She’d never felt her body abandon her, and if she had, it’d been long enough that she’d forgotten the feeling. The fear drenching her veins was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Beyond the soul-crushing knowledge of an impending apocalypse, or even running her loved ones through with a sword—no matter how deserved, in retrospect—the complete lack of strength coupled with staring down a pair of gleaming fangs made for the most frightening moment of her life. The hand around her throat was crushing her windpipe, and the vampire at the other end of it was grinning like it was a big joke.
“Why did you come to the dark of the woods?” he hissed, his other hand diving for her front pocket, fingers clasping around her stake. “To bring your sweets to grandmother’s house?”
Oh God. Oh God. Buffy plunged a hand into her other pocket. She hadn’t packed much when she’d left the library for patrol. She’d fairly well assumed that if any vamp needed its ass kicked, it’d be Angel. Or that Angel would do the ass-kicking for her.
However, years of being the Slayer had taught her to always be prepared. Which was why she had the stake.
And, she thought as her fingers victoriously wrapped around the familiar bit of silver in her pocket, a cross.
The vampire released her the second that she brandished the crucifix, jumping back in surprise. Buffy sucked in a deep breath and held it out at arm’s length, trying to ignore how hard she was shaking. It was humiliating, being this terrified of a common vampire. A vampire that would be dust on her shoes if she had any strength.
The shock of the crucifix didn’t last as long as she would have liked. The vampire’s yellow eyes twinkled, the fleeting flash of alarm vanishing. His arm shot out before she could blink, his hand curling around her wrist and guiding the cross to his chest.
Buffy inhaled sharply, her terror-rattled nerves suddenly combating a wave of familiar nausea.
Great. With any luck, I’ll yack on him.
“Oh-oh,” the vampire purred, his eyes alight with pleasure as he rubbed the silver into his skin. God, he made her sick. The air filled with the stench of burning flesh, her vision blurred with smoke. “Just a little lower.” He nudged her arm down and she had to choke her disgust. “Right…oh, yes. Yes. Oh!” He gasped. “Oooh! Thank you very—”
“I’m gonna be sick,” she informed him matter-of-factly, dropping the cross.
“I know just what you mean.”
The vampire did look sick, but not in a stomach-crampy kind of way. And it wasn’t just the straight-jacket that that clued her in. The hair was dirty and mussed in a greasy, hasn’t-been-washed-in-three-years style. His eyes were crazed in a manner that couldn’t be entirely blamed on the fact that he was undead.
But she wasn’t about to stand around and take in his less-than-glowing features all day, nor was she going to sacrifice what little strength she had in what would be a wasted backhand. Instead, Buffy turned on her heels and bolted down the corridor. She ran until her legs hurt, ran until her human lungs and heart demanded that she stop. She gasped for air and slammed the door behind her.
Not that a door would present a vamp any obstacle. Just buy her enough time to find a secure hiding place or a weapon.
Weapon. Weapon. Buffy sucked in a deep breath and took in her surroundings. The room she’d closed herself in was pukish yellow, and from the rotted refrigerator in the corner, she guessed it was the kitchen.
Kitchen. Kitchens had knives. Buffy’s eyes widened and she darted to the counter, jerking out drawers and cabinets in frantic search for anything.
She was on the third drawer when the pounding started.
“Okay,” she said quickly. “We’re not panicking. We’re not panicking just yet.”
The growls on the other side of the door grew angrier, the pounding more forceful.
That wasn’t the sound of a vampire that could be talked out of killing her dead.
“So, panic,” she continued, her voice hitting a high note. “Beginning to sound appealing.”
The pounding stopped the next second, and Buffy’s heart about stopped with it. She raised her shaking hands to her face, her stomach churning. Her mind was racing and none of the turns it took made any kind of sense. Spike wasn’t here. Spike was somewhere else. Not unless Mr. Vamp had dusted him—a thought so horrible, she didn’t think she could stomach it. But something told her that Spike wasn’t dust. That Spike wasn’t even here. Spike was very much alive—or undead—and likely worried off his cute British ass about her, seeing as she was now way late for bailing on Angel and making their patrol not-a-date.
So Angel had sent her into a condemned boarding house under the pretense of Spike being inside and bleeding. He’d sent her in here for a reason, and if Fangy was any indication, it was to get her ass royally handed to her.
At least Angel’s soulless face hadn’t been with the jealous vendetta. He’d just hated her for making him feel human.
Buffy sighed again and shook her head. She had no cross. No stake. Her speed was laughable and her strength? Well, she barely had any of that, and what she did have wasn’t going to amount to anything against a criminally insane dead guy.
The pounding had stopped. The guttural growls had moved away. The coast was probably clear.
I can make a run for it.
She wouldn’t get far. Maybe to Angel, presuming he was still outside.
Worth a shot.
One thing was certain: she couldn’t stay in the kitchen all night. Buffy worried a lip between her teeth and opened the door a crack. Just a crack. The hallway was empty. Not even a shadow moved. She exhaled slowly and slipped into the corridor.
Find the door.
Door. Yes. But every door she found was either bricked up or led to another room—a room with bookcases and chairs with the stuffing ripped out. The place was a maze. She was nearly convinced that the walls had moved. Nothing looked familiar.
Her eyes fell on the staircase. Only led up. Not down. She didn’t know what floor she was on anymore.
Chicks in horror movies always run up, and they always end up with their guts spilling out.
Buffy shivered and made her way to the staircase. Movies weren’t exactly a barometer she wanted to use to measure real life. And even so, she wasn’t supposed to be just another chick. She was supposed to be the Slayer. She was not supposed to be creeping up stairs and jumping like a frightened rabbit at every noise the old house made. She wasn’t supposed to be such a girl about things.
She rolled her eyes at herself. “God, I hate that analogy.”
A splintering crack pierced the air, timed with the vampire’s furious roar. Buffy screamed and collapsed, her head smacking against a step as a cold hand seized her ankle. Her stomach fell, her body banging down the steps. The vampire didn’t manage to drag her far, but for how much it hurt, it felt like miles. Buffy snatched hold of the first thing she saw—a broken piece of railing, and managed to tear it from its post.
God, my aim sucks.
She whimpered and stabbed at the vamp’s arm, scampering up the stairs the second that he released her.
Okay. Cuts to the head were not helping in maintaining balance. The hallway she landed at was empty with its share of doors lining either wall. She inhaled sharply and winced.
Pain.
God, she hated pain. Especially pain that wasn’t cushioned by slayer-strength. Her insides were swelling. Every breath that inflated her chest ached.
Make it to a door.
Buffy limped to the first door on the left. Or rather, tried to limp. The second she budged, a hand fisted her hair and dragged her back against a cold, solid chest. Nausea bubbled. She was going to be sick.
“Going somewhere?” the vampire breathed.
And then she was going to be dead.
The big hulking sod was standing outside of an old, condemned building. An old building with a sign that read, ‘Sunnydale Arms, Rooms for Let, Breakfast Included, Inquire Within.’ The air was ripe with her scent. She’d been here just a second ago, and the big-foreheaded wanker was to blame.
“Gimme one reason not to kill you,” Spike growled, reaching for the stake he’d stuffed into his back pocket. “Or better yet, hold your lack of breath ‘cause I’m gonna kill you anyway.”
Angel turned slowly, his eyes falling as though disappointed. “Spike. That didn’t take as long as I’d hoped.”
“Where is she?”
“Who?”
Spike roared, the bones in his face shifting as his fangs descended. “Don’t you fucking play dumb with me! Where is she?”
“Spike, there’s something you need to know—”
“Yeah. The way a stake through the heart feels? Tell you what. How about you go firs’, an’ then you can tell me about it.” He drew his arm back in what would have been the perfect arc for staking the pathetic bastard if a timely feminine scream hadn’t ripped through the air.
Spike’s head jerked, his eyes fixing on the condemned building to his left. “Buffy,” he gasped.
“She’s inside,” Angel said quickly. “Cruciamentum. It happens to all slayers—”
No need to tell him twice. Spike’s eyes blazed and landed on the self-righteous git, fist tightening around the chunk of wood as the rest of him gave way to rage. He growled and slammed the stake into his grandsire’s throat, then took off for the boarding house as Angel collapsed.
“Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” he spat, wiping blood off his hands, ignoring Angel’s pitiful moan.
The wanker wouldn’t be down for long. Too bad. Any other time and he would have really enjoyed that.
And he would. He’d get a good laugh.
After Buffy was safely in his arms.
The air cracked as she smashed into the wall. Her skin was bruised and she was sure that the vamp only had a few more bones to break before he rendered every inch of her body completely ineffective. Her face was purple and bleeding from his punches, her eyes so swollen that she couldn’t see anything. The steps he took were thunderous. He had her right where he wanted her; there was no need for stealth.
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,” he quipped. “I took the one less traveled by. Which one will you take…Buffy? Is that right? Buffy? That man…the vampire. The one that was here while they…prepared me for you…he mentioned your name once or twice.”
Buffy merely croaked.
“He seems a bit bitter, I think,” the vampire continued. “Hell hath no fury like a demon scorned, or so I’ve been told. At least that’s what I told my mother before I ate her. Perhaps your friend would have been a little less willing to lure you here if—”
“God. If you’re gonna gab all night, can you please just spare me and kill me now?”
“Ah, ah, ah,” the vampire berated. “Now, that, children, is what we call an oxymoron. Obviously, I can’t spare you and kill you at the same time. That defeats the whole purpose. In fact—”
Buffy whimpered as another vampiric roar sliced through the air, curling her aching body into as tight a ball as her muscles would allow. “Oh God.”
“You sonofabitch!” Something crashed in the hall and hope surged through her veins. She knew that voice. God, she knew that voice. “You fucking sonofabitch!”
“Spike?” she whimpered. If this was a last delusion before death, it was both a cruel and a welcome one. She wanted to be with Spike when she died—even if his presence was imagined.
“’m here, baby. Jus’ hold on.”
At his reassurance, her last nerve broke and a long sob tore through her lips. God. Spike was here. Spike had come for her. Hot tears welled behind her eyes, peeling down her swollen face. It hurt to cry. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. But it was okay. Spike was here. She didn’t know how he’d found her, but he had.
Spike had found her.
“This the one, Buffy?” the vampire taunted.
“Shut your gob! You don’t get to talk to her!” Spike snarled. “You don’ even get to look at her!”
“Her skin’s soft, isn’t it? So nice and warm…and breakable.”
There was nothing then but a feral roar. Spike’s roar. She knew his demon’s voice well. God, she knew everything. She felt everything. She felt every move that he made. Every time he lunged and crashed, every time he clawed and snarled and lashed out with his fangs. He was screaming things without saying a word, and she felt it all.
Buffy flinched and buried her head under her arms. The walls moaned and the floor shook.
Then she heard it. The unmistakable sound of a vampire dusting. And the next thing she knew, strong, familiar hands coaxed her into equally familiar arms. Her head was cradled against his chest, his lips peppering sweet kisses across her swollen face. It hurt, but in a good way. In a way that she would gladly endure for the rest of her days as long as he never let her go.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”
That didn’t matter. Didn’t he know that didn’t matter? The only thing that mattered was that he was here now.
“Spike…” Her voice didn’t even sound like hers. “Spike…”
“I’m here. I’m here.” He kissed her bruised lips, trembling hard against her. “I’m here.”
Yes, he was.
He’d come for her.
And that was all that mattered.
To be continued