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Buffy stifled a groan as another sharp shard of metal pricked her palm. Ignoring the sting, knowing that the meagre supply of blood she was fed would allow such a tiny wound to heal quickly, she continued to file away at the distinctly thin-looking hinge of her cage door. The rasp had been a stroke of luck she’d lost hope in ever experiencing again after her turning.

When the minions left to carry her cage had lifted her over the rusted remains of a toolbox, the hard glitter of metal had caught her eye. Thanking the Powers That Be for the respite from her inhumane (and wasn’t that a joke?) lifestyle, she threw herself at the weakest minion, snarling savagely.

The cage had slammed to the floor and she’d grabbed the rasp, hiding it in the remains of the old sack she wore; Angelus had laughed when she’d defiantly told him that Angel had said she always looked beautiful, promptly ripping off the new clothes she’d been given and tossing her a dirty sack instead. The next time a comment like that had sprung to mind, she bit her tongue so hard it bled in order not to say it aloud.

As soon as dark had settled over the Hellmouth, Dru and Darla had vanished into the night to hunt. Angelus had stayed behind, obviously in a good mood judging by the amount of his ‘toys’ he had had carried to her dingy cell. That good mood had been his downfall.

She’d endured the first few minutes of his games, letting him slice through her dirty skin like butter without even flinching; she could take more pain than that, and he knew it. Her voice was hoarse from disuse, but she’d quickly given it a workout, taunting him as she hadn’t bothered to in years, little whispers of things she knew drove him crazy.

“Angel was a far better lover than you’ll ever be… I’ve never known a vamp to be such a screw-up as to stake his own sire over a Slayer before…”

Despite his previous delight in reaching the Hellmouth, his anger quickly overcame him. He was usually so in control of his emotions when he visited her, so scarily calm. This was the opening she’d been looking for for fourteen years, the moment of weakness. He’d lunged forward in a fit of wrath, the heated end of a poker sizzling as it struck the flesh on her lower back, his favourite spot. She hadn’t tried to stifle her yelp of pain as he wrenched open the manacles securing her to the back of the cage, though a cold, predatorial smile lit her face.

Grabbing the white-hot end of the poker, ignoring the searing pain in her hand as it burned her palm, she hauled it from his shock-numbed fingers. Swinging the weapon back as much as she could in the limited space, she had launched it with deadly accuracy to slam between his eyes. The smile twisted further up her lips at the dull, meaty thud of his skull fracturing.

Knowing he would be out for a while, she’d set to work finishing the job she’d started earlier. It was only a few hours from dawn when she finally kicked the door of her long-time prison open. Snatching the keys from Angelus’ waist, she hurriedly unlocked the door to her cell, not wasting any time in vamping out and letting her senses guide her to the exit.

Finding a minion there, she silently approached him, her eyes gleaming with feral intent. Grabbing both sides of his head with tiny hands, she twisted and let out a growl of satisfaction when she heard the pop of his spine snapping before he crumbled to dust. Weak but undaunted, Buffy stepped out into the cool air of the night of her own free will for the first time in fourteen years.

Feeling the vibrating beginnings of rage building in the ties that bonded her to her vampiric family, she ignored the demons urge to cower in deference, firmly shutting off the furiously pulsating links. Racing away from the dark building, she sprinted to the street, only pausing once to look behind her.

The few drops of borrowed blood suddenly felt heavy in her stomach. A short, petite figure stood at the gates of the old mansion, blonde hair floating about her head in the breeze.

“Darla!” The word was an angry whisper, remembered pain flicking dizzyingly in front of her eyes. Then the Slayer in her urged her to turn and run, to follow the first rule of Slaying. Don’t die.

On feet already bruised after years of minimal contact with rough surfaces, she turned and fled from that mocking, cruel figure. She could feel the golden eyes on her, knew the moment that her grandsire gave chase. The soles of her feet began to tear, at first only tiny cuts that were soon swallowed by larger rips.

Limping, frightened, angry and determined to be free, Buffy felt the first tingles at the back of her neck. Slayer! Cutting across a narrow street, she dived into an ally and skidded to a halt, staring at the back of the man walking away from her.

Even from a distance, he exuded a power and masculine sensuality that had both the vampire and the woman in her drooling. She knew the moment he sensed her, watched fascinated as the muscles in his back and neck tightened. Before she could check herself, a hoarse shout broke from her sore throat.

“Slayer! Help!”

****
Spike was bored. He’d visited to Bronze, only to see Cecily twined around another man, dancing provocatively. She’d caught his eye, smiling flirtatiously and beckoning him over with one slender finger. In a jealous fury, he’d turned and stormed back out the door, brushing aside Tara who’d come to comfort him.

It had happened before, Cecily flirting outrageously and obviously with other men just to make him jealous. Worked like a charm every fuckin’ time, too he thought angrily. Checking that the stake he lodged in his boot was still accessible, he stalked through the dark, twisting alleyways of Sunnydale’s demonic community.

It was the familiar tickle of his Slayer sense that first alerted him to the presence of a vampire. He stopped, hearing the muted pounding of feet on the stone that came to a sudden stop. The cry startled him and he swung around, suddenly feeling breathless.

He’d never thought angels existed before.

The vampire staring back at him was short, and despite the shapeless rag she wore he could tell she was thin to the point of looking starved. Her face was in its human guise, the dirt- and blood-streaked features combined in elegant harmony. Her cheeks were sunken in, making her green eyes seem huge and luminous in the murky darkness. Matted blonde hair hung lank and limp at her waist, her bare legs and arms caked in a sickening mixture of dried fluids he didn’t want to contemplate.

The hunger-bright eyes bored into his for a minute before suddenly she swayed on her feet. Without wondering why, he darted forward to catch her as she collapsed, the blood dripping from her torn feet. Her eyelids fluttered as she stared at him in wonder, croaking out a few words.

“Buffy Summers. Was the Slayer. Got my soul.”

And with that she fainted in his arms, looking for all the world like she’d just died. Again.





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