Only there was one major flaw. Spike had known Joyce. He had fought her. He knew there was no way she would've engaged in such a grand battle with a vampire like Mack. The more Spike listened to the wannabe master vampire, the more evident it became. Even before he had fought her, Spike had studied Joyce, learned her habits and her style. Vampires like Mack were just the warm-up act for her. If he had killed her, it would've been because he'd gotten lucky, caught her when she'd already been weakened by something or someone else—not because Mack had been able to best her in some great test of strength and skill.
Tired of being lied to, Spike advanced towards Mack. Mack stepped backwards in an attempt to get away, the fear obvious on his face. That alone was enough to tell Spike the story he'd just heard was a load of bollocks. If this vampire had bravely stood his ground against a Slayer—especially one of Joyce's caliber—he'd have to have a backbone. Mack, it seemed, did not.
Mack kept moving until his back hit the wall, and Spike crossed the rest of the way quickly. He pinned Mack into place, shifting into gameface as he did and staring Mack down with cold, amber eyes.
Mack shook, fear overtaking him as he stared into the face of a true master vampire. "I told you want you wanted to know!" Mack exclaimed, his voice trembling as he spoke.
"No, you didn't," Spike growled. "What I wanted was the truth, and what I got was complete and utter shite. I fought Joyce on more than one occasion, and I couldn't have pulled off what you just described. Now, seeing as I am a real vampire and you are a sniveling excuse for a demon, I'm going to wager that you couldn't possibly accomplish what I could not without a bit of an unfair advantage. So, I'm going to give you one chance to tell me what really happened."
"I told you!" Mack insisted. "It went down just like that!"
Spike sighed. "Right then." He grabbed Mack's right hand and twisted one of the fingers until it broke with an audible snap. "I've got nine more until I have to start moving on to other things."
"Fine! I'll tell you what really happened!" Mack said, his face contorted in pain. "There were these guys, smelled human. They said they wanted a Slayer taken care of, and they'd set me up real nice if I did it. They did something to her before, made her real weak. That's how I did it, all right? The Slayer was drugged."
Spike leveled his eyes with Mack's. This story had more the feel of truth to it, but it brought forth more questions than it gave answers. If Mack's new version of events was indeed accurate, then Joyce's death had been from something other than a mere vampire attack. She'd been purposely taken out.
"Is there a back door to this place?" Spike asked.
"Yeah, but why…"
Spike didn't let Mack finish his question. "Lead the way to it. We're leaving. And if you try anything to cause me trouble, I will rip off your head and piss on your dust. Are we clear?"
Mack nodded. "Completely clear."
"Good. Now let's get moving."
Mack swallowed hard, then led Spike out of the warehouse.
Spike tossed Mack into the backseat of the DeSoto, then looked up at Buffy. "Come back here and keep your stake on him, luv. If he tries to run, dust him."
"Who is she?" Mack asked, frowning at Buffy.
"She's my mate," Spike replied. "And that Slayer you say you killed was her mum."
If it was possible for a vampire to grow paler, Mack did. Buffy climbed into the backseat, her stake pointed at Mack's heart.
"Did he kill her, Spike?" Buffy asked.
"I think so," Spike answered, meeting his mate's eyes. "But seems like there's a bit more to it than that. I think we should take him back to the motel, get him to spill there."
Buffy gave a nod of approval, her hand tightening around the stake.
Spike started to go around to the driver's seat, but stopped and grabbed Mack by the back of the head. "She's my mate, and if you touch her, I will torture you slowly. See how many pieces of you I have to cut up before you dust," he growled into Mack's ear.
Mack's only response was to look terrified. Spike decided that was good enough and pushed him back into the car before slamming the door.
Mack didn't move for the entire drive, afraid if he as much as shifted, he'd be dust. The girl with the stake at his chest smelled human, but he did have enough sense to recognize if she was the mate of William the Bloody, then challenging her would not be a smart choice to make. Even if she couldn't kill him, the vampire in the front seat certainly could. And he'd make him suffer.
When they got to the motel, Spike and Buffy led Mack out of the car and to their room. "Sit," Spike ordered as soon as they were inside, gesturing to one of the chairs as he did. Mack sat.
"Tell her what you told me," Spike said to Mack. "And the real story, not that complete load of bollocks you started off with. She's less fond of games than I am."
Mack trembled, a sinking suspicion in the pit of his stomach that he wasn't going to leave this room no matter what he did. Still, he was too afraid of the two blonds staring him down to refuse to talk. "There were guys, human, I think. I didn't ask a lot of questions. They told me they could make the Slayer weak, drug her somehow, and that they wanted me to kill her. They said they needed it to be a vampire. They told me where she'd be and when, and told me to leave the body there."
Buffy felt bile rise into her throat. It had been hard enough thinking of her mother as being killed in battle doing her duty, but now to hear that she'd been the victim of a murder conspiracy… Her mother had been a warrior. She deserved a better death than that. In a strange way, Buffy almost wished it had been Spike if her mother had had to die that night. At least that would've been a death befitting a Slayer.
"I need to you give me more than that," Buffy said, holding back her urge to attack the vampire sitting in front of her, to make him suffer for not only killing her mother but for killing her in such a dishonorable way.
"I don't know anything else!" Mack replied. "I swear, I don't! I didn't care about the whys or whos. I was just happy to get the respect that comes with doing in a Slayer!"
"Describe them," Buffy snapped. "You did see the men you made this deal with, didn't you?"
"Yeah, yeah. There were three of them. Kinda craggy looking, like they were real rough types. All wearing leather jackets. And they talked with an accent. Like his." Mack jerked his thumb at Spike.
Something cold grabbed Buffy in the pit of her stomach. "They were British?"
"Yeah, British," Mack said. "They reminded me of guys in a James Bond movie. I kept hearing them talk about having to check in with headquarters."
"Do you remember anything else they talked about?" Spike asked.
"No. It was a real brief meeting, and like I said, I didn't ask a lot of questions."
Buffy moved so quickly that Spike hadn't even anticipated it, and suddenly, Mack was a pile of dust, littering the chair and the floor around it. Spike turned to her, surprise on his face. "Why did you do that now?" he asked, surprise in his tone. "He'd just started talking!"
Buffy's expression was cold. "He'd said enough. I didn't need to hear any more."
"But, Buffy…"
"No. I heard what I needed. Come on." Buffy turned and started towards the door.
"Where are we going exactly?" Spike asked, When Buffy didn't answer, but just walked out of the motel room, he ran after her, grabbing her arm to stop her. "Sweetheart, talk to me. What just happened in there that I missed?"
"I know who was behind my mother's death, Spike. To be honest, I'd had my suspicions in the past, but I didn't want to believe it. Now I need some sort of proof, something that tells me I'm wrong, or I'm right, or something."
The mix of emotions Spike was feeling from her through the claim was such a jumble he couldn't pick it apart enough to tell what was what. "Where do you need to go, Buffy?"
"My old apartment, the one I lived in with Howard until he died. I know how to get there from here, so I can give you directions," she answered.
Spike didn't argue. He just hoped whatever it was Buffy thought she'd find there was indeed there. "Then let's go."
When they reached the apartment, Spike started to ask Buffy what the planned to do next, when she answered his still unasked question by smashing in a window with her fist.
"Bloody hell!" he hissed. "Are you insane? For one thing, you're bleeding now, and for another, you just woke up whoever lives there!"
Buffy said nothing as she reached in through the broken glass and unlocked the window, then pushed it open and crawled inside. A moment later, she poked her head back out. "No one lives here. It's empty. Someone must've just moved out. Come on."
She disappeared into the apartment again, and Spike followed her in, noting that she was right about no one living there since there was no barrier against him. Spike looked at Buffy, her figure illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the broken window, and swallowed hard. He hadn't seen her quite like this since the beginning, when she'd been trying to kill him. Her mind was focused on one thing and one thing alone now—getting revenge for the death of her mother.
"What are you looking for?" Spike asked her.
Buffy glanced around the apartment, and Spike realized that strength and healing weren't the only abilities she'd picked up from him—she was seeing in the dark much better than any human should be able to as well. "Howard kept a journal. I looked for it in his stuff when he died, but I couldn't find it."
"And you think it might still be here?"
"If they didn't get it, yeah."
Spike frowned. "Who's they?"
Buffy didn't answer. Instead, she began to walk through the apartment, knocking on walls as she did. Spike followed her, keeping his questions to himself as he got the sense that Buffy wasn't going to answer them now. She left bloodied prints in her wake, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her hand was cut from the window.
Spike followed her into one of the bedrooms, watching as she ducked into the closet. He heard a series of taps in there, the last one with a hollow sound to it. A moment later, he winced at another sound, this one of the wall breaking under Buffy's fist. He hoped she hadn't used the same hand that had smashed the window, but Spike had a feeling she probably had.
Soon, Buffy came from the closet, her arms wrapped around leather-bound journals. She walked to the middle of the room, sat down in a patch of light coming in through the window from a streetlamp just outside, and began to flip through the journals. Spike stood and watched her, unsure of what he should do. Buffy was almost scaring him now, her behavior and her seeming lack of emotions enough to chill him.
That was before she burst into tears.
Unable to stand by and watch her cry, Spike knelt beside Buffy and gathered her in his arms. She turned towards him, clinging to him as she sobbed.
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