AN: Thank you! to my awesome beta rahirah. The amazing banner is by Vette Hayden, whom I adore for her generosity. Last but not least, a huge thank you to everyone who reads. Hope you enjoy it.

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Chapter One

Part One

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After Spike killed the Slayer of Sunnydale, he decided to stick around awhile. Dru was still a bit on the weak side. They’d just gotten their digs set up all nice-like. Had a bunch of minions obeying his every whim. Un-life was good. Why move elsewhere when things were shaping up so nicely?

He had the run of the town, making himself right at home, for close to two years when a new Slayer came to town. He’d been just about to seek greener pastures when news started flickering around about some tiny blonde hanging around the cemeteries. He heard about so-and-so and then what’s-his-height going missing, but they were lackwits so balls to them. Then it was Sasha who disappeared one night. Disappeared from her post right outside the back alley door to the Bronze, while Spike and a few hand-selected others were at his usual table conducting business.

The next night it was the front doorman that got dusted.

“The front bloody fucking doorman, Dru!” Spike cursed. A glass figure shattered against the wall, punctuating his outburst.

Drusilla’s China-blue eyes took in the shards of what had been one of her newest presents, as they scattered across the floor. She pouted and looked back up at the extremely agitated blonde vampire pacing the floor.

“My people are supposed to be a bit more capable than that! She couldn’t possibly have been a Slayer for that long. It’s only been a couple years since I wasted that Jamaican wench. No fun at all, that one was.” He paused, thinking back on his third Slayer for a moment.

With a shake of his head, he renewed his pacing. “Guess I’m just going to have to go ahead and bag my fourth.” He stopped, and looked at Drusilla, sitting on the bed, as if just realizing she was there. “What do you think about that, princess?”

Drusilla mournfully looked at the broken pieces of glass littering the floor. She looked at their arrangement the way a seeress looked for patterns in cast bones. “Breaker,” she declared, low and with venom.

“Break her. Exactly.” Spike was looking at a spot on the bed, eyes distant. He snapped his fingers and his attention was back on Drusilla. “That’s exactly what I’ll do. Have a bit of fun, a bit of tease, before I do her in.”

His eyes followed the curve of her pale, flawless neck as it met collarbone, then trailed the cream-colored lines of Drusilla’s silk dress to where it dipped between her breasts. “Thinks she can toss me about by killing my guards. The frail won’t know what hit her.”

He dropped both hands to the bed, walling her curled up legs, and pressed a kiss to her neck. “We’ll get a bit more excitement out of Sunnydale, yet.” She remained stiff, unyielding against his kisses until his hands joined in the seduction, one sweeping up her thigh, the other weaving through her long hair. “We’ll paint the town red one more time before we go,” he promised softly, pushing her down against the bed.

Drusilla looked up to the ceiling, pushing her mind past the pipes and the metal, into the clear night sky, into the stars, as his kisses wandered downward. She could see what was coming. Her eyes were open. Her eyes were wide open.

---


“I want to get inside next time. Really shake things up.”

Buffy’s Watcher regarded her thoughtfully. She was perched on the side of his living room armchair, despite several past admonishments not to, hugging a textbook to her chest. He slowly shook his head. “I think you’d be pressing your luck, Buffy. Everyone inside the Bronze are his people now. Except for the actual people, of course,” he added ruefully. He wasn’t anxious to push a showdown quite yet, particularly not in a place where everything could go wrong terribly fast. He did not want to repeat Rupert Giles’ mistakes.

“Wesley,” she said, features set, every line in her body stubborn and willful. “If I only stick to guys out by themselves, he’s going to think I’m scared. That that’s all I can do. Pick them off one by one.”

His brow furrowed. “You have a point.”

“Besides, this William the Bloody guy and all his evil minions won’t even know I’m there. They don’t know what I look like.”

“Perhaps not, but they can sense you. They can feel you in a manner very similar to how you feel them. And crowd or no, they will pick you out or force you to reveal yourself.”

Buffy looked dismayed for a moment before brightening. “Willow. She said she used to do magic. She could do a spell.” Wesley looked at her doubtfully. “Like a cloaking spell, but just for Slayer tingles, not the whole me. Something that hides the supernatural.”

“Well…” Wesley started, consideringly, “It’s possible she might be able to whip up something to that effect, but you might have a hard time convincing her to even try. I’m under the impression that she hasn’t dealt in magic since her friends died.” He paused, and looked at the young, blonde teenager in front of him. Barely eighteen, she brimmed with youth, naïveté, and strength all at once. “All right. If Willow can create something that adequately hides your Slayer imprint, then you can proceed to strike within the Bronze.” He smirked slightly, in a rare display of amusement when it came to Slayer business. “If that doesn’t ruffle William the Bloody’s feathers than nothing will.”

“Oh, there will be ruffling,” Buffy said, fingering the print-out of an odd, old-fashioned picture of this supposedly infamous vampire. The Council had faxed it over several nights ago. Wesley had called the picture a daguerreotype. Or rather, a copy of a daguerreotype. When we finally go head to head, I’ll do much more than that.

The whistle of a teapot sounded from the kitchen and Wesley got up from his chair. “If Willow proves unwilling or unable to help, then perhaps I’ll be able to dig up something myself. Though it might take a bit longer.”

Buffy nodded smartly, “Right.”

When Wesley turned his back, she quietly slid the print-out into the pages of her textbook and dropped it into her book bag.

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Part Two
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If anyone had asked Buffy why she took the picture, she wouldn’t have an answer for them. She didn’t exactly know why herself. There was just something about it. Something about the look in his pale eyes. The tilt of his chin as he looked into the camera. There had been other pictures – more modern ones; throughout the decades. Some he’d posed for, others taken on the sly. Buffy wondered what the going rate was for photographs of notorious vampires. She wondered how many people died in the process of getting them.

There was no picture of him transformed. Full on fang face. And that was weird. Most vampires she’d come across, that was the only face she saw. But not with this one, apparently.

Buffy sat, one leg bent under, on the side of her bed. She stared down at the print-out, gripping it with both hands.

The shrill cry of the telephone cut through the silence of the room and Buffy jumped before catching herself. Rolling her eyes, she tossed the photo aside. “Geez, morbid much?” she muttered to herself before rolling on her side and reaching the phone on the nightstand.

“Hello?”

“Buffy? It’s Willow Rosenberg. I’m sorry if I’m calling too late, I – ”

“Oh, it’s fine. Trust me, you have to call way later than this before Mom blows her top. So what’s up?”

“Well, I finished it. That spell you wanted.”

Buffy blinked, grip tightening on the receiver. “Really? Wow, that was fast! You must be awesome at this magic stuff, huh?”

Willow laughed, embarrassed. “I-I wouldn’t go that far. It was a pretty simple spell. I put it in a charm, so you’ll just have to wear it and you’ll be good. I can meet you on campus tomorrow if you like. ”

“I really appreciate this, Willow. I know it must be hard after everything that happened with - ” Buffy jolted to a stop, wincing. Hello foot, this is my mouth. “Everything before I came.”

“You know what they say. You have to start somewhere,” Willow said with another nervous, awkward laugh that seemed to say she’d rather not start at all.

“It’s really going to help me out. I mean really.” Buffy glanced at the picture on her bed. “They’ll never see me coming.”

----

Buffy shivered in the fall evening air. Her dress, while party-worthy and super cute, was not ideal for keeping warm, considering her legs below mid-thigh were completely exposed to the cool, night air. They were necessary, however, if she was going to pull off this whole shebang right under William the Bloody’s nose.

She stood, waiting in the line at the door of The Bronze, and passed the first test easy as pie. It was a two-parter. Part the first: see if Willow’s charm really fooled the new door-vamp. Buffy had stopped by Willow’s dorm room, and the girl, rambling and nervous, but pleasant, thoughtfully packed the charm into a small leather sachet that could be worn as a necklace. When choosing her outfit, Buffy’d picked an off-the-shoulder dress made of heavy sweater material that hid the small bump of the sachet underneath rather nicely.

Buffy smiled winningly at the very bored looking vampire as she handed him her ID. A small knot of tension in her gut loosened as he glanced at the ID and handed it back indifferently. She had the feeling that vamp doormen were more concerned with your supernatural qualities than if you were drinking underage. As he gave the ID back, a spark of interest made him perk up. He gave her a blatant once over and smiled in a lecherous, icky sort of way that made the second part of her test – not killing him – that much harder.

“I might have to catch you later, Betty,” he said, with a wink and smile that was all teeth.

Buffy felt something in her jaw tick, but she held her smile firmly in place. “Oh, you can count on it,” she said, not waiting for a reply before quickly walking into the club. A couple more seconds around that skeeze and her plan of dusting some vamps on the inside would crumble to dust. And not dusty in the undead, bloodsucker sort of way, either. But hey, the charm had worked beautifully.

She took in the crowd as she headed over to the bar, intent on figuring out exactly where every single one of the bad guys were before she made her move. Grabbing a stool, she ordered a beer. Both bartenders were vampires. It was hard, turning her back on them in order to scan the packed dance floor, but they hadn’t even blinked twice at her. Buffy reminded herself to thank Willow again. Her vampdar was in overdrive, keeping her nerves completely on edge. Forcing herself to relax, she took a sip of her beer and looked out over the crowd for potential targets.

Slowly, stretching her senses, she was able to pick out the vampires from the humans. There were fewer than she would’ve thought. Unless they had a secret back room where they all lurked and plotted evil plots. Willow had said that this William the Bloody ran a pretty tight ship and didn’t let any of the vamps actually feed at the Bronze. Apparently he didn’t want the humans scared away; he wanted things to stay as they’d been. Wesley had scoffed at the idea, but Buffy had to admit it – it wasn’t the giant human buffet she’d imagined.

Still, that didn’t mean she was going to dust every last one of them.

With a smug smile, Buffy started to take another sip when someone jostled her, knocking her shoulder. A small splash of beer sloshed over the edge of the glass and landed on her boot. She turned to glare at them and almost spit-sprayed beer all over her assailant. Standing mere inches away from her, taking her in, was none other than the Master of Sunnydale himself. His blue eyes slowly traveled over the curve of her body in the russet-colored jumper, and down her smooth, tanned legs to where they met shiny, black leather ankle boots.

With a long a black leather duster and bleached blonde hair, he looked a little different from the pictures, but it was definitely him. As soon as recognition hit, Buffy froze in shock. But by the time his eyes actually made it back up to her face, she’d forced her body to untense. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

Slowly, head tilted to the side as he looked at her, he smiled. “Well,” he drawled, “I certainly haven’t seen you in here before.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t help but give a little nervous laugh, and prayed he just thought she was shy. “I’m new in town.”

His grin widened and she realized her heart was going in overdrive. No doubt he could hear it going a mile a minute. “What’s your name, kitten?”

Did they know her real name? How much info did the bad guys actually have on her? She’d figured he might be here tonight, but she definitely wasn’t prepared for actual, sudden conversing involving whole words and sentences. “Joan,” she blurted out. “It’s Joan.”

“Hello, Joan,” he said, pronouncing the name with care, like he was getting a feel for its edges and curves. “I’m Spike. Let me get you another drink.”

She felt another spill of laughter threaten to bubble over and she quashed it down. William the Bloody was trying to get her drunk. And hitting on her. It was like being stuck in some weird alterna-verse. As if she would actually let him buy her a – “I’ll have an appletini.” The words flew out of her mouth completely of their own volition, and she snapped her jaw shut as soon as she realized what had happened.

His grin widened, obviously pleased, and he nodded to the bartender. Buffy, dismayed at herself, quickly pushed the feeling aside and focused on the job.

“Spike, huh? That’s an interesting name. How’d you get that?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “I’ve picked up all kinds of interesting names over the years.”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice falsely perky. “I just bet.”

The drink appeared on the bar counter and, gripping the delicate stem of the martini glass between two fingers tipped with black polish, Spike pushed it towards her.

Buffy took it. And looking him straight in the eye, without knowing if he thought her Slayer, or easy lay and prey, drank it straight down to the last drop.

Spike went completely still as Buffy put the empty glass down on the bar top, and she finally, well and truly, relaxed. The confidence that came with being the strongest girl in the room made her belly and limbs grow warm. Or maybe it was just liquor. He had no idea who she really was. She knew because he had only just seen her for the first time. Not as warm prey, not as a pretty, interchangeable blonde, but her. Buffy. Real, live, in the flesh, unknown quantity, Buffy.

A small frown crossed his face. A nagging thought was flitting just on the edge of his perception. There was something about the girl that he had seen before. That reminded him of someone. He just couldn’t quite figure out who. “You seem familiar… you sure we haven’t met, pet?”

Buffy smiled, teeth showing. “Definitely not.”

He looked at her, eyes keen, before pushing the nagging thought away and sliding on a lascivious smile. “Well,” he drawled, his hand landing on the side of her calf, “how about we get to know each other a little better, then?” Cool, calloused fingertips slowly slid up her leg, stopping halfway up her thigh. “What do you say?”

Buffy forgot how to breathe for a full five seconds. His eyes and voice were dark with anticipation and a naked throb of want ran through her. She licked her lips, tongue catching the sweetness of her lip-gloss. “I – ” I should stake him now, she thought. Right now. While I can still do it. “I have to go to the little girls’ room. Be right back.” With speed usually reserved for killing the evil undead, Buffy hopped off the barstool and made a beeline for the bathrooms.

She didn’t stop until the door was shut behind her. She leaned against it, heart pounding. A brunette washing her hands at the sink caught Buffy’s eyes through the mirror, giving her an odd look. Buffy forced a smile as she headed for a stall. “Boys,” she said, trying to regain normal points with the stranger, before locking herself in a stall.

She waited, listening for the sounds of paper towels and then the door swing that said the girl had left. Satisfied, she left the stall and stood in front of the sink and mirror. Absentmindedly, she ran a hand through her wavy blonde hair, smoothing it out, before automatically checking out her make-up. Her thoughts raced. Wild, wild things ran through her head. Half a dozen what-ifs, all accompanied by admonishments and no small amount of disgust at herself. But ultimately, everything settled on one single thought: Stupid.

Buffy focused on her reflection, looking at the girl in the mirror. “Stupid,” she said aloud. Her eyes flicked over the bronze-colored sink and royal blue walls. “And way tacky.” She squared her shoulders and opened up her tiny black purse for easy access to the stake inside. Time to do what she came here for.




Spike waited at the bar a good twenty minutes. He’d known the second she jumped up, the blonde wasn’t going to come back. He waited anyway. He waited, and watched the people milling about, not really seeing them as he fantasized about pushing up the russet jumper, running his hands up her lovely thighs and bending her over the bar. Fucking her blind before burying his fangs in her throat. Cock in her hot cunny, fist tangled in her golden hair.

Spike was completely monogamous to Drusilla. In his heart and head. His body was a different matter. If she had really cared, he would’ve stopped. But she didn’t. No matter how much he wanted her to.

He’d well and truly given up on the blonde and was sipping on a beer when he saw one of his minions weaving his way through the crowd. The second Nicholas came rushing over, apprehension took him. He already knew exactly what was going to come out of the younger man’s mouth. He had known it the moment he looked into her eyes as she took the drink. He had seen it, there in those savannah green orbs, some tawny creature. A predator, moving through the brush.

“Holly and Matthew are gone,” Nicholas whispered fervently. “Gone. The Slayer was here. We found their dust.

Spike was silent. Staring into his beer, his thoughts were completely lost. All he saw was the petite blonde. Joan. His lip curled in disgust. Doubtless, she’d made up the name. He should’ve known. Should’ve bloody well known. That look in her eyes. The way her heart had jackhammered against her chest when he came up to her. The peculiar smell lingering around her – an assortment of herbs and other curious scents.

“Wh-what do we do? What do you want us to do?” Nicholas waited, anxious for direction, for someone to take charge. But the current Master of Sunnydale was ignoring him and glaring into his beer. “Spike?”

Some thought flew across Spike’s face and he snapped his fingers. “Witch,” he sneered. “She stank of witch.”

Nicholas blinked rapidly, several times in quick succession. “Who did? Who stank of witch?”

“She must’ve had a charm or talisman or something on her, hiding what she was.” There was only one witch in town that’d be willing to make a charm for a Slayer. Spike ran his tongue over his teeth. He looked at Nicholas for the first time. “Get Tara. It’s time to pay Willow Rosenberg a little visit.”