A deep growl rumbled from her stomach, reminding Joan that she hadn’t eaten in well over twenty four hours. However, she was also exhausted and achy from sitting hunched over on the hard wood floor all afternoon. Joan eyeballed the old wrought iron bed and was briefly disgusted at the idea of sleeping on the dust covered linens before brushing aside the notion. She pulled back the thick burgundy comforter and tossed it aside, cringing a bit when it landed on the floor with a poof of white dust. Limbs heavy with fatigue, she climbed onto the bed, wriggled beneath the black silk sheets and fell asleep within a matter of moments.
As usual, nightmares plagued her slumber; disturbingly graphic images caused her to toss and turn fitfully for several hours before waking up covered in sweat, clutching the covers and screaming in terror. Taking several deep breaths in an attempt to calm her nerves, Joan was thankful that at least one stubby candle was still flickering so she hadn’t woken up frightened and in the dark. She pushed aside the silky sheets and crawled out of the comfortable, oversized bed and wished that she could’ve slept longer. It felt like ages since she’d had a decent night’s sleep. Yawning, Joan debated between leaving to find something to eat and going through the last two trunks. Despite the gnarling ache of hunger, the need to find something…anything….about her life was far more pressing. Pushing all thoughts about breakfast out of her mind, Joan sank to the cold hardwood floor and opened the nearest trunk.
So far, she’d found only clothing and the occasional trinket like jewelry, hotel key cards and even matchbooks from various nightclubs. However, none of the items stirred anything inside her locked memory. It seemed as though this trunk contained nothing but the same. Sighing in defeat, she pulled a few articles of clothes out, fingering the leather and lace while wondering if the stuff actually belonged to her like she had originally thought or if, in fact, it belonged to a streetwalker. Most of the items were extremely low cut or high cut depending on if it was a shirt or skirt and generally see through or made of buttery soft, skin tight leather. She folded the clothes and put them to the side before continuing on searching the trunk. This time she came up with what appeared to be a hand sewn quilt that must have been very, very old judging by the quality. A family heirloom, perhaps? Joan thought before gingerly placing the delicate quilt to the side before peeking into the bottom of the chest to see what the blanket had been hiding.
“Jackpot,” she announced triumphantly when she spotted the worn leather bound book. With a renewed sense of determination, Joan hefted the surprisingly heavy book from the bottom of the deep chest. Curiosity peaked, Joan sat it on the floor in front of her and felt her heartbeat quicken as she cautiously opened the ancient looking cover causing the leather to creak from lack of use. With all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning, she flipped the book open and gasped as she realized what was there just as the last candle flickered out and plunged her into darkness.
Across town, a heavily sedated Slayer tried to wake up from a drug induced haze. His eyelids felt as though they weighed a hundred pounds each and quite possibly had been stapled in place. Mouth dry as the sun baked desert, his struggle to speak went unnoticed by his father, who was dozing at the foot of his son’s bed. Willing himself to wake up, Spike fought with the proverbial Sandman and finally won after what seemed like a days of struggling. He blinked several times in an attempt to get his blurry vision to focus and tried to call out to his dad, which came out as a dry croak instead.
His body hurt, especially his neck; pain radiated from the bottom of his jaw to his collarbone. Exhausted from the little bit of movement he had made, he wanted to curl up and go back to sleep. But, he needed to know why he was in the hospital. Spike searched his memory and found that he couldn’t fully recall the events of the night before…or however long it had been since he’d been hurt. Mustering up his last bit of energy, Spike tried to call out once more, but the sound that was produced was even more pathetic than the first attempt.
Sighing when his dad didn’t even so much as twitch in his sleep, Spike laid his head back down in defeat and closed his eyes again.
A few moments later Rupert was rousted from his fitful slumber in the most uncomfortable chair known to man by the shrill sound of his cell phone ringing. Answering it, he headed out of the hospital room without ever knowing his son had woken up only moments before he had.
Out in the hallway, he dodged an orderly pushing a large cart before speaking. “Hello?”
“Rupert, this is Wesley, “ The younger Watcher announced, as he did every time he called someone despite the fact that his name and number was generally displayed on the screen of the people he called. “Has there been any change in Spike’s condition?”
“Sadly, no” Rupert replied with a sigh as he pushed open the doors leading to a patio just outside Spike’s room. He sank into a nearby chair, mentally cursing the hospital and their wicked need to punish people with uncomfortable chairs. “Vitals are strong, but he hasn’t woken up as of yet. The doctor believes he will wake up when his body replenishes the blood that was lost. Did Oz have any luck tracking down Buffy, per chance?”
“Unfortunately, not; In fact, he’s only just walked in the door.” Wesley had hoped he’d be able to give Rupert at least a small crumb of good news this morning. “He checked all the spots he could think of and even patrolled through a few graveyards just to be on the safe side. Despite a few unsavory demons, there wasn’t a trace of Buffy anywhere. “
“I’m afraid that the only person who can answer the question as to where she’s hiding is currently unavailable.” Rupert replied grimly. “I plan on contacting Jenny this morning, maybe she’s heard something. Have Oz go back out tonight if we haven’t heard from Buffy herself. For now, our only choice is to wait and see what happens.”
“Very well, please keep us updated or I’m afraid Fred might go around the bend. I finally had to resort to giving her a sedative a couple of hours ago just to get her to stop crying and get some sleep. “ Cringing the moment the words left his mouth, Wesley chastised himself for mentioning her pain, as if it was worse than what Spike’s father was going through. “I’m sorry, Rupert, I shouldn’t be bothering you with my worries. You’ve got enough to be troubled about without being burdened with our worries.”
“No offense taken, Wesley, I know that Spike’s friends worry about him almost as much as I do. Plus, Fred has been in our lives long enough that I feel like she’s my daughter, so I hate to hear that she’s in so much pain. Just remind her that Spike is strong, not to mention as stubborn as a bloody mule, so he’ll come around when he’s good and ready.” Rupert ended the call after promising to keep his fellow Watcher apprised of any changes in Spike’s condition before heading back to his son’s room to take post once more.
Sunrise was at the very least two hours away, leaving Joan with the sinking realization that she was going to have to put her search on hold long enough for the sun to come up and once again shed some light on the situation. Disgruntled, she figured this would be an excellent time to head out in search of much needed sustenance. However, there wasn’t anything open at this hour in Sunnydale, or rather; there wasn’t anything good open at this hour. She searched the floor around her for the boots she’d kicked off long ago and managed to put them on the right feet before slowly inching her way down the long corridor, using only her hands against the wall as a guide through the darkness.
A short while later she found herself back at the boarding house and entered the residence as quiet as a mouse, in hopes of not waking anyone up. She didn’t plan on being there long anyway. Once in the kitchen, she snatched a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, some slices of sandwich meat and an apple and stuffed them into a grocery bag that was sitting out on the counter. After a second thought, she added in a granola bar and a couple bottles of water, too.
She left the bag at the bottom of the stairs and tip toed up to her room and eased the door open ever so gently so it wouldn’t creak and wake up Lily, who thankfully slept like the dead. Joan grabbed the small pile of laundry on her bed and mentally thanked herself for her procrastination in putting it away the day before. Then she reached under her bed and grabbed the canvas satchel for her clothes, which also contained an envelope stuffed with the meager stash of money she’d managed to accumulate. As stealthily as she’d entered the room, Joan exited and headed back downstairs to use the bathroom by the kitchen; while she wouldn’t have her normal toiletries, she’d be less likely to wake anyone up down there. After a quick scalding hot shower, Joan stuffed her dirty clothes into a basket by the laundry room, grabbed the bag of food and left the house without anyone knowing she was there.
By the time she returned to the house on Crawford Street, hunger was gnawing painfully at her stomach. Since the sun had yet to make an appearance, Joan had to resort to eating her pitiful meal on the back porch, which was positioned in a way that the street light casted a pale arch of light on to. Starving, she dug into the food, focusing more on the cheese and meats since she wouldn’t have a cold place to put them for the day. Leaving half a loaf of bread, the apple and granola bar for later, Joan sat her bags next to the back door, stretched out on the wooden bench on the porch to wait for the sun to come up. She pondered over what she had found before losing the last bit of light in the bedroom.
The drawing appeared to be of her, but the paper it was on was crinkled and browned with age. Her hair had been different, too. Brown, not the shiny golden blonde tresses she had now. And it was pulled back tightly against the nape of her neck with a few curls strategically placed around her face. While the portrait was of her face, there were enough of her shoulders to know that the clothes were not of this century. High necked and trimmed in lace, Joan knew very well that it wasn’t something she’d ever be caught in, and judging from the types of clothes she’d found in the chests it clearly wasn’t something she’d have worn prior to her memory loss. Perhaps it was an ancestor? Or maybe one of those booths she’d seen in town where you could have your likeness sketched into different settings? Frowning, Joan didn’t think that was where the picture came from, but it was the only one that made any sense.
Exhausted and confused, Joan let the tears that had been prickling in her eyes fall freely. She had no idea what was going on! She couldn’t remember anything about her life before the day she’d been found, her thoughts were plagued by horrible visions of bloodbaths and mayhem when she was asleep and her body ached constantly as though she was starving, but she ate plenty so she knew that wasn’t the problem. Not to mention what happened with Spike!
She hadn’t even thought about him since yesterday morning. Joan wondered if he was all right, but didn’t know how to go about finding out his condition. Surely he wouldn’t talk to her, and even if he would, she highly doubted his father would let him come anywhere near her. An image of the rage that had shown in Rupert Giles’s eyes when he realized what she had done was burned into Joan’s memory. She felt horrible, but it was like she had no control over her actions. One minute her body was on fire from Spike’s touch, aching to be filled with him and marked with his desire. Then it’s as though her body was taken over by an unseen force, like she was overcome with bloodlust. In fact, she didn’t really recall exactly what had happened except she’d somehow hurt him badly. Picturing his bloody, unmoving body had her stomach churning with sickness and yet, underneath the pain there was that feeling again…almost like she was turned on by the sight of his broken body. Repulsed, Joan forced thoughts of Spike out of her head for the time being, there was nothing she could do about the situation anyway.
Her first priority had to be herself.