Nightmares haunted every second of sleep. His mind enacted every gut-wrenching scenario a twisted imagination could provide. And each came in the wrapping of a golden fantasy.
He saw Buffy smiling at him. Buffy stripping for him. Buffy lying spread-eagled on his bed, her pussy slick with aching anticipation of his touch. He saw her beckon him forward. Saw her take his hand in hers and guide his fingers to her slippery folds. She moaned and bucked against his hand, played to easy orgasm and drenched his skin with her achingly feminine juices. She looked at him with open, trusting eyes. She looked at him in ways that made him question his existence.
Spike had always known evil things could appreciate beauty; he’d just never found purity beautiful.
And Buffy was pure. Buffy was nothing but pure.
And she wasn’t his. As dream faded into nightmare, as Angel strode into the room, there was nothing more singular than that knowledge. Buffy didn’t belong to him. She belonged to Angel. To the memory of a soul.
“Thanks for keeping her warm for me,” Angel quipped, winking. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
That wasn’t the kicker, though. The kicker was watching Buffy’s face break into blinding illumination. The kicker was watching her scoot over. The kicker was watching her throw her head back in pleasure as Angel’s hand found her pussy.
Thankfully, that was where the nightmare ended. That was when he twisted awake, finding again that he was alone in his motel bed. That Buffy’s scent lived only on the clothing she’d touched earlier when she’d kissed his lips off. That she wasn’t here to taunt him with the incredible wrong turn his feelings for her had taken.
She’d decided to go with the curse. She’d helped him back to the library after talking down the incredibly brassed-off slayer. She’d tended to his bruised head with an icepack, and told her friends she wanted to curse Angel again. Any hint of the girl who had sobbed in his arms was nowhere to be seen. Buffy acted with decisiveness. She wanted Angel back, and she’d said so while standing at Spike’s side.
Her argument? It would buy them time. Time to stop Acathla. Time to figure out how to put the apocalypse on pause.
It was just a happy coincidence that the curse would bring her boyfriend back. A two-for-one deal.
Spike moaned and threw his naked legs over the side of the bed, shaking his head hard. He was such a daft git. So bloody hopeless. Get a girl to smile at him, shed a few tears, and he was no more useful than Angel on Viagra. He wanted Buffy, and Buffy wanted someone else.
Story of his life.
The sun would soon fade below the horizon, and then it would be time to move. Spike was exhausted but wide awake, tense and ready for whatever the night brought on. He hadn’t been able to sleep—if it wasn’t the nightmares, it was worry that she might need him.
And that, friends, is the punchline.
Buffy had robbed him of his ability to sleep through the daytime, which did little more than solidify how thoroughly buggered he was. He was a demon; he was supposed to enjoy reaping havoc while the sky was dark and sleep when the sun was up. He was supposed to be out there planning an apocalypse of his own. He was supposed to not give a bleeding fuck if Buffy wanted to shag Angel until she rotted, or how many souls she stuffed up the git’s righteous arse. He was supposed to be different.
He was supposed to be so many things. Right now, the thing he focused on was the fact that he was a nocturnal creature, and he was turning arse over tit to change his habits for a girl who was probably dreaming of getting fucked sideways by another vamp.
A girl who would never dream of him.
Spike padded miserably to the bathroom sink, glaring into the mirror that refused to glare back. When had life become so sodding complicated? His plan had been simple enough. Go to the school. Talk to the Slayer. Get her to concoct a brilliant plan that involved Dru begging him to take her back as well as Angelus’s dusty downfall. But that hadn’t happened.
Buggering ghosts. The ghosts had turned his head and given his cock another pussy to crave. Crave beyond a fleeting fantasy—crave as he’d craved no woman before her. Before Buffy. And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, his heart, oh so predictably, had followed suit.
He was always falling for women who were infatuated with Angelus.
Perhaps he truly was a masochist.
“My Spike flies so far away from the other children.”
His eyes widened in shock, his feet twisting until he found himself staring at his maker. The motel door was wide open, and there she stood. Dru. Distant. Haunting. She held herself like a true aristocrat. Her hands were hidden behind her back, her hair pulled away from her face. She was dressed all in black.
Of course she was. The white gowns had vanished once her power was restored. The white had fooled him, played to his softer side. Made him believe that the sickly girl he saw—the one who pretended to love him to get what she wanted—could ever carry over in the rebirth of what no angry mob could destroy.
Drusilla had walked right into his motel. His neutral ground. The place he stayed that belonged neither to Angelus nor the Slayer. And she’d done so without triggering any of his senses. He hadn’t even smelled her.
Odd as it was, Spike was hardly surprised. If Dru didn’t want to be felt, she had ways to avoid it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, his unthinking feet carrying him to her. “An’ haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
“I just came to see if the stars were lying to me.”
“Bloody hell, Dru, we already had this argument. I’m lost, remember?” He waved his hand a little. “I wanna play in sunshine? I’ve tasted honey an’ I want more? Any of this ringing any bells?”
“Only dirty boys play in the sunlight, my sweet.”
He rolled his eyes. “No need to tell me that. Why don’t you bugger the fuck off an’ head back to your cozy li’l apocalypse, yeah? You an’ Grandpap made it perfectly clear that you wanted me nowhere near the precious ceremony. An’ near as I can recall, I din’t invite you to keep tabs.”
“Mummy looks after all her babies,” Drusilla replied coyly, taking a step forward. “You were always my favorite baby, Spike.”
“But nothin’ more than that. Trust me, got that message loud an’ clear.”
“Daddy worries you’ll ruin everything.”
Daddy ought to be more worried about the amateur witch that was brewing up a cup of soul, or at least looking at the recipe. But Spike didn’t say that. He wouldn’t betray Buffy. The last time any from her lot had tried to reensoul the wanker, a teacher lost her life. Not that Spike particularly cared if one or all of the little Scoobies had their innards ripped out; he just knew what it would do to Buffy if she lost someone else. If conjuring a curse meant sacrificing a friend.
He wouldn’t betray Buffy. Not now.
Look what she’s turned you into.
Not even thoughts like that could persuade him.
“If Daddy figured me for anything of a threat, he’d be here himself to deliver the message,” Spike retorted dryly, arching a brow. “You’re jus’ here to keep me in the ranks. Make sure when the mojo starts later that I’m still standin’ on your side.”
Drusilla’s lower lip poked out in a way that, once upon a time, would have had him weak in the knees. Not now. Seeing her now only incited irritation. “My puppy feels mistreated?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. For starters, not a sodding puppy.”
“Such a sad day it is for you, William.”
“You have no bloody idea.”
“You’re going to help the nightingale, aren’t you?” She took a step forward, her eyes now blazing with accusation. “You think she sings her song for you. She doesn’t, you know. She likes the way you feed and coddle her, and she will give you a treat in the end. But her song isn’t yours.”
Spike flinched inwardly, but he refused to let Dru see how deep the words cut. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t said before. Point of fact, the very first night she’d fed him the same speech. About how Buffy didn’t want him and all that rot. And while repetition didn’t make the hurt vanish, it did steal some of the punch.
“Still, she had the decency to tell me that before I got involved,” he countered. “Go home, Dru. You’re wasting your time with me.”
“I don’t think so, my darling.” She bit her lip coquettishly and her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Acathla awakes tonight. And you’re not going to ruin the surprise party.”
It was only then her arms dropped and the sword came into view. A sword. An honest-to-god sword. Spike barely had time to blink at it before the blade cut across his neck. Paralyzed shock hardened his body; he gasped his maker’s name and reached for the wound out of instinct, baring his gut in a moment of blind weakness.
“Dru—”
She barely blinked at him before swinging again. Then the wall was pressed to his back, the sword gone all but the handle that protruded from his belly.
“My Spike wants the sunshine,” she said, moving away with haunting grace. When he had the strength to glance up, she was at the window, her fingers coiled around the cord that dangled beside the cheap drapery. “Sunshine, my Spike shall have.”
“Dru,” he coughed, blood splattering on his lip. The sun had set, of course, and wouldn’t be back for hours. But it would be eventually. And as tomorrow’s day progressed, the sun would crawl deeper into the room. Until his flesh sizzled and his insides imploded. Until there was nothing left of him but dust.
The room spun.
Blood. He needed blood.
“Good night, sweet prince,” Dru singsonged from the distance. “May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
Had he been more coherent, Spike would have asked her when she’d ever had the faculties to memorize Shakespeare.
As it was, those words were the last he heard before the world blanked out.
Three years now. It had been three years. Three years since Merrick approached her on the steps of Hemery High School. Three years since she dusted her first vampire. Three years since her first Big Bad.
Three years since her first dead body.
It never became simple. She was never able to detach herself from the faces of those she failed to save. She still cried herself to sleep every night she had to wash blood off her hands. The twenty-second victim wasn’t easier to bury than the twenty-first. The body count seemed to follow her no matter where she went or how far she ran.
Buffy had buried strangers, classmates, and teachers. She’d stood at Giles’s side as Jenny Calendar was lowered into the earth.
She’d never gazed on the lifeless face of a friend. And even though the body was gone, it didn’t make her tremble any less. It didn’t quell the sickness in her stomach. The image was frozen in her mind. When she closed her eyes, she saw it again and again. There was no escape.
There was little difference from what she’d seen a few hours ago. Before she’d kicked herself free of police custody and torn away in desperation. The library was still a disaster. Bookshelves remained toppled. Incense and herbs remained scattered across the floor. Giles’s weapons cabinet was still empty. Blood spots still stained the floor.
And then there was Kendra.
Kendra.
Kendra wasn’t here anymore, of course, but she had been just a few short hours ago. She’d lain on the floor, her bleeding neck bent at a heartbreakingly awkward angle. Her eyes closed. She hadn’t breathed.
Of course she hadn’t breathed. Dead people didn’t breathe.
Angel had told her. Warned her that she was stupid for thinking everything was always about her. He was right. She hated that he was right. She’d stood beside her friend’s dead body because he was right. Because he’d dangled a shot at confronting him in front of her face and she’d leapt at it without thinking. Without waiting. God, without even waiting for Spike.
Spike. Spike. Where was Spike?
Buffy stood in the empty library, surrounded by the sad remnants of the attempt to stuff Angel’s soul back down his throat. Everything was gone. Wasted. Xander didn’t know where Giles was. Willow was recuperating in a hospital room. Cordelia had taken off and was probably halfway to Vegas by now.
There was no Spike. Spike hadn’t shown.
Xander had a theory on that. He said Spike had set them all up. Spike had ratted them out. Buffy had argued it was impossible for Spike to rat them out when he hadn’t known the plan. She hadn’t seen him since last night—hadn’t talked with him since bidding him farewell and sneaking a quick kiss in the hallway. After worrying over the bruise on his forehead—the bruise Kendra hadn’t, and now never would, apologized for giving him—he’d rolled to his feet, told her he’d see her tomorrow, and left.
Kendra was dead. Willow was in the hospital. Giles was missing. And Spike was gone.
I can’t do this alone.
She exhaled slowly, her eyes landing on the sword Kendra had abandoned on the conference table. The sword Buffy had kicked a cop—one holding her at gunpoint, no less—to retrieve.
In the end, you’re always by yourself. You’re all you’ve got.
Buffy shivered. The twerp from Giles’s apartment might have been right, but it didn’t mean she had to take it with a smile and a nod. Angel hadn’t mentioned Spike. Xander had even begrudgingly confessed the peroxided vampire hadn’t been anywhere in sight during the raid.
If Spike had been a part of it, Angel would have rubbed it in her face. She just knew he would have.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
She needed Spike. She might be destined to always be alone, but it didn’t mean she had to sit down and accept it. If Spike was still alive, she needed him. He would help her. He would help her save Giles. He would help her save the world.
She wasn’t about to lose anyone else. Not tonight.
She would find Spike. She’d find him and kiss him until he was glad he didn’t need to breathe. Then they’d find Giles and stop Angel. They would.
But she wouldn’t lose him. Not Giles. Not Spike. She wouldn’t lose anyone else.
Not without dying first.
TBC