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Author's Chapter Notes:
sorry for the delay in updating...this chapter picks up on the action in the alley and we learn a little more about Spike's gift.
chapter 17: stay – part I

It was about 7 a.m. and the alley was shimmering with sunlight reflecting iridescent colors off the pools of water on the pavement still wet from the night's rain. Except for the hellish wind circling Willow, it was a beautiful sunny morning in New York City, thought Anya. But that didn't mean it was going to be a good day.

“What did the spell change about me?” She pulled on Luke's sleeve, anxious for him to look at her.

“What did it do to me?” she repeated. But Luke was ignoring her, and following his gaze, she peeked over her shoulder at the whirling cloud cocooning Willow with increasing velocity. The witch was trapped inside, arms hanging at her sides, head tilted up, and black eyes bulging. Flanking her, Jacob was rocking on his heels, vamped out, his yellow eyes shifted from Willow to the morning sky and back. Anya didn't like to bet, but there was a better than even chance he was trying to figure out why he wasn't burnt toast. Willow, on the other hand, didn't appear to be afraid, just intensely pissed.

Anya stepped in front of Luke, blocking his view deliberately as the windstorm buffeted her face.

“Look at me!” she shouted. He didn't flinch when she punched his arm. Luke stood perfectly still, his eyes cold and unblinking as he focused on Willow, Jacob and the giant angel looming in front of her.

Anya placed her hands on her hips and pushed down nervously on the short skirt blowing up her thighs. This was unsettling.

The funnel looked like seaweed in the sunshine as it spun faster and faster around Willow. Anya couldn't tell if the cloud was controlling Willow or if Willow was controlling the cloud. Oddly, Anya could hear Willow 's voice, strong and clear coming from within the cloud, and she was chanting —in Italian. Anya wrinkled her brow and tried to recall if she'd heard anything about chants in Italian becoming the latest must-do for big time mojo. Romanian, Samarian, or some good old-fashioned Latin had worked for witches and sorcerers since—forever. They were the power languages of word magic. But, Italian?

Yes, very unsettling, thought Anya as she watched the vampire standing in the daylight stare up at the sun without burning, and a ten-foot tall angel...

Yeah, it had to be an angel, Anya reasoned. It had wings. Duh? Sure sign of a celestial being. It also had hoofs, scales spread across a massive torso, and hairless limbs shaped like a crippled lion's hindquarters.

Well, okay, it could have been a demon.

When Anya had first seen the creature emerge from the black mist rising through the cracks in the concrete, she'd screamed in horror. Despite endless run-ins with thousands of ugly demons over her thousand years of living, Anya had never seen such a beautiful human face adorning such a hideously deformed body. So, she called it an angel—but it was an angel from hell, decided Anya.

She grabbed Luke's sleeve again. “What is that?” Her voice quivered as she pointed at the angel.

She'd been in Sunnydale what seemed like only minutes ago and there the biggest fear had been the portal jumper. Then she'd left town on the arm of the creature for no good reason she could think of, except this dark-haired immortal with blue eyes had asked her to become his muse. She'd said yes just like that, which didn't make any sense to her now that she was standing in an alley in New York City trembling.

It had to be that stupid spell!

Anya glanced at Willow who looked all power-crazed as she stood inside the cylinder of wind screaming at the giant angel.

This was Willow 's fault.

“You'd better talk to me!” Anya pushed Luke in the chest with both hands as her veins expanded throughout her body, bringing forth her demon face.

Luke staggered backwards a few steps, flashing yellow eyes in her direction. Almost instantly, however, he eased away from her and resumed his stare-a-thon at Willow, Jacob and the angel.

“Talk to me—or else,” she warned.

She had to get his attention, get him to explain what was happening. If she knew what was going on maybe she could figure out a way to escape. Anya chewed the inside of her mouth as she suddenly realized that was exactly what she wanted. Escape. Get away from vampires hanging out in the daylight and angels from hell, and definitely get away from the redheaded witch. Most of all, she wanted to run as fast as she could from this murdering bastard and the effects of his thrall.

“Talk to me now or you can forget all about this fucking muse business,” she shouted, her body braced for his reaction.

He still didn't answer.

Breathing heavily and standing inches from his face, Anya slowly whispered in his ear.

“I'll forget your memories, if you don't talk to me. I swear it,” she said calmly.


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Luke backhanded Anya across the jaw, knocking the loud-mouthed girl to the ground. Her irritating body rolled over twice and stopped next to a dumpster, at last silent. He loathed women, but they were the only ones who could serve as his muse. A little twist of fate from his prisoners.

He snarled silently, as he looked down at her. How dare this one think she could control him by threatening to keep him from his memories? They were his memories and she was nothing more than a fragile vessel, easily broken and replaced. Usually he enjoyed this part of the game, and with Anya, he'd thought he would especially. She was an ancient like himself, therefore more accustomed to letting nature take its course.

But maybe being close to Shemhazi and his luscious power had given her too much access to her own demon strength, diminishing Luke's thrall.

He sidled backwards into a shady corner of the alley, beneath a jagged row of moveable iron ladders, not wanting to attract any further attention. The girl's mouth could have cost him.

He cocked his head, and returned his gaze to the confrontation before him.

Delightful, he smiled. The first witch and Shemhazi were together, finally. He had prayed an eternity for this day.


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His face was blocking the sun making it impossible for her to see Spike's eyes. He was all shadows and halos. The sun beaming behind him had created a circle of light around his head.

It seemed wrong, very wrong to Buffy for Spike to be faceless and angelic at the same time.

She winced as his fingers squeezed her arms tightly. He wasn't holding her gently, that was certain, and he was stronger than she'd remembered. He hadn't been able to control her so completely before, prevent her from moving, even before the chip.

The chip! Her head was spinning.

Spike was hurting her and wasn't in pain. And if he was in pain, he wasn't showing it.

Oh God.

“Spike, let me go,” she ordered. "I. Said. Let. Go."

He tilted his head slightly and adjusted his grip so that he was holding her around the waist. He then pulled her closer, pinning her body against his, pressing his sex against her as he turned his head form side to side. He was studying her, sizing her up. She could feel his breath on her face and he was panting. Jesus Christ! Spike was panting.

“Buffy, what's up with Spike?” Dawn called from behind her. She could tell by the quiver in her sister's voice that Dawn was worried, as she freaking well should be thought Buffy. This was a Spike she hadn't seen in years. Maybe she hadn't seen him like this ever. Dangerous, lethal and he'd tried to kill Dawn. God help her; Buffy would sell her soul for a stake right about now.

“Goddamed, vampire. I told you to let me go!” Her voice was firm. “I'm going to kill you for what you've done.”

Buffy tried to pull away from him, but she couldn't get out of his grasp.

“Spike, come on. What's wrong?” It was Dawn and she sounded concerned, but oddly not afraid.

“Not sure, pet,” he released one of Buffy's arms, raised it to her cheek, and caressed her face softly with the back of his hand. “Daylight and vampires, un-mixy things as your big sis might say.”

He lowered his head toward Buffy, and looked into her eyes. "Guess that's no longer the bloody case. Huh, Slayer.”

"Guess not," she answered, but then he was talking to Dawn again.

“Where are we, Nibblet?” He still had a vice grip on Buffy's arm and she couldn't budge.

Thankfully, Dawn stepped into her sight lines and Buffy could see her out of the corner of her eye. Carlo was standing next to her, looking worried, tense, and angry. Guess the kid didn't know how to be afraid yet. With a bit of luck, Spike wasn't in the mood to teach him about fear, hoped Buffy.

But who knew. He'd taken a bite out of Dawn. Buffy had seen that with her own eyes in the alley in New York.

"Asked you a sodding question," snapped Spike, but then he added more calmly. "Where are we, sweetheart?"

"Don't really know..." Dawn admitted with more than a slight tremor in her voice. “Just know we had to get out of that alley. Way too much bad there, you know?”

“Eye of the beholder, love,” said Spike. Then his head bent forward and Buffy saw that he was looking down at her. “Gonna dust me if I let you go?” He whispered.

“No guarantees.”

“That's a bloody fair answer, Slayer.” Spike released her, and stepped back out of the direct glare of the sun.

Buffy took a deep breath. Spike looked unreal in the daylight. His skin was porcelain white and smoother than she ever thought. She'd often wondered if he ever shaved. She didn't really know why she even thought about Spike shaving. It was just one of those unexplainable Spike moments she had every now and then. But looking at him now, she realized it was unlikely he shaved, that is. The skin on his face was flawless. His hair was almost white and very curly. But the most amazing thing about Spike in the sunshine was the tiny drops of perspiration gathering on his upper lip. Vampires didn't perspire. Then again, they didn't stand in the daylight either.

The vampire Buffy knew had risked his life for her and her sister more than once. More than twice if she wanted to give him credit.

It was a shame that the first chance she got she was going to have to dust him.

to be continued…





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