into pieces on its way to Willow. It had sliced Buffy open, mangling her with a thoughtless swipe of a gigantic paw. She almost wished she hadn't followed Spike blindly into the alley like some kind of savior. He hadn't even stuck around long enough to watch her die, vanishing as soon as the beast had arrived.

Buffy curled herself into a ball and swallowed a mouthful of blood, too weak to spit. She should have stayed in the apartment with Dawn. It had been safer there. If she hadn't run after Spike, she wouldn't be lying in filth thinking about dying for the third time in almost as many years. But she'd had no choice.

In Sunnydale, her feelings for Spike had confused her. Then she saw him in New York City and grudgingly had to admit the truth. She cared about him. Of course, she hadn't planned on telling him that—although kissing him those two or three times might have been a clue. When he'd jumped out of her apartment window, the look in his eyes had frightened her. It was as if he'd accepted it. Whatever wanted him evil, he'd given in to it without a fight. And that wasn't the vampire she knew. No matter what she'd said about protecting Willow, she'd run out of the apartment and into this black hole of an alley for Spike.

Now, she was the one who needed help and he was nowhere in sight.

Look at where love has taken me.

Buffy glanced down at her fractured limbs and tried not to cry.


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Screams echoed inside her head.

“Must have passed out,” mumbled Buffy as she pried her eyelids open slowly.

Squinting, she could make out Willow and the thing that had nearly killed her floating opposite each other above the pavement. They were tearing at one another’s flesh, all fingernails and claws, hoofed feet and pointy-heeled boots. Then it seemed as if half the alley disappeared and the two opponents retreated like boxers to opposite corners of a ring, slinging giant balls of smoke and fire at the each other’s head as they separated.

It reminded Buffy of watching a couple of kids playing catch, except with a really hot, smoky flaming ball.

She chuckled and then coughed as the heat burned her throat. It was funny how magic never quite worked for her as a visual. A battle of wills wasn't as appealing as the sight of a scissor kick connecting with a demon's stomach or a stake buried in the heart of a vampire. If she'd been watching that kind of brawl while lying on the ground bent and bleeding, she might not have felt so damned wrong and out of place.

Her vision blurred and Buffy squeezed her eyes shut as her stomach churned with nausea. She didn’t want to vomit. She might not be able to lean forward in time to avoid covering herself with whatever came out of her mouth.

“What do you want, witch?” bellowed Shemhazi. His booming voice revved the pain engine in Buffy's head.

“Remove the demon curse from my children!” Willow shouted back.

That made absolutely no sense thought Buffy, inching her body closer to the brick wall behind her. Willow didn't have any kids.

“You end this…or I will,” warned Willow.

“How witch? You exist because of me,” roared Shemhazi. “These half-breed demons are your curse. You did this to yourself. Don't blame an angel of god for your arrogance.”

"God?" laughed Willow. "God doesn't want you. God doesn't even remember you."

“You bitch,” barked Shemhazi. “He would if you'd stop this madness.”

“Fool! You think I'm keeping you from heaven?” shouted Willow. “You killed every man in that village, and raped every woman. Then you tried to make amends by giving us the wisdom of the roots and herbs and the words.”

“That was a blessing.”

“Yes, you created the first witches, but then you made our child hell's first half-breed, and now you blame me for your divine punishment?”

Shemhazi screamed, an odd sound coming from a hideous gigantic angel-looking monster, thought Buffy. He then shook his head from side to side as thick rivulets of black smoke rose from behind his head. Buffy rubbed her palms over her eyes. Willow had pissed off this big bad big time and Buffy was certain it hadn’t been such a good idea.

Buffy's attention switched to Willow, who appeared unfazed by Shemhazi’s reaction. She raised her hands above her head and lifted her chin to the sky. Then Willow began chanting in a language Buffy didn't understand. Not that there were that many languages Buffy could recognize, except for English, but this didn't sound like any of the ones Willow typically used to cast spells or call upon the higher powers. As Willow chanted, Shemhazi calmed and standing motionless stared at Willow as if transfixed.

They were so entrenched in each other, neither one of them reacted to the guttural growls rolling into the alley. Buffy turned her head toward the noises. Different from the sounds Willow and Shemhazi had been making, these angry barks were closer to the ground, closer to where Buffy lay. She pulled her arms to her sides, bent her elbows and pushed her palms against the pavement, raising her body a few inches from the ground. She then swiveled her shoulders slightly, so that she was facing the direction of the noise. She blinked to clear the smoke from her eyes.

She saw Spike crouching next to Willow, hands flat on the ground, eyes blood red, and his features feral and twisted. Jacob bounced on all fours at his side, grinning foolishly. Eyes wide and vamped out, they looked like wild animals, fangs dripping spittle, tongues lapping at dried, cracked lips.

Where had they come from?

Buffy glanced up. Then she looked back at the vampires as Shemhazi swiped Jacob across the head, knocking him to his knees. Jacob staggered, but then righted himself. Staring at the drops of blood oozing from the cuts on his arms, he growled at Shemhazi and slithered toward him. His features had morphed into a murderous scowl. He wasn’t backing down, thought Buffy. Foolish vampire.

Still, Jacob hadn’t been shred to pieces as Buffy had by a single swipe of Shemhazi’s claw. She watched amazed as the vampire taunted the angel with sneers and growls. He was making certain Shemhazi understood that he wasn’t afraid of him.

A few heartbeats later, the vampire suddenly coiled his body into Willow's side. Apparently he’d changed his mind and had decided to back down. Spike then sprang from his hunched position and propelled himself toward Shemhazi. But Willow snatched a clump of his hair and holding on, pulled him to her.

“Stay still.” Willow ordered the vampires as she released her grip on Spike.

"You will make our child whole." She repeated to Shemhazi.

"And if I don't?"

"I will destroy you."

"No...You can't."

Willow folded her arms neatly across her chest. She had a new version of resolve face etched across her features. "Okay, you're right. I can't. But your eternal existence will become an endless hell if you don't do as I ask.”


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A row of squarely chopped bushes with brown-tipped yellow roses withered in the California sunshine. They looked normal to Dawn, even for the middle of December. On the other hand, the air was suffocating her. It was thick like refrigerated syrup dripped over cold pancakes, all gooey and dense. Dawn’s skin itched as she felt the sweat roll down her back. She had expected it to be warm in California, but not so unbearably hot. She wiped the perspiration from her forehead and then pulled her palm across her dry lips.

When she'd left New York City with Carlo’s hand in hers, she'd wanted to return to Sunnydale desperately. But as she looked around, she realized she hadn't ended up quite where she'd planned. She was standing in a park she recognized located in the outskirts of town, far from Revello Drive.

Damn it! Why couldn’t things be different? Why couldn’t she be at home sitting on a stool in the kitchen laughing as Giles and Willow and Tara rolled their eyes at Xander’s latest silly comment? Or perhaps, she was smiling and the others were shaking their heads at some really wrong remark that had fallen out of Anya’s mouth. Or what if the Scoobies were waiting for Buffy to get home and go immediately into explainy mode. When she marched into the kitchen, she’d go on and on about some super demon. Dawn stifled a giggle at the thought of endless Buffy talk. Then with her big sister's voice echoing in head, Dawn figured her only choice would be to interrupt Buffy and introduce everyone to Carlo. Because, of course he'd be there, too. Buffy would smile sweetly at him and make it clear to everyone that she really liked him and wasn't mad at Dawn for dating. Then Anya would say she was hungry and ask Willow and Tara to cook her breakfast. Dawn chewed her lower lip, thinking about what might happen next. Oh yeah, she chuckled. Spike would rush into the kitchen and toss his smoking blanket onto the floor while smacking the flames on his body. As she and Buffy watched silently, the Scoobies would nod hello and he'd smile really big and wave right back at them…

Dawn shuddered. Daydreaming wasn’t going to change where she was or what had happened.

She looked around again.

"Giles?" Dawn saw a tall figure in the distance walking toward her. He was dragging his feet across the ground, crushing the grass under his footsteps. She practically expected him to slump to the ground. He looked that exhausted.

"Giles?" Dawn raised her voice and waved. Her fingers felt weak. Then she suddenly remembered Carlo and spun around.

He wasn’t there. She turned toward the swings and then the sliding board. Nothing. She spun in the direction of the sandbox near the stone fountain. Carlo was nowhere in sight.

"What’s going on?" she called out.

The Watcher was still on the other side of the park. He hadn’t taken but a few steps since she’d first seen him. Dawn’s legs started shaking.

A thin film of dust began swirling around her. It was spinning fast and her vision blurred. She could barely see the bushes and the burnt yellow flowers next to her. Giles had disappeared just like Carlo. Except something or someone was still walking toward her. She just couldn’t see who or what it was. The sweat on her forehead fell into her eyes. She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes. The dust was getting thicker. It clogged her throat, making her cough and cough. She was choking, drowning in the dust.

Then as suddenly as it had surrounded her, the dust vanished. She closed her eyes and opened them quickly. The park was drenched in sunlight.

“Giles?” she whispered as she saw the tall man still walking toward her. Except he was much closer now, and she could see him clearly.

It wasn’t Giles. It was the portal jumper.


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Spike had to figure out a way to free himself from Willow’s spell. He had been trapped by her power and the bad magic flowing between her and Shemhazi since fleeing Buffy’s apartment. It had taken over his mind almost completely by the time he’d reached the alley. He had wanted to talk to Willow. He had wanted to explain to her the risk of vengeance and remind her how much she loved her friends and family. He had wanted her to remember the young girl she’d been before the thought spell. But that hadn't happened.

Buffy had found him. He'd tried to talk to her, but couldn't make himself make sense. So instead, he'd jumped up on the roof as Shemhazi and Willow squared off. He'd had no choice. It was what Willow had demanded. And because of her newly acquired power over vampires, he hadn't been able to do anything except what Willow told him to do.

Spike had dealt with some dicey situations featuring a witch or two during his nearly 125 years of being a vampire, but he’d never experienced anything like the insanity that was happening around him now. If he didn’t get himself out of this predicament in a hurry, Buffy was going to die. It might already be too late to save Dawn. And Willow was pretty much a goner as far as he could tell. Then again, Spike wasn’t exactly in the best condition of his non-life either.

In between making feral growling noises, which he couldn’t stop himself from doing; he could see Buffy out of the corner of his eye. She sat on the ground, her back pressed against the brick wall, her eyes opening and closing as she slipped in and out of consciousness. Even if he hadn’t seen her crumbled in the corner, he’d have known she was there. He'd smelled her blood. It filled his nostrils and choked him. She was hurt badly and he had to do find a way to break free to help her.

to be continued...

chapter 24: a tear and a smile - part I

Six hours of listening to Xander chant and Giles had nearly lost all hope of bringing forth the First Witch.

The sun had disappeared long before and now a starless night sky surrounded them. There was no light and except for the flames rising from the fire burning at the base of the foothills, the desert was pitch black.

Giles looked at Xander as a cold, crisp wind whipped through the canyon from the east, slashing at his face and numbing his hands and feet. Xander was chanting, kneeling in front of the blazing fire, reciting verse after verse, oblivious to the night's freezing wind. Xander had been going at the pages of the Zy Qasdor and the Book of Leviticus without a moment's rest since he'd started up again two hours earlier.

That had been when Giles had dowsed the flames of the bonfire, convinced that he and Xander had accomplished their task.

After four hours of chanting and exalting the spirit of the First Witch, he'd told Xander that Willow had the extra power she needed. Giles had been certain of this as he walked to his car, gesturing at the boy to hurry. But when he'd looked over his shoulder, he saw Xander staring up at the sky.

"Something's not right, Giles," he'd said. "We don't have it. I can feel it...here." He placed his hand over his heart as he leveled his gaze at Giles.

Moving quickly to a patch of bushes on the side of the road, Giles gathered an armload of dried twigs and branches before making his way back to the smoldering bonfire at the bottom of the hill. There, he unpacked his books from his knapsack and pulled a box of matches from his inside vest pocket. He then struck the flint against the rough surface on the side of the box and tossed the flaming bit of wood into the shrubbery and glowing embers. Giles had decided that if Xander needed to chant some more—then more chanting was what they had to do.

Now Giles was rifling through his books, searching for the next verse Xander needed to recite aloud. As he'd done for the past two hours, he found the book quickly and shoved it in front of Xander as he pointed a shaking finger to where the boy had to begin reading. Xander's determined voice vibrated through the darkness as Giles watched the flames leap from the bonfire. They were his guide. The higher the flames rose, the more robust Xander's chanting, which meant the First Witch was close.

Giles’ body shivered and his lips trembled as he pulled his gaze away from the fire and placed another book in Xander’s hand. He prayed she was nearby. There was only one book left in his knapsack.

Giles had trusted Xander's instincts about staying in the desert. If Xander thought he needed to do more chanting, who was Giles to argue? Xander was the one with the gift to see into the heart of things. Still, Giles wondered how a spell gone awry had given the youth such a powerful gift.

"Keep alert, Watcher," he chastised himself for daydreaming. He then felt a wave of exhaustion, tempting his eyelids to close as he looked at Xander. The boy’s voice was strong and steady, but his eyes had a dull, lifelessness to them. Had he crossed from Earth’s dimension into the witch’s world? Giles took the book from Xander's cold unmoving fingers.

He didn't even pause or look around. He kept chanting. Giles had guessed right. Xander didn't need this volume of the Zy Qasdor.

He knew the words by heart.

Giles sat on the ground, stared at the fire and listened. He could barely make out what Xander was saying. The words flying from his lips sounded like the wings of humming birds flapping inside Giles' eardrums. He clasped his hands together and rolled his head from side to side, stretching his tired neck muscles. A Watcher shouldn’t be able to understand what the world’s First Witch needed to hear anyway, he figured. The most important thing about the ritual was that Willow received the power she needed to save Dawn and Buffy, and stop the world from turning into Shemhazi’s playground.

Giles eyes flew open as he felt the daylight on his face. He must have fallen asleep, he guessed as he jumped to his feet. Immediately, he saw that Xander was still chanting—chanting in the freezing cold. His skin was white with blue patches beneath his sunken eyes and then gray spots covered the hollow of his cheeks. His eyes were black and unblinking. His dry, cracked lips looked as if they'd been cut with small knives. Giles then glanced at the fire. It was a smoking pile of ashes. Bloody hell, he'd been asleep for a while.

He reached into his knapsack and pulled out the last book. It was the third volume of the Zy Qasdor. He could barely hold it. His fingers were stiff and frozen as he pried the book open. It was the book he’d held the night he’d met Luke in his nightmare.

“This is it. You've got to use your heart to reach her.” Giles passed the book to Xander and turning away from him faced the dead fire. “A sincere request from someone with your gift can not be refused.”

How much longer do we have to stay out here?

Giles' brow furrowed as he pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and stared at Xander’s lips. They were moving, reciting the verses. He hadn't stopped. Giles could hear that and he could see his lips moving. But then he’d also heard Xander speak to him…in his mind?

I’m a block of ice, G-man—a frozen man-cube in a bulky denim jacket with no scarf or mittens.

Giles nodded in understanding as he took off his scarf and wrapped it around Xander’s neck. “It won’t take much longer. You’re almost there. You're so close to the witch’s magic, you can practically touch it."

Giles stumbled backward, startled as the fire suddenly soared high into the air. He thought he'd seen a woman's face in the flames and peered intently into the blaze. But she was gone. Giles threw the last of the dried branches and sprigs into the fire. Xander was still chanting. Then, Giles felt a warm hand on his cheek and spun around. He gasped at the sight in front of him and then clutched at his racing heart. Hopefully, the adrenaline rush wouldn't kill him.

"Dear Lord," he whispered. He hadn't expected her to be corporeal.

She was standing beside the fire.

The First Witch reminded him of Cordelia Chase. A tall, lean dark-skinned woman with black hair piled high on her head and green eyes, sprinkled with flecks of yellow. She was dressed in a long white tunic, tied under her bosoms with a gold-colored sash. Quite a handsome figure, breathed Giles as he reached down slowly and pulled Xander to his feet.

He nudged the young man with his elbow, awakening him from his trance. “I believe you can stop chanting now.”


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Giles flung open the passenger door of the car and thumped Xander lightly on top of the head. “Wake up. We’re here.”

Xander’s body jerked as he lurched forward, his knees crunching against the dashboard. “Okay, okay. I’m up.”

Giles wondered if he should wait for Xander to rise properly before hurrying into his flat. They’d had a hard night in the desert and Giles for one was exhausted. Of course, Xander was most likely more tired than he. The youth had called forth the spirit of the First Witch. He was the one who had channeled the witch’s essence. He had served as the conduit to transfer the power from the First Witch to Willow. Not an easy sodding job, grumbled Giles thoughtfully. Not by a Berkshire mile.

“Get out of the car.” He opened the rear door and grabbed his books and knapsack from the back seat without looking at Xander. He then half-walked, half-stumbled toward the front gate of the courtyard leading to his flat, juggling the books in his arms. What he wouldn’t give for a spot of tea and a chance to rest his bum on the sofa, he thought as he grabbed a falling book from mid-air.

“Xander,” he called over his shoulder. “Get a move on, we’ve got so much more to do.”

Giles stopped at the bottom of the stairs to his flat. He hugged the books in his arms and sighed aloud. He couldn’t stop his brain from replaying the mistakes that had led his Slayer, Dawn and all of them to this point. If it hadn’t been for Willow’s arrogance and his carelessness, none of this would have happened.

He and Willow had forgotten the fundamentals of magic. They had both ignored the rules of casting spells in their haste to save the day. You must balance nature for magic to work; he’d told Willow that plenty of times. Otherwise, you can count on hitting a brick wall of consequences head first. You take something away—you must give something back so the world doesn’t spin out of control.

In the desert, the First Witch had explained that Willow's spell had not simply eliminated joy from their thoughts. The spell had obliterated each of their unique memories of what had given them their greatest joy. Add to this slight of hand that one of these newly joyless creatures had been a Slayer and the consequence of her lost joy was Shemhazi, suddenly with an open invitation to return to Earth.

“Now he can make your world his, and his world is hell,” she’d said. Then as Giles watched the centuries of pain mar her lovely face, she'd added solemnly, “He brings hell to earth with the vengeance of God in his wake. Shemhazi was my creator, my husband, the father of our son, and the destroyer of our lives. He will destroy this world and more if he is not stopped.”

Giles hadn't understood all of what the First Witch had said, but he'd figured it out as he drove back to Sunnydale from the desert. Two thoughts had been stripped from the Scoobies in a misinformed effort to protect them from Luke. Giles' spell had worked along with Willow’s. He'd taken fear from their thoughts, but unbeknownst to him, Willow had taken joy, leaving them not only joyless, but uncaring.

His joy had been his intellect.

It was what he needed to help his Slayer survive, but he feared that he’d never be able to keep her alive for long. Without joy or fear, he'd disintegrated into an angry drunkard. For Willow, her fear had been her inability to control herself and her joy was her ability to love. Without them, she'd turned into a power hungry creature who decided to cast another spell, causing her to dismiss love as foolishness.

When the First Witch explained this part, Giles had understood it. Willow had been a powerful witch in her own right before any spells had been cast. After the spells, she had transcended time and space. She’d merged with the First Witch, stole parts of her mind and her power, and that’s how Shemhazi found them. He’d created the First Witch. The fallen angel of God had been cast from heaven and destroyed a village, killed its men and raped its women, with his band of unholy followers at his side. But in his mind, he'd been compassionate and taught the conquered women the art of using herbs and roots and words to heal and seduce and please. But when the First Witch, his reluctant wife, had learned how to use her powers fully and had challenged him, he’d punished her brutally. He turned their son into a demon. But not a garden variety demon, chuckled Giles joylessly. He’d made Luke, a vampire who didn’t need blood, but craved it constantly. He was a vampire who could stand in the sunlight and sweat, but never burn. He was a demon that couldn’t remain on Earth or in Hell or any dimension long enough to be anything but a killer, a vicious murderer without a reason for his deeds. Giles grimaced as he recalled the anguish on the witch’s face and the tears in her voice as she relayed the story of her origin and her son's descent into lunacy.

He raised his head toward the heavens as a dozen black birds fluttered up from the treetops and crisscrossed in the sky before soaring toward the sun. He squinted as the brightness of the daylight hurt his eyes.

“Hurry!” He shouted at Xander. “We’ve got to get inside.”

As he walked through the courtyard, he thought about Anya's joy and her fear. She loved being a human woman in love with a human man, and returning to a life of vengeance had been her only fear. And Tara, he knew if she’d been in her right mind, she’d never have followed Willow so blindly. Maybe her joy had been her ability to choose. The First Witch hadn't explained what had happened to Xander, but it didn't matter. The boy had always been somewhat of a mystery to Giles. Often clumsy, bigoted and adolescent, he also could be the best friend with keenest insights and a heroic willingness to sacrifice his life or his sanity for any one of his girls.

Still, there were missing pieces to the puzzle, thought Giles. What joy had been taken from Buffy? She had been dead and then brought back to Earth by Willow's magic. She hadn't seemed that different after the spell or before she'd left for New York. Giles shivered. He didn't have an answer to that one, not a clue.

He lumbered up the steps to the door of his flat and hugged the books protectively to this chest with one hand and pulled his keys from his pocket with the other hand. He then pushed the key into the hole, turned the knob and kicked open the door with his foot. The stench of stale Scotch and old sweat flooded his nostrils, making him wince. He’d spent two months inside this dingy flat, sloshing down a fifth of Scotch a day, barely remembering to shower or to change his clothes. He exhaled slowly, thinking how the foulness of the odor shouldn't have surprised him.

Giles stepped into the foyer of his apartment and stopped abruptly, his head jerking up, as he heard a noise in the kitchen. He bent his knees and quietly deposited the books on the floor just inside the door.

“What is it?”

Giles jumped at the sound of Xander's voice behind him.

“Shush,” he gestured sharply, bringing his finger to his lips.

Giles nodded at Xander and pointed in the direction of the kitchen where he’d heard the noise. He waved his hand and signaled for him to move toward the fireplace on the opposite side of the room. They’d come at whatever it was from two angles. Giles moved toward the noise from his side of the room. Then he heard the noise again. It had a familiar cadence, a pitch he’d heard before.

“Who’s there?” Giles said loudly. He glanced at Xander and shrugged, apologetically. The boy frowned and raised his hands in frustration as if asking why he had even bothered to tiptoe into the room in the first place.

“Giles?” A small excited voice called out. He craned his neck as he felt Xander rush past him toward the sound.

“Anya!” Xander shouted, spinning and turning around, searching the empty room for the source of the voice. “Where are you?”

“Here.” The voice bounced from the ceiling to the walls.

Giles pulled his glasses from his face and rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly as he realized where Anya actually was.

“Xander,” he began, but the boy had sprinted from the living room into the kitchen, looking frantically into corners and peering behind the refrigerator.

“Xander!” Giles’ voice was stern. “Keep still.” The boy stumbled into the room and stared at him, a bewildered expression covered his face. “She’s here, but she’s not here,” he explained.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I imagine she’s trapped in between dimensions.” Giles looked at nothing in particular. “Anya, is that right?”

“Think so,” her voice vibrated through the room. “I am not exactly certain. But that sounds about right.”

“Is the portal jumper with you?”

“No.” Again her voice came from everywhere and no where. “He is in your dimension.”

“Have you seen Buffy and Dawn?” asked Giles, ignoring Xander’s panic-stricken face.

“Yes,” Anya’s voice responded quickly.

“Are they okay?”

“Last I saw Buffy, she was fine,” said Anya. “Dawn, though…we were on our way to her when Luke left me here.”

“Is Willow stronger?” asked Giles as he sat down at his desk in the hall outside of the kitchen.

“What do you mean?” The voice asked. “Stronger?”

“Giles, that doesn’t matter right now,” exclaimed Xander. “Where’s Anya?”

“He left me here to rot. Damned bastard,” said Anya. “I will show him. He cannot get rid of me that easily.”

“Can you get out?” Giles asked.

“No, not yet. But I will find a way,” she said. “I will not stay here forever.”

Xander wobbled to the sofa and plopped down. The exhaustion Giles had seen building on his face in the car had taken over his body. He looked dreadful. His eyes sunken and his cheeks hollow. He’d been operating on the fumes of the First Witch, Giles imagined, and now he was burnt out.

“Xander." Giles nudged his shoulder. "Xander." He looked up at Giles, but his eyes were empty. Invisible Anya might bloody well be more than the boy could take.

“You had better find Luke." Giles heard Anya's voice in his ear and felt her breath on his neck. “He is here in Sunnydale.”

“What! He's here? Why?"

"Dawn is here."

"Oh, my God."

"Do you want to see Dawn dead?”

“Damn it girl, what do you mean?”

“Why do you think he left me here in between things? I’m his muse, his memories, his pawn. Except I do not have the power he needs to escape.”

“He still thinks he needs Dawn, doesn't he?” asked Giles. "Everything we read in the third volume of the Zy Qasdor was a bloody lie. Glory's last revenge. She suckered us into this family feud...Do you know why, he’s really here?”

“Yes. But for some reason I cannot tell you. Not when I am trapped here. But I can give you clues.”

“Alright then dear, please proceed.”

“You must go to the park and pick up the Key.”

Giles looked down at his hands. He still had the car keys clenched in his fist.

“No, go to the park and pick up the Key!”

“Oh, sorry,” he mumbled. “Xander, let’s go.”

“No.” Anya’s voice sounded frantic. “He cannot go. He must not face Luke, not with his ability. Seeing the truth in Luke’s heart would kill him.”

“Okay…right.” Giles picked up his knapsack from the floor, grabbed the third volume of the Zy Qasdor and walked out of the flat. He hadn’t had tea or a chance to sit, and he was heading off to face the Portal Jumper without the slightest clue as to how he’d save Dawn.

He sprinted through the courtyard and into his car. He’d figure it out on his way to the park.

to be continued...

chapter 25, a tear and a smile – part II

He was circling her; his shoulders hunched forward, each movement in sync with her body. He mirrored her thoughts. She stepped. He stepped. She breathed. He breathed. She shuddered and he smiled. His moist blue eyes fixed on her face, never wavering or blinking.

The predator and his prey in a classic dance of death.

Why was he stalling? What was he waiting for? Maybe, he enjoyed torturing her.

Dawn then recalled the pain-in-her-head game he’d played with her in Sunnydale and decided—yes—that had to be the answer to his tricks.

The Portal Jumper was all about torture.

She stopped moving and exhaled slowly, attempting to squelch the queasiness in her stomach. No point in setting in motion whatever it was they had to begin too soon. She’d take advantage of this wolf and lamb stand-off. Use the time to think and to learn something, any little thing that might help her.

She hadn’t seen him in the daylight before. This was her chance to examine him up close in the sunshine and put a spotlight on what had frightened her so horribly in the shadows.

Dawn marveled at the ugliness of the little man. He was not much taller than her—and extraordinarily thin. His clothes hung from his bones as if he was a suit dangling from a hook at the top of a door.

This skinny tiny thing had filled her head with excruciating pain and trapped her in her home for weeks, screaming in agony, as it prepared her for its bidding.

According to Giles and Willow, he had promised to do life-ending damage to her family and friends to force her to help him. He was the reason everything had changed in her life—this small, blue-eyed man in a dirty stripped suit and mud-covered shoes.

It was hard for Dawn to believe. Her eyes locked with his as she inspected his chalky white face. That’s where she saw his power. It jumped from his eyes and leapt from his quivering lips.

Dawn prayed her legs wouldn’t give out. She couldn't let herself crumble to the ground at his feet, weak and useless, a shuddering heap of tears and fear.

A splintering pain in her head distracted her for an instant.

She weighed her options—bone-crushing anxiety or bone-crushing agony. What would make her hit the ground first? If she concentrated really hard, maybe there would be no passing out. Even if it felt like a two-ton mallet was striking her on one temple and then the other, back and forth in a steady rhythm. No matter what, she wouldn’t fall down. Dawn pressed her fingertips to her temples and bit her lower lip.

My God, the old pain from Sunnydale had come back with an extra special oomph.

“You are so precious, dear.” His voice sounded like a song. “You’re far lovelier than I ever imagined you’d be. And after dreaming of you for an eternity, that is quite the compliment.”

His teeth were floating chunks of crisp, white squares swimming between thin red lips. He was an endless night followed by an endless day, interrupted by rain and sweltering heat. He was constant yet erratic.

There was no getting away from this man. And even if there was, Dawn feared she'd never find out how.

He tilted his head and closed his eyes. He seemed to enjoy being looked at by her. She could feel him touching her with his mind, wandering through her soul, carefully picking and choosing what he intended to keep from what he planned on tossing away.

“I am not your precious, anything,” she said too loudly. “What do you want from me?”

“It’s not what I want from you. It’s what you want to give me.” He glided to a standstill and the grin on his face disappeared.

Finally.

“There’s nothing I’d give you.” Dawn said. “You want to kill me, my sister and our friends. Why would I give you anything?”

“It wasn’t me in your home in Sunnydale those many months ago.”

His soft words were unhurried as Dawn felt her heart race in her chest.

“And you’ve always known that. Why didn’t you tell them? When they told you about the thought spell, why didn’t you tell them that it wasn’t the portal jumper who was after them?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” A hiccupping sound came from her mouth and she sighed. She’d swear on a stack of Bibles that there had been nothing near the closet in her Mother’s room but him.

“Isn’t it odd that the thought spell took away your memory of what you were afraid of—but you never forgot me?”

Oh, my God.

He was right. It hadn't been the Portal Jumper in her room. He hadn’t caused her headaches. It wasn’t this dwarf of a killer that had twisted her brain into knots.

“Oh, God!” she said aloud.

“Please let me explain, dear.”

A thin white hand touched her face and she reared backward. He was next to her without her seeing him move. She’d been too lost in her memories—and she suddenly realized that was what this exercise had been about. Dawn getting back that thought, the memory Willow and Giles had taken from her.

“You gave me back my thought.” Her stunned voice repeated the words in her head.

Dawn hesitated for a moment, but then placed her hand in the Portal Jumper’s and felt a chill travel through her body as he closed his fingers around her.

“Let’s go sit over there.” He nodded toward a wooden bench in front of a row of dark green bushes sprinkled with yellow and pink roses. Dawn followed him piecing together in her mind what she was beginning to understand in her heart.

She had known it wasn’t the Portal Jumper the morning her sister and the others had explained about the thought spell and leaving Sunnydale. Giles said she and Buffy would have to go away together—alone. Just the two of them and Dawn had wanted that—badly. So she’d kept what she’d known to herself.

“The black fog in the room, the pain in my head, wasn’t you,” she said, not making it sound like a question.

“That’s right, and you knew that before the thought spell took away your fear of the black fog.”

“I remember.”

“Why didn’t you tell them? When they were sitting around, explaining about the Portal Jumper and the dangers he held for your sister and your friends? Why didn’t you speak up?”

“I wanted—.”

“What did you want?” His lips nearly touched her face.

“To be alone with Buffy, just me and her, so she’d remember she loved me and wanted to be with me.”

“And why was that, darling.”

“Because I knew this had to do with Glory and even though Glory was gone, I was still the Key.” She dug her fingernails into the palm he wasn't holding. She still didn’t know if being the Key meant she was good or bad. But like Spike said, he wasn’t good and he was okay. And so was she. Besides Spike was good. He just didn’t know it all the time. Maybe that was true about her, too.

“Yes, you are exactly that and so much more.” He squeezed her hand gently but then released it as he shifted his body and placed a knee on the bench, all cozy-like.

“I don’t have the kind of power that did this to you and your friends. I kill. That’s all I’ve done since forever.” He chuckled, a harsh humorless sound. “I’m good at it and I enjoy it. But I’m bored. I mean seriously. After an eternity of blood and destruction, I need a break .” He added with a weariness that surprised Dawn. He was pure evil, but sounded as if he had to get away and take a vacation from killing. Perhaps, even a spawn from hell needed a few days off.

“Okay—I guess that makes sense.”

“Don’t be sarcastic.” He leaned forward, nearly touching her forehead with his, but she scooted away, out of reach. “If I give my gifts away, I can stop, but I’ll need the Key to get me back to my home.”

“But—.” Dawn paused, shaking her head in disbelief. “How did Giles and Willow make such a big mistake?” She looked directly into the Portal Jumper’s eyes. “Why did they think it was you?”

“It’s what Shemhazi wanted.” He reached out, grabbed her hand and massaged it slowly with his fingertips.

“Think of him as the Devil, the powerful ruler of his own hell. He used his incredible will to convince a Watcher, turned shopkeeper, into believing he could help his Slayer after years of being useless. Then he became superfluous after a young witch brought her back to life without consulting him. Do you know what that means?”

“Giles wouldn’t hurt us,” said Dawn.

"Do you know what that means?" He raised his voice. "Unnecessary."

"He wouldn't hurt us!" Dawn shouted.

“No, not consciously. But he got mad after the arrogant little Witch succeeded at playing God. As the Watcher might say, she was too bloody good at it.” He slapped his knee, apparently pleased with his effort at English cursing. “She brought your sister back to life, and presto, Shemhazi’s back in the game.”

“So, Giles and Willow got tricked by this Lucifer guy?”

“No, not Lucifer, completely different fallen angel,” The Portal Jumper said politely. “But yeah, they were duped. Royally.”

“But what does Shemhazi have to do with you and me , and your thinking I’m gonna get you home?”

“He’s my father.” His eyebrows arched in apology. “Classic tale. Raped my mother and she gave birth to an evil soulless creature.” He laughed.

Dawn wrinkled her nose and snatched her hand from his grasp.

She wasn’t as afraid of him for some reason. Not now that she knew he wasn’t the Devil, just his murdering son. Maybe it was something about being close to him that made him less threatening. The way he talked to her, too, as if he was chatting with an old friend as they sat in the park on a Saturday afternoon.

“This is very tragic and all, but I don’t care about how you became a monster. I want you to go away and leave me—leave all of us. Alone!”

“Listen child,” he said. “I’m just one of the players in Shemhazi’s game. You and your sister and your band of demon fighters destroyed Shemhazi’s favorite hell God. Glorificus cared about Shemhazi, treated him with care and love, and then Giles murdered her.”

“What do you mean? Giles didn’t murder Glory. She was destroyed after the tower fell.” Dawn crossed her legs and tucked a strain of hair behind her ear . After seeing Buffy's body stretched over on a pile of twisted steel and rocks, torn and broken, she hadn’t thought about Glory. All her mind kept repeating was my sister is dead, my sister is dead. Not until she saw Buffy again that night at the end of summer back at the crumbling tower had she been able to think about anything else.

“I won’t argue with you about the particulars.” The Portal Jumper crossed his legs, the same direction as hers and pressed his back against the bench. “The deal is Glory is gone. And Shemhazi’s pissed and he wants to play.”

“I don’t care about games!” she shouted. “I want to know why you think I’d do anything for you.

“Only the Key can help me get home once I’ve given away my gifts.”

“Why would I do that? Get you home.”

“To save your sister’s life.”


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“Where’s Buffy?” Fear made Dawn's legs twitch uncontrollably and she placed both feet firmly on the ground as she sat on the bench next to the Portal Jumper. She’d been so lost in their conversation that she hadn’t thought about her sister in terms of where she was at that moment.

The Portal Jumper waved his hand and a fifteen-inch wide; fifteen-inch long black hole appeared in front of them, blocking their view of the green grass, rose bushes and a patch of sunshine. Dawn judged it was the same size as the monitor of her laptop.

He then snapped his fingers and the screen turned on like a television set.

Buffy was lying in the filthy alley behind Mom’s Restaurant clutching at her throat as if she was choking. Her body was covered with blood. Her clothing was soaked with the red stuff and a large bruise covered one side of her face, which was puffy and black with splotches of red. Dawn gasped and looked from the picture show to the Portal Jumper as she felt the tears rolling down her cheeks.

Then Buffy dropped her hands to her chest as her eyes fluttered shut.

“What have you done to her?” Dawn barely got the words out.

“Shush and watch.”

The scene panned away from Buffy.

Willow and the Angel were facing each other, locked in some kind of mental battle, Dawn imagined, as they stood squared off in the middle of the alley. The two of them were surrounded by a black fog—the same that Dawn had seen that fateful day in her mother’s bedroom, slithering malevolently near the closet door.

“She’s in bad shape and neither the witch nor Shemhazi care about her plight,” said the Portal Jumper. “Those two kids are much more interested in playing their head games than taking care of a dying Slayer.”

“Dying!” exclaimed Dawn. “Oh, God. Please help her. Please,” she begged.

“Patience. Patience—just keep watching, young lady. You may learn something.”

The screen shifted and standing near Buffy, slightly behind a large steel dumpster, was Spike. He didn’t look that much better than Buffy, thought Dawn, except he was on his feet and his eyes were wide open. He wasn’t looking at Buffy, though. He seemed mesmerized by Willow and Shemhazi. But as Dawn watched, he did sneak a peek at Buffy, and she saw the fear in his eyes. He then turned away as if he had no other choice but to watch Willow and Shemhazi do whatever it was they were doing.

“What’s wrong with Spike?” she asked. “Why isn’t he helping Buffy?”

“He can’t break free of Willow’s hold on him,” said the Portal Jumper. “He has too much of me in him.”

“What?”

“I gave the Blond some of my gifts. The other Aurelian was greedy. I don’t like greed, so I only gave him a little,” said the Portal Jumper. “But the Blond hadn’t even considered the possibility of debt and reward. He cares about you and your sister. Nothing else.”

“Then give him more of your gifts so he can help Buffy,” demanded Dawn.

“Okay.” He smiled, stood up and rubbed his hands together. “But why would I do that.”

Dawn was thinking about the long summer without her sister and how much she’d missed her. Then she thought about her mom. Those memories were too hard, so she pushed them aside.

The summer after Buffy died she had stayed awake all night, nearly every night, trying to sleep, but she couldn’t. Instead, she listened to Spike as he cried softly while sitting in the living room on the sofa waiting for her to fall asleep. He never knew she could hear him, especially not from the bedroom. But she could and she listened to the vampire sitting in her living room, wrapped in her sister's blanket, crying, and after a while, she'd fall asleep.

It was probably the Key thing that made it possible for her to hear him, but she never mentioned it. Didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already did. She couldn’t lose Buffy again and she was certain Spike wouldn’t want to live if Buffy died again. And Dawn couldn’t lose them both.

She raised her head and looked squarely into the Portal Jumper’s eyes. “I will help you get home.” Her voice didn’t crack, which was good. He had to know her words were an oath. She’d get him no matter what as long as Buffy was safe.

“See. I told you, you’d make me an offer.” He stood up and tilted his head as he placed his hands on his hips and swayed back and forth, gleefully. “Yes, good. Perfect.”

“Take my hand.” He reached out to her. “We’ll go to the alley and I’ll give your Spike the rest of my gifts and off we go.”

“No.” she stopped. “Do it from here. I want to see Spike in your little TV trick take Buffy away from that alley, and I want to see it now, or you’ll never get home. Not if you expect me to take you there.”

“I can’t—.”

“You’d better.” Dawn said defiantly.

“Okay, then. I guess I’ll have to.”

The screen came to life again and Dawn saw Spike turn away from Willow and Shemhazi and drop to his knees and crawl to Buffy. He pulled her into his arms, and then he raised his eyes to the sky, and mumbled words she couldn’t hear. The Portal Jumper’s toy didn’t come with audio. Next thing she knew Spike and Buffy had disappeared.

“Where’d they go?” She turned to the Portal Jumper.

“He took her some place safe, a place where she’ll be able to heal.”

“How can I trust you?”

“How can you not?” He smirked. “But I’m telling the truth.”

Dawn stood up and took the Portal Jumper’s hand. “What’s your name?”

“Luke.”

“Where is your home?”

She saw tears in his eyes and watched the knot in his throat bob up and down. He was moved, she guessed.

“My Muse, we’ve got to pick up my Muse. She has my memory of home. She’ll give it to you, and you’ll take me home.”

Dawn squeezed his hand as she took another look at the black screen. Spike had whisked Buffy away and he’d make certain she’d be okay. All summer he’d made it clear to her that he loved Buffy—really loved her. Buffy wouldn’t have to jump off a tower to save Dawn this time.

She raised her eyes and noticed the sky turning dark. An entire day had come and gone and now it was evening. She’d not made it back to Revello Drive, but she had taken care of business. Being the Key had finally paid off.

“Dawn! Dawn!” She turned.

A tall man was rushing toward them from across the grass. He waved his hands frantically as he rumbled toward them. “Dawn! Stop!”

The portal was growing larger, sucking in bits of debris and grass and snatching flowers from the bushes behind the wooden bench. She stared at the man coming toward them. He looked like Giles.

Dawn narrowed her eyes, straining to make out the face. This time she knew it wasn't the Portal Jumper. He was standing next to her.

It was Giles and he was less than fifty feet away.

The portal churned and she held onto to Luke’s hand.

“Now,” Luke said. “Now,” she turned and called out quickly. “Giles, find Carlo. Find him, and keep him safe.”

The portal closed around her and the portal jumper as she saw the look in Giles’ eyes.

Crazy, but she couldn’t help thinking he looked relieved.

to be continued...


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the cut, chapter 26, a tear and a smile, part III

Spike was perched on the ledge of a rooftop, peering down into the battle torn alley.

The witch and the giant winged angel were standing, facing each other, wrapped in a thick black fog as bolts of lightening and orange flames leapt from the nucleus of the cloud. The buildings on either side of the narrow passageway seemed to heave and sigh, taking a last choking breath before the outcome became clear. That might take a while, he thought, as Willow and Shemhazi appeared to be balancing on a precipice, staring into the eyeballs of hell, preparing to struggle for an eternity.

Even though they moved little, except for slinging the occasional magic fire ball, Spike could sense the last assault was imminent, whether they knew it or not. That’s when all bloody hell would well up from the cracks in the ground and break the world apart, he figured. It wouldn’t make sense in the natural order of things if this battle between two such powerful beings was only about them. It had to be the harbinger of an Apocalypse. Spike hadn’t seen much of anything else since he’d arrived in Sunnydale and he’d expect nothing less in this version of New York. But he didn’t want to be around when it happened.

Testing his legs, he clenched his thigh muscle and felt the twinge of a cramp. Bugger, he thought, that was a good sign. He then willed his foot to move forward an inch.

But nothing happened. Spike was still trapped, watching.


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A cool breeze brushed his cheek and he looked up at the sky. The sun had disappeared and it was getting dark. He moved his hand across his brow. The sweat had dried on his face.

He could finally feel something other than the heat and the madness running through his head. The vigil he thought would never end had lasted hours, and doing nothing but looking over the edge of a rooftop, unable to move his feet or to make a choice, was driving him sodding mad.

Spike turned to look at the vampire next to him. Jacob was sitting on the edge of the roof, his legs dangling over the side, his eyes cast down, staring calmly at the scene below.

Jacob wasn’t as bothered by their plight in this melodrama as he. Back when they’d been fledglings in Darla’s house, Jacob could sit silently crouched in a corner for days, hiding from her wrath. Choosing to starve rather than budge before she nodded in his direction, he’d wait patiently for her to give him permission to exist. That ability to create the illusion of blind obedience had served him well then and had saved his arse a dozen times since, Spike was certain. But playing a part was how Jacob had outlived Darla and might well be the way he’d outwit Willow and Shemhazi.

Spike didn’t have that kind of patience, especially when he felt like his world was crumbling to bits.

He tried to move his leg again.

His feet shifted on the rooftop and his soul rejoiced, as the bricks and mortar swayed beneath him. He stepped aside as sheets of metal snapped apart under his feet. Blocks of cement were breaking off from the walls around him and avalanching down into the alley. The rooftop was quaking under the strain of trying to hold itself together, and splitting into segments.

Spike cocked his head at Jacob and arched his eyebrow. The other vampire returned his glance as a glee-filled smirk spread across his lips. He seemed to get the message, thought Spike.

Jacob bound up onto his feet and stepped onto the ledge next to him.

When Spike tilted his head to the sky, Jacob raised his eyes and followed his gaze.

The sun was setting in the horizon, brilliant strips of orange and blue and white were stacked on their sides in the distance, peeking between the tall shaking buildings. Spike knew they both were having the same thought: How long had it been since either one of them had been able to watch the end of a day?

With a collective sigh, they looked down into the alley and then at each other and in agreement together stepped off the roof.

Spike’s feet slammed into the concrete a second later and he landed hunched forward, hands flat on the ground. He sprang into an erect position as he heard Jacob land nearby.

Willow and Shemhazi were less than ten feet in front of him, and his legs were trembling so hard, he wondered if he’d be able to stay on his feet.

Being this close to them, his blood boiled in his veins and cold shivers darted up and down his spine. He shook his head, angry and puzzled. Why had they chosen him? Did he belong here with them more than any other place else in the world? Was this his destiny to serve the devil and a vengeful witch?

What about Jacob? How’d he fit into this bizarre game?

Jacob had been changed, just like him. But his body didn’t strain from the need to know why as his did.

Bloody hell. Why change a vampire into a man, a human being, and force both to exist fully realized inside the same body?

Spike had blamed the portal jumper’s burning stare for his transformation. But what if it was all about Willow and the devil from hell?

Spike was a new breed, all human and all demon, but more alive than he’d ever been. His had been a half-life before Drusilla had sunk her fangs into his throat. But after she’d killed him, he’d felt more alive than he ever felt when he was a man.

Now, he had the best of both worlds. Or did he?

Spike’s eyes widened and he clutched at the ache in his chest. His heart was slamming against his ribcage, beating hard and fast.

He hadn’t bloody asked to live again. He’d been doing fine as one of the undead.

Sod it all. He knew the chip was for shit, but he could still kill. Demons were fair game and even if he missed the taste of human blood, he’d been doing just fucking fine without it. Hadn't he?

His breaths burned his throat. Bugger. There was something more—something else stirring around in his brain, tickling at the edges of his consciousness, insistent and demanding him to—remember. Something he needed and it didn't have a damn thing to do with watching Willow’s and Shemhazi’s war.

The earth crackled again and he flinched dodging the falling bricks, which barely missed his head as the dust settled in his eyes.

He maneuvered his body sideways a few steps, distancing himself from the fight. He couldn't watch it any longer.

Then suddenly he felt an emptiness tugging at his heart, and a sharp sense of regret surged through him.

What hadn’t he done? What had he left unfinished?

Spike’s eyes frantically searched the alley and stopped. A form caught his eye in a dark corner and his breath hitched as he made out a body, a small woman lying next to a dumpster, shielded from the falling debris.

She looked familiar. Though covered in blood and nasty bruises, there was something about her. The long slim legs, curled beneath her tiny body and her hands clenched into fists, pounding at the dirt. She was a fighter, and she was keeping death at bay.

The smell of her blood intoxicated him. Powerful, strong and vital, it was spilling into puddles on the ground around her. He inhaled and closed his eyes, remembering.

Oh, god—it was Buffy.

His eyes flew open.

He hadn’t remembered her since—the apartment. There, the memory of his love for her had saved him from destroying her and Dawn and the boy. He could do that now. Kill them all. He’d realized that then, and that’s why he’d run away, to get away from her—from them. Nothing could stop him if he wanted to kill. Not a slayer, not even his Slayer could keep him from maiming or feasting or destroying. If that was what he wanted, then that was what he would do.

But here she was, bent and broken, her body heaped in a dark corner, fending off death. Spike swallowed the sob in his throat and tilted his head up and glared at the witch.

“Let me help her!” He screamed. “Dear God, Willow. Release me so I can help her!”

He pointed, his finger shaking, toward the body as he yelled at Willow to look and see what she had done. Desperate, he begged with her to let him go. He had to help her. Buffy had come after him. He remembered that now. Followed him into this alley, left Dawn, alone, to come after him, and he’d forgotten about her.

She was lying broken and bleeding five feet away from him. This was his fault. How long had it been since he'd forgotten her? Weeks? Hours? Or just this one endless day? Impossible to bloody tell in this pseudo facsimile of a City. When he had arrived in the alley, he'd wanted to reason with Willow. But now all he knew was the sound of Buffy’s sobs vibrating in his heart and her cries screaming inside his head—and he knew that it might kill him if he couldn’t make them stop.

“Please, Willow. I’ve got to help her.”


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In a vampire blink of an eye, Willow and Shemhazi were gone and Spike was holding Buffy in his arms. He didn’t know how it had happened, and he didn’t care.

They were free.

His thighs were trembling and a muscle in his neck made a popping sound from the strain of lowering her body slowly, carefully onto the bed. He couldn’t stand it if he made her scream again.

He had picked her up, he remembered that, and heard her whimper when he moved her. So soft a sound he could barely make it out at first, even with his super senses. Then the portal came, and it had been a portal, but not one of his making. Suddenly, it was swirling around them and Buffy had screamed a loud, rasping, horrible noise. It made him want to cry out with her.

Spike moved strands of matted sweat and blood soaked hair away from her damp forehead and adjusted her body gently on the mattress. He then sat on the bed next to her and buried his head in his hands, twisting his hair with his fingers.

He needed a few bloody moments to gather his wits. Figure out where they were. He hadn’t jumped, he couldn’t while under Willow’s spell. Willow hadn’t released him. Some other power had pulled up a chair and sat down to play. But the how and who would have to wait.

He had to keep Buffy safe, give her time to mend. With her slayer healing, she would be fine in a day. He turned and looked at her, and hesitantly reached out to touch her forehead. She had to be okay, and he had to believe—to hope, that Dawn would be fine until they got back to New York.

The smell of perfume, dense with spice and roses, suddenly filled Spike’s nostrils.

He pulled his hand away from Buffy's brow and looked around the room.

A dresser nestled in a corner was cluttered with girl things. Small boxes, small bottles, and a can that read hair spray, a rhinestone and pearl brooch, and hanging from the dresser's post was a crucifix on a long silver chain draped over the side of the mirror. His eyes moved to another corner of the room. The closet door was open. Clothes spilled out onto the floor in front of it in a heap. Black, brown, white and red boots with three inch square heels lined a wall. A skimpy, short denim skirt and pale blue skimpier tee shirt hung on a hook on the inside of the closet door. He recognized this place.

He jerked his head toward the open window near the closet as a breeze rustled the curtains. Tree branches, filled with leaves that looked purple in the moonlight, swayed outside in the wind. It had to be July or early August. The strong, sweet scent of the Queen of the Night flower saturated the air. He could never forget Angeles’ favorite plant of Saturn.

The seeds had been tossed into the dirt surrounding the front porch amidst the late blooming azalea, forming a beautiful ring of color in late spring and throughout the summer. Drusilla had told Spike about Angelus' visit to the Slayer’s home to sprinkle a pocketful of seeds. Years later, while Spike stood outside of the Slayer’s window all night, smoking his fags and waiting for Captain Cardboard to leave, he’d inhale deeply, drowning in the scents, and think about Angelus and Dru to pass the time.

This was Sunnydale.

He stood up, careful not to shake the bed. The medical supplies were in the bathroom, and he needed to get them. She was bleeding badly, the blood was drenching the sheets in patches and had pooled beneath the wound in her side. He moved quickly. The smell of the blood was clotting his pores, making him think terrible things—things other than trying to stop the blood from flowing.

He hurried into the bathroom, pulled open the cabinet under the sink and found the first aid kit instantly. It was sitting on top of a small box of detergent and inside a large white basin, which he also grabbed. Spike filled it with lukewarm water and then dropped a bar of soap and a washcloth in it, snatched the kit up with his free hand and raced down the hall.

As he rushed to Buffy’s bedroom, he noticed the silence. There were no heartbeats besides his and Buffy’s in all of Sunnydale. In the yard, outside, there were no beetles flapping their feet together, no night creatures nestled in the grass near the kitchen door making their whimsical night noises. No water dripped from the faucets in the bathroom or in the kitchen. And he couldn’t smell the night-blooming jasmine or the azaleas as he ran down the hall.

Did Sunnydale only exist in Buffy’s bedroom?

It reminded Spike of when they had jumped from the Night World to the fake New York City. It had looked right, at first, but it didn’t have any of the smells or noises that made a City alive—made it real.

That appeared to be true about this version of Sunnydale, too, and Spike knew that didn’t bode well for either of them.


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He was lifting her t-shirt over her head, blessedly avoiding the bruises on her face and neck. She helped him a little, raising her arms and holding them up for as long as she could. Then she quivered as she felt the sweat beading on her brow, and she dropped her arms like lead on top of the sheets as he pulled the shirt away.

The pain was bad, even if she was lying in a soft bed in a room that smelled like a summer bouquet drenched with her mother’s favorite perfume. But still, it didn’t make a difference, everything hurt.

An overwhelming desire struck her. She wished she had enough strength to smile at Spike. Show him that she knew he’d saved her, gotten her home. As soon as he laid her in the bed, she’d known they were back in Sunnydale and that she was in her room on Revello Drive. The sheets smelled fresh, like fabric softener and Dawn’s shampoo, a lemon rinse. The scents had lingered from that last night they’d cuddled and talked and waited for the clothes to dry.

The two sisters had turned the house into a ramshackle mess as they darted around, packing furiously. When they’d finally rushed out to the cab the next morning—Giles or Xander couldn’t help because of the spell—they’d lugged four suitcases and two knapsacks stuffed with their warmest cloths and assorted personal items. Buffy had shoved all she could into those bags, everything they’d need for the few weeks she thought they’d be in New York City.

Buffy gulped back a sob, the memories of that day and the pain from her wounds, felt as if they were collecting in the back of her throat.

Then Spike was touching her and tugging at the zipper of her pants.

She drifted back to the night before she’d left Sunnydale. The packing and rushing and now Spike’s fingers on the waist of her jeans—reminded her of something pleasant and so inconsequential. She had packed two pairs of cut-off jeans, one for her and one for Dawn—thrown them into the suitcase at the last minute. She couldn’t explain why she had to have them. But she did.

Spike was pulling the jeans over her hips and down her legs, slow and careful, making certain he didn’t hurt her anymore than he had to, she imagined. The cool, dry air on her thighs made her flesh pebble from the chill. But then he pulled the sheet over her partially nude body, tucking it snugly beneath her chin as if the sheets could protect her from his lusting eyes and beating heart.

Her head was foggy and she couldn't stop her mind from wandering, like a lost child in an amusement park. She wondered why Spike hadn’t taken off her panties. The thought was so strong in her head, she hoped she wasn’t blushing. Maybe he was being chivalrous, which was sweet and not entirely unexpected. He could be a gentleman.

Then he was gone. She heard him walk out of the room. She tried to cry out, call him back. Beg him to stay. But her throat wasn’t working.

Spike, please don’t leave me. I can’t do this alone.

She heard the water running in the bathroom. The doors to the bedroom and the bathroom had been left open. Knowing she’d be afraid, he’d left them open so she’d know he wasn’t leaving her. He wasn’t going anywhere. He’d be back.

Gradually and carefully, Buffy straightened out the leg that wasn’t cracked into as many fractured pieces as the other one.

Gets the blood flowing to your toes, she thought. Achy toes never a good sign.

She moved her hand, the one at the end of the arm that wasn’t as badly hurt as the other, and traced the wound on her side. Shemhazi’s claw had swiped at her, slicing a donut-sized chunk below Buffy’s ribcage. At least that’s how bad the pain had felt. She moved her fingers carefully along the wound to the top of her waistline and picked at the dry, sticky drops of blood. She sighed with relief. The cut was not as deep as she had believed. That had to be good.

She pushed her head into the pillow and moaned as warm fingers, his not hers, moved cautiously over the wound.

Spike was back. He was getting ready to fix her up and had grabbed supplies; she could hear the tin of a basin being placed on the table next to the bed and the swish of moving water. He had dampened a cloth, preparing to clean her wounds.

Come on Buffy, open your eyes. But she couldn’t. The pep talk wasn’t working.

The urge to see him was sudden and stronger. If she could look at him, it would make her feel better. Then she could see how she was doing by the expression on his face. Her eyelids fluttered, but she couldn’t keep them open. They were swollen, especially the left one. It was puffy and pumped full of dirt and grit.

Spike made a hissing sound as he pulled the sheet down to her ankles.

She must look bad. Real bad. He hadn’t been able to mask his concern. But he had to clean the wounds. It would help her get better fast. They couldn’t stay in Sunnydale forever. The feeling that something was off about this town crept into her head. As much as she wanted to be home, she wasn’t certain if this was where she needed to be. It was just that she’d been hurting for so long, she didn’t know if she could stand it.

“There, Slayer,” his voice was steady. “You’re going to be okay, Pet. Just need to clean you up a bit.”

She gathered the sheets into her fists and twisted them tight. Spike was digging the dirt and blood from the cut in her side and the bruises on her chest.

“I’m sorry, Buffy.”

Oh, dear god. He’d called her Buffy. That never happened. And, his voice, oh god, it was sandpaper and gravel. It sounded like he was hurting more than she was.

So much—so very much she didn’t understand, couldn’t even guess about. He was hurting but nothing was broken on his body. Buffy wasn’t even certain if Spike could be hurt any more. Still, he had sounded in pain.

Did he hurt because she hurt?

Maybe he’d noticed her digging her nails into the mattress. She unclenched her fists, releasing the sheets and then patted them absently. “I’m good,” she said.

Spike’s hands moved quickly over her body then. The washcloth wet and warm paused and cleaned and settled on another wound and then the next. The intermittent sound of the water swishing around in the basin near her ear was comforting. She was being cared for, lovingly. She felt it in his every touch.

She pried her eyes open, finally able to look at him.

Spike was sitting on the bed, his back facing her, with his head in his hand. His shoulders were shaking.

Damn, he’s crying. Shit. I’m worse off than I thought.

He must have sensed her looking at him because he turned slightly, and glanced at her sideways, his eyes narrow slits. The expression on his face confirmed her fears—there was something bad he had to tell her. Okay, she thought sighing through her pain. She could take bad news. The worse he could throw at her. She would handle it.

But there weren’t any tears on Spike’s face. She’d expected tears. There should have been tears. Instead, his jaw was set, clenched tight and his lips a thin pink line, without a hint of sympathy.

She looked into his eyes again. They had a yellowish hue, sprinkled with flecks of red. She couldn’t recall having seen him look that way—ever. Even when he was about to indulge in one of his vampire pastimes, like sucking the blood out of the nearest human being, this was not a Spike look.

Buffy touched his arm. He jerked away and stood up his body shaking, but he didn’t move too far away from the bed. His kept his head bent forward, appearing to stare down at his feet as his arms hung limply at his side.

“Spike, I’m gonna be okay.” She could only manage a whisper. “Slayer healing and all. Just needed—needed to get away from that alley. And you got me out.”

His eyes locked on her face, he licked his lips in slow motion.

“Are you going to bite me?” The words slipped out of her mouth. Unexpected question, maybe. But the way he was leering at her and how the muscles in his body had bunched and tensed in his neck and chest, Buffy was pretty certain he wasn’t thinking about giving her a back rub.

“I’m trying not to.” His body trembled as if the strain of not being able to reach out and touch her was overwhelming him.

God, she hoped her Slayer instincts were out of whack. Perhaps being beaten to within shoveling distance of a new grave had put her off her game. Besides, she seriously wasn’t in shape to fight a superhuman vampire anyway.

“Maybe we should talk. Get your mind off the blood lust and all.” Pushing her palms into the mattress, Buffy struggled to scoot up in the bed.

“It’s not that, Love.” He whispered the words, as she watched him rub one hand over his bare chest, and then slowly move it down to his stomach, where he lingered before stopping at the top button of his jeans. “Well, maybe you're right."

His eyes moved from her face to her bare breasts. She’d forgotten about being naked, and reaching out with her arm, fingers searching, body bending at the waist slightly, she found the sheet. Then pulled it tight around her neck.

“My blood is Shemhazi’s blood.” Spike was saying as she fingered the sheet nervously. “And he and Willow will find us by tracking me here.” He gestured with a small wave of his hand over the bed. “And you need at least a day or two to heal.”

His voice was shaking.

“Yes, I know I will.”

"I've got to diminish their hold on me." He was staring at her neck. "Make it so it takes them longer to figure out where we've gone."

"So you want to bite me?"

“I need you, Buffy.” He sat on the bed and without hesitating took her arm and raised it slowly to his lips.

Buffy closed her eyes.

His tongue traced over the veins in her forearm delicately traveling from her elbow toward her palm, adding pressure until his lips were sucking on the pulse point on the inside of her wrist. The warmth of his mouth scorched her as he worshipped her skin, igniting her body with his heat.

She moaned, involuntarily. How could he touch her there and she feel him on her breasts, her stomach and on the inside of her thighs—and there. "Oh, god. Spike." His hand had moved beneath the sheet and moved to her thigh. His fingers were digging into her flesh, their kneading matching the sucking motion of his mouth on her wrist.

Then his fingers were separating the folds of her sex, and she cried out as he pushed inside her. He was making her feel so good, it was hard to remember that she had felt so bad. The aches and pains in her body had disappeared as his ministrations intensified and he brought her closer to her release.

Then his fangs sunk into her wrist and her blood was rushing into his mouth. Spike groaned and stiffened against her. Buffy opened her eyes. Somehow he was lying next to her; his cock pressing through his jeans was long and hard against her side as he sucked her life down his throat.

“Don’t take too much,’ she whispered.

She could barely get the words out of her mouth. Too sleepy. She wanted to close her eyes—just for a little while. A few minutes rest was all she needed.

to be continued...



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the cut, chapter 27, a tear and a smile – part IV

Tara was half asleep as she groped around in the bed, searching for Willow. She couldn't find her though, and rolled onto her side, moving toward the edge of the bed closer to her girlfriend’s body. But the mattress against her hip was as hard as a slab of concrete. She opened her eyes and bolted upright.

This wasn’t her bed in Sunnydale.

She was lying on the floor in Jacob’s living room curled up in front of a fireplace filled with the ashes of burnt photographs, herbs and dried flowers.

Tara grabbed the column of the fireplace and hugged it, as she pulled herself to her feet. As she stood, she stumbled forward and headed to the bottom of the staircase leading to the second floor. Maybe, there was a bedroom with a fireplace where she could rest and stay warm until Willow returned.

She climbed the stairs.

A long corridor stretched out in front of her, lined with gas lamps shaped like round vases etched with flower petals. Tara tried the doorknob to her right. It didn’t budge. She moved to the next door. It didn't open either. Then she turned and walked across the hall and tried again, and again, it wouldn't open. If Jacob lived alone, why did he lock all the doors, she wondered?

Tara turned the next knob and pushed the door hard and sighed with relief as it creaked open. She then stepped into the dark room.

The heady fragrance of jasmine overwhelmed her and she paused, relishing the sweetness of the scent filling her nostrils. Tara’s eyes widened in anticipation of seeing a room filled with white flowers in clear sculptured vases. She patted the wall and quickly found the light switch and flipped it on. As her vision adjusted to the bright light, she inhaled sharply, surprised by the bleak emptiness of the windowless room. There were no flowers. Just pink walls covered with strips of peeling paint, and no rugs on the dull wood floors. Her eyes shifted to the corners. No fireplace, or even a bed or sofa to lie on. It was barren, except for a mahogany desk with large carved panels sitting in the middle of the room, decorated with a single framed photo.

The strong scent of the flowers infused the air and even though there were no windows, she could feel a light breeze on her face. Then the door slammed shut and she gasped and spun around to see nothing. Way too scary to think about what had closed it, thought Tara. She turned away from the door toward the desk, curiosity pulling her feet forward.

Although Willow had told her to burn all the photos in the house, Tara sensed that this picture would be the exception. It wasn’t a part of what she’d done in the living room. This lonely framed photograph sitting on a desk in this large empty room had a purpose, she believed. And she had a feeling it had nothing to do with Willow.

She brushed her fingers over the craving of a man’s body, with boar-like haunches covering the sides of the wooden frame. Tara leaned forward and rested her hands on the desktop, studying the photo carefully.

A thin man of average height in a pinstriped suit with curly dark hair stood regally, leaning on a cane and wearing a high-brimmed hat. That had to be portal jumper. Even though the photo was black and white, she could see the iridescent sheen of the man’s blue eyes and the murderous scowl in his tightly clenched jaw. Standing next to him, her body blocked slightly by his, was a small blond woman with a floppy cloth hat. Tara could tell she was a vampire. Her wicked eyes peered over Luke’s shoulder, one corner of her mouth smiled while the other sneered at the camera sideways. Then Tara saw the black man squatting between them.

The photo was old, and as Tara touched it, moving her fingertips over the faces of the two men and the woman, she could feel the passing of time beneath her hand. Jacob was the man in the middle and he was just that, a man in the photograph, not yet a vampire.

Tara picked the frame up and turned it over in her hand.

Jacob had known Luke before—at least two centuries or more by the look of the clothes worn by the woman in the photo. The bustle arched over her bottom poked out from behind Luke’s side like a melon, and the headdress she wore was a frumpy stitched napkin with ruffles. If Tara remembered her costume design class correctly, it was called a démodé style dress from France and popular in London in the 1790s.

Her fingers traveled along the backside of the frame as she felt around for the latch. She lifted it and slid out the photograph and held it gently in her hand.

She had to tell Willow what she'd found.

Tara hurried to the door, grabbed the knob and pulled hard. Startling her, it gave way easily and she stumbled backward, but she recovered quickly and sped out of the room and down the hall to the top the stairs, and then practically leapt to the bottom of the steps. When she reached the archway to the living room, she stopped as her eyes darted around the room. Seeing nothing she needed, she turned and snatched her coat from the chair in the hall. Sweeping it over her shoulders, she slipped one hand through an arm hole and tucked the photograph in her pocket, before sliding the other arm in the sleeve. Then she took a deep breath.

The smell of jasmine was still strong as she ran out of Jacob's house.


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“What do you think will happen when we stop playing and start killing?” said Shemhazi, balancing precariously on his wide, flat tail. It curved like a snake behind his muscular back, but quivered in spots like Jell-O. The sight of his loose flesh made Willow’s stomach churn. His misshapen body, half-man, half-beast—and clearly not in a sexy centaur way—bobbed up and down like a jack in the box. Peculiar and grotesque.

“Who do you think will die?” His lips were inches from her face.

For the first time since she’d teleported into the alley, Willow wanted to run.

“Who do you think will die?”

What was it with him and this question? It was like a chant, thought, as her legs wobbled and she struggled to keep her balance. He was smacking his tail against the ground, making the alley shake.

“Why do we have to choose?” Willow asked, mustering her best scary voice.

Casually raising his finger to his lips, he made a shushing motion as he raked his eyes over an invisible list apparently written in the sky above his head.

“You can kill the one in that small town in California.” He pointed to his left. “Or, you can kill the one who was lying over there bleeding to death until your vampire took her away.” He waved toward an empty patch of darkness.

“Who should it be?” His voice growled. “One of your little gang must die for your world to survive. You do know that, right? ”

Willow looked away, choking back her anger at his words. How dare he threaten her friends?

Then her vision fogged and she could swear that a string of hell beasts, demons, and vampires sauntered before her eyes, winking and blowing her kisses. It was an illusion, her subconscious attempting to make a point, she figured. Then the images walked by her again and she nodded at them slowly, their meaning becoming clearer.

The worst creatures in the world, in the universe—in every dimension—seemed happy that Willow had forgotten her fear and embraced all of her power.

“Who knows, maybe you will die?” She asked. “You’re not the strongest power here.”

“Such an arrogant fool,” Shemhazi chuckled.

“No. Not a fool.” She stepped close to him. “I am magic. And you're just a demon and if you kill one of my friends, I can bring them back to life.”

She had raised Buffy from the dead. If she could do it once, she could do it again, and that had been a good thing.

“Fools like you make my work easy,” said Shemhazi. “You think of me as a mythical character, a mystery from the world’s past. But I am more than that. I am the original.”

Willow gritted her teeth. How dare he puff up, so full of himself. She rolled her eyes.

Mythic my ass.

She was the smart one here. She'd played the First Witch ruse to perfection—pretending to channel her spirit and borrow her magic had fooled even Shemhazi. He thought she was motivated by his crimes against the First Witch, and she’d thought Willow was her avenger. Neither one of them had been right.

Willow’s task had always been clear to her: rid the universe of Shemhazi and then she’d be unstoppable. The Scoobies would never need to worry about demons, or devils, or ghosts or death again. There would be no more dying Buffys or hurt Dawns; there would be just Willow, making the world safe for humankind.

“You really think you can do it, witch?”

“Do what?”

“Rule the world.”

Willow looked into Shemhazi’s eyes. “Anything is possible.”

“That’s right,” he said, settling back on his hind legs.

“You keep asking me who will die and I believe that’s because you can’t kill."

The truth in her words stunned her. They’d been facing off for days, and no one had died yet. He’d nearly killed Buffy, but she'd escaped with Spike. The only real killer involved in this siege, besides the vampires, was Luke.

“You can’t kill,” said Willow, her tone filled with amazement. “For you, it’s passé. You're an ancient and you huff and puff and blow out hot air, but nothing more than that."

Her hand flew to her temple and she rubbed it stiffly. "You channel your hate through Luke. He’s the killer.”

“Well, dear, you've almost got it.”

She clasped her hands behind her back. “The game we’ve been playing is just that—a game. Something to fill your time.”

He laughed and bent forward at the waist, the infintely unfunny joke making him wheeze. “My George, you've got it, witch. You've been fighting a useless war. How's it feel?"

Tears were forming at the corners of his hard blue eyes as his mirth became even louder.

"It's always the powerful and the smart ones who are led easily astray. You and the Watcher have given more joy than I can say. It's been lovely fucking with your heads."

Willow had calm her mind. She felt like screaming and bashing the devil's head with her fists. What if there was nothing to gain by destroying him? She jerked her head to the side, tossing the hair nervously from her face.

“It doesn’t matter what you think you know,” he said. “You really don’t understand what has been happening at all. I am the Devil, and I give fools a choice.” He seemed to grow taller. “You had a choice. Cast a spell to save a little girl, or cast a spell and end the world.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You’ve always known,” He was floating again. “Understand me witch, this is your fault. Every death, every wrong, has been because of you.’

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what you must do.”

The black fog, suddenly appearing from everywhere, wrapped around his shoulders. “I can’t be destroyed and I won’t leave this plane until you make one more choice.”

Willow swallowed hard. She was reeling, falling off a cliff into a hole filled with mud. This wasn’t going to end well.

“I ask you again,” He was towering above her. Nearly level with the roof tops. “Tell me, who will die to save the world?”

Then suddenly Shemhazi was gone, vanished in a blanket of black fog.


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Buffy yawned, mouth stretched unattractively wide, as she pressed her palms against her forehead, attempting to rub the sleep from her mind.

Spike was sitting up in the bed next to her, leaning against the headboard. His eyes were open. She couldn’t help but stare at his face and his eyes, which sparkled a brilliant blue, even in the dimly lit bedroom. All evidence of the glowing yellow eyes flecked with red was gone as he stared past her at the wall behind her head. Most likely, he was feeling guilt about biting her, she imagined.

She draped her leg over his, which stiffened as she touched him but she ignored his reaction, as she pulled the sheet up over their bodies, covering her shoulders and his lap.

“Spike?” She turned so she could look at his face as she pushed up onto her elbows. But he turned his head. He really was avoiding her, and she knew it had to be because of the biting. Buffy wet her lips. She wanted to talk, to explain why she’d let him do it. He probably thought she’d lost her mind with the letting him bite her and touch her.

She swallowed, the memory of his hands on her body made her squirm, in a good way. She might as well dive right into the heart of it and explain to him what she'd been thinking. But as she opened her mouth, the only sound that came out was a sigh. Maybe she should wait until after they saved the world to talk. “We should get back to New York and Dawn.”

“Sure, Pet.” He pulled the sheet away, and moving his legs stiffly, stood up without even a glance in her direction.

“I’m okay with what happened last night, Spike.” She blurted, going back on her own decision as she sat up in the bed. She held the sheet to her naked breasts with one hand and reached out for Spike’s arm with her other hand.

As soon as she touched him, he stepped away from her.

“I wanted more than your blood last night.” He whispered, still facing the window. “You wouldn’t be so okay with any of this if it weren’t for the goddamn thought spell.”

“You can’t know that.” She reached out and touched his arm.

“Did you care about me in Sunnydale?” He turned around.

“Yes.”

“Enough to let me bite you?” He leaned forward, looming over the bed. He was bare-chested, wearing his black jeans, but Buffy’s eyes kept slipping to the undone top button of his pants. They’d come close to going very far. She didn’t want to believe that her feelings for him had to do with the spell. That hadn’t even crossed her mind.

“Yes, enough to let you bite me, and even more, Spike.”

“You’d never let me touch you back in the real Sunnydale.” His eyes drifted from her face to the sheet wrapped around her chest.

“We can’t do this now, Spike.” She suddenly wanted to leave this subject alone. What if he was right and her feelings for him had to do with a spell. It wasn't possible that magic was the reason she had allowed Spike to bite her, and had opened herself up to even more. “Let’s talk about it after we check on Dawn and find out what’s going on in New York City.”

Spike walked over to her closet and pulled out a black tee shirt. She hadn’t even known she owned any black t-shirts.

Buffy got out of the bed and pulled opened a drawer and dressed.

After pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweat shirt, she turned around. Spike was standing in the middle of the room, dressed in his black jeans and shirt with his hand reaching out to her.

“If we’re going, we’d better go now.” His voice was tense. “I’m beginning to feel the pull of Shemhazi’s blood.”

Buffy grabbed his hand. “Let’s go.”


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Buffy ran up the stairs and kicked the door down. She guessed Spike’s portal jumping skills weren’t as sharp when it came to transporting back in time, through three dimensions and two major cities and a small town. They’d landed in front of her Bronx apartment building and she’d fled up the broken steps, instantly noticing that the main door had been ripped from its hinges.

“Spike!” She called over her shoulder. “Dawn’s not here.”

She ran from the living room to the bedroom and saw that, not only were Dawn and Carlo missing, but they'd been in a hurry when they'd left. The bed was crumbled and some clothes had been tossed in a corner. A can of juice was on the nightstand next to the bed and Dawn’s favorite pearl necklace was on the dresser.

“Oh, god! Where are they?” Buffy’s mind was screaming. She’d thought they’d be able to come back before anything could happen to Dawn. That’s how these worlds had been working. Drop into one, and then the next time you were in another.

“Where did she go?” She turned frantically to Spike.

He was in the doorway, his hands on his hips, his eyes darting around the room. She also saw him take a breath, slow and deep. He was tracking Dawn.

“Sunnydale.” He looked at her.

“We were just there. She wasn’t there.”

“We were in some other Sunnydale, Buffy,” he explained. “You know that.”

“Then Dawn has to be back in the real Sunnydale,” she ran to his side and grabbed his hand. “We’ve got to go there, now!”

Spike nodded and closed his eyes as a cloud quickly appeared and swirled around them.

To be continued…

chapter 28 – a tear and a smile, part V

Jacob slipped from behind the dumpster at the end of the alley and brushed the dust and dirt from his Kenneth Cole button-down shirt. He clucked his tongue as he examined his ripped and mud-covered clothing, and his once-upon-a-time fashion statement of a shirt. After the shit he’d been through, it looked more like a Pee-Wee Herman hand-me-down than couture.

“Stupid witch,” groused Jacob. The condition of his attire was clearly Willow's fault. Still, as he grumbled about the wrongness of her very existence, he fought the urge to laugh out loud at her stupidity. But he quickly thought better of that. Shemhazi might be lurking beneath the surface, ready to reappear and fuck up Jacob’s plans.

The witch and the all-mighty Devil had forgotten all about him. Their power struggle had monopolized their minds so completely that the vampire had slipped off their list of things to be concerned about.

Some shit never changed, he thought, and then shrugged knowingly. All of his life and un-life, the masters would forget their servants in the heat of battle. Not until the ship’s deck needed swabbing or a fresh kill had to be delivered to a pampered vampire princess did they remember their charges. A serious miscalculation, Jacob nodded smugly. The insignificant ones shouldn't be discounted. They were the creatures that came through in the clutch with that missing piece of the puzzle and saved the day.

“Damn them all to bloody hell!” He raised his voice, recklessly risking the reappearance of Shemhazi’s black cloud. It still pissed him off, no mater how he rationalized it.

Shitty unfair is what it was, being treated like a sodding slave—a goddamn indentured servant.

For all of his existence, alive or undead, it had been that way for Jacob and he'd hated every bloody minute of it. Even in New York, where he'd roamed freely and feasted well for decades, he couldn't forget the stigma of being treated as less than a man on board the slave ships. And that bitch Darla, never considered him worthy of the line of Aurelius.

He forced his anger down into his chest. He had to keep sharp. Think. He doubted that the Devil would make a return trip to torture the humans, even if he knew the bastard couldn’t be trusted. Shemhazi had set into the motion all he needed. Now, all he had to do was sit on his throne in Hades and watch, blissfully aware that he’d done all he could do to fuck the witch’s life and screw her friends.

Amazing, how far a vengeful fallen angel would go to get his jollies.

Jacob breathed more easily, feeling better. He should feel good about his chances of getting what he wanted out of this situation. About time the bastard child of Aurelius came out on top.

Now, he had to make certain the witch delivered on her promise.

He stretched his neck from side to side, checked his pockets. Empty. Good. He pulled the silver rings from his fingers and the Rolex wristwatch over his left hand and dropped them unceremoniously onto the ground. He didn’t want to bring anything with him from this world. Although he hadn’t received a full endowment of Luke’s gifts, he knew the rules. A portal jumper was vulnerable if he held on to his past. If he let it go and existed within whatever moment in time he happened to be in, then he was eternal, immortal and couldn’t get fucking dusted.

Memories are a bitch, mused Jacob, and he’d have no problem giving them up. He would exist and feast on the blood of innocents in every eternity in every world or dimension ever created by god or beast.

“How sweet is that?”

Jacob couldn’t fathom why Luke no longer wanted this life. Giving away his gifts sounded like a stupid idea to Jacob, and one he’d never consider. As long as the Devil’s chosen Portal Jumper killed, he had infinity at his fingertips, and could walk among those who lived in the sunshine or the darkness. No stakes could kill him. No witches’ curses could touch him.

Sounded like a vampire’s heaven as far as Jacob was concerned. And he more than deserved his own Shangri-la.

He inhaled deeply, drawing in the scents of all who had been in the alley during the past day and night. He knew that Luke would be heading to his muse and that Willow wouldn't be far behind. He sniffed the air, and pulled Anyaka's fragrance in through his nostrils and let it permeate through his body. Such a wonderful vengeance demon, he hadn't realized that. Made sense they possessed an enormous amount of memory.

You had to be organized to keep track of all that hate and punishment.

He took another deep breath and with the second dose of her scent, Jacob knew where he had to go.

“Delightful,” he said wistfully. “I haven’t been to that part of the world in ages.”

Jacob closed his eyes and summoned his portal.

“Sunnydale, here I come.”

Then he jumped.


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Tara flopped down next to Willow on the bottom step of the stoop and nudged her in the side with her elbow. “How you doing?” she asked.

She'd known the answer to her question as soon as she’d turned the corner onto the block where the location spell had led her. Willow’s slumped shoulders and the trembling hand raking through her mess of red hair screamed at Tara that something was terribly wrong.

“They aren’t here.” Willow tilted her head up slightly, gesturing to the building behind her.

“Who’s not here,” Tara asked.

“Buffy, Spike,” she said quickly. “And Dawn.”

“Well, I know that—,”

“Shemhazi is gone," interrupted Willow, as she turned to face Tara.

She looked exhausted. Tara couldn't remember the last time she'd seen confusion or anguish on Willow's face, definitely not since the thought spell, and before then only once—the night Buffy had jumped from the tower.

“What happened? Are you alright?” Cupping Willow's face, she lifted her chin, and holding her head steady, forced Willow to meet her gaze. Then she took a quick inventory of her lover’s body, checking for blood stains, tears in her clothing or bruises on her face, arms or legs. She didn’t seem to be hurt physically, but the pain in her eyes was so intense, Tara sighed with concern.

“Baby, please. You’re frightening me.” Tara took Willow's hands into hers and pulled them into her lap, messaging them gently, encouraging her to relax.

“He told me I had to make a choice, a horrible choice, and that all of this was my fault.” Willow was shaking her head. “Do you think it’s my fault?”

“No. I mean how can it be your fault?” Tara said genuinely confused. “You did what you had to, and you didn’t do this alone. Giles and I helped you with the thought spell. And you were smart enough to alter it so that you’d have the power to help us fight back. Imagine where we’d be if you hadn’t had the courage to change the spell so that you lost your fear.”

“But I didn’t think of it that way, Tara.” Willow’s eyes glistened and the vulnerability in her voice surprised Tara. After all they’d done, after all she’d given her, what was wrong with Willow? Being afraid didn’t make sense if she was still under the spell? What had Shemhazi done to make her afraid?

“Tell me about Shemhazi.” Tara scooted closer to Willow and wrapped her arm around her shoulders, pulling her head to rest on her chest as she rubbed her back. Willow’s arms circled Tara’s waist.

“The spell didn’t take away the memory of the portal jumper. None of us ever forgot why the spell was cast.”

Willow's head was buried in her chest, but Tara could make out her words, which were coming out in short, gasping spurts.

“I took away our fear…of what we feared…feared the most about ourselves." Willow sounded close to tears. Then she raised her head and looked at Tara. "And what do we fear the most?” With a sad smile on her face, she touched Tara’s cheek. “Losing what we love the most.”

“You loved your power more than me,” she stated. It was not a question. Tara had no doubt of this, but it hadn't mattered, at least not since the thought spell.

“I loved the fact that I was gaining control over my powers, and was getting stronger every day, more than anything.”

“So what did you lose, what did the spell take away from you…from me…from all of us?”

“You said it that day at Revello drive, Tara,” said Willow. “The three of us had a part in creating this spell. You said it would take one thought away. I said, it was a simple spell. But what were you thinking about that day?”

Tara narrowed her eyes, replaying that morning in her head. She’d been standing, leaning in the doorway, listening to Giles talk about the portal jumper, the monster that was going to kill them all through their thoughts. She recalled thinking that Giles was in charge, and that hadn’t been the case in a long time. He was tense, irritated by something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It wasn't the danger that they were facing a new Apocalypse; it was something else.

Buffy had been distant since they’d brought her back to life; she seemed to appreciate the distraction of Dawn’s pain and suffering to get mind off of her own discomfort with being back and alive. Xander was more nervous than usual. He’d come into the house, jittery and suspicious about everything that was going on around him. Anya was being the dutiful girlfriend, trying to soothe him.

Then there’d been Dawn, quietly sitting on a stool at the end of the counter. Barely glancing up as the group discussed what they’d have to do to save her life, yet again.

“I thought that none of us would ever have a chance at true joy because we’d become so used to living in fear.” Tara finally answered Willow’s question.

“And I thought forgetting fear would never be enough to save us," added Willow.

“We doubted the spell,” choked Tara, the realization making her pull away from Willow. "From the beginning, we had no faith."

“We screwed up, because that doubt attracted Shemhazi’s attention.”

“Shit,” whispered Tara, the curse word coming from her lips surprising her mildly. Then she lowered her head into her hands. Shemhazi had been right. This had been Willow’s fault and hers…and Giles', too.

“And who knows what the Watcher was thinking about when we cast the spell. We were used by a Devil. He was playing a game, giving us a test. See how far we’d go, and I went all the way, Tara.”

“What can we do to fix it?”

“There’s a spell, and I have no doubt that this time it will work.” Willow said earnestly. “But we’ve got to find Dawn first.”

“I can help with that,” Tara responded, gleeful with the knowledge she could help. She’d found more than Willow with her relocation spell. But then, she remembered something else Willow had mentioned about the fallen angel.

“Shemhazi said you had a choice?” queried Tara.

“Yes, he did.” Her eyes shifted from Tara’s face.

“About what?”

Willow stood up and pulled her short rumbled skirt down around her thighs. “It doesn’t matter. As soon as we find Dawn, everything will be all right.”

“I know where Dawn is,” Tara rose, took Willow’s hand, and squeezed it firmly. “She’s in Sunnydale with Giles, Anya, Buffy—and Spike.”

“Good.” Willow exhaled slowly. “Everyone is home.”

“Luke’s there, too.”

“Even better.” Willow pulled Tara into a hug and nuzzled softly against her neck. Then she extended her arms, holding Tara’s shoulders with her hands, studying her face carefully.

“We can end this, Tara,” she said, her expression filled with conviction. The look of confusion Tara had seen in her eyes only a few moments before had vanished. The confident Willow she’d come to understand since the thought spell was back.

“Shall we go?” Willow gripped her shoulders a little too hard.

“Yes, but first, I need to ask you something?”

“Anything, my love.”

“How did the thought spell change me?”

“You were afraid of loving me,” said Willow, running her fingertip over Tara’s bottom lip. “The spell took that fear away from you, and helped you love me completely, and without question.”

“Okay,” smiled Tara. “That makes sense.”

“Hold my hand,” said Willow. “We’ve got to go to Dawn.”


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“Where is Anya?” Giles shouted, shoving open the door to his flat. He rushed into the living room and found Xander sitting on the sofa, staring at the fireplace, looking like a Zombie. His face was frozen, expressionless, and his pupils, huge black saucers obliterating the white space in his eyes.

Bloody hell, cursed Giles. He didn’t have time to deal with the boy’s issues now. Dawn was in the clutches of the portal jumper and they would have to work fast to save her.

“She’s here somewhere,” Xander’s voice sounded like it was coming out of a tunnel.

“Look, you’ve got to stop drifting into this malaise, Xander.” He snapped. “We’re up against it and every moment is critical.”

“What the hell does Malaysia have to do with this?”

Giles shook his head, frustrated. “Anya, can you hear me?” He stared up at the ceiling.

“Yes, I’m here.” The voice came from the fireplace, which at least explained Xander’s fixation on the smokeless hearth when Giles had run into his flat.

“Dawn’s with the portal jumper, and I would imagine he is on his way to find you.”

“I would think you are right,” Anya’s voice replied. “He will need his memories.”

“If we can extract you from the in-between dimension, I know how to reverse the thought spell,” Giles pulled his glasses from his face. “And make you human again.”

Xander leaned forward and grabbed the Watcher’s arm. “What happens to Dawn if Luke can’t find Anya?”

“We must plan it perfectly, but before I reverse the spell, Anya will give Luke back his memories and for those few moments before he forgets, Xander you will be able to kill him.”

“What!” Anya’s voiced exclaimed from everywhere in the room. Xander’s eyes closed and he sunk back against the sofa's cushions.

“You get to the heart of the matter, Xander,” said Giles. “If you can reach the Portal Jumper’s heart, when he’s weakened, you can destroy him.”

“Are you certain, Giles?" said the voice of Anya.

“I am bloody positive.”

To be continued…

chapter 29 – make me wanna holler, part I

“Okay, Giles. Since you’ve got this so under control,” began Xander. “Can we get Anya back—now?” Xander pushed his stringy, longish brown hair away from his face and his hands shook as he leaned forward on the sofa and eyed Giles hopefully.

The Watcher gave him a quick nod, and then dropped his knapsack on the coffee table. His fingers moved swiftly as he opened the side pouch and pulled out a volume of the Zy Qasdor. It didn’t bloody matter which one, Giles was thinking as he rubbed his thumb over the leather cover. As long as he was reading from one of the volumes, he could cast any spell or decipher any prophecy that popped up. The five editions of the Zy Qasdor manifested their power through the intellect of the individual doing the chanting, and that meant he had to be the one to free Anya.

Giles flipped open the book.

“The power of evil resides in the mind. Release your thoughts and defeat it,” read Giles. He turned his head toward Xander, who had pushed himself up from the sofa and was walking purposefully toward the fireplace.

Perhaps, he expected Anya to come down the chimney like Santa Claus, thought Giles. Then he chastised himself for allowing his mind to drift so carelessly at such a critical time. Anya was in between worlds, not hidden in the walls or trapped in a smoke stack. Giles knew that, and it shouldn’t matter what the boy did or said.

“Nothing’s happening.” Xander said. His body trembled as he placed his hand on the mantle of the fireplace and leaned forward anxiously.

“Give it more than a second,” blurted Giles.

“Anya?” called Xander. “Do you feel anything? Anything pulling on you—bringing you out?”

The room was quiet.

“Anya!” Xander’s voice rose and he shot a desperate glance at Giles.

“I’ll try it again,” said Giles as he took a deep breath before beginning the chant again.

“The power of evil resides in the mind. Release your thoughts and defeat it.”

Giles walked to the fireplace and stopped next to Xander. He really should have learned by now not to dismiss Xander’s instincts too quickly. Since the spell, the boy's abilities at perception had been keen on more than one occasion. Giles's thoughts drifted back to the desert and the First Witch. Then he stared intently at the half-burnt logs and soot.

“The power of evil resides in the mind. Release your thoughts and defeat it!”

A loud noise erupted above Giles’ head, and both men jerked backward. Xander stumbled into the coffee table, and tripping over it, fell sprawled across the sofa. Giles jammed his hip against the desk, but managed to stay on his feet, his hand latching on to its edge, steadying himself.

A lightning bolt had shot from the ceiling and struck the fireplace, filling the room with tiny explosions of light and puffs of smoke.


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“Whoa!” Carlo landed on his ass with a thud on the hardwood floor, then tucked and rolled quickly to a standing position. His body automatically snapped into his boxing stance, fists up, chin down, weight on the balls of his toes.

Fighting the urge to vomit after being flung upside down and inside out for hours, he had to force his eyes to focus. Stop the world from spinning so he could find the ass hole that had grabbed him by the throat and wrenched him away from Dawn. That fool was going to have to grow a new limb because Carlo was going to rip his arm off.

His trip to Sunnydale had started normal enough, considering he and Dawn were in a time tunnel or portal as she called it. All Carlo knew was it felt like he’d been dropped down an elevator shaft and spun like juice in a blender. If jumping through portals had any hope of becoming a regular mode of transportation for him, the Powers that be would have to think about seatbelts and landing gear.

He closed his eyelids and then opened them wide, he repeated the closing and the opening several times. The hypnotic motion recharged his tossed brain. It helped him clear his head.

Now he could see where he was.

It was a small apartment, but definitely not a New York crib. Too much dark wood and drab-colored furniture. Everything was brown or black, and it didn’t look expensive either—not slick enough for a fancy uptown loft or any such thing.

Carlo blinked again. Two white men, one laid out flat on a dingy couch and the other standing near a desk, were staring at him like he’d dropped from the sky. He glanced up at the ceiling. There were sparks of electricity crackling above him. He glanced around the room, not wanting to keep his eyes off of the two men for too long, just checking for portals or other signs of weirdness.

He sighed, relieved, but not completely at ease. The joint wasn’t on fire and there weren’t any loose wires dangling. It was just a room with a sofa, a couple of chairs, a desk and a fireplace and two men. But who knew? The way they were looking at him, maybe he had dropped from the sky, or at least from a hole in the ceiling.

Still, whatever path he’d followed to get here, he was here, and something was telling him not to take his eyes off of these men.

The professor type reminded Carlo of that Mr. Roger’s dude on TV he used to watch and laugh at when he was a kid. He wore the same kind of gold, hard-rimmed glasses, except this guy wasn‘t as much of a sissy. The younger man was meaty with sagging broad-shoulders and a slight belly, like an out-of-shape tight end.

Carlo took a deep breath, drawing some needed oxygen through his nose in one long pull. Then he coughed. The place smelled like sweat and a few fifths of hard liquor.

“Carlo?” asked the professor.

“How’d you know my name, old man?”

“You are Dawn Summers’ friend. Right?”

Dude had some kind of foreign accent, noticed Carlo.

“You the mother fucker snatched Dawn away from me?” He moved menacingly toward the man, stopping a foot in front of him. He was taller than Carlo, but old. Still, he had some balls. He hadn’t flinched when Carlo threatened.

“Simmer down, boy,” he said. “I’m a friend of Dawn’s.”

“Who the hell is this kid,” said Xander. “And what about Anya?”

The younger man had gotten to his feet and was walking toward the fireplace. Carlo opened a fist and held his hand up, palm out, indicating for him to hold up.

“Until I know what the hell is going on, nobody’s moving,” warned Carlo. “And if you think you two punks can take me, you’d be wrong, bro. I kick ass like yours in my sleep.”

“Wait a minute, Xander.”

The professor gestured at the guy, who stopped in his tracks. But he didn’t look like he’d stay still long.

“Carlo, my name is Rupert Giles. This young man’s is Xander Harris. We’ve known Dawn and B—Buffy…” He stopped abruptly and pulled off his glasses. Rupert Giles’ eyes went kind of soft and all worried-looking.

“Do you know Buffy’s whereabouts? Is she alright?”

“Last I saw her, she was fine. She’d run off after Spike,” Carlo explained, not able to control his mouth. He felt like it wouldn’t hurt to tell this old man a few things. “That dude is out of his mind, man. I know Buffy and Dawn are all into the dude. But damn, do you know what he is?”

“He’s a vampire,” said the professor.

“Yeah, that and a hell of a lot more,” added Carlo.

“Giles!” The younger man shouted. “Remember, Anya!”

“Oh, dear.” The professor put his glasses back on. “Carlo, we must get someone else out of that place you were trapped in.”

“Man, you still didn’t answer my question. How you know my name?”

“Dawn asked me to find you,” said the Giles man.

“You’ve seen her? She okay?” Carlo hands fell to his side.

“She will be,” said Giles. “As soon as I can do this chant, and help her.”

“We done with the introductions?” said Xander. “Okay. Then, let’s get Anya back.”

“I’m good with that, man.” Carlo nodded amicably at the professor and watched as the old man turned to face the fireplace.

Carlo had to trust him. They had solid information about Dawn and Buffy, and Carlo wanted to find Dawn bad. She was all he had left. With his Moms gone, Dawn was it.


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Giles opened the book he hadn’t realized he’d closed and read the verse for the third or fourth time, he couldn’t remember.

Immediately, the room began to shake.

Carlo grabbed the back of a chair and Xander gripped the mantle of the fireplace.

Another display of brilliant sparks, along with dense smoke permeated the room as a rumbling noise thundered through Giles’ flat.

Then it was quiet.

“It looks like you brought back more than me,” said Anya, suddenly appearing solid, standing between Xander and Giles in front of the fireplace.

“Y—yes, his name is Carlo,” stuttered Giles, gesturing with a nod of his head, but without looking back at the boy standing behind him near the sofa.

“No, I wasn’t talking about him,” said Anya, as she pointed toward the front door. Turning slowly, Giles prayed he hadn’t brought Luke to his doorstep. That would be a disaster of proportions he didn’t wish to contemplate.

“Buffy,” he exclaimed, amazed at the sight of his slayer standing in the foyer, looking tousled and bruised, but nonetheless very much alive.

He started to rush toward her, but the sight behind her froze him to the spot.

She was turned slightly, barely inside the room, her left arm extended behind her, and she was holding Spike’s hand. The vampire was standing with one foot on the stoop outside and the other inside the foyer. Any other time, their hand holding would have caused Giles a great measure of alarm. But the Watcher was staring at Spike, completely mesmerized.

It was midday and the sun was bright and shining on Spike’s face. His blond hair, curling softly around his face, glimmered white and gold, as his eyes sparkled with a too blue brightness that made his him look nearly transparent.

Giles was stunned by the sight of the vampire, who was standing in the sunshine. Not burning. Not turning to dust. He was just standing there and holding Buffy’s hand, with that annoying smirk turning up the corners of his mouth.

“Rupert,” smiled Spike. “Nice day we’re having here in sunny California, hey?”

He’d expected this transportation. He’d counted on it. But still, Giles was stunned. Here was a vampire existing completely within the body of a human being.


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Everyone was talking at once and Buffy had to fight the urge to scream at them to shut the hell up. She was standing in the foyer, having barely moved since she and Spike had been deposited on Giles’ doorstep, tossed unceremoniously out of Spike’s portal in a heap, and now her head was swimming. Tense voices were shouting at her about Luke, New York City, and what was up with Spike not burning to a crisp in the daylight. Xander and Giles and even Carlo were hurling questions at her like flamethrowers. It was as if they’d forgotten the reason for this latest near-Apocalypse.

There was only one question Buffy needed answered. The rest of it could wait.

“Where’s Dawn?”

She turned to look at each person in Giles’ living room, except for Spike and Anya. Her gaze skirted over Spike. He was standing in front of the fireplace. While Anya was sitting on the sofa next to Xander and turned at an angle, her back facing Buffy.

Spike had leaned against the mantle of the fireplace; his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes following her every movement. It was as if he was a soldier at his post, unmoving but watchful, waiting for the attack. He hadn’t bothered to speak since he’d asked Giles about the weather. Questions about him standing in the sunshine, he ignored. Buffy figured he wasn’t in the mood for that conversation and she wasn’t going to get detoured into giving her take on his transformation. The gang’s curiosity would have to wait until after she had an answer to her question about Dawn.

“She’s here in Sunnydale with the portal jumper.” Anya’s shoulders moved up around her neck in a shrug and then she turned her head slightly.

Still, Buffy couldn’t see her eyes. “Like you were with the portal jumper?”

“I wasn’t exactly with the portal jumper,” said Anya. “I had no choice.”

There was a sudden tightness in Buffy’s gut and she placed her palm over her stomach. When Anya had stood next to the portal jumper in the alley, it hadn’t looked like she was his prisoner or in thrall. She had been the plain old do-what-you-please and say-what-you-want Anya Buffy had known for years.

“You two were mighty chummy back in the alley.” Buffy clenched her hands into fists, but didn't try to disguise the sarcasm in her voice.

Something was very wrong about the former demon being so knowledgeable about this Luke business. Buffy hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time, but now she recalled how much Anya had known about the portal jumper that day in the kitchen on Revello Drive. The day Giles and Willow and Tara had cast the thought spell. The idea of shoving Anya against a wall, and convincing her to give up some answers about her part in all of this entered Buffy’s mind. But a beat down would take too much time, and still might not help her find Dawn. So, it would have to wait.

“Okay, let’s say you’re right, and Dawn and Luke are here.” Buffy’s fingers tugged on the waistband of her jeans. “We need to know where. Then we need to find them—fast.”

“They could be anywhere, Buffy,” said Anya. “They are portal jumpers, like Spike. But most likely, they’re in this dimension looking for me.”

“And how do you know he’s a portal jumper?” Xander’s voice startled Buffy and she flinched. But at the same time, she was thinking he had a really good point.

“Of course, she does. She’s the keeper of Luke’s memories,” said Giles matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, but I have a slight problem.” Anya’s voice was barely audible.

“What’s that?” said Buffy, but Giles was asking Anya a question, too.

“What kind of problem?”

The Watcher was seated on a stool at the counter separating the kitchenette from the dining room and was glaring across the room at Anya.

“I may have lost—his memories,” she whispered and folded hands in her lap like a school girl.

“What do you mean?” Giles jumped off the stool and marched toward Anya. His eyebrows had formed a dark, straight line above his glasses.

“Some of what I was supposed to keep in my head is gone.” She looked up at Giles, but didn’t show any sign of being afraid. “I had them all in between dimensions. But we’re back in Sunnydale, right? I mean not a version of Sunnydale, but the real thing.” She looked from Giles and turned around to glance at Buffy. “Being torn from the in-between place must have taken some of the memories from me.”

Then Anya leaned sideways, peering around Giles to look at Spike. “Don’t you know where he is?”

Spike narrowed his eyes at Anya. “No, I don’t. But quite likely, Luke already knows that you’ve lost his memories.”

“Well, that’s no bloody good,” said Giles.

“How would he know that?” Buffy turned to Spike.

“He’d sense something was missing—had changed inside his fucked up brain.” Spike stepped away from the fireplace.

“No bloody good at all.” Shaking his head, Giles removed his glasses and clenched them in his fist. “To kill him, we must be able to give him back those memories.”

“Why?” asked Buffy.

“That’s the only time he’s vulnerable, those seconds when his body is absorbing that information. Once he’s assimilated those memories into his body, our opportunity will be lost.”

“How’d you figure that out?” asked Buffy.

“I had a dream.” Giles walked back to his seat at the counter as Buffy watched him intently. She could practically see the wheels spinning inside Giles’ head.

“If Luke doesn’t have his memories, then he won’t remember why Dawn is with him,” said Buffy.

“I’m afraid so, dear,” said Giles. “And if what Spike says is true, it may already be too late.”

“She’s not gone yet,” Buffy heard the hitch in her voice, but ignored it. She knew she was right about this. She had to be. “I’d know if she was gone, I’d sense it.” Buffy placed a hand over her heart and patted her chest softly.

“There may be another way.” Giles placed his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and pushed them up with an index finger.

“He has a memory of his desire to return home. He may not know where and how he can get there, but the intensity of that need propelled him into our lives. He won’t lose sight of that mission without some kind of internal struggle. Perhaps, we can use that against him. Trick him into doing what we need him to do.”

“What do we need him to do?” asked Buffy.

“Make him believe someone other than Dawn or Anya can get him home,” said Giles.

“Another muse and another Key.” Buffy’s eyebrow rose.

“Oh, I get it,” said Anya. “Give him a new target.”

Anya sprang to her feet. “The headaches were mystical, weren’t they, Giles?” Her voice sounded excited. “So you give the headache to someone else—like Buffy.”

Fast as lightening Spike moved across the room from the fireplace, grabbed Anya by the shoulders and pulled her up onto her feet. Xander’s reflexes must have kicked in and he reached out in a protective gesture, attempting to push the vampire away. But Spike waved his hand and knocked Xander back onto the sofa.

Buffy winced as Spike pulled Anya’s face within inches of his lips and then he moved his mouth slowly over her cheek, sniffing her eyelids and hair. The only thing stopping Buffy from interfering was that she could see Spike hadn’t unsheathed his fangs.

“In the alley, you were still vengeance, a pure demon,” growled Spike. “But not any more—am I right?” His mouth was at Anya’s ear, but Buffy heard his words.

“I guess so.” Anya was twisting her shoulders, but she wasn’t going to get away from Spike.

Buffy didn’t want to admit it, but Anya’s idea wasn’t all that bad. It was just not the idea Spike wanted to hear. And from the look of dismay on her Watcher’s face, Giles wasn’t exactly thrilled with it either. They must be thinking about her leap from the tower, she imagined.

Buffy looked away from Giles and Spike, not able to handle the look of concern on their faces. Only Carlo’s brown eyes offered her encouragement. He knew she had to do this.

Then as suddenly as Spike had grabbed Anya, he released her. His fingers splayed, he raised his hands, making it clear to all in the room that he’d let her go.

“Everyone, stand down,” ordered Buffy. “We don’t have time to kick each others’ asses—and besides, Anya may be onto something.”

Spike’s jaw was doing a dance on the side of his face. But Buffy was the one who could handle the pain of the headaches, emulate the memory capacity of a vengeance demon, and have the strength to kill Luke when he weakened. They couldn’t trust Spike to do it, which was probably why he was so angry with Anya, thought Buffy. They remembered what had happened in the apartment, when he’d jumped out the window and run away.

“Okay, if we’re going to do this, I’d better get a headache and fast,” said Buffy. “Giles can you cast the spell or should we call Tara?”

“She’s not here,” Giles said. “She’s with Willow.”

“Oh, we didn’t see her,” Buffy glanced from Spike to Carlo. “We saw Willow, but no Tara.”

“H—how was Willow?” asked Xander. He’d righted himself on the sofa after getting nearly knocked out by Spike. Buffy didn’t miss the look Anya gave him either. She had the expression of frustration and anger mixed equally with quite a bit of pain.

“I’m not clear on what was up with Willow,” said Buffy. “But we’ll deal with her after we take care of Luke.”

“That’s for bloody certain.”

Buffy thought she’d heard Spike’s voice, but wasn’t positive since she was heading toward Giles and was focusing on him.

The Watcher had reached into a knapsack and pulled out a large, leather covered black book. It looked familiar, thought Buffy. Then she sighed, as she remembered when she’d seen it last.

It was the same book Giles and Willow and Tara had used when they’d cast the thought spell.

To be continued…

chapter 30 – make me wanna holler - part II

Luke’s fingers felt cold and clammy on her skin. He was holding her wrist, and pulling her at his side as he strutted around in a large circle ranting.

“Where the hell is she? She’s got to be here. Do you understand me? She’s got to be here!”

He was like a child having a temper tantrum, screaming and stomping, which struck Dawn as practically strange considering they were standing in the middle of sky. At least that's where she was—balancing between portals in a dimensionless void. All blue and formless, it made her stomach queasy with its emptiness and lack of touch or smell.

This portal jumping business was getting curiouser and curiouser, she thought.

Wasn’t that always the case? As soon as you think it—it gets worse.

Now, she was teetering on top of a thin pale cloud after stepping out of an airplane at 30,000 feet. A cool, moist breeze snaked beneath her feet and between her toes, making her shiver with fear. Dawn wished she could wrap the nothingness around her like a magician’s cloak and disappear. This in between dimension thing was more disorientating than any portal ride she'd ever taken.

She looked down at the shoes on her feet surprised. She hadn't felt them there a moment before. She'd slipped them on when she and Carlo had jumped out of bed and made their hasty exit from New York. But with the clouds and the sky and all, she’d forgotten about footwear—and Carlo. It hurt her chest too much to think about him, she decided. Maybe that was why she'd put him out of her mind. Better to trust that Giles had found him than worry, right? Besides, she couldn’t protect everybody. Her priority had to be Buffy. She didn’t want her sister to get dead again.

“I said where the hell is my muse?” Luke roughly pulled her to him. They were standing nose to nose. “You know where she is, don’t you?”

He was searching her face, looking for the truth she imagined, but his eyes and his voice were pleading with her. “Please tell me what you’ve done with Anya.”

“I haven’t done a thing." Her voice sounded frightened, but she couldn’t help that. He was weirding her out. One minute he was intimidation, torture guy, and then a scared and angry two year-old child.

“This is what you wanted, me here with you. I didn’t take anything from you. I just want you to leave me and my sister alone.” Dawn jerked her arm free of his grasp.

“Mmmm. That’s right. Your sister.” He lifted a finger to his lips. “You will tell me where I can find my muse.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and grinned. “The Slayer will die if you don’t.”

He let her go and started pacing in a small circle. Then he stopped. “There’s someone else who can help me, isn’t there?” He clapped his hands together and laughed, a short loud burst. "I'm right, aren't I?"

“I won’t let you hurt any one else.” Dawn spoke slow and deliberate, the fear gone from her voice.

“What are you talking about?” He tilted his head, a bewildered expression on his face. “I’ve collected my gifts every day for the last 1,000 years and you dare to—threaten me?”

He whirled like a spinning top, and then floated to a standstill in the middle of nothing.

Dawn squeezed her eyes shut and opened them slowly. She was trying to focus on his face and not on the stars circling around inside her head. Her stomach wasn’t going to last if the freaking spinning didn’t stop.

“You and this damn vampire slayer are comical.” Luke leaned against an invisible post, and eyed her from head to toe.

“Do you have some kind of power beyond that of a Key? Power I don’t know about?” His humorless chuckle made her belly feel even worse. “Please tell me if you do so that I can remember to be afraid—so I can remember not to kill you and your sister when I’m done with this dimension.”

“Spike can stop you,” she blurted. It came to her just like that. Spike had opened portals and could stand in the sunshine. He’d made Buffy run away from him in the Night World. He had super strength and the chip wasn’t bothering him. Humans weren’t a problem. He could kill anything. Dawn would bet her stash of Keifer Sutherland photos hidden beneath her bed—because Keifer, way too old for her—that Spike could kick Luke’s scrawny pale ass. No problem.

“Thanks for the warning.” He said casually, but Dawn hadn’t missed the anxious frown on his face. The idea of Spike getting in his way bothered him. That had to be good.

If she could only just reach Spike, like through telepathy or something. Then she could tell him where she was and he’d come and get her out of this mess. The Key had to be able to do more than whip up a few portals.

Dawn had never tried talking without using her mouth. Maybe she could do that thing Willow had done in the summer. Tara had told her about Willow’s then new power. Could be it wasn’t so much of a witch thing as a power thing, and if Dawn had real power, then it made sense that mind talking was automatically on her can-do list.

—Spike, if you can hear me, I’m with Luke, and he’s afraid.

Dawn turned her head away from Luke and hoped he hadn’t noticed her face was all scrunched up. She could feel her eyes squinting and her lips stretching thin as she struggled to make the words inside her head reach Spike.

—We can hurt him. I can hurt him. I feel it, but I need your help. Now.

Suddenly wind, lots of wind, hit her in the face and ripped at her skin and her clothing. She held her t-shirt down and prayed that the wind wasn’t pulling her hair out by the roots.

Then it stopped and the sun was shining on her face and she could breathe. There was also grass beneath her feet.

“What happened?” asked Luke. His voice was much calmer than Dawn had expected.

But, she ignored him and looked around.

A large well-tended green lawn stretched out before her and a familiar row of low bushes dotted with pink and red roses shimmered in the sunlight. She glanced at the horizon. A tall fern, branches weighted down and full of wide stiff leaves, shadowed the park bench where she and Luke had sat an hour earlier. Or had it been days before? Who knew the deal with time and portals? But from the sun’s position in the sky, Dawn guessed it was early evening on hopefully the same day she and Luke had left.

Luke wasn’t going to like it. But they were back in Sunnydale.

“Damn it!” Luke screeched. “How the hell did we get here?”

Dawn smiled. Spike must have heard her.

“Dawn!”

She fell to her knees. Willow's voice was vibrating through the air with such power and intensity, it had knocked Dawn down on the ground. Then Willow's tone registered in her mind, it was all shrill and angry and scared her. Dawn could feel the truth in it as soon as she'd heard her.

Willow hadn't come to her rescue.

“Witch!” Luke had fallen to the ground next to Dawn. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, clawing at the dirt, trying to get back on his feet. His blue eyes had turned red and his pale skin scarlet.

Damn, damn, damn.

Spike wasn't coming. He hadn't heard her shouting inside his head, Willow had though. Dawn tucked her knees beneath her and pulled her body into a crouched position.

She'd just have to stop Luke and deal with Willow all by herself.



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Buffy had run out of Giles’ apartment as soon as he’d finished his mumbo jumbo spell. The first twinge of pain in the back of her head had started as soon as the last word had come out of his mouth. She didn’t want to writhe in agony in front of everybody, so she’d marched out saying something about needing to change clothes and grab weapons from Revello Drive before the pain got too bad.

There was some truth in her words. She needed a clean shirt and a pair of jeans, and she had the time. When Dawn first got the headaches, it had taken hours before the scratching and clawing and screaming and flailing began. Even then, she'd stay lucid long enough to point at a pile of clothes on the floor near the closet in their mom’s bedroom. "There"! Dawn would scream. The monster was buried beneath the dirty cloths, shrouded in a black cloud, and it was coming from there!

Buffy wasn’t seeing any clouds yet, so she was good for a while.

“This isn’t your bloody best plan ever, Pet.”

That was the only downfall of her escape. Spike had followed her from Giles’ apartment, giving her an ear full every step of the way to Revello Drive. He hadn’t even taken a breath, and since he had to breathe, that struck Buffy as just plain ridiculous. How could anyone talk that much without the least bit of encouragement? She hadn’t even looked at him. Her eyes were pinned on the sidewalk in front of her. Jaw set like concrete. She hadn’t even craned her neck in annoyance, just stomped in a straight line right to her front door.

Only once had she seriously considered telling him to bugger off. Use his own words to get him out of her hair. It had been his comment about the next time he needed her blood and what he’d do—well, she wasn’t certain what he’d said he'd do because she’d stopped listening to him after the ‘her blood’ line. But she didn't turn around and punch him in the noise, she kept her eyes on the pavement and kept walking.

But down deep and okay, maybe not that far down deep, she needed Spike especially now.

Buffy wasn’t looking forward to suffering through the headaches alone, and being with Anya and Xander or even Giles simply wasn't what she wanted to do. The plan was about saving Dawn. She didn’t need to have half of the Scoobies fretting over her while she waited for the excruciating pain that would make it possible for her to help her sister.

But she certainly hadn’t counted on Caring Spike.

She glanced over her shoulder as she stepped up onto the porch of her house. He was trailing behind her a few feet. She opened the front door and stepped through the archway quickly and then tried to slam the door in his face.

Spike was at the door in a flash, stopping it from closing with a swiftly raised hand. Damn it, she cursed. There was no chance of the door making that decisive sound she was hoping for. The thud against his palm didn’t register the same degree of frustration as the exclamation mark of a door slamming shut.

“This is a mistake, Buffy.”

He’d said that at least six times during the last block alone.

“Spike, you’ve made your point." She glared at him over her shoulder, and then headed up the stairs to her room. “But it’s not going to change a thing. I’m doing this and you’ve got to deal with it.”

“Always with the short cuts, Love.” He was following her up the stairs. “Not a good strategy at all.”

“Oh, and this coming from Mr. Always with a Plan?” She turned to face him as she stepped up onto the second floor landing. Being above him on the stairs put her at his eye level. “Excuse me, did I say man or man slash vampire, or does that make you a man-pyre?”

She didn’t wait for him to reply as she spun and stomped down the hallway to the bathroom.

This time she did slam the door.

“It’s insane for you to be the one to get these blasted headaches,” shouted Spike. “I can do this, Buffy. I can stop Luke and Willow.”

Buffy turned on the facet and threw a handful of cold water on her face. She could hear Spike pacing back and forth on the other side of the door muttering to himself.

“Would you stop it?” She flung the door open. “You have no idea what you might do.”

She shoved Spike out of her way and marched past him into her bedroom without a second glance. Her brain was stuck, repeating over and over in her head Spike can't go after Dawn. The memory of his face as he stood on that window ledge in her New York apartment hadn't left her. He’d been frightened, horribly so, and that had scared Buffy more than she could understand. Even now, she couldn't look at him without remembering his eyes and how his hand had trembled as it rested on the glass.

Then she'd run after him and into that alley and nearly died, because she'd had no choice. No other thought but to save him.

Damn, that had to be it. The thought spell.

She hadn't wanted to believe it. But that had to be the reason Spike mattered so much to her, that he mattered to her almost as much as Dawn. It was the spell. That explained why she had let him bite her. Why she had wanted him to.

She was in her bedroom now. Pulling armloads of clothes out of her dresser drawer, flinging them over her shoulder as she tried to ignore the tears running down her face.

Spike might want to be the one to face Luke and deal with Willow, but she knew he couldn’t handle it. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the risk was too great. Whether a spell made her care for him or not, she wasn't going to let Spike go. He might turn evil or die—really die because he was alive. He breathed. And Buffy wasn’t ready for him to die. She wasn’t ready for anyone to die.

Not Spike, not Dawn, not any of them. Not if she could stop it.

Buffy leaned forward on her dresser and took a deep breath. She looked up at the cross hanging on the side of the mirror and moved her fingers over the silver chain, slowly and carefully.

What had happened to her?

That young girl who would always cherish that necklace with its simple cross. A gift given to her by a dark-haired vampire she’d loved more than life itself once upon a time.

Buffy could taste the salt on her lips. Her face was hot as she shifted her gaze to a curvy-shaped bottle filled with her mother’s favorite perfume. It was hidden behind the jewelry box crammed full of gold and silver hoop earrings and oversized rhinestone brooches. In the corner, next to a can of hair spray was a photo in a black frame. Willow and Xander’s smiling faces, eyes only slightly sad, beamed up at her. It had to have been taken junior year—just before Spike and Drusilla showed up in Sunnydale.

She shivered as she felt Spike move behind her. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. She sank against his body and hugged his arms over her chest as he reached around her.

“It hurts,” she whispered. The pain in her head had been building, vibrating like gunshots in a glass jar, cracking and shattering her skull.

“Tried to keep your mind off of it, Love.” He’d turned her to face him and before she could say a word had lifted her into his arms and was carrying her toward the bed.

Holding her easily with one arm draped around her, he pulled the sheet down and laid her across the mattress, talking to her the entire time. Soft words—loving words, hopeful. If her head hadn’t been hurting so badly, she’d have smiled at him. He never knew when to shut up. Thank God.

“Oh, Spike, I’m sorry.” She held on to his hand. “But these feelings we have are because of the thought spell. I didn’t think that way before, but they have to be. We never...”

“Shush.” He placed a finger on her lips. “Doesn’t matter, Love.”

His eyes were so blue, staring at her with such tenderness. It made her feel warm and loved to look at him, to feel his arms around her body, to feel his lips on her forehead, kissing her gently.

She could get used to Caring Spike. He wasn't bad, wasn't that bad at all.


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Buffy felt his weight leave the bed and opened her eyes. She hadn’t remembered dozing off. She didn’t think she could with her head hurting so much.

“Spike?” she whispered.

He was kneeling next to the bed, watching her. She started to smile at him, but Spike didn’t look well. Not well at all. There was sweat on his forehead and throat, and his jaw was clenched tight, but it trembled when she touched his hand, which was resting on her stomach.

“What did you do?” She asked, her voice shaking.

The strain was evident on his face and his breathing was shallow.

"What did you do?" She asked him again, pushing herself up onto her elbows.

"I jumped.”

“What?" She could hear the panic in her voice, but couldn't stop it because there was a black cloud surrounding him and she couldn't see through it.

"No! Damn it, Spike. No!"

Then the cloud disappeared, and Buffy swung her legs onto the floor and rushed to the he door and pulled it open.

Oh God! She couldn't see him. He wasn't in the hallway. She staggered toward the staircase, and grabbing hold of the banister, steadied her legs as best she could as she wobbled down the stairs. Before she even reached the bottom step, she saw that the front door was closed. He hadn't come this way.

Damn. She had to find him. Make certain he hadn't done something stupid. She had to find him, and Dawn and Willow, and bring them home. Safe and alive.

“Spike!” she screamed in frustration.

But he was gone, just like her headache.

To be continued…

chapter 31 – peace and passion - part I

Carlo thought it was strange how the others had retreated so quickly into their own private worlds as soon as Buffy walked out of the apartment with Spike trailing behind her. Giles, the professor guy, sat slumped in his chair, his fingers shaking and wrapped around either side of his head squeezing his face into a mask. His watery eyes were fixed on the beat-up book on the desk in front of him and shined brightly beneath his gold-rimmed glasses. Carlo recognized the book as the one the 'professor' had used when he’d cast the spell on Buffy and gave her Dawn’s headache.

Xander sat on the floor in front of the fireplace cross-legged, hands on his knees, face sagging. His expression reminded Carlo of the droopy-eyed small dog in the Jack Nicholson movie, the one where Nicholson freaked out each time he stepped on a crack in the sidewalk.

The strange girl Carlo remembered from the alley sat opposite Xander with a shawl pulled around her shoulders, shivering, except it wasn’t cold. Actually, judging from the perspiration on Giles’ forehead and the soaked armpits of Xander’s shirt, she was the only one with a chill.

Carlo shifted his weight from one bent leg to the other. He was crouched in a corner near the doorway, banging the back of his head softly against the wall in a steady rhythm. He couldn't understand how these two grown men could sit and do nothing while a little girl (because that's all Buffy was) had gone off to save another little girl—his girl—armed with a sword, a vampire and a headache. But here they sat perched on their lame asses, looking worried, sure, but waiting nonetheless.

Carlo glared at the three people in the room, the anger in his heart felt ready to leap from his chest. Dawn's life was in the hands of a girl who killed vampires for a living. What the hell could she do against a death defying man-vamp, or whatever Luke was, a giant winged monster and a redheaded witch?

Carlo paused mid-thought. Had Buffy forgotten about the witch?

The redhead had been as much of a bad ass in the alley as Luke from what Carlo recalled. But Buffy hadn’t explained it that way when she’d mentioned the witch to her friends. Maybe she was afraid of the redhead. Carlo frowned as he contemplated that possibility. He might not be a portal jumper, a slayer, the Key or a vampire, but he wasn’t afraid of anything.

Carlo was a kid from the Bronx, which meant he was born ready. Besides, his life had been mapped out from the time he'd turned seven and he'd stayed on top of it. No getting lost in the corrupted streets of New York City for him. He and his Mom had charted out a path for him and he’d stuck to it. His Mom had schooled him since the age of seven on how to be a champion, and had counted on him becoming just that since forever. Up until the two girls had arrived in the Bronx from California, Carlo had had everything going exactly as he and his Mom had planned it.

Carlo wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. They were wet.

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten his mother was dead. There hadn’t been time to think. He and Dawn had been running for their lives, or jumping through portals for their lives, since they’d found his Mom’s bloodied body in the restaurant. He had cried that night, but not since. Carlo had thought about collapsing to his knees and giving up. Cut the pain of losing her out of his heart, but that wouldn’t bring his Mom back. Nothing would.

Carlo could make her killer pay, though, but he couldn't do that huddled in a corner crying.

“Are you just going to sit there?” Carlo hopped up from his crouched position and charged toward Buffy’s Watcher. He'd force him to get up off his butt and do something, or was this the way they dealt with everything? Send a girl and vampire off to do the hard stuff while they sat around like cowards.

“Did you hear me, old man?” He pounded his fists on top of the desk. Giles peered over his glasses at Carlo, his eyes blank. Carlo shot a glance toward the fireplace. Xander stirred on the floor. The blonde pulled her shawl up tighter around her throat. Did nothing get their attention?

Carlo jerked his head back toward Giles and slammed his hand down on the book on the desk, only mildly pleased when the Watcher flinched. The memory of his dead mother’s body had brought the pain of losing her sharply back into his mind, and it had it him hard. They’d had so much more to get done. But now, she was dead. He wanted to pound the life out of the bastard that had killed her. Break the beast’s fucking neck. What did his Mom have to do with any of this shit anyway?

Carlo spun away from Giles, rubbing his brow. He couldn’t stop the thoughts burning inside his head. Was it the professor who had caused his mother’s death? Had he been the reason his mother had died? He turned and leaned uncomfortably close to Giles’ sweaty face.

“You honestly believe that Buffy and a magical headache will save Dawn?” Giles looked up at him then, his eyes puzzled, which made Carlo even angrier.

“She’s the Slayer, young man.” Giles replied as if that was the answer to every problem on the planet. “She understands what has to be done.”

The professor's voice was irritatingly matter-of-fact as he pulled his glasses from his face. Carlo had to control the urge to pop him in the mouth.

“That’s what started this." Xander stood up and staggered toward Carlo. “Headaches and witchcraft.” Xander clutched at Carlo's shirt. He reeked of desperation, thought Carlo, as he removed Xander's hot hand from his clothing.

“Yeah, right." Carlo sounded unconvinced, but he didn't care. He was too curious about what had riled Xander into consciousness. He glanced sideways at the old man. His hand was trembling as he placed his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Could be the professor was having the same thought, but he looked engrossed—no, more like hypnotized—by the book on his desk. His face was so close to it his nose was resting on the page.

Giles appeared to be looking through the damn book and straight into hell.

“You knew in the beginning what would happen." Xander was pointing at the Watcher.

Giles picked up the book in front of him on the desktop and began flipping through it. Then he paused and started ripping the pages out of the book. A crunching sound like bones breaking filled the room as Giles crumbled one sheet of paper after another into a ball, tossing them into a trash basket on the side of his desk.

“You and Willow did this to us.” Xander's voice rose. "Didn't you!"

Giles leaned backwards in his chair and tore another page from the book. Carlo covered his ears with his hands. The sound thundered through the apartment. It was as if the book was screaming.

“Did you send Buffy and Dawn to New York to save them or to kill them?” bellowed Xander. “Why are you t—tearing the book apart?” Xander moved menacingly toward Giles. Carlo backed away from the two men.

“Consequences of magic, Xander.” Giles looked up and his face was lined with tears.

Had Buffy’s friends deliberately put her and Dawn in danger? He flinched so hard at the idea that he felt as if Mohammad Ali had sucker punched him in the face. “Why?” Carlo blurted.

"It's because W-Willow—I mean of all of us brought Buffy back to life.” Xander’s voice was shaking. “Am I right?” He shouted. Then suddenly Xander was at Giles’ throat, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and pulling him to his feet. “We’ve gone through hell for months and for what? You think you just took away a thought?” Xander shoved the old man to the floor and hollered down at him. “You took our souls! You made us crazy. You set us the fuck up!” Xander lunged forward, his fists smashing Giles’ face, driving him to his knees.

Carlo rushed to Xander and dragged him off the old man. Giles crumbled to the floor clutching his battered face as Xander twisted out of Carlo’s grasp and stalked to the front door and leaned against it, gulping mouthfuls of air, his face stricken.

The room had run out of breath, too, thought Carlo. It had become oddly still and except for Xander’s panting and Giles’ barely audible sobs, deathly quiet. Turning his head slowly, Carlo looked at the girl on the floor in the shawl. She hadn’t moved, but her eyes blazed at Xander.

“We had no choice.” Giles rolled onto his side and sat up, tucking his legs beneath him. "We had to make a deal with the Devil.”

“Or what?” Xander choked out the words. “Armageddon. Apocalypse? What?"

“That and more,” mumbled Giles.

“You weren’t even here when we brought Buffy back." Xander muttered under his breath, his shaking body still braced against the wall. “And Dawn had nothing to do with it.”

“I had to pay for Willow’s power.” Giles grabbed the back of the chair and hoisted himself up onto his knees. “I saw her power and didn’t have the foresight to stay here and teach her what I knew she needed to learn.”

“You said Willow made a deal with the Devil.” Xander took a step away from the wall.

“It was about bloody retribution.” Giles wormed into his chair and placed his palms down on top of the black book. “We owe the universe.”

“Owe the universe? What do you owe it?” Carlo’s eyes shifted from one man to the other. What kind of magic had these guys been playing with?

“We had to make a deal,” explained Giles. “And Willow was the only one with enough power to get it done.”

“Owe it what?” Carlo's voice was louder. He had figured out most of it, except for this owing business, which worried him. He thought back to his conversation with Officer Darnell at the restaurant. He'd told him about the disfigured headless bodies. He'd told him about his friend Tommy Dugan. Carlo had seen his mother's dead body with his own eyes. What more could Satan want?

“A life for a life,” said Xander, staring at the door where Buffy had walked through less than an hour before.

“Luke killed my mother!" yelled Carlo and ran at Giles, but Xander stepped between them, surprising Carlo by moving so quickly. He grabbed Carlo by the shoulders and pushed him backwards.

"You can't let him have Dawn, too!" shouted Carlo, struggling free of Xander's hold, as he felt the tears streaming down his face.

“Luke is nothing,” whispered the blonde girl. Carlo spun toward her, startled by the sound of her voice and her words.

“Anya?” said Xander, half-aloud.

“What do you mean?” Carlo edged toward Anya, his mind reeling. How could she call a cold-blooded killer 'nothing'?

“He was a diversion, something we needed to focus on to keep us occupied, right Giles? Like purgatory.” Anya tilted her head sideways and hugged her knees to her chest. “In a way, Luke was our muse.”

Anya smiled then, but her face didn’t look like she’d ever try it again. Carlo felt that was for certain.

A loud noise filled the apartment as Giles tore another handful of pages from the book. “These bloody books must be destroyed for the spell to end,” muttered Giles, ripping pages faster and faster.

“Is that all we have to do for everything to be right again.” Xander's eyes darted from one face to another. “I don’t think so.”

“No, Willow has made a deal with the Devil,” said Giles, still tearing pages. “She is the only one who can save us.”

"Does that mean one of us has to die?" demanded Xander. "Who? Dawn? Buffy, again? Who, Giles?"

"You'd have to ask Willow?" Giles' eyes stayed on the leather book cover in front of him. Its contents emptied as he tossed the last of the crumbled, torn pieces of paper into the garbage. "She made the deal."

This wasn't making any sense to Carlo. “Then why was my mother killed?” Carlo looked at Anya. “Luke killed her? Why? She had nothing to do with any of this.”

“Luke killed her because that is what he does,” said Anya, her voice expressionless.

“For no reason?” Carlo whispered, stymied by the wastefulness of it of all. He wanted to vomit. “You are fools and I wish I had the power to kill you all.”

“Wish granted."


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The park shimmered with sparkling rays of sunshine casting long bright lines of gold over the vast lawn. The trees swayed gently, their leaves making shadows across the benches and in the sand dunes. It was a lovely day, thought Jacob as he sat perched on a branch high atop a thick, tall elm tree at the far end of the park. In the distance, he watched Luke, Willow, Tara and the brown-haired girl. They appeared to be talking, like any group of young people out for a mid-afternoon stroll. Except Willow had just knocked the teenaged girl to the ground. Willow wasn’t the type to take long to show her metal. He clucked his tongue and grinned with glee. Whatever deal Willow had struck with Shemhazi, Jacob knew his plan would get her out from under it. Grateful, she’d grant him exactly what he wanted—to take over Luke’s destiny. All he had to do was wait patiently for a few minutes longer and it would all be over.

Jacob folded his arms over his chest and rested against the sturdiest branch he could find. He’d bide his time and wait for Willow to finish her business before he stepped in and saved her from herself.

The swirling black clouds would rise from the ground shortly and cover the green lawn in darkness. The heat would kick in around that time, too.

He looked through the leaf-covered branches at the sunlight. “Bloody hell,” he cursed aloud. “This planning bullshit had better pay off.”


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“Time’s up.”

Willow was holding Tara’s hand and grinning at Luke and Dawn. She felt barely able to contain her exuberance as she grinded her heels into the earth.

They weren’t going to stop her.

They couldn’t.

They didn’t know how.

No one had reacted to her question so she fixed Dawn and Luke with a glance and repeated firmly and slowly. “I said time’s up.” She let go of Tara’s hand and sauntered toward the Portal Jumper and the Key, swaying her hips and fighting the urge to glide across the grass. It was hard for her to keep from flying. Take off from the Earth and soar through the sky. She could do it, too. Fly away and let them sink into hell, join Shemhazi’s world.

“Willow, what are you doing?” Dawn’s little girl voice irritated Willow.

Dawn was over a thousand years old and a fake. She wasn't a real girl, she wasn't Buffy's sister. She didn't need to pretend like she was anymore, sounding all young and innocent. Willow had stopped pretending. So, Dawn should, too. Besides, this was about Willow. Not Dawn. Not Buffy. Not Spike.

“I’m changing the world.” Willow decided she might as well let them in on her secret. It had been a long hard road since she’d raised the dead. No one understood how it had felt, the power inside her. Even the summer before she'd brought Buffy back, Willow had been the one they all turned to. The one with the real strength. She had struggled with it for a time, denied it even. But she freed herself of the guilt when she cast the thought spell.

She had tricked Giles and even Tara into believing it was a simple spell to stop the portal jumper. But she'd known Luke hadn't been the threat. A timeless killer, yes, he was that. But Willow needed the spell to transform her, help her become the most powerful witch on Earth. It hadn’t been her plan at first. She’d wanted to save Dawnie like the good witch she was. Then she'd read the black book Giles gave her to use for the spell and those pages, she'd seen what she could be. There, she'd seen her likeness resting in the arms of Glorificus and Shemhazi and she realized right then that she could make the world forever right. She had the power within her to made the world into whatever she wanted.

“You'll change the world into what?” Dawn spun away from Luke toward Willow. She didn’t seem to care about the danger of her movements. Willow’s chest swelled with an unexpected pride. There always had been something about Dawn she liked. Quite the feisty child when she wanted to be or when she wasn't whimpering.

“Back off!” Luke grabbed Dawn and pushed her aside. “This is a battle between us, witch. You are here for me.”

“I’m here for everyone," declared Willow.

Then she shoved Dawn to the ground and stared down at her crumbled body, lying in a heap on the grass, round youthful eyes teary and wide. Willow glanced at Luke over her shoulder and wrinkled her brow at the inappropriately dressed little man in the old-fashioned suit, still mysteriously pristine. She couldn't help thinking that without knowing it, these two, mismatched couple that they were, had held the magic Willow needed to overpower Shemhazi. Dawn and Luke had forced the Devil's hand. Luke stupidly had set out to revenge Glorificus, coming after Dawn and Giles, and Buffy's band of do-gooders. Luke hadn't known Shemhazi wouldn't allow him to succeed and upset the balance of power. Still, Shemhazi hadn't wanted to lose his eternal killer. He had to let Willow have the power to save the world. The Devil's power was limitless in hell. But on Earth, humans and their free will got in his way. He could only sway a soul toward damnation. Witches could change the minds of men and demons with the wave of finger.

“Why do you want to rule the world?” cried Dawn. Her voice had lost its bravado and had taken on that whiny tone Willow hated.

Willow’s hands flew up, palms out as she felt her eyes roll up in surrender. “You silly girl. It’s not about ruling the world. I’ll make the world safe by preventing the last Apocalypse.” Willow bent over Dawn and touched the girl’s wet cheeks. “We won't need Slayers or Councils or vampires because there won't be any monsters left to be afraid of. Humans and of course, all of the world’s witches, will be safe.” She glanced at Tara and smiled. Her lover was standing obediently next to a bench, waiting patiently just as she should.

“Willow?” Dawn’s voice sounded sad. “Please. You can stop this. You don’t have to choose. We can kill Luke. We don’t need a perfect world.”

“I believe you over state,” interrupted Luke. “Killing me will not be accomplished so readily.”

A funnel of wind suddenly swirled up in front of her and quivered to a stop next to Luke. Willow moved to Tara’s side, pulling her protectively into her arms as she watched Spike step out of the portal.

“My, this is getting to be old home week.” Willow grinned. “Spike and Jacob, who’s over there hiding in a tree on the other side of the grass.” She lifted her chin and waved toward the tree. “What next? Buffy? Xander? Anya, maybe? I think you’d like that Luke. Anya showing up, that is.”

Spike was wearing his signature black duster and looking quite dapper thought Willow. He had a smirk on his face and leered at her without the slightest sign of fear. It was what she’d expected. So far, things were going exactly as she’d hoped. “Brimming with confidence I see,” she said to Spike. “Jacob? Want to join us?” Willow shouted in the tree’s direction. “Guess he’s not ready, huh?” She squeezed Tara around the waist.

Spike fan kicked at Luke, catching him in the throat with a sharp snap from his large black boot. The portal jumper staggered backwards, but didn’t hit the ground. He lunged at Spike, but Willow held up her hand and froze them.

“This doesn’t have to be a brawl, guys." She chuckled and twirled her finger at Spike and Luke. A fireball jettisoned in a straight line from Willow's fingertip and zeroed in on Spike’s heart. Willow laughed aloud as the vampire leapt out of the way, barely missing his dusty end. Luckily, it struck Luke in the chest and he screamed, patting at his suit jacket frantically, smothering the flames. He wasn't in danger of burning, but she knew how much he hated the heat.

Willow let go of Tara, grabbed a handful of Dawn's hair and yanked her up onto her feet. She held her inches away from her face. "You are the chosen one after all, Dawnie." Willow whispered in her ear. "The one who must go to Shemhazi in exchange for my indisputable power. We're going to save the world. And it starts now!" She wrapped her arms around Dawn's shoulders and hugged her tight. "This is the only way it can be, Dawn. But I'll tell Buffy you said goodbye."

"I'll tell her myself, Willow." Buffy suddenly appeared next to Spike and Luke with the boy Willow had seen in the alley at her side. She had an axe in one hand and a black book in the other hand. The boy was armed with clenched fists and a familiar look in his eyes. Something she'd seen in Shemhazi's face. Her mind fumbled, as she tried to pull the memory back into her head.

"Buffy? Carlo?" Dawn was struggling in Willow's arms, but she held her firm.

"You can't stop this Buffy," warned Willow. "You can't change this outcome with blood or Slayer mumbo jumbo or anything like that. This is about real power. The power that brought you back from the dead. Power that can change the world. Make it better." Buffy stared at her, mouth slightly open. She hadn't blindly attacked, noted Willow. Buffy wasn't being the compulsive action-figure slayer.

"Dawn doesn't exist Buffy. I'll make this shell go away and then I'll make you forget about her. But first, I've got to destroy it. So please, let me finish what I've started."

Willow was surprised by the unfamiliar sound of pleading in her voice. It had occurred to her that it might end this way. A standoff between her and Buffy. But that wasn't what she wanted. She didn't want to kill her friends.

"I won't hurt you Buffy." Willow said. "But my vampires will."

She wiggled her finger at Spike. He wasn't human. He had no free will. Willow could make him do anything.

to be continued...

chapter 32, peace beyond passion, part II

From his perch atop a tall elm tree on the opposite side of the park, Jacob could easily hear Willow ranting at Spike, screaming at him to attack the slayer.

Jacob shook his head in disbelief; Willow made him want to laugh out loud. For such a powerful witch, she was clueless about the inner workings of vampires. She certainly had no idea that there was no way she could turn Spike against his precious slayer. Jacob had seen Spike with the girl. He would give up his world to save her without a second thought.

“Foolish vampire,” mumbled Jacob and then raising his head, he shouted across the lawn. “What. Is. Your. Problem?” Spike should have let the fucking slayer bleed to death in the alley as she was meant to do. But no! Instead, he’d jumped her into a safe world, forgetting he was a descendant of Aurelius. Damn fool! Spike was mucking the whole thing up.

Jacob swung up onto a higher branch in the tree. He wanted to get a better look at the drama playing itself out near the flowering bushes. He settled quickly into his new spot, legs swinging easily as he stared with bewilderment at Spike on the other side of the lawn.

Jacob rolled his eyes. In their early years, Darla and Angelus would have been the perfect candidates for the position of portal jumper. Surely, the Master had thought that very thing. Jacob could see the bat-faced demon, squatting on his hindquarters, palms pressed together beneath his chin, eyes glowing and mouth watering dreaming about his children killing forever in whatever dimension they chose. Darla and Angelus’ ascension to Luke’s throne would have made the Master the happiest fiend in the universe.

But fate had twisted the destiny of the Aurelius clan. The Master was dust. Darla was dust by her own hand, or so Jacob had heard. Supposedly, she’d been cursed. A freakish human life had grown inside her womb and she dusted herself to save it. Jacob dismissed the disgusting tale as urban legend. Darla didn’t have an ounce of sacrifice in her.

Of course, the bastard Angel was still around. But the vengeful Gypsies had tainted him long ago. Once souled, a vampire was of no use to the Portal Jumper. Same went with being a raving lunatic, which meant Dru wasn't even an afterthought. Spike on the other hand didn’t have a soul, but he did have a perverse (okay, maybe a little bit of insantiy in his bones, too) obsession with the Slayer. He'd gone from being a master at killing slayers to protecting one. His thing for her was so intense, it was almost as if he was in love with her, frowned Jacob. Certainly that was enough to take him out of the running for Luke’s long-term rewards.

Jacob swallowed, attempting to hold in his excitement, but the laughter filled his throat. With any luck and a wee bit of planning, that left him, the last untainted descendant of Aurelius heir to the portal jumper’s throne. He was the vampire who would be King. Jacob clapped his hands together gleefully. It was about time his lineage paid off.

After being shunned by his sire Darla, he’d been waiting for this kind of opportunity. For the past 100 years, his life in New York had been good, but not monumental. He deserved grandness and sucking the blood from the throats and groins of upper west side actors and businessmen lost its thrill after a while. He needed something better to do with his immortality than wander the streets of Manhattan for an eternity.

Jacob raised his chin and found Willow’s wild dark eyes gleaming so brightly with insanity that they shone over the length of the park like a beacon. He could feel her warped energy seeping into his bones. He’d have to contend with her to get what he wanted. She’d collected a shit load of power, perhaps making her indestructible. But, she couldn’t wipe out everybody. In the nature of things, it wouldn’t make sense. One entity having all of that power was too upsetting to the balance between good and evil.

Jacob took a head count. There were seven of them—Willow, her girlfriend, Spike, the Slayer, Luke, and the two teens.

He scooted around on the branch, debating. Sooner or later he was going to have join the battle, right? But who’s side should he join? If it ended the way he anticipated, it didn’t matter what choice he made, except he didn’t want to kill Spike. The world needed at least one Aurelian around to suffer at God’s hand.

Jacob laughed a full-throated sound of joy even to his own ears. Most likely, Spike and the witches had heard him, but he didn’t care. The idea of a suffering Spike made him happy. He wiped the tears from his eyes and adjusted his back against the trunk of the tree, forcing himself to be quiet as he returned his attention to Willow.

Not surprisingly, she was still going on and on about doing this or that to save the world. Her tone had the same high-pitched wail Drusilla used to make when Angelus broke one of her dolls.

Jacob tilted his head at the other witch, who was moving nervously at Willow’s side. Her hands hidden, she appeared to be working something around in her coat pocket. But why, he wondered, was she even wearing a coat? It was late afternoon and the sun was setting behind the horizon on the far side of the park, but it wasn’t cold enough for a coat. Jacob narrowed his eyes, examining her more closely. It was the same coat she’d had on the day she and the redhead had arrived at his apartment.

Jacob mumbled to himself. “She’s up to something.”

He focused all of his senses on Tara. She was pulling a scrap of paper from her pocket, reaching it out to Willow, but then she pulled it back, returning her quivering hand to her coat pocket. Rising, Jacob moved a patch of leafy branches out of his way and leaned forward.

Still, he couldn’t make out what she was doing.

Jumping from the tree branch, Jacob landed on the ground solidly on his two feet. Then taking off swiftly, he loped across the lawn.

“Mmmmm.” As he neared the group, he paused. Tara had pulled the paper out again and he could see it. She was holding a photograph, clutching it in her hands as she jerked her head from Willow’s face to Spike’s with such urgency he expected her head to fall from her shoulders.

Then she stopped the ping-pong head movements. Her large round eyes rested unwaveringly on Spike.

“She is eyeing him rather intently, now, isn’t she?” Jacob muttered as he crept forward another few yards, past the sandbox and the first set of swings, swaying empty in the warm breeze. Heel, toe, heel, toe. He covered the space between him and the group cautiously, an inch at a time. He didn’t need to reach them too soon. There was something churning around inside his head and he needed time to figure it out.

Jacob’s nostrils flared as he picked up the sudden strong aroma of roses, yellow and pink, wafting from the bushes. The scent was so powerful it drenched the atmosphere as if the morning sun was feeding it. He looked up at the sky; suddenly wanting to see the sun, make certain it was setting and not zigzagging about.

It was turning black.

He rubbed the back of his neck as a sharp pain settled at the conjuncture between his head and the curve of his spine. Holy shit, he cursed as the dread jettisoned up and down his back. He inhaled sharply and opened his eyes wide. The darkening sky wasn’t his only problem. There was something he ought to remember about the big-boned witch, but his head was filled with the scent of roses.

Jacob started running toward Spike, Luke and the witches.

It was time for him to get into the fray.


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“Are you insane?” Spike shouted at Willow, and then he paused considering his next words carefully. “Don’t bother to answer that. Yes, you are absolutely daft!”

“And what are you going to do about it?” challenged Willow. “Nothing, because you have no free will and will do as I command. ”

“Think you’ve made a mistake there, Red.” He didn’t feel the pull of her mind like the last time Willow had summoned him, when he’d been so filled with fear about hurting Dawn or Buffy that he’d run away. There in New York City in the alley, Willow had ruled him. But not here in Sunnydale, not now.

Spike slid to his left, his weight on the balls of his feet, gauging the distance between Willow’s outstretched arms and his neck. The free will line had made him angry but not stupid.

“Stay still!” demanded Willow as she grabbed Dawn around the throat. Then she moved so quickly, an instant later she was stringing the girl between two trees.

“No!” Buffy screamed, but she didn't move. She stayed next to Carlo. Spike sensed she was waiting for an opening, just like him.

But Willow kept moving fast.

She had tied Dawn to the tree branches, stretching her arms so painfully tight they looked ready to snap. And now, Dawn was chained to the Earth with some kind of magical rope floating up around her calves and back down to her ankles over and over again.

Spike glanced at Buffy, trying to catch her eye, but she was staring at Willow and Dawn. He looked at Luke. The Portal Jumper seemed to be comfortable watching, entertained by the sideshow before the main act. Spike figured he was going to let him and Buffy handle Willow. Then, he’d step in and snatch Dawn away at the last moment.

Not going to let that happen thought Spike, his eyes back on Willow.

Not much sodding time to consider the consequences, decided Spike as he whipped a thin steel garrote from his pocket. It had been hidden there for times like this. He whirled it above his head and then snapping it long, lassoed Tara around the shoulders. One firm tug and the witch was in his arms.

“What the hell are you doing, vampire!” Willow screamed.

He was holding Tara around the throat with one hand, his other hand wrapped around her waist, her back pulled against his chest. “I’ll snap Tara's neck if you don’t release Dawn.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then you’d be a bloody fool.”



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Everything went black and Xander stumbled around for a few seconds before finding the lamp on Giles’ desk and switching it on. The soft glow of the bulb made a small dent in the darkness. He squinted in the direction of where he’d last seen Anya. She was still huddled on the floor, near the fireplace.

Silent.

“Xander?” Giles’ gravelly voice came from the opposite side of the room, near the counter dividing the dinette and the kitchen.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Is it over?”

Xander closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his heart stomping around inside his chest. “No,” His voice was hoarse. “It’s not done…not yet.”

“I wish it would end.” The despair in the Watcher ’s voice was all consuming.

“Giles?” Xander waited for the Watcher to look him in the eye. His mind had flashed on the answer to their dilemma as his heart pounded against his ribcage. “Reverse the thought spell.”

Giles’ face turned so white, it reminded Xander of cotton balls. Except for the dark blotches under his eyes, he was covered in puffy whiteness.

“You’ve tried everything else.” Xander stepped toward him. “It’s the only thing you haven’t mentioned. It’s too easy not to try.”

“Xander’s right, Giles. Reverse the spell,” said Anya, her voice soft, but firm, rose up from the corner behind him.

Xander turned toward Anya. A faint glimmer of her easy grin curled her lips and he returned her smile. When he looked back at Giles, the Watcher was removing his glasses from his face and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Xander had missed seeing the patented gesture and dropped his chin to his chest. He suddenly felt very tired; the exhaustion covering him like a two-ton moth.

“It can’t be that simple.” Giles’ voice sounded far away.

“Actually, you and Willow said it was a simple spell,” Xander started. “Or is this another consequence of our indulgent magic, not remembering that sometimes a spell is as easy to reverse as it is to cast.”

“We got lost, Giles,” said Anya. “Instead of trying to stop all of the monsters, we tried to beat them. We don’t have to win. We just have to stop what we started.”

“You think, it’s that easy. Really?” Giles’ eyes were bright and moist, with flecks of hope spattering his face, as he pushed himself away from the stool and stumbled toward Xander.

“I don’t know,” answered Xander, walking back and forth in front of the sofa, pulling his fingers through his hair. “But it’s the only thing we haven’t tried.”

As the steady cadence of Giles’ voice filled the room, Xander walked to the front door and opened it, wide. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the scent of winter flowers into his lungs. It was a familiar aroma, one he’d missed since Buffy and Dawn had left for New York. But now he remembered.

It smelled like home, like Sunnydale.

Leaning against the door, Xander watched the night birds in Giles’ courtyard fluttering and flapping above the tall trees and between the small bushes. He had no idea who would return from the battle in the park. But without the spell, he prayed Buffy, Dawn and Willow would find their way home.

As he felt the thought spell leaving his body, Xander shivered and then grimaced as a sudden weight on his chest pressed him backward into the door.

Fear and doubt, prejudice and hate rushed into him.

Their spell had turned him into a man who had no thoughts for anything that had to do with him, making him a conduit for guilt and suffering. Oddly enough, it had given him the power to summon the First Witch.

He’d saved Giles.

He’d even protected Anya from Luke, in his own way. But he’d never been perfect and as the thoughts slipped in and out of his mind, he realized he’d never wanted to be anything but Xander Harris.

He had no idea what that might mean. There was no way to predict how his life would change, or not.

But Willow would know the answers, and she’d explain it all when she returned from the park. She’d know if their debt to the universe had been paid. She been his best friend all of his life and he trusted her completely and he would do whatever she said.

What else could he do?

to be continued...

chapter 33, passion beyond peace part III

“Stay still.” Spike tightened his grip around Tara's waist. “This might not be the best plan I've ever had.” He whispered in her ear. “But right now, it will have to do.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Buffy flinch. She’d been oddly quiet since stepping out of the portal with Carlo. Spike was beginning to think she’d lost track of what was happening. He skimmed the faces of the others standing in the park with them and they appeared dazed, too. Even Tara had relaxed in his arms.

Spike glared at Willow. She was stretching Dawn’s body like a crossbow between two trees.

She hadn't changed, that was for bloody certain. She was still insane.

Spike’s fingers squeezed Tara’s neck hard and she made a gurgling sound. "I'll kill your girlfriend if you don’t let Dawn go." He shouted.

“You won’t hurt her.”

“Then why do you look so worried?” said Buffy, touching Spike's arm as she moved by him.

“Can you stop all of us?” Buffy advanced toward Willow and Dawn. “Don’t you see how Luke is not paying attention to us?” She waved in the Portal Jumper’s direction. “We are the ones doing this to us. Not Luke. Not the devil. It’s us. Just us.”

Buffy was blocking Spike’s view of Willow and he circled to his left, pulling Tara with him.

“That means we can stop this. If we want to,” said Buffy.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Willow arched an eyebrow. “You never do."

"I do understand." Buffy reached her arms out wide. "All of this has been about power and choices and consequences.”

Buffy leaned toward Spike and whispered. "The thought spell, it’s gone and I’ve got my memories back.”

Then she faced Willow. “I know why I didn't care about being away from Sunnydale. I was happy in New York and I didn't feel any guilt about it. I missed my friends, but I didn’t care about having died or having been in heaven. I was just glad to be alive."

"Heaven?” Willow's eyes widened. “I don’t need to hear this.” She was looking down as as if something at her feet needed her attention. “I can snap a finger and end the world, you know?” Willow lifted her head to the sky. “I have my thought back, too, but I still have the First Witch’s power.”

“That can be good for us,” Buffy looked encouraged; her voice sounded excited, even hopeful. "We can defeat Luke together. We'll be able to give the universe what it wants. We can make this work for us, don't you think?”

Willow was pacing back and forth in front of Dawn. “I was Shemhazi’s consort and gave birth to the first of his half-breed demons. I won’t fight Luke. I can’t.”

Spike glanced at Luke. He was smiling and leaning confidently against a tree.

“Willow, listen to yourself?” Buffy pleaded. “The spell is over. You've got your thought back. You are not the First Witch. We are back to being us again." The urgency in Buffy's words echoed through the park. "We were tricked. Fooled by our own weaknesses. This is a game. Something Luke and his eternally bored father made up. But, we don’t have to play any more.”

“I won’t give up my powers.” Willow brushed a strand of hair from Dawn's brow. “If I pay my debt to the universe and give the world back its Key, I get to keep it all.”

“Oh God, Willow. I don’t want to hurt you.” Buffy pulled a dagger from the waistband of her jeans. “But I won’t let you hurt Dawn. If you don’t release her, I will stop you.”

“You won’t have to Buffy.” Carlo’s voice boomed from behind Spike. “Because I’m going to stop her."

Still holding Tara firmly around the throat, Spike sidestepped Buffy so he could see Carlo. The boy was taller and his eyes burned bright gold. He wasn’t just a young kid from the Bronx anymore. He was something more.

Sod it all to hell.

Spike could bloody well smell the difference in Carlo. He had become a demon, a vengeance demon—a powerful vengeance demon.

“I’m going to say this once, witch.” Carlo’s voice vibrated. “Let Dawn go.”

Willow floated up above the treetops, Dawn seemingly forgotten. Carlo rose with her. His abilities leaving Spike drop jawed for an instant, but he recovered, releasing Tara as he grabbed Dawn’s wrist, untying the robe binding her to the tree trunks. Buffy was at Dawn's feet, using her slayer strength to break the magic robes around her ankles.

In the sky above, Carlo and Willow were indistinguishable, the fight between them a blur of wind and noise.

“Well, now that was a surprise,” Luke stepped away from the tree and was looking up at Carlo. “My muse appears to have gotten her wits about her and given the young boy a wish.”

“Yes, that does seem likely.” Spike stood next to Buffy and in front of Tara and Dawn as the group faced Luke. Spike held his garrote in his hand and saw the dagger clenched in Buffy’s fist. He wished one of them had bothered to grab some larger like an ax or mallet or some other heavy, sharp, metal weapon.

Spike shook his head and went into game face, having forgotten for a moment his own ever-ready weapon.

“Well, how nice. I hadn't seen your fangs before. This should be good." Luke giggled like a woman.

Another flurry of movement and Spike and Luke were locked in battle. Ripping and tearing at each other, Spike felt a blow to the gut that made him drop to his knee. He righted himself swiftly and glimpsed Buffy connecting a one-two punch and scissor-kick to Luke’s throat. The Portal Jumper stumbled backward, but then soared forward, pushing Buffy out of his way as he grabbed a handful of Dawn’s hair.

“You’ll take me home, Key or I’ll kill everyone here,” shouted Luke, twisting Dawn’s face to his.

"Let her go!” Carlo shouted from the sky. He shoved Willow aside and jetted next to Spike and Buffy.

“Get out of here, boy," said Luke, a frown covering his thin, pale face. “I don’t have time for you.”

Willow descended from the sky and landed at Luke's side. She squinted at Buffy, a deep sadness in her narrowed eyes. “You’ve forced me to make this decision.”

“You made your decision when you changed the thought spell, Willow," said Buffy.

Willow and Luke clasped hands as a sharp, billowing wind swept through the park, pushing Spike backward, but he braced himself against the force of it. Surging through the wind, he smacked Willow in the face on his way to the Portal Jumper. He felt Buffy spring into action behind him, grabbing Dawn, and in a flash Carlo was at Willow again, tearing at the witch with his hands.

Then the wind changed direction and Buffy was in the sky above him, held by Willow, a black raging cloud engulfing them both. Spike couldn't help Buffy either. Luke had him by the throat, dangling him off the ground like a doll. Struggling pointlessly, Spike saw Carlo out of the corner of his eye. He had Dawn in his arms and was whispering in her ear.

Suddenly, Spike heard Jacob's voice rising above the wind.

“The witch has something in her pocket that can help us, Spike.” Jacob was running toward Tara. "I'll get it from her."

Spike felt the world spinning. Luke was choking him. Strangulation hadn't been something Spike had worried about in centuries. He hadn't been able to breathe, so cutting off his air supply hadn't been a big deal. But now, the sensation of not being able to draw a breath, the strain he felt behind his bulging eyes as Luke squeezed harder and harder, it was agony being choked to death.

How could such a thin man be so strong?

Bloody hell, Luke wasn't a man.

He was the heir to the Kingdom of Hell and his mother was the world's First Witch. Luke killed for pleasure, traveled through dimensions, destroying the innocence of the good and bending the depths of evil for fun. He was all-evil and all-powerful, but he believed in his fucking right to exist and play with the nature of things. He'd turned Spike into a super human vampire, hadn't he? Made Spike the First Witch's bitch.

So, why should Spike be surprised that Luke could straggle him to death?

Spike's legs went limp as he felt his body slump in Luke's grasp.

Damn it all to bloody hell, he couldn't let this piss ant beat him.

If he did, he wouldn't be able to help Buffy save Dawn.

He would fail the Slayer again.

Spike blinked. The darkness was smothering him. He couldn't see anything, except for Luke's cold blue eyes flashing red and gold. And then...he heard Jacob.

"Why won't you die, witch!"

The next few seconds moved like lightening across the sky.


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Spike had released her, but now Jacob had her by the throat. He wasn't trying to use her to get to Willow, though. He was trying to tear her arm out of its socket and twist her head from her shoulders.

"Leave me alone." Tara kicked at the vampire with her feet. But his hands held her with such force she collapsed against his chest, helpless.

He was jamming his hands into her pocket, ripping her coat. She prayed he'd pull out the herbs and roots wrapped in the cheesecloth she had hidden in the coat's lining. Then she could find a way to toss them in his face. Cast a quick spell and freeze him for an instant, give herself enough time to get Willow's attention.

As Jacob's hands clenched around her esophagus, she looked up.

Willow was busy, fighting for her life against the boy, Dawn's friend.

Tara thrashed from side to side. Jacob was choking her and searching her pockets.

Then he stopped. He'd found what he was looking for.

He was pulling the photo from her pocket.

She had wanted to tell Willow about the photo. Why hadn't she?

God, she wish she knew.

"Why won't you die, witch?"

Jacob's words were a muffled sound inside her head. Still, she'd heard him. Except her throat was too swollen and she couldn't answer him.

Besides, what could she say. Please stop. Don't kill me?

Jacob released her and she fell to the ground.

Her eyes flew open.

She knew why he needed the photo. It would bring back Luke's memory of him and that might save his pitiful vampire life.

Too bad she'd forgotten to show the photo to Willow thought Tara, as she lay on the ground.

Then she stopped thinking about anything at all.


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Luke couldn't believe his good fortune.

The redheaded witch was fighting on his side and keeping the Slayer at bay. Spike wasn’t strong enough to stop him. It would take only a straight-armed push to knock him out of his path. Luke's only concern was the boy. Anyaka had played an evil trick on him, giving the boy a wish. He could prove troublesome.

"Carlo." Luke turned as he felt the boy’s power surge. “You can't battle me when you are so angry."

“You can’t have her,” said Carlo, his body had grown massive.

“What powers have you developed there, dear boy?”

“Vengeance is my power. ”

“No, that’s not it," mumbled Luke.

"You killed my mother and you're trying to kill my girlfriend."

"Well, I've killed a lot of mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers," chimed Luke. "So, you don't get vengeance just because you've experienced a loss. It has to be an injustice of significance."

"My mother was a good woman."

"I've killed quite a few good women, too." Luke laughed. "Besides, this has been Shemhazi’s game of vengeance. Your mother, whoever she was, was simply my gift.”

"No, she could never be your gift. She was ready for evil like you. She prayed every night for God to make her strong enough to fight against your kind."

Luke wondered aloud. “Did she work in a restaurant in New York?"

"You bastard," hissed Carlo.

"I remember her," said Luke, surprised. He never remembered his gifts. His muse kept those memories for him, made it easier to keep killing. But he did remember this one.

"She was hard to kill." Luke rocked on his heels. "I thought she was a special treat from Shemhazi to me. A foreshadowing of my victory here.”

“What victory?” The boy shouted.

“I will win the Key. The witch is on my side. The vampires, well, who cares about them. And the slayer will die soon, too. An added bonus.” Luke smiled, thinking how easy it had been. A simple spell had robbed a group of saviors of their strength. He and Shemhazi had wiped out their powers by giving them what they wanted, what they thought they needed—and all because of the egos of a Watcher and a Witch. He and his father had punished the do-gooders who had destroyed his sister, Glorificus. All that was left was for the Key to take him home, return him to hell so he could join his father, finally.

No longer would he be banished to dimensions that were too hot with human joy and human stink.

There was a loud crackling noise and Luke turned to see a streak of white light exploding from Carlo’s outstretched arms. He felt his body shimmer, his arms weakened and trembled as the universe unfolded around him. The ground split open beneath his feet.

“You have my gifts!” Luke stared in shock at the boy. “My muse gave you my memories.”

“No, she gave me my wish," said Carlo. "The power to kill all fools, and I guess that means you, too."


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Carlo was standing near the trees holding her in his arms. The young boxer looked very much the champion he’d always told her he would be, holding her.

Dawn turned her head and saw Buffy talking to Willow. Most likely, it wasn't a friendly conversation. Willow had just tried to kill Dawn or at least stretch her from limb to limb between two trees. She bet Buffy was rather pissed about that.

"Dawn," Carlo whispered in her ear. "You've got to jump three dimensions in a row, without looking back, and you've got to do it when I say, go. Okay?"

"No, I won't leave Buffy." Her sister couldn't beat Willow and Luke, and Dawn couldn't see Spike anywhere.

"You've got to do as I say, babe."

"I don't understand. You've got like superpowers. I don't know how, but I do know that you've got 'em."

"For this to work, you've got to go."

She hadn't seen him look so serious, ever.

"Will you save Buffy?"

"Go now."

"Carlo, please," cried Dawn. "What about Buffy?"

"Go."

Dawn jumped.


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Buffy bounced hard on the ground, and rolling over the lawn, collided into tree stumps and broken benches before rolling to a stop next to a sand dune. Willow had dropped her from the sky when the world split open and swallowed Dawn and the Portal Jumper. It had happened so fast that Buffy hadn’t had time to do anything but try and hold on to Willow. Keep both of them from falling into the big hole that had erupted in the middle of the park. Not that Buffy cared about saving Willow, not any more. But she might need Willow to get her sister back.

Buffy jumped to her feet, brushed off her jeans and eyed what was left of the park. It was shredded like cabbage for slaw. Trees cracked open from the root, splintered branches and benches and crushed swing sets scattered everywhere appeared to have been tossed about like salad.

"Spike!" Buffy screamed out his name. There was so much wood in the park. The stupid vampire might have gotten staked. “Spike!"

She ran, pushing stacks of wood aside, picking up branches and searching under broken benches. But she couldn't tell if the dirt was just dirt or Spike. Then she remembered Carlo. He'd been like Superman for a few minutes there. He'd had Dawn. Buffy remembered seeing that.

"Carlo!" She turned round in a circle. The park was darker now, she could barely see three feet in front of her in any direction.

“What the hell is going on?” Buffy shouted. “Where did everybody go?”

“Things have changed.” Willow’s voice came from above her.

"What do you mean?" She looked up.

“Luke has Dawn and she has opened the doors to hell for him.”

“You let this happen, didn’t you?” Buffy fought to control the rising pitch of her voice.

“No.” Willow loomed in the sky as if standing on an invisible lift. "I think it was Carlo's idea."

Buffy had had her fill of Willow’s cryptic remarks. “Where. Is. Carlo?”

"What do you think, Jacob?" Willow was a few feet in front of Buffy with Jacob, suddenly appearing next to her, looking way too smug. "Should we tell Buffy what happened to her vengeance demon?”

“How did he get here?” She gestured toward Jacob.

He growled. “Ask me that question, Slayer.”

“Where’s Carlo?”

“Oh,” he paused. “Not that question. I thought you wanted to know how I got here.”

His shit grin was getting on Buffy's last nerve. "What's your stake in all of this?"

“It's an Aurelius thing, Slayer. You wouldn’t understand."

"I know your clan pretty well, Jacob," muttered Buffy, but then she added loud. "Try me."

Jacob smirked and grabbed his crotch suggestively. "I guess you do know us. At least I hear you knew Angelus rather well, and I do mean in the biblical sense. Also seems that Spike wouldn't pass you up, either. I could tell that from the alley in New York."

Jacob kicked at the dirt. "The Aurelius connection with Luke is a century old tale. Darla and me met Luke a hundred or so years back. I'd forgotten about it. But Willow's witch found a photo of Darla, our boy and me from back in the day."

He ambled toward Buffy, smacking his lips. “Finding that photo was a very good thing for us. Used it to help Luke get back home, which means this is my show now …or should I say, me and Mom's show." He smiled at Willow. "Now I can move into Luke's little shoes, so he can go home to Papa and get the rest he deserves."

"So, Vampire Slayer.” Jacob swung one arm ceremoniously over his chest, the other behind his back and bowed. “It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to the new Portal Jumper."

“Shit," cursed Buffy.

Jacob grinned. "That's right. Little old me."

He walked to her, so close his breath scorched her face. "The new big dog of dimension jumping and murder is moi,” he gloated, stepping so close their bodies touched.

But Buffy didn't back off.

He touched her cheek and his tongue trailed down her jaw line and she cringed, but she didn't move. Then he was kissing her and whispering into her mouth.

“I'm going to enjoy fucking you. See what has Spike's nuts in a bundle. Then I’m going to rip off your head and drink your Slayer blood like a gallon of spring water.”

Buffy’s body stiffened, but she stared past Jacob, her eyes on Willow. “What are you going to do? Watch?”

“Pretty much,” said Willow, her pupils black balls, obliterating the whites of her eyes.

“What happened to not wanting to hurt me?”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Willow folded her arms over her chest. “Jacob is going to hurt you.”

“So, that’s your idea of power?”

“I had to make a choice,” she said. “One of my friend’s had to die for the world to survive.”

She reached out and took Buffy’s hand. “Since you already know you’ll go to heaven, I thought if any one had to die to save the world again, it might as well be you.”


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Chapter 34 - Faithful

Flat on his back, Spike stared up at the tombstones surrounding him, marveling at their artistry. They jutted skyward, different heights, widths and shapes chiseled lovingly by the hands of the broken hearted, cutting their grief into stone. He took a deep breath and rolled over onto his stomach, pulling his coat from beneath him as his mind filled with thoughts of Buffy. The last thing Spike ever wanted to see again was her name etched on a tombstone.

He had to get back to her as fast as he could.

Jerking himself up to his knees, he tried to get a handle on where he was. Definitely a cemetery and from the smell of it, one he knew well. Then he sussed it out. He was in Sunnydale, near his crypt.

Maybe it was a good sign he was back in a familiar place, he hoped as he hugged his coat around his chest. Then his eyes widened as he stared at the leather in his hands. When had he found his coat? He glanced down at the rest of his attire; black jeans, black t-shirt, black boots. The shirtless look was gone. He rubbed his hand over his brow. No dripping sweat, either. His skin wasn't hot anymore.

His days as a living, breathing vampire were coming to an end.

The shift had begun in the park. He'd felt something unusual, but he'd ignored it. Had too many other things pressing on his mind, like having his fingers wrapped around Tara's throat. Then he'd been fighting Luke and later, Jacob had showed up. After that, he couldn't rightly remember the sequence of events. Everything got muddled from that point on.

Now, crouched on his knees outside his crypt, he was certain of one thing, old Spike was making a comeback.

That could be good, or it could be bad. If the spell was over than maybe everything that had transpired was about to end. That meant everybody would be getting back to normal. No more Luke, Jacob, evil Willow, unreliable Tara or the oddness that had been Anya. It would also mean Buffy would be Buffy again, the slayer who would rather punch him in the jaw than kiss him. But as long as she wasn't hurt, he'd deal with it. Besides, that was the Slayer he loved.

Spike lifted his head slowly. The last picture he had of the park wavered before his eyes, shaking itself into clarity. Then he saw it. Dawn had snatched him into a portal. She'd gotten him away from Jacob and Tara. Whisked him up in her arms like he was a baby. But where was Dawn now? He looked around. He didn’t see her. It didn't smell her. She wasn't in the cemetery.

But sod it all, why had she grabbed him and not Buffy?

Groaning loudly, Spike struggled to his feet. His head felt like it was splitting in two. Definitely, an after effect of being churned inside out and upside down in Dawn's portal for God knows how long, he wagered.

Bloody Hell.

He had to get his wits about him. He couldn’t help Buffy from here.

“Spike?”

A woman’s voice called to him from behind a nearby gravestone. He stumbled toward the sound cautiously, thinking he recognized it. After the portal, his ears could be playing tricks on him. It might be Willow, unchanged and deadly, her mind still trapped in Shemhazi's hell.

“Spike?” said the woman. “You doing okay?”

It was Anya.

Staggering forward, he leaned on a tombstone suddenly queasy. He had hoped the voice belonged to Buffy. “Why am I here?”

“I think I brought you here.” Anya emerged from behind a tall monument, tugging at her skirt. “Well, it was either me, or me and Giles, or me and Xander, just not clear where the magic came from to pull you out of Dawn’s portal. Of course, there is always the possibility that Dawn released you because she knew she couldn’t get back to Buffy in time, but I’m not really….”

Spike raised his hand, stopping her breathless explanation. “Well, Pet, you got me here…some kind of way. Now get me back to the park so I can help Buffy.”

“It’s not that easy Spike.” She was ringing her hands together. “You’re here to fight another battle. Whoever wins this one will be able to go back to the park and fight along side whoever’s left standing.”

She walked toward him, her hands now resting at her side, her eyes averted to the night sky above. “The battle in the park in the fading sunlight is Buffy’s war.” She lowered her gaze and looked at him. “Your fight is here in the cemetery, in the moonlight.”

“Bollocks, Anya.” He searched the darkness. “Show me who it is I have to fight so I can get on with it.”

“Who have I played the pawn for from the beginning of this game?” Her face changed, her eyes anxious as the image of Anya began to shimmer and reshape.

In seconds, Spike was standing before a thin, pale man wearing a seersucker suit and white tennis shoes.

“Spike,” said Luke, grinning. “So glad you could come.”

Spike flew at the Portal Jumper, tackling him around the waist and knocking him to the ground. Spike’s anger fueled his punches as he pummeled Luke relentlessly. Slamming his face with his fists, Spike could feel his bones splinter beneath the blows. Then they were intertwined and rolling on the ground over and over until Spike, unleashing his demon with a roar, chopped down on Luke’s throat, tearing at Luke's neck with his fangs.

Maybe he didn’t need superhuman vampire skills to kick the Portal Jumper’s ass after all.

“Slow down, vampire.” Luke grabbed Spike’s face and pushed him back with a vicious shove. “I don’t need to fight like this. I am a man of words.”

“You’re a killer.” Spike was facing Luke, put off by his nonchalant tone, but deciding to play along nonetheless. Just in case he didn’t have a choice.

“Yes, I am. But so are you.” He leaped at Spike, battering his jaw with a series of punches.

Luke’s bony knuckles felt like knives slicing into Spike's skin.

Spike touched his face, hoping it was still there, but his eyes remained on Luke. Then he saw something he hadn’t seen before. Luke was bleeding. Thick red drops spurted from the Portal Jumper’s mouth. Spike had hurt him. Had drawn blood, from a bloodless creature. Spike ran at Luke with the fury of a thousand vampires, smashing and cutting the Portal Jumper with his fists and fangs.

Suddenly Luke was sinking into the lawn, getting smaller and smaller, dissolving before Spike’s eyes. “What's going on?” He said aloud.

“Nothing much,” muttered Luke. “Just time passing before your eyes.”

The Portal Jumper started shimmering again.

“Playing games in this world is a waste of time.” He said, his tone melancholy. “I can’t die, because I haven’t changed. I had thought traveling through the Key’s portal would make a difference, but no. It hasn’t. I am still what I will always be.”

“What does that mean?” said Spike, puzzled by what he was witnessing. “Hasn’t any of this meant anything to you?” He advanced on the fading Portal Jumper, stopping inches from his translucent face. “More people are going to die and you keep playing games.”

“Someone did die.” His voice was deafeningly loud. “Glorificus is dead. They killed her and this is what we’ve decided to do.”

“What do you mean?” Spike arched a brow. “By this?”

“Make the Watcher, the Witch, the Slayer and the Key wish they’d never lived.”

“Not likely,” Spike scoffed.

“Yes indeed likely. I’m killing what they loved best,” said Luke. “I figured that out in the park. That’s why I’m here. To claim some semblance of victory by killing the Slayer’s sister and her vampire.”

“Don’t go betting on that.” Spike clenched his fists and barred his fangs.

“Doesn’t matter if it’s true in this dimension, or not,” smiled Luke, his lip curling into a sneer. “Because right now, the Slayer is being shown your dead body and that of her sister’s. And in another dimension, Dawn is seeing the remains of her sister and her dear Carlo, spread like manure over the earth.”

Luke leaned close to Spike and whispered. “You know, that boy killed me off in one dimension. That’s why I turned him into shit.” Then he straightened. “These are my last illusions and they are my gifts to you, vampire.”

A murderous howl sprang from Spike’s throat as he leapt at Luke. He grabbed him with his hands, twisting his head from his neck. Then Spike reached into Luke's chest and pulled out the first thing his hands could grip. He crushed Luke’s heart in his fist and watched the blood dripping through his fingertips. It was the last he would see of the Portal Jumper in this world, Spike swore to himself.

Luke’s head and body disappeared into the dirt as Spike washed his hands in a nearby fountain. Spitting out whatever he’d bitten off from Luke’s neck, Spike had no taste for his blood and scrubbed his hands hard, rinsing away every trace of it. He didn’t want Luke’s blood on any part of his body.

As he dried his hands on his coat, he hoped he had a little superhuman vampire juice left in him, though. He’d need it if he had any chance of helping Buffy.

Then he remembered Anya’s departing words.

“Okay, I won. I beat the bastard,” shouted Spike to the empty spot where he’d last seen Anya. “Now, get me the bloody hell out of here and back to Buffy.”

--------------------------------------------------------

It was dark, the middle of the night. So late, the crickets and the night birds that usually sang outside her bedroom window were silent. The only sound was her breathing, jagged and harsh. It felt as if she’d run a marathon, except she’d been asleep, dreaming. At least, Dawn hoped she’d been dreaming because if what she’d done in her dream was real, she’d really screwed up this time.

Dawn sat up in her bed; something had made a sound outside her bedroom window. Had to be a cat on the roof, she thought as she patted her body, checking to make certain she was all there and not still dreaming. She touched her face. It was wet. She pulled down the thin sheet covering her body. Her t-shirt was sticking to her chest; sweat was dripping between her breasts. She looked at her legs. The cut-off jeans she was wearing were dirty and her bare feet were bruised black and blue and covered with drying mud.

She hadn’t been dreaming.

Jumping out of bed, Dawn ran to her bedroom window and pulled open the curtains, and squealed.

“God, Carlo,” she yelped. “What are you doing here? How did you get here? How did we get here?”

“It’s okay, Dawn.” He mouthed the words, gesturing for her to open the window.

Unlatching the lock, moving her fingers as fast as she could, Dawn jerked up the window. “What happened?”

“You did good.” He said, stepping through the window.

“Good?” she was puzzled. “God, please tell me what’s happened...and where is Buffy?”

“Babe, you jumped into a portal and out of the park, pulling Spike and Luke with you.”

Carlo limped past her, hobbling toward the bed. She hadn’t noticed at first, but he didn’t look so good. His t-shirt was ripped. He’d have two black eyes come morning, bruises covered his arms and neck and his jeans were shredded. But he’d said she’d jumped Spike and Luke out of the park. That didn’t make any damn sense.

“Why’d I do that?”

“I asked you to because it was the only way I could fight Willow.” He tried to smile as he plopped down on the bed. “Besides, I had to make certain you were safe.”

“But we left Buffy.” Dawn’s voice was shrill, but she couldn’t help that. She was afraid. Her sister wasn’t herself, hadn’t been herself in so long, well, not since they’d brought her back from the dead. She may not want to fight, to live.

“Wait,” Dawn hesitated, the thoughts going through her head too fast. These weren’t the thoughts she’d been having for the past six months. “The spell…it’s gone.” Realization made Dawn’s legs suddenly too weak and she dropped to the floor in a heap.

Carlo was at her side in an instant. “Yes, the spell, it’s gone.” He smoothed her hair, moving it away from her face. “But before the spell ended and you lost your portal jumping skill, you did all you could do. Believe me. Now, it’s up to Buffy and Willow, how this will end.”

“What do you mean?”

“It started with them.”

His face was so broken; she couldn't help reaching up and touching his cheek. “What happened to you?” she whispered.

“Got into a hell of a fight.” He half-grinned and then grimaced. “But it doesn’t matter about me, girl. You’ve got to listen now.”

"But let me get you cleaned up. We’ve got bandages.” She started to rise.

“No.” He grabbed her arm, keeping her on the floor next to him.

“Please Dawn.” His eyes begged. “Listen to me. We don’t have much time left.”

Dawn collapsed against his chest, unable to stop the tears from falling. There wasn’t going to be a happy ending, as much as she wished for it, prayed for it. She just suddenly knew, this wasn't going to end well.

“Come on, hang in there.” Carlo lifted her chin and tilting his head, smiled into her eyes. “You need to know why this has happened. Then you’ll be able to explain why it ended the way it did.”

“Okay,” she sniffled. “I’m listening.”

“Buffy coming back from the grave changed the world.” Carlo’s fingertips moved softly through her hair as he spoke. “That was Willow’s doing and that released Shemhazi and he brought Luke here, his knight, so to speak, to punish them.”

Carlo shifted his weight so that he was holding Dawn by the shoulders, making certain she was looking at him.

“Evil has a way of screwing up, though.” He laughed.

It sounded empty and bitter to Dawn’s ears.

“They didn’t count on Giles’ stupidity, either," said Carlo. "And then when he had Xander call forth the First Witch, no one imagined that Willow would embrace that power so willingly.”

“How do you know Giles and Xander?” Dawn interrupted, surprised. She’d never mentioned them to Carlo.

"Don’t ask. I just do.” He kissed her cheek. “And now, nothing can stop Willow, except…”

“What about Luke?” She cut in again.

“Spike is keeping Luke busy, and Shemhazi’s in hiding.” He laughed loud. But this time, it sounded genuine to Dawn.

“Shemhazi pissed off the big guy upstairs, as my Mom used to say.” He paused, his eyes darkening for an instant. “So he’s out of the picture, and you’re safe.”

He looked around her bedroom, an oddly helpless expression had covered his face. “Willow can’t find you here. She doesn’t know how to get back home.”

“I am home, aren’t I?” said Dawn.

“Yes, Babe. This is Sunnydale. The real Sunnydale.”

“Can Buffy find her way back?”

“If she makes the right choice.”

“You mean Buffy has to kill Willow?” The thought frightened Dawn. Willow and Buffy had been best friends since they were in tenth grade. They'd fought side by side against Glory. Willow had brought Buffy back from the grave. "She can't kill Willow."

“I don’t know if that’s going to be the right decision for Buffy or not.” Carlo looked sad. “All I know is when the moment comes she will have to make a choice.”

He hugged her close to him.

“You’re not really here are you?” breathed Dawn, hoping with all of her heart that she was wrong. It was the only way he could know about Giles or Xander, about Buffy dying and being brought back to life. He had to be some kind of…

“Spirit man. That's what I am now." He rose up onto his knees, pulling her with him. “Kind of like a ghost with form."

She sobbed softly. “How?”

“I don't know the answer to that, but it happened after Willow killed me.”

“Oh, God!” Dawn collapsed into his arms.

“It’s okay.” He whispered against her cheek, kissing her eyes softly in between his words. “I’m going to go home. No more dimension hopping for me, and my Mom, she’ll be there, too. And maybe, I’ll still be a champion, except, you know, fighting for something more than a trophy.”

“I love you,” mumbled Dawn.

“I love you, too, Dawn.” He sighed. “That’s my only regret, leaving you so soon. We were just getting started, you know?”

His lips brushed hers and she tasted the salt of her tears on his mouth, or were they his tears? It didn’t matter to Dawn. She just wanted to take him into her, his strength, his love, and his courage, draw as much of him into her body as she could.

“No time, girl.” His voice was tight, as his lips pulled away. “All you can do is wait for Buffy to make her choice.”

“How will I know when…?”

“You’ll know.”

Dawn searched Carlo’s face. “You don’t know how it’s going to end for Buffy, do you?”

“No clue. But I do know you're safe here.”

Carlo kissed her forehead. Then he was gone, vanished without another word.

Dawn stumbled to her bed and lay down; arms hugging her chest, eyes dry, thinking. Magic worked in strange ways. It hurt as well as healed. It had brought her sister back from the dead. It had made Willow insane. It had let her see Carlo, one last time.

But it hadn't saved her life.

It was Carlo who had made her use her portal jumping skills to hop from dimension to dimension, changing the sequence of events, confusing the Portal Jumper, getting him lost, so he couldn’t use her to get back home. Good thing she thought, smiling that she’d fallen in love with the tough kid from the Bronx. He’d turned out to be some kind of superhero. And whatever magic had given him his powers, she thanked God for it.

Curling up in her bed, she tugged the sheet up around her neck and snuggled into her pillow. Waiting was hardest thing she'd ever done. But that's all she could do now, except to pray that Buffy had the strength to make the right choice.

---------------------------------------------------

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Jacob pressed that part of his body against Buffy’s butt. “Or should I kill you?” He said, rubbing his thumb over her lips. “Doesn’t make any difference to me which one happens first, you know?”

Jacob’s fingers were at the top of her blouse, lingering at her throat. His long, sweaty hands moved to her thighs, teasing at the threads of her cut-off jeans. She blinked back angry tears as she peered at Willow. She wasn’t certain she could keep up the game and hold her tongue. The desire to snatch a sharp pointy branch from a nearby tree and shove it through Jacob’s chest was consuming her. Might not kill him because of the un-killable vampire thing, but she bet it would hurt him like a son of a bitch.

“I think you’ve lost your edge Slayer.” He was twirling a strand of her hair, keeping the private parts of his body in constant contact with hers. “You’ve tried to save your sister, her boyfriend, your pet vampire, Tara, and even Willow here. But you haven’t saved a soul.”

His laughter echoed through the park. “You’re a failure. An absolute fucking failure.”

Buffy glared at him. But no matter how angry he made her, she had to remain calm, give herself time to think.

“How’s that feel, darling?” He queried.

“What’s that, Jacob?”

“Being unnecessary.” He had stopped pushing his body against her. “Being invisible whether you’re alive or dead?”

“Never felt that way, so I wouldn’t know.”

Jacob reared back his fist and the next thing she knew, she was stumbling backwards, trying to keep from falling to the ground. He had smacked her in the face. Hard. She could barely see.

“Stop playing around, Jacob.” Willow’s voice came from a pile of splintered trees.

“Why are you still interested in me, anyway? Huh?” Buffy rubbed her jaw, ignoring Willow. She had to keep Jacob talking. “Why aren’t you celebrating your victory over the Slayer and her friends?”

“We are celebrating,” said Jacob, giving Willow a quick glance. “Butchering a Slayer sounds like the best kind of reward imaginable. It’s a twofer. I get to kill my first Slayer and cause Spike a shit load of pain.”

“What’s Spike got to do with it?” interrupted Willow.

Buffy was wondering the same thing. Well, at least, most of the same thing. She had no idea how Jacob knew what Spike felt, or how she felt about her pet vampire? Besides, whatever feelings were between her and Spike didn’t matter because they weren’t any of Jacob’s business.

And where was Spike anyway? She glanced around.

“Oh, I’ve got your Spike,” Jacob gloated. “He’s right here.”

Damn it. Was he reading her mind?

Jacob meandered toward a pile of debris and disappeared behind it for an instant before stepping out slowly, pulling a jean-clad leg by its black boot.

Buffy’s eyes widened with horror as she recognized Spike, completely limp and unconscious. “What have you done to him?”

“Killed him.”

He dropped Spike’s leg and it hit the ground weightless.

“He’s not dust, so he’s not dead.”

“What kind of Slayer are you?” yelled Jacob. “He was human. Don’t you remember? Willow’s magic and Luke’s power made him, made us both, superhuman vampires. That meant we could die.” He paused, mulling over his words. “Well, it’s true, it would take a hell of a lot to kill us.” He winked at Willow. “In fact, only a creature like me could rightfully be a match against Spike.”

He kicked Spike’s body in the side.

Buffy cringed and turned her head away. This couldn't be happening. This had to be another trick of the Portal Jumper's. But she sensed he wasn't around. He was gone. She gulped down the sob that was caught in her throat. It wasn't true, she wouldn't let it be true. Spike wasn't dead. He couldn't be. Things were just getting started between them. She wasn't certain what those things were, but there were a bunch of things.

Buffy begged her mind to be still, not to panic, as she tried to remember the last words she'd said to Spike. Then it came to her, slowly, but completely. She'd told him, she'd gotten her thought back. The spell didn't own her soul anymore.

Could it be she had cared about Spike before the spell?

"Slayer, I'm not done yet," giggled Jacob.

It was an unseemly sound from a vampire, even a superhuman one, and it made Buffy's stomach churn.

"I've got another treat for you," he said, still laughing.

Jacob disappeared again behind a small hill of broken branches and Buffy stiffened, bracing herself for what she'd see next.

"Look at the gift Willow has given you."

Buffy fell to her knees, her breath escaping her lungs so fast she thought she might pass out. In Jacob's arms was Dawn's bleeding body, torn and ripped so viciously, Buffy could feel the pain of her sister's death throughout her body and like a stake in her heart.

She looked at Willow. "You...you did this?" Her throat was raw with pain. "Why, Willow? Why? You said it would be me. You promised, you'd take me."

"I will take you." Willow was walking toward her, eyes narrowed and uncaring. "But Dawn always had to die, don't you see? She was the Key. One day, she would be more powerful than me."

Willow shook her head as if answering a question only she had asked. "And I couldn't let that happen. Ever."

to be continued...

Chapter 35 - Fool of Me

“We have to help Spike.” Anya’s voice broke the silence in Giles’ apartment. She sat up in her chair at the dining room table, watching Giles as his eyes fluttered up from the spot of dust he’d been staring at for the past hour. Next to her, Xander cleared his throat as if she’d been talking in her sleep.

“And why do we need to help Spike when Buffy and Dawn are the ones in danger?” said Xander, twisting in his seat to glare at her.

“He asked me to help him.” She jabbed Xander in the arm. “And he needs help right now.”

“What are you going on about, girl?” said Giles, tilting his head to the side in a way that reminded her of Spike.

“When did you talk to him?” Xander grabbed her arm and had that intense ‘what were you doing talking to a demon’ expression she abhorred.

Anya looked from one man to the other and contemplated how she’d explain what had happened to her. She could tell them she’d shared a body with Luke, the Portal Jumper, and that she’d existed in two dimensions simultaneously. Or, she could say that the thought spell Willow, Giles and Tara had cast had been a test created by the Devil. Yes, she’d say then to Xander’s open mouth stare, she'd meant that Devil. He also was Luke’s father and had lost his soul because of a witch. When he saw Giles kill Glory (also known as Ben) and watched Willow bring Buffy back from the grave, he got pissed. And that’s when everything started to go wrong for the Scoobies.

That explanation might work, she thought to herself.

She looked into Xander’s large brown eyes and then glanced at Giles. A blurry moistness had settled around his irises. He didn’t look like he could hang in there much longer. That made up her mind.

“I spoke to Spike with my mind.”

“Oh?” Xander frowned. “Telepathically?”

“Yes, telepathically.” She shook loose of Xander’s grip. “You should not be surprised about my being able to read minds. I talked to you and Giles from inside the fireplace yesterday.” Hopefully, communing with Spike telepathically wouldn’t be that far-fetched of a notion for them to believe.

Giles pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. “Anya, we’ve got a lot to worry about and Spike giving you messages in your head is okay by me, but only if he’s got something to say about where we can find Buffy.”

She sighed. It was a good thing she’d decided to leave out the part about standing next to Spike in the cemetery as he and Luke fought it out. If Giles was going to be agitated, she hadn’t said something to send him too far over the edge. “Luke still has his hooks in me. And while we’ve been sitting here waiting like lumps of coal for Buffy and Willow and Dawn to walk through the front door all safe and sound…” she paused, deciding to give her ex-boyfriend some credit. “And although Xander figured out how to get everybody back to the real Sunnydale…we forgot something. Something important.”

“Which was what pray tell?” asked Giles, pressing his glasses to his nose with his forefinger.

“Dawn is the Key and she can travel through portals.”

“We didn’t forget that,” grumbled Xander.

“I have a point here if you’d let me make it.” She rolled her eyes at him impatiently. “When I granted Carlo his wish...”

“We bloody well know about that.” Giles’ tone was sharp. “You turned the boy into a vengeance demon.”

Anya huffed. If Giles and Xander were going to keep interrupting her, she was going to scream. “When I granted Carlo his wish, I disrupted the balance of Luke’s precious nature of things, which was a good thing. I think. Anyway, Carlo gave Dawn the strength or courage, or whatever, she needed to trick Luke and then she and Spike got away from the park.”

Giles rested his elbows on the table, his hands folded neatly, waiting. Xander’s eyes stayed on her face.

Anya took a deep breath. “Dawn teleported from dimension to dimension pulling Spike along with her.”

“How do you know that?” said Giles and Xander, their questions uttered in unison.

“Trust me, I know these things, okay?” said Anya. “Besides, I told you that Spike told me.”

“When he was talking to you inside your head?” Xander was using his most sarcastic voice.

“Yes, that is exactly right and if you interrupt me one more time, I will do something evil to you.” She turned from Xander and looked at Giles. “Dawn brought Luke through the dimensions, but don’t ask me how I know that, okay?” She glared at Xander.

“Okay, I won’t,” he agreed solemnly.

“Please continue,” said Giles. “Buffy was in the park with Spike and Luke, and Willow. But Dawn left Buffy there deliberately.”

“Why?” asked Giles.

“We would have to ask Dawn that question.”

“If she’s traveling through dimensions, how can we ask her?” said Xander.

“She is no longer dimension hopping,” said Anya.

“How do you know that?” Xander said and then slowly raised his hand.

Anya could practically see the wheels turning inside his brain.

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess…Spike?”

“Yes, that’s right,” responded Anya. “Dawn’s back in the real Sunnydale, too.”

“Where is she?” said Xander.

“How about Revello Drive?” offered Anya.

“Makes bloody good sense,” said Giles.

Anya’s eyes pinged-ponged from Giles to Xander. “This means we have to leave the apartment.” She implored. “Now.”

The two men looked like they’d been told to swallow a chicken. She watched their Adam’s apples strain up and down in their throats, looking as if they were about to explode.

“I hadn’t felt imprisoned until you said we had to leave,” said Giles, gulping down the lump in his throat. “I imagine that there is no guarantee we are in the real Sunnydale unless we see for ourselves.”

“It’s the only way to be sure,” she said.

Anya looked at Xander, slumped back in his chair, his head buried in his hands. He had counted on Willow and Buffy and Dawn showing up, saying everything was okay, assuring them that the good guys had won. Anya knew Xander. He trusted his girls to save the day.

Xander pushed his chair away from the table noisily and stood up. Giles snapped to his feet and looked around his apartment.

“Shall we take your car, Giles?” Xander asked.

“Yes, indeed.” Giles proceeded across the room, snatching a set of keys from the desktop.

Anya grabbed a sweater from the coat rack and slipped it on. It swallowed her, most likely it belonged to Giles, she thought as she tugged it over her short skirt. She didn’t have time to worry about how she looked though. The only thing on her mind was getting to Dawn and finding Spike. She closed the door firmly behind her and turning, followed Giles and Xander into the courtyard and out into the crisp night air.
________________________________________

Dawn heard the doorbell and sat up. The clock on the nightstand said six o’clock. From the hint of sunshine coming through the blinds, it was morning. She dropped her head into her hands. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep. Between thinking about Carlo and worrying about Buffy, she thought she’d never sleep again.

“I’m coming,” she shouted, flinging the covers off of her body.

She slipped into the fluffy pink terry cloth robe lying on the back of the chair next to the bed, covering her blood-covered cut-off jeans and t-shirt.

Rethinking her decision, she slipped out of the robe and put it back into the chair. She then marched across the room, opened her bedroom door and hurried down the stairs.

As she reached for the front door, she hesitated.

How odd, she thought. She hadn’t even considered who might be knocking. The fact that they hadn’t floated in through her bedroom window or emerged from a hovering portal in the corner or appeared in her closet looking like a man-sized black cloud was all that mattered.

A ringing doorbell was the act of sane human beings.

She swung the front door open.

“Dawnie!” Anya rushed into the room sweeping her into a big bear hug.

Dawn stood rigidly in Anya’s embrace as Xander and Giles scurried into the house, each giving Dawn a quick nod before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

She squirmed out of Anya’s arms. “What are you doing here?” She snapped at the vengeance demon. “Where’s Luke? Waiting in the bushes to attack?”

“No, no, no.” Anya muttered. “I’m not with him anymore. The spell, it’s over. I’m no longer that demon.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“We don’t have time for you not to.” Anya maneuvered past Dawn and followed the men into the kitchen.

When Dawn walked into the oblong room with the counter dividing the space, the first thing she thought of was that the scene reminded her of old times. Almost. Except Buffy was missing and she didn’t expect Spike to come flying in through the back door, blanket flaming. Xander was rooting around in the refrigerator and Giles had already started to boil the kettle on the stove for a cup of tea. Anya was pacing and ringing her hands.

“What are you here for?” Dawn turned to Anya.

“We’ve got to get Spike and Buffy and Willow back.”

“We can get Spike and Buffy,” she began and then felt the eyes of both men on her. “But I don’t know about Willow.”

“What do you mean?” said Xander. “Is she…?” His voice wavered.

“No, she’s not dead,” said Dawn.

“But she might as well be.” She knew she sounded cold, but she didn’t care about Willow after what happened to Carlo. “She can’t be helped. She’s going to kill Buffy and Spike if we don’t help them. She’s joined Jacob and she’s in league with Shemhazi, too.”

“That can’t be good,” said Anya calmly.

“I don’t believe she can’t be saved,” said Xander, leaning against the counter, exhaustion covering his face.

Dawn turned to Giles. “Whta't the plan?”

“It’s Anya’s plan.” He nodded at her but kept talking. “We’ve got to give Spike a power boost, I believe.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Anya. “But we don’t have a lot of time.” She looked around the kitchen. “Are there any roots in the cabinets? Did Willow or Tara leave something we can use?”

Dawn glared at Anya for a long moment. “Look in the cabinet above the toaster. I think there are a few things there.” “I’ll go check Willow’s room. She and Tara always keep some herbs and roots there.”

“Good,” said Anya. “We’ve got to work fast. Buffy’s running out of time.”

to be continued...

chapter 36 – bitter

Dawn stood up and wiped the chalk dust from her knees as she examined her handiwork. The living room had a new look. Xander and Giles had moved the furniture, leaving a large section near the bay windows bare. Next, they’d pulled up the rugs. Then Dawn gave Anya, Xander and Giles a piece of red chalk and a handful of herbs and they each knelt on the floor and drew their section of the pentagram.

Dawn hesitated for a moment, rolling her stub of chalk between her fingertips. She thought about telling them to stop. Haven’t we had enough bad luck casting spells? Instead she dropped to her knees and set about her task. After a while, she got wrapped up in drawing her lines more perfectly than Anya’s lines and finishing her section before Xander finished his.

“You think this will work?” Xander said to no one in particular as he rose to his knees and surveyed his section.

“It will work,” said Anya and Dawn together.

Dawn narrowed her eyes at Anya, suspicious of the Vengeance demon's motives while expecting her to let Luke in the front door at any minute. Although that didn’t make sense. If Anya had come this far, risking her life to help Buffy, chances were she was telling the truth about not being under Luke's control. Still, Dawn kept a wary eye on her.

“I believe we have it right,” asserted Giles, giving his two sections of the pentagram a final inspection. “But we’d better get on with it before we lose anymore time.” Standing up, he brushed the dust from his pant legs. “Where’s the book?”

“I’ll get it,” said Dawn. Her bare feet thumped across the hard wood floors as she raced into the living room. She returned quickly, holding the book firmly in her hands.

“Who should read the passage?” said Xander.

“It has to be Dawn,” Anya replied. “Her voice is the one that will reach the Powers That Be.”

“I’m also the only voice that Spike will hear.” Dawn opened the book to the page Giles had marked. The passage was in English. She had sighed with relief when she’d seen that. Spells were usually in Latin or some other demon tongue. This time they’d all understand what was being said. There’d be no Willow mumbo jumbo to sort out later.

Dawn glanced around the room and breathed in deeply before opening her mouth to begin.

“What are we doing again?” Xander interrupted her.

She rolled her eyes. “We’re calling upon the Powers That Be and the First Witch of Glory’s universe. We are beseeching them to give Spike the power to save Buffy.” Dawn repeated flatly. The four of them had agreed an hour before that it was the best wording to get what they wanted—Buffy back home safe and sound.

“You sure we're asking for enough?” Xander sounded shaky.

“We can only ask for one thing and that has to be to save Buffy,” explained Giles. “It has to be enough.”

Dawn began the passage without interruption, but as she spoke, a thought crept into her mind. Why hadn’t they given Buffy the power to save herself? She was the slayer. There was no thought spell to get in the way of her acting like the slayer, not anymore. Someone should have thought about that. Who's idea was this spell anyway she wondered, still reading from the book.

Dawn thought back to the scene in the kitchen an hour before. The four of them had worked out a plan. Xander had found the herbs in Willow and Tara's room, Giles had the Zy Qasdor, Volume IV, buried in his knapsack. And Dawn had picked up the chalk herself. Then she remembered Anya. She'd stood giving directions about drawing the pentagram. Giles had said it had been Anya's idea to give Spike the power boost. She'd showed up at his apartment with the solution for saving the day.

She'd better be right about this, thought Dawn, or the Key was going to be really mad.

Dawn said the last word and let out a loud sigh. They all stood in their spots, waiting.

"Anya?" asked Dawn. "What happens now?"

"Just wait," she answered. "You will see."

The pentagram began glowing scarlet red and a flickering gold light sparkled from the five points. Smoke rose from the center of the star and a towering cone-shaped flame burst through the floor. The room shook violently throwing Dawn and the others into the wall. Dawn fell flat on her stomach and tried to grab onto Xander as the room rocked.

“Don’t be afraid.” Giles shouted over the noise.

Dawn started to nod okay, but the room was shaking too hard. As she rolled across the floor, reaching for anything to hang on to, she wondered if this would have happened if she’d said what she was thinking before.

Hadn’t the Scoobies had enough bad luck casting spells?

_____________________________

Falling through universes filled with thunder and storming black clouds, she’d had a rough time keeping her wits about her. She'd been spinning from one realm to the next and back again, her body pulled apart and tossed back together as if she was a yo-yo. Time kept passing with no stars or moons and after a while, she forgot what she’d been searching for. Then she forced her mind to focus on one thought.

I want to go home.

But the world kept spinning and she forgot again.

Then finally, it was still.

Tara blinked her eyes open. She wasn’t in the dark anymore. The black clouds were gone and the thunder was silent. She lifted her arms over her head, stretching them long and taunt, feeling the muscles from her shoulders to her fingertips. She moved her hands through her hair and lifted the wet strands from her face and neck, letting the cool wind soothe her burning skin. Glancing down, she saw that her old clothes were gone. A long black robe covered her body, but her feet were bare. Tara wiggled her toes and smiled. The grass tickled.

“Grass?” She looked around.

Tara was standing in the middle of a park. There were rows of green bushes and yellow roses on the horizon. A wooden bench was fifty feet away and across from it an iron gate circled a playground. There was a swing set, monkey bars, sliding board and a sand pit. The grass needed cutting and the gate was ajar. Raising her eyes, Tara saw the blue sky above dotted with puffy white clouds. And the largest, brightest sun she’d ever seen was falling over the edge of the world.

It was beautiful, she thought, except it wasn’t home.

Tara collapsed to the ground. This was Willow’s world. She could smell it, the place where hell and a deeper hell met. Willow was ruler here. It was where she was never wrong and her loved ones died if they tried to change her.

Tara curled her body into a tight ball and cried. They’d loved each other once, desperately and passionately. Then the magic took over. It drained Willow’s soul and left Tara empty. She’d been a confident woman before the thought spell, filled with purpose and conviction. But Willow had taken that away from her.

Tara rose to her knees, brushing the hair from her eyes. She never had Willow’s power. Never would. Never wanted it. But Willow let Luke and Jacob kill her, smash her brains into bits and pieces, and banish her soul into nothingness.

It had been a long time since Tara had wanted something for herself. Only a few months ago, she wouldn’t have worried about summoning the magics. She’d figure out what she needed and do it.

Images she'd seen on a photograph entered her head, reminding her of Jacob’s apartment in New York. There'd been a room at the top of the stairs, the scent of jasmine and a mahogany dresser. On it sat a photograph of Jacob, Luke and Darla. She’d hidden the photo in her pocket, thinking it was a clue for Willow. It would help her lover beat Luke and save the day.

Tara groaned as she realized the truth. Luke wasn’t Willow’s enemy. He was an insane murderer with supernatural powers, but he was only a vampire—just a vampire with a few tricks. Like Dracula. That’s all. She’d seen his face in the photo, the expression in his eyes, the way Darla’s eyes blazed passionately at him as her hand rested gently on top of Jacob’s bowed head. They had been Darla’s pets, her lovers and her fiends. This was the big secret that Jacob killed her to protect. Why else had he attacked Tara so viciously? Why’d he risk Willow’s wraith? He knew the spell had taken away Willow’s ability to love, stolen Tara from Willow’s soul.

“That’s it.” Tara said out loud. Although the thought spell was gone, Willow had absorbed too much power to remember who she really was. That explained why in the distance Tara could see Willow and Jacob hurting Buffy.

“I’m a smart witch," said Tara's determined voice. “I know how to make Willow remember that she doesn’t have to kill. There are no sacrifices she needs to make for power.”

Tara got to her feet and pulled the robe snuggly around her shoulders. She had to come up with the biggest dose of magic she’d ever come up with ever.

She could do it though. She really believed she could.

____________________________________

Jacob was holding her as she stared at Dawn and Spike, lying on the ground, motionless. The only thing keeping her from losing it completely was the sound of Dawn’s moans—and the sight of Spike’s body. It wasn’t dust.

"You bitch!” Buffy pushed Jacob’s hands aside and ran full steam at Willow, tackling her around the waist. They both hit the ground hard and rolled as Buffy smashed Willow in the face, her fists flying. Twisting so that she was on top, Buffy clamped down on Willow’s throat. A flurry of punches smashed the witch’s face and the sound of bones crushing made Buffy cringe.

Willow’s eyes closed and her lips parted. Her face changed into an expression Buffy had seen often over the years. Blissful Willow in repose, nestled against the cushions of the living room sofa. Buffy missed that girl, her lost best friend. Reaching up, Buffy touched the warm tears falling from her eyes. She wiped them roughly away. She had to let her heart harden to the sight of Willow’s dead body. It was the only way to finish what she'd started.

Then something grabbed her wrists. Her arms were pulled behind her and thick fingers wrapped around her throat.

“Foolish Slayer.”

Buffy looked up and her mouth fell open. Willow was sitting on a park bench, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap. Gloating.

“You think that’s all it takes to kill me, Slayer?” Willow teased.

“I can dream.” Buffy replied.

A stiff hand reached between her legs. She kicked and flailed until it let go.

“Sorry,” whispered Jacob into her ear. “Got carried away.” His fat tongue slid across the side of her face. “Vampire mind gets confused. Can’t remember whether to fuck or kill.” Laughing, he tightened his grip on Buffy’s neck.

“What are you waiting for?” she muttered. “How long are you going to play with me?”

“As long as we fucking like.” Jacob tied her wrists with magic rope and dragged her to a pole in the middle of the playground.

“You know the old saying.” Willow shouted from the bench. “Got a slayer. Got to sacrifice her.”

“Never heard that one before.” Buffy bit her lip, wanting the pain in her mouth instead of the rope cutting into her wrists.

“At first I thought it was Dawn,” Willow half-laughed. “But you’re the gift for Shemhazi.”

“How’s that?” Buffy's eyes were peeled, searching the park, looking out for Jacob, hoping for an opening.

“Too bad Luke figured it out too late.” Willow brought her fingers to her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe, that’s why Spike beat him.”

“Spike beat him?”

Willow didn’t respond. She was staring past Buffy at Jacob. “It’s time to call him.”

"Okay," said Jacob. "He's been called."

The sun disappeared and rain poured from the sky in sheets. Tied to the pole, Buffy watched as Willow rose from the bench and floated above a sudden sea of mud. Then Buffy felt fingers untying the rope and releasing her wrists.

“What now?” she wondered almost hopelessly.

“You die,” said Jacob.

The first blow knocked her into a pool of black water. The warm mud covered her as she sunk to the bottom of the pit. The next thing she felt was Jacob's meaty hand holding her head beneath the water. She struggled, her hands striking at his body, her bare legs kicking blindly as the water burned her skin. Nothing was stopping Jacob though. He pushed her face deeper into the mud.

Buffy gagged. Maybe she could throw Jacob off balance long enough to get to her knees. From there, she could grab his hands and knock him away for a few seconds. Then she’d go after Willow. She had to get to Willow, except she was gulping in mouthfuls of water and it was filling her lungs.

Buffy panicked. She’d drowned once. She didn’t want to drown again.

Then Jacob cried out and released his grip on her neck.

Buffy flipped into a squat and wiped her eyes. Looking around, she could see Jacob through the thick rain lying on the ground, but he wasn’t alone. He was wrestling with Spike. She wiped her eyes again. Wasn’t Spike lying on the ground with Dawn on the other side of the playground? She turned her head to the right. There he was, lying on the ground next to Dawn.

Two Spikes? Buffy shook her head. That wasn’t right.

The rain pounded the ground and the mud rose higher as Buffy tried to figure out if she'd lost her mind. Or, maybe Jacob had drowned her and she was in an alternative universe. No, that couldn't be it. She searched for Willow as the thunder cracked. It was so loud she thought the sky had broken in half.

Blinking the water from her eyes, Buffy spotted Willow balancing on the top of the monkey bars and dancing across the beams. If she could get to her feet, she kept thinking.

“You’re not going to kill me.” Buffy stood up in the mud. “The illusion is over. I know Dawn is not dead.” She pointed to Dawn’s body as it vanished. “And there is only one Spike and he’s kicking Jacob’s ass.” She spun toward Jacob and Spike. They were throwing punches and chomping chunks of flesh from each other's bodies.

Buffy leapt from the mud pit as Willow’s body lowered to the ground.

"You and me, huh?” shouted Willow.

“That’s right,” said Buffy.

"No! Stop!"

The voice wasn’t Willow’s or Jacob’s or Spike’s. Buffy turned and saw Tara at the top of the sliding board. She was wearing a black robe and her hair was blowing in the wind like one of America’s Top Models. Only difference was that her skin was white pale and her eyes were huge black orbs.

“Tara!” Willow screeched. “You’re alive!"

“No thanks to you, Willow,” said Tara. “You insane, fucking bitch.”

to be continued...