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Author's Chapter Notes:
Yes, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? But I’m sticking to my guns on the ‘finishing this story if it kills me’ promise. I really, truly wanted to have this out to you guys by Christmas, but RL threw a wrench into that deal. Simply too much going on. My job is becoming more and more demanding, as is my son (try telling a 2 year old that you don’t want to wrestle. Yet again) so writing’s taken a back seat to pretty much anything. It might give you a great big happy to know, though, that the next two chapters are already written (have been for over a year now); they’ve been tweaked to match what I’ve just written, and they just need to be beta’d (kudos to Christie for nagging me non-stop :D )
And, of course, please review to let me know if you’re still interested, and if you even remember me...
Chapter 40
Spike stepped out into the vast hall, duster billowing behind him, with all the swagger and self-importance of a century-old master vampire. His cold blue gaze scanned the room with an experienced eye, taking in enemy numbers, weapons and potential exits/entrances. Cockiness turned to irritation, though, as he realised that no one had noticed him enter. Granted, he’d never expected his arrival to be heralded; none of that ‘trumpets blaring’ or ‘hear ye, hear ye’ crap. But a cry of indignation, a ‘who the hell are you?!’, even a raised eyebrow would have been better than walking into a room full of Pelorak unnoticed.

Well, unnoticed by anyone who mattered. Evan’s gaze fell upon him and the young man turned an even more putrid shade of green. He stood on the dais beside Stewart-the-Council-turncoat and his mother, who had yet to regain her troops’ command. Spike could see the questions flit across his face, ‘what the hell are you doing?!’ being the main one. He’d been on the receiving end of that one more times than he could count with Angelus.

Reaching the mid-point between the doorway and the platform unmolested, he figured enough was enough. This incognito bit just wouldn‘t do. “So, is this a private party or is anyone invited?”

That got their attention.

Victoria Blakeford’s head shot up at yet another interruption. First the explosion at the docks, then Evan and now this. Was anything going to go right? She had spent decades planning this very night; the least it could do was go smoothly. Her face wrinkled in disgust, as if she‘d found a fly in her soup. “Who the hell are you?!”

The vampire ignored her question and resumed his trek towards the dais at a leisurely pace, stopping every now and then to smirk at a Pelorak or whistle at one of the architectural features. “Could smell the mischief a mile away, you know.” He brought his gaze back up to meet hers and smiled lazily, forcing himself not to flinch at the witch’s pale, milky eyes. “You’re lucky you only attracted the likes of me. ’m just here for a spot of excitement; not much else to be had on a Tuesday night, is there? I mean, there‘s no footie on the telly and does anyone really care about the BBC‘s report on yet another dictatorship in North Eastern Africa?”

Back in the stairwell, Buffy couldn’t help but smile to herself. Good old Spike--he can piss anyone off. Fighting the temptation to peek into the hall, she closed her eyes and tried to stay calm and focused. It was necessary for her to let Spike do his bit so that she could do hers.

One half hour. That was all that was left before the sacrifice was to take place, and she sure as hell didn’t have time to waste playing games with intruders. The witch looked at the purple idiots surrounding her. Hiring them had been the worst idea ever, no matter how highly they’d been recommended. That’s the last time I pay heed to Zagat’s Guide to the Underworld, she mused sourly.

“Well?!” she yelled out, eyes wide in disbelief. “Don’t just stand there; kill him!” Any other day, she would have simply flicked her wrist and erased the cocky nuisance from her sight, but tonight Victoria needed all her power for the ritual.

In the instant where the Pelorak hesitated, Spike began to laugh. If there was one thing he had to thank Angelus for, it was for teaching him the age-old ‘know thine enemy’. “You’re not taking orders from a female, are you?” He laughed even harder at some of the incensed looks he received. “What a sorry lot you are... your ancestors are probably rolling in their graves right now.” More to himself, but still loud enough for those nearby to hear, he chuckled. “Never thought I’d see the day where a roomful of Pelorak would let themselves be ordered around by an old woman...” The murmurs that began to spread throughout the room encouraged him. “What are you? Community rejects? Half-breeds?!”

A few of the younger demons were calling for his head, but the majority seemed to agree with him. Sure, everything had been fine when their leader had been male but now that the glamour had worn off to reveal a grey-haired crone...

Spike smiled with glee as the Pelorak broke off into groups, arguing about the truthfulness of the vampire‘s words. So focused was he on the fights breaking out, he never noticed one of the demons approach him until it was breathing down his neck.

“Call us half-breeds, do you, vampire?” The young Pelorak topped the vampire by a full head and shoulders, and outweighed him by at least 80 pounds. Spike stared at him for an instant, blinking once as he assessed the situation. Maybe he could twist its head, breaking its neck, but that depended on his being able to reach said head and neck--and the odds weren’t on the demon giving him a hand up there.

Well, then, the bleached blonde thought, gonna have to bring ‘im down here. Dropping all of his weight onto his left leg, he brought his Doc Marten onto the Pelorak’s bare foot. The demon howled in surprise and doubled over in pain, allowing Spike to land an elbow square in its throat. A well-aimed knee to the stomach finally caused it to fall on its side in an attempt to catch its breath. The vampire put a hand on the young demon’s shoulder, leaning in close to its ear. “Lesson the first, mate: we shorter ones often sting harder than our bigger counterparts. Be best for you to remember that if you want to stick around much longer.” With that, he stood up and gave the downed demon a swift kick in the ribs before turning to watch the melee he’d instigated.

Yup. It had been way too long since he’d stirred up so much shit and it sure felt good...

The sound of growling and fists hitting flesh drew Buffy from her hiding spot. This was the diversion that Spike had promised and, boy, did he ever deliver. The structured Pelorak ranks had been reduced to fragmented mini-mêlées, Mama Blakeford was yelling at the Pelorak, Stuart and anyone else within hearing distance, and Spike was having the time of his unlife pissing demons off and getting into fistfights. This left Evan shrinking in the background, wishing he was anywhere but there.

This was her chance. All she had to do was crouch, weave through the fighting demons, steal the baby out from under the witch’s nose, and get the hell out of Dodge. No problem, right?

Right.

“Well,” she muttered to herself, “no time like the present for stupid heroics.” It would have been impossible for her to wait until she was sure no one was looking, so the Slayer held low to the ground like a sprinter at the block and pushed off, running as fast as she could.

And she would have made it, had she not bumped into a Pelorak 15 feet from the dais. Not just any Pelorak, either; this particular demon actually recognized the young woman.

“You!” Hilary’s former ’owner’ growled, yellow teeth stained crimson from the broken nose it had received. “I thought I recognized the vampire.”

Slayer and demon circled each other slowly, both predator and prey to each other, although this knowledge was shared only by Buffy. “Yeah, he’s kinda hard to forget, isn’t he? Bleached hair, leather duster, cocky grin...” She sighed in mock coquettishness. “He’s just so dreamy.”

The young woman’s defiance, the self-confidence that shone through her posture made the demon hesitate. He shook off the odd thought--obviously he had been correct in assuming she needed to be tamed.

And he’d take great pleasure in seeing her cower before him, broken and pleading mercy.

“Heh,” he chuckled, “looks like I won’t be leaving here empty handed after all.” He took a step towards the diminutive blonde and nearly fell flat on his ass from the right hook with which she nailed him. His left eye immediately swelled shut, causing him to react too slowly to the kick aimed at his mid-section.

Buffy watched the demon hit the ground, landing with a satisfying thud. “That was for Hilary, you bastard. And this,” she said as she stomped on his knee, drawing out a bellow of anger and pain, “is for anyone else you’ve ever touched.”

Victoria Blakeford watched in utter disbelief as order fell unto chaos. That it had taken so little to reduce her rigid phalanx of demon warriors into the modern equivalent of a saloon brawl had her seething. All because of that bleached annoyance. “Want to make a mockery of me, do you?” she muttered, glaring at Spike as he ducked a clumsy swing. Her eyes closed and she took a deep breath as she channelled a portion of her fury into the palms of her hands.

“Cremare!” Twin balls of bright blue flame shot out, striking the vampire mid-chest. The witch’s lips stretched into a thin smile of self-satisfaction as she watched him fall to the ground in a heap; the cold smile turned to a sneer, though, as she felt a tug on her sleeve.

“What?!” The sight of a cowering Stuart Morehead at her side almost drove Victoria to madness. After Evan, he’d be the first thing she’d be tossing to her inter-dimensional guests. She’d never known anyone who could aggravate her so easily; dim-witted, weak-stomached, little kiss-ass that he was.

“The ceremony, your greatness--you only have five minutes left...”

As fun as it would have been to watch the vampire turn to ashes under her spell, Victoria nodded and turned towards the altar. She swatted Morehead as they walked, growling at him. “And stop calling me names like that. This isn’t bloody Hollywood.”

***
A thunderous clap froze Buffy and her opponent, fists cocked back in mirrored poses. Her gaze immediately shot to the platform where Victoria Blakeford stood, staring at the far end of the hall, thin lips pulled back into a malicious grin and left hand held up palm out.

Almost reluctantly the Slayer followed the witch’s line of sight; her breath hitched as her eyes settled upon Spike’s motionless form. The vampire’s body lay crumpled in a heap, smoke rising from somewhere beneath the well-worn leather. Her Pelorak adversary was instantly forgotten. “Spike!” she shouted. Nothing. Not even a twitch. “Spike?” this time her voice was softer, less sure. Maybe he was still ok, but maybe he was dead and the ring was just keeping his body from turning to ash.

No! she told herself. I’d know it if he was gone; I’d feel it, like a part of me was missing... She pushed and shoved her way through the crowd, making a beeline for her mate. At this point, she didn’t care: didn’t care about demons, didn’t care about witches, didn’t care about... crying babies? Buffy’s confident steps faltered as a high-pitched wail resounded throughout the vast hall.

A baby.

Dawn.

Shit.

Slowly, she turned away from Spike. This is the last time, she promised herself, fighting back tears. The last time she puts herself in a position where she has to let a loved one suffer; the last time where she puts her own needs in second place; the last time the Council is ever going to use her as its puppet. Every time she hurt a loved one a small part of her died.

With a heavy heart and solid determination--this stops *now*--the Slayer ploughed her way towards the dais. Mama Blakeford stood at the altar, mixing ingredients into an earthen bowl, her lips moving as she muttered what Buffy could only guess were incantations. At the platform’s far side, Stewie Morehead picked Dawn up and began preparing her for the ritual. The baby wailed as he began to remove her blanket and her clothes, the cold, damp air a shock to her tiny body.

As Buffy approached, she heard more and more clearly the witch’s words. Of course, that didn’t mean that it made any more sense to her; the old woman could have been chanting in Mongolian for all she knew.

Strangely enough, the Slayer managed to approach the centre of the hall without undetected. The Pelorak had become so engrossed in their myriad of skirmishes that she was of no importance to them. When she reached the stairs, Buffy took a quick moment to scan the platform. The dais was no higher than three, maybe four feet from the ground. Unfortunately for her, the baby was at its far end; that meant that she had to go through the witch first.

No biggie, right? She tried to convince herself. I’m the Slayer; I’m young, I’m super-strong and she may have killed my boyfriend, so let’s add super-pissed off, too. Of course, the scene that was unfolding not fifteen feet from her was enough to make her second-guess her confidence. In the short moment it had taken her to approach the platform, Victoria had managed to draw a pentacle on the wooden floor boards, call up one doozy of a fire--which, strangely enough, wasn’t emitting any heat--and arm herself with a long dagger.

When the witch lifted her arms and began to chant, Buffy watched Morehead approach, the screaming baby in his arms. A strong wind began to whip around the dais, encouraging Blakeford to chant even louder.

There would not be a more opportune time for Buffy to make her move. If she waited any longer, it would be too late and Dawn would die. She climbed the remaining stairs and ran towards the ex-Watcher. “Put her down, you son-of-a-bitch!” Despite the fear that she felt, her voice sounded commanding.

Morehead hesitated, the look on his face at seeing the Slayer less than ten feet from him almost comical. The witch, however, had no such reaction. With a flick of her wrist, she uttered ’Gravitas!’ and Buffy collapsed as if a piano had been dropped on top of her. Literally glued to the spot, she could do nothing but look on in horror as Blakeford proceeded with the ritual as if nothing had happened.

Nononono... It couldn’t end like this. The good guys always won. She always won. She’d killed a boyfriend, she’d defeated the mayor, she’d fucking died to avert apocalypses. And now what? One distracted flick of the wrist and that was it?!

Buffy closed her eyes, blocking out the wind, the chanting, even the baby’s screams. She looked inwardly, sought her power, reached for it with everything she had. Forced herself to think of every reason why the world couldn’t end: her mother, her friends, Giles, Spike, that shoe sale they always had at the mall every Fall... And then she felt it. Felt the Slayer’s power course through her veins, giving her the strength to continue fighting.

There was no way in hell she was becoming some inter-dimensional creep’s bitch without a fight.

When the young woman’s eyes reopened, they settled on Dawn. A baby girl, chosen just like she had been, to be special. Despite the force weighing her down, the Slayer managed to maneuver herself to a crouch. Her gaze never left the baby; not when Stewart handed her over to Victoria, not when the witch pressed the dagger’s blade against her soft skin, not even when the first small drop of blood fell towards the ground, allowing the portal to finally open. All that mattered to Buffy was that she was slowly standing up, fighting the witch’s spell with everything she had in her.

Her head did shoot up, however, when a gunshot rang out, echoing through the hall.

She knew. The moment the weight lifted from her, the force she was exerting propelling her towards the baby, Buffy knew that the scales had tipped in her favour. The young woman ran and grabbed Dawn just as something reached out from the portal. Instead of the baby, the demon grabbed the witch who’d just fallen to the ground, shot and bleeding, and disappeared back to whatever dimension it called home.

Although the baby was safe in her arms--for the moment--Buffy knew they weren’t out of the woods yet. She stormed over to Morehead and grabbed him by the collar with her free hand. “How do we close it?! Tell me, or you’re gonna be the next take-out meal.”

The older man was shaken, but acted quickly. Grabbing the bowl that held Blakeford’s ritual ingredients, he tossed it into the portal, effectively closing it.

“Good,” the Slayer stated, her eyes still focussed on where the opening had been. She turned towards the former Watcher just before her fist shot out and struck him square on the jaw, knocking him out cold. “That’s for being a... a wormy mouth, or whatever the hell Spike called you!”

“It was Wormtongue, love.”

Buffy turned around and found herself face to face with a very bruised and battered Spike. She reached out to touch him, gently tracing the holes that marred the front of his t-shirt. The day’s stress finally hit her and she fell into his strong arms, baby and all.

“Oh God,” she sobbed. “I thought you were dead, and with the portal...” Her next words were whispered so quietly the vampire had to strain to hear them. “I couldn’t have handled losing someone like that again.”

Of course, the circumstances were different--he used way less hair gel than the Poof, for one--but Spike understood the Slayer’s fears. She’d been so young back then, when Angelus had tried to raise Acathla. The only saving grace was that she’d run her sword through Angelus and not Angel; although, with the world on the line, he was pretty sure she’d sacrifice anything to win. She was the Slayer, after all.

“I’ve got the ring, remember?” He held her as close as he could without crushing the nibblet. “I’m not gonna leave you any time soon, Buffy. I love you too goddamned much.”

“Hey!” Buffy pulled back, swatting him lightly on the arm. “Watch your language around the baby.”

The bleached blonde was about to reply something unsuitable for infant ears when his gaze fixed on something just over the young woman’s shoulder. “Bloody hell...”

Evan stood at the far end of the dais, his posture rigid, his arm straight out, gun still in hand. The vampire stalked towards him, steps slow and sure so he wouldn’t frighten him. Spike had already been through enough pain without getting shot as well. “Hey there, mate,” he said as he approached the young man. “How’s about you hand me that gun, huh? I don’t think you’ll need it again.”

Spike pitied the young man. He knew from experience what it felt like to kill your mother. Ok, so he’d been a vampire when he’d killed her the first time, and when he’d staked her that second time, but he had felt a tumult of emotions ranging from anger to guilt. And Evan had a soul to top it off.

The kid was going to need years of therapy; as if living with his mother hadn’t been traumatic enough, from what he’d sussed.

“S’alright. Look, I’ve... I’ve been there. You’re probably pissed off at her for makin’ you do this. You’ll probably be goin’ through those five steps like they talk about on Oprah or some other poncy show. Just,” he sighed, exhausted from the day’s emotional and physical rollercoaster, “just give me the gun, mate.”

Evan looked over at the blonde girl and the baby she held. Two pairs of green eyes stared back at him, one weary and the other curious. The gratitude in the Slayer’s gaze cemented the knowledge that he hadn’t had a choice. He’d no idea what that portal had meant; all he knew was that his mother was going to kill a baby. She’d already ruined his life, and he wasn’t ready to stand by and let her ruin another’s.

When the young man’s shoulders dropped, Spike let out a breath of relief. He took two quick steps forward and pried the gun from Evan’s shaking hand, made sure the safety was on, and slid it in the waistband of his jeans. Too tired to keep his tougher-than-nails façade up, he put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You have anyone you can call? Don’t think you’re in any shape for drivin’ after all this.”

Buffy sat on the wooden steps, weary beyond belief, as Evan used his cell to contact someone called Camille. Maybe he’d let them borrow his phone to call the Council. Someone had to clean up the dead Pelorak and she sure as hell wasn’t up to it. She looked down at the baby cradled in her arms; Dawn’s eyes closed, sleep winning over curiosity, and a welcome peacefulness washed over the Slayer.

Spike came and dropped down beside her. He looked worse than she felt, especially with the two burns on his stomach. She nodded towards them. “Do they hurt?”

“Nah,” replied the vampire. “Can’t feel a thing. I hope the Watcher lets me keep this ring till I’m healed, though, or else you won’t be hearing the end of it.”

The young woman chuckled. “I’ll put in a good word for you, for my sanity’s sake.”

By then, most of the Pelorak had left. A few of the older ones remained behind, collecting any belongings from their dead brethren. The two blondes sat on the steps, watching them with detachment.

Buffy was the first to break the silence. She sighed and tried to stretch without waking Dawn. “Well, we’d better get Amelia on the phone. The sooner they come and pick up the baby, the sooner I can get some shut-eye.”





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