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Chapter 8

The binds didn’t loosen, no matter what Buffy tried to do during the times she was conscious. Of course, she didn’t stay conscious for long. Every time she would waken from her dark slumber, she would be shot with electricity, incapacitating her. Buffy tried to be still, to reach out with her mind to Spike, but couldn’t fathom the miles between them. Either the distance blocked their communication, or Spike was unable to answer her pleas for help. She didn’t know how long she had been sitting in the chair. Days could have passed and Buffy wouldn’t know. Mouth parched and stomach burning with hunger, Buffy tried once again to struggle. The blindfold knocked loose, letting a bit of light reach her sore eyes. The room that she was in was large and empty from what she could see. Without making any movement, trying to pretend to still be unconscious, Buffy wiggled her nose, trying to get a better view. The building, almost reminiscent of Spike’s old factory, was dirty. The floor, not swept in a long time had piles of debris around. Buffy yelped as she saw a huge rat scuttle by her. Sighing, she knew that her captors knew she was conscious again. The heavy footsteps approached her on her blind side. Her efforts to try to identify her captors in case she could contact Spike were thwarted, though. Right as she turned her head to see a bit of the fatigue uniform, the person slapped her. Buffy’s body fell, along with the chair onto the dirty floor of the factory. The smell of soot and decay assaulted her senses. Now her good eye, one that could see a bit from the blindfold was on the ground. She felt the person standing above her, staring down. She felt that person stoop down next to her. She felt cold metal against her arm, knowing it was a needle, she tried to scoot away but couldn’t. Her captor didn’t say anything as the needle penetrated Buffy’s skin. A cool rush went through her arteries and veins, washing over her. Buffy raised her head, trying to shake the heavy, watery feeling from her senses. Her captor moved around to Buffy head. Before she blacked out, Buffy saw the green and khaki fatigues that military personnel wear and heavy boots. “There, that should keep you unconscious for a while.” The voice, still whispered, seemed familiar, yet not so familiar.

~*~*~
Spike stirred slightly on the cold ground. Frost had overtaken the underbrush, leaving white residue on everything it touched. Groaning, Spike lifted his hand up to his neck. The sharp jolt of electricity still itched his skin. Rubbing his sore neck, his eyes began to focus again. The cold grass tickled his cheek as he rose up from his horizontal position. Panicked, Spike remembered Buffy. They were together when the attack came. Where was she? Spike jumped up quickly, swaying a bit from the force of his departure from the ground. Inhaling the air, he smelled the moist air. It rained while he was unconscious. Her scent, along with their attackers disappeared, not even leaving a cold trail. Spike studied the ground, hoping to find a clue to Buffy’s disappearance, only to find four tracks of footsteps out to the road. No tire tracks on the cement. Growling, Spike felt the prickling of sunrise on his skin. He cursed, running straight for the Council’s headquarters. He knew something was wrong last night!

~*~*~
Giles poured over the ancient texts once again. The library was empty except for him. Little information was unearthed from the remaining texts. The cloth used to account for the making of the First Slayer was torn apart. From what he could piece together, the First Slayer was a human, virgin girl on the Savannah. Her tribe, family back then, sacrificed her purity and faith to the higher power. Infused with demon blood, attacked by the immortals, raped by the higher powers, the girl rose above the ashes like the phoenix. She had the power and knowledge to balance the power on Earth. Forged through triumph and misery the First Slayer fought against the demons and vampires. Giles shook off the images that the text described. The pure girl was literally torn apart sexually by the powers, leaving a hardened fighter in her place.
~*~*~
Quentin fell into a fitful sleep. Tossing and turning, Quentin worried that his past was coming to haunt him. He worked hard to get where he was: the protector of the human race against the demons. Quentin clenched his jaw; another dream of past rivals assaulted his mind. Stepping over his friends and family, crushing them under his foot, didn’t faze Quentin; he had to do what he had to do, but the faces of his loved ones were what haunted him. His mother, his dear mother with her onyx eyes, was staring at him sadly. His betrayal of their family stared back at him through her eyes and through the years. Her plea for him to stop his training haunted his mind. Quentin’s dreams skipped over to his Watcher training. The young Watchers that were in the training program were tightly knit group. Friends by trial and fire, trusting each other to a fault, the young Watchers moved through the ranks of the Council together. Their research parties at night, decoding prophecies and demon weaknesses. Quentin relived those nights of comradely with his friends. Shuddering, Quentin woke up with a start. The alignment of the universe was off. Something was wrong.

Quentin flew out of his room and down the corridor. Still dressed in his nightclothes, Quentin was heedless of the stares of his employees. He ran down the stairs, heading towards the library where he knew he would find Giles. His hair, usually coiffed in a stiff do, was tangled and messed from sleep. Running down the hall like a mad man with bare feet and pinstriped pajamas, Quentin huffed past his employees; he had to get to the library. Bursting into the room, he encountered Giles and a very angry, vamped out Spike.

“What did you do?” Spike growled before he made a move. Suddenly Quentin was pushed against the library door. His feet left the ground as the vampire used his claws around Quentin’s neck, pressing his body up on the wall. The rage in the vampire’s eyes shook Quentin to the core. Nothing, not even in the eyes of those who tried revenge against him, had held so much hate, malice, and fear such as Spike’s did at that moment.

“Nothing.” Quentin chocked out. He felt the piercing of his skin from Spike’s claws, his skin sliced like soft butter, leaving red welts and trickles around his throat.

Spike considered Quentin’s answer. As truthful as his scent told Spike Quentin was, he wasn’t through. Lifting Quentin away from the wall, he slammed the rotund body back against the hard surface. “Wrong answer, mate.”

Quentin made eye contact with Giles who was looking, rather proudly, at the scene of Quentin at least six inches off the floor. “Do something, Rupert!” Quentin ordered. Spike’s hand clenched further around his windpipe, leaving him suffocating before their eyes.

“What would you like me to do?” Giles came towards Spike and Quentin. He took his glasses off and started to clean them with his handkerchief. He started to pace a few feet parallel to the wall that Quentin was being held against. Chocking and gasping for air, Quentin’s eyes followed Giles’ movements. “Seems to me, that you aren’t dying.” Spike looked at Giles as he passed and nodded. The pressure on Quentin’s neck, although extremely uncomfortable, was not a death grip. “You know something happened to Buffy?”

Quentin coughed and tried to wiggle free, only to have Spike’s grip increase, a warning to answer Giles’ questions. “No, woke up from a dream. Something is off in the universe.”

“What do you mean?” Spike growled low in his throat. After he found Giles in the library they came to the conclusion that Buffy was kidnapped.

“Don’t know, just that something is off.” Spike released some pressure from Quentin’s windpipe. As much as he would love to snap his neck, he knew he couldn’t for Buffy. If Quentin felt something was wrong with the Slayer, he might be able to help.

“How?” Giles stood in front of the two near the wall. Spike allowed Quentin’s feet to touch the ground, but still had his neck pinned to the wall. Quentin looked away, not wanting to give away all the Watcher Council secrets.

“You know mate,” Spike asked conversationally, “I’m feeling a bit peckish.” Spike smiled, revealing his teeth. “Having to find my lady and all, going to need a lot of nourishment.”

Quentin looked at Spike with disgust. “You’ll never find her, if you do.” Spike growled and slammed Quentin’s head against the wall. The old man slumped down to the floor, unconscious.

Spike looked over at Giles who had a look of fatherly pride in his eyes. “Seems to me he’s hiding something.”

“Looks like, Watcher. So what do we do now?” Spike backed away, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Don’t think he had anything to do with her disappearance.” Giles looked disdainfully over at Quentin’s form.

“No, he doesn’t know what happened to her, I can smell liars. But he did know something happened.” Spike sat down in the last chair Buffy sat in. Hoping to feel her.

“Wonder if they have this room bugged, someone could have alerted him…”

“Got rid of the bugs yesterday, Slayer’s request.” Spike shot down that argument. “Don’t hear the buzzing anymore.”

“Locator spell? It’ll give general idea where she’s at.” Giles picked up a magic book and flipped through the pages. “Need something of Buffy’s the more personal, the better.” Spike nodded and went to retrieve something of Buffy’s. Her hairbrush? No, he sometimes used it. Panties? Spike dismissed that, he was the only man allowed to see and touch those. Her toothbrush? Can’t get much more personal that that. Spike headed into their bathroom and grabbed Buffy’s toothbrush. He glanced at the mirror, almost afraid to see his frantic face, but only saw her toothbrush floating in the air. Spike exhaled, not knowing he was holding his unneeded breath and went back downstairs to find Giles.





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