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Chapter 9
Faint scratches along the floor vibrated through her head. The dirt ground into her face as she tried to move. Buffy’s head felt like it had been hit with a ton of bricks, and then someone dropped another ton of anvils on her. She tried to move, but every muscle, ever fiber of her being, protested. Her limbs felt like they were on fire. Weak and confused, Buffy moaned only to alert her captors and fall back into her drug induced coma.

~*~*~
Spike trudged through the streets, a man on a mission. Tears already fallen, sleep not taken, blood barely ingested; Spike was a shell of his former self. Worry about his mate tore him deeply. The pain of separation cut through him sharply, leaving its jagged edges through his soul. Pain, he knew it well, and it comforted him. The only thing he could count on was the pain to bring him through this trial. Pain and misery to keep him company while Buffy was isolated from him. Several times he thought he felt her during the day. Cold and confused, slight images of the old burned Factory where he used to live flashed through his mind. He tried to reach out to her, help her calm down and give him a better direction of where to look, but every time he did the connection was severed.

Giles tried to do the location spell right away. Her toothbrush anchored the spell directly to her, but the map did not indicate where she was being held. Spike watched Giles try to spell three more times before he lost his temper. He left the library where Quentin’s body still lay and walked through the house. He glared at the Watchers they went about their daily activities. He passed hushed whispers in the corridor, a Tai-kwon-do training session in the small gym, and weight training in the other gym. Spike practically ran down the corridors, looking for an empty room. Finally, he reached a small study with no windows. With an old couch, end table, and chair, the room was furnished sparsely. Spike picked up the chair first. Stuffing fell out, dousing him with the foam right before he slammed it against the wall. The plaster gave way under the girth and momentum of the chair, splattering around the impact. Spike grabbed the chair once again, twisting it around to hurl at another wall. Satisfied with the crunch of the wood frame breaking, Spike moved on to the cushions of the couch. He first tore all the edges, his muscles straining over grabbing the fabric. He threw the tattered cotton to the other side of the room. He picked up the end table above his head. Spike used his whole body to throw the wooden object across the room and watched it splatter into pieces. Spike went over to the couch and lifted one end up. The couch flipped over easily, leaving Spike standing there, breathing heavily, and with nothing more to destroy. The sobs came first, tearing away from his soul into the cool air. Tears followed shortly after, bringing him to his knees. Dust flew in the air, leaving his anger to fall to the ground. Spike didn’t know what he was going to do. He couldn’t live without Buffy, not now. Not after everything they’d been through. She stuck with him, even during the bleakest looking moments. Gave him strength when he needed it. She stuck by his demon when he bit her, sucked down her rich blood, only to love him more. He needed her, not because of what she was, but who she was, who she became. Her strength and ability to give her body, heart, and soul and then give that much more proved to him that she was The One. In all his years of walking on this earth, he had been searching for her and he couldn’t give her up now.

Spike walked down the street, heading to an old warehouse district. Away from tourists and homes, Spike walked down another alley. Maybe if he got close to where Buffy was being held, he would be able to link with her, save her. Spike hunkered down into his duster, rain starting to pour down on the abandoned streets. His white hair, usually slicked back, started to curl up, leaving a mass of curls on his head. He felt the cold rain drip down his face, numbing him. His duster protected most of his body, but Spike didn’t notice. His blood had already grown cold, freezing his bones in place. His boots trudged through the puddles forming in the streets, splashing the cold water onto his jeans. Feeling his blood grow colder and his heart grow emptier, Spike refused to stop his crusade. IF Buffy was out there, scared and alone, he would find her if it was the last thing he did. The frigid air stuck to Spike like his coat, covering his body in a thin layer of ice. Spike shook his head free of the icicles forming at the tips of his hair and ducked into an entry way. The buildings around here looked like the building Buffy was trying to send him, but not quite. Something was different about these warehouses and factories. Spike went back out into the storming night, stalking through the midnight curtain that covered the Earth’s ground. Spike moved through the district easily and quietly, leaving no trace of his presence behind.

Five hours later and still no luck, Spike started on his way back to the Watcher’s Headquarters. All the warehouses he visited held no clue to Buffy or where she was being held. He thought he felt her a while ago and he had run at top speed towards a burnt out factory only to find nothing but ashes. Grumbling, Spike kicked a trashcan from the street. The metal can flipped over, making a loud banging noise on the pavement. Spike walked past it and through gates to a cemetery. The crunch of frosted grass didn’t even faze Spike. The emptiness he felt overwhelmed all his other senses. Buffy was in danger and he could have saved her. If he moved faster, paid more attention he could have saved her, or figured out who took her. But he failed.

Spike moved through the gravestones. Older markers were large, looming over the rest of the cemetery. He barely paid attention where he was going, just barely managing to head in the right direction. His walk was lethargic, leaving him looking like a bum. The clouds blocked out the moon temporarily, curtaining the earth in pure darkness. Spike used to love nights like these, he could stalk around and no one knew he was there. But the joys he used to feel were nothing, not without Buffy.

Spike heard a little girl’s voice in the night air, singing a little song in the graveyard. Spike stopped in his tracks, what was a child doing out at this time of night and in a cemetery? Spike crouched down, trying to hide his white hair when the moon peeked from underneath the cloud’s curtain. Spike heard the voice again, definitely a girl. The folk tune she sung sweetened the night air seemed so familiar. Spike felt entranced, his thoughts and fears seemed to dim as he stalked closer to the sound. Spike peaked around a large grave marker, an angel on a pedestal with the marbled wings worn by wind and rain. Spike sat down on his haunches to peer over to where the sound came from. A light drizzle started to fall, drenching Spike’s head once again. He hunched over to the duster took the brunt of the winter rain. Spike looked around, not able to see anyone, and decided to move forward. Spike started to crawl around the lower tombstones with the markings of their occupant’s life and death. He idly read the markers that he scooted by.

Aida Johnstown 1803-1840 Wife, Mother, Beloved.
Wyndam Prince 1835-1840 His laughter brought joy.
Tucker Taylor 1789-1850 Loved by all.
Fiona Dixon 1860-1901 May you rest in peace.

Spike scooted on top of these graves, trying to catch a glimpse of the girl in the cemetery singing. Finally, he got a clear shot of the girl. He was shocked to find not a little girl, but a grown woman turned away from him. Her dark hair hung loose down her back. Long and wet, it clung to her. From his partial view, he saw she was wearing a deep blue, long, velvet dress. The hem was tucked underneath her legs as she sat on the cold ground. Her pale fingers danced in the air, sparkling with ice that formed from the cold air and rain. Spike wanted to go over to the woman and shoo her away from the graveyard, but something stopped him. He stayed were he was, feeling the cold mud seep through his jeans. The woman stopped singing and her head popped up. Spike pulled back, hiding behind the gravestone. He heard the rustle of her dress as she stood up. He held his unneeded breath, just incase he would make a sound. He heard her move away, leaving him cold and huddling in the cemetery. He finally stopped hearing the rustling of her dress and peered around to read the grave marker on the grave she had sat upon.

Drusilla Chamberlain. May she walk with God now. 1837-1860

~*~*~
a/n: go to my website (www.geocities.com/karbear57) to vote who YOU think is Buffy's kidnapper. Could it be our Initative friends Sam & Riley, our favorite crazy vampire, Drusilla, or boring, old, fat English man known as Quentin?





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