The deep, throbbing vibration of a powerful engine and the endless background rumble of tyres rolling effortlessly across an asphalt surface were the only slices of sensory information that Buffy could detect when she came to. She was blindfolded, handcuffed, trussed up inside some sort of sack and bound with cords. And very frightened! Although, surprisingly enough, not as terrified as she might be.
The fright was a given, considering how much like her baby loss dream her current situation was. Trapped in the silent dark, unable to make out anything about her surroundings, alone. It was no wonder she was scared. But the differences were what she was clinging onto, what gave her hope and kept her out of the pit of terror and despair that she remembered so vividly from that nightmare vision.
For a start, she wasn’t harmed in anyway. Whether that was because whoever had taken her had been particularly gentle, treating her with kid gloves, or because the protection charm had worked to keep her injury free, Buffy couldn’t say. In fact she had little memory of her capture, so she couldn’t have said how the kidnappers did the deed, beyond the fact that they obviously didn’t want her dead, or even in too much discomfit. In fact it seemed they had gone to some effort to make her comfortable.
Her wrists were locked into a pair of handcuffs, but they were fitted firmly without being too tight and seemed to be lined with something soft and cushiony, like velvet. They were the real deal though; all her efforts to either force them open or snap the chain proving pointless. Conveniently, (or maybe compassionately) her hands were cuffed in front of her body, with just enough leeway to allow for a little movement, stave off muscle cramps and keep the blood flowing. And to be able to press her hands to her belly, send love and reassurance to her baby, and feel the swoops and rolls and kicks of her little one back.
She was blindfolded, but again the fabric felt velvety, maybe like one of those novelty sleep masks. Buffy had no way of knowing of course, but she decided to picture it as a leopard skin print, way more appropriate for her than boring black or some pink fuzzy thing. Whatever the case, it was quite comfortable thank you.
She’d obviously been bundled up into some sort of bag, similar in size to a sleeping bag, but with her head at the bottom instead of her feet. This would have been the most terrifying aspect of her capture if the sack had have been as thick and impermeable as a sleeping bag, given the severe claustrophobia she’d developed after waking up in her own casket, but thankfully the fabric seemed lightweight and almost gauzy, pervious enough to allow air to pass through it at least.
Outside of this sheath, she’d been loosely bound, by what felt like velvet ropes rather than harsh chains. The ropes encircled her below her bust and around her hips and thighs, leaving her baby bump unrestrained. Like the handcuffs, this gentle binding had obviously been magically strengthened, so that no matter how comfortable and innocuous they seemed, ultimately they were unbreakable.
Finally, instead of lying on the dirty, hard, cold floor of an old pick up truck or thrown into the boot of some rusty sedan, Buffy felt like she’d been gently cradled in a nest of soft blankets, atop a thin, but comfortable mattress, in the back of what was probably a late model delivery van. She never been a car girl, so she couldn’t be sure, but the road and engine noise sounded less rumbly than a truck, and the way she was comfortably stretched out seemed to rule out a car or even a wagon. So, van it was.
All in all, if her kidnappers were going for torturous and terrifying, they were definitely way short of the mark. More like careful and conciliatory. Not that kidnapping wasn’t scary enough on its own, but the care they were taking was also pretty damn scary. They were obviously working hard to ensure that no harm came to her, or her baby, undoubtedly for their own evil, disturbing reasons. But as long as Buffy wasn’t hurt, as long as her baby was safe, she could use her time and energy to think and strategize, to work out a method of escape.
Most importantly, for her peace of mind, she could still feel her link with Spike, that warm, golden connection humming away doggedly in the back of her mind. It lent her such a feeling of peace and confidence, that it was difficult to take this threat too seriously. He would come for her, for them. Nothing would keep Spike from finding his family. So really, she just had to sit back and wait.
So, while she was comfortable, and of sound mind and body, it seemed sensible to try and work out how she’d ended up in this pickle. Buffy frowned, trying hard to piece together her most recent memories.
Things had been a little weird lately at Ashdown. Life had become even busier since Tara’s reappearance. The ever-increasing number of young Slayers living on the compound (over 1200 of them now) meant that Xander was working long exhausting hours overseeing the building projects designed to house and school the masses. He was winning, just, but with another 800 or so girls to squeeze in over the next four months, he spent most of his time on the job and Buffy hardly ever saw him anymore.
Likewise with Willow and Rowan. The two witches had accepted the opportunity to train as Guardians, and every free moment they had between either studying full time at med school, or running a school for preternaturally strong, ethnically and culturally diverse, hormone laden young women, they were off together with Tara in one of their rooms, or in another dimension, depending on whether you were looking at things physically or metaphysically. Either way, she hardly ever saw them.
Tara and Oz had immersed themselves in life at Ashdown as well. On top of Oz’s music class, together they’d taken up a job share position teaching the young slayers meditation techniques. Both of these two had a spiritual base to their own daily meditative practices, Tara with her Wiccan background and Oz with his Buddhist and Bon traditions. They taught the girl’s meditation as a spiritual pathway to one’s higher power, whomever that may be, but also as a way of connecting with self in order to increase concentration, clarity and self-awareness. It had been set up as an optional subject and was very popular so far.
Giles was utterly occupied by his role as Director of Amazon International. Most of the operational aspects of rebuilding such a huge, complex organisation were under control, the various departments, divisions and units well staffed and functioning smoothly. Now that his key function was to oversee everything, ensure it was running like clockwork, and that everyone had the resources they needed to do their jobs well, he had a bit more time each day to dedicate to various research projects. Chief of these was checking and cross-checking any and all references to the key prophecies that they featured in, The Song of Sagaria, The Days of the Chosen Ones, and now The Scions of Sineya.
Giles still had Cecil Davis heading up the research team, but at night he’d bring home various books and scrolls from Bromley and sit in the lounge pouring over them. His trusty research buddies, Willow and more recently Rowan, were too involved in their Guardian training to grant him much time, but Cat, Dawn and even Spike would often join him. The four of them would quietly rustle through the old, yellowed pages of ancient tomes, pens out, scratching down various notes and links and theories, absorbed in the task, oblivious to any or all others.
Andrew would have joined them, but determined to add some formal qualifications to his field experiences, he’d enrolled fulltime in the Watcher training programme at Sackville Academy. In fact, he had recently moved into the dorms there, in order to better immerse himself in the Watcher Training experience. And as for Dawn, well her sister seemed increasingly to keep to herself. Sure she had school, and various homework assignments and projects to complete, but now that Andrew’s technological genius had effectively freed her up from her scanning role, Buffy would have expected to see more of her. Instead, if she wasn’t researching, she kept herself scarce. Buffy felt certain that something was bothering her, but there was little she could do about it until Dawn herself felt ready to share.
As for Spike and herself, life had slowed and morphed. During the day they oversaw their charges’ strength and fitness programmes. Slayers were quick studies when it came to the physical stuff, and the girls who had been at Ashdown since August or September were already outstripping their weapons and martial arts instructors, most of whom were Masters of their own disciplines. So, she and Spike mostly supervised the senior’s sparring sessions; pointing out and correcting any flaws, giving advice on technique and strategy, reffing the one on one matches.
Spike often waded in himself, providing a bit of worthy opposition against a rubber stake-wielding slayer, allowing the girls to really test themselves against a vamp. With the senior girls, increasingly he could let himself go, almost to the limit of his ability. Of course none of them could really come close to defeating him, but they gave him a damn good workout, got his now circulating blood really pumping. But Buffy had more or less given away anything other than the lightest of sparring. It wasn’t that she was concerned in any way about her baby’s safety; the tattoo took care of that. It was more her own dignity she felt was at stake.
At 27 weeks, she had definitely popped out. Her tummy felt tight and stretched on the outside and very overcrowded on the inside. Her back and belly muscles and ligaments were grumbly and ouchy from the added work load. And even though her fitness level was still okay, thanks in part to her slayer constitution, but also to her daily t’ai chi sessions, it didn’t take much for her to feel breathless, probably because her lung capacity was half what it used to be. But on top of all that, her centre of gravity had shifted. She felt more awkward and clumsy than at any time, ever, in her life. Buffy’s biggest fear had been that she’d trip over during a fight against some newbie slayer, and end up on her butt at the girl’s feet. Absolutely not a cool look for the Head Slayer.
So, she’d been relegated to the sidelines during classes, in charge of advice and guidance instead of kicking and punching. The sudden dramatic drop in activity levels impacted badly on Buffy. She could feel the restlessness inside her, the waves of boredom battering frantically against the margins of her Slayer essence, the constant itch for action and excitement and violence an irritation to her soul. She thought it must be like the experience that addicts had when they were going through withdrawal. The only balm, the only outlet, came from the long, passion filled nights she shared with her love. Spike was so good to her. He made sure that what she lacked for during the day, she received in spades during the evening.
Which was why their lovemaking had evolved of late into something resembling a boxing bout. Not that they boxed, but they sure did tussle and scrap and wrestle, their sessions morphing from a melee to a brawl to an energetic, no holds barred, out and out fuck. They couldn’t hurt one another, and they loved and trusted one another deeply another to know not to take the wrangling personally. Buffy just needed the aggression and fierceness of the skirmish to tune her up just right, to get the blood zinging in her veins, to soothe her savage slayer soul.
She blushed as she remembered the previous night’s efforts. They’d headed off to their room not long after dinner. The Scoobies still tried to get together for evening meals on the weekends, but more often than not these days it was a depleted number that sat around the table on weeknights. And those that did make it often seemed to excuse themselves within minutes of swallowing their last mouthfuls. Gone were the long, lingering gatherings that often lasted well into the night. Dinner had become a short, perfunctory affair, a comma rather than a full stop. It was a bit baffling, but to tell the truth, it more or less suited her at the moment. It gave her and Spike more time to … wrassle.
She’d been on him as soon as the door was closed and locked, leaping onto his back, tearing at his clothes, biting at his neck and shoulder. He’d vamped out and shoved her backwards, spinning around to kick her feet out from under her, pouncing on top of her. He’d taken it to her, fist and fang, and she’d given it back, boot and nail. Over the next ten minutes of scratching and kicking and hitting and shoving and name-calling, they’d divested one another of each and every scrap of clothing.
Panting and coated in sweat, Buffy had eyed Spike’s erection. Stretched rigid against his belly, his foreskin had been skimmed back, the rosy head peeking out all swollen and glistening. Her pussy was weeping by then, the need blossoming bright and raw within her. Then he was on her, holding her down, taunting her with his pretty cock, with her lust for it. Still she’d resisted, kicking and scratching and biting all the harder to get him the fuck off of her. All of which just tuned her up a little more, whetted her appetite for him more keenly. But the slayer hadn’t been ready to give in, enjoying the fight too much she was, and she’d thrown him off.
It was her turn in the driver’s seat, and she’d cuffed him about, grabbing his slicked back curls in her greedy fingers and slamming his head against the floor. He’d shaken himself and shoved her off, and leaping up, they’d flown into another round of kicks and spins and punches. This pre-bedtime ritual had become a familiar scenario, and after the first time, when the coffee table had fallen victim to their lack of restraint, they’d shifted all of the lounge furniture closer to the kitchen, leaving a relatively open space at one end of the living area in which to play. So play they did, freely and joyfully.
Part of her, the dark, demon tinged part, buried down deep in her psyche, regretted the nullifying effects of the tat, regretted the absence of scratch and bruise and cut, on him and on her. With few exceptions, when they’d fought in the past, they’d each fought for their lives, and had walked away from each encounter wearing those marks like a badge of honour. Fighting while under the tat’s protection was still good, but it was a bit like fucking with a condom on, the act still exciting and sexy, but the raw sensations slightly blunted, and the finale slightly meaningless without the warm, messy, spurt of potent fluids. Still, it calmed the beast inside, and added benefit, got her dander up, as Spike would say, got them both fine-tuned and aching for the next bit.
Last night had been no different. Once Buffy’s need for violence had finally been sated, she’d collapsed onto the floor, her thighs splayed, her chest heaving, the very air redolent with her sexually charged pheromones. Spike’s nostrils had flared as he’d inhaled the luscious scent of her arousal. He’d dropped to his knees before her, still in vamp face as he’d crawled lazily towards her like a big, tawny cat. He’d used his tongue first, bathing her from head to toe with his libations, his soft kisses and long licks and words of worship a tribute to their love. She’d come twice from his oral ministrations alone, the first time as he gently flicked her swollen nipples with that wicked tongue, and grazed the sensitive buds with the sensual points of his fangs, the sting and soothe an erotic contrast to one another.
The second time had arrived as Spike had sought out and found every little random, out of the way, undiscovered erogenous spot on her body. He’d started off fairly standard, the length of her nose, eyebrows, her closed, fluttering eyelids, the line of her jaw (um, wow!) then headed to her ears, the shell, the lobes, that tingly little space behind her ears. The neck was a given, for her and him of course, the long slope from the ears to shoulders exquisitely sensitive.
But other places were more unexpected, her armpits, moist and heated as they were, Spike laved greedily. Those little creases on her inner arm, her wrists, and her fingers, enthusiastically slurped in, singly, in pairs, Spike staring up at her from under wavering eyelashes, his eyes glittering wickedly as he tongued and tasted and inhaled her fingers as if each was the most delicious cock he’d ever had the pleasure of sucking off.
He’d left off his endeavours just before she’d spent, moving down her body instead, ignoring her still aching nipples and her wide-open, needy, weeping cunt, but anointing her ribs, her navel, the sensitive skin of her trembling inner thighs (so close, so close, oh God Spike, just a little higher), the creases behind her knees and finally her toes. He’d settled down there, emulating the cock-sucking act of earlier, making love to her toes, her feet in such a perverse, erotic, worshipful way that it had sent her over the brink at last. Spike had unfolded himself, and at the sight and smell and feel of her orgasm, he’d fallen over that edge himself, five powerful shots of thick, white jism shooting out of his quivering cock, splattering all over Buffy’s tits and belly and pussy.
He’d scooped her up then, the victor carrying off his spoils, and marched through to the bedroom. The first round was often more of a battle than a pleasuring, but this time she hadn’t fought back or even complained as he’d thrown her on the bed and attacked her swollen quim. She’d been so sensitive for so long that she’d come as soon as he’d dragged his flat tongue along the length of her snatch, arsehole to mons, slurping up the heady mix of her nectar and his as he’d pressed and wiggled the talented muscle against all of her precious bits. And then she’d come again! And again!
Blissed out, giddy, she’d wavered when he’d quickly flipped her onto all fours. But his hands clutched her hips, steadying her as he’d crawled closer to her, and she’d centred herself, quietening down her bliss wobbles. He’d thrust his desperately swollen cock into her, his urgent desire negating any sense of etiquette or finesse. As if she’d complain.
He’d fucked her hard and loud; the wet suctioning, squelch of her cunt; the sharp slap of groin and balls against cheeks and vulva; the noisy pants and moans that punctuated the air combining to create a cacophony rowdy enough to make even the furthermost of their neighbours blush if it hadn’t been for Willow’s dampening spell. Thank God for Willow. So their fuck was unrestrained, uninhibited, Spike going at it hammer and tongs, Buffy pushing back at him wantonly. She’d worked those strong slayer's muscles of hers, flexing her cunt tight until he’d groaned and spent; the throb and spurt dragging her over again with him.
Finally, they’d collapsed onto the mattress; Spike spooned loosely behind her as they’d lain there panting. The voracious desire for action, for battle, for conquest had been mollified for the moment, replaced by a need for connection, for tenderness, for worship. The slow drift into sleep had been accompanied by soft kisses and gentle touches as he’d cradled her in his arms.
Recalling all of this had a predictable effect on Buffy. Well probably more weird than predictable, given her current circumstances. But kidnapped or not, her body and preternatural libido were her own, so yeah, now she was blindfolded, handcuffed, trussed up inside some sort of sack, bound with cords and extremely aroused. Inappropriately so! Note to self, must not think of Spike sex whilst in the midst of an undoubtedly evil and nefarious abduction.
She tried squeezing her thighs together and clenching those muscles she’d used to such good effect on Spike the night before. Well, if anyone asked later, she didn’t try the squeezy/clenchy thing, it just happened automatically, before she could sort her instinctive body reactions out. It wasn’t like she was deliberately trying to get herself off while she was tied up like a turkey in the back of some van. It was more that she was just trying to get comfortable, ease the tension, or rather the discomfort a little.
Sighing, Buffy tried to just relax everything down below, and stop herself from considering that the juices in her cunny were quite likely a mix of her fresh arousal and the jizz that Spike had deposited up against her cervix in the wee hours. Oh shit! God what if her kidnappers were vamps or some other sort of super-sniffing demons and they could smell the excitement on her when they came to haul her out of the back. Shit, with as fired up as she was, probably even humans would be able to smell her wet pussy. How humiliating!
To distract her wayward brain, Buffy thought back over the day’s events, mulling over the sequence of events that lead to her capture. She and Spike had been down to Brighton that morning, looking at cribs and buggies and choosing paper and paint for the nursery in their new house. Xander and Oz were going to give Spike a hand over the next couple of weekends to get the room ready. The three guys worked surprisingly well together, mainly because Oz never said much anyway, and Spike had finally developed enough sense to just shut up and let Xander be the boss. It was his area of expertise after all and Buffy was sure it must fill him with a fierce pride to be able to take the lead in something, even if it was as everyday as home decoration.
As far as she was concerned, having a comfortable, practical and attractive house to come home to after a day spent teaching slayers or battling demons was pretty important, and increasingly so now they had a little one to think about. So Xander’s contribution was just as significant as anyone else’s’ in her mind. No doubt the others thought so too. His role was so important these days, overseeing all of those building projects. And he was so good at it too, whether it be constructing a six storey accommodation block or painting and papering a nursery. Her three labourers had already finished the master bedroom, guest room and ensuite and bathroom. Once the nursery was complete, they were going to recarpet the upstairs area, then they could move in. Buffy felt that delicious mix of impatience and excitement surge through her again at the thought. Their own place, she couldn’t wait.
So, after a successful, and tiring, morning’s shopping, they’d been almost home before she’d thought to check her phone. She’d turned it off while they were talking to the interior decorator, and had forgotten to turn it back on again. There had been a message from Dawn’s school, ringing to inform them that her sister was feeling unwell, she was in the sick room, could someone come and pick her up. The message had been left at least 35 minutes prior, so poor Dawn had been lying there for quite a while. Friday was a busy day at Ashdown, Tara and Oz and Willow all had classes scheduled, Rowan was down at Brighton, and Cat had hospital rounds at Princess Royal. Andrew was at Sackville until after lunch and Giles was up at Bromley. And of course Xander was busy meeting deadlines on the building site.
Buffy had sighed and suggested that Spike drop her off on the corner of Coleman’s Hatch Road, and drive into East Grinstead to pick Dawn up. It was only a ten-minute drive each way, but Ashdown was only half a mile along the road, and even walking she could be home in five. She was hungry, thirsty and tired and had been happier to set out on a short walk so she could make herself some lunch and a cup of tea, than spend another half an hour sitting in the car. Spike had offered to drop her off at home first and then set off to pick up Dawnie but Buffy had laughed and told him that she could do with the exercise, do with the fresh air.
So it was that she’d been walking along their country lane on a crisp, overcast afternoon, admiring the last of the Forest’s autumnal apparel, the once brilliant colours faded now to pale golds, blanched mochas and drab khakis, the bleached bone like trunks and branches increasingly visible as the leafy carpet grew from ankle to shin deep. So, distracted by nature’s vista, Buffy had almost drawn level with the van before she’d noticed it. Late model, white, pretty non-descript, she couldn’t have added any further detail, noticing neither the make nor the licence plate.
She had noticed that the front hood was up, and that a guy was bent over the engine. She hadn’t thought anything of it, had no thought to any danger so close to home in the middle of the day. She’d stopped to chat to him, check that he was all right, that he didn’t need any help. He’d been friendly, apologetic, concerned that he might be in her way. Buffy had assured him that it wasn’t a problem and was about to offer use of her phone, when he began muttering some foreign phrase. She’d felt suddenly sleepy, unsteady. When an arm wrapped around her from behind and pressed a sweet smelling cloth over her mouth, she’d teetered and swooned.
That was all she could remember until she’d come to. She had no idea how much time had passed, but she didn’t think it could be more than a few hours. She did a quick body scan again and confirmed that she seemed to be in perfect health, suffering no ill effects from either the spell the guy had obviously cast or the chloroform or ether or whatever incapacitating agent they’d used on her. Hmmm, she must talk to Giles about adding some sort of ward to the protection spell, but she wasn’t sure how they could counter anaesthetics. In fact with a birth coming up, she was pretty sure she didn’t want an anti-anaesthetic charm placed on her. No way, no how!
Plenty of time to worry about that sort of thing later. Time now for her to work out where she was and how to get herself free. Or at least safe and ready for action in time for the cavalry to come storming in.
Buffy might have considered the kidnappers nothing more than opportunistic human creeps who wanted some woman, any would do, to play out their perverted fantasies of violence and degradation. If that was the case they would have been in for a rude awakening once they unwrapped their little prize. She might be a little unsteady on her feet these days against a bunch of slayers, but one on one or even one on several, she could still kick a normal human butt around the block and back. In fact it would have been kinda fun.
But, the use of a spell to disable her, and seemingly charmed ropes to restrain her, pointed to the definite involvement of possibly demonic, or at least mystical, forces. And of course, the portents gifted her by her baby loss dream seemed too coincidental to ignore. Buffy had to take this abduction seriously, consider that this may be a very real and possibly apocalyptic attempt on the life and well being of herself and her baby’s.
As she considered these realities, Buffy felt the vehicle slow down and turn. They’d been travelling more slowly for the last little while, as if they’d left the motorway at some stage, and were travelling along suburban streets or country lanes. This turn seemed to be onto a driveway, the surface beneath the tyres rough enough to increase the faint vibration. After another minute of so, the metal surface disappeared altogether, and the van was bumping along across an unsealed surface, whether a dirt track or a grassed surface, was beyond her speculation.
At last the van drew to a halt and she felt it rock as the front seat occupants exited and slammed the doors behind them. There seemed to be an interminable wait before they came for her, with nothing to see or hear except the sound of distant shouts and the faint ring of steel on steel. She was determined to fight back, determined to thwart their capture, but she knew she’d have to bide her time, make sure she had a fighting chance before she made her move. Undoubtedly she’d only get one shot at it. And her preference for fighting included being able to see and move.
Finally the rear doors were swung open. Not that Buffy could see anything, but she could hear the wooshy noise and the sensation of cool air wrapping itself around her feet and lower legs. The temperature was definitely cooler than it had been at Ashdown, so either they’d travelled further north, or it was much later in the day. Probably both.
She lay still, trying to suss out the lay of the land. Somebody clambered into the van, and hands reached down to lift her up, just enough to shuffle her bound form towards the open doors. Obviously this was the end of Buffy: The Kidnapping, Part 1. They were either going to shift her into a building, or transfer her to another vehicle. Or, um … gulp!
Wherever they were sounded far too quiet for any kind of transport hub, there were no other vehicle sounds or even voices or sounds of daily life. So, likely the countryside, she thought, confirmation of which came with the far off bleat of a sheep.
Her handler put her down on the ground, feet first this time, and held her arm firmly while got her balance. Which was hard to do being all blind and trussed up. Once she was steady, he began fiddling with the ropes that encircled her body, and suddenly she felt the pressure ease off and the coils drop away from her one at a time. She stood, bracing herself, but all that happened was that the body length bag was dragged upwards and off.
God, she was free! Well as free as someone who’s handcuffed and blindfolded and at the mercy of an unknown captor can be. So yeah; but still, it felt awesome to have the cool breeze ruffling her hair, to be able to suck down a big gulp of fresh air, to be able to move more easily.
And move she did, almost immediately, as her kidnapper grunted at her and with a firm hand on her back began to set her to walking. Or stumbling as the case may be, what with the ground beneath Buffy’s feet being grassy and uneven, and her being all with the unseeing.
“Alright, so thanks for easing up on the bondage thing. Movement is good. But seeing is good too, and might help me with staying upright.”
Her companion paused and spoke to someone (or something) else close at hand. She couldn’t understand the language, but it sounded human. Maybe even European of some sort. A plus for her if that was the case. She should be able to fight her way out of this situation once she could see what was going on, where she was.
There was another grunt and the blindfold was yanked up, onto her forehead. Buffy blinked, the sudden exposure to light blinding her. Except that there was very little light, she noticed, her eyes rapidly adjusting to the encroaching gloom that accompanied the onset of dusk. They were standing in the middle of a small grove of trees, the fog gently sifting down through the bare branches.
She glanced behind her and there was still enough light to see the van, parked about ten yards away, on the edge of a field. Directly in front of her stood a large tree, maybe an oak by the look of the leaves on the ground. Scattered around the base, cradled by the piles of leaves, were the bodies of half a dozen demons? They were kitted out in armor, and several of them had their tusked heads separated from their shoulders. There had obviously been quite a battle, and if these two alone had managed to take out six strong looking warriors, then she’d need to think out her strategy very carefully.
Buffy cautiously lifted her head, keen to check out her two captors without raising any suspicion. Both dressed in two-piece camo army fatigues, they were ignoring her, beyond grabbing her arm and moving her forward, focused wholly on their destination, which seemed to be the large tree. Realizing that she was running out of options, Buffy stumbled over one of the bodies lying prostrate on the ground. She toppled over, falling onto her knees and her outstretched, shackled hands, directly onto a discarded sword. She crumpled, face down on the damp grass, sucking in deep lungs full of air.
As one of her jailers stepped closer, she rolled. Bringing her feet up she planted them squarely on his chest and kicked out. With her belly in the way, she didn’t have quite the same flex as she used to, but she still had a kick on her like a mule. The guy went flying. Immediately she kipped up onto her own feet, although, whoa, that was so much harder to do with a baby on board. The sword hilt was grasped firmly in her hands. She held the blade out in front of her, level with the second guy’s chin.
“Right you two, on your knees,” she shouted, waving the sword about.
The two men just sneered at her, the first one standing where he was, the other slowly getting to his feet from where she’d thrown him. Damn, so they wanted to play hardball. These two seemed human, no tinglies to indicate they were vamps, although other demons could wear manface when they needed to. Buffy wasn’t quite so black and white these days as she used to be, and she certainly had no problem with a little breakage, but she was still reluctant to outright kill humans, even the bad ones. But if it came down to the safety of her or her child, there was no question; she’d do what she had to do.
“Okay, so I’m guessing that you guys know who I am. Original Slayer here, The. Guess you’ve heard about my exploits too. Killed thousands I have, most of them a hell of a lot bigger and uglier than you two.” She circled round, alert, staring them down. “Don’t want to hurt you too much, so this is your last chance to leave me the fuck alone.”
She backed up, the outstretched sword trained on her adversaries, something that got harder as they began to edge away from one another. Buffy focused on the sneaky, uninjured guy (a bit optimistic of her to assume that the guy she’d kicked was injured, but, well he had to be at least a little bruised). She kept moving so that she could keep Limpy in view, while inching closer to Sneaky.
Without warning Sneaky drew the sword that had been sheathed in the scabbard strapped to his back, and leapt at her. Buffy went straight on the offensive, swinging her sword into right, then left handed horizontal cuts, aiming for his upper arms. But Sneaky swiftly lifted his blade into a vertical position, and swung from one side to the other, parrying each of her strikes with ease.
Buffy struck again, with a downward swinging cut, but again her opponent blocked her sword. With a slight flick of his wrist, he jerked Buffy’s blade up, only slightly, but enough to throw her just slightly off balance. Her head and upper torso were totally exposed as she stumbled a half step backwards, but instead of moving in to take the attacking position, Sneaky stepped back, sword raised once more in a defensive pose.
Okay, so their orders were not to hurt her, well at least not too badly. She was pretty sure they didn’t know about the protection spell or they would have been a little more gung ho, but she’d take whatever advantages she could. Swiftly she moved into a combination, slashing right, then left, then right again, two high strikes, followed by a low. This forced Sneaky into a rapid series of defensive moves and she could see he was tiring. On her final strike, she added a boost of slayer strength, slamming her blade into his and flicking it out of his shaken hands.
As she was about to step forward and finish him off, well knock him out at least, she heard a roaring from behind her, and spun, blade slicing viciously through the air as she went. Her assailant, unprepared for the slayer’s quick reactions, didn’t have time to halt his trajectory and ran full tilt into the pitiless blade. The impact stopped both of them dead. A loud snapping sound filled the air around them as they stared, shocked, into one another’s terrified eyes. Funny how emotions can be identical on either side of such an intimate act of violence.
Buffy stepped back, regret already flooding through her body. He’d come at her on a slight angle, left side leading. By her estimation, her blow would have removed his left arm and sunk deep into the left side of his chest, neither injuries you could survive. She slowly, reluctantly dropped her gaze, expecting to see fountains of bright red jetting out onto the grass, onto her boots.
Instead, Limpy lay writhing at her feet, clutching his intact arm. It was at a funny angle, the humerus obviously broken, and possibly a couple of ribs too, given the way he was clutching at his chest. But not a drop of blood could be seen anywhere. What the hell? Did these dudes have their own set of spells protecting them?
Buffy, stood there, confused, frustrated, and suddenly very, very weary. To add to her sense of defeat, she suddenly felt a bright, sharp point pressing against her lower back. Although she was safe from harm, and could have fought back, she felt all battled out.
“I do not wish to hurt you,” Sneaky said, in very heavily accented English, “But you will come with me.”
She dropped her sword and held her cuffed hands up where he could see them, slowly, cautiously turning so she could face him.
“Alright, alright,” she said resignedly, “But how is it that his arm is still in one piece?”
He stared at her, mulling over whether to spill or not. Finally he grunted and fingered the front of his camo shirt. Up close Buffy could see that he wore a matching vest with sleeve attachments. Oh, of course, one of those Kevlar vest thingys, the latest in military issue by the looks of it. Guess they would have needed them going up against the demon guards. Limpy was beyond lucky that he had that gear on, and Buffy couldn’t help feeling a sense of relief that it had protected him from what would have been death, dealt out by her hands. But she was back where she’d started.
Well maybe not quite. Sneaky grunted and moved her on, in the direction of the large tree. When she looked at him and back at Limpy, he just shrugged, pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and tossed them back at his groaning comrade. Okay, so it was just the two of them now. Better odds anyway.
As they neared the tree, she could see that the ground in front of it dropped away sharply, angling down into what looked like the entrance to a cave. Sneaky flicked his head and waved his sword, indicating that she should lead the way into the opening. They had to duck down, but the entrance sloped quite steeply, and soon they were in a cavern large enough to stand up in. Several sconces were set into the cavern walls, and each of these contained a burning torch, the light bright enough to illuminate the exterior.
Crumpled against the far wall was the bound figure of a man. Buffy couldn’t tell if he was alive, but his condition was testament to the fact that Sneaky and his mate had been here already. She wasn’t given time to mull this over; her companion snatched up one of the torches and pushed her forward, towards the opening at the other end of the cavern.
The tunnel wound on for some way, the path sloping gently down as it wended its way. Finally it opened out again, into another chamber, this one spanned by a bridge where the cavern floor fell away. Filled with apprehension and a growing sense of horror, Buffy walked out towards the center of the bridge. Taking a deep breath, she peered over the edge and into the mouth of an endless, unholy pit.