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Forever and a Day by Lilachigh


Chapter 5 Miles to Go


“If you say, ‘I told you so’, one more time, I swear I will stake you!”

Spike glared down at the woman he had loved deeply up until half an hour ago when they’d driven down an English country road in the dark for the third time only to find themselves back at the same cross roads.

With enormous patience - the type that made Buffy want to smack him - he said, very slowly as if he was talking to a small child, “Bloody hell, we’ve driven down this road three times, Buffy. There is no where else to go. We are lost. Forsaken. Adrift in the middle of Hampshire without even a Thermos flask of blood to keep out the cold. It is bitterly cold, it’s snowinghard, it’s dark and I need a drink.”

Buffy rolled down her window and peered out at the sign as a flurry of snow hurled itself into her lap. “Stupid country,” she muttered under her breath, “It says Emsworth on that arm of the signy thing and it’s pointing down the hill.”

Spike thumped the steering wheel. “And we’ve driven down that hill three times, Slayer!”

“I wanted to ask that men we saw, but you wouldn’t let me. Remember?” Buffy shivered. The heater in the car wasn’t working and the snow was falling faster now. Her coat, that had seemed so smart and warm in Rome, didn’t seem to be keeping the English winter out very well.

Spike’s anger disappeared as if it had never been. ‘“You’re cold,” he said and wrapped his arm round her, pulling her into his embrace.

“And you’re going to make me warmer?” she sniggered, running her hands under his leather coat to where the cool cotton T-shirt was smoother under her palms.

“There are ways,”’ he muttered, “but I’d be happier if we were indoors before I showed you them!”

‘I’m sorry I got us lost,” Buffy admitted. “You were right; the map was upside down.”

Spike grinned. “Hey, a first. The Slayer admits to being wrong. Wish I had a bloody tape recorder. OK, my turn, well, if I’d stopped and asked the way right at the beginning of our detour, we might be there by now. I bet Giles and Willow are in their hotel right now, toasting their toes in front of a roaring fire.”

“They’ll wonder where we are. They’ll be worried. They might think we’ve come across signs of the Plague.”

Spike laughed and hugged her tighter, drifting his lips across her blonde head. “No, Buffy. Willow will think we stopped to get - er - reacquainted, shall we say.”

Buffy smiled to herself. Reacquainted. What a marvellous word. She still felt weird and woozy when she let herself realise Spike was alive. That he was here, she was touching him, holding him, feeling the strength and power of those arms holding her safe.

“OK, Slayer, on we go. Before the snow buries us completely. I don’t like the look of this storm . It’s getting worse. I don’t want us out in it much longer. So this time we’ll turn left and head up the hill, away from what the signpost says. You know, before the Second World War, the country people round here changed all the signposts round to confuse the Germans if they ever invaded. I don’t think some of them have ever been put back correctly!”

He started the car and they drove up the hill into the driving snow. Slipping and sliding on the ice, the car crested the rise and began the perilous descent on the other side. Spike was beginning to get worried. This little car had no chains, no heater and the snow was getting worse by the second.

OK, he hadn’t been back in England for a very long time, but he remembered how bad their occasional winter storms could be. If the car broke down out here in the depths of the countryside, it could be very nasty. He needed to get Buffy into shelter and fast.

But even in the middle of his worries, he could feel the joy singing through his blood. He was back with Buffy. They were together. Nothing could stop the happiness he felt right now.

“Spike - look, a light!” Buffy pointed out through the windscreen where the wipers were failing now to cope with the thick wet snow.

Spike peered out and eased off the gas, coaxing the little car down the final slope, heading for the dancing golden light. “God, Slayer, I’d forgotten the one thing you can always rely on in England. Even in the wildest parts, you’ll find a pub.”

“Look out!” Buffy’s yell came too late. The passenger wheels broke through a coating of snow and ice and thumped into a deep ditch. The car tilted over to Buffy’s side and Spike was thrown hard against her.

‘Bleeding hell. Buffy, you OK?” He managed to push open his door which was slanted above him. He scrambled out, his boots sinking into the snow, then reached down to help her unclip her seat belt and half pulled, half dragged her out of the car.

She looked dazed and rubbed at a cut on the side of her head where blood was trickling down. Spike leant forward and licked at it without thinking. Slayer blood! The power roared through him and he swung her up in his arms and ploughed through the snow towards the light.

He could see now that the pub was very old; small and thatched, with the sign hanging outside creaking violently as the storm raged.

The light they’d seen from the top of the hill was a single candle burning in the window.

Spike put Buffy down gently. ‘How do you feel?”

Teeth chattering she said, “O-o-ookay, I think. Can we get inside?”

Spike tried the door but it was locked. He pounded on the nail studded oak that had been old when Charles I had been executed. “Hey! Is anyone there? Let us in?”

“There’re no lights on,” Buffy said, stamping her frozen feet in the thin fashion boots that were already soaked through.

‘Electricity lines must have gone down in the storm,” Spike said and thundered on the door again. ‘It’s a public house. There must be someone there. It’s way past opening time.”

Buffy swayed as a gust of snow hit her with all the venom of a striking snake. She couldn’t remember ever being so cold before. “Should we go back and shelter in the car?” she yelled above the wind. “At least we’d have a bit of shelter.”

Spike licked his fist. He’d hit the door so hard, one of the nail heads had pierced his skin leaving it bloody. He knew the car would give her no shelter from the freezing cold. He would be fine but he knew if Buffy was out in this all night, she’d be lying frozen to death in his arms by morning and there would be nothing he could do to stop it.

He crashed his bloody fist on the door again and suddenly there was the sound of a bolt being drawn, the large metal handle turned and the door opened.

A small girl of about eleven stood there, holding the candle. She was wearing jeans and a green woollen jersey that was far too big for her. Big round spectacles made her look like a rather sweet sleepy owl.

“Hi, sweetheart. Can we come in? Cold out here. Are your parents around?”

The girl moved back into the pub and Spike and Buffy followed, groaning with delight to get out of the storm.

She banged the door shut behind them, then lifted the candle high. “We’ve no lights,” she said.

“Can see that, pet,” said Spike, grabbing Buffy’s hands and chaffing them roughly to get the circulation going. “You’re not on your own, surely?”

“No, Jack’s here, too.”

‘Mum and Dad out shopping and cut off by the snow, I reckon,” Spike muttered to Buffy. “What’s your name, pet?”

“Mandy.” She put the candlestick down on a table and with swift, sure actions, struck matches and lit three more candles.

They were standing in the pub bar; a low ceiling, darkened by years of cigarette smoke, was crossed by heavy black oak beams that still showed the slashes from the axe that cut them hundreds of years before. The light gleamed off a highly polished copper bar cover and brass coal scuttle and fire ornaments either side of a huge brick fireplace.

Buffy threw off her coat and kicked off her boots. “Hi Mandy, I’m Buffy and this is Spike. Our car came to grief just a few yards down the road. It’s in a ditch. Can we use your phone to ring a garage?”

Mandy shook her head, her eyes round behind her glasses. “The land line’s not working and my mobile’s got a flat battery. Can’t charge it with no electricity. Sorry. Shall I light the fire for you?”

Spike perched on one of the bar stools. “That would be great, pet. And don’t worry. We’re perfectly harmless. Do you think your Dad would mind if I helped myself to some whisky? I’ll put the money in the till.”

“Spike!” Buffy hissed, then stopped, suddenly silent. The door to the back of the pub had opened and a small boy of about nine or ten with bright red hair stood there.

“Go away!” he said angrily. “Go away now. We don’t want you here.”

And his words were given a lot of weight by the shot gun he held precariously in both hands.


to be continued





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