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Chapter 8

Everyone stared at him, seemingly taken aback by his forthright vulgarity. Truthfully, he was rather shocked and dismayed for allowing himself to use such base and blasphemous language, particularly in the presence of the ladies. Then again, his frustration was reaching rather high and these people with their exceedingly strange conversations were leaving him no other choice. He simply could not tolerate this entire jest any longer.

So why weren’t they speaking? What should he say next? Should he just leave? Why were they still staring at him?

Then someone snickered. He wasn’t entirely sure who. And then another snicker and he was certain, it was the gentleman, Mr. Xander. And it did nothing but drive his ire further.

“Sorry, sorry, you just… it’s like hearing Giles coming out of Sp…, er, William’s, mouth,” Mr. Xander provided an explanation for his behavior that explained exactly nothing.

That was it. He would find his own way to home, or at least find the nearest constabulary to assist him.

He turned and made for the door. Which apparently alarmed the gathered occupants, but he really could no longer care. Just as he reached the exit yet again, hopefully for the last time, the door burst open and someone came bounding through. Unfortunately, he was unable to clear the way quickly enough and said person’s momentum sent both they and he tumbling to the ground, his head striking the floor none too gently in the process.

His vision swam as his head briefly seemed on the verge of exploding for the second time in the last several hours. However, once the proverbial fog lifted, he was greeted with an entirely different type of interesting stimuli. For lying on top of him was the body of a young, petite, warm, lithe, nubile… He stopped that train of thought. Ms. Buffy was staring down at him, and the feel of her body against him was sending a variety of delicious… no, distressing… Oh, who was he kidding, it was glorious.

And then suddenly she was gone, and backing away from him as if frightened. But then, given his rather wonton behavior, she had every right to be repulsed. To her credit, she appeared to recover her composure with expedience. In the interim, he tried to stand despite the effort causing another round of unpleasant spinning and nausea, while apologizing for his unbecoming behavior. Which, again to her credit, she assured him the entire thing had been her own fault. He really needed to get away from these people… but not without thanking his kind, if unusual, benefactor, of course.

“Ms. Buffy, I am truly grateful for the hospitality you have provided in my time of need, but I must take my leave. While I could never, of course, repay your kindness, I must insist on making recompense for your efforts. If you would kindly provide me with information regarding whom I should direct my solicitor to contact to make arrangements?”

“You’re leaving?” She appeared confused.

“I do hope you won’t think me ungrateful, but I must,” He asserted.

“I… don’t understand, where are you going?” She asked. “Guys, where is he going?” She turned and asked the assemblage.

“I must return home with haste. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” He stepped around her, the door just inches away now and the nearness of his goal encouraged him on.

Right up until a rather strong hand gripped his arm. He turned slightly to see that, interestingly, the inexplicably firm grip belonged to Ms. Buffy. However, she was not looking at him, but rather the assembled occupants still.

“Why does he still think he’s going home?” She asked.

That question was odd and more than a little concerning. Were they planning to keep him here against his will? He tugged a bit on the captive arm, to see if he could loosen the grip, which unfortunately resulted in said grip tightening rather than setting him free. This was becoming even more alarming.

“You did explain to him, right?”

She seemed to be growing rather annoyed with each question she asked. What was it they were to explain to him? She had given that instruction prior to departing earlier, and despite her directive he could not elicit any explanation from any of them. Perhaps they were undecided in keeping him for whatever nefarious reasoning they had developed? He began earnestly trying to free himself from Ms. Buffy’s iron like grasp on his arm, but the more he struggled, the more firmly it tightened until he was beginning to regret struggling, as it was now becoming somewhat painful.

“You didn’t, did you?” Her voice held a tone of incredulity. “Unbelievable.”

He decided that ceasing his struggle would result in less damage to his limb, but unfortunately it did not result in her loosening her grasp.

“Ms. Buffy?” He tentatively tried to get her attention. “If I may…”

“No, you may not!” She turned to face him, still on the verge of crushing his arm.

He froze. They did intent to detain him! For what purpose? Would they demand money? Would he become the next unfortunate citizen to disappear? Were they in league with the vampires? Did they intend to murder him? He renewed his struggle with increased fervor.

“I demand you release me!” He insisted, his fear reaching new heights as the hand grew tighter and tighter. Surely this was no ordinary human. Was she one of them? A demon? His arm was now sending sharp stabs of bright pain to his body.

“Ow, ow, ow! Stop! Please! You're hurting me! What is it you want?!”

Curiously, she seemed to recoil her hand from him as if burned. He took his chance and lurched for the door, just clearing it as he heard her call out for him to wait. He couldn’t let them catch him. Not again. He ran as if his life depended on it. It probably did!

He could hear them calling after him, and he was certain they were making chase, but he was determined these hounds of hell would not claim their prize, and he pushed himself to increase his speed. If he was to make good on his escape from these villains, he had to further his lead.

Just as he rounded a corner he chanced to run into a group of men. He stopped and quickly begged their assistance, with promise of fortune for whomever could direct him to the police, or at least a cab. They looked at him oddly only a moment before laughing at him, as one of them called him a traitor and told him to get lost.

And then one of them did something rather odd and disconcerting… he sniffed him. His intuition was beginning to warn him that he should make a hasty retreat from this group as well, and more so when one of them declared to the others, "He’s human!"

“Get him!” Came an enthusiastic directive, as he turned and fled. However, they moved with such swiftness that he hadn’t taken more than a few steps before they had seized him, and begun pushing him amongst each other, taunting him. Their faces were ghoulish, with eyes shining in predatory glee, their evil laughs and taunts rand in his ears. “Spike,” they repeated over and over, seeming to connect the name to him somehow, until suddenly the pushing and taunting ceased as a searing jolt of pain seized upon his neck, wrenching a scream from his throat. Then another seized the other side of his throat, tearing into it as a wild dog would. Flesh and fabric were torn from his arm by another. Time expanded, as he felt his life sliding from him, preparing to shake off its mortal confines.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it ended. His tormentors were now gathered around another person, and engaging in fierce combat. His mind registered that Mr. Xander and Ms. Anya were there and trying to direct him away from the demons. He was unsure if he should let them, but the telling life’s blood slipping through his fingers at his throat told him that they were perhaps the smaller threat of the two.

And then his eyes glanced upon a vision of an angel.

She was amidst the group of demons, performing what could only be described as a exquisitely enthralling dance; her graceful limbs stretching out in delicate and precise movements: a pirouette, an arabesque, a saut de basque, a jete´entrelace´, an ecarte´, a rond de jambe, a soubresaut. As she danced, her golden crown of spun gold shimmered and circled about her, a halo for the angel. Each move of her resplendent form sent the demons into flight, or vanquished them in a wisp of smoke and dust. As if they were nothing more than the fitful dreams of a child, disbursed with the first fragile strands of light from Helios’s chariot as it breached the horizon.

And then there were none. Only the radiant angel was left... standing resolute, glistening in the light of the moon and stars, gleaming as if by an internal light inside her. Ms. Buffy, an angel of brilliant beauty, truly, unequivocally… effulgent.





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