Despite the slice of hell waiting, and the threat of his possible dusty-ness that lay at the end of the hallway, Spike was in his own personal heaven. With only one thought consuming his mind—Buffy. She had bestowed upon him the greatest gift, her trust. True, she had given him many other precious gifts that he treasured: her sweet lips, her laughter, her desire, but all paled in comparison. She trusted him. She no longer viewed him as an impure, vile demon or something that was below her, but as an equal.
He had become someone, no longer a thing. With this title of someone she bestowed upon him, came a myriad of exquisite gifts she rarely gave. He had become someone she would trust not to mock or exploit her vulnerabilities. He had become someone she would allow to share her passion. He had become someone she would allow to see the real Buffy— not just the slayer, the woman, the friend---the whole person. Spike shivered with anticipation from these thoughts.
Only one other time in his life, human or demon was he ever granted the powerful gift of trust. Due to her unconditional love for him, she allowed him to take her life without questioning, completely trusting. Despite the demon that resided within when he bestowed upon her his eternal kiss, only love filled his actions. He had taken her life with thoughts of sparing her a painful death and in turn, sharing eternity with her.
Instead, he gave her torment that the demon masked as freedom. Freedom from the constraints of ailments and from a society declaring everyone a sinner and only hell awaited them. Well now it truly did, for them both. He had delivered her to Satan himself, never thinking through, that with this newfound freedom came a price, her soul.
He realized the ultimate price, she paid the instant her once loved-filled blue eyes became scornful, as depraved and degrading words tumbled from her sneering lips and enveloped him. These words scarred him worse than any whip, fist, or fang had ever done. Even though he had righted this wrong, almost immediately, the guilt of that mistake still resonated in his heart and mind, even over a hundred years later. Inwardly shaking away these guilt-laden and melancholy thoughts, Spike directed his mind to the one ray of sunshine in the perpetual dark that is his unlife, Buffy.
Prior to entering into the main room, Spike drew forward his master vampire persona. He had a bout to win, and his inner William would not be effective here. Spike slipped his demon into the forefront. Instantly, commingling scents surrounded him: fear, sulfur, human blood, and death. With Spike’s interest now piqued, he breathed deeply. There was no mistaking these scents. Quickly, he dissected each in his mind. The first and latter, fear and death were nothing new. It was the other two sulfur and more specifically human blood, were the ones that perplexed him. With both still heavy in the air, Spike knew whatever happened was quite recent.
“Maybe that’s why my match was held?” Spike considered silently, inhaling once more. A large feral smile arose once he realized who the owner of the split blood was their wonderful and thoughtful host, Jack.
The guards urged Spike passed the holding area. With a sideward glance, he noted that overall nothing had changed, except for a large dark spot marring the concrete floor. “Couldn’t happen to a better bloke, shot in cold blood by a superior being and dying among what he hated the most. See you in hell, mate,” Spike inwardly scoffed.
As he continued past, he heard a constant stream of whispers among the demons. “’Stupid vampire’” and “’Who does he think he is?’” were among the most popular, which mingled with many others. In response, Spike brazenly sneered, continuing forward.
Escorted to the doorway, Spike hovered on the edge of the bright lights. Following his introduction, with his typical cock and swagger, he strolled into the ring. A thunderous applause completely engulfed him upon entrance. His last two opponents had really given him a run for his money. Regardless, he was victorious, and these sadistic bastards relished in it.
“Now who are really the inhuman ones?” Spike’s question hung heavy in the air. His only answer was their deafening applause. Within a few moments, the announcement of Spike’s challenger came on the heels of the crowd’s cheers diminishing.
Soon two guards entered, their tasers at the ready, leading Spike’s opponent into the arena. Held by four additional guards, two on each side, were heavy chains wrapped around his opponent’s massive biceps. With a silent count, the four guards dropped the chains, which unwound from his bulky arms, and then the six instantly fled the arena.
Assessing him quickly, Spike believed what stood before him was a werewolf that was in mid transformation. Long, coarse hair hung in patches on his drenched, nude body. His eyes were yellow and predatorily trained on Spike. Long talons and fangs finished off the lethal showcase. Spike noticed that around his neck was a crudely fashioned collar, with four metal spikes pointing directly at his vulnerable throat. It appeared that if he continued to change into a full werewolf, the spikes would puncture his windpipe, killing him.
The collar insured that he remain in the perpetual state of transformation, Spike inwardly cringed at this thought. He couldn’t imagine lingering in that state, between man and beast. Once an inhuman roar sounded from his serrated maw, Spike immediately pushed aside any other thoughts besides putting down this creature, so he could return to where he truly belonged, by Buffy’s side.
**** ****
Tearing…Burning…Searing…Pain. Dragged from the ring, Spike was only able to fight off unconsciousness by embracing what most push away…pain. Even though the pain barely kept him anchored of this side of consciousness, while his mind wavered, it offered small glimpses to the incidents that had transpired, before he became victorious.
They seemed to trade blows for a seemingly endless amount of time. Fists and fangs shredded flesh, ripped muscles, and scored bone. Every path laid by his opponent’s razor sharp talons left in its wake a burning. Not the burning that accompanied newly formed wounds and blossoming pain, but a burning that lingered and continued to fester deeper and deeper, gnawing at flesh and bone, until all became ash.
Escaping his grasp briefly, Spike eyed the sodden beast before him. Realization came fast and swift. Holy water saturated his opponent. That was what caused the bloody welts that ran down Spike’s chest, scoring his back and arms to remain open. Regardless of the potent slayer’s blood that filled his veins and his vampire healing that tried to staunch the flow and heal the wounds, Buffy’s precious gift ran in crimson rivers down his once pristine flesh, pooling at his feet. Following this brief reprieve, a flurry of his opponent’s movements bestowed more unrelenting pain and caused the noose of defeat to loop and tighten around Spike’s throat.
The beast’s massive claws held tightly onto him. One hand fisted Spike’s red-tinged hair, while his other was burrowing into his chest, toward his heart. Pushing past the pain, Spike felt a strange calmness over take him as the vision of Buffy filled his mind. She spoke not a word, but her eyes held volumes, filled with compassion and concern. She urged him to fight, to come back to her. Feeding off this, Spike harnessed the strength he gained from her presence, and used the heels of his hands to push on both set of metal spikes aside his opponent’s throat. They pierced the tender flesh, causing the beast to roar and release his punishing grip.
Unsure and uncaring how it came to being there, Spike scrambled toward the silver-coated sword that lay of the floor of the ring. Standing on shaky legs, with a graceful arch, Spike swung the sword, and severed his opponent’s head in one fluid motion. Paying no attention to the thud of the dead, dismembered body or the deafening roar of the crowd, Spike stumbled toward the door, with only the thoughts of getting back to Buffy propelling him. Barely passing over the threshold, he crumbled to the concrete floor, in an ungraceful heap.
**** ****
Sitting alone with only his consuming thoughts, Angel tried to digest all that had transpired in the last day or two. Sorting through each one, he cleared away all the thoughts that cluttered his mind until he reached the ones that were pertinent. Pushing aside residual cynicism and doubt that he had held onto, he began to ponder the recent incidents that had come to light. After several moments, he affirmed he had made the right decision to decline the slightly tempting offer given by the Head Mistress of Satan’s firm, forego his freedom and return to fight. Angel decided that forming a plan was the next step to justify his decision.
While a plan was developing slowly in his mind, an overwhelming, recognizable scent pulled Angel instantly from his thoughts. Golden demon eyes replaced his deep browns, as he rose from the floor and headed toward the invisible barrier. Angel held firm on his demon that snarled and clawed within, demanding release. His low menacing growl filled the air, as the guards dragged a heavily battered figure past him.
“Spike.”
**** ****
Finally hearing the sound that she longed for, the opening of the door, Buffy stilled her aimless pacing. Turning quickly, her eyes widened instantly and began to tear from the horrific sight presented. Hanging from the guards’ arms was Spike’s ravaged body. His body wore the tale of the battle he fought, from the drying blood that streaked his once silky platinum hair, to his flesh that hung in tattered ribbons from his chest and arms. He was a shell of his former self, no longer a fierce warrior, but a beaten fighter.
Buffy’s held her cry that strangled to escape her throat, fearing that they would know. Once they heard her wails, the guards would know that she cared for him, and then tell the others. She couldn’t, wouldn’t let this happen. She couldn’t give them any more leverage than they already had.
This concern instantly disappeared once the guards dumped his body unceremoniously on the floor, and left the room. She ran to the edge of the line, as her held tears flowed. She called out to him. He didn’t stir, didn’t acknowledge her cries. Thinking quickly, she ran to the shower, ready to enter, and create the watery barrier that would allow her to pass over to his side. Once there, she would bring him back to her, no matter what cost.
Buffy’s foot hovered on the threshold of the shower, before the familiar sliding of the door echoed through the room once more. Quickly stepping back, she watched two guards enter, carrying a seemingly unconscious woman behind them. They held her roughly under her arms, as her legs dragged behind her. The woman’s eyes remained closed, her head hung backwards, exposing her throat, and the freshly seeping wound found there.
Two more guards’ wrestled Spike’s limp form from the floor, slapping him several times. In response, his eyes began to flutter and attempted to focus. Aligning their bodies, one guard guided Spike’s face to the woman’s bloody neck.
Staring in disbelief, Buffy’s throat became stiff with a silent scream. She wanted to stop them, save Spike from what she knew would come next. Before she could move, before she could speak, the unmistakable sound of bones shifting rang in Buffy’s ears. The murmurs of disgust from the witnessing guards, confirmed her worse fear, Spike was feeding.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Here's the next installment to my tale. I would like to take this opportunity to thank my beta Sanityfair. She had really helped me become a better writer, and without her all of these words on the screen would be shit. Big thanks SF!
Chapter End Notes:
I know, short. Well, let me know whatcha think.