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chapter 3: deuteronomy, part I

Spike's motorcycle was bouncing on top of the broken road; he could feel the wheels tremble inside his gut as they rose up, over and into every other pothole and gash on the highway leading him back to Sunnydale. The 2001 Triumph Bonneville he'd proudly nicked a week earlier, literally right out of the clutches of a drunken Xindung demon, was bloody well over-rated he growled. It was nowhere near the quality ride he'd lifted from the Hellion road pirate in Sunnydale almost two months before. Pity he had to abandon that beauty on the Carretera a Toluca motorway as the daylight was chasing him out of Mexico. The bike had gulped and gurgled, though freshly filled with petrol and a quart of oil, and died whimpering, leaving the vampire about 15 minutes to find shelter before the phrase a ‘pile of dust' was all that was left to define him.

When Spike had first set out for Sunnydale, finally ready to leave the dirty village he'd found refuge in outside of Mexico City, his idea was to get back in a week by riding all night and keeping out of the sunshine all day. It was a sodding simple plan. A week at most was all it would take. ‘Course, he was bloody wrong. Three weeks later he was still on his way back to Sunnydale. He hadn't counted on his mode of transportation giving out or it taking two weeks of night walking from poor village to poorer village to find something with an engine that worked. By the time he ran into the Xindung demon, he was desperate. He needed to be on the road and he was hungry as hell, too. Precautions tossed aside, he'd jumped the demon and its gang, recklessly ignoring their razor-edged claws and venomous spittle. Damned thing couldn't ride a bike with those claws anyway, Spike figured. Twenty minutes later, with a broken nose, a few ribs rearranged, and a huge slice of his flesh dangling from one or more demon claws, Spike had killed several demons, snatched the bike away from another and rode unhindered off into the night. He even had a chance to feed during the scrimmage, chomping on some tough demon hide and sucking down a pint of bitter blood in a matter of seconds. It was all he needed to get back to Sunnydale.

He'd finally been making some progress when a drop of rain hit his face. That drop was quickly followed by another and then a sudden deluge of water was beating against his body as he maneuvered down the highway. Spike concluded that even he should take care riding a motorcycle on a wet bumpy road, especially if the speedometer was inching toward 150 miles per hour. He imagined his fingers slipping from the handlebars, then his body, hurling through the air, striking a tree and ending up impaled through the heart by a sturdy branch. He shuddered, without losing control of his bike. That persistent ‘pile of dust' syndrome was sneaking into his head again. But Spike had spent enough time away from Sunnydale…and Buffy. The Triumph Bonneville claimed speeds up to 180 miles. “Bugger this sodding rain!” he cursed. Might as well put the pedal to the metal, he thought, then quickly he remembered that turn of phrase worked for the DeSoto, not the bike. At any rate, it was time to see what this damn machine could bloody well do. Sure, it had failed the smooth ride test, but now he had to see for himself if the hype about speed was real or not. Relaxing his thigh muscles and clutching the bike firmly with his hands, he revved up the engine as the bike glided to 180 miles an hour over the slick road. A few minutes later, he caught sight of a sign out of the corner of his eye. Only 50 miles to Sunnydale, he leaned into the rain.


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A few miles outside of town, Spike sensed there was something off about Sunnydale. It was about 4 a.m., still dark, and the roads were beginning to dry after the night's rainstorm. Slowing down, he could see a few lights shining brightly. The Hellions had ran off months before after getting a good tossing from the Slayer. Certainly, her being back was keeping most baddies from venturing into Sunnydale. But still, Spike could smell the fear spiraling out of the town in huge waves. Until that moment, he had considered heading straight to his old crypt to shower and change into dry clothes before seeing Dawn and the Slayer. Also, he might have benefited from a little rest before facing them, too. But as he'd determined earlier, there was something off here. Kicking the bike into gear, he sped toward the only part of town where anything of importance in his un-life resided. Then as he neared Revello drive, his senses picked up the next wrong thing about Sunnydale. Buffy wasn't there and neither was Dawn.

“What the hell is going on?”


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For several hours, Anya had alternated between pacing, standing rigidly while worrying her hands together and slumping bonelessly onto the sarcophagus. By now Xander had figured out she'd left him. But she still expected him to barge through the crypt door at any moment, demanding that she explain herself. What could she say, though? She could barely understand it herself. Here they were engaged, having announced it to everyone in Sunnydale who might care, and now she couldn't be with him anymore. Reluctantly, she forced herself to sit still on the stone slab for a moment and think about what Xander had seen when he'd gotten home that evening.

Signs of her betrayal were scattered all over the apartment. First, there were her empty dresser drawers and the bathroom cabinets no longer overflowing with her favorite girly fragrances and scented soaps. The twin 100-thread count oversized white cotton towels she used to dry Xander's body after his evening bath were folded and stored in the hamper in the hall closet. Usually, they were set out, clean and warm (fresh out of the dryer), ready for when he'd come home all tired, hot, and smelly in that enticingly musky manly way. She'd take his lunch bucket out of his hands, throw his hard hat onto the couch, pull his dirty shirt over his board shoulders, and lead him into the bathroom where a hot, sudsy tub awaited them. And of course, the towels were there, too. Now, he'd never find them in the hall closet. He'd never look there. That meant those towels would never be used by anyone else ever again. Anya nodded, satisfied with that thought.

But the towels were only part of her vanishing act. She'd gone on a cleaning binge. She'd washed all his laundry, and folded and shoved it into a closet in the bedroom. Then she'd placed the dishes from yesterday's lunch, dinner and that morning's breakfast into the dishwasher. That alone would certainly raise his curiosity. And the bed, yes, she'd cleaned the sheets, fluffed the pillows and made the bed. She signed as she remembered in a year, she'd never made the bed. Never a need. And with that she slid from the stone slab onto the floor, tears flowing from her eyes. She was going miss the orgasms – his and hers. Wiping her nose ungracefully on the back of her hand, she chewed on her lower lip for a moment. This decision couldn't be helped, though, she whimpered. Just had to be made.

Sniffing rather loudly, Anya gulped harshly between sobs as she raised her head to look around her new home. It wasn't beautiful. But it was the only place she could think of that was livable – well, not by much – but livable for a demon. Besides, it was free. Spike's old crypt didn't have a monthly fee attached, unless you counted avoiding fledging vampires and entertaining demons. It was perfect as long as that wasn't a price you were unwilling to pay. Spike had been gone for what seemed like forever. Well, okay, it had been only a few months. But she doubted he'd be back. Indeed, it had surprised them all when one day he was gone. Especially since he left shortly after they'd brought Buffy back. She really believed Spike loved Buffy. Then again, she'd learned today that love was too fragile to count on.


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Spike smelled someone – the demon girl – she was in his crypt. Pushing open the iron door, he burst through and spotted her slumped form huddled on the hard dirt flow in front of the sarcophagus. Immediately, he scanned the top floor of the crypt. He could tell she hadn't been there long. They were alone in the dusty and unkempt tomb. During the past summer, he'd kept the crypt clean and comfortable for him and Dawn. They'd been nearly inseparable in their grief, and she'd made frequent visits here to see him. Just like he'd spent time with her on Revello Drive. He swallowed hard at that memory. Then, sharply, he turned to Anya.

“What are you doin' here?” He asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Spike?” she whispered. “Jeez. Spike!” Her voice suddenly very loud, echoed through the crypt.

“Yep, that's me,” he said. “But bloody small surprise compared to you alone in my crypt with no sign of monkey boy anywhere nearby.” He sniffed the air to punctuate his point.

“Sorry, didn't think you'd be back.” Anya said as she rested her hands on the sarcophagus and pulled herself to her feet.

“Where's Buffy?” Spike was being uncharacteristically patient, but he'd decided that he could wait indefinitely to find out why Anya was in his crypt. He just needed to know about Buffy and Dawn.

“Gone.”

“Yeah, knew that,” He glared at her, but asked quietly. “Where?”

“Something bad happened. Really bad,” mumbled Anya, rubbing her hands together, and focusing on the ground at her feet. That was odd, thought Spike, Anya was usually anything but evasive. She was the most straightforward person he'd ever met. He'd seen her snippy, very candid about her sexual appetite and mildly fearful when battling a fledgling or two, but mostly, he'd seen her talking too much. Now, she was barely able to string together more than one sentence at a time.

“Changed everything. Everyone.”

“Anya, look at me.” Spike walked across the room, and stood a few feet in front of her. “What happened? Tell me.”

“Maybe since you weren't here, it didn't get you.”

“You're babbling,” he tried to sound soothing, but his patience was...well, frankly, he didn't have any left. But another moment of control might serve him well, he decided. Spike took a step closer to Anya, and reached out slowly, taking her hands into his. “Come on, pet. Tell me what happened.”

She looked into his eyes then. He hadn't seen that kind of pain in a long time. He gently massaged her palms, encouraging her to relax and talk. When she began, her voice was barely a whisper. “There was a monster and it came for Dawn.”

“Okay, go on.” Spike's voice was calm as his guts twisted with fear.

“It was a portal jumper. No, actually, it was the portal jumper.” Anya was breathing heavily now, and had eased her hands out of Spike's grip. “You've heard the stories. Every 700 years it journeys through dimensions to cancel its debts.” With a quizzical expression on her face, she sat down on the stone sarcophagus and said, “Odd, how it chooses to reward those it cares about, isn't it?”

“Can't believe every fairy tale, Anya.”

“Don't patronize me,” she warned, her eyes furious. Now this was what Spike was accustomed to seeing from Anya as she shot out another sentence. “Thousand-year-old vengeance demon, here. Lived many lives compared to your sorry century and a few decades of purposeless wandering.”

“Don't know about that,” he held back a sneer. “This so-called monster, did it take Buffy and Dawn?”

“You really don't believe, do you? But no, the monster doesn't have them,” she shook head, a small smile on her lips. “You'll love this, though… Willow came up with a spell.”

“A fucking what?” Spike growled.

“Yeah, another spell by Willow. Except they all swear it was a joint effort between the watcher, Willow and her lover. But I only smelled Willow's power.”

“Where the hell is she?”

“Don't bother with Willow. She's probably consoling Xander about now.” Anya suddenly became distracted, her sad gaze drifting toward the crypt door. “Go to Giles. He'll tell what you need to know.”

Spike was out the crypt door before Anya finished her sentence.


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The muscles in his back were cramped. He'd been hunched in the corner of the barn a long time, waiting. But he hadn't been bored. There were things to notice and observe. Unlike the last few places he'd been, there weren't any human beings around to distract him from his purpose. Here in this quiet farmhouse, he could take his time and appreciate the small wonders that a dimension like this one had to offer.

He liked rodents and bugs, and the barn was filled with a variety of species. The last time he'd encountered this powerful lot, they had ruled a continent. But time changes everything; he shrugged accepting the inevitable nature of his own existence.

He unfolded himself from his shrunken pose, stretched his arms to the rafters, craned his neck from side to side, and took in a deep cleansing breath. Unfortunately, the stench of the horses waste and urine filled his nostrils. He lurched forward, nearly vomiting. Quickly shaking off the sensation, he puckered his lips and kissed the air. Nothing was ever too bad if you could accept it for what it was, he believed.

He then heard the voice of the child and small feet shuffling in the dirt outside. It was a buoyant and joyful noise. He smiled as his pleasure entered the barn. Patiently, he watched the boy's bright green eyes examine the space, playfully seeking contact with one of his animal charges. The horse was first, making a gentle neighing sound as the boy moved in his direction. A cow on the other side of the barn adjusted itself lazily, waiting comfortably for the boy to rid it of its excess juices.

The raven-haired child picked up a tool and began raking the hay in the horse's stall, making neat piles and removing the dung that covered the soil. As he became absorbed in his chores, he began to hum a tune. His beautiful tenor, echoed through the barn.

Stepping from the shadows, he crept closer to his prey. The animals in the barn could now sense him and immediately distanced themselves from their keeper. The boy sensed him, too. Turning, the child dropped the rake and stumbled over the bucket, in an effort to escape. Too late, he grinned.

Several moments later, the horse neighed as the crunching sound of the boy's head being twisted from his body filled the barn.

Holding his prize in his hands, he smiled, but then his brow suddenly creased in annoyance. As he looked into the boy's dead eyes there was a veil shrouding the image of his next victim. Something or someone was trying to trick him off of his course. He despised interference.

“Then we'll have to play the game,” he said. Dropping the boy's head onto the dirt floor, he stalked out the barn.

To be continued…





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