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UPDATE: WINNER of Spuffy Awards Outstanding Original Character (Judge's Choice) 2008
Thanks to the extra wonderful person who nominated this story for the Spuffy Awards.


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NOTES: Oz has already left town and our favorite vampire returns from Los Angeles and torturing Angel to get his ring back a little earlier and hasn’t been caught by the Initiative yet. After Buffy rescues Parker and others from the fire, she runs off to drink more beer and hijinks ensue.

For the completely obsessed, in Season Six, Spike acquired some silver jewelry, including a silver neck chain. The chain first appears in Smashed, when he calls Buffy on the phone to ask her to meet him at the cemetery. He wears the chain constantly until As You Were, when the chains disappears.

SPOILERS: Jeesh if you haven’t seen the show by now, what’s your prob?

CONTENT/WARNINGS: Spuffy, bitey, smutty – Some dialog from Beer Bad, The Harsh Light of Day (sort of), Lover’s Walk and Fool for Love (sort of) and various other places.

CHARACTERS: Spike, Buffy, Xander, Anya, Willow, Tara, Giles, Joyce, Sunday, Willy, Clem, Quentin Travers, Lydia Chalmers, Brad, Tucker, Katie Loomis and new characters – Rosamund, Bob the Warlock, Jack Frostle and others.

RATING: NC 17

DISCLAIMER: Josh owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged.

SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to dipole_dipole_attraction for the French translation of Bob the Warlock’s spell and to Golden Buffy for making me a totally faboo banner and to Tamakin for telling me how to put the banner in the story.





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Chapter 1 - Smoke, Blood, Skin, Boy



The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Oxford, August 15, 1900 – I received a telegram from the Council, express delivery, at midnight last night. Chen Ma, our most recent Slayer, was killed in Peking during the tumultuous events occurring there. Her Watcher, Edward Crossfort, is missing, presumed deceased. Our dear friend will be missed.

I have been called to duty as the Watcher for the new Slayer.

***

A black Desoto rammed into the Welcome to Sunnydale sign and screeched to a halt. The driver flung his door open and smacked his black Doc Marten boot down on the asphalt.

Spike got out of the car and waved his empty bottle in the direction of the town. He dropped the bottle.

“Big Bad is back, baby.”


***

Buffy perched on the back of the wooden bench next to Red-Hair Girl, twirled a strand of hair around her finger and sniffed the ends of her hair. Smoky.


Old Man and Red-Hair Girl and Boy were talking. Talk talk talk about Bad Fire. Buffy saved Red-Hair Girl and people from Bad Fire.

Thirsty. Want Beer.

Boy pointed his finger at Buffy. She’d sniffed him earlier and wanted sex until she wanted beer. She still wanted beer.

Boy talk. Talk a lot.

“And,” Boy said, “Was there a lesson in all this, huh? What did we learn about beer?”

Beer? “Foamy.”

“Good, just as long as that’s clear …”

Boy talk talk talk.

Buffy’s friends from the evening’s drinking party were trapped and leaping around in a big, shiny box. She walked to the box and slapped the glass to get their attention. She pressed her face against the glass to see into the box.

No beer.

Parker Abrams left the ambulance, where he’d been treated for breathing smoke, and approached Buffy.

Buffy sniffed. PAR-ker. PAR–ker didn’t have beer. PAR-ker smelled smoky. Like Bad Fire.

“Buffy,” PAR–ker said, “Buffy … I … I dunno how to say this. I'm sorry for how I treated you before. It was wrong of me and I'm sorry. You were great tonight, really. I might not deserve this, but do you think you could forgive me?

Don’t like PAR–ker.

Buffy whacked him on the head with her club and knocked him out. No talk.

PAR-ker fall down. Buffy strong. Unh!

Buffy walked back to the shiny box where her drinking buddies were jumping and snorting. Boy Talk Talk Talk pulled her away.

Want Beer.

While Boy Talk Talk Talk and Red-Hair Girl and Old Man talked, Buffy slipped away and raced down the street, gripping her club. She remembered where to find Beer.

***

The Frostle Pub was closed for the night. Jack’s new bartender, Harris, copped an attitude about serving Black Frost brew to college jerks and quit, so Jack got stuck cleaning up. He was running a mop over the floor when a punk with white hair arrived.

Jack didn’t like this guy’s looks, with his damn black leather coat and his ridiculous white hair. He hated all of this guy’s kind, too. When they weren’t doing something evil, they were thinking about doing something evil, or warming up to doing something evil or had just finished doing something evil and were licking the blood off their evil lips and sniffing the air for their next meal like hungry wolves.

“I’m closed, bud. Come back tomorrow,” Jack said. Or, never.

“Need a drink, mate.”

A quick flash of the punk’s vampire face persuaded Jack he could serve the punk some booze or the vamp would take something warmer and redder by force.

Great. This one was warming up to do something evil. He might as well pacify the vampire with some booze, not that being drunk would make White Hair any less dangerous.

“Guess you could have one while I close up.”

“Scotch.”

Jack took a bottle of scotch off the wall behind the bar. It wasn’t good scotch. He’d poured cheap bar scotch into a Laphroiag bottle to serve to smartass college bastards who thought they knew something about single malt whiskies. What the hell did vampires know about good booze? Vampires were stupider than college bastards.

Spike grabbed the bottle and inhaled. He pitched the bottle into the mirror behind the bar. Bottle and mirror shattered with a satisfying crash. “Not that shit. The good stuff.”

Jack pulled out a different bottle from below the bar, real Glenmorangie this time, and placed it on the bar, along with a shot glass.

Spike grabbed the bottle and glass and sat down in a comfortable, brown leather chair at a table where he could watch the door. He hated this place, with its bilious green walls and its phony English pub atmosphere, but the whiskey was good.

He downed his first shot and sampled the air. Bitch Slayer had been here earlier tonight.

Christ, he couldn’t go anywhere without running across the little snatch, sniffing her, seeing her, hearing her. If he hadn’t returned to Sunnyhell for the express purpose of settling his score with the Slayer, he’d leave town just to get away from her. Miss Tiny was nothing but trouble.

He drank another shot.

“Bitch is everywhere, screwing up my plans, royally screwing up my unlife. Can’t even have a drink without getting a snort of her cunny up my nose. Just wait, Slayer. I’ll sink my fangs into your neck and make you scream. Done slayers before and I can take care of you, too.”

***

A man on a black Harley Davidson Fat Boy sped south on Highway 101, headed for Sunnydale. He took the Center Street ramp, spun the bike into the Welcome to Sunnydale sign and picked himself out of the wreckage. He scratched one of his demon tattoos, finished his bottle of beer, dropped the bottle on the pavement, belched and started for town.

“Sunnydale, meet your new Master.”

***

Buffy banged through the door of the pub.

Beer. Smell beer.

She ran up to the bar and banged her club on the glassy surface to get the bartender’s attention. Her club left a nasty dent in the bar.

“Beer. Buffy want beer.”

Jack considered giving her another pitcher, but she’d already had plenty and he preferred she be elsewhere while she was under the effects of the potion.

“You’ve had enough, little lady. Go home and sleep it off.”

Buffy frowned. “Beer. Want beer.”

Spike watched Buffy and the bartender. Slayer was drunker than a vamp on Walpurgisnacht. This was an interesting development. A Pissed To The Gills Slayer.

“Give her some beer,” Spike growled. He shoved the chair next to him away from the table with his boot.

“Have a seat, Slayer.”

She turned to stare at the boy who got her beer.

Boy. Hot.

Buffy dropped her club on the table and sat down next to Spike and scooted her chair close to his. She bounced in her chair while she waited for the bartender to fetch the beer.

She thumped her chest. “Buffeee. Buffy strong. Buffy pretty.”

Curiouser and curiouser. Spike thumped his chest. “William. Strong and sinisterly attractive.”

Jack brought a pitcher of Black Frost and two glasses and placed them on Spike’s table. Maybe Blondie Girl would tempt the pain in the neck wearing the black leather jacket to drink some beer, too. Serve him right if he got in trouble tonight.

Buffy picked up the pitcher, sloshed some in each of the glasses and spilled some on the table. She picked up her glass and gulped half of it down.

“Beer good. Beer foamy.”

Spike picked up his glass of beer and sniffed the contents. There was something in the beer. That might explain why Miss Goodie Two Stakes was acting off her bird and not just drunk, and didn’t recognize him. He might have some fun with her before he killed her. He dumped his beer back in the pitcher. Buffy drained her glass and he poured her another.

She shoved Spike’s arm. “You drink!”

Spike sipped his scotch.

Buffy killed her second glass and held it out with both hands for Spike to refill it. She drank some more and set her glass down. She leaned close to Spike and smelled his neck.

Smoke, blood, skin, boy.

“Boy smell good. William Boy smell good.”

“Thanks, pet. Nice of you to mention it. Have another drink.” He topped off her glass.

Buffy ignored her beer and leaned closer and held her lips next to his. “Buffy want boy.”

This was going to be fun.

Spike settled her back in her chair. Wouldn’t do to let things go too far so early in the evening. He needed to think. He’d planned to kill her at his first opportunity, but other possibilities presented themselves. How was he going to handle a drunk, randy Slayer to make the maximum amount of trouble? Spike tapped a cigarette out of the pack and lit it.

“Fire! Fire bad!” She waved her hand frantically to put out the fire.

“Not this fire. Here, you try it.” He sucked in some smoke to demonstrate and held his cigarette to her lips.

She took a puff and coughed and giggled. “Ugh. Fire bad.” She lifted the pitcher of beer and drained it.

Spike laughed. Slayer was a bit of all right when she didn’t have a stake up her ass.

Buffy jumped up and ran over to the Singing Box. Maybe William Boy could make it sing. She climbed on top to see if there were little people inside like the box at her Sleeping Place. “Sings. Make it sing.”

“Want some tunes? Let’s see what they’ve got, shall we?” Spike went to the jukebox, peeled Buffy off the machine and slugged in some quarters. Hmm, what kind of music to play? The Slayer was a wonderfully slutty dancer, given the right encouragement. He picked a couple of techno-crap songs to motivate her performance.

When the music came on, she shoved aside some chairs so she could dance.

“Boy, dance!”

Spike sat back down and poured himself another shot of scotch. “I’ll watch you dance.”

Buffy raised her arms over her head, lifting her sweet little tits. She ground her pelvis against an imaginary lover and shook her butt as she whirled to the music.

Spike adjusted his crotch and admired the way she stroked her ass and the insides of her thighs while she danced. Maybe he’d been hasty in wanting to kill her. Maybe, Buffy would be more useful to him alive. And, quite a bit more fun.

When the music stopped, she skipped back to the table for more beer, but the pitcher was empty. She scowled.

“Buffeee want beer.”

“The beer’s gone. Whiskey tastes good, too. Take a sip.” Spike held the shot glass to her lips and tipped it down her throat.

“Ugh, bad. Whis-kee burns.” She flopped into her chair and put her head on the table. “Buffee tired.”

The accumulated events of the night – Beer and saving PAR-ker and Red-Hair Girl from the Bad Fire and More Beer and Dancing for William Boy – caught up to her. Buffy dropped her head to the table and passed out.

Spike corked the bottle of scotch and put it in his coat pocket. He heaved the unconscious Slayer over his shoulder and carried her out into the night.


***

A blood-maroon Porsche 911 Carrera S roared north on Highway 101, racing toward the heart of Sunnydale. Sunrise was breaking behind the mountains, brushing the peaks into a flaming red-orange ring around the town that was sunk in the lavender-blue shadows of the Hellmouth. The driver of the Porsche was not disturbed by the growing light; the black reflective windows of the Porsche couldn’t be penetrated by mere sunlight.

The driver had been traveling for two nights, up from Puerto Escondido, Mexico, where she’d gotten the news that brought her here. She sped up now, urging the car to creep up to 100, 120 miles per hour, then higher. The rubber wheels reeked of smoking rubber.

At Camino Viejo, she raced down the exit ramp to the city street and slammed into the Welcome to Sunnydale sign before throwing the car into a spin and screeching to a halt.

The driver opened her door and slid her leg out. Her black high-heeled pumps with scarlet leather soles crunched on the remains of a bottle of liquor thrown there earlier as she pulled herself out of the car to stretch. She swigged a bottle of champagne, then released the bottle from her fingers and allowed it to shatter on the pavement.

“Sunnydale. What a shit hole.”

She lit a cigarette, taking time to make a perfect ring of dark lipstick around its tip. She picked up a map and checked the addresses for the tenth time today. Frostle’s Pub, 22 Anacapa Street and then on to the real reason for her visit to the Hellmouth. Have to head to Anacapa Street first. Lot of work to do. She got back in the car, backed up to mash the sign again. She tore the car’s crumpled bumper loose and zoomed away.

When she’d been gone about five minutes, a City of Sunnydale Streets and Sanitation van pulled up to Camino Viejo. The driver, Serafimo Guttierez, and his brother-in-law and helper, Refugio Lopez, got out of the van, swept up the broken glass, picked up the busted sign and tossed it in the back. They took out a new Welcome to Sunnydale sign and replaced it where the old one had stood.

“Tercer esta noche,” Serafimo said to Refugio. “Focking vampiros.”

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Thanks to everyone who read and everyone who reviewed.

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Chapter 2 - Kill You Now, Kill You Later

The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Oxford, August 24, 1900 - The Council is certainly sparing no expense. I received a sealed package today with the Watcher’s Journal of Edward Crossfort and Chen Ma’s fighting stake, which was located in a heathen Buddhist temple in Peking near her exsanguinated body. Chen Ma was last seen alive chasing a vampire whose description matches that of William the Bloody, who in spite of being rather young as vampires go, made somewhat of a name for himself in London.

I also received a report regarding my new Slayer. Lady Victorine Chesler is the youngest daughter of Montague Blandford, the Earl of M _________.

I protested most strenuously to the Council regarding their unsuitable choice to no avail. No good can come, in my opinion, of calling a frivolous, pampered and spoiled young lady such as Lady Chesler must surely be. A girl from the trade classes, or even an honest, poor girl from Spitalsfield or Aldgate, would present a far better prospect to assume the Slayer’s burden. But, it is my duty to train the Chosen One, as it will be her duty to fight, so I will put the best face on it and accept my task with good cheer.

I travel to the Earl’s county seat at Skelton on Ure tomorrow to introduce myself to my charge. The Council has arranged for me to present myself to the family as Lady Chesler’s riding instructor. I only hope the Council was equally persuasive regarding the use of his Lordship’s horses.

***

Jack finished mopping the floor and was drawing the shades, when a maroon Porsche squealed to a stop in front of the pub. A blonde girl got out and shoved her way through the door.

Her blonde hair was tightly drawn into corn rows, revealing the rat-pink skin of her skull. She wore a black leather vest, with nothing underneath, a see-through black chiffon skirt, black spandex biker shorts and black boots with silver grommets. Her eyes were ringed with black eyeliner, her lips coated in corpuscle-red lipstick and her ears crusted with silver earrings stolen from her victims. She preferred victims with nice jewelry. Kill a bird with a lot of stones.

“You got something for me, Jack?” Rosamund cocked her head, and scratched her armpit with her black-polished nails. She slid one fingernail over the upper curve of her bare tit and sliced a thin cut into her skin. A delicate line of blood beaded up on her skin. She wiped the blood with her finger and licked it off.

“You Rosamund?”

“No, I’m Oprah, asshole. Get me my shit.”

She rubbed her crotch and sniffed the air. Some nice vampire boy had been in here earlier tonight. A vampire boy she knew. Maybe she’d catch up with him later.

“It’s in the office.” He locked the front door and flicked out the neon signs in the windows. He headed for his office in the back of the bar and dug a small vial out of the loose papers and junk in his desk drawer. He held it up for her to see, but not touch.

“Two thousand bucks, Rosie.”

“Don’t call me Rosie. I don’t like it.”

“I beg your forgiveness, Princess Rosamund. Allow me to kiss your behind to make up for my impertinent behavior. Fucking vampire.”

Rosamund unsnapped her leather vest and peeled it back far enough for Jack to catch an eyeful of nipple. She dug out a thick bundle of bills, scattered the bills on his desk and snatched the vial out of his hand.

The vial was made of sapphire-blue rock crystal with a with a silver filigree cap. The cap was inscribed with a skull with vampire fangs. She held it up to the light, although there was nothing to see but grey ash.

“This doesn’t look like enough.”

“Doesn’t matter. Bob said even a small amount would work.”

“It better work. And, this better be her and not some cunt fledgling you staked. I wouldn’t want to have to come back to this dump.”

Jack scraped the money into his desk drawer and slammed it shut.

“Beat it,” he said. “From now on you can deal with my brother-in-law.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Jack. Let’s cut out the middle man, shall we?”

Rosamund snarled and whipped into her vamp face. She leaped across the desk, knocked Jack to the floor and ripped a bloody chunk out of his neck. She sprawled on top of his squirming body, humping his thigh as she drained his blood. She finished drinking at the same time she came. She hated humping shitheads like Jack, but killing got her so hot, she just had to get off.

She got up and kicked the body for good measure. She retrieved her cash and the crystal vial and left the bar.


***

“Ugh, Beer Bad,” Buffy moaned.

Don’t open your eyes.

She was awake. And, possibly sober.

Gritty eyes, furry tongue, pounding head, queasy stomach, sore puss and this thing – this tree trunk – jammed between her legs. Buried deep in her and forcing her legs so far apart, her hip muscles were cramping. A big, cool, heavy body crushed her into a mattress.

Oh, god. She’d gotten drunk last night – apocalyptically drunk – and she was suffering the extra bad afterness of a second bad night of badness. Worse, she’d picked up some guy. Ewww, some guy she didn’t know.

She explored Strange Guy’s body with her hands. Thin and muscles and cold. Way cold.

I’m a slut. I’m a slut with a sore puss from having sex all night with some Strange Guy with a cold, but disturbingly firm body and a tree trunk for a dick.

Don’t open your eyes.

Not PAR-ker. His thing didn’t begin to be that big or hard or otherwise possessed with salty goodness. At least, she hadn’t hopped back in the sack with that jerk again.

Her bed partner’s stiff cock made her horny. She didn’t want to be horny with some – some guy. Some strange guy she was afraid to open her eyes and look at.

She squirmed. Squirming made it worse. She wrapped her legs around Mr. Strange Guy’s back. Just to relieve her hip muscles, not at all to drive that huge thing deeper into her puss.

Strange Guy’s cock moved. It pulled out and thrust back into her with a slow stroke.

“Oh!”

That felt beyond good. She didn’t know making sex with other people could feel that good. She might faint if that thing moved in her again. It did. It stroked her again and again -- slow, tortuous, teasing strokes.

She might die if it stopped.

“Please!”

“Fancy another go, pet?”

Buffy froze. That voice! It could not be. It absolutely, positively, totally and no way in the Cleveland Hellmouth could not be!

Lots of guys had English accents. Lots. Most of those guys with English accents did not happen to be living, or unliving, in Sunnydale.

Don’t open your eyes.

He stroked her again. Even slower. His cool hands, his long fingers cupped her ass and gripped her so he could push his cock in deeper. She wanted to scream, he made her feel so good.

She squeezed her eyes tighter. As long as she didn’t look, it couldn’t be him. She squeezed her muscles tighter around his cock. She’d show him.

“That feels good, Slayer. Squeeze me again.”

Slayer. Nobody called her that but him. She might as well look. There was no chance it could be anyone else.

“Spike?” She opened her eyes and looked straight into his. Blue like the sky. Could her life be any worse? Hung over, horny and desperate to get laid by Spike.

“Yeah, baby. You like that? Gonna cum for me again?”

Again?

He made her cum and she’d missed it? Her First Cumming Experience, with another person any way, and she’d MISSED IT? Think about that later. After he made her cum.

“Gonna cum,” she panted, “Then, I’m gonna kill you.” As soon as I can walk, which might take a day or two.

“Don’t think you want to kill me at this particular moment, luv.”

She ground her pelvis against his hard cock. “Hurry.”

He slowed down.

“Spike! Make me cum or I’ll, I’ll …”

“You’ll what, Slayer? Stake me? That big cock you’re riding will disappear into dust if you do.”

“Stake you later.” She dug her nails into his butt to make him go faster.

He didn’t.

“Spike!”

She was right on the edge. If he’d only go a little faster, then she could cum right away.

“Beg for it, Slayer and I might help you out.”

No way. Not begging. Not begging Spike to fuck me.

“I hate you!”

His cock inched into her again.

I’ll never cum at this rate.

“Beg me.”

His cock slid out again. He stopped with just the tip of his dick inside her puss.

I’ll die I’ll die I’ll die I’ll die if he doesn’t make me cum!

She pushed her hips up to force him in again, but he turned his body to prevent her.

“Something you want to say, sweet Slayer?” He traced his finger around her ear, like he had all the time in this dimension.

Okay. She’d beg. She’d beg, then he’d fuck her and she’d cum and then she’d kill him and nobody would ever know that she’d begged a vampire - she’d begged Spike - to fuck her.

“Please, Spike.” Her voice didn’t sound all that humble and begging like.

Spike moved his hips in tiny circles, teasing her with his tip.

She tried to push closer, shove him back inside her, but he resisted. He enjoyed torturing her. Enjoyed seeing her helpless.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me.” Please please please please please please.

“You want my cock?”

“Yes. I want it.” Want. Want. Want.

“Say that.”

I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my whole life, more than PAR-ker even, but I’ll say it. I’ll say anything he wants. I only have to say it. I don’t have to like it.

“Please, I want your cock. You rotten bastard.”

Spike stopped moving. “Not nice. Try again.”

Why was he tormenting her? She only wanted to cum. Why wouldn’t he let her cum? She slipped her hand between their bodies so she could touch herself. She couldn’t wait for Spike. Oh, that was much better.

Spike jerked her hand out and pinned it to the pillow.

“No self help, Slayer. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. You were begging me to fuck you with my nice big cock.”

She ought to shove him off and leave, right now. She ought to hit him or scream or something. But, she couldn’t. She had to cum. She’d already humiliated herself by begging him to fuck her silly. She might as well be nice. If nice was what it took to get what she wanted, then, she’d say something nice. She stuck her lower lip out and gave him a soulful pout.

“Please, Spike, fuck me with your big hard cock. I wanna cum,” she said, in what she hoped was a low, sexy, whiskey-type voice, whatever that was.

“That’s better,” he gave her a nasty grin and shoved himself deep into her and resumed his exasperatingly slow pace.

Buffy gasped with relief. She hated him.

Spike lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. His lips felt so good, she opened her mouth before she remembered just who she was kissing and how much she hated him.

She clenched her teeth so he couldn’t put his tongue in her mouth. No way was she going to let him kiss her.

He tweaked her nipple to get her attention. “Open your mouth.”

“Eek! No! I’m not kissing you, you pig. Just do me.”

He stopped thrusting and propped his head on his hand so he could stare at her with his sparkly, blue eyes while he waited for her to make up her mind to kiss him.

No! Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop!

“Open your mouth and kiss me, or I’ll stop.”

“Okay, okay, okay!”

Killing isn’t good enough. I’m going to torture him for days. I’m going to cut off his head with a dull nail file.

He pressed his mouth against hers again and she opened to take his tongue into her mouth. He rewarded her by thrusting a little bit faster.

Good. Good kissing. Good cock. She panted, she whimpered, she squirmed and moaned.

He got down to serious fucking, thrusting into her hard and fast. She came like a hand grenade exploding, wave after wave of intense sexy goodness sloshing over her. She scrounged on his cock to make it last and last and last.

When she’d exhausted herself, she flopped her knees apart, while Spike kept fucking her. He was getting her excited again. She had to get him out of her before more sexy badness occurred and more humiliating begging was required.

“Hurry up. You’ll make me horny again.”

“Bitch. Got what you want. You don’t care if I get off or not.”

Spike’s body jerked, and he spurted his cum into her. He collapsed on her, resting his forehead on hers. He sprinkled kisses on her ears, her eyebrows, the corners of her eyelids and the flat tip of her nose.

“Get out of me.” She had to get his cock out now, before she got excited again and made an even bigger spectacle out of herself.

“Think I’ll hang out here a bit longer,” he said. He nibbled on her eyebrow. “I like fucking your tight little cunny, Slayer. Fucking slayers is almost as good as killing them.”

Buffy punched his nose.

“Damn it, Slayer!” Spike rolled off, taking his cock with him.

Buffy whimpered as he pulled out. She hadn’t meant get out that instant. She stumbled out of bed and stomped off to find the bathroom.

There's been quite a bit of chat lately about the size of Spike's personal attributes. I have given Spike heroic properties, strictly as a plot development and not at all for the lurid sexual titillation. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and everyone who read and Golden Buffy for this way awesome banner.


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Chapter 3 - Now and Forever



The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Skelton on Ure, August 28, 1900 - I presented myself to Earl M with a letter of recommendation and the compliments of the Watcher’s Council. For reasons of secrecy, none of the Council’s communications indicated the purpose of my visit. I was given the unhappy task of revealing to his Lordship that his eldest daughter, Lady Victorine Chesler, had been Chosen to stand against the vampires, the demons and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer, however inconvenient that might be.

Fortunately, Earl M is a highly-ranked official of Her Majesty’s Exchequer and is familiar with the essential work being performed by the Council. His familiarity with the Watcher’s Council did not alter his personal objections to having his seventeen-year old daughter “gadding about the countryside at all hours of the night, chasing after vampires with a pointed stick.”


***

Buffy stood under the ice-cold shower and soaped herself for the third time. She wanted to scrub between her legs for an hour, but she was too sore after the workout Spike had apparently enjoyed giving her last night and this morning.

His cock wasn’t the only thing he’d enjoyed giving her. She found a perfect semi-circle of teeth marks with two puncture wounds on the inside of her thigh. A dim memory of Spike’s head between her legs, the tingling feel of his tongue on her clit, then him slipping his fangs into her thigh, slid into her brain. He’d said something, too. Mine?

Stop it. Stop thinking about him and that damn tongue of his and take stock of the situation.

She was in the mansion. Spike hadn’t dragged her off to some icky, underground hidey place where she would have to wander around three days and need a sack of bread crumbs to find her way out. She could go home any time she wanted. The sun would rise soon, and he wouldn’t be able to follow her.

Before she left, she needed to figure out what he was up to. Other than the obvious fun of boinking the Slayer, slurping down her blood and bragging to his skeevy demon friends down at Willy’s that he’d scored.

When the cold water turned her fingernails blue, she got out of the shower and twisted the water out of her hair. Naturally, Mr. Vampire Bachelor only had one damn towel, which was already damp and conveniently located on the floor, so she dripped water everywhere. She used his toothbrush and raked the tangles out her hair with his comb while she checked out the contents of the medicine cabinet. A razor, some toothpaste and a jar of hair gel. Pathetic.

What the hell happened to her last night? She remembered going to visit Xander at that bar, then drinking with the boys, then drawing pictures on her dorm room wall – her mother was going to have a goat when the bill for that little escapade came due. After that, there was a fire at the Grotto and she clunked Parker on the head with a big stick. Buffy smiled. Hitting Parker was fun. She’d like to do that again.

What next?

Oh, yeah. She went back to the pub for more beer. There was nobody in the Pub of Badness but Spike. More drinking. Then, slutty dancing. After that, fuzziness. Had he slipped something in her drink? That must be it. Another good reason to kick his ass, not that she needed an additional reason.

She had a little too much beer and Spike spiked her drink, kidnapped her and brought her back here and tricked her into sex. She was so going to punish him for tricking her.

She’d cleaned herself up. She could get dressed and leave and forget this nightmare. Later, when her bones didn’t feel like marshmallow fluff, she’d kick Spike’s ass. Forgetting would be easier once she sucked Spike into a Dustbuster.

Find my clothes. Go back to dorm. Sleep. Kick Spike’s ass later.

She walked back to the bedroom, naked and wet. She didn’t see her clothes.

“Where’d you hide my clothes, Blood Breath?”

Spike ignored her. He was lying on his back, his dick still in tree-trunk state, pulling on himself.

“Come back to bed and fuck me some more, Slayer.”

It couldn’t be.

He couldn’t still be hard after the cosmic sex they’d just had, and presumably, the whole night of sex they’d had that she couldn’t remember, except for the part where he was licking her puss and biting her thigh and she was moaning and begging him to gnaw on her some more. That part was coming back in Wide-Screen Technicolor with Surround Sound.

After a night of sex which left her barely able to walk, Spike was still hard.

She wasn’t Sexual Experience Girl, if anything she was the Un-Experience Girl, but she knew that Spike’s thing should not still be hard. Angel’s thing drooped like an overcooked noodle right after he came one time, which sexual experience didn’t involve Buffy cumming. Parker’s thing drooped right in the middle of the event. Another sexual experience which didn’t involve Buffy cumming.

Spike must be some kind of sex freak. He wasn’t drooping before, during or after and he made her cum. She hoped her memory of all that cumming would come back soon.

She watched Spike’s hand glide up and down on his cock. Had she really had that huge thing inside her? That hugeness had to be mystical or vampirical or something.

“Spike? How did your … your thing get to be so big? Is it a vampire thing?”

Spike grinned. “What can I tell you, baby? I’ve always been Big.”

Looking at Spike’s thing made her warm. Her hand crept to the bite mark on her inner thigh. She touched the mark and stifled a cry. Touching the mark made her instantly horny. She stroked the mark some more, and before she knew it, her hand wandered to her clit.

“I like that, Kitten. Give me a show.” He gave her a snotty smile, his blue eyes sparkled with deviltry.

Buffy snatched her hand away. “You pervert. What have you done to me? You drugged me, didn’t you?”

“Did not. Come back to bed. I’m still hard from that Slayer blood of yours. Might be hours before it wears off. I’ll have to pace myself in the future.”

Buffy squeezed her thighs together to keep her naughty hand from finding her crotch again while Spike was watching. “What are you talking about? And, there isn’t going to be any future.”

“Your blood. Slayer blood. It’s an aphrodisiac. Makes me hard for hours.”

“I don’t care about your problem. You shouldn’t have been drinking my blood while I was … ”

“Drunk?”

“Incapacitated.”

“You begged me. Bite me, Spike, bite me.” He teased her by running his fangs out, without changing his face.

Buffy blushed. She wanted to call Spike a liar, but she vaguely remembered asking him, in the politest way possible, to put his damn fangs into her. Two nanoseconds before she came.

Without realizing what she was doing, Buffy wandered over to the bed. Her hand found its way back to her bite marks, which she stroked in time with the movement of Spike’s hand on his cock.

Spike grabbed her and tossed her back in the bed and pinned her under his body. His cock zeroed in on its target.

Buffy panicked. “Don’t Spike. I’m sore.”

This was humiliating. She should be saying ‘Get off me you bloodsucking bastard while I stake you’ or ‘I’m going to flay your skin off’ or 'I’m going to inflict violent, powderized deathliness on your crusty heart' or some Slayerish and free-wheeling punfulness, not whimpering because her puss hurt too much to have sex again. Sex which she wanted desperately.

Spike nibbled her neck and his fingers found her bite mark. He stroked the mark gently. “Poor baby. Guess I’ll have to fuck you in the ass while you recuperate.”

Buffy’s eyes opened wide. She pictured herself on her belly and Spike coming at her with that huge thing. “You wouldn’t.”

“You’ll love it, Slayer. Turn over like a nice girl and I’ll give you a spanking first.”

“Don’t you dare!”

Spike flipped her over his knees with her ass up in the air, pushed her legs apart and slapped her hard, stinging her cheeks and her puss with his hand.

Buffy groaned. She hadn’t liked that, had she?

He spanked her again.

Buffy arched her back and raised her butt so he could spank her some more.

He delivered a few more sharp blows. “That’s my girl.”

She struggled to get off his lap and saw his thing sticking up, practically in her face. Her fingers curled around his cock. She reached her tongue out and licked the tip.

Spike moaned.

“I am not your girl,” she said. Just because he’d introduced her to a number of perverted sexual techniques and tricked her into having sex with him against her better judgment, did not make her Spike’s girl.

“Au contraire, you’re my girl and no getting out of it now.”

Buffy scrambled to the other side of the bed. “I’m not your girl, you crazy vampire. I’m the Slayer. I kill vampires, not sleep with them.”

“There’s differing opinions on that last. You’re getting a bit of a reputation for both. But, to clear things up, I claimed you last night.”

“Claimed me?” Buffy felt sick to her stomach. Her bite mark burned. What was he talking about? What had Spike done to her? It could only be bad.

“I’m going to have to speak to your Watcher. You don’t know sod-all about vampires other than driving a stake in them or flicking them with holy water.” Spike leaned back on his elbows with his knees apart and his dick sticking up.

Buffy gritted her teeth. She did not want to hear from Spike about her Slayer deficiencies. “What. Did. You. Do?”

Spike crawled across the bed and took Buffy in his arms.

Being held by Spike felt strangely comforting. Peaceful. She snuggled against his chest. Why was she doing that? She should be furious. Instead she was being all lovey-dovey with Spike.

“Remember last night when I bit you, sweet pea?” He stroked her bite mark to boost her memory.

She nodded.

She didn’t want to talk about the Mortifying Biting Incident. She wanted him to do that thing with his mouth again and stop talking. If she asked him nicely, would he do that again? Maybe if she let him bite her again?

“After I bit you, I said ‘Mine.’ And, you answered, ‘Yours’?”

She remembered Spike grabbing a fistful of her hair and shaking her head until she thought her brain would fall out and saying Mine mine mine and refusing to put his tongue back where it belonged until she’d answered him. Yours. She nodded again and wrapped her arms around him.

Spike rolled her onto the bed and licked her bite mark.

Buffy whimpered. She didn’t care what he did as long as he kept licking her.

“I bound you to me with a vampire mating claim. You’re my girl, now and forever.”

Chapter 4 - Wifey



The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Skelton on Ure, August 29, 1900 – Earl M, the Slayer’s father, and I continued to exchange opinions and objections (on his Lordship’s part in a frank and somewhat blunt manner) but, after the consumption of three whiskey and sodas, I convinced him that since Lady Chesler had already been called, the Vampire Community (a notorious pack of gossips) might already be searching for the new Slayer. If she failed to receive the proper training, she might be in … Grave Danger.

“Blast it, man,” he said, “Vicky’s a damn fool girl, like all her set, but she’s got a good heart and she’s yours, if you want her.”

(Note - His lordship stocks a very fine brand of whiskey.)

My charge was summoned from her tennis game and bounded into the Earl’s study, flushed from her exercise, dragging her companion (a female of repellent aspect, remotely connected with education).

Lady Victorine is the very picture of well-bred English womanhood. She was outfitted in a crisp, white linen tennis skirt, pintucked shirtwaist and jacket and white kid leather button shoes. Her blonde curls escaped from her elaborate pompadour and trailed down her back. She has blue eyes and lightly tanned skin with a rather tomboyish freckle or two on her thin, straight nose. A tint of pink touches her cheeks. She possesses a trim, regular figure. A lavish wide-brimmed white hat with ivory ribbons curled up into roses and sporting a cloud of white dotted veiling, completed her outfit. I suppose this sort of outlandish headgear is considered fashionable by persons of her age.

Once Lady Chesler and I were introduced by his Lordship and the appropriate fuss made over the consumption of tea, muffins and cucumber sandwiches, I prepared to get down to business.

(I am informed that cake is rarely seen at the best houses nowadays.)

Lady Chesler shares a certain refreshing, succinct manner of stating her opinions, with her father. A manner not entirely appropriate for a seventeen-year old girl.

***

Two in the afternoon. Spike had exhausted her with his tongue.

She must stop having sex with Spike and go home. First, she had to clear up this claim business. She pulled herself loose from the all too comfortable tangle of Spike’s arms and legs and struggled up to her elbows.

“Spike, let me up.”

He yawned and stretched before catching her in his arms and pulling her close again. “Like me to roger you again, baby?”

“I would … not. I’m leaving.” If I can stand up. “Before I go, I want to know about this matey claimy thing.”

Spike slipped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her head down for another kiss. “Let’s enjoy the honeymoon and talk about the wedding ceremony later, Wifey.”

Wifey? Wife!

She shoved him away. “What have you done to me?”

Spike sighed. Might was well get it over with, although it was clearly her Watcher’s duty to explain the facts of unlife to her. “A mating claim is the vampire version of being married. The bond can’t be broken. You’re mine.”

He plopped back on the bed and smiled broadly while Buffy spluttered.

“I am so not yours. And, and, we are so not married. And, as soon as I find my clothes, you are ashes to ashes and majorly dust.”

Spike laughed.

Buffy jumped up and searched for her clothes. She found them in the living room scattered on the floor in front of the fireplace. Spike hadn’t hidden them at all. A chilling memory of ripping off her clothes and pitching them on the floor in her obvious haste to have sex with Mr. Bloodsucker surfaced.

*~*~**~*~**~*~**~*~*

She woke up on the sofa. Spike was kneeling in front of the fireplace, throwing a log on the fire and poking up the flames with a brass poker.

William Boy make Good Fire. Warm.

She rolled off the sofa and grabbed William Boy by the hair and pressed her lips to his. Good. William Boy kiss Buffeee. Good kisses. Want Boy.

Buffy ripped off her shirt and tossed it on the floor. She tried to pull her pants off, but couldn’t figure out how to operate the zipper. Spike unbuttoned her pants, and unzipped them, then stepped back to see what the crazy, drunk Slayer would do next.

She dropped her pants and tried to jerk them off over her shoes, and ended up tangling up her legs, tripping herself and falling to the floor.

“Owww! Buffeeee owww!”

Spike sat down next to her and kissed her neck and helped her take off her shoes and clothes. Then, he took off his own.

She held out her tongue and touched William Boy’s part and licked him. Mmmm. Boy taste good.

*~*~**~*~**~*~**~*~*

There was only one thing to do. She’d stake Spike, then no one would ever know.

She might never find another male companion with a thing as big and hard and cum-making as Spike’s. It didn’t matter. Cumming would have to be a fond memory. She needed to dust Spike now, before he had a chance to show up at Willy’s Place or any of his other skeevy hangouts and brag about his conquest of the Slayer to all his demon buds.

She found a stake in the pocket of her wrinkled pants, grabbed it and ran back in the bedroom, still naked. She jumped on the bed and raised the stake over Spike’s chest.

He didn’t seem the least bit concerned that she was going to kill him.

“I’m sorry, Spike. It was nice, but I have to dust you now.”

“Half a mo’ Mrs. Bloody, before you dust your loving spouse.”

“What’s there to wait for? I hate you.” Well, she didn’t hate all of him. She liked certain parts of him quite a bit. She was still going to kill him.

“Yes, you’ve proved how much you hate me over the past fifteen hours. Before you kill me, I wanted to mention that if you stake me, you’ll be dead before my dust settles.”

Buffy lowered her stake. “What are you talking about, Fang Face?”

“The claim. I die – you die. I’ve declared a permanent truce.”

She sank to the bed. Could what Spike was saying possibly be true? She couldn’t kill him without killing herself?

“You’re lying.”

Spike put his hands behind his head, stretched out on the bed and smiled. He didn’t bother to answer her.

“You are lying?”

“Mrs. Bloody, there’s a couple of packets of human I pinched from the blood bank in the fridge. Run in the kitchen and heat up a spot of liquid refreshment for your loving husband. Give you a chance to recover before we have sex again. Unless you’d care to make another donation yourself?” He licked his fangs.

“Why did you do it, you creep? You hate me. And, I hate you. You’ve bound us together forever.”

“I love you deeply, ma petite crumpet, and I couldn’t wait to make you mine. Forever.” Spike laughed and rolled back and forth on the bed.

She might not be able to kill him, but she could still beat the crap out of him. Buffy slammed her fist into his nose to get him to stop laughing. To her astonishment, intense pain bloomed on her own nose.

“Owwww, Spike! What did you do to me?” How could he hurt her without touching her? She wiggled her nose to see if it was broken.

“Owwww, Slayer! Is that any way to treat your beloved?” Spike pinched his nose and wiped the blood away with his fingers. “Since you can’t seem to control yourself, you might care to know that you also feel what I’m feeling, if I let you, so you might want to stop popping me in the bloody nose.”

This news was too much to bear. She was married to Spike and she not only couldn’t kill him, but she couldn’t even bust him in the nose when he deserved it.

She got out of bed and marched back to the main room with as much dignity as she could scrape up considering she was stark naked. She pulled on her clothes, except for her underwear which were missing. As she left the house, she banged the door so hard the hinges broke.

Once the intense pain in his nose died down, Spike jerked the bones back in place, licked the blood off his fingers and returned to savoring the fine trick he’d pulled on the Slayer.

***

Buffy ran as fast as she could, considering she was suffering from a hangover and her romantic marathon with Spike. It was easier to avoid thinking while she was running.

Her path took her by the Scene of the Crime – Frostle’s Pub where she’d gotten drunk two nights in a row. Police cars and other emergency vehicles jammed the street in front of the pub. A police officer strung up Do Not Cross tape over the entrance to the bar.

Buffy joined the crowd of reporters, cops and onlookers. She spotted her TA, Riley Finn, in the crowd.

“Hey, Riley. What happened?”

“Oh, hey Buffy. The pub owner got killed.” He looked at her with barely disguised disgust. Her knotted, tangled hair hung like a rumpled mane down her back, her clothes were wrinkled and her mouth looked bruised. She was doing the Walk of Shame from another one night stand. He’d heard that moron Parker Abrams banged her. What kind of girl would hang around that scum? Buffy was definitely peculiar. Not to mention, a slut.

Buffy frowned. Jack, the owner, had been okay when she’d passed out while drinking with Spike. Who knew what Spike had done after she conked out?

She was about to question Riley further about Jack’s death when the police brought out his body. She saw a splash of blood on Jack’s neck as the paramedic zipped up the black body bag.

Damn it. While she was in an unconscious, drunken stupor, Spike sucked down a late night snack, right before he hauled her back to the mansion and spent the whole night – and morning – and afternoon - boinking her.

Ewww.

Chapter 5 - Vampire Activity

The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Skelton on Ure, September 25, 1900 – Another tempest from my Slayer. She refuses to don gear appropriate to performing her duties. She states emphatically that bloomers are unbecoming. I eventually persuaded her to attempt a pair of riding trousers. I was forced to send to London to acquire a matching hat of leaf green with a jaunty ostrich feather and cream-colored braid in order to obtain her concession. Perhaps her first introduction to a vampire will show her that practicality is more important than fashion.

There was no dissuading her from slashing at the family cat with her riding crop.

***

Willow returned to their dorm room late that afternoon. She’d checked the Bronze, Restfield Cemetery, the university library, the Magic Box, Buffy’s mom’s house and various other Buffy haunts but couldn’t find Buffy. Willow went back to the pub where Xander had been working, to see if Buffy returned there for more magicked-up beer. The Sunnydale Police Crime Scene Investigation Team swarmed all over the place and Willow was afraid to cross the yellow tape lines and draw attention to herself.

She’d run out of places to look, so she went back to their dorm room so she could call Giles and find out if he’d heard anything. To her surprise and annoyance and relief, Buffy was lying on her bed. She was wearing her black and white fluffy sheep pajamas, which, to be frank, had seen better days.

Willow had run around all day and worried herself sick and here was Buffy, tucked into her bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling with great intensity. She’d missed her Wicca meeting and their stupid bake sale and seeing her new friend. Missing the bake sale, not so bad.

“Buffy! Where have you been? I’m wearing my Aggravated Face. Do you see my Aggravated Face?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Willow wasn’t about to let Buffy escape a good talking to after what she’d been through last night and this morning and this afternoon looking for her friend. “Probably not, but you’re going to tell me.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for Consoling Girl Talk. Oh, my head.” Buffy attempted to sit up in her bed, then plopped back down so she could stare at the ceiling until her eyes could focus. Every part of her hurt. Her hair hurt. Her eyebrows hurt. Her earlobes hurt.

“Where were you? I was Crazy Girl looking all over for you. Giles and Xander were worried, too, for a half hour until they went home to sleep.”

“I’m sorry, Will. I got really drunk last night. I wasn’t thinking of the straight.”

“No kidding. The beer you drank had a magick potion in it.”

“It did?” So, Spike didn’t doctor her beer. He just took advantage of the situation. She was still going to kick his butt for giving her the best sexual experience of her life. Just as soon as she could figure out a way to get around this damn claim.

“Yeah, the owner of the bar told Xander he put a potion in the beer. Anyone who drank Black Frost beer turned One Million B.C.”

Buffy imagined herself in a furry bikini – not a good look. “Oh. The bar guy is dead. I walked past there on the way home and the police were taking his body out.”

Yesterday, she might have been upset about being drugged and the bar guy being killed by a vampire, but now she had much bigger worries. Spike worries.

Willow’s face relaxed into Concerned Best Friend Form. “Where were you all night? You didn’t hook up again with those four guys?”

“No, gutterface!” Why was Willow always asking her if she had sex with four guys at once? Not that she hadn’t done something just as bad, because sleeping with a vampire – sleeping with Spike - rated very, very high on the Slutapalooza Scale.

Buffy would have preferred to keep her rendezvous with Spike a secret, even from her best friend, but she needed Maxium Help Of The Post Hasty Researchy Kind to get rid of this mating claim.

“Will, promise you won’t tell anybody. Not even Giles. Especially not Giles.”

“Tell what?”

“I went back to the pub last night and drank some more beer and I passed out. When I woke up, I was with Spike.”

“You mean with Spike? Or, just with Spike?”

“I mean biblical with as in naked and in bed. And, withiness ensued.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The two friends didn’t talk for a couple of minutes while they contemplated the horrifying news.

Willow spoke first. “How was it? Compare and contrast.”

“I’m a ho,” Buffy said. “I can compare and contrast. It was … He … and I … we both … I never before … ”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Buffy raised her splitting head again and put her feet on the floor. I’m tough. I’m the Slayer and – owwww - I’m not sitting down again for two days. She rolled out of bed.

“Will, what do you know about vampires? I mean besides the killing-staking-holy water-sunlight-cut off their heads-garlic stuff?”

“Not much. I checked out Giles’ big Vampyr Book, the one with the green cover and the gold leaf lettering, a couple of times. Pretty dry, even for me.”

“Yeah, he tried to get me to read it.” Like only every day for the past three years.

“I could go look at it again. What do you need to know about?”

Buffy twirled a lock of hair around her finger and sniffed the end. “Vampire mating claims.”

Willow’s mouth fell open. After a minute, she pushed her chin up with her hand. “Did Spike?”

“He said he claimed me and I think it’s true because when I punched him in the nose, you know, like I do sometimes, my nose hurt, too.”

“Why did he claim you? I thought he’s all with the seething hatred?”

“Neither one of us was much with the seething hatred last night.” Or this morning. Or this afternoon. “I don’t know why he claimed me. He’s up to something.”

“Get dressed. We’ll go over to Giles’ place. You distract him and I’ll steal the book.”


***

Bob Beazzle, better known in Sunnydale as Bob the Warlock, slid onto a stool at Willy’s Place and ordered a beer in a bottle. He didn’t think much of Willy’s dishwashing skills.

Bob was a good-looking guy and young for a warlock. He had long, straight brown hair pulled into a pony tail, a straight nose and gray eyes. His manly beauty had once been marred by thick eyebrows that grew straight across his face and together in the middle until Giselta paid to have them lasered out so he didn’t look like Java Man in their wedding pix. He kept himself fit through a judicious use of a potion he’d concocted and wore blue jeans and a white wife beater most days. He didn’t like to draw unnecessary attention to himself by wearing fancy clothes and his new wife said he looked cool in jeans.

He didn’t like coming to Willy’s much, Willy’s was a dump, but if you wanted info, you had to go where the info got blabbed around. Nobody blabbed as much as Willy.

“So, Bob,” Willy said as he delivered the beer. “What’s up in Warlock World?”

“Working on a job. Gonna need some blood.”

“Sure. I got plenty.” Willy leaned over the bar to speak so only Bob could hear him. “Say Bob, are you still interested in hearing what the Slayer’s up to?”

Two vampires at the end of the bar turned to stare at Willy, their eyes glowing like golden plates of fire.

Bob sucked on his beer bottle. “I might be.”

“This is good info. It’s gonna cost ya.”

Bob took a wadded twenty out of his jeans pocket and flipped it on the bar.

Willy scooped it up. “This is strictly a rumor, but I heard that Spike’s back in town.”

“So?”

“Actually, the part about Spike being back in town isn’t the rumor. The part I heard about Spike putting a vampire mating claim on the Slayer is the rumor.”

William the Bloody getting the drop on the Slayer. That was news worth paying for, if true. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. Word is the Slayer got snockered over at your brother-in-law’s pub and Spike had her upside down and halfway to Happyland before she knew it.”

Bob finished his beer. “Who’s your source?”

Willy polished the bar with his rag. “You know I can’t reveal my source.”

Bob raised his little finger and Willy found himself floating in the air, surrounded by a circle of large knives pointed directly at tender parts of his anatomy. “Don’t piss me off, Willy.”

“Okay, okay. Let me down.” Willy dropped to the floor with a thud. He got up and brushed himself off, slicked back his hair and wiped the grease on his apron. He checked to see that the knives had disappeared before answering. “You gotta promise not to tell anyone where this came from.”

Bob waved his hand in agreement.

Willy leaned over to whisper after glancing at the vampires sitting at the end of the bar. “Spike told me himself. He claimed the Slayer.”

Bob finished his beer, pushed himself away from the bar and walked over to the pay phone. He dialed a long-distance number to London.

“Agent Collin.”

“It’s Bob. Got some info about your Slayer and her new boyfriend.”


***

Buffy and Willow were up to something, although Giles couldn’t fathom what it might be. They never came over on weekday evenings unless an apocalypse was imminent. Since there was no world-ending event that he knew of, he concluded the two were engaged in some activity they didn’t want him to know about. Their secretive behavior stiffened his resolve to find them out.

“How about making some tea, Giles? I’d like some tea and so would Willow,” Buffy said.

“If you do, it will be the first time since I’ve known you. What are you two up to?”

“Don’t be so suspicious, Giles. Will and I are older now. We have more mature tastes. Hence, the drinking of tasteless leafy bits stewed in hot water.”

These two were not noticeably more mature than the day he’d first met them. He acquiesced and went to the kitchen to put on the kettle to give them an opportunity to accomplish whatever nefarious deed they’d come over to accomplish.

As soon as he went into the kitchen, Willow slipped over to the cabinet where Giles kept his most essential Watcher books. There were dozens – Constructive Comparisons of Vampire and Human Physiology with Emphasis on Significant Variations in Arterial, Vascular and Neurological System Deviations; Nesting Habits of Renaissance Vampire Clans; The Vampire and the Church – a Compendium of Canon Law and Exegesis on the Extermination of Vampires; Debrett’s Members of Her Majesty’s Watcher’s Council; Burke’s Vampyr Lineage – Volumes I and II; Lunar Patterns and Seasonal Disparities in Vampire Activity – and others.

She located the Vampyr book and shoved it in her school bag. She scooted the other books together so Giles wouldn’t notice the missing volume and flopped down on the couch next to Buffy.

Giles brought a tray into the living room and handed the girls their tea cups. They each put three cubes of sugar in their cups and stoically sipped the hot tea without making their usual faces.

“Are there any cookies?” Buffy asked.

Giles got up and rummaged through a kitchen cabinet and took out a dilapidated box. “I have some Chomundley’s Digestive Biscuits.”

Buffy swallowed hard. He’d tricked her into eating a Chomundley’s Digestive Biscuit before.

“Are you two ready to tell me why you’re here?”

Buffy avoided looking at Giles, which he interpreted to mean that the trouble primarily involved his Slayer.

“I came over to find out what’s-the-what on this Caveman Beer. Did you find out anything?” Buffy placed a single digestive biscuit on her saucer.

Giles looked around the room. Buffy or Willow had taken something, but what? And, why was Buffy asking about the magicked beer when Willow knew as much about the beer as he did?

“Xander obtained a confession from the pub owner, Jack Frostle. Frostle doctored the beer with some potion prepared for him by his warlock brother-in-law. Apparently, the owner became incensed at the rude behavior of your fellow collegians and determined to revenge himself on them by temporarily converting them into sub-humans.”

“Hey! I’m wasn’t sub-human.”

“I’m sorry, Buffy, but your behavior last night was astonishingly primitive. I’m relieved to see the effects of the potion appear to have worn off with no untoward consequences.”

Buffy stared into her teacup and pushed the biscuit around the plate with the tip of her finger. She was pretty sure Spike Sex and Vampire Mating Claim came under the Untoward Consequences Category.

“Where did you go all night? We were extremely worried about you.”

“Yeah, Giles,” Willow said. “You and Xander were so worried you both went right home and went to sleep.”

“That doesn’t mean I wasn’t worried. It’s important to get one’s proper rest in time of emergency. Buffy?”

“Well, I … I wandered around and I don’t exactly remember where I went. It’s all kinda fuzzy.”

Fuzzy was becoming clearer by the moment. Arriving at Spike’s – lair – did vampires still have lairs? – ripping her own clothes off – and putting his thing in her mouth, and oh, I so do not want to think about what happened after that.

“That’s not surprising. I suggest you stay out of that drinking establishment in the future.” She was obviously lying. Something had occurred to Buffy that she was most determined to hide from him. He’d have to question Willow later to find out the truth.

“I don’t think the bartender is going to be a problem anymore,” Buffy said. “I saw the police taking out his body this morning. Do vampires still have lairs?”

Giles spoke sharply. “Lairs? What do vampire lairs have to do with …”

“You know, lairs where they nest or hang …” or have sex with unsuspecting drunk and potioned-up persons and sneaky sneaked a mating claim on those persons, “or whatever vampires do when they’re not all bitey? Do vampires take their mates to their lairs?”

“I know what a lair is, Buffy. I don’t understand why …”

“I guess if they can drive, they can have apartments, or houses, or mansions even. Angel lived in a mansion one time, but he never called it his lair.”

Willow elbowed Buffy to shut her up.

“I can check the coroner’s office,” Willow said to cut off Buffy’s odd questions, which could only be heading in the Spike direction, “and obtain the details of Mr. Frostle’s death. I suspect unusual circumstances are involved.”

“Yes. Unusual circumstances. Will, we’d better get going so you can check into things. And, biting. And, vampire activity.”

“Thanks for the tea, Giles. Got to run,” they said together. Buffy and Willow hurried out the door without finishing their tea or eating a single digestive biscuit or being exposed to that awful, sour marmalade that he liked.

It took Giles less than two minutes of inspecting the room to discover Willow and Buffy had stolen one of his essential Watcher books. His Vampyr book, a private edition published by the Council in 1911 to provide practical information for acting Watchers, to be precise. The very book he’d attempted to get Buffy to read for the past three years without success.

What the devil were they up to? Whose lair had Buffy been visiting? And, why?

***

Spike stationed himself in the alley behind the Bronze and smoked a cigarette. The Bronze was an excellent place for locating tasty victims who came to dance and get loaded and for locating vampires who came to feed on those tasty young victims. Spike was not looking for victims this evening. He was still topped off with Slayer blood. He was here for an entirely different purpose.

A male vampire with his arm draped around the waist of a likely looking young female came out the back door. “I’m starved, baby. Let’s take a walk,” he said to the girl as he clamped his fingers into her shoulder. His face wrinkled up and his fangs sprang out.

The girl screamed and tried to break free.

Spike stepped forward and punched the vampire in the nose. “Get lost, baby,” he said to the girl. He broke out his own vamp face.

The girl ran out of the alley, crying and hyperventilating.

“What the fuck, man? That was my dinner. Go find your own.”

Spike struck him in the face and kicked him in the ear.

The male vampire punched back. He was no fledge, but not as strong or smart or fast as Spike. He flailed at Spike’s gut, tried a few kicks, then tried to run.

Spike slammed him against a wall and worked him over, one punch after another to the vamp’s face, until he crumpled to the pavement.

“My name is Spike. You can call me Master.”


***

Bob the Warlock stirred a bubbling pot of jellied newts. He was using one of the new, fire-red Le Creuset pots he and Giselta received as a wedding gift. Le Creuset was perfect for brewing up concoctions that required long cook times, if you didn’t mind hearing your wife bitch about the aftertaste in everything you cooked for three weeks.

While he stirred, he kept an eye on his guest. He wasn’t about to turn his back on this bitch. “The price is not negotiable. Cash.” He could definitely use some cash. Giselta was turning out to be a very cash intensive female.

Rosamund propped her black boots on Bob’s glass-topped, aluminum kitchen table and teetered back on two legs of the matching aluminum chair with the steel-gray microfiber seat cover. The whole kitchen was the last word in Hellmouth Homes trendiness. Wood cabinets, Sub Zero stainless steel refrigerator, Krupp’s latte maker, ferns. The ferns were the worst. Must be the work of Bob’s new wife. The whole place reeked of Mrs. Warlock.

She spread her knees for Bob’s benefit. Bob wasn’t nearly as disgusting as Jack, his brother-in-law, and she was still horny from her last kill.

Bob was tall, skinny and had a cute, pony tail hanging down his back. Guys with pony tails could always be counted on for maximum wickedness. He hadn’t shaved for two days. Rosamund liked the unshaved look on human males. You didn’t get that often with vampire males, since it took weeks for their beards to grow out. Bob dressed like a dud. Blue jeans and a white wifebeater and a flannel shirt and brown shitkicker boots. How boring could you get? You’d think a warlock would magick up an Armani suit and a silk shirt for himself. Still, Bob wasn’t completely without studly attributes.

“Didn’t expect you’d work for free. There’s other means of payment.” She ran her fingers up the inside of her thigh and rubbed her crotch.

“I prefer my tail a bit warmer than room temperature and without fangs. Cash.”

She banged the chair down on the oak, factory-scarred floor.

Rosamund pulled two thousand dollars out of her leather vest, where she’d crammed it into her cleavage. It was the same cash she’d previously given to Jack and retrieved after she’d drained him. She tossed the wad of cash on the kitchen table.

“Two thousand.”

She didn’t mind offering Bob a nice sum of cash, since she didn’t plan on letting him keep it.

Bob picked up the cash, sealed it in a baggie, and dropped the bag into a quart Mason jar of holy water and screwed the lid on the jar. “In case you change your mind.”

Fuck!

He plucked a shopping list out of his pocket and drew a cross on a chain out of his shirt.

“Here’s a list of ingredients. You can get everything, except the blood, at the Magic Box on Revena Street. They’re open till midnight.”

Rosamund snatched the list out of his hand. “And, where the fuck do you think I’m going to get a gallon and a half of human blood? Hmmm?”

“Willy’s Place. It’s near Dantesco and Center Streets. Once you get to the neighborhood, ask any demon or vamp you see. They can give you directions.”

He should really pay for all this crap as part of the deal. Since she’d foolishly let him have all her money, she was now going to have to kill two or three people to come up with enough cash to pay for the blood and other stuff. It could take fifteen or twenty minutes. “If I’m doing all this running around town and shopping for all this fairy tale crap, what am I paying you for?”

“You’re paying me to bring your sister back to unlife. Now, beat it. And, keep an eye out for the Slayer. Sunnydale is her town.”

“I’ll be watching for her. You can count on it.”

Rosamund stalked out of the house, hopped into the black Miata she’d stolen earlier that evening and roared away.


***

Damn, Slayer blood was good. The extra muscle power it gave him hadn’t even begun to wear off.

Spike had taken out twelve vampires outside the Bronze and forced them to acknowledge him as their Master, without breaking into a sweat, which he didn’t do anyway. He was about to call it a night and go over to the new lair and check to make sure that his vampires had shown up, when two fledges peeked out the back door.

“Hey, uh, Spike?” said a skinny vamp with reddish-blonde hair that stuck up.

“Yeah?” Who was this Nancy Boy? He looked vaguely familiar. Oh yeah, he was one of Harmony’s flunkies. The woman had no taste.

The skinny vamp, who was wearing a red and yellow restaurant shirt and a plastic badge that said ‘Hello, My Name is Tucker. Can I Take Your Order?’ stepped outside, followed by a big vamp wearing a purple and yellow Sunnydale High football jersey and purple satin baggy shorts that came below his knees. “I’m Tucker, and this is Brad. We’re like Wicked Evil Vampires and we heard you were putting together a Lair. We’d like to join.”

Spike took a swig from his flask. He should kill these two, but he didn’t want to waste any of his borrowed Slayer strength. “And, I should take in you two losers because?”

“We used to belong to Harmony, but we’re way too Evil to hang with her. And, also, dude, it’s like way embarrassing to have a girl for a Master.”

“Yeah,” said Brad. “Harmony’s a ‘tard.”

Spike almost felt sorry for the two morons. Having Harmony for your Master was an indignity not to be born by any self-respecting vampire.

“The lair is over on Camino Viejo. You can follow the last vamp I sent over there. I busted his fang and it’s dripping blood. If you two Special Ed’s can find the lair, you can stay.”

Tucker pulled aside the neck on his tee shirt and flopped his head over. “Do you want to bite us or something to make it official?”

Spike fixed them with a malevolent stare of excruciating intensity. “Get out of my sight.”

Tucker and Brad shuffled out of the alley, following the blood trail.

Spike was tucking his flask away, when another vampire stepped out of the shadows.

He looked about thirty vamp years and had the thick arms and legs of a professional boxer. His bare chest and arms were covered with black tattoos of devils and other magick symbols. He stood like a rock, his bald head and nose and ear and nipple piercings gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

“Very impressive couple of minions, Spike.”

“Who the hell are you?” Spike adjusted his leather coat. Here was a fine vamp to add to his collection. Not a bleeding fledge like the two who’d just left.

“Cleotus.”

“Never heard of you. Ready to get your ass kicked or do you just want to give in and spare yourself part of a beating?” Spike had no intention of letting this Cleotus character off without a royal ass kicking. Begin as you mean to go on.

Cleotus grinned and assumed a fighting stance. He flicked his fingers at Spike to show that he was ready.

Spike smiled back and kicked Cleotus in the face, launching him into a nearby dumpster and knocking him out with one blow. He bit a chunk out of the unconscious vampire’s neck and dragged him out of the alley.

Chapter 6 - Up to Something

The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Skelton on Ure, October 1, 1900 – I received a telegram from the Council this morning, advising me of a vampire sighting in the Village of Crustleigh. Crustleigh is two miles from the Earl’s property in Skelton on Ure. I will introduce my charge to her first vampire this evening.
…

The groom saddled our horses shortly before sunset. I was forced to reprimand Lady Victorine for wearing a blue velvet riding habit with lace trim and a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat featuring tiny golden paper finches holding leaves in their beaks. I reminded her that we would be slaying a vicious creature of the night and not attending a ball. She pouted in a very immature manner, but returned to the house to change after I casually remarked that vampire dust was very difficult to remove from one’s clothing.

After a short ride, we approached the churchyard of Crustleigh. The village was silent, not a dog barking or a human voice to be heard. We settled ourselves to wait on a large, family headstone belonging to the Urkwind family. Lady Victorine passed the time by singing some music hall ditties more suitable for a burlesque theater than for a person of her class and gentle sex. She sang The Man that Broke the Bank in Monte Carlo and Two Lovely Black Eyes in an off-key voice worthy of the highest branches of the royal family tree.

I was prepared to remonstrate about the need for silent waiting, when the vampire popped from behind the vicar’s house. He was a rather scruffy specimen, but I felt a fitting challenge for Lady Victorine’s first attempt. She jumped off the Urkwind headstone and stood stock still. I waved at her to chase after the creature, but she ignored my signal and instead, crooked her finger at the monster and smiled as brightly at the vampire as if she was offering him a place by her side at County Michaelmas Ball.

The vampire leaped forward and lunged at Lady Victorine. I admit I felt a shock of fear as she elegantly sidestepped him and clouted him on the head with her gloved fist. He rushed back with a roar in time to impale himself on her extended stake. Unfortunately, her stake speared the wrong side of his ribcage, wounding him grievously, but not mortally. Lady Victorine slapped his face, a trifle roughly I thought, then proceeded to grasp her stake and wrench it out of the evil one’s chest. He howled with anger as she twisted and tugged on the stake. Finally, she braced her foot on the fiend’s chest and tugged the stake free. The Slayer thrust the stake through the vampire’s heart with a flourish.

A cloud of dust burst out of the vampire’s disintegrating body, showering Lady Victorine with the ashes of his death.

“Blast it,” she said.

***

Buffy hovered over Willow’s shoulder, while Willow studied the Vampyr book. Buffy was too nervous and upset to do anything useful like study or chase after Spike and kick his ass.

“Find anything, Will?”

Willow turned Page 367 of the Vampyr book. “Buff, you asked me two minutes ago. It’s not like I can turn to the index and flip right to the ‘Crazy Vampire, William the Bloody, Performs a Creature of the Night Mating Claim on the Slayer’ section. ‘Cause there isn’t one. An index, I mean.”

“I’m sorry, Will. Oh, I forgot to listen to our messages.” She’d been not at all interested in listening to phone messages since the Parker debacle, but it would give her something to do for two or three minutes while Willow figured out how to extricate her from this damn mating claim.

“Message 1 – Buffy, this is Angel. Spike was in town trying to get the ring back. I destroyed it. He’s in a bad mood, and he could be headed your way. Thought you’d like to know. Beep.”

“Great, another timely message from Angel. Bad stuff coming your way, Buff, thought you’d like to know.” She hit the skip button.

“Message 2 – Buffy, hey, this is Parker. I thought, you know after last night, maybe we could hook up. How about tonight? Call me. Beep.”

“Gee, lost your number, Parker.” Skip.

“Message 3 – Hi Buffy, it’s Mom. How about dinner tonight? You can bring your laundry. Beep.”

“Wow, I get all the best invitations. Will, you want to take your laundry over to my Mom’s tonight?”

“Message 4 – Hey, Buffy, it’s Riley. Would you like to study at the library tonight? We could have coffee later. Give me a call.”

“Huh. Coffee and a bunch of boring old books. I can hardly wait.” Skip.

“Message 5 – Slayer. Find me. Beep.” Buffy swallowed hard. What was he up to now?

“Was that Spike?” Willow asked.

“Yeah. Leave it to Spike to be Call Back Guy.”

“Hey, it’s kinda nice. You know, the part where a guy calls you back the next day in a non-humiliating way, so you know it wasn’t a one night stand, instead of not calling you back so you know he was just using you for the Sex.”

“Oh yes, because I’m dying to get called by Spike and told to show up somewhere like I’m his Love Slave.” Could he make her show up with this claim thing? And, how would she know where to find him? And, how did he get her phone number?

“I don’t think a mate is the same thing as a Love Slave.”

Buffy couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t stand thinking about Spike and hearing messages from the Old Boyfriend’s Club and waiting for Willow to find something useful. She needed to get out, go somewhere, pummel something. “I should patrol. I’ll get out of your Researchy Hair and go slay something. Killing something repulsive will relieve the tension.”

Willow turned another page and held the book sideways to study the woodcut print. Her eyes widened when she realized what she was looking at. “Wait! Here it is. Listen to this.”

“Vampyrs have been known to claim their Vampyr Mates with an exchange of blood vows during sexual congress. The male initiates the claim by biting his mate on the neck or another place with an accessible vein. The male makes a verbal declaration that his mate belongs to him, and she must respond in kind to effectuate the claim. It is not known whether a claim signifies any emotional bond between the mating pair or merely enables the male to retain dominance over his female companion.”

“That’s what Spike did,” Buffy said. “He bit me, then he said ‘Mine’, then he made me answer ‘Yours.’”

“Bit you? I don’t see any bite. Did it heal up already?”

Buffy stared at Willow.

“Okay. Don’t need to know that detail.” She skimmed down the page. “Here’s more.”

“Little is known of the ritual, other than the bare facts of its existence. Vampyrs rarely engage in mating claims due to the danger to both parties. The remaining fragments of an ancient Carolingian text, Blood Thieves of Roen, cites stories of mated pairs communicating telepathically and sharing physical feelings, such as pain. The text goes on to state that when one Vampyr of a mated pair is killed, the Vampyr’s mate may also be killed, whether in the presence of the mate or not.”

“Spike would have to be telling the truth about that part. Does it say anything about vampires claiming humans?”

“There are no recorded cases of a Vampyr claiming a human. The male Vampyr may be reluctant to claim a human due to the variance in life spans between the two species.”

“So, why did Spike claim me? I’m already past the Slayer Freshness Guaranteed Date, and even if I lived to be an old lady, he could live hundreds of years more than me.”

“Maybe he wants to neutralize you while he does some mischief. He’ll be able to feed on whoever he wants and you won’t be able to kill him.”

“Yes, and maybe my beloved mate knows something about this claim thing we don’t know. I think I’ll go check up on my new husband.”

“I’ll keep looking. There must be a way to break the claim. Don’t forget to bring back the jelly donuts.”

***

“Listen up, people,” Spike said to his minions.

Spike was feeling pretty chuffed. Three nights ago, he’d been at the battering end of Angel’s fists, and tonight he’d beaten up thirteen prime male vampires, picked up a couple of Harmony’s fledges, which would piss her off no end, and established his dominance over them all. He’d proclaimed himself the new Master of Sunnydale and he had his clever trick on the Slayer to thank. That, and the nice energy boost he’d received from that tasty drink of her blood he’d helped himself to last night.

His trick would keep the Slayer neutralized for days or as long as he cared to keep up the claim.

True, he’d promised himself after the debacle with the Gem of Amara, to be his own man, no more helpers, sole survivor, lone wolf and all that, but that was before he drafted the Slayer onto his team.

His minions fixed up a new lair in an abandoned temple called the New Age Meditation and Happy Feelings Worship Center. The former occupants left behind their tie-died curtains, some crystals hanging from the ceiling, which the vampires avoided on general principle, karma flash cards and boxes of stale granola, which was no substitute for Weetabix, but good enough for this riff raff. Candles flickered and provided meager light for the lair.

He marched to the front of the main room, kicking a couple of vampires along the way to get everyone’s attention.

“I am your new Master. This is your lair. You will keep it tidy at all times. If you spill blood, clean it up. Trash removal on Mondays and Thursdays. Make sure all bodies get taken to the curb in time for removal.”

The two fledges in the front row grumbled to each other. Spike smashed their heads together to remind them not to interrupt their Master.

He held up a photograph of the Slayer, which he had stolen from her mother’s house earlier in the day. Silly bint never bothered to uninvite him after they ganged up on Angelus to keep him from destroying the world, an event that Spike had regretted ever since, except for the part where the world didn’t get destroyed, of course.

“This is the Slayer. You will stay away from her. If you see her, you will run. You will not engage her in a fight under any circumstances.”

“That looks like Buffy Summers. And, what’s a Slayer?” Tucker asked. He scratched his neck. He was still wearing his fast-food restaurant uniform with a red and white badge on his shirt that said ‘Hello. My Name is Tucker.’

Spike kicked Tucker in the head.

Cleotus stood up and crossed his meaty arms. He flicked a tiny muscle in his right forearm.

Spike would have had a damn hard time dominating Cleotus without a boost from Slayer blood. He’d have to dust this bastard before too long if he wanted to keep his minions in line and his own unlife.

“You scared of the Slayer, Mas-s-s-ter?” Cleotus hissed out the word Master to let the other minions know he considered Spike a sissy. Spike used some magick trick to subdue him. No way William the Pansy was strong enough to take him out in a fair fight.

Spike smiled and walked over to where Cleotus was standing. He clamped his hand onto Cleotus’ neck and dug his fingers into the raw bite mark he’d made when subduing the other vampire. Cleotus howled with pain and dropped to his knees. Spike jerked out one of his nipple rings for good measure.

“Any other questions? Good. Each night I will tell you where the Slayer is patrolling. You’ll be able to avoid her and get in plenty of good feeding without worrying about getting staked.”

The vampires, except Cleotus, murmured their approval. Good feeding and avoiding the Slayer. That was the sign of a good Master. All they needed to know was how many victims to bring him in order to maintain his protection.

Spike felt a prickle on the back of his neck. His mate was right outside, spying on him. Fat lot of good it would do her. Not even his Slayer would be able to take out a lair of fifteen vampires.

***

Buffy peeked in the window of the New Age Meditation and Happy Feelings Worship Center. She couldn’t see much past the blue and purple tie-died cloth that covered the window.

She didn’t like what she could see.

Spike and thirteen – fourteen - fifteen male vampires. Except for the two fledges in the front, they were all old and all tough. They seemed to be deferring to Spike, especially after he pinched the neck of the one brutey-looking vamp and drove him, screaming, to his knees. That one looked particularly nasty.

She didn’t like what she was feeling either – a strange, overwhelming longing to run to her mate – ewww – and leap into his arms and kiss him senseless. Must be the stupid claim. She wasn’t about to give in to that. Not that the claim hadn’t proved useful. She’d honed right in on where to find Spike, without even resorting to a trip to Willy’s Place to beat up Willy the Snitch. She’d just closed her eyes for a second and walked.

Spike had collected himself a kiss of bad-ass vampire minions. She’d have to do something about that. First, she’d get Mr. Bloody Big Bad out of the way, then she’d come back during the daytime with some wicked bad weapons and wreak maximum violence. Buffy wondered what Spike was planning, but decided she didn’t care because come tomorrow, his kiss wasn’t going to be there to accomplish his plan.

He was saying something about feeding, but she couldn’t hear him because his back was to the window. Then, she could read his thoughts. Her adoring mate planned to keep her busy in the sack while his minions terrorized Sunnydale. She might have been miffed except she also got the wave of feeling about how much he was planning on enjoying keeping her busy.

“You’ll stay in the lair tonight,” Spike said. “There’s blood in the fridge. No going out for a drink. I’ll be back tomorrow with your instructions.”

Good. He’d tucked his minions in for the night. She’d have time to work out a plan. She’d never taken out fifteen vamps at once. Might be fun.

She slipped back into the shadows and jogged over to Giles’ house, where she’d arranged to meet the gang.

***

Lydia Chalmers sipped her tea and replaced the Royal Dalton bone china cup in its saucer on the edge of Quentin Traver’s massive cherry desk. She loathed these meetings with the Council’s chief sneak, Martin Collin. She loathed all meetings with Quentin Travers.

Agent Collin, for once dressed in a suit and tie instead of his stupid black commando gear, stood next to Traver’s desk and rattled the change in his pockets. “Get on with it.”

Quentin Travers held up his hand. “Please be seated, Agent Collin. Lydia, Agent Collin has some news about the Slayer that I want you to hear, since you are our most knowledgeable agent on the subject of William the Bloody.”

She sat straighter and tucked a stray strand of blonde hair back into her French twist. She’d followed the career of William the Bloody since she’d first entered the Council and even before, when she’d spent a year writing her thesis on him. William was a fascinating creature and somewhat of a cheeky devil. She would rather get the chance to meet William than have a new pair of Prada shoes.

Agent Collin fidgeted with his tie and flapped it up and down. “I’ve received a report that William the Bloody returned to Sunnydale a few days ago and met up with our Slayer.”

Oh dear. She hoped the Slayer hadn’t killed William. It was terrible of her to harbor such a thought, William was a dreadful killer, but she couldn’t help wishing that William would somehow be spared the sharp point of Miss Summers’ stake. “Is he terminated?”

“Not a bit of it. It seems our Slayer has taken a fancy to another vampire. My source tells me that William nailed the silly cow and slapped a mating claim on her.”

Lydia blushed at Collin’s rude language or perhaps it was at the thought of what Miss Summers had been doing with Lydia’s favorite vampire. “Mating claims are quite rare. Perhaps you mean a dominance claim?”

“Nope. A mating claim. William appears to be a hearts and flowers kind of vamp.”

That certainly conformed to Lydia’s opinions about William. She’d always believed he was a bit of a romantic.

“Do you think such a thing is possible, Lydia?” Travers asked. He relished these little opportunities to let Lydia shine. She was so repressed and rigid.

“That the Slayer enjoyed relations with William the Bloody? I suppose it’s possible. He’s rather a hottie, as vampires go.” Rather a hottie as humans go, for that matter. She blushed again at her revealing statement.

“I see. Recommendations, Collin?” Quentin asked.

“Summers has been nothing but trouble. I say we get rid of her and the vampire,” Collin said.

Lydia bristled. What brutes these Council agents were. There was no point in addressing this fool’s remarks on the morality of ‘getting rid’ of a lovely young woman like the Slayer or of an incredible historical and vampirological specimen like William. She would have to make her case on more practical grounds. Also, she didn’t wish to appear to be a big girl’s blouse in front of her superior. “Miss Summers is our most successful Slayer. She’s terminated more vampires and demons and averted more catastrophes than any Slayer in the history of the Council. How can you possibly talk of doing away with her? Besides, how reliable is your source? You don’t even know if this story is true.”

“Bob the Warlock hasn’t led me wrong yet.” Collin said.

“Lydia raises an excellent point,” Travers said. “The first matter to be accomplished is to ascertain the veracity of the story. I think this is a matter best handled on the spot.”

This was too good to be true. She might actually get the chance to meet William, oh, and the Slayer, of course. “I’d like to volunteer my services to go to Sunnydale,” Lydia said.

Travers sat back in his chair and tapped his teeth with a pen. “No, Lydia. It’s too dangerous. I’ll need you here to research the vampire mating claim and see if there’s any way to extract our Slayer from William the Bloody’s clutches.”

Lydia agreed, although she felt anything but amenable. That old gas bag Travers was determined to keep her from advancing in her career. She always got stuck with dreary research projects instead of being sent to the field. And, she’d already assembled the latest information about vampire mating claims as part of an ongoing Council project, not to mention the information she’d obtained from certain items in her private collection. “There’s something you should know about a vampire mating claim. There’s reliable information to support the theory that the vampire and his mate must be in love, or the claim can’t be -- consummated. If it is true that Miss Summers and William are in love, our efforts to break the claim will be meaningless and shortsighted.”

“Tosh, Lydia,” Travers said. “You don’t really believe that old vampire’s tale? Please concentrate on finding a way to extricate our Slayer from this mess and don’t waste our time with any more silly, romantic nonsense.”

Lydia seethed at the insult, but said nothing.

The meeting concluded a few minutes later and Lydia headed for the cafeteria. She bought a plate of bangers and mash for her lunch and sat down next to her friend and fellow Watcher, Maynard.

“Why the long face, luv?” Maynard asked. Lydia was a charming girl and very attractive. Too bad she’d never be interested in a mug like himself.

“Meeting with Travers. Can’t tell you about it. Head swore me to secrecy before allowing me to leave the room. I thought for a moment he was going to require a blood and spit oath.”

“Wouldn’t be about the scrape our Slayer has gotten herself into, would it?”

Lydia frowned. What did Maynard know? She suspected Maynard of having hidden psychic gifts. That, or of being a really good spy or bribing Traver’s secretary, The Great Horned Toad. She placed a spoonful of mashed potatoes in her mouth and swallowed before answering. Maynard could be very clever at extracting information from the unwary. “What scrape might that be?”

“Don’t tease a bloke. You know perfectly well that Miss Summers has been claimed by William the Bloody as his mate. Lucky sod. Our Slayer fair blinds you with science. She’s almost as pretty as you, luv.”

Lydia blushed. Maynard was always saying things about her appearance that were impossible to answer. “I can’t possibly confirm such a story.”

“So, it’s true. What’s Travers going to do about it?”

Bugger, Maynard tricked her. She didn’t know how he always managed to do that. “He’s flying to Sunnydale to see if the rumor is true.”

“Taking you along, my Queen?”

“No. I’ve been invited to stay in London and research methods for breaking the claim.”

“Too bad. I know you’ve been itching to get a look at that bounder, Spike.”

Lydia bit into a chunk of sausage and said nothing. She blinked back a tear or two of frustration.

“Here, now,” Maynard said and handed her his handkerchief under the table. “It’s not as bad as all that?”

“You know how much I want a chance to work in the field, and meeting William would be a tremendously big break for me. Once again, Travers has quashed an excellent opportunity for me.”

“He’s a right bastard, but say, don’t you have some holiday time saved up?”

She had at least a week that she hadn’t used. She’d planned to use the week to take her mother to Costa del Sol. It was frightening to contemplate. “What are you suggesting?”

“California is a very pleasant place to visit, I hear.”

Lydia finished her meal in a far more pleasant state of mind. She returned to her cubicle and pulled a gold foil box from her bottom desk drawer where she kept certain personal items. She lifted out an old letter from the box and tucked it into her briefcase and popped onto the internet and scheduled a round-trip airline ticket to Los Angeles, California.

Chapter 7 - Information and Blood

The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Skelton on Ure, October 12, 1900 – Lady Victorine must be the most uncooperative Slayer in history. This evening, she perched on a headstone next to a fresh gravesite, kicking her heels and amusing herself, as usual, by singing ridiculous and highly annoying ditties that one would expect to hear at the local pub. Tonight’s selections included I Do Like To Be By the Seaside and a particularly revolting specimen from the States called Barney Google.

Once the vampire clawed his way out of his grave, she waited until the last possible moment to strike. The vampire evaded her initial attack, a too common occurrence, I confess, and it was only with the utmost difficulty that I was able to rouse her to chase after the devil.

I’ve been forced to kill several of her foes with my crossbow due her lackadaisical attitude.

≈§ ≈ § ≈

Skelton on Ure, November 1, 1900 – Lady Victorine’s nonchalance with regard to her chosen duties pales in comparison to her refusal to receive instruction from me. Not for the first time, or one presumes for the last, her lady’s maid fetched round with a curt note stating that her Ladyship would, under no circumstances, appear for her ‘riding lessons’ this afternoon. The maid advised me that Lady V. had a pressing social engagement involving a young scamp from the neighborhood, Alferic Blackson, the local vicar’s son. One might have thought this pressing engagement could have been discharged yesterday on Halloween, when vampires make themselves scarce.

If this continues, I will speak to the Earl regarding his daughter’s willful behavior and if necessary, address the Council once again to reconsider their selection.

***

Willow was the first to arrive at Giles’ apartment.

Big mistake.

She waited for an opportune moment, when Giles was distracted with pouring himself a large glass of scotch, to return the book to its place. When she turned around, Giles was standing right behind her, sipping his drink and watching, which was a pretty Watcherly thing to do, now that it occurred to her. The watching, not the drinking, or maybe the drinking, too?

“What are you and Buffy up to, Willow?”

“Up to? Nothing. Nothing at all. I was checking out your Vampyr book. You know, to pass the time.”

“Lying is not your forte, Willow. You and Buffy stole the book yesterday. I’d like to know why your sudden interest in a book I’ve been unable to get Buffy to so much as glance at for the past three years.”

“Buffy wanted to brush up on her vampire lore. Kinda surprise you.” That sounded good for an Off The Cuff Lie Of A Desperate Kind.

“Don’t insult me, Willow. Why did Buffy want the book?”

Guess that Off The Cuff wasn’t so convincing. What should she do? Maintain the Face of Conspiracy, or go all Girl Brain Interrupted like Winona Ryder in that movie where she acted all frontal lobotomy or tell Giles what happened? She’d promised Buffy that she wouldn’t tell, but she hadn’t found any way to break the claim.

“Buffy’s kinda in trouble.”

Giles sat down and took a long drink of scotch. “What kind of trouble?”

“Spike trouble.”

“I hope I’m not going to have to drag every word out of you. It’s quite tedious.”

Willow crossed her arms and clasped her elbows and wrapped her legs together until she saw Giles studying her body language. She unraveled herself and talked.

“The other night after Buffy ran off, she went back to the bar and had some more beer with the magick potion in it. She ran into Spike and they … and then … actually, they sort of …”

“Willow, please get to the point.”

“Okay, pointiness. Spike put a vampire mating claim on Buffy while they were … while she was … she was sleeping! That’s it!” She plopped back on one of the sofa cushions which whooshed out air.

Giles took a large swig of scotch. Unbelievable. His Slayer consorting with one of the most notorious vampires in history and becoming the object of William the Bloody’s vampire mating claim. This surpassed any of her previous behavior for pigheadedness.

“That’s not it. Spike and Buffy had sexual relations. Is that what you two have been avoiding telling me?”

Willow nodded. “Buffy made me promise not to tell you, but I couldn’t figure out how to break the claim.”

“I have private resources that may help us. See if you can obtain more details about the ‘event’ from Buffy. In view of your promise, it will be best not to mention our conversation to Buffy just yet.”

“More details? Ewww.”

***

After a most tiresome meeting, Giles poured himself another glass of Scotch, his third – or was it his fourth? These get-togethers with Buffy and her friends seemed to require more and more Glenfiddich for him to get through.

This meeting was particularly irksome in view of Buffy’s pretense that nothing had occurred, when he knew bloody well that she was in deep trouble. He’d very nearly lost his temper when she recruited Xander to help her take out Spike’s new lair of vampires, without once mentioning her own entanglement with Spike.

The mating claim must be broken, and soon. The longer the claim existed, the more difficult its extinguishment would be for Buffy. He wasn’t overly concerned about the ramifications of breaking the claim for Spike. Drastic measures were required.

He went into the kitchen and opened a disguised cabinet under the sink and pulled out a package, wrapped in brown paper. The package was sealed twice with old-fashioned red sealing wax and stamped with the Council’s official seal and the personal seal of the Head of Council.

The outside of the package read:

Open only in case of Dire Emergency and with the
Express and written permission of the Council Minister
Lady Blodeuwedd Ronwen Giles, Norton Juxton Twycross
Watcher to Miss Aletha Ravensthorpe
Her Majesty’s Watcher’s Council
April 8, 1902

Giles held the package in his hand, examining his great-grandmother’s handwriting. He wished Lady Blodeuwedd or his own father were alive to provide him guidance, although it seemed impossible that any previous Slayer had so willfully involved herself with vampires or permitted herself to become the claimed mate of a creature like Spike. Still, there was comfort in knowing that a prior Watcher had faced a moment of extreme emergency with his Slayer and that his own great-grandmother had preserved some words she felt might be helpful in a time of danger and confusion.

He hadn’t called the Council and he didn’t plan to request their permission to open this package. He and Buffy had both been on the outs with the Council for some time. He might have informed them, if he hadn’t been afraid of what they might do. Sending a team to exterminate Buffy, along with her dead lover, was not out of the question for the Council.

He broke the seals and unwrapped the package, releasing an odd wisp of green dust. He held The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin in his hands, and paused a moment to reflect before opening the cover.

He’d heard many rumors about this journal while still in Watcher School. Some said the journal contained an account of a Slayer gone rogue, others that her Watcher had been driven insane. Alone, among all the Watcher’s journals that had been preserved for centuries, this volume had been declared classified and forbidden to all but those whom Head considered on a need to peruse basis.

Giles opened the first page and began to read.

***

Rosamund peered into the dirt-streaked diamond window in the door of Willy’s Place.

“What a shithole.”

She kicked the door open, startling the patrons. A scabby, wrinkly-skinned flapsera demon sneaked into the back room. A couple of pitiful vampire specimens looked at her, then returned to their glasses of blood.

She went up to the bar, picked up a dirty glass and dropped it on the floor to get the bartender’s attention.

Willy stopped polishing the dirty glass in his hand and placed a finger over his twitching eye. “Sunday? The Slayer dusted you. I thought you were dead – deader. I mean, gosh it’s good to see you again. That’s what I heard anyway, that you got slayed. You know how demons gossip and …”

“Shut up, Willy. The Slayer dusted Sunday. I’m Rosamund, her sister.”

“Gee, I should have known. Course, you’re much prettier than Sunday.”

“We’re twins, asshole. I want information and blood.”

Willy reached under the bar for the stake he kept handy for rowdy vampires. Not that he’d ever gotten to use it, because they always beat him up and took away his stake before he had the chance.

“What kind of information?” Information was easy, especially if he didn’t get beat up before he gave it out. He could give out real info if there was money involved, or make stuff up if cash was low.

The Slayer always agreed to pretend to beat him up for information, then really did beat him, which was not, in his opinion, a Slayerly thing to do. She’d punched him in the nose the last time she was in here, much harder than was required for pretence, which put Willy out of sorts with her.

“The Slayer. What’s her name? Where can I find her?” Rosamund drummed her pointed nails on the bar.

This was not a good question. Not the kind he liked to answer without a black eye to support any story he had to tell later to the Slayer that he’d been forced to talk. He should stall a bit. It was all very well to be out of sorts with the Slayer, but something else altogether to have the Slayer out of sorts with him.

“The Slayer? You don’t want to know about her. She has a nasty temper. You should leave town, Rosie, that’d be best …”

Rosamund reached across the bar, slapped the stake out of Willy’s hand and jerked up on his shirt collar until he gagged. She backhanded him once to make sure he was listening.

“If I want your opinion, Willy, I’ll suck it out of you. And, don’t call me Rosie. I don’t like it. Let’s try again. The Slayer 4 -1-1?”

Vampires could sure slap hard. He could feel a bruise swelling up on his cheek. One good slug ought to be enough abuse to keep the Slayer happy.

“Buffy – er- Summers, yeah that’s it. That’s her name. She goes to school over at the university. She comes in here sometimes. I could take a message.”

She smacked him again. “On the other hand, you could keep your mouth shut.”

“Yeah, sure. I could do that. I could keep my mouth shut.”

Rosamund released his shirt collar and smoothed his shirt front. “I need a gallon and a half of blood – AB negative – and, it better be fresh.”

Willy stepped back so she couldn’t grab him again. “Sure thing. I just got a new supply this afternoon. It’s going to cost you. AB neg is hard to come by.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a couple of quart bags from the refrigerator.

She shoved the two bags inside her vest where they’d stay cool. “I need more. At least another gallon.”

“That’s a lot of blood. You having a party? I’ve got another gallon back in the store room. I’ll just step back there and get it and bring it right out to you.”

“I’ll tag along to make sure you don’t get lost, Willy.” Rosamund grabbed a bottle of booze off the bar and slung her free arm around his neck in a choke hold as he came out from behind the bar and frog-marched him into the storage room.

No sooner had Willy pulled a gallon of AB neg out of the deep freezer, than Rosamund vamped out and slugged him over the head with the bottle of booze. He was going to be another lousy drink, old and stringy, but she was thirsty from running all over town.

She vamped out and lowered her fangs to Willy’s neck, when the flapsera demon stepped out of the shadows. His red eyes glowed in the half-lit room.

“You can’t do that. Only the Slayer gets to beat up Willy.”

“Get lost, Scabby.”

“I’m not getting lost. I’m staying right here until Buffy arrives and slays you. She’s on her way right now.” Clem raised an old cross he’d found in Willy’s storeroom and grimaced in what he hoped was a threatening manner.

“Is she?” He was probably lying to protect his own scabby hide. She dropped Willy to the floor and faced the flapsera.

She could kill the demon, but he wouldn’t taste good. Demons never did.

Before she could smack the cross out of his hand, two more demons, newtle demons, shuffled in the back door. They were wearing baby blue bowling shirts with their names embroidered on the pockets in orange satin stitch – Burt and Jurt – and they held makeshift stakes that they’d broken off some crates in the alley in their long, rubbery fingers.

“Having trouble, Clem?” Jurt asked.

“The vampire lady was just leaving,” Clem said.

She didn’t want to mess with newtles. Touching their skin was worse than eating a head of garlic. She’d be poisoned for a week and break out in a nasty rash.

And, if the flapsera was telling the truth, that he’d managed to summon the Slayer, she should cut her visit short and leave. She wasn’t ready to meet up with the Slayer. Not until Sunday had been revived. She wanted Sunday to join the fun when Rosamund killed the Slayer.

Besides, it was getting late. She needed to find a place to sleep before dawn, which was fast approaching. She didn’t have time to waste on a flapsera demon that she couldn’t drink and a couple of toxic newtles.

She slugged the pasty-faced demon, to remind him of his place in the vampire-demon pecking order, picked up the gallon of frozen blood and ran out the back door, hissing her displeasure.

***

Buffy trudged into Restfield Cemetery and consulted a scrap of paper with a new gravesite marked on it. Lennie, the former assistant manager at the local Pigwish Butcher Shop met an untimely death by neck punctures three nights ago and she was here to make sure he stayed dead.

She found the grave and sat down to wait. Lennie, it appeared, wasn’t in a hurry. She waited for a couple of minutes, then got restless, jumped up and paced around the grave in a circle.

“Hurry up, Lennie. I’ve got stuff to do.”

Behind her a lighter rasped and flared. Buffy jumped and whirled around, thrusting her stake into the dark.

Spike lit his cigarette and snapped his lighter closed. “Damn right you do. Sex with your mate for one thing.”

“Spike. Don’t sneak up on me like that. You could get staked. I’d hate to kill myself by accident, although if I got rid of you, it might be worth it.”

Spike put his arm around his mate. His hand wandered down her back and rested on her butt cheek. “Wouldn’t want that, Slayer. I’m tired of waiting. Let’s go get pissed. Then, I’ll take you back to the mansion and we can continue the honeymoon.”

“A Planet Weirdy of No.” Her mind blanked for a second and she found herself kissing Spike. She kissed him a little more, just to make sure that kissing him was as good as she remembered, which it was, before pushing him away. “Cut it out.”

Lennie shoved his hand out of the grave and wiggled his fingers. Buffy grabbed his hand, jerked him out of his grave and staked him in one smooth motion.

“That’s it?” Spike asked. “That’s all the poor sod gets? Sticks his paw out and the Slayer stakes him before he can even claw his way out of the grave?”

“You threw me off my game. I didn’t get in a witty quip.”

Spike ran his fingers through his hair to slick it back down where Buffy had messed it up when she was kissing him. He was deeply disturbed. “Where’s the fighting? Where’s the challenge? Where’s the fight you aren’t sure you can win?”

Buffy made an Aggravated Face. “What do you want, Spike?”

“You, obviously. Didn’t you get my message?”

“I did.”

“So, why are you here, instead of over at the mansion where you belong?”

Buffy headed out of the cemetery. “I’ve got a job you know. Standing against the vampires, the demons and the forces of darkness.”

Spike swaggered along beside her. “Yeah, yeah. The one girl and all that rot. That’s going to have to end. I’ve made a decision.”

“Wow. Don’t let your brain get all flamey.”

“I’m serious here, Slayer. Mating you has enhanced my rep in the demon community, so I’ve decided to spend maximum time with you. Until I get tired of you, that is. Besides, the sex is good and you are sane most of the time. We’ll make a good team.”

The sex was good. “I think Drusilla is rubbing off on you. That vampire brain of yours has gone all squishy.”

Spike looked unhappy. This was not going the way he intended. His mate was supposed to go along with his plan, no matter how stupid it was. Maybe he needed to make things a little more romantic for her. “I want you to move in with me.”

Buffy stopped in her tracks. “I’m not moving in with you. I’m not dating you. I’m not having sex with you. I’m not kissing you. I’m not anything with you. I am breaking the claim as soon as possible. And, as soon as the claim is broken, I am staking you.”

Spike nodded. His mate was very stubborn. He expected that. It was nice how she thought of killing him right away. Showed that she cared. Bird was in love with him already. “How about a drink, then?”

Buffy rolled her eyes and ran down the street to get away from Spike. She detoured to the pay phone at the front entrance when she heard it ring.

Chapter 8 - Drunk or Sober



The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Kirby Hall, November 16, 1900 – At the request of Earl M, I accompanied Lady Victorine on a visit to her cousins at Kirby Hall in Thrednoddle County. In spite of the relaxation to be afforded by a family visit, the Slayer is not speaking to me today, although she has returned to her duties after a lapse of several days. Her sullen, slovenly behavior towards the extermination of these evil creatures is beyond my capability to be astonished. Only last evening, she allowed a newly arisen vampire to escape, saying that he was too puny to bite anyone and not worth the trouble of chasing. She dubbed him a “blooming muck snipe.”

I informed her that I would recommend to the Council in the strongest terms possible that she be removed at once from her position as Slayer and that her powers be granted to another, more tractable, young lady. Her response cannot be repeated.

≈§ ≈ § ≈

Skelton on Ure, December 22, 1900 – Winter in the country is bitterly cold. Since Lady Victorine refuses to stir from her father’s hearth should she so much as see her breath, I have guarded the village cemetery for the past week. To my good fortune, and to that of the locals, there is very little vampire activity in this country place, but even so, there is more than Lady Victorine consents to handle.

I tremble to think what will happen to her when we travel to London for the season and the Council demands her services. I have held them off for four months, pleading the necessity of additional instruction, but I fear that my pleas will prove insufficient in future.


***

Spike elbowed his way into the crowd at the pub. The place was packed with college students, howling and jostling each other and shouting for Black Frost beer. He sniffed the air. Over the smoke, the sweat and the spilled beer, he smelled two day-old blood and the scent of an old girlfriend or two.

He saw Buffy’s former pet boyfriend, Parker, the jackass who’d poked her and dumped her. He was pulling the Sensitive Lad act on a new girl. What the hell was that guy thinking? A Slayer wasn’t something you just used and tossed; she was something you savored, you sipped, you appreciated like fine blood, whether you ended up killing her or loving her.

There was a new bartender at the pub, Bob the Warlock. Spike knocked over a couple of frat boys to get to the bar. “Give up warlocking and take up a new profession, mate? Bottle of scotch.”

The warlock muttered something nasty under his breath and handed Spike a bottle of scotch. “This damn bar was my brother-in-law’s idea. He’s dead and I’m stuck with it until I can find a buyer.”

“Dead, is he? Thought I smelled blood. Say, do you have any more of that beer your brother was making?”

Black Frost beer was incredibly popular. Bob had received many requests for it tonight. He couldn’t understand why a vampire would want any. Vamps were already Inhibition Unimpaired. They didn’t need any potion to liven things up.

“Out of the beer. Got a little of the potion left. You want some?” Bob brought a green plastic eyedropper bottle out from under the counter.

“Not for me. Buffy, my missus, will be around in a bit. So high, long blonde hair, cute little ass, bad temper. Give her a dose in whatever she’s drinking.”

The warlock shook the bottle back and forth while he considered whether he should help vampire scum mess around with the Slayer. Not a good proposition on its face. He’d have to get some sort of recompense for turning the girl into a Neanderthal for the night.

“I might, if you’ll do a favor for me.”

“What favor might that be?” Spike didn’t like doing favors for warlocks. Bob wasn’t a bad sort, but a warlock was a warlock. Not to be trusted.

“A vamp killed my brother-in-law. I don’t know who. Maybe you could take care of that for me?” He had a pretty good idea who killed Jack. It was that bitch, Rosamund. He could take her out himself, once their business was finished and he’d gotten paid, but he preferred someone like Spike to exact his revenge so he wouldn’t be caught in the crossfire of a vampire rumble. “There’s some money in it for you.”

From the smell of things, Spike had a pretty good idea who took out Bob’s brother-in-law. He hated to take out a hot vamp like her or her sister, but what had Rosamund done for him lately?

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Spike vamped out and chased away some college kids from his favorite table and opened his mind to summon his mate.

***

Clem was holding an ice pack to Willy’s neck when Buffy arrived. Since Clem had called her for help, she slipped in the back door to avoid disturbing Willy’s customers.

She knelt down beside Willy and examined his wound. Nasty, but not life threatening. “Guess I don’t have to beat you up to get info this time. What happened?”

“A vamp girl, Rosamund’s her name, came in here and beat me up and bit my neck, as you can see, and stole a gallon and a half of AB neg. Do you have any idea how expensive that stuff is? I only keep it for special customers.”

“What’s she look like?”

“You’d recognize her. She looks just like her twin sister, Sunday. You know, the one you dusted back in September.” Willy wiped the blood away from his neck.

Buffy remembered Sunday. She had her broken Class Protector Umbrella to remind her every day.

“There’s another one? What did she want all that blood for? Is she doing magicks?”

“I guess. She didn’t exactly mention her plans while she was ripping my throat out.”

“Quit whining. You’re throat is only mauled a little. I’ll take care of her. Doubt I’ll get your blood back, though.”

“That’s okay, Slayer. Oh, and Mazel Tov. Can I kiss the bride?” He wiggled his eyebrows and his fingers.

Buffy glared at Willy. Had Spike been in here bragging already? She was going to twist Spike’s arm off and fracture his skull with the bleeding stump as soon as Willow figured out how to break the claim.

She stood up and felt her mind blank out. A thought bubbled up in her brain along with a lurid image of her mate. Her mate doing things to her. Things she liked.

Come see me, pet. I’m waiting.

She shook off the image and headed for her mate after a short detour to her dorm room to change into something less Slayerish – a tight black mini-micro-skirt and a clingy red top which she did not at all put on because Spike liked red, and a pair of clever black leather half boots that laced up the back and featured five inch stiletto heels which she did not put on so that her mouth would be a lot closer to Spike’s mouth vertically speaking.

Buffy banged through the pub door and headed straight for him. Spike had returned right to the pub where she’d gotten drunk on magicked-up beer which turned her into a nymphosexy. He was probably planning to get her drunk on Cavewoman Beer again and take advantage of her. Well, that wasn’t about to happen. No Beer for Buffy.

This claim thing had certain benefits. She didn’t have to search for Spike, just walk until she caught up with him. It was better than vamp radar any day, and every bit as tingly, although not tingly just on the back of her neck. Tingly all over.

He was sitting in the pub in the same chair at the same table, getting drunk and smirking. She’d wipe that smirk off his face as soon as she figured out how to hit him without it backfiring and breaking her nose as well as his.

Spike leaned back in his chair and admired his new mate. She was a hot little piece and he didn’t mind much that she was the Slayer or that she had a bad temper. He flexed his fingers and gave Cutie’s sweet tits a mental massage. He giggled at the contortions on her face and the pissed off look she gave him when he stopped.

Buffy was making a bee line for Spike through the crowd when Parker jumped up from the table he was sharing with his conquest for this evening, Katie Loomis, and stepped in front of her.

“Buffy, wait. Did you get my message? I wanted to talk to you. About last night and how you saved me from that fire. It was really, I don’t know, heroic or something, and I wanted to thank you.”

While Parker was blabbing about thanking Buffy for saving him, Spike slipped up behind him and grabbed his shoulder and dug his fingers into the tender space under Parker’s clavicle bone until Parker yelped in pain.

“I’ll thank you not to bother my wife, wanker,” Spike said.

“Owww! Your wife? I didn’t have any idea. Buffy, why didn’t you tell me you were married?”

Buffy observed the painful grimace on Parker’s face as he writhed under Spike’s grip. Bad Buffy for enjoying the suffering of Parker.

“Gee, Parker, I had no idea you would be uptight about randiating with a married woman. But, now that you know, you’d better stay away from me. Spike is a jealous kind of guy. He might rip your head off if you came near me again. I wouldn’t want that to happen to a great guy like you.”

Parker crumpled to the floor, clutching his shoulder and whimpering in pain.

“Shall I kill him, sweet? He’s a poufter. Don’t know what you ever saw in him.”

Buffy almost had to think about that for a minute. Wicked Buffy. No, she couldn’t let Spike kill Parker for leading her on, pretending to like her when he only wanted to make with the groinage, dumping her, humiliating her and for generally being a big jerk. “Not this time, I guess. He’s not worth the trouble.”

Spike dropped Parker on the floor and returned to his table. He kicked out the chair next to him so she could sit down.

“How about a kiss for your loving husband, Slayer, after a hard night of work, not to mention protecting your somewhat tattered virtue?”

In the brighter light of the pub, Buffy could see that he’d been busy. Spike looked worse now that she could actually see him. His knuckles were bruised and busted up and he was healing the remains of a black eye and a clawed-up face. His nose looked pretty good. Her fist itched to pop that nose.

“You never worked a day in your useless existence.” She debated whether it was worth it to take a punch in the nose herself, in order to give him one.

Spike smiled. “Go ahead, luv. You’ll look cute with a broken nose. All the demons in town will think I gave it to you. Beating up my Slayer mate will enhance my already formidable reputation. How about a beer?”

She plopped down in the chair next to him. “Pig. Don’t think you’re going to get me drunk again and have your way with me.”

“Get you drunk? You were pissed to the eyeballs when you tromped in here last night. I had nothing to do with that. As to having my way, you were the one ripping her clothes off. I only took what was offered. Not that you weren’t well worth taking, no matter what Angelus said. Want a drink? Coke or something?”

Buffy seethed at the reminder of Angel’s evil behavior and the nasty things he’d said to her and about her. Spike really knew how to gouge her sore spots.

“Not taking a drink from you, Mr. I Only Took What Was Offered.” Creep. He took advantage of her slightly foggy condition and now wanted to blame the whole thing on her for taking her clothes off first.

Spike lit up a cigarette and refreshed his glass. He shoved some dollar bills in front of her. “Get yourself a drink if you don’t trust me.”

Buffy stared at the bills. Spike was buying her a drink?

“Why don’t I cut off your head with my Swiss Army Camouflage Camper Knife with the Seven Useful Attachments?”

She went to the bar and bought herself a coke with Spike’s money. She wasn’t having any more beer. Not when Spike was around to take advantage. Maybe not ever. A new bartender served it to her and collected the money. She planned to guard her coke carefully in case her new husband picked up some ideas about drugging her drink from the previous night’s events.

She drank half the coke before she sat back down. She placed her glass as far from Spike as possible so he wouldn’t be able to tamper with her drink.

“Don’t be so suspicious, my heart. I don’t have to drug you to get you to drop your knickers. I’ve claimed you, and you won’t be able to keep your hands off me for long.”

“You wish. I’m not here for that. I want to know what you’re up to. Why did you claim me?”

Spike slid his arm around her shoulders and drew her close so he could whisper in her ear. “You’re here because I called for you and you can’t resist me. Drink up and we’ll go back to my place and discuss it.” He licked her ear and sent her a wave of claimy sexiness that made her gasp.

She could feel his fingers stroking her thighs and inching higher, but he wasn’t touching her. This was so not fair. She moaned when the ghost fingers vanished.

He had a very nice voice, deep and sexy, and the whole accent thing. A girl could get confused listening to him.

“Quit. Wanna talk about the claim.” She meant to shove him away, but instead she grabbed the front of his shirt and plastered herself against his chest. Why did touching Spike feel so good? She should ask Willow sometime when he wasn’t around muddling her up brain. She drank the rest of her coke.

Spike signaled Bob to bring her another.

“Thirsty.” She drank the new glass of pop down and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Want to dance for me, Buffy? I like to watch you dance.” He ran his mental fingers just under the top edge of her blouse.

He’d never called her by her name before, had he? It was always SLAY-er, like SLAY-er was her name or something, or he called her Pet Or Luv Or Kitten Or Sweet Pea or all those cute names. Prolly called all his girlfriends those names. Except SLAY-er, of course.

“Bufffffffeeeeee.” She wanted him to say her name again. She shoved his arm. “Say Bufffffffeeeee.”

“Buffy?”

She smiled. She liked it when he said her name.

What was his real name? Not Schpike. Oh, yeah. “Willlllllllyam.” She was going to call him Willlllllllyam from now on, cuz it was a nice name and they were married.

She shook her head. No, that was wrong. She was not supposed to be married to Willlllllllyam, although she couldn’t remember why. She was having trouble thinking. Some more drink would help. She drank some more pop.

“Willlllllllyam?” She blinked her eyes. She found herself sitting in Willlllllllyam’s lap. How had that happened? She wiggled around. Mmmmm. Boy. Big Boy.

Spike puffed his cigarette and blew a smoke ring.

Buffy took the cigarette from his hand and took a puff. Somewhere in her brain the thought that fire was bad bubbled up and popped and disappeared. She coughed and took another puff.

“Fire.” Fire bad?

Spike took a sip of whiskey.

She took the glass from him and sniffed. She remembered something about Bad Drink. Smell okay. She took a sip. Good. She downed the glass.

He took the glass away. “Easy. Don’t want to have to carry you home like I did last night. Drink up.”

She drank the rest of her coke and touched her lips to his.

They made it all the way out to the alley behind the pub before Buffy pounced on Spike and shoved him against the building wall. She leaped into his arms and jerked down his zipper and took matters into her own hands.

Chapter 9 - What’s Missing?


The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Brontley, January 3, 1901 - The evening commenced in the usual manner with Lady Victorine pouting about going out in the cold and voicing her doubts about the necessity of killing vampires when everyone would be traveling to town for the season and the “ruddy blighters” as she indecorously calls them, will starve to dust. I pointed out to her, rather tersely, that not everyone went to London for the season.

We rode our horses in silence (her Ladyship being in a sulk) to the nearby village of Brontley, where a vampire had been stalking the inhabitants for the past three nights. We had scarcely approached the village, when my Slayer tossed her reins to me and leaped off her horse. She signaled to me that she felt the tingling on her neck that warned her of the presence of a vampire and trotted into the darkened churchyard with her stake clutched in her daintily gloved hand. She vaulted over the cemetery wall, in an enthusiastically athletic manner that she hadn’t demonstrated before, and disappeared from my sight. Perhaps, I thought, she is beginning to embrace her duties.

Lady Victorine had vanished from view when the horses began to prance nervously and neigh – then scream – in fright. My horse reared wildly and spun around in absolute terror. I was tossed to the ground and had barely regained my feet, when I was attacked. ≈§ ≈ § ≈


***

“Wake up!” Buffy said.

Buffy was standing in Spike’s bedroom, dripping water all over the floor, because Spike still hadn’t gotten an extra towel for her. If he was going to kidnap her every time he wanted to have sex, the least he could do was get her a towel.

“Quiet down, Wifey. I’m trying to sleep.”

“I so don’t care. You kidnapped me again and tricked me into sex and we’re going to talk about it.”

Spike rolled over onto his back. He was exhausted. Keeping up with a Slayer was not easy. “Did not. And, I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s skip to the Make Up Sex part and forget about the argument.”

Buffy tossed a pillow at his face. “No. No Make Up Sex. No any kind of sex.”

“Can’t a man get some rest in his own abandoned mansion?”

“No.”

“Fine.” Spike sat up in bed and yawned. “I’m awake. What are we fighting about?”

“You put something in my drink last night, some of that magick potion stuff, and tricked me into having sex with you.”

“Okay. I did. Come back to bed.” He opened the claim, and gave Buffy a little psychic sweet talk to get her to cooperate. He hoped she wasn’t going to be this cranky every afternoon. Or, maybe he did. Give him an excuse to give her a spanking.

Buffy found herself curling up next to Spike. “What did you just do to me?”

Spike put his arms around her and drew her close. “Called to my mate. Anytime I want you to be near me, I can call you and you’ll come.” Maybe. Which was why he had to potion her up. He kissed her lips to distract her. Then, he kissed her again and sucked on her tongue.

Buffy leaped on the bed and straddled him and kissed him back. “I will not. And, I want a towel.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“I want a towel and my own toothbrush. Angel had an extra towel for me. And, a toothbrush. I only had sex with Angel once and he got me a towel. You oughta get me a bunch of towels since I’ve had sex with you a bunch of times.”

Spike picked up his bedroom bottle of booze and took a drink. “Wifey. We need to get something straight. If you’re going to be staying with me, I do not want to hear about that Big Poufter first thing in the afternoon when I wake up.”

“Tough. He treated me a lot nicer than you do.” Angel never did anything bad. He was practically a saint. Until he went all Evil.

“Like when he was torturing your Watcher? Or, killing that school teacher, that gypsy girl, I forget her name.”

Buffy sniffed. “Before that. When he had his soul.”

“Christ. The soul. Tell you what. I’ll pinch you a nice towel, all for yourself, if you promise never to mention that wanker Angel and his bleeding soul ever again.”

“Angel. Soul.”

Spike picked up the pillow and wrapped it over his face. What had been going through his heart when he made this dozy bint his mate? Her tiny warm hand slid up his thighs and stroked him and he remembered.

***

Buffy and Xander crept closer to the New Age Meditation and Happy Feelings Worship Center, hugging the late afternoon shadows. Buffy stepped with care as they approached the building, placing her boots so as not to rustle leaves or make other noises that might alert the vampires inside.

Xander tripped over a stick and crashed into a steel garbage can.

Buffy peeked into the window. The vamps were awake, but sluggish from their day’s sleep. Spike was still back at the mansion sleeping off last night’s, this morning’s and this afternoon’s Sex Capades. Using the claim, she touched the murky wall around his dreaming brain. He was dreaming about her and handcuffs and biting. She shook her head to empty her thoughts of sexy Spike dreams. Focus. She had to focus.

“I blocked off the back door. The only way out is the front door and the two front windows. Let’s pull back so we can cover all three exits,” Buffy said.

They crawled behind a large tree by the front sidewalk.

“We should have brought more ammo and more weapons,” Xander said. He dropped their weapons bag on the ground with a loud thump.

“Shhh! This will be fine. I can stake any vamps we don’t get with the first blast or two and you can use the crossbow. You load. I’ll shoot. Ready?”

Xander patted his red, yellow, green and blue plastic, battery-powered weapon. He handed her an identical piece.

Buffy picked up a pebble and tossed it at a crystal wind chime hanging by the front door and ducked behind the tree. The chime spun and tinkled.

A vampire opened the front door, yawned and looked around. Hearing nothing but the tinkling wind chime and seeing nothing to interest him, he turned to go back inside.

Buffy pitched another pebble on the sidewalk to lure him away from the lair. She didn’t want to alert all fifteen vampires at once.

He stepped forward as far as he could without entering the last rays of the setting sun that sliced across the sidewalk. He sniffed the air. “Who’s out here?”

“Plasmagram,” Buffy said. Okay, that was lame, but Spike and potion and too much sex were putting her off her game. She stood up and squirted the vamp’s chest, right over his dead heart, with a powerful blast from her holy-water loaded Supersoaker.

The vamp looked down and brushed his shirt as smoke curled up from his chest. Before he could figure out what had happened, he dusted.

She picked up another pebble and hit the wind chime again. Two more vamps came out.

“What the fuck, Leroy? Quit screwing around. The Master said to hang around,” one of the vampires said.

Buffy squirted them both straight to vampire hell.

Xander tossed her a loaded soaker and she ran up to the front door and knocked. The sun was down now and vampires boiled out of the door and windows in a rage. She blasted three more and Xander aced a couple with his reloaded soaker. The vamps came out fast now, hissing, spitting and snarling and shoving each other to get to her.

She attacked to draw them away from Xander. She cracked her empty soaker on one vamp’s head, tossed remains down and whipped out Mr. Pointy. She kicked the next vamp in the face and sent him flying, but couldn’t pause to stake him, because five more vamps were circling and taunting her. Xander wounded a couple with the crossbow, but didn’t kill them.

One of the vampires, thin and scrawny with brown, puffy hair and an English accent yelled out to the others. “It’s the Slayer. Run!”

The vamps fled. Buffy chased after them, but they scattered and vanished into alleys and dashed behind buildings and houses before she could catch them.

Buffy dropped her fists and frowned. She’d been pinned down, but they’d backed off and run away. Why? Running when they had a completely unfair fighting advantage was so Unvamp Like.

She walked back to the tree where Xander was packing up their weapons. He flicked his lighter in her direction.

“Want to burn down the lair?”

“I thought you were over the flicking thing. No point burning down the building. I don’t think they’ll be back now that I know where the lair is.”

“Okay. I think we should use flaming torches next time you take on a whole lair. The Supersoaker as vampire weapon is not sufficiently lethal.”

“Why’d they run off? One of them yelled out that I was the Slayer, then they all ran off.”

“They pretty much had you surrounded, which I have to say was not the best action strategy you’ve come up with lately.”

“I wonder if it has something to do with Spike.”

“Spike? What’s he got to do with it?”

Oops. She forgot that Xander was on a Need To Be Kept Completely In The Dark Basis about her new relationship with Spike. He’d wig if he knew about the claiming, not to mention the honeymoon.

“Uh, I saw him here the other night talking with the vamps. I think he’s their Master.”

“Great. Let’s go find Spike and you can dust him. He’s either at the old factory or the mansion.”

Oh boy. How was she going to explain that she couldn’t dust Spike now, or maybe ever? Better get Xander off that subject.

“How many did I kill? I lost count.”

“Seven, I think, maybe eight.”

“That leaves at least another seven minions,” Buffy said. Not counting Spike who’d maneuvered himself onto the Protected Species List. “No use looking for them tonight. They’ve scattered. Let’s go.”

Xander packed their gear into their patrol bags and the two headed for the Magic Box to report to Giles after stopping at the Crispy Creamy for Donut Fortification.

***

As Buffy and Xander left the New Age Meditation and Happy Feelings Worship Center, Cleotus slipped out of the shadows and watched them leave.

He sniffed the air. There were a lot of scents on the evening air, the none too clean scent of male vampires who’d been cooped up together, the sweaty scent of a male human and the musky-sweet vanilla scent of the Slayer.

The Slayer also smelled of something else. She smelled of Spike. Not just the aroma of Spike having sex with the Slayer, but the scent of Spike’s mating claim on her. That was William the Pansy’s secret to ‘controlling’ the Slayer, not that he’d done much controlling tonight. It also explained how Spike had managed to best Cleotus in a fight. Spike had claimed the Slayer and he’d drunk her blood.

Cleotus had heard about Slayer blood – it made you strong, made you horny. He’d figured those stories about Slayer blood for old vampire tales, since the vamps who told them had never met a Slayer in their piss ant lives. Spike was different. He’d bested two Slayers, or so he bragged every chance he got. Cleotus had doubted those stories too, until tonight. If Spike had killed two Slayers, he would know all about Slayer blood.

Yes, that dumb bastard Spike claimed the Slayer. That made things a lot easier, didn’t it?

Chapter 10 – Come to Me



This chapter is a bit of a homage to Christopher Lee’s 1965, Dracula, Prince of Darkness which I saw at the movie theater. Dracula, who had been reduced to dust in the previous movie, was revived by his trusty servant with a gallon of blood. (What was that guy thinking?) I never forgot that one.

Extra special thanks to dipole_dipole_attraction for the French translation of Bob the Warlock’s spell.

********************************************************************

The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Brontley, January 3, 1901 - continued. I had no opportunity to call out or warn Lady Victorine. The vampire clapped his dirty hand, still filthy from his grave, over my mouth. His free arm clamped itself around me like a blacksmith’s vice, immovable and crushing. I struggled to free myself, stomping at his feet and elbowing his ribs to no avail. For the first time in my life, I knew what it was to contend with the strength of the Hell Spawn known as a Vampire.

His breath was rank and cold on my neck as he lowered his fangs and bit down. The pain was excruciating, but nothing compared to the appalling feeling as he pushed out his fangs, ripped into my flesh and began to feed, sucking, slurping, draining me of my life force and, along with it, my desire to continue the battle to save my life. The chill of death crept into my fingers and hands and clawed its way up my arms and legs. My chest heaved as there was less and less blood to circulate life-giving air from my lungs to my heart. I collapsed to the ground, almost senseless with pain.

≈§ ≈ § ≈


***

Buffy crept down the alley, watching for any sign that Spike was stalking her. She hoped he didn’t get it into his head to follow her tonight. She’d promised him to come back to the mansion when she got through patrolling and he’d seemed satisfied with her promise after she assured him that she wouldn’t get into any fun fights without him.

Taking one last look down the alley, she tiptoed down the stairs to the level below the sidewalk. She touched the door of Angel’s former apartment. A sign still hung on the door advertising the vacant apartment. She crossed the hall and extracted the apartment door key from its hiding place in a chink between two bricks and let herself in.

Angel had been gone a long time, hadn’t left much behind. Just the bed, stripped of its sheets. She curled up on the bare mattress and remembered that night, the way she’d felt, how happy she’d been, how she’d thought she was so grown up. The happy memories didn’t last long before horrifying events swallowed up the tender moments. Tears came to her eyes. Was I not good?

Metal scraped and Spike’s lighter flared up. He lit the tip of his cigarette and sucked in a long stream of smoke and stared at her for a long time. “Isn’t this cozy.”

Buffy rolled off the bed and started for the door. Leave it to Spike to show up and ruin her visit to Angel’s old apartment. She’d never be able to come here again.

“Don’t run off. I wouldn’t want to spoil your wallowing in misery party.” His hand shot across the door and blocked her way.

Buffy ducked under his arm and ran up the stairs. She stopped at the top of the steps and stared down into the shadows where only the glowing tip of his cigarette was visible. “I just came back to make sure no vampires had nested here since it’s empty.”

“You’re a bad liar, pet. You came back to commune with the soulful dead.”

“What do you care what I do? You don’t care about me.”

He flicked his cigarette butt away and followed her up the stairs. “I don’t like sharing. Especially not with Angelus.”

Buffy turned and went back to the alley. “You don’t have me, so no sharing is happening.” More to the point, Angel didn’t have her, so no sharing was happening.

Giles was wrong about one thing. Vampires do have some emotions. They’re jealous as hellfire. They’re all in touch with their Inner Ghacknar.

She hurried down the alley to get away from Spike. “Quit following me or lurking or stalking or whatever it is you’re doing.”

Spike grabbed her arm. “How long are you going to moon after the bastard? He left you.”

“He left for my own good. So I could have a normal life. He wanted me to be happy.”

Spike pulled her to a stop. “If I loved you, I’d never leave.”

Buffy slapped his hand away. “But, you don’t.”

Spike pushed her against the nearest building wall and placed his hands on either side of her head so she couldn’t escape. “I like you quite a bit. I think you like me, too. I think you’d like to forget about Angelus and think about me.” He lowered his mouth to kiss hers.

She forgot how annoying he was when he was kissing her. Or, maybe he wasn’t annoying at all when his lips were on hers.

“Don’t you think it’s time you forgot about him?”

“Why should I?”

“Make way for somebody new?”

She hated it when Spike figured out something about her that she didn’t know about herself. She wanted to forget about Angel. Really forget, not the half-hearted, sneaky, always thinking about him, pretending she didn’t care anymore while secretly moping around about him forgetting that she pulled around her friends.

“Somebody like you?” She touched a button on his shirt.

For a moment, Spike looked like he was about to say something, but he didn’t. He lifted his hands and backed away. “Let’s go over to Willy’s and play some kitten poker. Random acts of merciless card cheating always make me feel better. We can dust a couple of vamps in the alley if things get slow.”

“What’s kitten poker? Am I going to approve?”

“Not bloody likely. Give me a kiss first.” Spike kissed her again, harder this time.

Buffy was just coming up for air, when a steel battle ax whirled by their heads and thunked into the brick wall behind them. The handle vibrated back and forth with the force of the blow.

Spike shoved her to the pavement and they rolled behind an abandoned truck. Buffy peaked out. She saw nothing but a black motorcycle roaring away.


***


Rosamund sat in Bob’s kitchen. It was 11:50 p.m. She’d been hanging around Bob’s snooty Yuppiated kitchen, counting the tessellated granite tiles, for an hour while he ate a late night snack of beef and chipotle burritos and Puffo’s Blue Moon ice cream and otherwise screwed around when he should have been preparing to revive her sister. She was going to enjoy draining Bob when this was over. She might burn down the house, too, as her contribution to Fine Living.

“How much longer?”

“I told you. Midnight. Besides, I have to finish thawing this damn blood.” Bob opened the microwave and turned the gallon jug over so the blood would thaw evenly. “Clean off the table.”

Rosamund swiped her arm across the table, sending dirty plates, glasses and silverware to the floor with a crash.

“Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” Bob said. He pulled a handwritten list out of his pocket and read off ingredients as he took containers out of the cabinet over the sink.

“Bonebrake, sassafras, acidophilus, scales of blue-tailed skink, pulverized moonstone.” He measured and mixed the ingredients, along with a few other items that weren’t on the list that he didn’t want Miz Bloodsucker to know about, into a Tupperware bowl with runes written on the side with a black Sharpie magic marker. He mashed and pounded the ingredients into a slimy, olive green paste.

“Hand me the ashes.”

Rosamund held up the blue crystal vial of ashes and fingered the filigreed silver cap. “You sure this is going to work?”

Bob diced dried platypus fetus toes on a thick slab of butcher’s block. “Maybe you’d like to take your business elsewhere?”

She tossed him the vial containing all that was left of her sister. All that was left of her sister after the Slayer staked her.

He mixed the slain vampire’s ashes into the bowl and spread the goop in a thin woman-shaped layer on the kitchen table with a rubber spatula. When he’d scraped the bowl dry, he emptied the first bag of blood into the bowl to absorb the remaining ashes. He spread the bloody mixture over the mixture of ashes on the table. The blood percolated in and a cold, black vapor reeking of sulphur rose from the table.

He saw Rosamund twitching at the smell of blood and shoved the empty bowl at her. “Want to lick the bowl?”

Rosamund snarled. “Get on with it, prick. I’m paying you to revive my sister not audition your stand-up routine. Like I’d eat my own sister. Once was enough.”

Bob opened the next bag of blood and saturated the mixture again. He drew a circle around the edge of the table with lighter fluid and handed Rosamund a box of kitchen matches.

“When I start chanting and pouring the rest of the blood, set fire to the lighter fluid. Keep your mouth shut and try not to set fire to yourself. I hate the smell of vampire roasting on an open fire.”

Rosamund scowled. She had planned on sharing Bob with her sister, who’d no doubt be hungry as any fledgling, but now she was going to suck him bone dry herself. She might even turn him so she’d have the pleasure of killing him twice.

Bob began the chant.

Qui était mort, soyez vite.
Qui dort, rétablissez.
L'os et le sang, le nerf et le cartilage,
venez à moi quand je siffle...

Who was dead, be quick.
Who sleeps, revive.
Bone and blood, nerve and gristle,
Come to me when I whistle …

She scraped a kitchen match on the side of its box, tossed the flaming match at the table. She jumped back as the lighter fluid whooshed into flame.

Bob chanted and poured the gallon of blood inside the ring of fire, which burned long after the lighter fluid had been consumed. He whistled sharply as the blood pooled up inside the flames, then was absorbed into Sunday’s ashes.

Qui était silencieux, parlez.
Qui avait soif, alimentez.
Empestant comme les mauvaises herbes,
tranchant comme les chardons,
venez à moi quand je siffle...

Who was silent, speak.
Who was thirsty, feed.
Rank as weed, sharp as thistle
Come to me when I whistle …

He poured the remaining bag of blood onto the table and whistled twice. The blood sucked into the mixture and the mixture levitated over the table and stretched and molded itself into the flattened form of a woman.

Qui était mauvais, retournez.
Qui était la mort, prospérez.
Les dents comme l'acier,
Cheveux comme le brin,
venez à moi quand je siffle.

Who was evil, return.
Who was death, thrive.
Teeth like steel, hair like bristle,
Come to me when I whistle.

He whistled three times and the flat woman form expanded into full size, levitated above the table and took shape, first a flat, curvy grey form that thickened into bones – spine, then thigh bones, tibulas and fibulas, arms bones – humerus, radial and ulna, fingers, toes, ribs, pelvis, scapulae. The skull blew into shape like a soap bubble, then hardened. Muscles and cartilage spun and wove around the bone, attaching themselves at the joints and extremities. The liver, gall bladder, stomach, intestines, ovaries, uterus, lungs and heart bloated up, fat and greasy, then burst and subsided into their final form at first death.

Nerves, blood and lymph vessels crept in a closely spaced net across the muscles and penetrated the form’s lungs and intestines. Transparent scales appeared at the ends of the fingers and toes and thickened into nails. The organs of the neck and throat popped open and crammed themselves under the thickening neck muscles and around the cervical spine. A dim shadow of brain tissue appeared behind the eye sockets of the skull, then the jellied eye orbs coagulated in place.

A layer of cartilage and fat tissue spread across the corpse, creating a nose, ears, breasts and belly. The first layer skin appeared, tissue thin and transparent gray. The skin was pierced by tiny veins and capillaries and grew rosy-hued. The lower levels of the epidermis expanded, then the pale pinkish-gray upper layer formed.

Tiny hairs sprouted to form eyebrows, eyelashes. Coarse hairs fuzzed over the skull and coarser dark-brown hairs spread under the arms and over the pubic mound.

As suddenly as the revenant process began, it stopped. Sunday floated an inch or two above the table, completely formed as she had last been in her unlife, before the Slayer flung a wooden stake through her heart.

She didn’t move.

Rosamund tapped her foot. Here was her sister. Why didn’t she move or talk or something? This warlock better not screw up. She was going to kill him whether he screwed up or not, but if he screwed up, she’d have to wait and she didn’t want to wait to kill him.

Bob looked puzzled. The spell was complete, but the subject had not returned to life or unlife or whatever these disgusting creatures called their existence. He’d never brought back a vampire before, only formerly living humans. What was missing?

He slapped his forehead. A sacrifice. How could he have forgotten that?

He fetched a female rat from a cage in his dining room – an albino rat with nasty pink eyes and quivering nose. The rat was a perfect substitute for this disgusting pale vampire. He slit the rat’s throat and trickled the blood onto the dead vampire’s lips.

Sunday popped open her eyes and licked her lips.

***

Buffy woke with a start. She was slouched on an uncomfortable straight-backed chair in Willy’s back room, gripping a bottle of booze. She’d been sipping, while Spike played cards with his friend Clem, and Burt and Jurt, a couple of newtle demons, and had fallen asleep after arguing with Clem about the necessity of playing for kittens.

The game broke up while she was napping and all the kittens were gone. Spike had fallen asleep on the poker table after consuming a bottle of scotch. He was talking in his sleep, which no surprise, since Spike never stopped talking.

“Why’d you do it, baby? Why’d you leave me?” He started to cry.

He must be having a nightmare. Buffy shook his shoulders.

Spike woke up, grabbed Buffy and held her close with an iron grip. Tears coursed down his face. “She left me. Why’d she leave me? She just left. She didn't even care enough to cut off my head or set me on fire. I mean, is that too much to ask? You know? Some little sign that she cared?” Spike sobbed and buried his face against her neck.

Buffy stroked his hair. Spike must be talking about Drusilla, but it didn’t make sense. Vampires don’t have feelings, except for bad ones like rage and jealousy. Giles always said so. Angel proved it when he lost his soul and his love for her on the same night. Still, Spike was upset and crying and she felt sorry for him.

Spike would be furious tomorrow when he remembered he’d broken down in front of her. There was only one thing to do.

“Willyam Boy, don’t cry,” she said in Cave Slayer. “Buffeee like Willyam.”

Spike sat up and sniffed. “Thanks, Buffy. I like you, too. Let’s go home.”

Buffy tucked her hand in his pocket and they walked back to the mansion, leaning together.

Chapter 11 - Bad and Badder


The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Brontley, January 3, 1901, continued. I was nearly gone when the deadly leech was ripped away from my neck.

Dazed and weakened, I watched as the Slayer fought the vampire that had nearly drained me of life, indeed nearly drained me of my very soul. The hell fiend was dark haired, large and heavily muscled. Perhaps he had been a farm lad in life. Even in the unlit village, his evil eyes glowed like nasty yellow plates of fire. His movements were clumsy, but his blows were powerful and hard.

At first, the Slayer danced around the creature, punching at him lightly, drawing him out, tiring him and confusing him. Then, too soon, she engaged him in earnest, landing blow after blow to his neck and face and chest. To no avail, I realized. His strength was far superior to her own – he had every advantage – height, weight and the reach of his long, powerful arms. He beat her brutally, pummeling her lovely face as she continued to fight gamely. One blow to her torso sent her sailing through the air to land in front of the church.

She staggered to her feet and disappeared into the church, where the demon would dared not follow, leaving me to the mercy of a soulless monster. ≈§ ≈ § ≈


***


Spike rolled out of bed and went looking for his mate.

Buffy sprawled on the couch, surrounded by a stack of books. She was chewing on a pencil and wearing one of his black tee shirts and nothing else. The shirt came to the bottom of her cheeks, which peeked out when she jiggled her leg. She was only pretending to study in order to brass him off. He did not appreciate being ignored by his mate.

His mate looked particularly fine this afternoon. Her skin was smooth and tanned from the sun, her softly glowing nails tipped in pink polish and her golden silky pelt of hair, streaked with white and tawny brown, tumbled around her shoulders. She was tiny, but perfectly formed. He could have done much worse picking out a mate for himself. If he wasn’t already in love with his Dark Rose, he might find himself seriously tempted by this girl.

As it was, Buffy was getting too close to becoming a necessary part of his life. He enjoyed these quiet moments, as well as their fights, entirely too much for a man who was supposed to be in love with Drusilla. He needed to remind her of her subservient role as his mate and remind himself that he’d only mated Buffy in order to wreak violence on the denizens of Sunnydale with impunity.

Her tender lips turned up into the tiniest of smiles.

Couldn’t let that continue. He sat down next to her and knotted his fingers through Buffy’s hair and tilted her face up to his.

“Enough studying. Your Master wants you.”

She yawned and pushed his hand away. “Busy. Got a test.”

He guided her hand to his cock, which was hard and throbbing for her. “No more books. Master is hungry and horny.”

“Mmmm,” she said and scrambled onto his lap. “Horny.”

He locked his hands around her neck and stroked her neck with his fangs. He daintily sliced her skin and licked up the faint line of blood.

She started. “What time is it? Ohmigod, it’s noon-thirty. Why’d you let me stay so long? I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got class. I’ve got homework.”

“Not so fast, ma petit crème brulee. I didn’t give you permission to go. You’re staying right here to keep me from getting bored.”

Buffy shoved his chest and broke free. Before he could grab her again, she leaped up and jerked on her leopard spotted pants, which required some jumping around to get her legs in since her pants were skin tight. She didn’t bother to look for her panties which had a habit of mysteriously disappearing when Spike was around. “Drop deader, Spike.”

“Bugger! I’m the master here. You’re supposed to fetch and carry, give me supper and keep me from being sexually frustrated and not be running off whenever you please.”

Buffy snorted. “As if, Spike. I may be your mate, but in no way, shape or alternate dimension are you my Master.” She pulled her wrinkled top on over her head. Ewww. This impromptu sleeping over at Spike’s lair had to stop. She looked like a skank. She ran into the bathroom, combed her hair and brushed her teeth with Spike’s toothbrush. That definitely had to stop. “Also, the mate thingy is strictly temporary, too,” she called out.

Spike followed her into the bedroom. Had Buffy found out that the claim would expire with the next full moon? That would spoil everything. He’d claimed her and she wasn’t going to slip through his fangs. It was up to him when the claim expired and he wasn’t ready for it to expire. “Claim’s permanent,” he blustered.

“Have a nice nap, Spike. I’ll find you later. You’re coming shopping with me tonight so I can keep an eye on you. Don’t want any extracurricular biting on my watch.” She kissed him on the cheek and flounced out of the bedroom.

“I’ve half a mind to call up your Watcher,” he shouted after her. He stalked into the main room to continue the argument, but she ran outside into the burning afternoon sunlight and banged the front door behind her.

“Bloody hell! Buffy’s my mate. I bit her. I claimed her, and the teasing little bint won’t even stay around in the afternoon to help me out with my post-nap hard-on. She wouldn’t mind me even after I’d yelled. This whole mate thing is not turning out at all the way it’s supposed to. She’s supposed to be at my never-ending beck and call, hustle up my smokes and booze, give me a drink when I get thirsty and put out anytime I feel like getting laid.”

He checked the living room bottle of booze – empty. He tossed it into the fireplace and returned to the bedroom and took a swig of Jack from his bedroom bottle.

“Comes and goes just as she pleases, except when she’s pissed on warlock juice, nags me about cleaning up the house, bitches because I don’t keep a clean towel for her. Said I wasn’t half the vampire that wanker Angel was and threatened to send me straight to Vampire Hell as soon as she got the chance. It’s not right. Not a bit of it. Mates are supposed to be respectful, loving, cowering and insatiable.”

He smirked. “She is insatiable.”

On that happy thought, he decided to get dressed and go out. It was too early to go outside, but he could make his rounds in the sewers, get his work squared away so he’d have more time to spend with his mate. He went into the bathroom, rubbing his cheek. Little bit of beard springing up. Should he shave or give her a razor burn tonight on those sweet, inner thighs?

“Wifey’s attitude’s not the worst of it. I’ve gotten used to her hanging about, enjoying her company when she isn’t on her high horse about something.”

It was a bit of all right to talk shop with her - how to kill a Kertzsmek demon when you didn’t have a weapon handy, or how to avoid crossing into an alternate dimension by accident or how to fight off a six-pack of fledglings, although she claimed she was killing them as her Slayer Duty and he killed fledges to keep them from horning in on his feeding ground. When he’d gotten drunk last night and cried about losing Drusilla, she’d stroked his hair and cried with him and even said she liked him. Course, she’d been wonked out of her mind on Cave Cola at the time. She’d probably forgotten all about his breakdown, which was good.

He’d give her a break and shave.

“My own doing, it is. Been lurking around on my own too long. Solitude’s making me soft, vulnerable to the Slayer’s prattle and wittering about. Been at loose ends since Dru left, no one to hunt with, no one to take care of or talk to, and most of all no one to shag. So, the first girl that comes along, I grab her for my mate, no matter how badly intentioned and grounded in menacing evil that grabbing was, and now, well, I’m feeling friendly.”

He cut himself shaving, cursed, licked his own blood off his fingers, splashed his face with water and threw the plastic razor on the floor. Never get used to these poncy razors. Needed a good straight edge like the old days. Good straight razor was useful for shaving or slitting throats. You could cut a head, vampire or human, clean off with one good stroke with one of those.

“Doesn’t matter what she does.” As soon he got the minions well in hand and his position as Master of Sunnydale solidified, he’d let the claim expire and send her packing. No, he’d kill her. “Yeah, that’s just what I’ll do.”

Damn it. Bint’s been using my toothbrush.

He returned to the bedroom and pulled on his jeans which were lying in a crumpled heap on the floor next to the bed. He drained his bedroom bottle of whiskey and tossed the bottle against the far wall, tucked his fags into his coat pocket and planned his night.

“First, check up on the minions and send them out to hunt, while I keep the Slayer otherwise occupied in a completely different part of town. Got to remember to make the minions pick up a couple of girls for me to drink.”

He wasn’t that hungry, since Buffy had been so accommodating last night, but he’d insist that his minions bring him home a fresh victim or two, so they’d remember their place.

“Oh yeah, look up Rosamund and dust her for killing Bob’s brother-in-law. Shame to dust such a lovely slut, but Bob’s probably good for some merry cash in return for promptly executed vengeance.”

Maybe Buffy would like to take in the dog races over in Isla Vista while his vampires were hunting? If he asked her for a date, would she go out with him? After he got through with the minions, he’d stop by that little flower shop down the street from the mansion and pinch her some daisies and ask her out. Yeah. Show her that her Master could be a good sort if she cooperated.

***

Back at her dorm room, Buffy took a shower and crammed her stuff in an overnight bag – tops, pants, pink-strappy sandals, thongs, lace teddies, perfume, handcuffs, batteries, toothbrush and her best bath towel - then headed for the University library to find Willow.

Buffy found Willow sitting at one of the big tables, surrounded by stacks of books, copying her class notes in various colors of inks, sorted by importance and alphabet, with a liberal sprinkling of asterisks, footnotes, highlighting and underlines.

Buffy plopped her overnight bag on the table and sat down gingerly. She really had to talk to Spike about the wild sexiness and the importance of pacing one’s activities and not overindulging in Slayer blood. She adjusted a pink chiffon scarf around her neck.

“What’s with the overnight bag, Buff? Another Slayer Vision Quest in the desert with the Big Rasta Mama? Does Giles really do the Hokey Pokey?”

“No. Yes. Will, have you got anything on the claim yet? How to break it?”

Willow glanced down at the mathematical calculations printed on Page 294 of Maxwell’s Demon and Twisting Time to Suit Yourself and avoided looking in Buffy’s eyes. She hadn’t researched anything about the claim since her conversation with Giles, and Giles hadn’t informed her of any developments. “Not yet. I sort of had to write a paper about Seventh Century Aitutaki Tribal Drum Rituals.”

Buffy nodded, and to Willow’s surprise, didn’t exactly look disappointed.

“I’ve got to do something about Spike. I can’t fight him as long as the claim is active, so I’m going to have to stay with him all the time so I can keep him from feeding. I think he ate that Jack guy from the pub.” While I was out cold from the potion Jack gave me. Serves him right if Spike did eat him.

“Jack sorta deserved to get eaten after turning half the campus into Cave Persons. Are you sure you have to stay with Spike all the time? He sleeps during the day, doesn’t he?”

“Not as much as I thought. He gets up and roams all over town in the sewers, spreading cheery darkness wherever he goes. He put together a pack of minions that I had to dust. Hence, the overnight bag. I’m moving into the mansion so I can watch him.” And, so I can max out on Spike sex before Willow figures out how to break the claim.

“Oh, Buffy. This is horrible. Spending all that time with Spike. At least, you’re not drinking any more beer and having sex with him.”

Buffy blushed. “Right. No more Foamy.”

“Good. Well, I’ll keep looking for a way to break the claim. Say, when Spike claimed you, what exactly happened? Maybe there’s some detail we’re overlooking.”

More Fiery Red Buffy Face. “Like what? I don’t remember exactly.” She remembered exactly. Spike – tongue – orgasm – biting - another orgasm. She picked up one of Willow’s note pads and fanned herself.

“Like what he said and what you said and what he did and what you did after what he said.”

“Well, he … with his tongue … and, then, he bit me … and then, I … I was sort of confused, you know from the potion … and he said ‘Mine’ and I said ‘Yours.’”

Willow transcribed the essential points of Buffy’s conversation in blue Flair pen in her red notebook. “Tongue, bite, confusion, mine, yours. Okay. That’ll help us.”

“Us?” Had Willow been talking to somebody about the claim? Somebody like Giles?

“Us! As in -- Buffy you, and Willow me -- us.” Whoa, almost tripped up. Buffy would be furious if she knew that Giles knew that Buffy told her and then she told Giles and Giles told her not to tell Buffy that he knew because she told him. She sighed with relief when Buffy left a few minutes later to track down Spike.

Chapter 12 – Not the Way I Heard It


The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Brontley, January 3, 1901, continued. Was it possible? Had the Slayer abandoned me to be killed by this hideous creature? Too weak to move from the spot where I had fallen, I said my final prayers as the vampire turned to finish me.

He leaned over me, leering with pleasure, and grasping me by my collar, raised me up from the ground to resume his interrupted meal, but before he could return his loathsome mouth to my wounded neck, he burst into flames and vanished in a whirlwind of dust.

From my vantage point on the ground, where the vampire dropped me when he disintegrated, I could see my Slayer holding the flattened remnants of a tin dark lantern. She had shattered the flaming oil lamp against the vampire’s back and given him his first taste of Hell.

Lady Victorine dropped to her knees and embraced me in a very forward manner.

“Sir Arthur, Sir Arthur. Don’t die. Don’t die,” she cried. She commenced sobbing in a manner that was certainly unbecoming to the fierce warrior she is meant to be, but quite comforting to me.

***

A few minutes after sunset, Spike emerged from the sewers, near the New Age Meditation and Happy Feelings Worship Center feeling happy, somewhat buzzed on alcohol and anticipating a visit with his mate as soon as his work was through. He was carrying a neatly wrapped bouquet of yellow daisies. To his surprise, the building was dark and quiet.

He kicked in the front door and shouted, “Where are you bastards? It’s dark. Time to get out there and feed.” Lazy blighters.

There was no answer, only the wind chimes tinkling in the breeze.

“What the hell?” He flicked his lighter and held it up. Nobody home. Where did they get off to? He shouldn’t have left them so long. Having sex with the Slayer had distracted him from his responsibilities. He checked the other rooms, but found nothing. “Damn, I’m going to have to chase every last one of the bleeders down again and beat the crap out of them. May have to dust a couple to set an example.”

“No dusting required,” Buffy said. She slipped out of the shadows and into the doorway behind him.

Spike jumped. “You scared the nightlights out of me! Don’t sneak up on me like that. I’ve half a mind to give you a good thrashing.”

Spike burned his hand with his overheated lighter, cursed and dropped it on the floor, leaving them in the dark. Leaving Buffy in the dark mostly, since he could see well enough. “And, what are you doing here? Did I summon you? Did you hear in your little Slayer pea brain ‘Slayer come see me, I want to bang your eyes crooked?’ No. No, you did not.” He hid the flowers behind his back, hoping she wouldn’t notice them.

Buffy laughed. She blinked to help her eyes adjust to the dark. Spike was cute when he was mad. And, he was holding some flowers, yellow daisies it looked like, behind his back. “Looking for someone, Spikey?”

“What? Oh, yeah. See there, you got me all distracted. You shouldn’t pester me while I’m working.” Spike paced around, making his leather coat flap. He forgot he was holding the bouquet of flowers and chopped the air with his hand.

“Working? Looked more like lurking to me.”

“Shows what you know. I’m the Master of Sunnydale now. I have duties, responsibilities, a mission. I’m checking on my minions.”

“Really? Where are they?”

Spike growled. How did she find him anyway? And, what was she doing here now? Bollocks! The claim. She’d followed him right here to his minions’ lair using the damn claim. Probably didn’t even know she was doing it either. And, where were his blasted minions? He’d stalk them down later. Right now, he didn’t want to appear peevish in front of the little woman.

“I sent them out to get their supper, if you must know. They’re wreaking bloody violence and pillaging all over Sunnydale, while you’re twiddling your thumbs following me about.”

Buffy smirked. She came up to him and put her arms around him. “Master,” she pouted, “I did something bad today. I killed all your minions. That’s okay, isn’t it?” She hadn’t killed all of them, but Spike could find that out on his own.

“You what! You’ve got your bloody cheek! I worked bloody hard to get those minions. Now, I’m going to have to start all over. Damn it all, Wifey, you’ve got no business interfering in my work.”

“Don’t worry about it, William. We’ll go shopping tonight and you can pick out some brand new minions for me to dust.” She touched the wrapper on the flowers. “Are these for me? Are we up to posies?”

“Well, yeah. They reminded me of you, all cheery sunshine and yellow.” He handed her the flowers and waited for her to make a smart ass remark.

She took the flowers and held them carefully. “Thank you. Nobody ever gave me flowers except when they were trying to kill me or weasel out of taking me to the Ice Capades.” She kissed his cheek, giggled and pushed a still arguing Spike out of the deserted building.

***

Sunday picked the strings of Bob Meat out of her teeth. Not that she’d got much Bob Meat, and even less Bob Blood. “You are such a selfish hog.”

She was in a bad mood. By the time Bob the Warlock had gotten through bringing her back from the dead and Rosamund had killed him and they’d had a big fight over who was going to get the biggest share of Bob blood, the sun had come up and they’d been stuck in Bob’s house all day.

Mrs. Warlock showed up around noon, but ran off when a ravenous Sunday answered the front door in vamp face. The bitch left the door open and they’d had to close the door with a mop handle to keep from getting torched. They’d revenged themselves on Widow Warlock’s clothes closet.

After rejecting and ripping up every item in Mrs. Warlock’s closet, except for a pair of red high heels of indeterminate manufacture, Rosamund pulled Bob’s flannel shirt off his corpse. “Put this on. You can’t run around Sunnydale naked.”

“Why not? And, hey, hungry here? Been dead for two months? Hungry as a fledge? I could eat a Senior Citizen.” Sunday put on the flannel shirt and curled her lip. She’d looked less Fashion Challenged when she was dust.

“Tough. I ate Bob. So, bite me.”

Rosamund opened the cabinet where Bob had stored the Mason jar with her money in it. She dropped the jar into the sink to smash it, then sprayed the baggie with water to rinse off the holy water. She touched the bag with the tip of her finger, burnt herself, cursed, then used a pair of Mrs. Warlock’s new OXO salad tongs to extract the money.

“Hey, give me some of that,” Sunday said.

“Fuck no. Steal your own. Sun’s down. Let’s get out of here. I’m still hungry. Warlocks – no one can eat just one.”

Sunday followed Rosamund out of the house. “Bitch, that’s my line.”

“Don’t follow so close. I don’t want anyone to think I’m related to you. You look like a skank in that outfit.”

“You should have brought me some of your own damn clothes before you raised me, shithead.”

“As if. Is there any decent shopping in this stink hole town?”

“Let’s go to the mall. We can grab a bite at the Food Court, then shop while they drop.”

“No way. I saw the mall on my way into town. It’s a dump. Let’s go to that Goth shop I saw when I was stealing all that overpriced warlock junk to revive you.”

They jumped into the stolen Miata and headed to the main shopping area.

Sunday touched the cross burn on her cheek where Bob’s cross scorched her when she was attacking him. The cross burned her fingers, too, when she’d ripped the chain from Bob’s neck. Since when did a warlock get off wearing a cross? “Shit. That hurts. I told you not to fuck with Bob because Bob’s a warlock, but Nooooo. I’m going to eat Bob and get my money back. Slut.”

Rosamund floored the accelerator on the Miata and roared through two red lights. She made a sharp, right turn onto Center Street, barely missing a traffic island before ramming a row of parked cars, setting off alarms and leaving a trail of flying bumpers behind her.

“You’re an ingrate, sister dear. Watch this.” She selected a juicy target – a brand new silver Lexus with a moon roof. She clipped the front end of the Lexus. The car’s air bag exploded and it shrieked its alarm, blew its horn and flashed its lights. She shifted into third gear and circled around the block to get up speed.

“Quit fucking around, Rosie. I’m hungry,” Sunday whined.

“Why oh why oh why did I bring you back to unlife, you major skag? I was happy. I killed the owner of a Manhattan apartment with rent control. I was enjoying an all expenses trip to Mexico on the owner’s major credit cards. I had all the cute girls I could drink. Fab clothes, fab shoes, fab girls and what happens? My cunt sister says to herself – Gee, I have nothing better to do. Let me fight the Slayer and see where that gets me.”

“Screw you, bitch. I nearly had her. Little whore threw a stake at me from fifty yards.”

“Not the way I heard it. I heard that she took out all your minions and she kicked your ass for stealing her stuff.”

Rosamund revved the engine and drove straight for the glass entrance of Hank’s Hardware. She crashed the Miata through the windows, spraying glass and metal in every direction as humans ran and dived for cover to avoid being hit. Not satisfied with that destruction, she backed up the car and bounced it off an exceptionally ugly statue of former Mayor Wilkins. “Oh, Sun, look at the little humans. They’re afraid of the Big Bad Car.”

Sunday snickered. “Maybe they should be afraid of something else.” Sunday kicked her car door loose with her feet. She was wearing Bob’s boots. They were gross – shitkicker brown with red and green plaid laces to match his red and green plaid flannel shirt that she was also wearing. She should have grabbed some of Mrs. Warlock’s clothes before Rosamund barbequed them on Mrs. Warlock’s Jenn Aire stove. She needed new clothes yesterday, but first she had to make up for lost time.

“Let’s go to the Fish Tank and get a drink. I’m thirsty.” Bob hadn’t had nearly enough blood for two vampires to share and Rosamund, the hog, had already eaten. Sunday smelled fresh blood on her sister’s breath the moment she’d come back to consciousness in Bob’s kitchen.

“Let’s go to that Goth clothing store so I don’t have to be caught dead with a fashion-impaired reject like you.”

Sunday sighed. “I wouldn’t be so thirsty if you hadn’t guzzled so much of Bob.”

Rosamund pulled her vamp face on a couple of little boys who were throwing pebbles at some pigeons that were roosting on the Mayor’s statue. The boys screamed and ran away. “Consider it the vig on the two grand you owe me for reviving your pitiful excuse of an unlife. We have to shop first. You can’t kill anyone looking like that.”

***

Buffy stepped around Mayor Wilkins’ statue and around the crumpled remains of a black Miata, her fuchsia, pointy-toe, lace-up ankle boots crunching on a thick layer of glass. For once, a problem that didn’t require Slayer aptitude.

Spike tagged after her, sniffing the air. Huh, Rosamund was here, and Sunday, too. He’d heard that Buffy slayed Sunday a few weeks ago, but he was certain she was here now. The Twinks smelled alike – Chanel No. 5 and cemetery dirt. Well, no worries. He’d take care of both of them for Bob. He lit up a cigarette and put his arm around Buffy’s waist.

“Taking you shopping is a bad idea,” Buffy said. “I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s almost as bad as you being my husband or whatever the hell you are.” She sniffed her daisies.

“I’m your mate, luv. The wild animal waiting to drag you back to his lair and ravage you into matey oblivion.” He pulled her closer and copped a feel.

Buffy forced herself to shrug off Spike’s arm. “I knew it. I knew you had a lair.”

Spiked grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the XXXtra Spicy Video and Adult Toys Store. “Let’s go in here.”

She jerked her hand away. It was getting harder and harder to pull herself out of Spike’s grasp. Holding his hand, cuddling in his arms, just walking along next to him felt beyond comfortable, it felt – right. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She couldn’t allow herself to get in any deeper with Spike, which is exactly what would happen if she allowed him free rein to touch her and pet her. Except when they were having sex, of course.

“No sex toys and no dirty movies. We’re not shopping for you. You’re only here so I can keep an eye on you. I have to buy some leather pants to fight in. Do you think it’s too much of a cliché for a Slayer to wear black leather?”

Spike grinned. “Depends on how tight those pants are.”

Buffy headed for Demonia, the Goth clothing shop.

***

Sunday held up a pair of leather pants. “Do you think it’s too much of a cliché for a vampire to wear black leather?”

Rosamund held up a red leather dress that was cut to the navel. “Doesn’t matter in your case. You always look like a skag.”

“What about this?” Sunday showed Rosamund a purple leather mini-skirt with torn black lace sewn into the seams.

Rosamund scoffed. “Gee, that will look great on those fat hips of yours. Mooooo.”

“Screw you,” Sunday said. She grabbed a stack of skirts, bustiers and pants in black and shades of red and violet and tossed them on the counter where a pudgy teenaged girl with dyed black hair and charcoal stripes of eyeliner around her eyes, was fussing with the cash register.

The girl, who called herself Arachnida, which was way cooler than her older sister’s name, Tarantula, and also cooler than her own real name which was Jennifer, picked at the silver ring in her belly button. The piercing was red and slightly infected. She’d taken a job at the store three weeks ago. She figured it would be a good place to pick up guys that her mother wouldn’t approve of. “Will that be cash or charge?”

Sunday rippled into her vamp face. “That will be free.”

Arachnida screamed and ran to the back door.

Sunday leaped over the counter and tackled the girl. She choked the thrashing girl, snarled and lowered her fangs.

Rosamund came out of the dressing room wearing a tangerine-leather corset and a pair of burgundy knee pants. “Don’t kill her yet, moron. She has to take off the security tags.”

Sunday edged the trembling girl closer to the counter and shoved her next to the security removal device. Tears streamed down Arachnida’s face and she whimpered in terror. Her mascara ran down her face in black streaks.

Sunday massaged the girl’s shoulders, then her flabby breasts. “Don’t cry, baby. I’m not going to bite you. Well, I am going to bite you. But, in case I decide to turn you into a vampire, you might want to know that Maybelline makes some very good waterproof mascara in Devil Black.”

Arachnida cried and fumbled with the clothing, removing the security tags. When the she reached the last pair of pants, she threw them in Sunday’s face and tried to run. Rosamund caught her and shoved her back to Sunday. The twin vampires shoved the sobbing clerk back and forth between them.

The girl screamed.

Chapter 13 – Something in Common



The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Skelton on Ure, January 9, 1901 - I’m happy to report that the events of January 2, described previously, have sharpened the Slayer’s appetite for hunting and exterminating vampires to such an extent that no reports of vampires in the entire county reached my notice for a week before we traveled to London for the season.

Oddly, I note that Lady Vicky’s appetite for food and drink and revolting ditties (this evening I was treated to her off-key rendition of The Giggling Girl from Guernsey) after her Slaying duties are completed for the night, have also increased. It has become my primary task to see that she has a sustaining meal waiting when we return from the darkened countryside and that she doesn’t awaken the servants with a rousing chorus of Hanging in Eastcheap is Too Good for the Likes of You.


***

Buffy snatched Spike’s cigarette out of his mouth, pitched it to the sidewalk and crushed it under the pointy toe of her boot.

“Bloody hell, woman. You won’t let me steal or bite or kill. You’ve killed all my minions. You might at least let me smoke a damn fag. Why did you drag me on this sodding trip if I’m not going to have any fun?”

“You came so I could keep you from drinking your dinner.”

“Right, then. How about a bite and quick shag, luv? The park’s nice and dark. If you don’t fancy standing up, the Ladies’ Loo in the Fish Tank has a comfy couch. You can sit in my lap and give me a dance.”

Why had she brought him? This idea of keeping track of Spike seemed stupider by the moment. Was a Loo the same as the Ladies’ Room? And, how did Spike know what kind of couch was in the Ladies’ Room? She had no trouble believing that he was intimately acquainted with the Fish Tank.

They reached Demonia, the Goth store, and Buffy stopped to look at the outfits in the display windows.

“You really buy your Slayer outfits in this place? Doesn’t exactly seem stylish enough for you,” Spike said.

“Goth stuff is heavy duty. Stands up better to Slaying wearage and tearage. You know when I’m dusting vampires?”

“You mean when you’re killing all my friends.”

“Cause you have so many.”

Buffy was examining the clothes displayed in Demonia’s window when Spike disappeared. He was nearby, she could feel his presence through the claim, but he was supposed to be where she could watch him at all times and she could prevent any Unscheduled Biting Incidents.

She scanned the shadowy park and saw nothing but a couple of freckle-faced boys with grimy hands trying to climb the mayor’s statue and a Sunnydale Streets and Sanitation worker hooking up the destroyed car to a wrecker.

She was about to head into the park to see if Spike was lurking in the bushes, when she heard a woman scream. Buffy raced in the direction of the scream – inside Demonia.

Sunday -- and another Sunday -- were vamped out and shoving a teenaged girl between them. The duplicate Sunday must be the twin sister that Willy told her about. Buffy didn’t understand how Sunday had reappeared after the thorough dusting she received last September at Buffy’s stake, but Buffy was prepared to send her right back to Hell where she belonged.

Buffy tossed down her patrol bag and leaped over the sale bin as Sunday and her twin turned to see who was interrupting their game.

“Shit,” said Sunday. “I told you we should have gone to the Food Court first. I wanted to save the Slayer for dessert. Oh, where are my manners, Rosamund, this is the Slayer. Slayer – My sister, Rosamund. The Slayer killed me the last time around. Guess you two have something in common, since Rosamund killed me the first time.” She tossed the store clerk against the nearest wall and allowed her to scamper out of the store.

“Gee, Rosie, I hate to kill you after we’ve just met. Don’t know how I’ll be able to live with myself.” Buffy’s eyes flicked around the store for weapons. To her horror, the store was entirely fitted out in metal – metal racks, counters, clothes hangers – everything. Not a piece of wood in sight. “Damn, no wood. Guess I’ll just have to rip your heads off with my bare hands.”

Sunday shoved over a rack of clothes to give herself fighting room. “I hate to kill you while you’re wearing that jacket, Slayer. Did your Mom loan it to you? It’s sort of a Class X Fashion Felony.”

While Sunday was yapping and flexing her legs, Rosamund was creeping around to Buffy’s left.

“You know, Sunday. I think I like your sister much better than you. She keeps her mouth shut. Kinda prettier than you, too.”

“We’re twins, you dumb bitch,” Sunday said. She shifted into a fighting stance and raised her fists.

Buffy cocked her fists and moved with caution, staying outside of Sunday’s reach, turning to keep Rosamund from sneaking up behind her. She bent her knees to keep her body mass low and stable and planned her attack. This would be a tough fight. She’d had a hard time beating Sunday the first time. Sunday was quick and brutal, but Buffy knew her fighting style – some sloppy karate moves and straight-up boxing punches with a few predictable kicks and back hands.

She knew nothing about Rosamund or her fighting abilities, but assumed the twins had fought as a team before and would combine their skills to their best advantage.

She was going to need a really good pun when this fight was over.

Buffy stepped in with her right for the first punch, slamming her fist into Sunday’s gut and following with a left to her jaw. Her fist glanced off as Sunday brought up her right and punched Buffy in the eye.

After a quick roundhouse kick to Sunday’s right kidney, she grabbed Sunday’s fist as it flew towards her face, and tossed Sunday into a mirror, shattering the glass. “Bad luck, Sunday. In your case, it won’t last seven days.”

Sunday jumped up and cart-wheeled back to the fray, kicking Buffy in the head before landing on her feet. The blow stunned Buffy, who stumbled forward. Sunday grabbed Buffy’s shoulders and tossed Buffy on the floor.

As Sunday leaped onto Buffy to crush her, Buffy bent her legs, caught Sunday in the belly with her boots and catapulted her over the cashier counter. Buffy rolled to one side and sprang to her feet.

While Sunday had been holding her own, Rosamund stayed back. Now that Sunday was temporarily down, she picked up a metal pipe from a broken clothes rack and cracked Buffy on the skull. Buffy staggered, grasped a clothes rack and sent it flying in Rosamund’s direction. Rosamund dodged the rack, giving Buffy time to snatch a heavy metal chain from the belt display.

Buffy whipped the chain in the air, swung it in a circle over her head and caught Rosamund’s pipe as she brought it down again on Buffy’s head. The chain spun around the pipe, Buffy jerked on the chain and sent the pipe flying.

Sunday had recovered by this time and she and Rosamund grabbed Buffy by the arms and tossed her through the store’s plate glass display windows, sending Buffy, mannequins and leather clothes sailing out into the street. Buffy landed in the glass shards and slid ten feet, cutting and scraping herself in a dozen places and ramming her head into a parking meter.

The twins jumped through the shattered window and danced around Buffy.

“Are you going to fight, Slayer or screw around?” Rosamund asked. “I’ve got shit to do. Got to steal a new car for one thing. My last one got damaged. Got to catch the Late, Late Show with that cute devil Spike, too. Caught a sniff of him just now.”

Spike? What did this skank have to do with her mate?

Buffy staggered to her feet and shook her head to clear her brain. “Leave Spike alone.”

She tackled Rosamund first, slamming her with her fists, hard - hard - harder, then socked her neck. While Rosamund buckled to the floor from Buffy’s fierce blows, Buffy attacked Sunday. She threw Sunday in front of a passing bus. The bus swerved and rammed into a fire hydrant, which burst open and soaked Sunday. Buffy ran back into the store to get a stake from her bag.

The noise from the fight attracted a crowd, several security guards and a herd of small boys. A couple of Sunnydale cops, who had previously been minding their own business and directing the removal of the wrecked Miata by a couple of men from Streets and Sanitation, were forced to investigate.

“Rosamund,” Sunday whined, “Look what the Slayer did. My hair’s wet. Kill her.”

Rosamund jerked Sunday away from the gushing hydrant. Surveying the crowd of lookie-loos, cops, guards and other interfering types that were assembling, she decided it was time to leave.

“Let’s get out of here. Kill you later, Slayer,” she called out. The twins ran, limping and shrieking down the street.

By the time Buffy ran back with her stake to finish off the vampire twins, Spike had reappeared. A red-lace brassiere trailed out of one coat pocket and the other bulged with video tapes he’d swiped. A security guard from XXXtra Spicy Video and Adult Toys Store was trailing Spike and talking into his walkie-talkie. The security guard grabbed Spike’s sleeve and released him just as quickly when Spike flashed his vamp face. Spike shook off his vamp face and strolled over to the hydrant where Buffy was washing blood off her face and picking bits of glass out of her arms and hands.

“Finished shopping, pet? Good. Let’s go and get you some ice for that eye.” Spike laid his cool fingers over Buffy’s swollen eye.

Spike’s hand felt good, nice and cool like he always did. “Might as well, there weren’t any good sales,” she said. “You know, I may have to re-think that whole leather thing. What do you think about tactical rip-stop nylon battle dress uniforms? Tommy Hilfiger makes my size in black, woodland camo or shell pink.”

“Nylon’s a little hot for southern California. Doesn’t bother me, being room temperature, but you might want to consider the traditional all-cotton ninja gear. Only comes in black, though. Shows every bit of vampire dust and your more viscous demon snot, too.”

A few blocks away, Cleotus skidded to a stop on his motorcycle in time to catch Rosamund and Sunday running, squeaking and dripping, into the night.

He revved the engine. “You ladies need a lift?”

***

“You know, Slayer,” Spike said, pausing to take a slug from his bottle. “I’ve been going about this all wrong.”

They were back in the pub and Buffy was sprawled comfortably against Spike. Spike stroked her hair. As he’d predicted, the claim was working on the Slayer. She’d cozied right into his arms tonight on her own. He hadn’t even had to request a dose of potion from the new bartender – the third new bartender this week.

What the hell happened to Bob the Warlock? Bob was going to owe him some dosh as soon as he took out the twin birds. Buffy nearly cut him out of the tidy bit of cash tonight. He’d have to make sure she didn’t interfere with the Twins before he could kill them both.

“Going about what all wrong?” She should not be doing this, pressing against Spike, even though nobody was in the pub tonight that she knew except her former Cave Companions and that dope Parker. No snuggling Spike was bad. Hanging around with Spike was bad, even if she did have a really good excuse that she needed to keep him from killing people. Being mated to Spike was Bad Bad Bad. Except for the part where he brought her posies and was nice to her now instead of being a big fat jerk and threatening to kill her all the time. Oh, and the sex.

“Letting you go out fighting by yourself. It’s dangerous. Take tonight for instance. You got into that nasty brawl with those two trulls, Rosamund and Sunday. Didn’t even have your bleeding pointy sticks handy.”

Buffy frowned. Trulls? Were trulls anything like Sluts? “You know them?” Rosamund had challenged her over Spike, but Buffy hadn’t given her challenge much thought at the time other than to be incredibly pissed off, since she was busy getting the mucous beat out of herself by the Suck Sisters.

“Met them in New York City a few years back when Dru and I were on the outs. We shared a pad for a couple of nights in Soho before it got all trendy and upscale. The girls tag teamed me. Best shag of the decade. Not as good as you, of course.”

She didn’t think before slamming her fist into his nose. She’d forgotten that a punch to Spike’s nose could boomerang onto her own face. She clapped her hand on her nose, anticipating a sharp pain. Nothing happened.

Spike grabbed his nose, “Owww, Slayer! What the bloody hell did you do that for? Christ, that hurts.” He wiped away the blood and started to lick his fingers before he caught the look Buffy was giving him.

Her nose felt no pain, not even a twinge. It just felt noselike. She raised her fist to give Spike another poke, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

“I get it. My mate is a little bit jealous. Want me to take you home and show you what I did to the Twinks with my tongue? I nicked a bottle of champagne earlier. We can make a night of it.”

Buffy shoved him away. “I do not. I’m not having sex with you ever again. Ever. And, no champagne.” God only knew what Spike would get her to do if she drank champagne.

“Suit yourself,” he said. He had no intention of letting her get out of her Matey duties tonight. “Anyway, I was saying it’s dangerous for you to run about fighting every two-bit vampire that drags into Sunnyhell. You might get killed and if the claim was open, I might get killed too. I’d miss you, lamb, but I can’t go getting myself dusted just cause you get sloppy one night.”

Wait a minute. If the claim was open? Did that mean it could be closed? She’d just popped him in the nose and it hadn’t hurt like the last time. Was it possible to shut down the claim link? Could she close the claim or just Spike? She couldn’t let him know that she’d caught on to his lie about the claim, so she pretended to be irritated. “Could you get to the pointy, Spike?”

“I’ve decided that I’m going to help you patrol, you know, kill vampires, kick a little demon ass, fight evil, kill something. Protect my mate.”

Was there no end to the tricks Spike could come up with? “And, you’re all Justice League of a sudden because you’re afraid that you’ll get killed because of the claim.”

“Well, yeah. Also, you’re my sweet tiny mate, Goldilocks, and I can’t bear for anything evil to happen to you. Unless I do it to you myself.”

Chapter 14 – You Could Explain It To Me


The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

London, Crepuscule Place, January 19, 1901 - We traveled to London in a style most appropriate for an Earl and his family – first in his Daimler-Benz automobile to nearby Elsington and from the station to London in a private railway car. Lady Vicky has naturally spent previous winters at her father’s London townhouse on Crepuscule Place, (Crepuscule Place is less well known than Grosevnor Square, but more exclusive and more privately fashionable) but she was exceptionally excited about this visit. She is to come out this season and attend her first formal ball as an adult and marriageable young lady.

I should warn her that the frivolities of balls and other recreations will be cut short by her duties as Slayer and that marriage is not recommended due to the short life span to be expected of a Slayer, not to mention the complications of Slaying while properly attending to one’s husband’s needs), but I find myself unable to address these sorrowful subjects. The thought of my Slayer meeting a youthful death at the hands of some vile demon chills me until I can’t bear to speak of it.

***

Buffy went directly to the mansion as soon as school was out. Spike threw a fit when she threatened to drag him to school with her so she could watch him. She’d finally agreed to let him stay at the house after he swore, with blood and spit, that he wouldn’t bite anyone or otherwise wreak mayhem and refreshing violence, as he put it. She’d had to make a promise in return, to come to him as soon as her last class was over.

She also made a promise to herself. She was absolutely not going to have sex with Spike today, no matter what. She was not going to go all weak kneezy like she did last night, and the night before and every night since Spike vamp-napped her, and give in two nanoseconds after he licked her ear.

She was only staying at the mansion to make sure Spike behaved. Spike behavior was the only reason it was absolutely necessary to hurry back to the mansion before the sun went down.

When she got there, Spike was sitting on the bed, dressed only in his jeans, painting his fingernails.

“Hey, hottie,” she said. She stood in the doorway admiring Spike – nice chest, excellent abs, good arms and a handsome face as well as other admirable parts. If you had to have a mate, Spike was a hottie in the mate department.

“Took you long enough, Slayer. It’s too bloody quiet around here. As soon as it gets dark, what do you say we run over to the Bronze and dust a couple of fledges?”

Buffy tossed down her books, kicked off her shoes and crawled into the bed next to Spike. She really shouldn’t sit so close to him, because Spike plus Vicinity always equaled Sex Explosions, but she couldn’t help herself. She felt an irresistible pull to be next to him. It must be the claim.

“You want to take out vampires? Since when?”

Spike picked up her bare foot and massaged her toes. “Have to take out fledges from time to time. Thin the herd so the peasants don’t haul out their flamey torches and pricking pitchforks. Nasty thing an angry crowd.”

Mmmm, foot massage very good after wearing pink, strappy, high-heeled sandals all day.

She stretched out her other foot for equal treatment, but Spike decided that he’d rather paint her toenails black. He stuffed little blobs of cotton between her toes, stroked the polish on her big toe and blew on her nail. He’d found the cotton balls when he’d looked through her overnight bag to check out her knickers.

Buffy giggled. “That tickles.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing your homework, Little School Girl?” He painted the next toenail and traced his finger down the arch of his foot.

“Stop it, Big Bad. You’ll mess up my nails. I don’t want to do my homework.”

Spike blew on her toes and finished painting the nails before lifting her foot to his shoulder. He kissed and nibbled her inner calf and up her thigh. “And, what do you want to do this afternoon? Want to have a little fun with the Big Bad?”

“I want – stop that, Spike – I want to ask you a question.”

He nipped her harder. “What question?”

“Did you claim Drusilla? She was your girlfriend for a long time.”

Spike lowered her foot and rolled to the side of the bed with his back to her. “Where the hell is my bottle?” He found a half empty bottle of liquor under the bed and took a long swig. He took another swig. Talking about Drusilla required plenty of liquid libations of the intoxicating variety. “I didn’t claim her, but yeah, we were together for a long time.”

Buffy wanted to ask another question or ten about Drusilla, but for once, Spike didn’t seem to want to talk her ear into paralysis. Then, when she’d given up on getting a real answer, he spoke.

“I was with her from the beginning. Drusilla made me. She turned me into a vampire and brought me into Angelus’ family.”

“I thought Angel sired you.”

Spike lay back on the bed and held out his arm for Buffy to cuddle next to him. “No, it was Drusilla. She was too crazy to take care of me after I was turned, so Angelus took over.”

“But, you didn’t claim her?”

“Never wanted to. It wouldn’t have worked. Angelus wouldn’t have allowed it for one thing, and for another, she was so loopy, I couldn’t trust her not to do something crazy and get us both dusted. Besides, Dru was enchanted with her Daddy.” Buffy’s puzzled look told him that she didn’t understand. “Angelus? The siring claim? It’s complicated.”

“You could explain it to me.”

Spike took another drink. “Your sire controls you, warps you, feeds you, teaches you to hunt, tortures you if he feels like it, which Angelus always did. You’re completely dependent on him when you’re a fledge. If you have a good sire you survive, if not, if you have a sire like Drusilla, you won’t last until the morning sun. There’s a strong bond between a sire and a childe, one that can’t be easily broken unless one of them is dead, or another claim takes precedence.”

“Like a mating claim? Is that why you claimed me? To break away from Dru?”

Why should that thought hurt so much? He’d only claimed her as a trick, but she felt jealous and hurt at the thought that he might care for Drusilla, if only in his lame, vampire way.

“I never wanted to break away from my dark beauty. She was everything to me for a century.”

“Then, why?”

“Drusilla broke up with me because of you. She said I loved you and was lost to her. Actually, she said golden fishes were swimming around my head. Same thing in her book.”

“You don’t have a soul. You can’t love me.”

Spike tangled his fingers in her hair. “Who told you that bunch of crap? Your Watcher? I’ve half a mind to kick his arse. Course I can love you. Not saying I do, but I can. I’ll show you.” He held two fingers in front of her eyes. “Be in me.”

Buffy resisted and looked away. The first thing Giles trampled into her brain was to avoid being thralled by vampires, but she couldn’t resist long when Spike opened the claim.

Spike touched her chin gently with the tips of his fingers. “Don’t struggle. I won’t hurt you. Want you to see something.”

He held his fingers to her eyes, then turned them to his own.

She sank into his blue, sparkly eyes and suddenly she could experience Spike, his thoughts, his feelings, the love he had for Drusilla, the searing pain he endured when Drusilla left him. The fury that sent him flying back to Sunnydale. The fury that included killing her. And, something else, too. Something about her. She saw herself, naked, of course, standing in a twilight-blue shadow where even Spike couldn’t see her. She stepped into a golden ray of light. Goldfish swam around her head.

The thrall lasted a moment, then Spike released her. When Buffy was able to focus again, she saw tears trickling down Spike’s face. He had loved Drusilla. Maybe, he loved her still. But, maybe Drusilla wasn’t the only one he loved.

Still, there was the little matter of him coming back to Sunnydale to kill her that needed to be exorcised.

“You came back to Sunnydale to kill me.”

“Yeah. Wanted to get Dru back. Thought she might take me if I proved myself by eliminating her rival.”

Great, she was shackled to a lunatic vampire who wanted her dead so he could get back together with his ho-bag ex-girlfriend. And, who might also love her. “So, why’d you claim me, Spike?”

Spike grabbed her other foot and examined her unpainted nails. “Damned if I know, pet. Hold up those toes. Can’t have my mate walking around lopsided. Have you ever been to the dog races?”

***

Giles closed the cover of Sir Arthur’s journal with relief and some sadness. Sad that another Watcher’s Slayer had gone so far astray; he knew the heartbreak of a Slayer gone bad, but grateful that Buffy could be pried from the grasp of this fiend, William the Bloody, with so little trouble, before she became irrevocably bound to him.

His problem was how to approach her.

Buffy had never been fond of taking orders, from him or anyone else, and that characteristic was both her strength and her failing. Perhaps, he should inform Willow of the results of his research and allow her to give Buffy the key for extricating herself from this predicament. That would be the easy way out.

It would also be the path of a coward. Giles rewrapped the journal in its brown paper cover, sealed the covering with his Watcher’s signet ring and a few dribbles of hot, red candle wax and returned the journal to its hiding place.

He poured himself a fortifying glass of whiskey and dialed Buffy’s dorm room telephone number.

=====================

Thanks to everyone for their very kind and enthusiastic reviews. As always, the characters belong to Joss, or whoever he's sold them to for large residuals.


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Chapter 15 – A Hard Decision


The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

London, Crepuscule Place, January 20, 1901 - We had scarcely arrived in London twenty-four hours when Lady Vicky received an invitation to a ball being held by Lord Teansdale, a family whose lineage only traces back to Henry VIII and whose founding ancestor was considered to be somewhat of a rascal and a scapegrace. It is rumored that the original Lord Teansdale was granted a minor title for his willingness to participate in the King’s less than savory romps with young ladies.

I objected to Lady Vicky attending the ball due to the unsuitableness of the connection as well as the necessity of assuming her duties in London, but was overruled by her mother who stated, quite firmly, that she expected Vicky to acquire a husband before the season was out and that most desirable object could not be obtained if she “sat at home on her duff or spent her time cavorting after vampires until the wee hours.” Lady Vicky, who was a party to this conversation, threatened to sick Blotto, her mother’s Affenpinscher terrier, on me if I continued to thwart her efforts to “have a spot of fun.”


***

Giles assembled the entire group at the Magic Box for his confrontation with Buffy.

“Let’s make this fast,” Buffy said as she bounded into the Magic Box. “I’ve got stuff to do.” Spike to do, mostly. He’d been whining for her to visit him the entire day with visions of roses, chocolates, and startling sexual positions. She didn’t think she could hold out much longer against the power of the claim, although she’d been struggling valiantly, just to prove to Spike that she could, at least while the sun was out and he couldn’t come and get her and drag her back to his lair.

Spike had been calling her all afternoon through the claim. His messages started out more or less neutral – Get over here. I want you, baby. - then, pleading and sweet when he didn’t get his way – Come on, Buffy, luv, I’m waiting. - with images of pink rosebuds and promises of sexual delights she’d never dreamed of along with a physical buzz that forced her to fake a coughing fit and bail on Professor Walsh’s class so she could run to the Ladies’ Room and – relieve herself. Good thing Walsh was only rehashing her lesson from last week. Nothing important, just more crap about the Id. Id, id, id.

Buffy ignored all of Spike’s messages, Friendly, Pleading, Whining, Sulking. Then, he got angry – Slayer, get your ass over here – followed by Swearing and Tantrum. Ignoring someone talking in her brain wasn’t easy until, during Spike’s last message which could only be called an outburst of apocalyptic proportions, she suddenly discovered that yesterday’s nose popping event wasn’t a fluke. She could shut Spike out. She scrunched up her face and closed out her claim.

“What ever is the matter with your face, Buffy?” Giles asked. “You look positively dyspeptic.”

Buffy touched her forehead. Was she starting to get a vampire face from letting Spike sip her blood? No, still smooth. “Yes, dyspepsia is Buffy.” Whatever that was.

Anya flipped her feather duster over her favorite wooden statue of Frimwerst, an ancient Laplandish fertility god with a very large, erect penis. She couldn’t understand why this piece had not sold yet. It was an incredible bargain and very decorative, especially the penis part, which was painted bright red. Unfortunately, Frimwerst was taking up prime retail space and not performing its most important activity – getting himself sold at a handsome profit. “Can we stop worrying about Buffy and get this meeting over with? I can’t count the store’s money while you are all talking. The talking distracts me. Also, Xander promised we could play a new game tonight involving leather restraints and candle wax.”

“Anya, your ability to provoke astonishment never ceases to -- astonish,” Giles said.

Xander ignored Anya and continued sharpening a special stake for Buffy out of a nice piece of ash, primo wood of choice for vampire staking, that he’d found at a specialty lumber yard. He hoped Buffy would use it on Spike some day in the near future now that Dead Boy, Jr. was back in town.

Buffy plopped down at the table next to Willow and her new friend. What was the friend's name? Tina or Trinka or Tonya or Trixie or Tabitha or Trisha? “Why are we here? Are there new monsters in town?”

Giles removed his glasses and stared at the ceiling in an even more thoughtful and borderline pompous attitude than usual. “Old ones, actually. Buffy, it has come to my attention that William the Bloody claimed you as his Vampire Mate.”

Xander dropped the stake. Anya stopped dusting. Willow covered her face with her hands. New Girl looked confused.

“Will!” Buffy said. “You promised! I can’t trust my best friend to keep her mouth shut.” Spike was right – there did have to be blood, or at least spit, when it came to making promises. She picked the stake up off the floor. Hmm, ash wood. Giles had told her something about ash wood once, but she couldn’t remember what it was. She twirled the stake around her fingers. Needed more whittling to improve its balance.

“I’m sorry, Buffy,” Willow said. “I’m lower than a kisna worm’s underbelly feelers, but I had to tell Giles. I couldn’t find out anything to help you. He was your only hope.”

“You needn’t reprimand Willow, Buffy,” Giles said. “You should have informed me yourself.”

“This is so romantic,” Anya said. She picked up Frimwerst and cradled him in her arms and stroked him.

New Girl crooked her mouth into a shy smile as if she thought the idea of a Buffy-Spike mating might be romantic, too. She shuffled a deck of big, brightly colored cards under the table.

“What’s romantic about this?” Xander asked. “Buffy has been claimed or mated or hooked up with one of the most evil vampires in the history of demons and you think it’s romantic?” Sometimes his girlfriend’s thinking was impenetrable.

Anya smiled and resumed her dusting. “Oh, yes. Vampire mating claims are very romantic. The male vampire sweeps the female off her feet and right after penetration --”

“Penetration! There was penetration?” Xander said. “I’m going to have an attack involving something sudden and massive.” He clutched his chest.

“There has to be penetration. And, biting. The male bites the female and they take their vows and become eternal mates.” Anya sighed at the beauty of the ceremony. “Say, Buffy, would you and Spike enjoy receiving this hand-carved wooden statue of Frimwerst, an ancient Laplandish fertility god, for your wedding present?”

Buffy groaned. Frimwerst was beyond ugly. His penis was pointed right at her and glowing red, too.

“Anya, please, you’re sending me into a Hurl Dimension,” Xander said. “What is this claim, Giles? And, how do we break it? And, Buffster, what’s with you and Cold But Attractively Sinister Dead Guys?”

“Please be quiet, Xander and I will explain,” Giles said, “unless you would like to tell us exactly what transpired, Buffy?”

Buffy made Unhappy Face. Telling Giles and the gang exactly what transpired was exactly what she did not want.

“Fine. Anya’s account is essentially correct. A male vampire selects his mate, initiates sexual congress and prior to resolution of the, er, act, claims her with the statement, ‘Mine’ to which she must respond ‘Yours.’ That establishes the mating claim. In this case, Buffy took the incredibly thoughtless and immature action of allowing herself to become the victim of Spike’s connubial interest.”

Everyone stared at Buffy except Anya, who was busy gift wrapping Frimwerst in some lovely silver and white-striped paper that she kept on hand for wedding gifts and demon matings.

Xander was the first to speak. He pointed at Buffy with a crooked finger. “You had sex with Spike?”

“Unnngh?” Buffy said, cringing.

“Spike bit you?”

Buffy nodded and scrunched her face up under Xander’s pointy cross-examination finger.

“Spike said ‘Mine’?”

She shrugged.

“Oh, man. I am really not going to want to hear what comes next. You said ‘Yours’?”

“I … I did.”

“It wasn’t Buffy’s fault,” Willow said. She felt a strong need to intercede for her friend after breaking her promise of secrecy. “It was that beer potion. Buffy was intoxicated when the whole thing happened and Spike tricked her. And, we’re her friends and we shouldn’t just bungie to conclusions.”

Anya stuck her best loopy, silver bow on top of Frimwerst’s head. She felt very pleased with herself for getting rid of Frimwerst so easily. She could use the space to sell something else and take Frimwerst off the books as a shoplifting loss. She handed the package to Buffy. “Of course it was Buffy’s fault. The claim won’t work unless the parties involved love and admire each other and want the claim to happen. It’s a mystical, true love thing.”

There was another long silence.

Buffy’s heart raced. The claim wouldn’t work unless Spike loved her and she loved Spike? Anya was rarely wrong on the finer points of demons, vampires, magicks or romance. After Buffy toured Spike’s brain, she could accept that Spike might, without even knowing it, love her. But, could she possibly be in love with Spike? Something gold and fish shaped sparkled at the corner of her eye. She batted it away with her hand.

Giles put his glasses back on, folded his handkerchief and placed it back in his pocket. “Be that as it may, as long as Buffy does not return the claim by biting Spike and initiating her own declaration of possession, the claim will expire at midnight on the next full moon.”

“Thank goodness,” Willow said. “How did you find out? Did you call the Council? Did they know what to do?”

“I did not contact the Watcher’s Council. They are not to know about this development. I have private sources that persons outside the Council are not permitted to access. Now, Buffy, after Spike claimed you, what happened?”

Giles probably didn’t want to hear about her First Awesome Sexual Experience With Another Person. “We, uh, I mean, Spike … uh … like you said, he initiated.”

“Initiated what?”

Buffy jabbed the stake in her hand up and down a few times to give Giles the picture. “Then, he bit me a little.”

“I see. Did you bite Spike during the, er, ceremony?”

Buffy thought hard. She was pretty sure she’d been too weak from Overwhelming Sexual Bliss to move or even talk at that moment, let alone do any biting. “I don’t think so.”

“Good. And, did you say the word ‘Mine’ to Spike?”

She had no idea. “No. No words, just … uh.” Orgasm Tsunami.

“That’s fine. What day did this claiming occur?”

“A week ago Tuesday.”

Giles got up to examine the Winder’s Magic Supply Calendar on the wall behind the counter. “The claim will expire at midnight on Friday night when the full moon reaches its apex. Buffy, you must make certain that you are nowhere near Spike on Friday night and the claim will extinguish itself.”

While Giles was fiddling with the calendar, New Girl fanned out the deck of cards and held them out for Buffy. Buffy picked a card. It had a picture of a man and woman facing each other and holding silver cups. New Girl smiled and blushed.

Anya was not pleased. “She can’t. Buffy can’t let the claim expire. I’ve given her the traditional wedding gift. Besides, she accepted the claim and she should stand by her vamp. She’s in love with Spike and he’s in love with her. If they weren’t in love, the claim wouldn’t take. And, think of the money she’ll save on batteries.”

Xander patted Anya’s hand. “Don’t worry, An. Buffy will give Frimwerst back when she divorces Spike.”

Buffy frowned. Divorce? That was one word that she didn’t like to hear, especially when associated with her own name.

“Giles,” said Anya, “We should start a bridal registry. Buffy can be our first bride.” Anya whipped out a yellow pad and a Flair. “China? We have a lovely five-piece place setting bone-white with silver good luck charms and –”

“Anya, you and Buffy can discuss her china pattern later. We need to discuss methods for – containing – Spike’s enthusiasm for bloodsucking until the claim can be dissolved.”

“Oh! oh!” Willow said. “Spike is totally bloodsucking contained. Buffy moved into his lair so she could watch him. Also, he likes to drink Slayer blood.” She smiled at Buffy as if informing Giles that Buffy was shacking up with a vampire was good news.

Giles drew out a chair and sat down in what could almost be described as a flop. He pinched the top of his nose. “Close the shop, Anya, and you may all leave. Quickly. Not you, Buffy.”

As she was leaving, New Girl squeezed Buffy’s hand, “Best wishes, Buffy. Hecate’s blessings on your wedding.”

Giles glared at New Girl. She scurried out the door, leaving Buffy to face Wrath of Giles alone.

“I’m sorry I had to confront you, Buffy, but I wanted to make sure you and the entire group understood the dangerous situation in which you find yourself. Are you really shacking up with Spike?”

While Giles herded the others out, Buffy thought hard. So far, she hadn’t been in any danger at all. Spike had never hurt her, had protected her from more emotional baloney from that creep Parker, gave her flowers, introduced her to his poker buddies and actually asked her out on a date, even if it was only to the dog races, which – weird much? Still, being asked out on a real date was pretty rare. The extent of Parker dating had been one foam latte with chocolate sprinkles. Her real last date had been with Angel, who took her to a Triple X-rated movie and got her all hot and bothered to no purpose. And, excepting the possible, but not proven, killing of the bar owner, who every one admitted had it coming to him, Spike hadn’t killed anyone since they’d mated. Maybe he wasn’t quite as wicked as everyone made him out to be?

“You’re telling yourself that perhaps our information is wrong, and that Spike is not as bad as we’ve been told. I contacted my most reliable and discreet source in the Council. Maynard assures me that Spike is as bad as they come. In terms of evil, death, mayhem, violence and pure wickedness, Spike is exceeded only by Angelus.”

“Oh,” Buffy said. So much for Spike as a Not So Bad Boy.

“I want your solemn promise that you will let this claim expire, Buffy, and that you will do your duty once you’ve extricated yourself. You will be putting yourself and all of us in great danger if you accept Spike’s claim. An accepted mating claim is permanent. There will be no way out for either of you, once it’s accepted.”

No way out? No divorce? No being dumped by your husband when you got a little old and fattish and some trophy secretary came along? That sounded pretty attractive.

But, no. She couldn’t. No matter how comfortable she’d become in Spike’s company, no matter how attractive the thought of never being dumped again, she shouldn’t accept the claim. But what if she was secretly in love with him?

“What about what Anya said, that we’re in love, even if we don’t know it. What if she’s right and I really do love Spike and he loves me?”

“Anya is very clever, but she doesn’t know everything there is to know about vampires and what she does know is merely anecdotal. No such mystical, secret love connection exists. If you were in love with Spike, you’d certainly be aware of your condition. As for Spike, he’s a vampire. He doesn’t love anything or anyone, with the possible exception of himself. Please give me your promise, Buffy.”

Tears welled up in Buffy’s eyes. Giles was wrong about Spike. She’d held him when he’d cried and told her about how Drusilla dumped him. He’d let her see into his heart, dead though it was. Spike could love. And, he might even love her, in that special shadow place in his heart that he kept secret even from himself.

Her own feelings had shifted around quite a bit since a week ago Tuesday. Also, there were goldfish. The goldfish didn’t matter. She had to do the best thing for everyone. She had to get Giles off her back.

“I’ll do what I have to.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I know you won’t disappoint me, any more than you already have. In the meantime, I think it best that you stay away from Spike altogether. Let me know as soon as this nightmare is over."

Stay away from Spike?

Buffy left the shop and headed home. She wanted to see her Mom and talk to her, maybe not about Spike, but Comforting Mom Talk was definitely required today.

The shop’s bell was still ringing after Buffy closed the door, when an older man, dressed in olive-green and gray tweed suit, stepped into the shop from the back room.

“Interesting conversation, Rupert. What precisely is it that you are determined to keep from the Council?”

Giles closed his eyes. Could this day get any worse? “Quentin. Snooping as usual, I see.”

Chapter 16 – Heart to Heart



The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

London, Sidhe Square, No. 32B, January 20, 1901- I chaperoned Lady Vicky to Lord Teansdale’s ball, and despite my initial forebodings, was pleased to find that she was the most handsome and popular young lady at the party and that her dance card was full the entire evening. I was less pleased when I saw her singled out for several dances by the present Lord Teansdale, a gentleman of twenty-eight years, according to Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage, who has recently assumed the family title and his inheritance after the sudden and somewhat mysterious death of his older brother. Teansdale’s marked attentions to my Slayer will certainly single her out for comment by the old harpies that always attend these occasions for the dual purposes of cheating at cards and gossip.

I will make it my business to further investigate this youthful branch of the questionable Teansdale family tree before he insinuates himself any further with my Slayer.


***

Spike climbed out of the sewer and raced to the door of Stevenson Hall before his coat could catch on fire. He ran up the stairs and pounded on the door of Buffy’s dorm room.

“Open up, Slayer!” he shouted. “I know you’re in there!”

A couple of students stuck their heads out of their rooms to see what the yelling was about. When they saw Spike’s vamp face, they pulled their heads back and slammed and locked their doors.

Spike banged on the door again. He had no idea if Buffy was in her room or not, because somehow she’d figured out how to shut down the claim. When she didn’t answer, he kicked the door in. The room was empty.

Hell. She wasn’t here.

Since he’d gone to the trouble of coming out in the flamey middle of the day, he might as well have a spot of fun. He sniffed out Buffy’s bed and side of the room and began ripping through her clothes closet, sniffing her things. Slayer smelled good. He opened a chest of drawers and pulled out her tiny knickers. He sniffed them and stuck a couple in his coat pocket. He pulled a couple of the drawers out and threw them on the floor. He was evil, after all. Then, he spotted her answering machine.

He pushed the button to play the messages.

“Message 1 – Buffy, this is Angel. Spike was in town trying to get the ring back. I destroyed the ring. He’s in a bad mood and he could be headed your way. Thought you’d like to know." Beep.

“Ponce. Has his nerve checking up on me and tattling to Buffy.” Spike hit the delete button.

“Message 2 – Buffy, hey, this is Parker. I thought, you know after last night, maybe we could get together. How about tonight? Call me." Beep.

“Not bloody likely, you nit.” Delete.

“Message 3 – Hi Buffy, it’s Mom. How about dinner tonight? You can bring your laundry." Beep.

“Huh. Buffy’s mum. Maybe she’s over there. Not that visiting your mum was nearly a good enough excuse for avoiding your mate.” He hit the skip button.

“Message 4 – Hey, Buffy, it’s Riley. Would you like to study at the library tonight? We could have coffee later. Give me a call." Beep.

“Christ on a crutch. Is the Slayer running a dating service? Every horny son of a bitch on campus is calling her.” He ripped the machine cords out of the wall and tossed the machine through the window.

Suddenly, the claim reopened. Slayer was at her Mum’s. She was still ignoring him and she would have to be punished. He picked up the phone and dialed.

***

Buffy curled up on the sofa next to her Mom. The credits for an incredibly sappy Alice Faye movie, Tail Spin, her mother’s favorite, rolled. Buffy yawned and got up. Okay, she was a coward. She’d been sitting here for eighty-four minutes without telling Mom about Spike. “Guess I’d better be going.”

Where should she go? She wanted to go to Spike. He’d been calling for her the entire evening, but Giles, the gang, everyone would be mad at her if she went to him and blabbermouth Willow would be sure to blab about what she was doing. Besides, her heart would only hurt worse, when the full moon came and the claim expired and she and Spike went back to being enemies.

“I’m so glad you stopped by for a visit, honey. I know how much you enjoy Alice Faye movies.”

“Ungh. Not exactly.” She might lie about a lot of things, but she drew the line at Faux Alice Faye Appreciation.

“Right. Now we have that out of the way, let’s go into the kitchen and imbibe ritual hot chocolate while you tell me what’s wrong. Miniature rainbow marshmallows?”

“There have to be little marshmallows. Nothing’s wrong. Since when can’t a college girl visit her mother without an ulterior basket of dirty laundry? I just wanted to see my favorite Mom.” Buffy settled at the kitchen island and propped her face on her hands.

Joyce scooted Buffy’s mug and spoon in front of her. “Since never. So, what’s Mr. Nothing’s name?”

“How do you do that, the whole Psychic Mom thing?”

“It’s a special upgrade installed on the day you were born. Can’t leave the hospital without it. What’s wrong, Buffy? You can tell your old mom. I vaguely remember something about boys and girls being interested in each other.”

“Spike. You met him.”

Joyce frowned. “Spike? The one who plays drums in a band? Or, was it a triangle?”

Boy, the lies just keep coming back to bite you on the neck. “He doesn’t play drums. He’s a vampire. You hit him on the head with an axe on Parent Night.”

“He’s a vampire.” Joyce chewed that thought over for a minute. And, then another minute. “I thought he had a girlfriend or a wife or something?”

“Drusilla. She’s a vampire, too. She dumped him.”

“Oh.”

“Mom? You won’t get mad?”

“Well, yes, I probably will get mad, but I’ll get over it.” She took Buffy’s hand and squeezed it. “You can tell me, whatever it is. Then, I’ll have a big explosion and we’ll deal.”

Buffy believed her mother was going to have a big explosion all right and as for dealing – it seemed unlikely that Mom could help her deal with this Spike-sized problem. “Spike kinda married me with a Vampire Mating Ritual thingie when I was … sleeping.”

Joyce blinked.

Mom blinked? That was the big explosion she’d been worried about?

“Okay, Buffy. I thought we’d reached the point where I could predict any kind of trouble you could get in, but I see that you’ve opened up new vistas of trouble. I’m sure I’m going to regret asking, but what’s a Vampire Mating Ritual?”

Buffy sniffled. “You’re making fun of me. This is wicked serious.”

“I thought I was dealing pretty well considering I just found out my daughter married a vampire without telling me.”

“It wasn’t a white dress, flowers and a limousine ride at midnight to the Elvis Chapel in Las Vegas kind of wedding. It was more like a car crash.” Tears sneaked out of the corners of Buffy’s eyes, but she brushed them away before Joyce could see them.

Joyce got up and handed Buffy a tissue. “I don’t want to know how this happened, do I?”

Buffy shook her head and blew her nose.

“So, when am I going to see my new son-in-law?”

Beads of sweat broke out on Buffy’s upper lip. This was not the reaction she expected. Not at all. “You want to see Spike? Here? In the house? With Company Plates?”

“I don’t think we’ll need company plates. He drank out of an everyday mug the last time he was here.”

“Great, Spike’s already an Everyday Plate Husband. The claim isn’t even completed and he’s wormed his way onto my mother’s Everyday Plate List.”

Joyce frowned. “The claim isn’t completed? Am I missing some significant detail here?”

“The wedding thing, the claim, it’s only half done. Spike claimed me and I accepted his claim, but to make the claim permanent, I have to claim him back by Friday night. Otherwise, the claim expires and it’s Divorce Undead-American Style.”

“So, this is really more of a Vampire Shack Up than real marriage.”

“I guess.” It didn’t feel that way. It felt entirely nuptial.

“Does Spike have a real name? I can’t see myself calling my son-in-law Spike.”

“William. His name is William.”

Joyce nodded. “William’s a nice name. Do you love William?”

Her mother really knew how to ask all the impossible questions. “I don’t know. I like being with him and sometimes he can be really nice and fun,” and sexy, he can always be sexy, “but he’s really bad. He’s like a monster. Actually, he isn’t like a monster. He is a monster.”

“Really. He seemed so sensitive that time he talked to me about his girlfriend.”

Sensitive? Spike?

“Anya says a vampire mating claim won’t take if the people involved don’t love each other, but I’m not sure if that’s true. And, I don’t want to be in love with a monster. I would know if I loved him, wouldn’t I?”

If only Spike had tricked her into returning his claim instead of just getting her to accept it, while she was zonked up on Cave Cola. Then, she wouldn’t have to think about any of this, because it would be too late. She could just enjoy being with Spike and not have to worry about all this stuff. And, she could blame Spike if their marriage turned out badly.

“I should be taking notes so I can make my own parenting tape. If the claim expires Friday night, what’s the problem? You can take time to find out how you feel about each other and if it doesn’t work out, go your own separate ways.”

Then, I’d be divorced like Mom. “I don’t want to put a husband notch in my belt when I’m only twenty. I don’t want to be divorced. Not ever.”

“Of course not, honey. Nobody wants to be divorced. But, you’re not exactly married.”

“I’m not sure I want the claim to go away. I have feelings for Spike. Maybe I am in love, and it’s not just a Mystical Mind Meld?”

“I’m sorry, Buffy. I don’t have an easy, Mother Knows Best Solution, but maybe you need to spend some time away from Spike. Give yourself a chance to think about what you want.”

Mom thought she should stay away from Spike, too. Buffy could ignore Giles’ recommendations easily enough, but Mom was sometimes right about things. Boy things, especially. Buffy found herself saying something she never thought she’d ever say. “Thanks, Mom. That’s good advice.”

“Great. So, when am I going to see my new son-in-law?”

***

Travers adjusted the new statue of Frimwerst that Anya had placed in the display cabinet before closing the shop. “Frimwerst. Wasn’t he the ancient Laplandish fertility god?”

Giles waved his hand. Travers was goading him, as usual. Every first year Watcher knew the provenance of Frimwerst. “Yes, of course.”

“Get much call for this sort of thing in California?”

“Frimwerst practically flies off the shelves. Very popular for wedding gifts.”

“Ah.” Travers turned the statute away so he wouldn’t have to look at the monstrous Frimwerst with his protruding penis while he was having an unpleasant conversation with Rupert Giles. Somehow conversations with Giles always turned out unpleasantly these days.

Giles had not turned out well as a Watcher, surprisingly, considering the fine reputations of his father and grandmother. Perhaps Giles had been contaminated from being in the States too long, absorbing the unrestrained cowboy attitudes of the Americans. He’d been too lenient with Miss Summers from the beginning, permitting her to run wild.

“Speaking of weddings,” Travers said, “I understand that Miss Summers has made herself a marital attachment of sorts.”

Giles squirmed. How much had Travers found out while he was eavesdropping? “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Buffy is an attractive young woman. She has many admirers.”

“No doubt, no doubt. Yet, I understood this relationship to be a rather special one.”

Giles drew himself up stiffly. “Are you spying on Buffy? On our activities here?”

Quentin smiled. “Are you surprised? Did you imagine that the Council would allow the Slayer to wing off on her own after the investment we’ve made in her? Not to mention her history of attracting admirers that are not, shall we say, completely suitable for someone in her position?”

“I assume you’re referring to Angel. He left town. He went to Los Angeles some time ago. Angel is history, as far as Buffy is concerned.”

“Yes, Angelus is history, however, William the Bloody is au courant. Shall we have a glass of that excellent single malt you keep hidden under the counter while we discuss what we’re going to do about our Slayer?”

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Chapter 17 – Dance the Night Away


London, Crepuscule Place, January 22, 1901 - Lady Vicky received a private note today. The note was conveyed in a secretive manner involving the use of a stable boy. The boy was too thick to obscure his delivery of the note and handed it to the Slayer in my presence. I was immediately suspicious and bribed Lady V.’s maid, with the payment of a shilling as hush money, to uncover the subterfuge. I learned that her Ladyship is receiving private correspondence from Lord Teansdale without permission from her father.

I must act.

***

Travers held his glass up to the light to admire the rich amber color of Giles’ single malt scotch. “Admirable beverage. One of the few tolerable things about visiting the States. Why don’t you tell me what kind of scrape Miss Summers has gotten herself into?”

“Who says Buffy has gotten herself into anything? She’s busy with her duties, attending school, making new friends. This is an important time in any young person’s life. She’s taking advantage of the opportunity to obtain an education, or what passes for one here in the States.” Giles lied smoothly. At one time, lying to Quentin Travers might have been difficult, but no longer.

“You opened the package.” Travers set his glass down and picked up the bottle and poured himself another generous drink.

Berk. Travers was drinking up all of Giles’ good scotch. He must remember to replace this bottle with something cheap and find a new hiding place for the good stuff. “You could only know that I opened the package, if you burgled my flat.”

For years, Giles had wondered how closely the Council kept an eye on him and their Slayer. He’d suspected he’d been watched or followed on several occasions, but had never caught anyone actively spying on him. His nervous feelings had increased during the debacle with Faith, but once she was in a coma, the feeling of being watched had eased off.

Now, he knew the truth. The Council never stopped watching them. Perhaps they were suspicious of a Slayer who fought on her own terms, refused to follow their petty rules and yet managed to outlive her predecessors by many years. They were certainly suspicious enough to break into his apartment to check on the package he’d been hiding since he came to Sunnydale.

Travers didn’t bother to directly answer Giles’ accusation or explain that burgling was not necessary when a small, discreet magic spell was available. He was Head of the Council. He didn’t answer to Field Watchers. Still, he preferred to get confirmation of the news he’d heard in a more or less friendly manner from the man who was ostensibly responsible for the Slayer’s behavior. “Does it matter?”

“I’m heartened to know how much trust you place in me, and in Buffy.”

“Why so self-righteous, Giles? You’re the one who broke trust with the Council and on more than one occasion. The instructions on Gosnard-Tisklin’s journal specifically state that you are required to notify the Council and receive written permission before opening it and examining the contents. You didn’t. I think I can say that my mistrust was not misplaced.”

Just because Giles had been caught opening that blasted package without permission, didn’t mean that he was about to blurt out any unnecessary information about Buffy’s activities. “My curiosity overcame my better judgment. My own great-grandmother …”

“Curiosity or desperation? I think the latter. Miss Summers is in trouble – possibly great danger – or you wouldn’t have violated Council secrecy rules. I know we’ve had our differences, Rupert, but it’s time to embrace our common mission. We are sworn to battle evil where we find it. We can’t do that if we’re at each other’s throats.”

Giles scoffed at Quentin’s posturing. “The mission wasn’t so important when you fired me. And, I find embracing the common mission a bit inconvenient when I’m expecting any moment to receive a shiv in my back.”

Travers refilled Giles’ glass and his own. “Hashing over past events serves no purpose. I assume you wish to help the girl, so why don’t you tell me how our Slayer came to be mated to one of the most notorious vampires in history?”

Giles sighed. So, Travers knew about the claim. “I don’t know the specifics. Buffy is no longer a young girl that I can bully about her personal life.”

“Is it certain that a claim has been effected?”

“It appears so.”

“Setting aside the unpleasant problem of having our Slayer under the control of William the Bloody, we have a unique opportunity here to study our enemy. Have you come to any conclusions about how or why such a thing is possible?”

Was I ever a cold-hearted bastard like Travers, so cold that’d I be able to put aside the personal danger to a young woman in order to study some thick-skulled, evil creature like Spike? He didn’t want to appear like a big girl’s blouse in front of Travers, so he kept that opinion to himself. “I have certain theories based upon the facts I know. I believe that vampires are attracted to Slayers, perhaps due to some vestige of human emotions that remain after their souls vacate and the demon takes over.”

“Impossible. Once the demon is established, no human characteristics remain. That was established conclusively by Purnell Lenox when he was Watcher for Bootsie Stoppard in the 20’s.”

Whatever a Watcher might tell his Slayer concerning the emotions of vampires in order to make her task lighter, the theories of Purnell Lenox had been categorically disproved in 1957 by the work of Pambaritha Guapta-Patel, the Council’s primary researcher and theorist at that time. It was just like Travers to cling to whatever unscientific balderdash he learned as a boy.

“Even if vampires have no emotions that we recognize, they have an immature fascination for the forbidden, the dangerous, the mysterious. What could be more forbidden and attractive to them, than the girl who is sworn to destroy their kind?”

“I suppose vampires might be attracted to a Slayer like a magpie is attracted to shiny objects,” Travers said.

“You are completely underestimating the intelligence, the animal cunning if you will, of a vampire of Spike’s maturity.” Aunt Nancy Travers probably never met an unrestrained vampire in his life.

“William the Bloody’s so-called intelligence doesn’t explain why he singled out Miss Summers for sexual intercourse and mating.”

“No, it doesn’t, but since there are now three known cases of vampires mating slayers, it seems unlikely that it is a coincidence. There must be some strong basis for a vampire to attempt to make such a claim. There may be a kind of mystical attraction between Spike’s vampire demon and the demon essence instilled in the Slayer when she was called.”

“And, what about the girl’s feelings? Has she displayed some personal interest in this creature?” Travers took out a nasty, green cigar, bit the end and spit it out. He lit up and ignored the look of revulsion on Giles’ face.

“Buffy is -- disturbed -- by the claim. Previously, she despised Spike. They were mortal enemies from their first meeting two years ago. Now, she appears to tolerate his presence.” She appears to be banging the vile bastard silly every chance she gets.

What a fool Giles was. How was it possible for him to be so blind after working with a Slayer for so many years? The sexual appetites of Slayers were legendary. All first-year apprentice Watchers tittered about it with their fellow Watchers. He’d be willing to risk two quid that the Summers girl was banging the vile bastard silly every chance she got. “Two years and Miss Summers has failed to exterminate this monster that she supposedly loathes. I believe you are deceiving yourself about your Slayer’s feelings.”

“Oh, please. Don’t try to put that old dodge off on me. Buffy is not secretly in love with Spike. Just the opposite. And, frankly, I don’t care what Spike feels, or if he feels. Fortunately, I read Sir Arthur’s journal in time. The claim will expire on Friday night and Buffy has promised to take the necessary steps at that time.”

“She will kill the vampire?”

“Yes. Certainly. I have no doubts on that point. Buffy has always done her duty. She won’t shirk on this occasion either. She won’t hesitate because some personal discomfort may be involved.”

Travers chewed on his cigar. Rupert Giles was a simpleton if he thought the Slayer was going to kill William the Bloody after he’d claimed her. Not that it mattered. Travers made up his mind four days ago when he heard about the claim from his spy. He’d only come to California to ascertain the accuracy of the report. After all, removing a Slayer, especially one as successful as Miss Summers, was a delicate and serious matter.

Now that Giles had confirmed the truth of the claiming, Travers would activate the waiting team to remove the vampire. If the Slayer happened to get killed at the same time as a result of the claim, well, that would be unfortunate, but she had already lived far longer than any Slayer before, so no one could say she’d been cheated. Slayers come and go. The Council and its Watchers, not the Slayers, provided the necessary continuity with the past. Only an ass like Rupert Giles would allow himself to become so personally attached to his charge that he couldn’t see what had to be done.

Buffy’s demise would bring the added benefit of removing the anomaly of having two Slayers. Once Buffy was out of the way, he could arrange to have Faith released from prison. If Faith’s rehabilitation proved less sincere that reported, Faith would meet with an accident, and a new Slayer, untainted by the convoluted troubles of Buffy and Faith, would be called. The Slayer line would be re-established in proper form.

Either way, the Slayer problem would be solved.

***

Buffy took her Mom’s advice. After a short stop at her dorm room to try on ten or twelve outfits before settling on a shiny red top, a black mini-skirt and black leather pumps, which she so did not put on because they were somebody’s favorite colors, she went to the Bronze alone.

The Bronze was packed with college students, many of them were the same students who’d hung out at the Bronze when Buffy was in high school. It was like she’d never gone to college at all, but was deja′-looping back to her old high school haunts with all the same people. She was bound to see somebody she knew, which was okay as long she didn’t have to see Spike. Bronzing was good, even if it was lame.

She kept the claim closed so Spike couldn’t track her down and so Spike wouldn’t be thinking in her brain. She didn’t want to think about Spike with her own brain either, especially after her halfsie promise to Giles that she would do what was necessary when it came time for the claim to expire. Giles had been so worried, he’d accepted her promise on face value without getting her absolute promise to break the claim and kill Spike at her first opportunity.

No, she wasn’t going to think about Spike or claims or mating or anything serious tonight. She was going to avoid Xander and Anya, who had just come in. She was going to have a good time, meet some new people and dance with somebody really …

“Buffy? Hey!” Parker said. “I was hoping I would hook up with you tonight. I wanted to talk to you without your husband around. Guess he’s a bit of the jealous type. Can’t say I blame him. If you were my wife, I’d be protective, too.”

Ugh. What did she ever see in this moron with his squishy Mr. Sensitive chat? Spike had his faults, actually, he pretty much didn’t have anything but faults, but he never gave her a line of bull like Parker did – My scars are all psychological. It makes me think about, you know, living for now. Absolutely, I’ll give you a call. You know it hit me hard. I just don't put stuff off anymore. It's about living for now. Absolutely, I’ll give you a call. Right after I’ve boinked every woman under thirty on the planet. Absolutely.

After that, Spike talk was a relief. Sweet Slayer, I’m gonna make you cum till your brain falls out.

Why had she come here? She’d been so anxious to avoid Spike, that she’d run right into this scabie, Parker. Maybe she could use Spike for something useful for a change. “Yeah, Spike’s jealous and he’s also a Blood-Thirsty Serial Killer who displays tendencies of Homicidal Peevishness when anybody messes with me. Maybe you should leave me alone.”

Parker laughed. “You’re a howl, Buff. I never noticed how funny you were. You have a great sense of humor.”

“Those pesky character traits are hard to notice when you’re busy avoiding a person.”

She turned her back on Parker to watch the band and give him an opportunity to leave the State of California by the first available Greyhound bus, but instead he took the opportunity to slime himself closer.

“You look really hot tonight. I can see your pert little nipples through that top.”

Buffy crossed her arms over her chest. What had she been thinking of, going out without a brassiere? Spike, that’s what she’d been thinking.

“I’m not only humor sophisticated, Parker, but I have a great left hook. You make another crack like that and you’ll be squinting at my pert little nipples through a black eye. What do you want, anyway?”

“You don’t mean that, babe.” He slid his hand around her waist. “Look, your man isn’t here tonight, so we can get reacquainted without him being any wiser. We could have a nice talk, dance a little, drink a little wine. See what develops.”

Buffy peeled his fingers off her waist and gave them an excruciating squeeze before she shoved his hand away.

“So, now we’re talking-dancing-drink-a-little-wine-see-if-I-can-trick-Buffy-into-cheating-on-her-husband- and-putting-out-again-buddies?”

“I’d like us to be friends, Buffy. I’d like to show my appreciation to you for saving my life the other night. Let you get a chance to see the Real Parker.”

“I didn’t like Phony Parker, so I’m thinking I’d rather have a big, honking fork stuck in my eye than get to know Real Parker, but since I’m really not into self-inflicted eyeball pain, I’ll just say no.”

Parker put on his best, painfully disappointed face. It would be even more fun to conquer Feisty Buffy than the Lonely, Depressed and Needy Buffy of last week.

“Is it because of Spike? Are you in love with him or something?”

“His name is William and I …” she wanted to say no, she didn’t love Spike, but it didn’t seem right somehow to say she didn’t love her husband, especially when maybe she did, and besides, Parker only wanted to know so he could cause trouble. “And, the answer is none of your sodding business.” Oops. Where had that come from? She’d been hanging around Spike way too long if she’d started picking up his slang.

“That’s cool. I figured since you slept with me while you were married, you must have an Open Marriage. You know -- your husband sleeps around with any hot chicks he wants to be with --,” Parker stroked his finger down the side of her face and his hand headed for points south, “and you get to explore your wilder side with me.”

She slapped his hand away. “You’re disgusting and Spike, er, William and I weren’t married when I made the incredibly stupid mistake of having sex with you and I – yuck – Open Marriage – yuck!”

Parker wasn’t put off by Buffy’s resistance; it was refreshing. Girls fell all over him whenever he put out that stupid line of crap about his supposedly dead father and living for the now. Buffy fell for it, too. Now that she was showing a little backbone, she was more attractive. And, he hadn’t forgotten how energetic she was in the sack.

“Got it. So, you want to dance until your husband shows up? I’ll behave like a perfect gentleman.”

Would this guy never give up? Buffy was about to connect the sharp toe of her shoe with Parker’s shin, when she caught a flash of platinum blonde hair out of the corner of her eye. Spike. She forgot about the Aggravation That Was Parker and turned to look for her mate.

Seizing the opportunity, Parker cupped his hand on Buffy’s butt. “So, how about that dance?”

“Dance?” What was Spike doing and who was he doing it with? Oh no, impossible. He was dancing with those two hos, Rosamund and Sunday.

Chapter 18 - I Wouldn’t Want to Hurt You


The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

London, The Watcher’s Council, Thrusk Street, January 31, 1901 - With great trepidation, I presented Lady Vicky to the members of the Senior Council today. Burbin Quentin, the Marquis of Scrapson on Torte, current Head of Council, and Minister of Special Works to Her Majesty, was obsequious and gallant, treating our Slayer to the courtesies and notice appropriate for her rank as an Earl’s daughter. For her part, Lady Vicky appeared charming and at ease and most lovely in a new cranberry felt hat decorated with shiny, paste cherries and waxed holly leaves.

I hoped the Marquis would remind Lady Vicky that her duties required her to eschew the blizzard of invitations she has received and concentrate on ridding London of a nest of vampires that have made themselves comfortable in Kensal Green Cemetery, but he made less mention of the cemetery than of her hat.


***

Spike was dancing with those two hos, Rosamund and Sunday.

Not just dancing, either. They were Dirty-Patrick-Swayze-Rubbing-Body-Parts-Free-For-All-Dancing, with the leg and pelvis humping and writhing and wriggling. Sunday was straddling Spike’s thigh in a way that made Buffy wonder if dancing was the only thing that was going on. Rosamund was getting her fair share of the action, too. She was standing behind Spike and had wrapped one of her legs around his and was stroking her leg up and down Spike’s leg in a very naughty manner. Spike was smiling and laughing and enjoying himself, and dancing in a totally hot way, instead of flapping his hands around in a lame manner and looking like he was having a fang pulled, like any normal man.

This was so not right.

Parker took advantage of her stunned silence to drag her onto the dance floor. He was a really bad dancer, waving his hands around and dragging his feet back and forth and humming off key.

Jerk.

Buffy ignored Parker and pushed her way closer to Spike, who was twirling and dipping Rosamund backward and slashing thin cuts down her neck with his barely visible fangs and licking the blood away.

As Rosamund completed a complicated twirl and reverse, Buffy edged out her pointed black leather high-heeled pump and tripped her. Rosamund fell right on her ass.

“Oh, gosh! I’m so sorry,” Buffy said. “Did I trip you and cause you to fall right on your fat behind? Thank goodness there was plenty of butt cheek to cushion your fall.”

Spike grinned and continued dancing with Sunday, holding her tight in one arm while she jiggled against him.

Grrrr.

“About time you showed up, Slayer,” Spike said. “Have you met Rosamund and Sunday?”

Through the claim, he could sense the delicious green worms of jealously wriggling through Buffy’s brain. She was trying hard to keep the claim closed, but she wasn’t succeeding all that well. He’d had no difficulty tracking her down in spite of her efforts to avoid him and he was going to get even with her for not coming to see him today when he called. She’ll see who’s Master here.

“We’re acquainted,” Buffy said. “I kicked both their asses at the Goth Store the other night while you were shoplifting that Hooked on Porn video. Too bad they couldn’t stick around, while I was looking for my pointy stick.”

Parker danced closer to Buffy and grabbed her waist. What was Buffy talking about? Maybe she wasn’t really funny. Maybe she was a high-functioning schizophrenic, like that psych major, Holden Webster, said. He still wanted to screw her tonight. He could always dump her again tomorrow if she turned out to be a nut case.

“How about introducing me to your friends?” Parker said. He eyed one of the blonde girl’s cleavage. She had really nice tits. So did the other one.

Sunday knew what was going on the moment Buffy showed up. Spike, the idiot, had claimed the Slayer, and Sunday was going to make Buffy regret it. “Spike, you naughty boy. Claiming a Slayer. What will you think of next?” She licked his neck and looked Buffy straight in the eyes.

Rosamund got off the floor, kicked Sunday in the shins and pushed her away from Spike. “Mine,” she snarled, glaring at Buffy and daring her to protect her mate.

This was precisely the wrong thing to say to Buffy. Not only was she fuming with jealousy, but now Rosamund and Sunday had both challenged Buffy over Spike. Anger sparked inside her and flared. Buffy calculated how many times she could punch Rosamund’s rat face, before she had to stake her because hitting her wasn’t fun anymore.

Parker, who couldn’t understand what was happening, other than that Buffy was magnificently pissed off at her husband, took her arm and tried to pull her away. To get her attention, he resumed dancing, pushing her hips closer so he could grind his pelvis into her ass. Oh, yeah. Buffy had a very nice tight ass. It was hard to keep track of what kind of ass belonged to what girl sometimes. “What’s she talking about, Buffy? What’s a Slayer?”

Rosamund and Sunday roared with laughter. They abandoned Spike for the moment so they could dirty dance with each other for Parker’s amusement. Dirty dancing vampire style involved a lot of tongue. Tongues. And mouths. And hands.

“Nothing,” Buffy said. “You wouldn’t understand and get off me.” She elbowed his ribs.

“I’d like to understand. What’s claiming a Slayer?” Parker asked. Wow, those two blonde girls were beyond hot and slutty. Too bad he’d staked out Buffy for the evening, because he’d really like to get it on with those two. Course, since Buffy was in an Open Marriage, maybe they could make a real party tonight. It wasn’t just his hip bone he was rubbing against Buffy now.

Ewww, Parker is totally perving on me. Buffy bucked Parker off and punched Rosamund in the shoulder to get her to remove her hand from Spike’s crotch. “You’re just like your bitch sister, you know that? Neither one of you can keep your hands off my stuff.”

“Maybe we should all sit down and have a drink,” Parker said. Who would have thought that clingy little Buffy had such a temper? Or, such a hottie for a husband? He licked his lips and checked out Spike’s package. He didn’t want it to be known, having a big rep as a ladies’ man, but Parker wouldn’t mind sinking his teeth into Buffy’s mysterious and eye-catching husband’s flesh. The thing to do now was for everybody to calm down so he could negotiate the most awesome multiple hook up of his amorous career. “Everybody should chill. We don’t want to fight.”

“Shut your mouth, Parker.” Buffy said. She pushed him away and shifted into fighting stance, her hands held loose and ready at her sides. Parker was wrong, she pretty much did want a fight, and from the look on Spike’s face, he wouldn’t mind one either.

“Yeah, mate, shut your gob,” Spike said. His eyes sparkled yellow as he allowed his vampire face to shimmer under the surface. “And, keep your dick off my mate’s ass, if you know what’s good for you.”

So much for a ménage a cinq. Looked like this Spike character had an attitude when it came to Buffy, so there was nothing to do but get Buffy to leave before Spike got her all riled up. Parker wanted her mellow, and just a touch insecure. He put his arms around Buffy’s waist and let one of his hands slide up her side to cup the outside of her breast. “You don’t have to put up with an abuser like him, Buffy. Let’s get away from this place. I know a bar near the campus we can go to. Have you ever had a mojito?”

Spike peeled the vampire twins off his body and stepped up to Parker. He spoke in a cheerful and menacing voice. “Get your slimy pickers off my mate before I rip your Adam’s apple out of your throat and check it for worms.”

Parker quivered, but held his ground. Spike was kind of scary with his yellow eyes and those weird lumps on his face and those long teeth. He hadn’t noticed Spike’s teeth before. Buffy wasn’t worth all this trouble, but Parker didn’t want word to get around that he was a coward. A reputation for cowardice would be death to Babe Acquisition. “Finders keepers, mate.” He shoved Spike hard in the chest and was surprised when he didn’t succeed in moving Spike’s body so much as an inch. The guy was a rock. “You should leave now. Buffy wants to be with me tonight, so don’t make a scene. I have a black belt in aikido. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

Spike gripped Parker’s elbow with one hand, and twisted his wrist with his other hand, sending searing pain ripping up the large nerve that ran up the middle of Parker’s arm. Spike continued slowly twisting to maximize the pain while Parker buckled to the ground. “Ikkyo, Mr. Black Belt. Like to see if I can rip your arm out of your shoulder while I’m at it?”

“Let me go!” Parker screamed.

Spike grabbed a handful of Parker’s hair and lifted him off the floor. He slammed his fist into Parker’s jaw, broke the bone and sent Parker flying across the room.

“Isn’t that sweet, Sunday,” Rosamund said. “Spike’s protecting the Slayer from the Big Bad Human.”

Buffy punched Rosamund in the mouth, then twirled and punched Sunday in the mouth, too. “Who’s going to protect you from the Big Bad Slayer, Whore?”

“What did you call me, Tramp?” Sunday said, giving Buffy’s shoulder a shove.

“Slut,” Buffy said.

“Skank.”

“Strumpet.”

“Slag.”

“Harlot.”

“Trollop.”

“Wench.”

“Hussy.”

“Tart.”

“Chippy.”

“Floozy.”

“Bitch.”

“Jezebel.”

“Nympho.”

“Ho bag.”

“Doxy.”

“Trull?” Spike said.

Buffy tackled both girls and all three went flying across the floor.

Spike pinched a bottle of beer off the tray of a passing barmaid and leaned against the nearest column to watch. Watching Buffy fight was entertaining when he wasn’t on the receiving end of her fists or her collection of sharp objects.

Before Buffy and the two vampire girls got in more than a few warm-up kicks and punches and hair yanks, an ambulance arrived to retrieve Parker, followed by two officers from the Sunnydale Police Department. Sunnydale’s Finest preferred to take their time responding to brawls at the Bronze in order to give any creepy characters, such as the guy with the white hair, time to leave and for Buffy Summers, a known troublemaker, to clear out as well. Their timing this evening was unfortunate. Summers was thumping a couple of trampy looking girls. The officers concentrated on avoiding the brawl, steering the crowd outside, and getting Parker into an ambulance.

When the cops couldn’t stall confronting Buffy any longer, they headed for the dance floor.

“Time to go, girls,” Spike said. He grabbed one of the twins by the scruff of her neck, held her up to see which twin he’d picked up – Sunday - and tossed her against the nearest wall.

No longer distracted by Sunday, Buffy pinned Rosamund to the floor and punched her in the gut over and over. “Stay. Away. From. My. Mate.” Buffy punctuated each word with a blow.

Rosamund flipped Buffy off and ran for the door, snatching Sunday’s hair to drag her along.

Buffy leaped into the air to tackle the two again, but was caught in mid-leap by Spike. They both went flying to the floor, skidding into some tables and chairs. Spike pushed away the wreckage, got up, flipped his mate over his shoulder and hauled a kicking and punching Buffy out into the alley.

“Let me go, you Big Cheater,” she said. In an instant, she transferred her anger from the Slut Twinks to Spike and popped him in the nose, forgetting in her haste to shut down the claim.

“Owwwww!” she cried, clapping her hand to her nose.

“Bloody hell, Slayer!” Spike dropped Buffy and clapped his hands to his nose, too. “And, who’s a cheater? I was only having a friendly dance with a couple of my old tumbles. Besides, you and me are mated, not shackled together for all eternity. Actually, we are shackled together for all eternity, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have friends.”

“Friends don’t hump each other’s legs. Unless one of their names is Fido.”

Spike pinned her against the wall and sniffed her neck. He could almost taste the blood pumping through her arteries. “Jealous, pet? I like that. Let’s go back to the mansion and have a round of Jealous Angry Payback Sex, hmmm?” He lowered his mouth to hers. He rucked up her skirt, grasped her thighs and lifted her up so she could wrap her legs around him.

Buffy forgot all about staying away from Spike or being mad at Spike and concentrated on digging her nails into the nice hard muscles in his back. She shouldn’t be kissing Spike, but she had to. Why had she stayed away from him all day? She was ready to explode with desire for her mate.

Xander and Anya came out of the Bronze while Buffy was making up her mind and sticking her tongue into Spike’s mouth. Spike, who’d already made up his mind, fumbled with his zipper. Xander whipped out a large, wooden cross and held it out and plucked a stake out of his back pocket.

“Back off, Blood Breath. Buffy, catch!” He tossed Buffy the stake and watched as it traveled a graceful arc in her direction and fell to the pavement when she failed to hold out her hand to catch it.

“Shut up, Xander,” Buffy said. How could she get Xander to leave so she could have sex with Spike? She could punch Xander in the nose, but that would mean unwrapping her legs from Spike’s hips and pulling herself away from that very necessary pressure he was putting on her crotch.

“Yeah, shut up,” Spike said. “Nit.”

“Buffy. Climb down from Spike’s compact, but well-muscled body and step away. I won’t let him hurt you.” Xander held a chunky, wooden cross up to Spike’s face.

Spike hissed and burst out into his vampire face. How dare this little pimple get between him and his mate?

“We’re armed,” Anya said. She held up a chopstick she’d swiped from the bartender. She spun it around her fingers like a mini-baton. “See?”

Spike let Buffy down and stepped between her and Xander. “Think you can take me with that puny stick? Come on, then.”

“Cut it out, Spike,” Buffy said. “Nobody’s going to be doing any taking.”

Spike and Xander ignored her and circled around until Xander tripped on the stake he’d tossed Buffy earlier and landed on his butt.

“You have to stop fighting Spike now, Xander,” Anya said. She helped him up and brushed him off. “You’re going to get hurt. Please don’t hurt Xander, Spike. He’s a weakling.”

“He’s going to be a dead weakling if he keeps messing with me and my woman. And, he doesn’t look all that tasty. I might as well break his neck and be done with it.”

Xander held his cross out at arm’s length. “I am, too. I’m moist and tender.”

“That’s right. He’s moist.” Anya said, nodding her head.

“Right, then. Here goes.” Spike growled and reached out for Xander’s neck.

Buffy closed the claim and swatted Spike on the head. “You can’t drink Xander. He’s my friend.” Although, if Xander didn’t take Anya away soon, she might have to consider knocking her friend on the head.

“Owww, Slayer!”

“That’s right,” Xander said. “I’m Buffy’s friend. Buffy, hold Spike down, while I stake him.” Xander waved his stake in a semi-threatening manner.

Buffy jumped in front of Spike. “No! You can’t. You can’t stake Spike.” No one could stake Spike until she had sex with him.

“Why not? Spike’s a vampire. We stake vampires. Therefore, we stake Spike. Seems logical to me.”

“Actually, Buffy’s right,” Anya said. “You can’t kill Spike, because if you do, you’ll kill Buffy, since they’re mated.”

“I can’t kill Spike?” Xander asked. “Whose dazzling idea was that?”

“Weren’t you listening last night when Giles told you about the claim?" Anya said. "Kill Spike, Kill Buffy – two for one?”

“I’m pretty sure Giles didn’t mention that part. Damn. My day is ruined. No, my entire reason for getting up in the late afternoon to deliver ice cream treats to nasty boys and girls is ruined. I’m never going to get to kill Spike. I have no reason to go on living.”

“Sod off, wanker.” Spike put his arm around Buffy. “Let’s go home, pet. Bed’s waiting.”

Xander’s eyes bulged at the sight of Buffy allowing Dead Boy, Jr. to touch her. “Where are you going? Buffy! You can’t just go off with Spike. You’re supposed to be avoiding him.”

Yes, because avoiding Spike had worked so well. “Yeah. Oh. I only have to avoid him on Friday. Until then, I have to stay with Spike to make sure he doesn’t bite anybody.” Except me.

Xander shook his head as he watched Spike and Buffy walk out of the alley, hand in hand. “This is so wrong.”

Chapter 19 – H—! AH DMPD HR

Note: Yes – this chapter name is correct. Thanks to everyone for the wonderful reviews.

================================


The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

London, Crepuscule Place, February 1, 1901 - While visiting the Council yesterday, I secretly received a package of investigative materials from Lady Blodeuwedd Ronwen Giles that I requested concerning the current Lord Teansdale. As I feared, the information is not pleasant.

The Council’s anonymous source reports that Lord Teansdale is something of a bounder. He frequents the Caledonian Club (in honor no doubt to his maternal Scottish grandmother, Tearlag McIntosh, herself a lady of questionable reputation) and is a member in good standing with the Snooker Society. He has lost considerable sums at cards, horseracing and snooker. He is known to imbibe alcoholic beverages to excess and, I am sorry to say, to associate with soiled doves in the Southwark District, a place long known for the infamous behavior of its inhabitants. He formed a shameful connection with an actress at The Gaiety Theater in Aldwich and falsely encouraged the false expectation of an engagement with Miss R. of Holycrook (I obscure her name in deference to the sensitivities of her family).

It was my sad duty to convey this information, suitably expurgated, to Lady Vicky and her mother to discourage this troublesome entanglement with Lord Teansdale.

My efforts were not greatly appreciated.

***

The drugs in Sunnydale General Hospital were really top notch.

He hadn’t had anything this good since Daddy Dearest hustled him off to the Sunnydale Substance Abuse Rehab Center for Wayward Young Men of the Rich Father Persuasion. He looked back fondly on his time in the Rehab Center. It was there that he’d perfected his sincere, wounded Parker Act. The Act turned out to be useful for bullshitting the counselors at Rehab and, with suitable embellishments, for picking up babes, like Buffy.

He hadn’t totally given up on drugs after his tour of duty in rehab, but he found that banging young babes as often as possible, then treating them like shit, the way his old man did with his trophy wives, was as good as drugs and a lot cheaper. For the price of a cup of latte with chocolate sprinkles, he could get laid. No snort of coke could compare on the price/pleasure ratio.

The wave of druggy goodness receded and Parker felt the pain in his jaw sharpen. He touched his face. No scars to mar his manly beauty, but when he flexed his mouth a fierce jab of pain reminded him that his jaw was wired shut. That prick husband of Buffy’s broke his damn jaw. Leave it to that clingy, pint-sized slut to have a psychopath for a husband.

He patted around his bed for the call button to summon the nurse for another opiate infusion, but stopped when someone opened the door to his private room. Not just someone, the two scorching blonde hotties who had been at the Bronze earlier dancing with Buffy’s Psycho Hubbie. These two put a whole new meaning on visiting the sick.

Rosamund and Sunday slithered into the room and hopped into Parker’s bed, one on each side of him.

Sunday jerked the call button out of the wall. “We don’t need this old thing. Rosie and I have everything you need to kill the pain.”

Rosamund slid her hand down Parker’s chest and belly and grabbed his crotch. She squeezed two or three minutes until Parker got an erection. “Look what I found. It’s such a cute little thing.”

“H—!,” Parker said, or tried to. Talking with your jaw wired shut sucked. Who were they calling little?

Sunday licked a spot on Parker’s neck. Parker looked pretty tender, but there was nothing like vampire spit to soften up the flesh before you took a bite. “Say, Rosie, is it true what they say about boys getting a better package after they’ve been turned?”

Rosamund tilted her head and put her index finger in the corner of her mouth. “Gosh, I sure hope so. Cause I sure wouldn’t want …” she lifted his wrist and read his name off the plastic band, “Parker to be immortal with a puny little dick. No wonder the Buffy-bitch dumped him for Spike.”

Parker made a muffled protest, since he couldn’t speak with his jaw wired shut. “H—! AH DMPD HR!”

“Whatever you said, baby,” Rosamund said. She pinned his shoulder to the bed. “Now, this is going to sting a little.”

Sunday flashed out her vamp face. “No it isn’t, you Douche Bag. It’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

The girls laughed.

They attacked his neck, biting deep, while he struggled and tried to scream. When his blood was nearly drained, Rosamund lifted her head and wiped the stream of blood off her chin. She shoved Sunday off his neck.

“What now, you bitch? I wasn’t finished,” Sunday said.

“Let’s not kill him. Let’s turn him. I want to see if it’s true, you know, about whether Mr. Tiny Dick is going to get an equipment upgrade.”

Sunday smirked. “Okay. I’ll turn him. Then, I get to be his Sire.”

“You will not. It was my idea. I get to be his Sire.”

Sunday shoved Rosamond off the bed. The two rolled around on the floor, kicking and pulling hair until they heard his heart beat struggle and slow to its final beat.

“Shit!” they said.

They slashed cuts in their wrists with their fangs and dribbled blood into Parker’s mouth. His licks smacked feebly and their two streams of blood trickled past his clenched teeth and down his throat.

Parker had a hell of a time later when he woke up in the morgue with his jaw still wired shut and his fangs bursting out of his gums.

***

Buffy and Spike continued their discussion while lying in each other’s arms behind the Restfield Cemetery wall.

“I’m not going home with you.” Buffy jerked Spike’s shirt out of his pants so she could stroke his chest, which was very nice, but not providing the kind of friction she needed. She kissed him hard and straddled him. Much better.

“Why the hell not? You told your git friends that you were going to look after me. Which is only right, you being my mate and all.” He pulled on her lacy thong, trying to push it out of the way.

“You should have thought of that before you humped those two skanks on the dance floor. And, to be precise, I told them I was staying with you to make sure you didn’t bite anyone, which I can do at my dorm room with Willow as chaperone. You can sleep on the floor.” What was he waiting for? Couldn’t he get that zipper down by himself? Did she have to do everything? She gripped his arms, kissed him hard.

Chaperone? That certainly wasn’t mentioned in the Mating Instruction Manual. He He flipped Buffy onto her back and pushed up her knees so he could bang her with maximum penetration. Why had he wasted time with the two skanks when he could have been putting a leg over with his mate? Oh yeah, to make her jealous. “I wasn’t humping them.”

“Oh, my mistake. They were humping you. Hope you won’t miss them much when I stake them. That is if I can catch them before they run off.” She bit his ear and tugged on his belt.

Spike finally got his zipper down and himself inside his girl. He sucked in an unnecessary breath and followed the rhythm of her pelvis. “You can’t kill them. I have to kill them. Bob the Warlock’s going to pay me some merry cash when I take those two doxies out for killing his brother-in-law.”

Buffy panted and made some embarrassing little mewling sounds like a kitten. What an idiot she was for thinking she could do without this for a day. “Who are you talking about Captain Crackpot?”

Spike crushed his mouth into hers to shut her up. He couldn’t keep up a conversation while he was banging her. He had to concentrate. He thrust into her hard. She needed to be punished for making him wait all day. After a very short time, she arched her hips up and their bodies crashed to completion together.

After a few minutes of afterglow, Buffy realized a stick was poking her in the back. She pushed Spike off and tugged her skirt down. She tossed the ruined remains of her thong behind a bush. “Where was I? Oh, yeah. You were going to explain to me why I can’t dust those two ho-bag friends of yours.”

Spike tucked himself in and zipped up. He grabbed his mate around the waist and pulled her close where she belonged as they walked out of the cemetery and down the street to the mansion.

“Bob the Warlock’s brother-in-law, Jack, was the guy who owned the pub. Bob cooked up that Jurassic Juice you like so much. Rosamund or Sunday, one of them killed Jack. I couldn’t tell which. They smell alike, so I’m going to kill both of them.”

Buffy sighed with relief. Spike hadn’t killed Jack the Pub Guy. On the other hand, the whole smelling thing. “Ewww. Have I mentioned that this Vampire Smelling Thing makes me want to heave? And, I did not like it, the Jurassic Juice, I mean.”

Spike snorted. “You still can’t dust those two. Bob’s going to pay me.”

When they reached Center Street, Buffy stopped at a newsstand box which sold copies of the Sunnydale Sunset evening edition. She put a quarter in the box and took out a paper. She scanned the paper’s obituary column, looking for suspicious deaths. “Don’t think Bob’s going to pay you. He’s dead.”

Spike snatched away the paper and, after reading the item regarding Bob’s untimely death by neck rupture, jumped on top of the box and stamped it three or four times, ripped the newspaper into shreds and kicked over the box, then having second thoughts, picked up the box and tossed it through the nearest store window. “Son of a Bitch! Nothing ever goes right in this town.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re always doing something wicked. If you did nice stuff once in a while it might work out better.”

“Are you nagging me?”

“Just saying.”

“I’m the Big Bad. I don’t do nice stuff. Ever.” Spike continued his rampage by flipping over a Mini Hooper. “I’m Evil. You do not appreciate who you’re dealing with here.”

“Course not.”

“Long as we have that straight.”

“Sure.”

“Bugger! All right, you can kill them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But, this is a one time only offer. From now on, no more horning in on my kills.”

“Thanks, Spike.” Buffy slipped her hand in his and they walked a little further. In the distance, she heard the roar of a motorcycle.

“Slay - , er, Buffy?”

“Yeah?”

“You suppose you could call me William? I mean, not that it matters or anything, but since you’re my mate and all.”

What was this all about? She thought he preferred being called Spike to show off how manly and evil he was. “I’m sort of used to calling you Spike, but William is a nice name.”

“Thanks, luv. Now, about going to your dorm room tonight. That’s out of the question…”

Buffy stopped walking and listened, placing her fingers over Spike’s lips to stop his never ending blabbing, which blabbing didn’t bother her nearly as much as it used to.

The back of her neck tingled – vampires.

Cleotus stepped out of the velvet shadows of an alley, slapping a wooden baseball bat in his beefy hand. “Yes, Slayer. Do call your mate by his proper name. William the Pansy.”

Chapter 20 - A NT GNG STL AN LKOR


Note: Yes – this chapter name is correct, too.

====================================

The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

London, Kensal Green Cemetery, February 19, 1901 - At last, an evening arrived when Lady Vicky was not besieged with invitations for dances, musicales and requests to appear in tableaux of minor Greek goddesses while wearing skimpy muslin wrappings designed to reveal rather than obscure the female figure. I pressed strongly for the Slayer to resume her duties and she expressed a surprising willingness to tackle the nest of vampires in Kensal Green Cemetery.

The moon was full and business was brisk that evening. The Slayer reduced several newly sprung vampires to dust with only a few well-placed kicks, robust boxes to their jaws and a single, vigorous thrust of her stake.

A female vampire, the former Miss R. of Holycrook, whose obituary the Times had recently printed as a victim of putrid consumption, burst from her crypt in full vampire face and attacked Lady Vicky. In contrast to the short shrift Lady V. delivered to the male vampires, Lady Vicky joined the contest with Miss R most enthusiastically. She kicked, punched and pulled Miss R’s hair with a fury that I had never before witnessed. It almost appeared that the Slayer was prolonging the battle and enjoying the pummeling she was giving the hapless Miss R. before twisting Miss R.’s head off with her bare hands, a move that the Slayer had never before attempted.

I must say she managed the maneuver splendidly.

***

Buffy’s vampire warning sense clawed up her neck. She shoved Spike to one side and whipped out a fresh stake. “Friend of yours, William?”

“This is Cleotus, kitten. Nimrod here is one of my minions. Guess I’ll have to kick his ass again to remind him who’s Master of Sunnydale.”

“Think you can remind me without a dose of Slayer blood, you faggot?”

“I could take you if I was sedated, Nancy Boy.” Spike took out a cigarette and lit it and blew a stream of smoke in Cleotus’ direction.

Buffy tapped her shoe on the pavement. “If you two boys are through hurling semi- unkind insults, I’d like to get my slaying done and go home.”

Two more vamps, Brad and Tucker, Spike’s former minions, stepped out of the shadows. They were carrying large hunting knives they’d stolen the previous evening from the 24-hour Wal-Mart in Dutton. “Can we kill them, Boss?”

“Yeah. I’ll take William the Bloody Pain in the Ass and you morons have a dance with the Slayer,” Cleotus said.

The two underlings, Brad and Tucker, glanced at each other nervously. “The Slayer?” Brad said. “You didn’t say anything about fighting the Slayer. Tucker, did the Boss say anything to you about fighting the Slayer?”

Tucker shifted back and forth on his feet. He was still wearing the running shoes he’d been wearing when Harmony turned him. He hadn’t even had a chance to steal some kick-ass Doc Martens like Spike was wearing before dumb ass Brad talked him into going along for a fight. Now, here he was, exposing himself to the sharp end of the Slayer’s stake. “No. I didn’t hear anything about fighting the Slayer.”

“Boo!” Buffy said.

The two vampires jumped back and dropped their knives.

***

Sunday and Rosamund stood outside Hank’s Campus Liquor Emporium with their new fledge. He was a dud, but they were determined to do their duty by their new Childe, as long as nothing more interesting presented itself.

Sunday pushed Parker towards the door. “Get in there and steal some liquor.”

“A NT GNG STL AN LKOR,” Parker said. His jaw was still wired shut and it hurt like hell, especially with his fangs pushing out and cutting his lips.

“Come here, baby,” Rosamund said. “Let Mommy make it all better.”

She wrenched his jaw open, tearing the wires out and freeing his mouth.

He screamed.

“Good. Get in there and steal a bottle of champagne. Something good.”

Parker thought he was going to faint, the pain was so bad. He wiped away the blood that streamed down his chin and licked his hands. “I’m not stealing any booze. Do it yourself.” Huh, his blood tasted pretty good.

Rosamund and Sunday put on their vamp faces and stared at him intensely.

Parker turned and went into the liquor store. He came out again five minutes later with no champagne and a gunshot wound in his thigh.

Rosamund and Sunday slapped him several times for being stupid, then went into the store, stole a couple bottles of Dom Perignon, drank and killed the clerk, shot up the store with the clerk’s gun and came back outside.

Parker was sitting on the curb watching his wound heal and spit out the bullet.

“Get up, you lazy fledge,” Sunday said. “Aren’t you hungry? Look there’s a girl. Go kill her.” Sunday pointed to the campus quadrangle where a girl was scurrying down a dark path. She kicked Parker to get him moving.

Parker recognized the girl. Katie Loomis was last night’s conquest. He’d charmed her, banged her, bought her coffee and dumped her all in 24 hours. She’d been an even easier score than Buffy. Katie was practically a Parker Personal Best.

Raging hunger surged through his entire body – a hunger for blood. His fangs sprang out, his forehead crumpled, making his eyes cross and he ran after Katie.


***

Brad and Tucker jumped back and dropped their knives.

“You’re making fun of us,” Brad said.

“Yeah, that’s not nice,” Tucker said. “We’re Evil Creatures of the Night. You should be afraid of us.”

Buffy peered at Tucker. “Don’t I know you?”

Tucker smirked and bobbed his head. “Yeah. I unleashed the Hell Hounds at Prom.”

“I thought you magicked up the Flying Monkeys during the school play. Or, was it the Talent Show?”

“No way! Damn it! I unleashed the Hell Hounds.” Tucker stamped his foot. “My brother, Andrew, did the lame-ass Flying Monkeys. I hate it when people get us confused.”

Buffy had never seen anyone actually stamp their foot before. Sure, people talked about foot stamping, but no one ever did it. Maybe she should give it a whirl?

Spike put an end to Tucker’s conversation by stumping out his cigarette on Tucker’s forehead. Tucker shrieked and started to smolder, but didn’t burst into flames as Spike hoped. Spike smacked Tucker’s face and sent him crashing into a nearby Dumpster. He saw that Buffy was preparing to take on Cleotus, so he turned his attention to Brad.

Brad flung himself at Spike trying to knock him over with the flying tackle he’d perfected at football practice. If he could get Spike down, maybe he could sit on Spike until Cleotus finished with the Slayer.

Spike stepped aside and stuck out his foot for Brad to trip over. Brad flew forward and landed on the pavement. Spike put one boot on each side of Brad’s body and lifted his head up by his hair.

“You’re not worth the trouble, Fledge, but you can tell the boys in Hell that you got dusted by William the Bloody.”

“Gee, Spike. Thanks, that’s really nice of you. I won’t forget …”

His words were cut off as Spike twisted his pudgy head off his thick neck and Brad burst into a cloud of ashes.

Tucker scrambled up from the pavement, shook off the bolts of pain shooting off inside his skull and scampered down the alley. He wasn’t about to join Tucker in Hell if he could help it. Even if William the Bloody did offer to perform the honors.

While Spike was handling the two minions, Buffy limbered up to slay Cleotus. Here was a challenge. Cleotus was no fledgling. He was big, tough and an experienced fighter. She was going to enjoy killing him.

Cleotus held out his brawny arms. “Let’s go, Slayer.”

Buffy danced around him. “Think you’re ready?”

He’d taken down many tough fighters in his day and he figured he was more than ready to take on the Slayer. “You’re just a scrawny little girl. I can toss you halfway down the block with one hand.” He fanned his baseball bat.

“Where should I send your ashes?” Buffy ran past Cleotus and somersaulted herself to the top of a nearby dumpster, ricocheted off the rubber lid and flew into Cleotus’ chest, cracking three or four ribs with her feet. She lost her grip on her stake and it flew away.

Cleotus dropped his bat. He fell back in a roll and flipped Buffy over his head, slamming her into the pavement. He grabbed his bat and leaped to his feet.

Buffy jumped up and landed a kick square in her enemy’s face, shattering his cheekbone and knocking out one of his fangs, forcing him to stagger back. She was warming to her task, her muscles loose and strong. She slugged his face again and again, giving him no time to bring up his arms and defend himself. She landed a foot to the vamp’s crotch and danced away to catch her breath.

“Bitch!” He swung his bat wildly and grazed her arm.

Buffy grabbed his bat and clunked him over the head. “Does your Mom know you use that kind of language?”

Spike lit another cigarette and enjoyed the spectacle. His mate was a damn good fighter. He liked that move just she did where she dropped her hands to the pavement and snapped her leg up in a wide sweep that planted her shoe into the side of her opponent’s head. Damn near took Cleotus’s head off with that one kick. Not to mention, she was wearing a skirt and Spike got a nice look at her goodies.

Cleotus finally got in a sharp punch to Buffy’s eye, sending her flying across the sidewalk and crashing into the hood of a parked car. She rolled off the dented hood and landed on her feet.

“William! I need a weapon!”

“Sure, luv. See what I can find.” Spike looked around the alley, but couldn’t see the stake that she’d dropped earlier. Damn woman. Doesn’t she know she should always have her weapon with her? He couldn’t find the stake, so he looked for something else. He found a rusted wire hanging on the dumpster to keep the lid closed. He pulled it loose and tossed it to Buffy.

Buffy caught the wire and came down with both feet on Cleotus’s right knee. His crushed knee collapsed bringing him down to a crouch. Buffy leaped on his back, straddled him like a horse and whipped the wire around his neck. She pulled the wire into a tight circle to cut his head off – and the wire snapped.

With one mighty heave, Cleotus threw her off his back and into the side of a brick building, knocking the wind out of her lungs.

“This isn’t over, Slayer,” he said as he limped away.

Buffy sucked in a breath of air. “Of course it’s not over, you moron. You’re not dead-er.”

Spike held out a hand to help her up. “Nice fight, pet. That wire guillotine was a clever move. Too bad the wire broke.”

“He got away. You might have helped.” Buffy dusted off her hands and headed for her dorm.

“I did help. Got you the wire, didn’t I? Besides, it’s your own fault for dusting all my minions. If we’re going to be married, you can’t be going around killing my vamps every time my back is turned.”

“Tough. You should have thought about your precious minions before you bit me.”

If they were going to be married? Spike talked like they were going to stay together. He must know the claim would lapse Friday night unless I … no, I’m definitely not going to claim him back. In no way am I considering returning the mating claim of the world’s second worst vampire. Second only to Angel before he got cursey cursed with a soul.

“I’m a much nicer vampire than Angel. Started out better as a human. Never did half the nasties he pulled every single day, although he arranged for me to get blamed. Angel’s got a mean streak, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Quit snooping around in my head,” Buffy said. She scrunched her face up to shut the claim. It was hard to remember to shut the claim, the feelings that flowed between them were so pleasant and relaxing. “We have to talk.”

Women. They always wanted to talk when they should be kissing their mates. Their little tussle with his minions made him want to – tussle with her. “What have we been doing, silly bint?” He tried to kiss her, but she turned her face. He clasped her face with both hands and kissed her hard.

Buffy closed her eyes and swayed under his hands. Kissing Spike made her forget things, like what she wanted to talk to him about and that she’d threatened to take him back to her dorm room where Willow’s presence would throw wet water on Spike’s naughty behavior. She was about to suggest that they slip into the nearest abandoned building for a quickie when Spike broke off the kiss. He did not stop circling his thumb over her nipple.

“Say Slayer, have you ever been curious about the whole blood-drinking gag?”

“What? Ewww. No. And, Ewww.”

Spike scraped his finger along his neck. “Come on, give it a go. Don’t know what you’re missing.”

Buffy stared at the line of blood on his white neck. It appeared black under the street lamps. What was the big about drinking blood anyway? If you weren’t all gluttony about it? She stretched up on her toes and touched the beads of blood with her tongue. His blood tasted salty or metally or minerally and basically icky.

Her mind blanked for a minute and the claim reopened. Say it say it say it. Mine. She shook her head to chase away the thought. What was Spike trying to do? Was he trying to trick her into completing the claim?

“I know,” Buffy said. She stepped back. She couldn’t talk seriously to William when he was standing so close. “I know the claim ends tomorrow night at midnight when the moon is full. And, that sounds like a stupid voiceover from Creature Features. I mean, I know the claim ends if I don’t claim you back.”

Spike put his hand on her butt and jerked her back close.

“And?”

“And, what? You think I’m going to complete the claim?”

Spike nodded. “Why not? Being married to me has its benefits.” He ran his fingers up her inner thigh and got his hand slapped.

“You can’t possibly think the two of us could work out. We’re too different. I’m the Slayer and you’re, well, you’re the Slayee.”

“Balls. We could be together. I could use my minions to help you keep the vamp population in Sunnydale down. You would only have to work part time, and you could spend the rest of the time with me.” Spike ran his tongue along the edge of her ear. “I could take you places.” He kissed her neck. “Show you things. You could have a little fun for a change.”

Buffy sighed. She could use a little fun on a regular basis, and Spike certainly knew how to have fun. “Let me think. I could spend time with you while your minions ran all over town draining any tasty victim they could catch. Yes, I’ve thought. Not a chance.” She shoved him away and started walking.

“Buzz kill. Are you just going to let the claim drop? Kick me to the curb after all those nights and afternoons and mornings we spent together? You’re saying those nights and afternoons and mornings didn’t mean anything?”

Buffy kept walking and forced Spike to run after her.

“Just for seven nights,” she said, “can't two people who feel an attraction come together and create something wonderful? And then, go back to their lives the next day better for it, but never over analyzing it or wanting it to be more than it was?”

Spike jumped in front of her and fixed her with a yellow glare of purest evil. He’d never looked more vampirey to her than at that moment.

“No.”

“Right. Which is why you have to leave Sunnydale so I don’t have to kill you.”

“Your mind runs like a little Slayer freight train right down a single track. See a vampire – Kill Kill Kill.”

“What else would I do with a vampire?” Buffy blushed.

Spike cut her a look to show that her question didn’t deserve an answer. “There’s something about claiming you don’t know.”

“Giles told me everything I need to know about the trick you played on me.”

“I bet he told you to drive a redwood through my heart as soon as the claim runs out, too.”

“He did mention that it was my duty to kill you, you being the Big Bad and all.” Buffy walked faster.

“Yeah, and you always listen to your Watcher and do whatever he tells you.” He was a fool. He should have known that the Slayer wasn’t interested in him, except as stake fodder. Oh, and being her sodding sex slave.

“Yes. I certainly do.”

Spike raised an eyebrow.

“Sometimes.”

Spike said nothing.

“Crap. Never. Unless I wanted to do whatever it was in the first place.”

Spike grabbed her hand and pulled her to a stop.

“And, this time? You want to do what that Poufter Watcher of yours told you to do? Gonna try to kill me?”

Buffy blinked away a sudden tear. How could she possibly kill Spike now? “Don’t you think I should?”

“Think you can shove a stake through my heart after our nights together?” He placed her hand over his dead heart. “You know, I wouldn’t have been able to claim you if you didn’t have any feelings for me.”

“Bull. You believe that old vampire’s tale? Besides, doesn’t it work both ways? You must have feelings about me or you couldn’t have claimed me.”

Spike sniffed. His mate was a liar. He knew very well that she had feelings for him. He’d seen into her goody goody Slayer heart when he thralled her. But, if she didn’t want to admit how she felt, he wasn’t about to tell her how he felt, either. “I’m in love with Dru. Always will be. The male vampire can claim any woman he wants. Love has nothing to do with it.”

“Fine.” Big fat liar.

“So, pet, tomorrow night will be our last night together before we fight to the death. Want to do something special?”

“Yes. Something very special.”

Chapter 21 – Mopey and Broody



The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

London, Kensal Green Cemetery, February 19, 1901, continued. While the Slayer shook the ashen remains of Miss R. from her clothes and hat, I kept watch for other denizens of the night. The silhouette of a well-formed male figure appeared on the roof of the Cruikshank’s family crypt. His shadowed figure and his opera cape billowing in an unnecessarily French manner, contrasted starkly against the angry red glower of the setting moon as it plunged toward the horizon. I couldn’t decipher his features, but he seemed in some way familiar to me. Lady Vicky stared at him for a long time and made no move to approach him. The devil actually tipped his top hat to her before leaping from the crypt and vanishing.


***

Parker ran at an incredible speed across the dark campus quadrangle, in spite of the gunshot wound in his thigh. “Wow, this is cool. I’m like an incredible athlete.” He leaped over a bush and closed the gap between himself and Katie Loomis. He jumped forward, as adrenalin pulsed through him, urging him to kill – kill – kill.

Katie stepped aside and Parker went flying headlong into a thorn hedge.

“Parker? Is that you? I tried to call. Did you get my message?”

Parker staggered out of the hedge and swatted loose the thorns. He turned to Katie in full vamp face. “Yeah. I goth your metthage.” Damn. It was hard to talk with fangs hanging out of your jaws. Didn’t matter. You didn’t need to talk in order to kill. He wiped away a string of drool.

Katie froze with fear. “Parker? Your face. What’s wrong?”

He lunged at her, but she jumped aside at the last moment.

“Is this some kind of game? Cause I don’t think it’s very funny.”

“No game. I’m going thew kill you and drink your blood.” Parker grabbed her shoulders and lowered his head. He snarled, too, for the terrifying effect.

Katie shoved her hand into his nose and followed up with an elbow into his gut. “Get your hands off me, you creep.”

Parker straightened and caught her arm as she backed away. “Hold still tho I can kill you.”

She slammed her high-heeled shoe onto his instep and yelled out “Defense Class Rocks,” as she brought her knee up hard on his crotch.

Howling in pain, Parker fell onto the ground as Katie ran away.

Once they got through rolling on the ground laughing, Sunday and Rosamund came up and kicked him a couple of times in the kidneys.

“You’re the most pathetic fledge in history,” Rosamund said.

***

Buffy dragged into her dorm room late the next afternoon. She had just left Spike. He’d overcome her protests and promises not to go home with him last night without even resorting to the claim. It was getting harder and harder to leave him. She wanted to stay with him all the time, to touch him and talk to him and to everything to him. Once the claim expired, she wouldn’t get to do any of those things ever again.

She greeted Willow, threw her bag on her bed and checked her phone messages.

“Hi, honey, oops, this message is for Buffy. It’s Mom. Hi, Willow, too. Buffy, there’s a big sale at the lingerie store at the mall tonight. Meet me there. I’ll have my credit card handy.”

Buffy slumped on her bed. She couldn’t bring herself to be interested in a shopping spree tonight.

Willow looked up from her class notes, which she was color coding in blue, pink and green. “Buff, where’ve you been? You haven’t been watching Spike all this time?”

Watching didn’t come into her activities with Spike very often except for watching the wicked things he was doing to her. “Yeah.”

“So, tonight’s the night?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. Another few hours and the claim thingie will be over and you can forget all about Spike.”

Is that what she wanted? To forget about Spike? “Over.”

“You do want to forget, don’t you?”

“Forget?”

“Have you been drinking Cave Beer again? You’re all Monosyllable-Speech Girl.”

“No. No Cave Beer. I’m totally Homo Sapiens Girl. It’s Spike.”

“What about him?”

Buffy sank down onto her pillows and curled up. “Never mind.”

“Buffy!”

“I think I might … I have feelings … I kinda … I could ….”

Willow picked up a dark blue Flair that she used for important notes, and selected a clean page in her notebook. The material she’d learned in Professor Walsh’s class was coming in handy already. She began writing. “The subject is approaching the ability to articulate her problem, in sentence fragments of two or three words. Another twenty or thirty sessions and the subject could graduate to speaking in sentences and might, given time, be able to communicate her feelings regarding her Vampire Mate without lapsing into a state of catatonia.”

“I love him!” Buffy blurted out. She put her fingers over her mouth, astonished at her own outburst.

Willow continued writing. “Subject exhibits psychotic episodes with intense delusional overlay and inappropriate emotional content. You can’t love him, Buffy. Well, you can, but if you love him, he can’t love you back. He’s a vampire. Giles has only told us that particular piece of Important Vampire Lore about a gazillion times. Vampires have no feelings. Good feelings, anyway.”

“Giles might be wrong.” Giles was definitely wrong, at least about Spike.

“And, also Spike - heavy on the Ruthless Killer.”

“No getting around Ruthless Killer. Although, he’s behaved himself pretty well for the last few days. He hasn’t had a single drink from a live human since he’d claimed me. At least, that I know about. That counts for something doesn’t it?”

“As your friend, and speaking sternly, I just want to say: Buffy – good, Spike – bad, Spuffy not mixy.”

Spuffy? “Thanks for explaining in Cave Slayer, Will. I know we have problems. He’s dead. I’m not. He’s a vicious killer and I’m a … Maybe we can make it work?”

“No, no, no. Spike is worse than Parker. He’s worse than Riley, who by the way asked me to ask you if there was any chance that you’d go out with him tomorrow night. There’s nothing to work out, Spike-wise, I mean.” Willow spent the next minute snapping the caps back on her pens and arranging them alphabetically by color, except her Black Warrior pencil, which as a weapon for killing vampires, earned the Black Warrior its own position in her pencil tray. Arranging her pencil tray was relaxing, like meditation. “Did Spike say he loved you?”

“He hasn’t said. He said he still loved Dru, but I think he was trying to make me jealous.” What if he didn’t love her? What if that whole business with the flying goldfish was just an illusion?

Willow levitated the Black Warrior pencil, sharpened it with her Wicked Witch of the West pencil sharpener and returned it to the tray.

“He wouldn’t have claimed me if he hadn’t felt something for me,” Buffy said. She picked at her blouse and smoothed out a wrinkle.

“Giles didn’t say anything about that.”

“Anya did.”

“Oh, Anya.” Willow took very little interest in what Anya had to say on any subject. The former vengeance demon had only one skill that Willow counted as useful and that was aggravating Xander. Willow hadn’t quite forgiven Xander for insisting on being her Bestest Friend and nothing more during high school. Anya’s constant stream of Xander Embarrassment served a higher, punishing purpose in Willow’s opinion. Petty, but true.

“Anya knows stuff about demons sometimes,” Buffy said. “Maybe she’s right and Spike likes me a little. Maybe more than a little.”

“Even if it’s true, you can’t let yourself become the Bride of Spike. He’s Evil.”

“Yeah.”

Willow floated the pencil again and tapped it on the desk without touching it while she thought. Plainly, her friend Buffy was jonesing on this dumb vampire, Spike. Maybe there was something to Anya’s mating theory. If it was true, that Spike and Buffy had some mystical love connection, nothing would stop them from being together. In that case, something would have to be done about Spike. “What if he wasn’t? Evil, I mean.”

“Spike, not Evil? It’s kinda hard to separate the William from the Wicked.” What would he be like? She might not even like Spike if he wasn’t a little wicked.

“Well, we probably couldn’t completely eradicate the evil part without dusting him, but what if we could prevent him from being all snarly and bitey?”

Buffy kind of liked the snarly and bitey, but she couldn’t always be around to make sure he behaved. What if he snapped one day and ate somebody while she was at the mall or taking an exam? She’d never forgive herself. “I don’t know. Would he be all Mopey and Broody like Angel? I don’t think I want Spike to be all broody.”

“No. You wouldn’t want that. The whole brooding thing wears on you after a while.”

“I don’t know what we’re talking about. There’s no way to make Spike behave – with or without brooding. I guess I don’t have any choice. I’ll have to break the claim tomorrow night.” Making a decision, even an unpleasant one should make you feel better. Why didn’t deciding to break up with Spike make her feel better?

“Are you going to kill Spike? Giles wants you to, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t care what Giles wants, or the Council either. They can fire me. I told Spike he’d have to leave town.”

“Think he’ll leave?”

“No.” He likes having Slayer sex and a sip of Slayer O positive way too much to get back in that crazy car of his and blow town. That car with the big, comfy back seat that they’d tested out on the way home from the dog races.

“So, even if you let the claim expire, you’re still going to have to deal with Spike. Since you don’t want to kill him, and he won’t leave, we’re going to have to do something drastic.”

“Yeah, but what? I can’t be having sex with him all the time to make sure he behaves. I have to do other stuff once in a while.” Buffy swallowed. “And, I didn’t just say that.”

Willow scribbled some more in her notebook. “Can you keep a secret?”

Buffy snorted. “You’re a fine one to be asking other people if they can keep secrets after you snitched to Giles about Spike and me.”

“Okay, and for the thirteenth time, I’m sorry. Can you keep a secret from Spike?”

“Not for long. The claim lets him read my brain on an annoyingly frequent basis.”

“I guess it’ll have to be me.”

“What will, Will?”

“I’ll have to be the Keeper of the Secret.”


***

“Lady, you want me to wait?” asked Serafimo Guttierez. He was moonlighting this evening as a taxi driver. The nice English lady didn’t have any business running around Sunnydale alone at night, so he offered to wait for her. Also, he didn’t mind getting paid to sit in his cab and watch the meter rack up the fare.

Lydia Chalmers got out of the taxi in front of what appeared to be a deserted mansion. The street was empty, there were few street lights and the bushes and plants around the house were overgrown and looked, to use a word not much in favor with the Council elite, spooky. “Yes, please wait. I won’t be long.”

She walked up to the front door and trembled. Now that she was here, she was terrified of going inside. What had she been thinking? It was bad enough to sneak behind Quentin Travers’ back and fly to Sunnydale to meet the Slayer, but to expose herself to one of the most dangerous vampires in history was madness. Still, she’d come all this way and she was properly armed and it would be a shame to miss this opportunity. She screwed up her courage and tapped lightly.

Spike jerked the door open. “What the bloody hell do you … Oh. Who might you be, luv?”

Lydia touched the tiny gold cross that hung from her neck. It was him, in the flesh, so to speak. She could feel her heart racing at the thought of facing the infamous William the Bloody, but she remained outwardly cool. “I’m Lydia Chalmers, from the Watcher’s Council. I’d like to speak to you.”

“Didn’t bring any nasty stakes or crossbows, did you?”

Lydia stepped across the threshold, her eyes darting around for sign of any other vampires, or of the Slayer. “I am armed, but I didn’t come to exterminate you.”

“Good to hear. Have a seat, Watcher. I’m Spike.”

“Yes, I know. I … wrote my thesis on you.”

Spike rubbed his chest. “Well, well. Isn't that neat.” He sat down next to her on the sofa and looked down the front of her white silk blouse. “Watcher’s Council has certainly improved their hiring policies.”

Lydia fastened the top button of her blouse and hoped her face wasn’t as flaming red as it felt. “I’ve come about the Slayer. I understand you placed a mating claim on her.”

“Yeah, I pretty much had to take her up. See, the poor little twig can't keep a man. Gets her all down. Thought she needed some stability in her life. That and a regular shagging.”

Her face must be positively neon red. “I was surprised when I heard about the claim. I'd think you'd want to kill her. You've killed Slayers before.” Not to mention hundreds of other people. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Spike was staring at her in an intense manner that was making her very nervous. She jumped when he leaned closer and sniffed her neck.

“You have done your homework.” Bird smelled nice, but not as good as his mate. He sighed and sat back. “So, why are you here?”

“I’ve come to warn you. You and Ms. Summers are in danger. The Council is going to try to kill you and possibly the Slayer as well.”

“Is that right? I’m not much worried about those wankers. They’ve come after me before.”

“Yes, of course, but with the claim, they can get to you through the Slayer.”

Spike stroked his fingers along her warm neck and lingered over her pulse point. He savored the pat pat pat of her heartbeat. He was a bit peckish, but there was that nasty cross hanging around her neck, not to mention his mate might not be best pleased if he took a taste of this toothsome Watcher Girl. Balls. “That’s right nice of you. Tell me, pet, now we're such good friends, why are you really here?”

“You’ll think me silly. I came to help you and the Slayer, if I can.”

“Help us with what?”

“The claim. I know you love her and she must return your feelings for the claim to be activated.”

Spike rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I’m not so sure about that last. I feel pretty warm and friendly towards the Slayer, but I don’t think she feels the same about me.”

Lydia frowned. “Oh, but she must. I’ll prove it to you.” She dug in her purse and pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. “I brought this for you. Please.”

Spike opened the envelope and pulled out a couple of old letters. He read the letters, replaced them in the envelope and handed it back. “What of it?”

“Don’t you see? You’re not the first vampire to place a mating claim …”

Spike pushed off the couch and went over to the fireplace and shoved in another log. “You’re wasting your time. The claim expires tomorrow night. She doesn’t want to complete the claim and there’s an end to it. Cheers for stopping by.”

Lydia tucked away the envelope and snapped her purse shut. “I’m sorry. I must go.”

Spike stirred the fire with the poker and didn’t turn as Lydia slipped out the door.

Chapter 22 – Naked And Miserable And Humiliated



The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

London, Crepuscule Place, February 22, 1901 - I granted the Slayer the evening off as a respite from her successful exertions over the past three nights in clearing the vampire nest in Kensal Green Cemetery. She accepted gratefully, with an unseemly, but not altogether unwelcome, display of affection. In fact, she kissed my face and tweaked the end of my mustache. Cheeky girl. To my surprise, she decided to spend a quiet evening at home with her sisters.

After dinner and the requisite port and cigar with Earl M, I determined to take a turn in the garden before retiring. As I strolled past the Carrera marble fountain of angels that bubbled in the courtyard, I heard whispering voices. Who might be in the garden at this hour?

I chose a little-used gravel path and headed in the direction of the voices.

To my horror, I found my Slayer. She was not alone or in the company of one of her sisters or even her repulsive lady’s companion, Miss Prism, but was sitting on a stone bench in a shadowed part of the garden speaking to a man. The man embraced her. I approached quickly to end the assignation before Lady Vicky’s reputation should be irredeemably ruined.

“Lady Chesler, come away immediately. What would your father say?” I said.

The gentleman, if he can be considered such under the circumstances, got to his feet and confronted me. “You are interrupting our conversation, Sir.”

It was Lord Teansdale, no, worse, it was the lord’s walking corpse. His face, pale and emaciated from the rigors of death, furrowed into the face of a Fiend. The many reservations I had concerning the human Lord Teansdale were swallowed whole by the terror that now confronted me. He had become – a Vampire.

After a moment, I recollected myself and the danger confronting my Slayer. My concern for her reputation, previously my foremost consideration, was subsumed by the danger of her association with this ghastly creature.

“You forget yourself, Vampire,” I said, “Lady Chesler is the Slayer. It is her sworn duty to exterminate you and every one of your kind. Flee now while you still may.”

The brute laughed at me, shook his head to resume his human visage and, drawing Lady Vicky to her feet, kissed her boldly on the lips. “Soon, my love,” he said before vanishing into the darkness.

***


Parker stumbled after his two Sires in the dark. The vampires broke into the deserted Psi Theta fraternity house and shoved him inside.

Sunday lit a candle stump with her cigarette lighter. After Buffy drove a stake through Sunday’s heart, her remaining minions abandoned the house. Rain had driven through the busted panes of the skylight and soaked the broken down furniture and piles of clothing and junk. Mold grew on every surface and cobwebs swagged the ceiling.

“We’re staying here, Fledge,” Sunday said. “Got to keep you safe from Buffy. Wouldn’t want our Childe to get dusted so soon, even if you are the most pathetic vampire in history.” She flung an armload of stolen clothes from their raid on Stevenson Hall on the floor.

“Buffy?” Parker said. “Why do I have to keep away from Buffy?”

“Duh,” Rosamund said. “Buffy is the Vampire Slayer. The one girl in all the world, chosen to stand against the vampires, the demons and the forces of darkness. When she sniffs you out, Fledge, she’s going to kick your ass up Main Street and shove a hard pointy stake in your heart. Then, Poof! No more Parker.”

Buffy was a vampire slayer? Or, rather, The Vampire Slayer? Was there only one? Why? And, she’d seemed so soft and dainty. He’d barely had time to get used to the idea of being a vampire himself, and now he had to deal with the thought of Buffy being – what was it the Moron Twins said? The one girl in all the world, chosen to stand against the vampires, the demons and the forces of darkness. What a bunch of bunk.

“She won’t hurt me. Buffy likes me. I boned her a couple of weeks ago and she was all clingy and needy.”

Rosamund and Sunday roared with laughter. They stripped off their clothes and beckoned him to join them in bed. A few minutes later, his twin Sires kicked him out of bed. After awhile, they allowed him to come crawling back on his knees to give them oral sex, then tossed him out again.

He sat, naked and miserable and humiliated, on the bedroom floor and held a pocket mirror in front of his face. He practiced switching back and forth between his vamp and human faces. Not that he could see his face.

“Being a vampire gnaws the big one,” he said. How was he going to manage without being able to look at himself in a mirror? How could he practice his Babe Hook Up lines? How could he achieve the Tousled But Manly Hair Look that brought babes to their knees? He could look like a complete geek and would never even know.

This was the worst night of his life.

“Go out and steal some more champagne, Slave,” Rosamund said. “And, while you’re out bring us back a couple of girls to drink. Sunny and I are thirsty.”

“You just ate that girl from the dorm, and I’m not your slave. I’m a Vampire. I’m Evil. I don’t have to do anything you say.”

Rosamund got up from the bed where she’d been reclining while watching Sunday hold up various items of clothing they’d stolen earlier from the Slayer’s dorm building. College girls were so stupid. They’d let anybody in their rooms. Also, the bitches had no taste in clothes.

She sauntered over to where Parker was moping on the floor and smacked him on the head to remind him that he was talking to his Sires.

Sunday tossed a pink floral rayon dress on the floor. “Don’t worry, Tiny, we won’t throw you to the Slayer just because your dick is the size of a peanut. Oh, I forgot. The Slayer already knows that.”

“Fuck off,” Parker said.

“Oh, Baby. We’re not going to sulk are we? Just because of the little disappointment we had when we got turned? Hmmm?” Sunday said.

“I thought for sure you were going to get Super Sized when we turned you,” Rosamund said. “Otherwise, we would have just killed you.”

“Super Sized, like Spike,” Sunday said. She sighed.

“It’s hard to believe that Spike was hung like that when he was human. Guess he’s just a natural talent. Not like Itsy Bitsy, here.” Rosamund held up a pair of brown Birkenstocks. She made a face and dropped them on the discard heap. “Scary.”

“Spike’s a vampire?” No wonder Buffy’s husband had been so frightening. How did Spike’s being a vampire work out with Buffy being the Vampire Slayer? Weren’t they both afraid to go to sleep in the same room?

“Why couldn’t we be fucking Spike tonight?” Sunday asked. “Why’s that bitch Slayer get all the luck?” Sunday resumed rooting through the dead freshman girl’s clothing.

“Whores,” Parker said. He threw down the mirror, which shattered on the floor. What did it matter? He was stuck with these two vampire slags. How much worse could his luck get?

“Time somebody learned to speak nicely to his Sires, don’t you think, Rosie?” Sunday said. She picked through the junk and found a chartreuse faux alligator skin belt with a pointy, star-shaped silver buckle. She held it up for her sister’s approval. “How about this?”

Rosamund changed into her vamp face and hauled Parker off the floor by his ear. “How about this?”

After the two took turns walloping, punching and biting their offending Childe, they pushed him out the door, naked, to go look for booze and blood. After some negotiation and pitiful begging on Parker’s part, they tossed him the rejected floral rayon dress. When he whined that wearing a pink dress would attract unnecessary attention, they threw him the hospital gown he’d been wearing when they rescued him from the morgue. He put the open part to the back after he decided it would be the least embarrassing.

“Hurry along, Dinky,” Sunday said. “We’ll let you practice your oral sex skills some more when you get back.”

Parker slunk through the alley behind the frat house. He was in no hurry to come back. Being the sex slave of his Twin Sires was not at all satisfying. Once they’d discovered his dick hadn’t received any benefit from his transformation, they’d refused to let him have any sex with them that didn’t involve him being on his knees.

Now, they wanted him to steal some booze and capture a victim. He was not a good thief. Last night, they’d sent him into a liquor store to steal some booze and he’d gotten shot by the owner.

That was when he first understood how much he’d changed. He got shot and he didn’t die. Getting shot hurt, even if you were a vampire. It had been mildly cool watching his flesh grow back together and spit the bullet out.

As to catching a victim, impossible. As they left the liquor store, he’d spotted Katie Loomis. He’d banged Katie after he’d given Buffy a jump, so he figured Katie would still be in the All-Upset-I-Got-Dumped Stage, which all his conquests went through. She’d be vulnerable. The Twins said she’d be an easy kill. Perfect for his first time.

Instead, Katie popped him in the nose with her hand, shoved her elbow in his gut and slammed her high-heeled shoe on his instep. She’d kicked him in the nuts. While he was reeling in pain, his Sires, who were supposed to be teaching him the ropes, fell on the ground laughing and let Katie escape.

He was a complete failure as a vampire. He’d never failed at anything important before and it was unnerving.

Parker trudged to the Kwik LiQ All You Can Drink, which was the nearest liquor store, next nearest actually, after Hank’s Campus Liquor Emporium where he’d made a fool of himself earlier. He went inside, waited for another customer to leave, then pulled his vamp face and snarled at the clerk. He was pretty good at snarling, not that good snarling was much consolation. He glanced at the clerk’s name tag.

“Jathon, giveth me thampagne. Th gooth thuff.” His fangs cut into his lower lip and the bulge in his forehead made his eyes cross, too. He hoped Jason wouldn’t screw with him. Parker had no idea what was good champagne. He never drank the shit.

Jason had seen his share of vampires, so he wasn’t surprised when Parker’s face changed. It was the first time he’d seen a vampire wearing a hospital gown with his butt hanging out the back. There was a loaded shotgun under the counter, but his boss wasn’t paying him nearly enough to fight off monsters, so Jason put a bottle of champagne in a paper bag and shoved in a pink advertising flyer that the boss said to hand out to all the customers.

After his success at the liquor store, Parker felt better, so he swung by Frostles’ Pub to see if he could catch a victim to bring back to the Twins. When he arrived, a completely plastered girl staggered out of the front door alone and Parker approached her in human face with his best, most sincere smile. She was so drunk, she didn’t even notice that he was wearing a hospital gown.

“Hi. I’m Parker. It's not real safe here, so if you want to walk back to your dorm, I could make sure you get where you’re going.”

The girl agreed, mostly to have something upright to lean against, and allowed Parker to put his arm around her.

Parker sneaked his fingers up onto the girl’s breast and pinched her nipple. Maybe this vampire thing wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

***

The golden moon was creeping up the eastern horizon when three men parked their van down the street from the mansion and silently dropped out the back door. They’d shot out the nearby street lights earlier in the day and now slunk into the deep shadows of the bushes surrounding the house.

Martin Collins, Special Agent, Watcher’s Council, crawled under a thick cover of vines and peeked into the mansion’s bedroom window. The windows were curtained, but a thin break in the fabric panels allowed him to see in. He didn’t much like what he saw.

“Take a look, Weatherby. Is that her?”

The second man strained to look through the gap in the curtains. He saw a trim – and naked - girl with wet, blonde hair was walking back and forth in the room, rubbing herself with a dark, red towel. He dropped back to the ground. “Yeah, I think it’s her. She was a brunette the last time I saw her. Crazy as a loon, too. Kept saying she was the other Slayer or the other Slayer was her or their bodies got mixed up or some crap like that. These Slayers all have a bolt loose. Council should have taken them both out and started over.”

“What’s the plan?” asked Agent Payne, the third man.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

Collins adjusted his crossbow and fitted a quarrel into its notch. Payne could be a bloody nuisance. Git thought he was sodding Rambo. “For the word from Travers. If they leave, we follow.”

“Screw waiting,” Payne said. “I hate stake outs. Let’s go in and take them out now.”

“Go ahead. You know who the boyfriend is? William the Bloody.”

“Holy shit. Guess we wait.”


***

Spike tapped out his favorite Ramones’ song on the mattress and watched Buffy prancing around the room. His attempt to trick her into accepting the claim had bombed and after midnight she was going to leave him. She hadn’t even thanked him for that bleeding towel he’d nicked for her at the Wal-Mart. He’d have to fall back on his best power of persuasion. He tried sending her a love wave over the claim, but she blocked him.

“Still got a few hours, kitten. Come back to bed.”

Buffy hung her towel up and put on a silky, red top, some black leather pants and matching black leather jacket with a cute band collar and ignored Spike. She pulled her weapons bag from under Spike’s bed where she’d stored it since she moved in. She checked through the contents and held up a mini power crossbow that Giles bought her for her last birthday. “Ever use one of these? Giles got it for me. I haven’t tested it in the field.”

She aimed the crossbow at Spike.

Chapter 23 – Midnight Madness


London, Crepuscule Place, February 23, 1901 - The following day, when my temper had cooled, I summoned Lady Chesler to her father’s study for a confrontation, for confrontation it must be with such a serious situation at hand. I had barely commenced chiding her for this most foolish and dangerous liaison with Lord Teansdale, when she blurted out information that made my blood freeze colder than the storm blasted wastes of Antarctica.

“You are too late, Sir Arthur. Too late,” she cried before collapsing on the sofa and heaving great sobs in her misery.

Her pitiful attitude immediately softened my anger. “Too late? Whatever do you mean, my dear?”

“Lord Teansdale has claimed me.” She unbuttoned the collar on her muslin shirt and drew the delicate fabric down to expose her neck and the unhealed punctures. “I love him and he has claimed me for his Vampire Mate. I am lost to you – to friends, to family, to all - forever.”

She returned to her room singing a melancholy song I’d never heard before. “Don’t Judge the Girl Who Loved Too Well, Her Heart is Heavy Now.”

***

Buffy aimed her mini-crossbow at Spike.

Spike fell off their rumpled bed in his haste to get out of her line of sight.

Buffy moved her crossbow a quarter of an inch to the right and waited. When the white face popped up above the window ledge again, she fired. The quarrel arced through the tiny gap between the curtains and shattered the glass.

“Is this your idea of a romantic last evening together? A weapons comparison test? What say we order out a pizza? I’ll eat the driver and you can have pepperoni.” Maybe she could just take off her clothes again and forget about pizza.

“Who said anything about romantic? You said special. I agreed to special and I ‘specially want to kill a couple of vamps of your acquaintance tonight. You can help.”

He got up and pulled on his pants. He tucked himself in carefully before pulling up the zipper. Going commando had its downside. “Bitches. You’re all alike. Do you even like me, or am I just your sodding sex slave?”

“Claim thing was your idea, Room Temperature.”

“Do you?”

“I do like you, sometimes,” she said. She packed her crossbow into her bag and a couple of stakes into one of her patrol bag’s pockets. “Are you coming or are you going to loll around the house brooding?”

Spike jerked on one of his boots and searched the room for the other. “I never brooded in my life! That’s Angel’s vibe. Who are we going to kill?”

“Your slut girlfriends, Rosamund and Sunday.” Buffy slicked some bright red lipstick on her lips.

Spike felt a flutter of hope. His mate was still brassed off about the Twinks. That meant she was jealous and that meant that she might just love him enough to stick around.

“The Twinks? What for? Bob the Warlock is dead, so there’s no money in it. Besides a slut is a terrible thing to waste. And, what’s in it for me?”

“I’m pretty favorable to people who help me on patrol. Besides, the twins are pretty tough. If I can’t take them alone, you might get killed by accident.”

Buffy might get killed. She was out there every damn night sticking sharp things into vampires and other kinds of nasties and exposing herself to death and mayhem. Why did that matter so much? Because, he loved her. Just like Drusilla said, he’d gone and fallen in love with the Slayer. No point telling her how he felt now that she was about to kick his arse to the curb. He’d play it Cool Guy.

“Yeah, I might get killed,” he said. “Guess I’ll have to help you. You’re only hunting Rosie and Sunnie ‘cause you’re jealous.” Spike held out his arms and Buffy melted into them. He could be cool while he held onto his mate. Who knew if he’d get another chance?

“I’m an entirely disinterested Slayer. I killed Sunday the first time before you mated me. Maybe that particular dusting wasn’t entirely disinterested. She did break my Class Protector Umbrella.”

Spike formed the words ‘Class Protector Umbrella?’ with his mouth. His mate plainly has a screw loose. Well, he was used to that. “Let’s make a deal.”

“I don’t make deals with vampires.” She shoved him off and combed the tangles out of her hair and made a tiny decorative braid on one side before pinning her hair against the back of her skull.

“Help me kill Cleotus. He’s challenged me over you. I can’t let the challenge stand without fighting. I’ll never be able to flash a fang again in this town if I let that bastard live.” It wasn’t true that Cleotus had challenged him over Buffy, but Spike felt no need to adhere strictly to the truth. He nibbled the back of her exposed neck

“I wouldn’t mind showing Cleotus the pointy end of my stake. What about the rest of your minions?” She zipped up her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

He considered offering to carry her patrol bag for her, but decided he wasn’t brave enough to ask. “What about them?” Once he dusted Cleotus, he could regain control of the remainder of his minions. None of them would dare challenge him after he terminated Cleotus.

“They have to go.” She headed out of the bedroom.

He picked up his missing boot and followed her, waving the boot at her. “Just like a woman. Married for eight days and already you’re getting rid of my friends.”

She paused at the front door and turned to smile at him. “You don’t have friends. You have skeevy bloodsucker acquaintances, flunkies and lackeys.”

“What of it? They’re my flunkies and lackeys. You really think they’re skeevy?”

He hopped after her on one foot, still arguing.

***

Lydia rang the bell at 1630 Revello Drive tapped her foot and waited impatiently for an answer. The moon had crawled halfway up the sky. She didn’t have much time.

Joyce cracked open the door. “May I help you?”

“Yes, please,” Lydia said. “I need to see Buffy Summers right away. It’s something of an emergency.”

Joyce stayed behind the threshold and didn’t invite the strange young woman into the house. She seemed human enough, but Joyce was not about to break Buffy’s rule about inviting in strangers. And, it would be rude to ask the woman if she was a vampire. “I’m sorry. Buffy’s not here.”

“Where can I find her? There’s very little time. I’m Lydia Chalmers. I’m from the Watcher’s Council in London. I’ve come a long way to see the Slay … I mean, Miss Summers. May I come in?”

“Oh,” Joyce said. This might be important. Giles was from the Watcher’s Council, she knew, but still, she ought to be careful. She stepped back from the door.

“You didn’t think I was a vampire? I’m frightfully sorry. If I may?” Lydia stepped across the threshold.

Joyce breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. One has to be so careful here in Sunnydale. Would you like some tea?”

Lydia would have beheaded three vampires for a nice cuppa, but she was in America where tea was treated most brutally. “I wouldn’t wish to put you to any bother.”

Joyce headed for the kitchen. “My pleasure. Mr. Giles taught me how to make it the English way. Lemon or milk?”

“Lemon would be lovely.” Lydia sat at the kitchen island and felt comfortable for the first time since she’d arrived in California.

***

After beating through the bushes around the house to see who had been peaking in their bedroom window, Buffy headed east down the street. She didn’t have any particular reason to go this way, other than to enjoy the golden moon that was inching up the velvet blue night sky.

“How do you plan to find them?” Spike asked. “Walk around all night until you stumble on them? I don’t want to spend all night on this project. I want to get home and shag you senseless before midnight and you scarper off.”

Spike was being really pissy. That’s just what she planned to do – walk around until she found the Tramp Twins and kill anything else that crossed her path in the meantime. Actually, she figured the Twins would find her. They had sworn vengeance, hadn’t they? They were probably watching her every move, looking for an opportunity to jump out at her from behind some bush. Grrr. She hated being jumped out at. “I’ll find them.”

The back of her neck tickled. Was someone watching them? She turned around, but saw no one.

“Right, then. Got to have some liquor if we’re going to be running all over Sunnydale half the night.”

“No Cave Beer. I have to have all my senses intact when I take on these two, not to mention if we run into your little problem, Cleotus.”

“He’s not so little.”

They walked into the Kwik LiQ All You Can Drink, the nearest package store to the mansion.

“Jason, give me a fifth of Jack,” Spike said.

Buffy pressed her lips into a thin line of displeasure. Apparently, her husband of the past eight days was a Frequent Flyer here at the Kwik LiQ, since he knew the store clerk by name.

Jason handed Spike a bottle of black label Jack Daniels. Spike took the bottle, tossed Buffy a bag of honey-roasted peanuts and headed for the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving? Going against my vampire nature to help you fight evil? Wasting a perfectly good evening when I could be giving you the rough and tumble of your uptight life?” Spike said. He twisted the top off the bottle, ruptured the paper seals, and took a calming drink.

Buffy tapped her foot.

“What are you on about now? You’re a regular ball and chain – no killing, no hunting, no smoking, no banging girls on the side, to say nothing of the way you killed my minions.”

“Did you forget the paying part?” Buffy asked. She glanced at Jason, who didn’t seem to be expecting payment.

“It’s okay, lady,” Jason said. “The boss has a special deal for vampires.”

Great, the kid knows about vampires. Buffy dug into the pockets of her jeans and pulled out a twenty. “Is that enough?”

“Sure,” Jason said. He rang up the sale, handed her a couple of bucks in change and one of the pink flyers that his boss said all the customers were supposed to get.

“Bloody hell!” Spike shouted as soon as they were outside. “Can’t I even nick a bottle of booze without interference from the missus?”

“Can’t you just pay for your booze like everybody else?”

“Pay? Evil here?”

Buffy glanced at the pink flyer and looked around for a trash can, then looked at the flyer again. “Hey, look at this. I know just where to find your ho’ bag girlfriends.” She handed Spike the flyer.

Spike looked at the flyer. “Grand Opening and Midnight Madness Sale – Sunnydale Mall.” By the time he looked up, Buffy had jogged halfway across the campus quadrangle.

“Wait up.” He chased after Buffy, who had broken into a run.

Chapter 24 – Intentions

The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

London, The Watcher’s Council, February 28, 1901 to March 1, 1901 - There is no need to expound here the furtive fury with which I plunged into the excellent research material at the Council’s library. I cloaked my anxiety for my Slayer’s welfare from the other members of the Council who attended the library that day, behind a façade of ennui and disinterested study, as all the while I frantically searched for some method – by arts of purest white or the blackest from hell – to release my Slayer from the blood bonds that chained her, perhaps for eternity, to Lord Teansdale.

Finally, at 4:39 a.m., I was perusing Vampire Folk Tales of Saxon England, and more than feeling the hopelessness of my task. My eyes blurred from skimming one useless tale after another and my stomach roiled from the unending cups of tea I had consumed to stay awake. I had nearly determined to reveal the sorry state of affairs to Marquis Quentin and beg for his assistance in saving my Slayer, when I chanced upon an old, parchment letter placed inside the book. It was cross-written, folded to form an envelope and sealed with an ancient Watcher’s signet ring.

My hands trembled as I broke the seal.

≈§ ≈ § ≈

Letter from Robert Jones, Watcher
to Sir Alfrith Speround, Her Majesty’s Watcher’s Counsil
Llnfairtalhaian, Afon Elwy
July 31, 1612

Dear Sir Speround,

It is with hevy hart thet I writ to you this eve. That bleeding female, pardon my languidge, Joan Toask, what is ower Slayer for this past winter, has tuk up with a Vampyr of most loathsum charakter. I warnt her most sternly about this sort of theng, but you no how thees Slayer girls ar. Get a littel strenth to them and they com on headstrong as any mule.

As I was saying, a few days ago, Joan tuk herself up with this Vampyr and let him hav a go. This is wot coms of teking on farm girls fer Slayers, I say. They ar frisky wentchs and too much in the companie of kine and other beasts of the field. The Slayer bistness jist encuridgs ther naturil tendunsies. Any way, she not only let Master Vampyr put it to her (behind her father’s barn the prevus nite), but let him tak a biet out of her as well.

Ned, the Vampyr in questshun, Satan’s Own Servant, who uset to be Tom the Blacksmith’s oldest boy, after having his way with her, went an clappd a Vampyr Mating Clam on my Slayer. She fetched arund the next morning, crying and wailing, but I didn’t no whot to do, so I purposd to speek to her new husband and find out his intensyuns.

I cornered the fiend doun in his lair. He had the gall to hole himself up in one of the High Sherriff’s outbuildings, him whot weren’t nothing but a blacksmith’s boy, look you. Anyway, I found him ther, thrasht him gud for presuoming on the Slayer’s goud nature and inocense and graspd his coat very firm and threatened to toss him out into the nunday sun if he didn’t tell me how to brek this mating clam. After that, he was more or less in a cuperativ mind to tell me all he knew.

I was pleasd to find out, as I no you will be to, that while the Vampyr Broot clammed the Slayer good and proper, bieting her with the ful blud and rituls, Joan had enouf sens, or good luck if you will have it, not to biet the right bastard bak and cumpleet the clam. After som mor conversashun with my two gud fissts, Vampyr Tom told me that the clam would run out com the next full moon, whitch coms up agin on August 16, or thereabouts. I purpose to keep the Slayer lockt into her room until she’s safe agin.

I wod not truble you with this infurmayshun, only you said to bee shur and let you no if I got wind of any useful infurmashun of this nature, so heer it is.

As to that lackbrein trullup Slayer of ours, I wil beat her till the blud runs don her heels if she dos not stay cler of Vampyr Ned in future, thet is, if she don’t smile her pretty and beguiling smil and put me off like she alweys dos. If I cannot find impruvment in her cheeky ways, I have halv a mind to send her doun to Stratferd to see whot Bill Shaksper can make of her.

Yurs very trooly,

Robert Jones, Watcher
Llnfairtalhaian, Afon Elwy

≈§ ≈ § ≈

I pocketed the letter and raced home without returning my tomes to the librarian. I will be censored for my lack of consideration, but there is no time to waste if I wish to save my dear Vicky from a horrible fate.

***

The mall owners had gone all out to celebrate the Grand Opening of their new addition.

Throngs of shoppers attacked the Midnight Madness sales, and children and teenagers crawled all over the visiting carnival rides – the black, whirling Octopus with it’s orange-yellow glowing lights, the Crack the Whip, the Wave Swinger and a merry-go-round. Parts of the carnival expanded out into the parking lot to accommodate the larger rides; the Wave Swinger and the merry-go-round were tucked inside the newly constructed addition. Pink, yellow and green lights swirled in dizzying circles as the crowd shoved and shouted to be next to grab a ride.

Buffy pushed through the crowd, followed by Spike, who used his vampire face to clear a path.

“We’ll never find them here, pet. Let’s forget about the Twinks.” Spike did not want to spend his last night as Buffy’s husband shoving around an overheated mall looking for Rosamund and Sunday.

“I’ll find them.”

“With your vampire radar? It can’t work with this many people. There must be a dozen vamps here tonight.”

“Don’t remind me. No, this is a girlie thing.”

She headed inside the mall. Dozens of tables crowded the main hall with sales goods. They passed the merry-go-round which was spinning sedately in the middle of the hall. Buffy touched Spike’s hand. It would be romantic to take a ride on the merry-go-round with Spike. Something sweet to remember their last night by.

Buffy saw Willow going into the Flaming Hot and Extra Spicy Lingerie Shop with the New Girl. Why was Willow holding her hand? And, why was Willow dressed up in that tight black skirt and black nylons and black high heels? And, red lipstick? Willow never wore red lipstick.

The crowd parted and Buffy saw Parker, standing in front of the fountain, talking to a teenage boy.

“My scars are all psychological, you see, my father died last year.”

Buffy considered punching him in the nose, or at least warning the boy about the smooth lies of Parker Abrams, when Parker awkwardly shook out his vamp face and lowered his fangs to the boy’s neck. Before Buffy could react, a girl screamed. The scream was coming from inside the Flaming Hot and Extra Spicy Lingerie Shop.

“Spike, stop Parker from biting that kid. I’ll see what’s happening in the shop.” Buffy ran to the shop without pausing to see if Spike was following instructions.

***

“Brilliant. Just how I want to spend my last night with my mate. Chasing after Fledges.”

Spike grabbed a fist full of Parker’s hair and bounced his skull off the marble retainer wall of the fountain’s pool. Spike held Parker up, dangling Parker by his hair just high enough to keep Parker’s toes from touching the floor. “Don’t know what Buffy ever saw in you, Ponce.”

Parker’s victim boy backed away as quickly as the crowd would allow and vanished.

Spike looked around. Buffy had taken her patrol bag with her and there wasn’t a piece of wood in sight. “Bugger. Guess I’ll have to twist your head off. Damn, I’m going to get dust all over my coat.”

“Wait!” Parker yelled. “Don’t kill me!”

“Why the bloody hell not? You don’t really expect me to let you live after you’ve messed with my woman?”

“Well, uh, I uh, I didn’t know she was your woman when I messed with her. And, now that I’m a vampire, we’re sort of like related or something.”

“’Fraid not.”

“Wait! Let me have a smoke before you kill me.”

“It’s against my better judgment, but all right. There’s cigarettes in my coat and a lighter in my pants pocket. Help yourself.” Spike tugged up on Parker’s hair so he wouldn’t get any ideas about escaping.

Parker patted his hands on Spike’s pants in places the cigarettes couldn’t possibly be until Spike growled. He pulled out the pack and lighter and lit up.

“Thanks. This is really nice of you.” Parker slid Spike’s lighter into his own front pants pocket.

***

Anya and Xander were browsing through the displays outside the Flaming Hot and Extra Spicy Lingerie Shop. Anya held up a teal and black lace bra and panty set for Xander’s approval. “Look, these are twenty percent off. They’re a real bargain.”

“I am Payday Man and …” Xander looked at the price tag. “These cost a fortune.”

“Yes, but they’re worth it. Think of all the money we’ll save if we buy them now.”

Xander held a crooked index finger out and tried to think of a way to explain to Anya that buying over-priced slutty underwear, even if it was on sale, was no deal. He lost his chain of thought when he spied Giles holding up a black silk teddy for Buffy’s Mom to see.

No, no, no.

“What are you doing here?” Xander croaked. It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right. Giles was an old, old man. He shouldn’t be thinking about women, especially women wearing black lacy things like the one he was holding up and even more especially if the woman Giles was thinking about was Buffy’s Mom.

“Xander,” Giles said. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Quite a sale, don’t you think?”

Xander would have answered if he could have come up with something reasonably glib, but his Glib-O-Meter shut down when somebody screamed and he saw Buffy shove through the crowd to pry her way into the lingerie shop. She was waving a mini-crossbow in her hand.

***

“Do you really have to kill me?” Parker bleated.

“You’re a wanker, and I’m not in the mood to kill wankers. Came here to kill some real villains. What’ll you do if I let you go?”

“Anything! Anything you say.” Maybe he could be Spike’s Love Slave instead of being under the fangs of those two heifers, Rosamund and Sunday.

“If you don’t behave yourself, Slayer’s gonna kick your ass and she’s not big on the mercy angle.”

Parker touched the bump on his head where Buffy had cracked his skull a few nights before. “I’ll say.”

***

“Hey. What’s Buffy doing?” Xander asked.

“She appears to be engaged in some Extremely Violent Shopping. Understandable with these prices,” Giles said. He checked his wallet – cash or charge?

Spike came up behind Giles, dragging Parker with him. “Say there, Watcher. Got a proposition for you.”

“Spike!” Giles sprang away in horror, shoved Joyce behind him and held up the cross that was suspended inside his shirt.

“Yeah, it’s me. Hey, Joyce. Rupert, I got this wanker here. He fledged into a vampire the other night. Thought you might like to keep him for a bit, study him. Says he’ll behave. When you get tired of him, you can dust him. Buffy used to fancy him. I wouldn’t want to upset her by making her stake the ringworm. I’d do it myself, but I expect Buffy wants my help with the Twins and I don’t want to get dust all over my coat.”

While Giles was blubbering in fright and astonishment, Spike picked up a fluffy pink negligee with his free hand. “Think Buffy would like this?”

Giles regained his composure by recalling that this creature, this Spike, was the very devil who had claimed his Slayer. Also, he didn’t want to look like a big girl’s blouse in front of Joyce. “Fiend, I know what you did to Buffy. You claimed her while she was …” He glanced at Joyce.

Willow came up with her new blonde friend. “Sleeping.”

“Sleeping.” Giles said. He looked at Willow. She was dressed quite strangely and she was holding the New Girl’s hand. He couldn’t worry about Willow now. He had to deal with the problem of Spike. “Spike, I want to know your intentions.”

***

Buffy shoved her way into the Flaming Hot, with her crossbow cocked and raised and ready for action. Sunday clutched a shopper by the throat and Rosamund was checking out a two-for-one panties sale.

She didn’t think she could accurately fire a quarrel into Sunday’s heart with the crush of shoppers surrounding the vampire, so she picked up a half-mannequin that was modeling a strapless push-up bra with cross-your-heart styling in navy blue with mint green piping and heaved it at Sunday’s head.

***

“Sleeping! That’s rich. Is that what she told you? And, my intentions?” Spike was trying to argue with Giles and at the same time catch some coherent thought from Buffy who had just been flung through one of the lingerie store’s plate glass windows.

Buffy jumped up and ran back through the display window, into the store.

“Yes, your intentions. The claim expires tonight. What do you plan to do about it?”

“Well, I hadn’t exactly planned anything, Watcher. Maybe a nice bottle of plonk, some candles – got plenty of those – some massage oil.”

Giles punched Spike in the nose and immediately cried out in pain from his possibly broken knuckles. “That’s for claiming my Slayer, you berk.”

Spike dropped Parker, who he’d been holding suspended by his hair all this time and slammed his fist into Gile’s gut. “She’s not your Slayer any more, you big Poof. She’s mine.”

Parker slipped away into the crowd.

Giles forced himself to straighten up and took another swing. “Not if I have anything to do about it.”

Spike ducked. The Watcher packed a wallop when he had his anger up. He didn’t want to hurt Buffy’s Watcher too much, knowing how she’d carry on about it, so he kicked Giles feet out from under him and sent him crashing to the ground.

“Well, you don’t. Dad.”

Chapter 25 – Where You Made Your Mistake



The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

London, Crepuscule Place, March 17, 1901 – I arrived at Crepuscule Place at dawn and immediately sent for Lady Vicky over the protestations of her maid who advised me that she wasn’t well and required her rest.

Lady Vicky was not well. She appeared in his Lordship’s study in a white, wraithlike dressing gown, her face was thin and pale as cotton muslin. Dark blue crescents smudged under her eyes and on her hands, cold and seemingly bloodless, blue veins spread like a net under her transparent skin. The marks on her neck – no, I cannot bear to describe her sullied flesh.

“I have news, your Ladyship. The claim can be broken – in fact – it will be dissolved without any effort on your part. You have only to resist Lord Teansdales’ advances until March 20, the next full moon. On that day, the mating claim will expire and he will be forced to surrender his declaration.”

She merely smiled at me and nodded. She stood for a long time without speaking, then thanked me for my efforts and returned to her room.

I had expected more gratitude for my efforts, but I ascribed her diffidence to her weakened state and went to my bed with an easy heart.


***

“Spike! Help me!” Buffy shouted. Rosamund and Sunday attacked Buffy from two sides and none of the shoppers would leave to give her room to fight.

Spike stepped over Giles and tracked Buffy into the lingerie shop. He snapped into his vampire face and scared a few of the customers out of the store to give them room, then tapped Buffy’s shoulder. “Back to back, luv. Then, we’ll take them.”

Buffy turned her back to Spike and proceeded to spar with Rosamund. What a relief to have someone at her back when she was facing two tough opponents.

Rosamond feinted with her left fist, then jabbed Buffy in the belly. Buffy responded by dropping to her hands, kicking into a handstand and slamming her feet into Rosamund’s face.

Sunday ducked Spike’s fist, grabbing Rosamund as she ran past. The two vampires crashed through the remaining intact display window and started tossing mannequins and corsets and lace-up boots at Buffy and Spike.

Buffy caught one of the mannequins. “Wood.” She ripped its arm off and took off after the vampires.

Spike stopped fighting long enough to catch some of the sexy items that Rosamund and Sunday were pitching out the window and stuff them in his pockets. When his pockets were full, he went after Sunday.

Sunday leaped onto Spike, teeth flashing. Her fingers clawed his hair. She wrapped her legs around his chest and squeezed hard enough to crack his ribs. Spike roared and threw her halfway across the store and into Rosamund who was kicking and punching Buffy’s face in an efficient manner.

Damn! He was having a wonderful time.

Sunday sailed into Rosamund and they both crashed to the floor and slid into a wooden display case with bits of lingerie decoratively draped on the drawers.

Buffy ran up to Rosamund and skewered her heart with the mannequin hand she’d been gripping. The wooden hand shattered with the force of Buffy’s blow, but the mannequin’s pinkie finger penetrated Rosamund’s dead heart and she exploded into a cloud of dust and bits of bone.

Sunday rolled to her feet and swung wildly at Buffy. “You killed my sister, you bitch.”

“Sorry, no returns on damaged merchandise,” Buffy said. She wheeled around and kicked the back of Sunday’s head.

Sunday picked up the cash register and smacked Buffy on the head. Buffy weaved and crumpled to the floor. Sunday shoved a huge clothes cabinet onto Buffy and pinned her to the floor.

Buffy’s head spun as she watched Sunday whip out a cigarette lighter and set fire to the racks of clothing and drapes. The fire roared into a wall of flames.

Spike dodged the flames and ran to Buffy’s side and lifted the heavy cabinet. Buffy’s hands were caught and she wasn’t able to help lift, but Spike raised it high enough for her to roll out. He helped Buffy to her feet while Sunday ran out of the store, grabbing the first human she could reach, a woman with blonde hair done up in a French twist and wearing a trim, grey wool suit. She gripped the woman’s neck with her fangs and bit down.


“Back off, Slayer.” Sunday said as she brought up her bloody mouth. “I haven’t eaten yet tonight. My corpuscle count is dropping. You wouldn’t want me to take a bite.” Sunday backed away dragging the woman in front of her.

The fire spread, engulfing the draperies and racks of clothes. The flames licked their way up the walls and melted the acoustical tiles in the ceiling. A smoke alarm shrieked and the sprinkler system came on, spraying water and creating clouds of thick, black smoke. The crowd stampeded at sight of smoke pouring from the store windows. The air filled with the sounds of alarms, screams, breaking glass and running feet.

Sunday dragged the woman to the front door, then shoved her back towards Buffy and Spike, while she ran.

Buffy coughed and choked on the smoke.

Spike covered her face with his coat and carried her out.

“Get the woman,” Buffy said. She could barely speak her throat was so raw. Each breath was painful. She had to get moving. Sunday was escaping. She rolled to her feet.

“Bollocks,” Spike said. He propped Buffy up next to the fountain and ran back to the store to bring out Sunday’s latest victim.

***

Sunday grabbed another hostage from the fleeing crowd and dragged the woman onto the moving merry-go-round. She broke the woman’s neck and threw the body at Buffy to keep her from jumping on. As the platform turned, she mounted a red enameled dragon and reached out and slammed the engine controls to their highest speed.

Buffy ran up the down escalator, two steps at a time and, when she reached the top, grabbed the bric-a-brac trim on the top of the merry-go-round and swung onto the platform. She ran against the spin of the platform to reach the vampire.

“Spike! Shut down the machine!” Buffy yelled.

Nothing happened. The merry-go-round continued whirling at a furious pace. She chased after Sunday, but the vampire had only to keep running and ripping up carnival animals to fling at Buffy.

Buffy started ripping up animals herself and tossing them off the merry-go-round. She flung a purple and red-striped m’fashnik demon off the platform. The statue crashed into the controls, breaking them. The machine accelerated – faster and faster until the central spindle cracked and the merry-go-round whirled off its pole and slid down the mall floor. The huge machine crashed through the Food Court, ripping up the floors, flinging chairs and tables and finally smashing into a wall of video arcade machines.

The machine’s momentum threw Buffy off the ride and face first into a refrigerator case. She got to her feet, picked up what was left of a prancing goat figure with two huge twisted horns and staggered after Sunday, who was limping away as fast as she could. Buffy caught her and slammed the goat on top of Sunday’s head over and over until Sunday fell to the floor.

Buffy broke off one of the goat’s twisted horns. “I think you'll find your mistake was touching my Mate!” She shoved the horn through Sunday’s chest and jumped back as Sunday blasted into ashes.

***

Spike carried the woman out of the burning store. Once out of the smoke and steam, he recognized Lydia, the Watcher girl who’d visited him earlier. He handed her off to Buffy’s red-headed girlfriend. He started after Buffy, but someone grabbed his arm, spun him around, and sent him crashing to the floor.

“What’s your hurry, Candyass?”

It was Cleotus, accompanied by several members of Spike’s former gang. Cleotus was holding his favorite weapon, a Louisville Slugger.

“Hey! You!” Spike sprang up and pointed to Tucker. “Get over here and help me with this big poufter.” Spike did not relish taking on Cleotus again by himself without a sip of Slayer blood to boost his strength.

“I don’t work for you anymore,” Tucker said. “I’m like with Cleotus now. He’s way tougher than you anyway.”

“Bugger,” Spike said. While Cleotus was giving Spike’s former minions a smirk of satisfaction, Spike took the opportunity to slug him in the face.

Cleotus barely flinched.

Spike slugged him again.

Cleotus stood with his hands at his sides and allowed Spike to punch him a few more times. “Not the same without a pint of Slayer juice in your tank, is it, Pansy?”

Spike kicked Cleotus in the head.

Spike and Cleotus danced about a bit, each waiting to see who would make the next move. Cleotus outweighed Spike by a good two stone and all of it muscle and meanness. Spike figured his best chance would be to out dance him - keep moving and not try to out fight him.

Cleotus wasn’t willing to wait for Spike to tire him out so he sprang forward and swatted Spike over the head with his wooden bat.

Spike fell to his knees, his head spinning, and attacked Cleotus’ legs with his fangs. Cleotus roared with pain and beat Spike on the back. When he tired of beating Spike, he flung away his bat and jerked Spike to his feet by the throat. Spike’s fangs ripped a huge chunk of muscle out of his leg. He worked Spike over with one train wreck slug to his gut after another while he crushed Spike’s throat with his huge hand.

Cleotus’ arms were so long, Spike couldn’t reach him to punch back. Spike got in a few kicks and ground his boot into Cleotus’ leg where he’d torn out the muscle. Cleotus never flinched.

Spike spotted Buffy playing around with a large wooden goat, then Sunday bursting into dust. “I could use some help here, Slayer,” Spike wheezed out between blows.

Buffy tossed down the remains of the wooden carnival goat horn and looked around for her patrol bag. Her bag, with all her weapons, had disappeared in the scuffle and the goat’s horn she’d used to dust Sunday was destroyed. She darted around the Food Court, searching for a weapon that could kill Cleotus.

She saw Giles, but no useful weapons.

“Giles. Grab Spike. Help him get away!”

Buffy stumbled over a huge electrical line, nearly as big as her arm. She picked up the cord to see where it was connected.

“I bloody well will not help him. You’re supposed to be killing him.”

“The claim, Giles! If Spike gets killed, so will I.” She jerked hard on the cord and tore one end loose from the Wave Swinger that it had been powering. Electrical sparks showered from the torn end. She dragged the snapping wire towards Spike and Cleotus.

“My Lord!” Giles grabbed Spike by the collar of his coat and yanked. Cleotus only grinned and choked Spike harder.

“Lighter. Left pocket.” Spike croaked. His fingers scrabbled to peel Cleotus’s hand away from his throat.

“Lighter? Oh, lighter! Right.” Giles patted Spike’s coat and pants. No lighter. Giles waved his cross in Cleotus’ face. “Release Spike and back away, Evil Dead.”

Cleotus laughed.

Xander watched with enthusiasm while Spike got beat up, until Anya poked him in the ribs.

“We have to help him, Xander. If Spike dies, so will Buffy,” she said.

“What! Oh!” Xander looked around frantically. What could he use to stop a vampire twice as big as Spike and every bit as mean?

Anya reached into his shirt pocket and whipped out the lighter he’d acquired as part of his bartender’s outfit. “Here Giles, use this!” She tossed the lighter to Giles.

Giles flicked the lighter and waved it around looking for a place to set Cleotus on fire. When Cleotus’ leather jacket only smoldered, Giles settled for waving the flame in Cleotus’ face until he loosened his grip on Spike’s throat.

Spike kicked Cleotus in the crotch just as he was loosening his grip. When Cleotus released Spike’s throat, there was no longer anything holding Spike up and he collapsed onto the floor.

Cleotus jumped back to avoid the lighter’s flame. While Cleotus had been thrashing Spike and avoiding flamey death, he lost track of the Slayer. His head whipped back and forth as he searched for her.

Buffy jabbed him in the back with the sparking end of the electrical cable.

He screamed as thousands of volts of blue electricity crackled through his body. As he dusted, he spewed out a gush of liquid blood along with his dust and bones and teeth. His demonic tattoos peeled off his skin and hung in the air and burst into silver and orange flames.

“Make mine extra crispy,” Buffy said.

Spike held his hand out to Giles, who reluctantly helped him up. “Thanks, Dad. I was getting a bit worried. Say, what would the Council think about you saving William the Bloody’s hide, eh?”

“Don’t you dare call me Dad, you blighter. Buffy’s divorcing you at midnight when the claim runs. Which is in precisely,” Giles looked at his watch. “Seven minutes.”

Buffy sent Xander to secure the electrical cable. The crowd had disappeared and the sprinklers had doused the fire from the lingerie store, leaving puddles of blackened water on the floor and the air full of smoke. She walked up to Spike and wiped a greasy smudge from his face.

“It’s almost time,” Spike said. He cupped her face in his hand. “I’m gonna miss you, Slayer.”

“Midnight and I turn into a divorcee. Kinda sucks,” Buffy said. She looked around. Everyone she cared about was here tonight – her Mom, Giles, Willow, Xander and Anya. It was important at a time like this to have your loved ones with you. Also, there were people that she didn’t know from Adam. That woman in the grey suit, for instance.

Giles gave up trying to wipe the soot from his glasses and tucked them in his shirt pocket. “Buffy, I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said. “I said I’d do whatever is necessary and I will.”

Giles squinted at his Slayer. Something about the way she said that she’d do ‘whatever was necessary’ didn’t seem exactly right to him. “Yes. Once the claim is over, you will kill Spike.”

“Hey! Standing right here,” Spike said. He pulled Buffy aside. “You told your Watcher you’re going to kill me?”

Buffy put her arms around his neck. “Sure. Once the claim’s over.”

“She won’t have to.”

Buffy and Spike looked up. They were surrounded by three members of the Council’s hit team, each holding a crossbow armed with vampire-lethal wooden quarrels.


***

The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

(In a Different Hand) Watcher’s Council, Thrusk Street, London, April 4, 1901 – On April 2, 1901, due to the immense strain placed upon his health by the burden of his duties, Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin resigned his position as Watcher to Lady Victorine Chesler to take a long rest in the country. In view of the circumstances, the usual ceremonies have been postponed, indefinitely.

Lady Chesler disappeared on March 20, and is believed to have fled to the Continent with her paramour, Lord Teansdale, where they married privately. They were tracked as far as the Cote de Azur, then vanished. In view of the continued absence of Lady Chesler, a new Slayer will be called.

Mrs. Blodeuwedd Ronwen Giles nee′ Cadwallader, Watcher
Her Majesty’s Watcher’s Council

===============================================
Sadly, this is the final chapter - Thanks to everyone who took the time to read and especially to Golden Buffy for the excellent banner and to everyone who reviewed and to Diabola and everyone who make this such a fun site.
===============================================

Chapter 26 – Perfect Timing

Letter from Lydia Chalmers, Associate Watcher
To Ms. Buffy Summers, Slayer
The Watcher’s Council, Thrusk Street, XXXX, 1999

Dear Slayer Summers:

I hope you won’t find my writing to you impertinent, but under the circumstances, I trust you will take this communication in the kind spirit in which it is meant and not consider it a liberty.

As you may be aware, I am an Associate Watcher, stationed at the Council Headquarters in London. I happened to hear a rather surprising bit of news in the Junior Watcher’s lounge last week concerning yourself and a certain vampire, in whom I’ve long taken a personal interest. In fact, I wrote my master’s thesis on William the Bloody. I believe you know him as Spike.

At the time I received my master’s degree, I had the pleasure of meeting your Watcher’s mother during my graduation ceremonies. During tea afterwards, she approached me and gave me a letter which she said had been handed down from Mr. Giles’ great-grandmother, Mrs. Blodeuwedd Ronwen Giles nee′ Cadwallader. I do not believe Mr. Giles is aware of the existence of this letter, although it appears to be a family heirloom of sorts.

Mrs. Giles told me a fascinating story regarding this letter and asked if I should someday be in a position to assist a Slayer who had gotten herself, well, entangled romantically with a vampire, that I pass the letter on to her. She said the male members of the Council couldn’t be trusted. As soon as I heard about your situation, I moved quickly to determine the truth of the rumor and to forward this communication to you. I hope it will be helpful.

Watchers are taught many things about vampires here at the Council. Not all of them, as you have no doubt learned, are true.

Yours very truly,
Lydia Chalmers
Associate Watcher

***

“She won’t have to.”

Buffy recognized Collin and Weatherby from their last visit to Sunnydale. She stepped between the Council’s agents and Spike.

“Who the hell are you?” Spike said. “And, this is a private conversation, if you don’t mind.”

“Martin Collin, Watcher’s Council, Senior Special Agent. Step away from the vampire, Slayer.” He raised his crossbow.

“Wait!” Giles said. “Collin, Weatherby and … whoever you are! Wait! The claim doesn’t expire until midnight. If you kill Spike now, you’ll kill the Slayer as well.”

Collin kept his eye on Spike and his crossbow steady. “I’ve got orders. Tell your Slayer to get out of the way, or I’ll take her out, too.”

Buffy waited for the flick of Collin’s eye that told her he was about to fire his bolt. She shoved Spike to the ground and ran straight for Collin. The bolt whizzed by her ear as she tackled him to the ground and punched his face.

Spike jumped Weatherby and snatched away his crossbow. Spike backhanded the agent, sending him flying into the fountain and raised the crossbow at Payne. They stood ten feet apart with crossbows aimed at each other. Spike ripped into his vampire face. Payne gasped and lowered his bow a fraction of an inch, his hands shaking.

Quentin Travers appeared from behind the perfume counter where he’d been watching his Slayer in action with great relish. “Damn it, man. Shoot!”

Payne backed away. He dropped his bow and ran.

Travers walked over to the discarded crossbow and picked it up.

“And, who the bloody hell are you?” Spike demanded. “I’ve had more enough of blokes fetching up out of nowhere looking to kill Yours Truly.”

Travers examined the bow, adjusted it as if he had an infinite amount of time to attack. “Quentin Travers, Chief Minister of Her Majesty’s Watcher’s Council. And, you, I believe, are William the Bloody. The second most notorious vampire in Council history, and a member of the Scourge of Europe.”

“Well, well.” Spike puffed out his chest and stroked himself. “Finally sent in the big gun to deal with William the Bloody. You’re dead wrong about me being number two. I think you should know that I claimed your Slayer, so if you kill me, you’ll be taking her out, too.”

Travers raised the bow. “That would be unfortunate.”

Willow’s new blonde friend, gripped her arm. “His aura – He’s going to kill them. We have to do something,” she said.

Willow and the blonde girl joined hands. Willow focused her power through a pink lace parasol that she’d bought at the lingerie shop and aimed.

“Vincire!” they shouted.

A bolt of golden energy shot out of the parasol’s tip, arced and zapped the crossbow. The metal shaft of the quarrels melted and bent and the wooden tip flared up and burnt away.

“Redimio quod Redimio!”

A circle of golden yellow energy circled Travers and suspended him above the floor.

Buffy jumped up from beating the unconscious Collins and stamped her foot, hard. A giant crack opened in the floor and streaked under Travers and opened a wide crevice.

Willow wiggled her fingers and dropped him in.

Spike flung his crossbow down in disgust. Damn, he’d have been the most famous vampire in history if he’d bagged the Head of the Watcher’s Council. He walked over to Buffy, who was peering over the edge of the crevice.

Lydia straggled up to where Buffy and Spike were standing. She rooted around in her purse and pulled out an envelope. “Ms. Summers, I’m Lydia Chalmers of the Watcher’s Council. I have something for you.”

Perfect timing. A letter from the people who’d just tried to kill her and her mate. Buffy opened the envelope and took out two letters. She read the letters and tucked them back in the envelope. “Thanks, Lydia. Perfect timing.”

Giles held up his wristwatch. “Buffy, it’s almost midnight. Stand away from Spike.”

Buffy stepped closer to Spike, put her arms around her mate and ignored Giles.

Giles blustered until Joyce joined him and stepped on his foot in a meaningful way.

“So,” Spike said. “Another minute and you’ll be shut of me. It was fun, Goldilocks. We should do it again some time.” He was going to miss the little chit, the fighting, the shagging, even taking her to the dog races.

“We should. How about right now?”

“Er, what?”

Buffy stretched up on her toes, pulled away the neck band on Spike’s tee shirt and bit his neck hard with her blunt, white teeth. Hard enough to draw a tiny spurt of blood, which she licked up. Yuck. “Mine.”

“Owww, Slayer!” Spike grasped her by the shoulders and held her back. Did she know what she had just done?

“Mine!” she said and jerked him as close as she decently could with her mother standing right next to her.

Spike smiled and lifted her into his arms. “Yours, pet.”

They stood under a dripping sprinkler head and kissed for a long time.

“Buffy?” Joyce said. “Did you just get married?”

***

Buffy admired her new pink negligee in the mirror and took a fat Lemon Seduction candle out of her patrol bag and set it on the table next to their bed. Next, she took out the chunky silver and white-striped package that Anya had given her and another smaller package from Willow.

She handed the smaller package to Spike, who was lolling on the bed, recuperating after an invigorating shag with his mate.

“What’s this, then?”

“Present for you from your Adoring Mate.”

Spike ripped open the package with his fangs. It was a silver neck chain. Very manly.

“Let me help you put it on.” Buffy fastened the chain around his neck and whispered the magic word to lock the chain. She didn’t mention that the chain couldn’t be removed without a different magic password known only to Willow or that Spike’s days as the Big Bad were officially over. Let him find out for himself.

“Thanks, luv.” He touched the chain and blinked away the tears in his eyes. “Nobody ever gave me a gift like this.”

“You would not be wrong,” Buffy said.

Spike rolled her onto the bed and kissed her.

Buffy pushed him away, but not too far. “Here, open the other one.”

“Who’s this from?”

“Anya gave it to us for a wedding present.”

Spike smiled. “That’s more like it. Knew your friends would come around.” He pulled off the silver bow and stuck it in Buffy’s hair and tore off the paper. His smile disappeared.

“Do you … do you know … what… what this is?” He stuttered and swallowed hard.

“Sure. It’s Frimwerst, the ancient Laplandish fertility god. Don’t you like it?” Buffy patted Frimwerst’s head and hopped out of bed before Spike could waylay her again.

It was too late now. Let her find out for herself. Turnabout was fair play. If she was going to come wagging Frimwerst statues around, well, she was bloody well going to get what she deserved. “Swell, pet. Come back to bed.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“There’s a coke in the fridge,” he said.

Buffy headed for the kitchen. She came back with a half glass of coke in her hand. She swigged the rest down and crawled into bed next to her husband. She sniffed his neck.

“Mmmm. Boy smell nice.”

Frimwert’s penis glowed bright red.

***

Serafimo Guttierez dropped his new construction company’s bid for repairs to the mall and the putas’ underwear store and dropped it into his fax machine. He pushed the send button.

Quizas los vampiros no eran tan malos.

***


Letter from Lady Victorine Teansdale, nee′ Chesler
Express from Istanbul, Turkey
May 7, 1901

Dear Sir Arthur,

Are you quite all right? Mum wrote last week and lashed me without mercy for eloping without telling you. She says it’s my fault you were sent to an asylum, and places all your troubles straight to my doorstep. I don’t like to think it, but if so, I can only say I’m sorry.

My marriage to Lord T couldn’t be avoided once he had his way with me in the matter of the biting and claiming, and you know very well I had to beat it out of England before that old codger, Burbin Quentin, got news of the goings on.

You’re an old softie, Arthur, and I know you’ll forgive me just for the asking, so I ask you. I hope someday to meet you again. You can buy me a new hat to show there are no hard feelings. Red straw with long black feathers are all the rage this season here in … [word scratched out].

Almost forgot, Jonathan said not to mention where we are staying lest Quentin reads your mail and decides to sends his minions after us.

Love,
Vicky

P.S. I love him very much. Do you mind, awfully?


The End