Chapter 12:  Big Game

It was gross.

They had smelled it five minutes before they saw it, and Buffy still wasn’t sure what was worse. The hideous growth bulged out from the shattered wall like some vast, inoperable tumor. As far as she knew, they hadn’t invented a crayon to match the thing’s color, although “Puke-Umber” had a nice ring to it.

The ghost was still haunting her.

Don’t look. Stop with the looking, already.

The pain inside her chest was subsiding now, but it hardly seemed to matter. The last ten minutes of her mortal existence was a gigantic, colorless blur. She knew only that the Nurse had taken something important from her.  Or though her.  With each step, Buffy could feel the line between dream and reality fade sharply to white. She could still hear the thousand voices that screamed in unison when the needle drilled down into her heart. They all sounded vaguely like her own.

(fly we should be flying instead we can still fly why can’t we fly)

As she watched the vampire inspect the disgusting wall-cancer, her thoughts drifted to Drusilla; the saucer-eyed psycho that Spike had endlessly, hopelessly loved. When the vamp’s sanity had failed her, Drusilla had found her comfort in prophecy and poetry.

Are all poets crazy? she wondered.

Buffy’s eyes fluttered closed again. She watched helplessly as the world slipped its leash and bounded away into a white cloudless sky.

Doesn’t matter. He loved her, anyway.

(SHE WAS HIS KIND she BELONGED SHE turned him SHE turned TO him)

And what will we turn to? What will turn to us? Or, turn us into?

(DOESN’T MATTER the white woman has TASTED US we are LESS now)

That’s not true, she thought. The play’s the thing. What’s my line? My name? Bee, Buff, Buffy. Tuffy? Who’s that? Who is Skaya the Scourge? By any other name, were we just as sweet? As sweat?

(YOUR NAME YOUR NAME IS CUNT)

No.

(cunt You Cunt YOU cunt you CUNT)

No. Not cunt. Hunt. We are the Hunter. That’s our name. It’s what we do.

(IT’S WHAT WE DO we’re hunting WABBITS be very, very quiet we’re hunting WABBITS wabbits WABBITS …)

She swooned, felt herself being wrenched into the void again. She braced herself against a dingy stone wall, praying for breath.  A damp blonde mop of curls dragged across her face, the last word tripping through her brain like a song on a scratched forty-five.

Get a grip, Summers, she scolded herself. Don’t be so fucking, selfish. They need you now.

He needs you now.

Open. Your eyes. Now.

The dungeon was dark, but the reflected light from the hung torches still managed to reveal the horror in bold, excruciating detail.  Spike was kneeling beside a long, sinewy mass that protruded from the center of the blob and curled up around the far wall like a giant question mark. Some sort of long, slimy fruit was swaying gently from the tip, wrapped up tight in the coils of a snakelike rattle. It was a bizarre tableau; the Garden of Eden on a hilariously bad acid trip. She felt her mind straining at the image, trying to smother a wave of unwholesome laughter that was lapping the pit of her stomach.

Buffy waited for her heartbeat to drop back into a semi-normal tempo, smoothed her hands over her shoulders. She was fine.  The Nurse was the nutjob, not her.  All that junk about dimensions and doors was ludicrous, the sort of science fiction crap the shut-ins rant about when they’re off their medication.

Buffy Summers was fine. Totally intact, manageably sane.  Little stressed out, maybe, but there were a whole bunch of perfectly reasonable, non-nervous-breakdown-related explanations for that. Not the least of them the sight of her barbequed Ex charging to her rescue.  That’ll tend to throw a gal off her game a little.

And the latest reason, of course: the big scary, crash-y sound they’d heard back in the tunnels. Upon closer inspection the Gross-ness in front of them was probably the source of it, since the world had pretty much gone all kablooey around it. The blob’s surface was mesmerizing; a sea of dark lesions and turbulent, ropelike scars. Two years of high school biology scrolled through her brain at warp speed, trying to assign it a genus or species or something. Whatever it was, it was super big, and super yuck. Yuckus Maximus, she decided.

“Thoughts?” Buffy whispered.

The dead man shrugged, gave his mirrored helmet a doleful little shake. She glanced quickly away. The mask was helping her to deal, for sure.  But she still couldn’t bear looking at him for long. It was like staring at the sun.

She wandered idly towards the dangling fruit, instead. It was roughly the size of the heavy bag in her old gym and looked ripe with unpronounceable diseases, like the kind of thing you’d dare someone to touch at 4th grade recess. Something alive seemed to squirm just beneath its briny surface. Dreamily, she watched herself reach for it.

“Um,” she heard Spike say. “Wouldn’t do that, Slaye...”

The thing lurched heavily to the left, sending sheets of black powder raining down across the slimy canvas of skin. Buffy sprung backwards with a yelp, tumbling down onto a pile of freshly pulverized rock.

Above her, the strange fruit continued to pitch and writhe, as though something inside was straining awkwardly against the membrane of a rancid womb. Spike dashed to her side, and they watched together in silent horror as the coil trembled and split open at the tip. A familiar face peered out of the crack, upside down and gasping for air.

“Andrew?”

He didn’t respond. The eyes were closed, the face a swollen bag of radishes.

“Andrew,” she hissed again, springing to her feet. She felt Spike follow, tried to ignore a hard chill in the air. “Andrew, wake up.”

Suddenly, the boy’s eyes bulged wide, and his small, red mouth popped open. The sound that came out was sad and shrill, like a Chihuahua trying to swallow a whistle. She was on the verge of slapping him when the noise stopped short, a song snapping off mid-note. The Mini-Watcher gaped down at his old comrades in childlike wonder.

“Oh. Hey Buffy,” he said, blinking wearily. “Hey Spiiiiiiii...derman.” He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing.

“Yeh, brilliant recovery, mate,” said Spike, the grainy, electronic voice drenched in sarcasm. “The Slayer knows, okay?” Buffy cringed at the S-word, decided she preferred the Nurse’s needle.

Why won’t you say my name?

”Ohhhhh... Wow! That’s pretty cool,” Andrew chirped. “Um, isn’t it?” Buffy shifted uncomfortably, hard tears spearing her eyes. “Whoops. I mean, wow, that’s none of my business. No problemos, muchachos. Not gonna pry open that can of worms. Or any cans of worms, really. I don’t even like worms.” His face twisted up into a scowl. “Or caterpillars,” he added with a shudder.

Time seemed to pass in slow, strange bunches: her staring dumbstruck, Andrew rocking nonchalantly in his gruesome hammock. Buffy had the sudden fear that he might start whistling. “Sooooooo...” he said, finally. “How come you guys are upside-down?”

“Mmmm. Good question,” Spike muttered. “What do you remember?”

Andrew’s huge blue eyes clouded over with thought. “Well, it all started a few days ago. There was this big, stupid dog, sitting on my couch...”

Spike cleared his throat. “How about we skip ahead a bit, yeh? Say, up ‘til the last time I saw you not all covered in goo?”

“Oh. Sorry,” Andrew mumbled. “Okay, right, yeah. So, right after you bit me...”

Buffy winced. “After he what you?” A low groan echoed through Spike’s microphone.

“No, it’s all good,” Andrew sputtered. “I mean, I wanted him to.” A look of sudden, animal panic spread across his face. “No! I mean, I didn’t want him to! I mean, I didn’t want him at all. And.  He didn’t want me. Too. Buffy.” He tittered nervously.

At that moment, the grotesque clog of flesh rumbled, mercifully cutting Andrew short.  Dark dust roared down from a web of fresh cracks forming in the dungeon’s ceiling.

"The bloody hell was that?” Spike growled as the enormous vine trembled to life and slithered sideways. A moment later, Buffy felt the goose-pimples bubble up along her spine when the thing’s voice rang out. It was as rich and unearthly as a whale’s song.

“Yo,” it said. “Uh...little help up here?”

Nobody moved. Even Andrew was struck speechless, the color draining from his face. Buffy clung to the far wall, suddenly and painfully aware of her weakened state.  The green blob was pulsating, now, and she could see a bright mass of alien tissues straining at its core. With a dull, sickening pop, a lidless eye the size of a volleyball emerged from somewhere deep within the ooze.  The terrible organ was spoked by dozens of pale, strangled veins. They watched in stunned silence as it darted back and forth in its makeshift socket, casually sizing up Buffy and Spike with a single, unblinking iris.

There was something so unspeakably horrible and ancient about the movement, it made the creature’s next words sound almost innocent by comparison.

“Dude.  You guys are with the newbie, right?”  The voice carried an otherworldly resonance, like a million insects chattering at the bottom of a deep, deep well.  Despite her revulsion, Buffy found herself unconsciously searching for a mouth. “Oh, man. This is some serious bullcrap, yo,” it added absently.

Across the way, she could see Spike’s black form creeping towards the beast, his body tensed for single combat. The Yuck-ness stiffened visibly, appearing to sense the vampire’s intentions. “Whoa. Chill, bro,” it gurgled. “Got enough problems as it is.”

The tail sprung wide.  Andrew let out a little bark, then flopped to the floor with a sloppy, wet thump. A half-second later, Buffy was leaping to his side and dragging him clear.

Spike pounced, then, all four limbs flashing like black blades in the flickering torchlight. It was a blistering assault, a deadly spray of punches and kicks that hammered into the sack of grisly meat like a machine gun.

Buffy pulled Andrew close and gasped, steeling herself for the creature’s inevitable Giant Badguy Counterattack. She wondered absently what it would be this time.  A miasma of flesh-eating gas, maybe? Or a swirl of murderous tentacles, trimmed with poisoned razor blades? Or, maybe some magic blob-monster spell that would turn them all into smaller, less efficient blob-monsters? Or, maybe a...

Nothing?

Hey.

Spike’s symphony of violence gradually wound down, finally evaporating into a drizzle of half-hearted jabs.  The crimson eyeball just regarded him curiously.

“Bugger this,” the vamp muttered, a husky twinge of embarrassment in his voice. “Right.  We’ll be on our way, then.  Cheers.”

“No, wait!”  plead the blob.  “Um, you guys called for help, didn’t you?”

Andrew tensed in Buffy’s arms, perhaps feeling everyone’s eyes on him.  He raised his hand gingerly “I... might have, a little,” he whimpered. “Sorry.”

Buffy scowled. “Andrew!  What did we say about the whole... no... demon...summoning...thing?”

“It’s not my fault!  Xander and Giles made me!”

“Right. And I buy that because?”

“It’s true! God! Nobody ever takes my side!”

“That’s 'cause it’s always falling off a bloody cliff,” Spike noted.

“Ahem,” said the blob, "yeah, this is real entertaining and all, but can we get back to this whole ‘escaping’ crap?  My back is killing me, here.”

“It’s okay, guys” said Andrew. “I brought him to help get us out of here." He rose dramatically, gesturing towards the lumpy mound with an outstretched hand. “This is Azalla, Grand Earl of Mass Deception.” He squinted at the beast hopefully. “Right?”

The monster emitted a low, lonesome sound, like a foghorn sounding at the bottom of the sea. “Aw!  No friggin’ way,” bellowed the Yuck. “Man, I hate that dude. Seriously, you gotta run a spellcheck on your grimoir or something, guy.”  Somewhere above them, there was a thick bubbling noise followed by the thin echo of female voices yelling. “Actually,” the beast continued,”you screwed up pretty royally, man! What was with that whole ‘sneaky, wily, wimpy’ bind you threw in there at the end? Do I look like friggin’ James Bond to you?! ”

“W-Well, I just didn’t want anyone to get hurt, is all.”  Andrew turned to Buffy and Spike, eyes pleading. “I mean, I know they’re bad people and everything. But they’re still...you know. People.”

“Great. Good job, Andrew,” Buffy groused, feeling just a little like her old self again. “Big, ugly, uncooperative Hell Demon in Castle Dracula. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Hey, I’m not uncooperative,” the deep voice griped. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I totally wanna, like, eat your skin and rape your world and all that crap. But, ya know.  Can’t. The noob here ordered a big, sneaky rescue of some sort, so that’s what I gotta serve up. It’s a really lame rule.” The blob seemed to trail off bashfully this time. There was something so absurd and Saturday-Night-Live-ish about it: big slimy, self-conscious monster stuck in a wall, trying to channel his inner MacGuyver.

See? she thought. Poorly-timed pop-culture references. Crazy Buffy wouldn’t make those.

Spike was shaking his head. “Oh, well, that’s just bloody grand of you, in’it,” he said.  “I’ll bite, your Royal Befouled-Ness. What’s the big ‘sneaky’ plan?”

The blob shuddered visibly, a network of raw, black veins seeming to choke back a sigh. “Well,” it burbled. “That’s just it, dude. Don’t gotta clue. I mean, this sort of thing isn’t really my bag.  Used to breaking into castles, not out of ‘em. I guess you could say I’m more of a ‘Type-A’ personality.”

A long moment of silence passed. “Well, how’d you break into them,” Andrew asked innocently.

“Man, that was easy,” the fiend replied. “I would just pick a wall and run into it, roaring at the top of my lungs.” The monster seemed to be waiting for a response of some kind, but all they could manage was an unblinking, collective stare. “That works for a lot of stuff, actually,” it added, almost shyly. “You’d be surprised.”

“Oh,” Andrew chirped. “Well, can’t you just do that? Except, like, backwards?”

“Hrmmm,” replied the monster doubtfully. “Yeah, maybe.  I mean, shit, I’ll try anything once.”

Buffy heard Spike inhale sharply. She reacted quickly, cutting off the inevitable Spike-ism that would get them all horribly murdered. “Great. Sounds like a plan... sort of,” she said. “So, what do we call you, anyway?”

“Ow! MotherFUCKER,” it suddenly howled.

“Sounds French,” Spike quipped.

The blob quivered and coughed, sending tiny shards of brimstone flying in all directions. Somewhere far above, Buffy could make out the thin sound of a girl’s hoarse voice shrieking. “Sorry,” it said. “I kind of got a thing going on upstairs with them.”

“Them?” she asked. “Who-them? Slayers-them?”

“Oh, is that what these chicks are? Man! They can be really unreasonable.”

“You’re telling me, mate” Spike murmured. Buffy glanced at him hopefully, her heart skipping a single beat. She prayed he didn’t hear it.

“Anyway, I think they’re gonna blow me up,” the demon added casually. “They got some kind of big-ass cannon up there, or something.”

Andrew face scrunched up. “Jeez. Won’t that hurt?”

The creepy red eye floated towards the boy, sending a visible shiver up his spine. “Yeah, prolly. Honestly, I was kinda hoping you guys could help dig me outta here first.” The thing’s tail wagged optimistically for a few seconds, causing a row of gruesome boils to burst loudly near the tip. A thick, dark sludge oozed out of one, and Buffy felt her tummy roll over.

“Oh, and the name’s Peterson, by the way. Melvin Peterson. Don’t wear it out.”

***

He’d only taken it along as a last resort. That, and because, of course, she’d demanded it. The young woman had a knack for becoming incredibly persuasive when lives were on the line. Incredibly scary, too. Xander guessed that it ran in the family.

They had sequestered themselves in a small, spooky chamber at the tip of the tower. Xander cracked open his pack and spread the contents across the floor. The Agency’s beacon had shipped in a compact styrene tube the length of his forearm. Unfortunately, it had also come unassembled, and in about a freakin’ billion or so little pieces.   As if to mock him further, the instruction manual seemed to have been written in some deliberately cruel hybrid of Japanese and Swedish. It was sometimes hard for the girl-in-question to remember that not everyone shared her uncanny talent for languages. And, of course, the dark thought occurred to Xander that she may have done it on purpose. It was so hard to say these days.

The Spy had slipped him the beacon in Heathrow three nights ago, mere minutes before their scheduled departure for Rome. It had been raining hard outside the terminal for several hours by then, and Xander was staring anxiously at the long lines of wet tarmac shimmering under the pylon lights, threatening yet another costly delay. Andrew had fallen asleep, finally, curled like a cat on a plush tan bench next to the gate.

He’d seen her reflection first, painted across the dark, rain-streaked safety glass like a watercolor ghost. The hair was darker then he’d remembered it, and the posture was a tad more formal. They spoke in code that evening, as usual. Since the morning of The London Pact – as Giles so geekily insisted they call it – everything having to do with Dawn Summers had become a secret code or puzzle, a lock to be gently picked.

The government had needed an ear inside, someone close to Rupert Giles. And, of course, the reverse was equally true. At the time, it’d seemed like a reasonable little maneuver, particularly to Dawn herself. She had always longed to make herself useful and, after Buffy bugged off to Rome again, Xander saw that innocent desire twist into a raw, manic sort of thirst. With Big Sis out of the picture, she wouldn’t be satisfied being a carefully defended pawn anymore. She needed to become a player in the Big Game. And she did.

He hadn’t asked her where she got the beacon from, let alone how she was able to sneak it into a large, post-9-11 international airport. He didn’t even ask who the thing would call if he managed to activate it. It was Dawn’s one and only secret spy rule: No Questions Allowed, Ever. As a double (possibly triple? Quadruple?) agent, Dawn assumed that both the Council and the Agency we’re watching her every move, twenty-four seven. As long as everyone remained confused about whose side she was really working for, she could stay alive for one more day.

In the meantime, they’d just have to trust her. And when it came to Buffy’s safety, Xander knew that they could. So for the moment, the only mystery that mattered was how in the world Xander was supposed to put her stupid little gizmo together.

He was still scratching his head, trying to figure out what the hell the phrase “moven speyk piecen R-R1 LEFTwise,” when the missile slammed down, raw and deafening. The entire castle rattled in the wake of the blast. It sounded a little like an old 150 millimeter shape charge. Mid-range, Ukrainian model. The same kind of cheap-ass ordnance the Soviets sold to those NLF bastards back in ’68.

Jesus Christ! How do I still know all this stuff?

After a few panicked seconds, Xander flew out onto the spiral parapet and stole a glance over the lip of one of the tower’s narrow casements. Far below, Count Dracula’s courtyard had been transformed into a billowing typhoon of soot and rich, red smoke. An aftershock nipped at Xander’s spine like a string of mosquito bites.

Kennedy’s Slayers didn’t seem to be handling it well at all. Xander had to stifle a grin as he watched them scurry haphazardly around the yard. His cadets, he was sure, would have at least scurried in roughly the same direction.

Inside his brain, a key turned a familiar ignition, and he watched helplessly as the ghost of G.I Joe leapt back into the driver’s seat. The old plastic soldier’s trained eye was suddenly working the scene, probing for casualties, trajectories, escape routes. The South Wall, it appeared, had taken the brunt of the discharge, the craggy remnants now framing a red canvas of late afternoon sun. Above the din, he could just barely make out the sound of Kennedy’s husky voice barking orders, and the dark notion occurred to him that now might be the perfect time to get in a little target practice.

He peered curiously at a splotch of movement near the center of the swirling cloud. A huge, dark shape was wriggling out from a hole in the ground. It was impossible to make out any details.  The silhouette looked like a giant octopus french-kissing a tank.

“Way to go, Andrew!” he shouted. “I...I think...”

Giles seemed even less enthusiastic. The Watcher sighed morosely as he knelt beside him at the window. Xander had a feeling that if the old bastard still wore glasses, there’d be some serious, hardcore polishing going on right about now.

They watched in silent horror as the shadowy form lurched up through the fog, a dozen deformed limbs scrambling for leverage on the shattered earth around it. Then, shockingly, one of the arms seemed to suddenly snap off and run away from the rest of the body.

Waitaminute...is that?

She materialized at the edge of the cloud. The fallout from the exploded castle wall had bronzed her from head to toe in soot. A grimy towel seemed to be her only clothing, like she’d just taken a reverse-shower or something.

She was very far away, and the only eye Xander Harris had left hadn’t so much as glimpsed her face in almost two years. No way in hell he should’ve been able to recognize her.

No way in hell he wouldn’t have.

Buffy.

“Xander,” Giles whispered, his voice suddenly crackling with emotion. “Dear God...they’ll tear her to pieces.”

Wordlessly, Xander sprang into action. In less than ten seconds, he scooped the unfinished relay into his pack, popped an ice cold clip into the rifle, and drew a long, deep breath.

Yo Joe.

***

It still hurt.

The dying rays of the sun slashed at his eyes like ragged fingernails as they ascended into the firestorm. Spike closed them, patiently counting the seconds until he felt the sensor kick in, heard the familiar electric whine of the filter sliding into place.

It's not right, he thought, as Wolfram & Hart’s crude facsimile of daylight snapped into focus above him. He didn’t pretend to understand how the gadget worked. It was some sort of a computer reconstruction, he knew; a bunch of ones and zeros glued together so his eyes didn’t dry up like prunes and explode.  It was a decent enough trick, but it still wasn’t right. There was something off about it. Slightly greener or something.  Always made him heartsick for the real thing.

He was stronger than most, he knew. Even in the old days, the others would marvel at the way he'd defiantly scurry about in it, the sunbeams flogging his cursed flesh like a headmaster. Dru’d sussed it was his way of showing up Peaches, proving his insanity was more potent then her sire’s old, terrible wisdom. But Angelus had known better. He understood perfectly well what William the Bloody saw in the light, and it was something the helmet could never hope to imitate.

His fangs slid out automatically as he emerged into the tinted nightmare of the courtyard, muscles tensing for battle. Through the smoke, he could make out the shapes of girls running everywhere, choking on dust, crying out in wonder and terror. He ignored them all. His eyes were searching for that other beautiful, excruciating light, his private yellow sun. But she was already gone.

He tugged at Melvin’s massive, scaly hand, prying himself free from the creature’s grip one claw at a time.

“Lay off, wanker,” he barked. “Ride’s bloody over.” He plummeted to earth, nerves shrieking as he rolled up into a feral crouch and threw up his fists.

Melvin kept rising, his dark, alien form looming above the swirling chaos like a black wave. All the Major Demons, Spike had learned, tended to get bigger and uglier with age. It was a kind of dating method for Hell’s favorite sons. Sort of like counting the rings of a tree, except that in this case you counted boils, and extra body parts and whatnot. “Gifts” – that’s what the filthy buggers called them. Although why anyone would equate a rash of infected globs with ribbons-and-bloody-bows was beyond him.   In any case, by that standard Andrew’s bloke looked to be one positively ancient, gifted bastard. Spike stood transfixed for a moment as the monster’s largest, nattiest head beamed a bashful smile down at the swarm of enemy Slayers. “This isn’t what it looks like, I swear,” it bellowed.

It appeared the giant prat was serious about that “obey-the-rules” rot after all. Instead of stamping the Slayers into flat, pink jellies like he should’ve, Melvin suddenly reminded Spike of a circus elephant on its hind legs, gingerly dancing away from the handful of girls who were brave or stupid enough to engage him. Andrew flailed just out of their reach atop one of the demon’s whip-like tentacles, too terrified even to scream.

Buffy.

He waded towards her through a boiling storm of crushed cinder. She seemed disoriented, snowblind. He knew they would kill her, now, the moment they spotted her. Buffy wasn’t the sort of bird you wanted to give a second chance to. Odds were she’d use it to cut your bloody heart out.   She was so close, less than a dozen yards away. He reached for her.

From behind, a mass of tiny hands gripped his arms and neck, spun him into the path of a blistering side kick. He swung blindly, a growl rising at the bottom of his throat, but  found only air. Before he could recover his balance they had him surrounded, unleashing a blizzard of punches that battered in from every conceivable angle. A titanic blow struck his chest, and he felt the armor around his sword wound crack and split wide. Spike stifled a scream as a streak of sunlight poured into the breach, the bare skin there sizzling like buttered meat.

The sensation swept him to the ground. He shielded the burn with a clenched fist as his attackers stomped him mercilessly into the muck. He felt his head float briefly as a bug-eyed lass bonged it with a steel scepter. Before he knew what was happening, two pairs of concrete legs were doing a tap-dance number on his ribcage, and he was suddenly having trouble remembering how to stand up.

Somewhere in the haze, the cannon fired off a second shot, blowing a gray convoy truck to smithereens. He spotted Buffy whirling around, then. She was yelling something, screaming it. It sounded a lot like his name.

Run! Run you silly bint!

Suddenly, his ears picked up the unmistakable sound of an engine roaring. A pair of glowing headlights was slicing towards them through the smoke and ash. The jeep missed Buffy by inches. He glimpsed the Harris boy hunkered down low in the front seat, watched Rupes wrap his long arms around the woman’s body and haul her into the back.

And then they were off and racing, the jeep’s wheels grinding hard over the smoldering rubble. He saw her hair blowing against the orange frame of the dying sun. Getting smaller and finer.

Feeling for his blood one last time, he staggered towards that other, golden sun. It was fading fast.

This is the land the sunset washes,
These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;
Where it rose, or whither it rushes,
These are the western mystery,

What rot, Spike mused.

Bye, love. See you next life.

***

Rupert held her as tightly as he could, for as long as he could manage.  She was so damned strong.

“No,” she cried, the slender arms drying to lead in his grasp. “No, we have to go back!” She shook him off roughly and lunged for the open canopy at the rear of the car. Xander rode the jeep hard down the side of the hill, and Giles could feel the front axel twist savagely as they slammed over a rough patch of granite.

The Watcher brought his weight down solidly, momentarily pinning the woman’s small body to the steel frame. It was a noble, if somewhat ludicrous, effort. In just a few moments she’d have the better of him. He would lose her, again.

“Xander,” he bellowed. “I need some bloody assistance here!”

“Little busy now, G-man,” he yelled back. The vehicle lurched heavily to the right, grazing the fossilized trunk of a massive tree.

Buffy was still clawing resolutely forward, dragging Giles towards his certain death. They were less than a foot away from the rear fender, dark shrapnel from the mountain path biting up into his skin. In the distance, he spied the long, heavy gates of Castelul Drakul swinging wide.

There was no time to reason with her. His hand groped blindly into the well between the passenger seats, fingers scrambling for purchase on the cold steel cross there. He rose halfway, planting a knee in the small of the blond woman’s back.  With a devil’s strength, he swung the tire iron in a lethal arc, hammering the base of her pretty, little skull.

For anyone else – anyone on the entire, godforsaken planet – it would have been a killing blow. But not for his girl. Not his Slayer.

She was so damned strong.

>>Chapter 13: The Wrong End of the World