CHAPTER TWO: BACK to the FUTURE?


After dispatching the Brachen demon, Spike brushed off his hands and headed out of the cemetery. He needed to get the lay of the land and figure out what he was going to do. He headed up Walden Ave, heading for the well lit and busy downtown. As a cold northern wind blew in off Lake Erie, Spike tucked his coat tighter around himself and cursed. Damn Slayer had to set herself up in a northern city. He hated the cold. Hated the dampness. The dampness reminded him of England.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “I’m going to have to buy a sodding scarf!”

Passing by a dumpster he noted an old recliner. Might as well start furnishing a crypt now, he thought. As he was unearthing it from the pile of debris, he noticed the headline on a newspaper. “Obama signs peace deal!” The picture of a man smiling and bent over a table signing a document caught Spike’s attention. He picked up the paper and glanced over it.

“Who the hell is this git?” he murmured. He read in growing confusion about the president’s successful peace negotiations with North Korea. “What the hell?” Spike muttered. His hands shook and he felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest. It was unfamiliar and if he didn’t know better, Spike would have said that it was fear.

With disbelief, he looked up at the top corner of the page, searching for the date.

January 20, 2014.

“Holy hell,” he murmured, his voice shaking and stumbling over the words. “Two thousand and fucking fourteen?”

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” He crushed the newspaper into a ball and tossed it back onto the pile of garbage. Staring up at the sparkling night sky that reminded him of the one in the court chamber where the goddess had charmed him into going her way, Spike suddenly felt at a loss.

How in the hell has she done it?

Even as he wondered, he knew what a ridiculous question it was. These were the same gods that had saved him not once but twice from death. And Spike dared to wonder how and why the PTB had placed him back on earth ten years after he’d left?

He kicked the chair in frustration, suddenly realizing just how difficult his task was going to be. The thought of seeing Buffy had been almost impossible to imagine before. But Spike had felt certain that he was up to mending the fences and that once he’d explained to her what had happened, she’d forgive him. Surely – going down in a blaze of glory to save the world counted for something in her eyes! After all, in those last moments, she’d said she loved him.

It was one thing, Spike figured, to get her to remember their better moments and reconnect after a year.

But after ten?

What the hell had happened in the course of those ten years to make her – how had the PTB put it – lost?

Spike did the math quickly. Buffy was no young and innocent girl anymore, she was in her thirties and women in their early thirties…

He cursed and looked up the street. Not far ahead he could see some flashing lights. There had to be a bar up ahead. Spike needed some information. And he needed a drink.

It was Buffalo. He figured it wouldn’t be hard to find either.

***

By the time the sun rose on a cloudy and cold morning, Spike was settled nicely in a crypt in Concordia Cemetery. A choice meeting with some tame Ryken demons provided him with a good connection with a local butcher and they had given him the low down on the local demon population as well as the local slayer chapter.

Chapters! The slayers had gotten all organized and had chapters – like legions and churches and stuff – or so the Ryken explained. But they didn’t seem to mind. The presence of a slayer chapter kept the bad demon element down and gave the more benign faction a safe place to live as inconspicuously as possible.

In addition to the lowdown on the slayer and her gang of Scoobies and slayerettes, Spike’s new demon friends had promised to help him tap into the city’s hydro to wire his crypt. He had been devastated to learn that Passions had been cancelled and he’d cursed the PTB. But apparently, there were equally ridiculous shows on TV. The Rykens had almost gotten into a fist fight arguing the merits of “Lost” VS “Heroes”.

Spike wasn’t convinced either would be as entertaining as his Passions, but he’d give them a try to appease his new friends and to help pass the time.

So he waited. And as he waited, he planned and plotted. He couldn’t just spring himself on her. It had been ten years and she thought he’d been dead. It was also possible that she’d heard about his resurrection at the hands of Wolfram & Hart and his subsequent re-death fighting the powers of darkness that day in Los Angeles. Either way, just showing up on her doorstep was going to get him a swift stake to the heart and nothing more. He was fairly certain he wouldn’t even be able to get in a quick “I’m sorry, Slayer” before she dusted him first and asked questions later.

He finally decided to check her out first. Of course, he’d have to be careful. With her slayer senses she’d be able to pick up on his presence in a second. After they had shagged, they had never been able to hide from one another. He could smell his Slayer across a crowded, filthy room, just as he had in that club in Rome. And her – he knew she’d be able to sense him as well.

He could only hope that after all these years she hadn’t forgotten.

The thought caused a pang of sadness in his chest and he quickly slammed the door on the memories that threatened to flood him.

It wasn’t time to worry about that yet. First he had to gauge the lay of the land. And once that was done, then he’d pull in some favors and use some old tricks. He was sure the witch owed him a favor or two.

As soon as the moon had risen, Spike made his way to a bar the Rykens had mentioned as a local demon hotspot. He was certain that his girl would show up there looking for information. Unless her tactics had changed drastically, Buffy would have ensured the bar owner and bartender were well versed in her methods for gathering intelligence.

He’d been in the bar for an hour when he noticed the shift. The demon cliental suddenly slumped deeper into their chairs and barstools and their conversations slid into low gear. Spike leaned back into his darkened corner and watched as a tall, young woman strode down the stairs. He smelled the blood of a slayer, but knew in an instant that it wasn’t his slayer. Apparently travelling through time and dimensions hadn’t deadened his instincts or his sense of smell.

He was close enough to see and hear her clearly. The young woman leaned against the bar, her shapely jean clad butt fairly screaming for attention. She stripped off her leather gloves and placed them on the bar.

“Hey, Mickey,” she called out to the bartender with a honey coated French Canadian accent. He eyed her carefully, trying to gauge her mood and sidled over to her.

“Chantal,” he acknowledged.

“The usual,” she said.

He nodded and taking a surprisingly clean wine glass from the shelf, he poured her a glass of red wine.

“How’ve things been?” she asked.

Spike could see her blue eyes clearly as she scanned the bar mirror, taking in the crowd behind her.

“Pretty quiet since you girls took out those Chaos demons that had moved in over on Pine St,” Mickey responded.

Chantal smiled. “Yeah, that was fun.”

Mickey was smart enough not to comment.

“No one new in town?”

Spike sat up. Could news have spread that quickly that there was a potential new “big bad” in town?

The bartender fought hard not to glance towards Spike’s corner. But he knew his cliental well and he tried to keep them happy.

“Some new vamps, but I haven’t seen them in here,” he said with just enough truth to be believable and just enough vagueness to appease his new customer.

“They seem to be multiplying during these cold months,” Chantal muttered.

“They like it up here,” Mickey replied, showing some insight. “Less sunny days during these months.”

“Any idea where they set up shop?” she asked.

Mickey continued wiping a glass and shook his head. “Nope.”

She nodded and finished her wine. “Fine. I’ll let Buffy know.”

Mickey nodded. “Give the Slayer my regards.”

Chantal smiled and turned to leave. Her gaze travelled around the room one last time, lingering on the darkened corner where Spike sat and then she turned on her high heeled boots and left the bar.

He waited a few moments, stood up and walked to the counter.

“Thanks, mate,” he said and handed over a few bills.

Mickey grabbed them and looked up at the vampire standing before him. “Don’t mess with the slayers,” he said quietly. “You don’t want to go down that route. For your kind, it’s not a long road from here to a stake with that one.”

Spike grinned. “Don’t I know it, mate,” he murmured. “Don’t I know it.”

He turned and then followed distantly in the path of the slayer. Throughout her patrol, he shadowed her, watching and judging as she fought and dusted two vamps outside a chicken wing joint on King St. Then, as if on a schedule, she turned and headed home.

Home turned out to be a turn of the century gothic style mansion in a fairly decent part of downtown Buffalo. From the outside, it looked like the house was well kept and Spike wondered if the Watcher’s Council was finally footing Buffy’s bills.

The house was dark as the slayer let herself in through the front door. Even from where he stood beneath a tree in the neighboring yard, Spike could feel the power that emanated from the house. There were spells galore protecting its inhabitants and keeping the unwanted out. And beneath it all, he could sense another power. The power of the slayers. There were a few in the house, he could tell. And from the few he could sense, Spike was able to pick out the scent of the one that had always mattered to him the most.

His slayer was there. It had been a year since he’d seen her and the longing to rush in and pull her into his arms was powerful.

But the fear was there as well. Because Spike knew that his enthusiasm would not be reciprocated. Especially not after ten years.

Noting the address and sensing that the dawn was but an hour away, Spike turned and headed home.

***

Chantal sipped her coffee and broke off a piece of the cinnamon roll that Willow had put before her. “Merci,” she said and shot Willow a smile. Willow passed her on her way to the coffee pot and ran her hand over Chantal’s hair. She poured herself a cup and sat down, wrapping her hands around the mug to warm them.

“Can we turn up the heat in this place?”

Buffy grabbed her own mug and threw herself into a chair. “Wouldn’t matter. It’s old and it’s drafty. And our heating bills are high enough. Put a sweater on.” She took in Willow’s big red sweater and grinned. “And a scarf.”

“Et un chapeau,” Chantal added with a wink.

Buffy looked at her blankly but Willow smiled at her, going all soft eyed and doey. “Chapeau,” she murmured. “Hat?”

Chantal grinned. “Yes, hat.”

Buffy tried not to role her eyes at the lame romantic repartee. It was a bit early for that. In fact, it was always too early for romantic repartee or romance of any kind.

Business. That was better.

“Report on your patrol, Chantal,” she said sharply.

Chantal shifted uncomfortably, fighting the instinct to bite back at Buffy, but she knew better. Buffy was her boss. Her gaze slipped apologetically away from Willow’s and she looked at Buffy.

“That tip we got about a new bad in town wasn’t wrong, but I’m not sure just how bad it is. Mickey mentioned some new vamps, but that wasn’t what I sensed last night.”

“You sensed something new at Rogues and Patriots?” Willow asked.

Chantal nodded. “I went in to talk to Mickey and get the low down on the tip we’d gotten. But I hadn’t even stepped into the bar before I sensed it.”

Willow leaned forward with a smile. “Ooohh Spidey senses! I love it when those kick in.”

Chantal shot her a suggestive grin. Then, all serious, turned back to her boss. “It was strong and strange.”

“How so?”

Chantal shook her head. “I’ve never sensed anything like it.”

Seeing as Chantal had only been a slayer for the last six months, that wasn’t unusual. In their line of business she came across new sights and strange occurrences on a daily basis. She was still developing her abilities.

“Close your eyes and tap into your memories of last night,” Buffy ordered coldly. “And tell us exactly what it was like.”

Chantal obediently closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. She practiced the deep meditative breathing Buffy had taught her, her breath vibrating at the back of her throat, hissing like the whisper of waves on a shore.

“I could sense the darkness of a demon, but just a whisper of it. If I hadn’t known better, I wouldn’t have known he was a demon. But it was there, but buried in a thick blanket of ash. I knew he was in the back corner because all the other demons were avoiding looking there.”

“What did he look like?” Buffy asked.

Chantal shook her head. “I didn’t see him. He hid in the shadows. When I went to the bar, I deliberately kept my back to the room and my eyes on the place through the mirrors, hoping he’d show himself. But that just confirmed what I’d already thought – vamp – no reflection. “

“Vampire,” Buffy said matter-of-factly.

“No biggie,” Willow said. “Vamp, stake, poof, pile of dust. It’s what we do.”

Chantal shook her head. “This one’s different.”

Buffy’s gaze sharpened and she and Chantal shared a glance. “How?”

Chantal shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t know. He’s old.”

Buffy sat back and nodded. “Good work. You were right not to engage him. You had enough sense to know that he was different and an unknown entity. You don’t want to engage with unknown demons on your own.”

Chantal nodded. “There’s something else,” she murmured.

Buffy looked up at her. “What?”

“He followed me here,” she said. “He knows where we live.”