Inside A Deep Ravine
It was late, she was bored, and the demon population wasn’t exactly working on the up to remedy any preset predicament. Naturally, though, that was to be expected. A line of tedium was nothing that locals attempted to correct. Not until the pace picked up once more and everything settled into the norm of activity.
Slowness generally merited a bad, and it had been slow.
Very slow.
Granted, Buffy rationalized as she made her third uneventful sweep of Restfield Cemetery, only two days had passed since the trauma that was the big troll. Silence in any regard was to be considered suspicious, but in truth, all might have amounted more to the spring of unnatural causes. There had been nothing more from Glory, her mother seemed to be doing well, and Dawn, despite the noted badness that ensued wherever she went, had managed to keep out of trouble for forty-eight hours.
Logically, such grounds could only mean the impending apocalypse, but she tried to keep her thoughts positive.
Which was most certainly of the impossible when there wasn’t a demon in sight whose death would merit a nice little detour from the grim reality that was her life. One little demon. That was all she wanted for tonight.
Well, what she really wanted was to go home, soak, and open her eyes to the boyfriend that left when life became too real, but that wasn’t happening. And if she was honest, it wasn’t entirely what she sought. No. The place Riley had in her heart was vacant, yes, but not unmanageable. It hurt that it didn’t hurt more than it did, and then it just hurt all over. As though her non-indifference-but-close was enough to merit his leaving. As though every nasty thing he said that indicated he wasn’t enough for her was true.
She had known that, of course. On some level buried under heaps and heaps of denial, she had known that.
But he was Joe Normal. He was what she was supposed to want.
Sometimes, like now, life sucked beyond the telling of it.
And there were no demons to take it out on.
Buffy sighed heavily. There was no point in wasting a perfectly good chick-flick night wandering aimlessly around the cemeteries. If badness wasn’t going to come to her, she might as well go to badness. There hadn’t been a decent chick-flick to roll out of Hollywood in recent memory, and she had already seen all the others. Another point to support why life as of the current was not working in her favor.
If Riley were here, they could spar. Or make love. Of course, neither one of those activities were entirely relaxing. Fighting Riley had always aggravated her because she couldn’t unleash her everything and just be…her. The Slayer. She was always afraid she was going to hurt him. Or break him. And the other…their bedroom life the past year had gone seriously downhill. To his credit, he had started their physical relationship as a very attentive lover, but time progressed and the newness of their association waned. And he became Joe Normal on a whole new plateau.
His plateau, of course. She never asked him to rectify her dissatisfaction. Too afraid it would damage his precarious male ego. Thus, Buffy had learned the art of something she had never suspected to need in any regard. It wasn’t as though there was a how-to course, and she certainly couldn’t ask her mother.
“Mom…how do you fake an orgasm?”
There was no way that conversation could lead anywhere of the good. And either way, she had apparently been convincing. Mimicking the scream that seemed identical to the one that had caused the Gentlemen’s heads to explode.
And Riley never knew the difference. He didn’t notice the conversion from the real to the phony, and she never made reference to it. Toward the end, she had even succumbed to lying to him as to not damage him more than she was already. And it did hurt. It hurt when it didn’t hurt enough and it hurt that she was not giving him what he needed. Because she knew that he loved her. Despite everything else, he loved her. And she had pushed him away because she didn’t—she couldn’t—feel the same.
It wasn’t because he wasn’t Angel, regardless of his own conviction. God, if that wasn’t the king of all revelations. Angel wasn’t what she wanted anymore. From the few times that they had conversed since he abandoned her for Los Angeles, he had turned into someone she didn’t know. Naturally, there was a part of her that would always love him. He had been her first, and no girl overcame her first great love. It wasn’t possible. But she wasn’t fool enough to believe that he was The One anymore. And she had long ago conceded the fantasy where he came to his belated senses and rescued her from the woes of Slayerhood.
That would never happen. She knew it now. She had known it for a while.
But Angel wasn’t the reason that she couldn’t give Riley what he wanted. And that was what bothered her. On the surface, Riley had been everything she should reach for. Want. He wasn’t. And he never had been.
Whistler had been right all along. In the end, it was only her. And she reckoned that was the way it would be forever. After all, what could a girl whose death was always licking her heels offer anyone? A few good rolls in the sack, if that. A hearty kiss farewell before—boom—massive deadness.
There were times that being the Slayer caught up with her. To know what it meant was one thing; to truly understand was an entirely different matter.
A surprisingly cool breeze flitted through the cemetery and Buffy shivered, arms crossing self-consciously. The night hummed around her, bringing all its creatures to life.
To life, but not within proximity.
That was when she heard the unmistakable signs of struggle sounding reasonably near. And the Slayer’s spirits heightened. Perhaps the evening’s hunt wouldn’t be a total waste.
The scene upon arrival was not as encouraging as she had hoped. Spike was beating the tar out of some newly risen fledgling, and apparently having a marvelous time doing so. The grin on his face was ear-to-ear, the same she recognized out of unruly satisfaction.
“Great,” she pouted. “The first vampire I’ve come across all night and he’s spoken for.”
The sound of her voice startled the platinum Cockney right out of his enjoyment, and he whirled wide-eyed in greeting. It was odd seeing the cocky vampire suddenly flabbergasted at the simple additive of her presence. “Buffy—”
Not good. Stopping to talk to your mortal enemy during a fight was not a good. “Spike! You’re—”
Too late. Baby Vamp seized initiative and slammed him into the side of the nearest mausoleum, elbowing his nose and projecting his head into the stone with a bone-breaking crack. That was all the excuse she needed—though most certainly not for Spike’s welfare. The stake she kept harbored up her sleeve slid easily into grasp, and Buffy hurled herself enthusiastically into the line of fire.
“Oi, Slayer!” the Cockney called begrudgingly, checking his nose for blood. “You’re not playin’ with the full stack! I saw him firs’!”
“Sorry, Bleach Boy,” she retorted, words stressed between winds of exertion. “Finders…keepers…”
There was a disgruntled mumble through the strains and pains of mediocre battle-skills. She actually had to tone it down a bit to stretch this one out. From earlier observation, it was evident that there would be no more fighting after this vamp bit the dust. Bah. The woes of slow nights.
It didn’t last nearly as long as she would have liked. All too soon, Buffy was staring at a fading cloud of dust, sighing to herself and replacing her stake where she kept it handy. As an afterthought, she turned to Spike. The way he was looking at her these days could fall under the file of disconcerting, but she didn’t allow herself to give it much thought. The peroxide pest was always up to something or other. If she knew him half as well as she thought she did, she would be foiling some supremely retarded plan come the next two weeks or so.
But that wasn’t it. His eyes shone with something more than general and mutual distaste. As though there was something there that hadn’t existed before. Thinking about it didn’t do much for her complex, but it was mildly bothersome. An ocean of blue that birthed an endless reflection of awe intertwined with old irritation.
There was power there. Power and something more.
Nights like this, she hated the chip. Not that she would ever admit it. While killing him remained on her list of things to threat to do without doing, it was the furthest thing from any form of intention. But she did wish they could go at it the way they used to. Despite his notable flaws, he was the most worthy adversary she had ever faced. She was so tired of fights she knew she could win.
It wasn’t a matter of winning fights with Spike. Oh no. More dodging the bullet with every intention of coming closer to death at next rendezvous. He could have killed her a thousand times over but hadn’t. She the same. And she never allowed herself to consider why.
It was worth too many wiggins for additional thought.
“Bloody perfect,” he muttered with seething irritation, dusting himself off appropriately. “Y’know how long it took me to find a fresh one?”
“Hey, you’re lucky I came along.”
“To what? Distract me?”
“No…” Buffy frowned, jutting her lip out with endless indecision. “Okay, okay. So he was a baby vamp. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a Spike-dustiness ending to this story in the loom.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Even ‘f that were the case, since when are you one to care, Slayer?”
“Since the days of my boredom have reduced me to contemplating ending your sorry existence if patrol doesn’t pick up.”
“That loses its swagger the more you say it. You do know that, right?”
She sighed wantonly as they fell into a freakishly comfortable side-by-side stroll through the cemetery. It was similarly on her list of things not to do, but she really wasn’t in the mood to be wall-put-uppy Buffy tonight. Chances of Spike slithering through being in name only, she figured her digression was forgivable. “Yeah, yeah. Well, I gotta say it. You know. To keep you in line.”
“Right.” She didn’t have to look at him to see his brows quirk, and it egged at her senses that she knew him so well. “’Cause it works like a bleedin’ charm. Cor, Slayer, you must really be bored.”
“God, you have no idea. The vamps are a no-go and have been on the side of avoidy for a couple nights.” She flexed her shoulders instinctively. “That’s forever in Buffy-years. I’ve reduced myself to watching Jackie Chan films and pretending it’s me kicking ass.”
“After only two days?” Spike shook his head again, reaching for his cigarettes with a chuckle. “That is sad.”
“Excuse me. I believe your television schedule revolves around Passions and Passions reruns wherever you can catch them. Don’t lecture me on sad.”
“Well, seein’ as you’re so close to losin’ your marbles, I gotta say, ‘m glad it was you who killed ole Henry back there.” When she appraised him with a curious look, he shrugged, lighter finding the end of his fag with a glowing hum and an appreciative intake of nicotine. “Hank. Harm told me ‘bout ‘im. Got sired by some of her old lackeys. The ones you din’t off in the Rescue-The-Bit, Take Thirty-Five show down ‘couple weeks back.”
Rescuing Dawn from Harmony. That had been before Riley left.
Grumble.
As if he sensed her digression, Spike stopped suddenly and pivoted to face her. “Look,” he said, “there’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to tell you. Timin’ never seemed right, an’ honestly, I don’ rightly know what there is to say. Only that I gotta get it out there so you get me, right?”
The vampire had serious-face. This was never good. “Yeah, okay,” she said slowly, feeling suddenly very self-conscious. “What’s the what?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “’S about what ‘appened last week…with Captain Cardboard an’ the vamp brothel. I jus’—”
Immediately, Buffy held up a hand and stepped back, an entirely too ill at ease look overwhelming her features. “I really, really don’t wanna talk about this.”
He made a move to reach for her at her withdrawal and she bristled. A sigh resounded through the air in turn, and he retracted his touch to his own platinum strands. “Look, I don’ wanna rub the salt in anythin’ or what all. Tha’s not what I ‘ave to say. ‘S jus’…you need to hear this.”
“I don’t need to hear anything from you, Spike. Ever.”
There. That was a bit more like herself. Being nice to the Bleached Wonder always led to badness, especially if doors were left open along the way. Who knew when he would seize initiative and leap into her bubble? Spike preferred to make himself comfortable wherever it was inconvenient for others, and she was a specialty in such case.
He was exceptionally talented at rubbing her the wrong way.
Especially nights like tonight.
“Yes you bloody do,” he insisted, making another play for her wrist and whirling her around to face him. For a beat, she wondered how or why she allowed him to get so close. Her body itched with the need for another fight and she wondered if her Slayer senses would be satisfied if she popped him in the nose. Somehow she doubted it, but it was nearly worth the experimentation. Had he not looked to be the epitome of seriousness, she would have put the hypothesis to test. “An’ the sooner you accept that, the happier the lot of us’ll be.” He observed her wearily, head cocked as those eyes she was so not noticing burned through the layers of her self-consciousness. Why? Why was he suddenly looking at her like that? “Buffy, I din’t take you there that night to hurt you, no matter how it mighta seemed.”
At that, she rolled her eyes. Since when did Spike care about hurting her? Wasn’t that his life’s mission? His prerogative? It was in her general acceptance, thus she hadn’t given it much thought. Hearing him mention it like that was nearly laugh-worthy. As though she had spent her nights cursing his name for ruining her—cough— perfect relationship. “Right. Because hurting the Slayer is nowhere near Spike’s lot in life. Or unlife. Please. I’m so not worrying with this now. Goodnight.”
“Not hurtin’ the Slayer, you daft bint. You.” She knew he hadn’t meant to say it like that by the telling widening of his eyes and therefore ignored it. There would be no revelations of the potential apocalypse-bringing sort tonight. “’F I wanted to hurt you, you’d feel it. I don’ work that way, an’ you know it.”
He had a point there. Spike hadn’t resorted to striking so personally in a long while. The day in the sun when he suggested that she wasn’t worth a second go, and that remark was more to get back at her Drusilla-jibe of two night’s earlier, she reckoned. When the platinum vampire wanted to hurt, he hurt in the all-out sense. He spoke big words, of course. A recent evening rendezvous to the Bronze rang as proof enough of that, but anything more was too Angelus for either brazen level of comfort.
Time to go home.
“Right. I get it.” She turned to leave again.
“You do not. You’re jus’—”
Buffy paused again with an aggravated sigh. “Look, what happened, when I said I didn’t wanna talk about it, I meant as in the really. You’re not exactly my ideal chatting partner, thus when I do open up, it definitely won’t be to you. But…” She stopped shortly, holding up a hand. “What happened…it was…I’m glad I found out. Even if it did hurt, I needed to know. And yeah, I guess that’s…it was important, despite your motive.”
“My motive was to show, luv. Nothin’ more. Din’t figure you’d want your boy—”
“Again with the not chatty. You’ve said your piece and I’m going home. This is me dropping the subject. Okay?”
He sulked a bit in manifest disappointment. “Callin’ quits already? Come on, Slayer. ‘m sure if we put our heads together an’ tag-team this bloody two-bit town, we can find some action worth lookin’ in on.”
Buffy’s eyes widened. “Oh yeah. Because my stealthy self couldn’t pick up one tail, and this is sort’ve my calling. But two of us, especially a notably loudmouthed bleached chip-head—right. We’ll be rolling in the vamps. Stakes all around.”
“You’re a bloody riot.”
“I do stand-up on the weekends.”
“Better stick to your…” Spike trailed with a frown and threw a pointed, nearly accusing glance at the darkened sky. “…night job.”
She snickered. “Not that I have a choice.”
“Come on. The night’s young…’f you’re a vamp or one who hunts vamps…which you are.” Her gaze sharpened at him skeptically, but he ignored her. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” His eyes danced and he twitched slightly with unkempt excitement. “There’s nothin’ you can do at home that you can’t do out with me.”
There was no way not to mask the initial thoughts that sprung to mind, bearing the thought that Xander and Anya were the people she spent most days with now that Riley was gone. The ex-vengeance demon was especially keen at pointing out the variety of ways that she wanted the Slayer gone so that she might engage in sexcapades with her ever-attentive boyfriend. Thus the image came unbidden, and her cheeks flushed rouge in turn. When she hazarded a glance up and caught the smirk born proud on his lips, she knew begrudgingly that she had been caught in her digression. It was infuriating how easily he read her. There was no one else that had such a talent.
Buffy the Ambiguity. Buffy the Ambiguity to all save one William the Bloody.
Caught in wordless, heated embarrassment, the Slayer resorted to her last form of defense. She tossed him a dirty glance and made to brush passed him. In truth, it would have been more productive to forfeit one hearty swing and punch his eye out, but the notion never transpired. It wasn’t as though he was being purposefully annoying as was his custom. He had made a harmless suggestion; she was the one who tainted it.
Just another testament to how breaking up was a bad thing. Here she was chatting up Spike after she very deliberately told him that she would not, and hitting him had never occurred to her.
“Oh, don’ gimme that look,” Spike protested with a snicker. “’S your perverted li’l mind that thought up whatever delicious dirty you’re tryin’ so hard to banish from hindsight.”
Better to feign ignorance, even if it was ultimately superfluous. “How did—”
His eyes narrowed and she shut up right quick. “Saw your face. That was enough. An’ I suspect there’s more to it where that came from.” A sharp chuckle tickled the air when she turned even redder. “There, there, Slayer. We’ve all got our various…squicks.”
“Get bent.”
She pushed passed him furiously and started marching for home. It was to little avail. Spike fought to her side and kept up rather nicely, hands buried in the pockets of his billowing duster. His lips attentively tended to the cigarette and she was somewhat disconcerted to how accepting she had become to the otherwise intrusive scent. Smokers were nasty. Smokers were not to be associated with…ever. And yet, around Spike it was nearly expected. As though he wasn’t entirely there if he wasn’t puffing away at something.
They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, and just as she was starting to debate the better odds and ends of staking him for good, his voice interrupted her musings. “Are you sure…’bout the rest an’ everythin’? It got really nasty there at the end.”
The Slayer felt a breath catch her in throat and went frigid. “We’re talking about Riley again?”
“I jus’…’f I’da known—”
“It hurt. He ran away from us. From our problems.” Buffy emitted a weary sigh and directed herself thoughtlessly to a headstone. They hadn’t even made it out of the cemetery. Of course not. Once more, it occurred to her that spilling her innermost thoughts and insecurities to the man previously dedicated to her demise was not of the good, but for tonight, she was tired of playing by the rules. She was tired of so much. It was late and he was here. He was Spike, yes, and he was the proudly proclaimed bane of her existence, but some random voice within her psyche whispered that he would listen, and furthermore, that he would understand. Talking to Xander was a no because he had been there at the end and seen everything that transpired. He had given her the inspirational last speech about saving the one good thing in her life. He would put on his sympathetic face, but he didn’t truly feel sorry for her.
Willow was similarly a no. When Oz walked out on her, it had ruined her completely. It had ruined her on an Angel-leaving level. Even Buffy couldn’t remember grieving the loss of her one true love as much as the Witch had the departure of her first and only boyfriend. For that, she couldn’t talk to her friend. Not for the changes the separating them: because Oz had meant more than Riley. Willow had loved Oz.
Buffy had not loved Riley. And she saw that now.
Spike was not exactly a yes, but he wasn’t a no, either. He was here and that was good enough. And if he breathed a word to anyone, she could always shove something nice, wooden, and pointy through his chest.
Not that she would or anything. The hinted promise of things she would never do was the only thing that could have persuaded her to continue. And she needed to talk. She needed it out there, even if it was her mortal enemy who was listening. “Sometimes,” she said softly. “Sometimes I feel like…my problems. Like something’s wrong with—”
“Don’ even finish that sentence.” The sound of his voice surprised her, as though, despite her acceptance, she had forgotten he was beside her. For a second, it appeared that he was resisting the urge to reassure her with a touch. He resisted well, were that the case. “It wasn’ you that made him go out for suck jobs.”
“No, but I pushed him away. I’ve been so focused on Mom and Dawn and—”
“The things you shoulda been focused on?” he suggested softly. She didn’t reply. “Buffy, your mum jus’ had a bloody serious operation. ‘F you weren’ there to be his snuggle-bunny, it was his fault for—”
“That’s what I thought. Apparently no one else did. People seem to forget that I have every day slayage and Mom-taking-care-of and Dawn-sitting to tend to. All at once, mind you! Oh no, everyone’s big on the ‘it’s Buffy’s fault’ train.”
“Everyone is wrong,” Spike said gently.
“You can’t know that.”
“I do.” It was hard to contest a man who sounded so wholly certain, even if that man was a viciously notorious vampire with a mean streak that challenged the Nile in length and the expanse of North America in width. Not to mention the total lack of patience. There was probably a list somewhere that alphabetically categorized every nasty thing the Scourge of Europe had done or thought about doing, but while standing in his presence, such indiscriminate little nasties were so easy to forget. Despite what she said, or how she claimed to understand. “’S funny how li’l details slip your mind, Summers.” Gee, wasn’t I just thinking the same thing? “Like how I know Slayers on a whole pretty damn well.”
Her eyes narrowed. Then again, on other days, remembering what he was constituted as just another task on the get-ready list. Right there between brush your teeth and floss. “Yeah. Need to know your enemy, right?”
It grew unpredictably quiet—blunt and nearly creepy, dismissing the entire archetypically selected scenery. Sometimes the intensity of his eyes was simply too much. Buffy never liked to credit Spike with surplus power, but there was no denying what he had at his disposal. At his wake. At his readily awaiting-thy-orders, master. He was young for a vampire, all things considered. But God, experience just rolled off his shoulders. The places he had been. The things he had seen.
The people he’s killed.
“’F that was the case,” he was saying, and she had to struggle to remember what they had been talking about, “you woulda been six feet under a long time ago. Not by me!” He stepped back before she could issue the accusation, hands flying up as though someone was holding him at gunpoint. “’d never presume that, luv. I fancy thinkin’ I know you pretty well, but you ‘ave the strangest way of takin’ me out for a spin on the bloody tail-ends. An’ ‘f I don’ say so myself, the fact that I’m still tryin’ to figure you out means all the better for you. Your other local nasties’ll never make it full circle. You’re an ambiguity, Buffy. Lord help us all ‘f someone ever gets to the core of that onion.”
There was a moment of stillness that could not help but ensue in the general randomness that was being paid a compliment, an actual and—weird—heartfelt compliment by Spike. Where had that come from? She hated it when he did that. When he acted as though he were all Average Joe going about his merry way. As though he wasn’t what he was.
It made it harder to hate him, and that was something Buffy enjoyed keeping filed under the Simple heading. Hating Spike was supposed to be like breathing. Natural. Instinctual. Basic. He wasn’t supposed to go all Vamp-Casanova with the bizarre compliments that came from nowhere and the imaginary Lean On Me soundtrack that was not playing in the background, even though it might as well have been.
The words that escaped her, though, hardly followed through to conclusion. Right now she was desperate for any sign that suggested what had happened to her, to her and Riley, to her and all her relationships was not entirely of her doing. She was the Slayer, first and foremost, and she couldn’t have the average life. Including the average boyfriend. It was nice that someone was acknowledging that.
Acknowledging her for what she was.
Even if that someone was Spike.
“Do you mean it?”
It grew unspeakably silent, and Buffy had known many silences. Too many to recount. Never one with the platinum vampire. Spike had never had a quiet note in his life, especially where she was concerned.
He made as though to touch her but withdrew almost instantly, sensing the imminence of her protest. She hadn’t even realized it was there until she felt her voice stop in her throat. There was no friendly touching where she and Spike were implicated. There should be no touching period, but sometimes a punch here or there was of the necessary.
He was looking at her again. “Yeh,” he said finally. Still quiet. “I mean it. Christ, Summers, you’re near impossible to get close to. I should know. Tried foilin’ everythin’ you threw at me from day bloody one, an’ that was three years ago. You’ve outdone yourself. An’ whatever this new bitch has on you…wha’s her name?”
“Glory.”
“Right. ‘F she knew what she was gettin’ herself into, she’d be makin’ tracks.” A smile tickled his lips as though he was proud. “As it is, ‘m sure you’ll see that she gets her arse right an’ properly kicked.”
“What about you?”
“Me? Oh, I’ll be there. Count on it. Y’think I get my rocks off by watchin’ from the sidelines?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Spike paused and the world stopped with him. “Oh? Wha’s that, then?”
The warning bell she had been ignoring strategically for the past fifteen minutes started blaring. There was no part of this that could result in the area code of good. The last time she let Spike this close, they had been under a spell and, well, doing anything but talking. He didn’t look to be expecting anything of her, but there was a line between them that could be crossed for no purpose. She had placed it there long ago—separating herself from all things of the vampiric nature. After Angelus. After Angel left. There was to be no amity between enemies.
Freakish space becoming an issue.
“I-I don’t know.” Buffy frowned and stepped back. “I’ve—uh—gotta be heading home.”
The response was automatic. The platinum vampire nodded and reinstated her unspoken need for distance. “Right then. Toddle on off. ‘m sure your pals have gotten into some tragic accident without your supervision.”
“Hey—”
“What’s up with you, Summers? You’re all…I dunno…anxious.” He ran his tongue across his teeth, favoring her with a tantalizing leer. “Not very becomin’ to a Slayer. ‘S it ‘cause you’ve stepped down from your almighty horse? Treatin’ me like one of yours? I’ll admit ‘s a li’l disconcertin’, but I’m not complainin’.”
At that, she scoffed, indignant. “Well, up until now, you were acting like a person. Sorry for the lapse. Sometimes I have to be reminded. Trust me when I say that it won’t—”
It took a minute to realize he had seized her arm; another to comprehend the sudden lack of what she had craved so desperately just a minute ago. Distance. There was none. “I act like a person more than you like to notice. Some words of wisdom, luv, keep your eyes open. I might jus’ surprise you.”
Step away. Don’t encourage him. Go home like you should have the minute you saw his exceedingly annoying platinum head. Don’t encourage him.
“Is that so?”
“More than your precious Scoobies, tha’s for certain.”
“Spike, it’s late, go home.”
“An’ especially now that the whelp’s arm’s all rot an’ busted.” He ducked his head to smother a grin. “Only Muck-For-Brains would pick a fight with a bloody troll.”
Inherent defense swelled within her. “He was defending the woman he loves!”
“Who happens to be a very prominent an’ powerful ex-vengeance demon.”
“She’s…” There was nothing to say to contest that. Two years prior, the very same troll-loving Anyanka was happily exacting pain and suffering on every vaguely male-shaped body she came across. Humanity had certainly done a number on her, but when all the superfluous layers were peeled away, she was the same old Anya. The murderous sort. Nothing had happened to her that merited a variation of character.
And yet, it didn’t stop the words from drifting past her lips as though she truly believed them. “She’s changed.”
“Hmmm…how stunningly original.”
“She’s not like that anymore.”
“Oh, so she can be forced to adapt to the likes of your precious mortal coil, but yours truly is shunned from the crowd?” Spike turned away with disgust and began a customary pace, unaware of her searing confusion. “’S all right for those with a pulse to get a li’l sympathy an’ compassion an’ sodding understanding every now an’ then, but when I go out of my bloody way to—”
“What the hell are you blabbing about?”
“You! You an’ the rest of you sodding do-gooders. Treatin’ me like the outed man when I ‘aven’t touched a nummy treat in over a year.”
“But you would if your chip was removed.”
Spike’s brows arched. “Oh, an’ the former demon’s so haughtily above it that she wouldn’t go back to the carnage she so enjoyed ‘f her wanker of a former boss came crawlin’ back on his colossal hands an’ knees to beg her return? You forget, luv, Anya’s killed a helluva lot more blokes than I ‘ave, an’ she enjoyed it every bit as much. P’raps more. What does it take to get in your good graces?”
“Since when have you wanted it?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Man’s got eyes, doesn’ he? Your precious vamp-lovin’ soldier’s run off an’ he’s taken his militia men with ‘im. Way I figure it, I’m sorta stuck like this. Might as well make the most.”
“No. No! Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve made no small game about how very much you want us all dead.”
“I guess your lovable demon-turned-pulser made the transition like that.” He snapped his fingers demonstratively. “No attempts to regain her nasty streak? Her powers? Everythin’ she’d been for the better of a thousand years an’ more? Please, Summers. I’ve only been around for a fraction of the time Anya has, an’ I bloody well know that—”
“We can’t trust you.”
“I’m not askin’ you to trust me. ‘m askin’ you to cut me a li’l slack is all.”
“Why should I?”
He blinked at her. “’Cause I asked nicely?”
“I’m going home. For real this time.”
“Right. You do that.”
“I am.”
And that was that. With a haughty toss of her hair, the Slayer set off intently, relieved when he at last neglected to follow. The counter already had her spiraling down a bizarre influx of otherworldly emotion that she wanted to ignore with every fiber of her being. It had already been a long night, and granted the mass amount of consideration she was now being asked to take, it looked to be at the start rather than its finish.
Yet she couldn’t leave it at that. It didn’t seem right. Forces beyond her control persuaded her to turn once more. And he was there, just as she knew he would be. Watching her walk away with a look of bemusement on his face.
He was so irritating.
“Spike?”
“Pet?”
A beat. “Stay away from me.”
He smiled insincerely. “’Course. I’ll get right on that.”
She should have berated him, should have called him on it, but she didn’t. Despite the need for distance, she knew that rising to the challenge would coincide with another round of verbal combat, and leaving was something of the extremely needed. There was a home to be getting to. A sister to protect.
And she didn’t belong here.
Spike remained stationary long after she left him alone. God, he was strange.
Even for a vampire.
To be continued in Chapter Three: The House of Usher…