chapter 3: deuteronomy - part I

Spike's new motorcycle was bouncing up and down on the broken road. He could feel the rise and fall of the wheels inside his gut, shaking his insides as he rose up, over and into every pothole in the highway on the road back to Sunnydale.

The 2001 Triumph Bonneville (nicked literally out of the clutches of a drunken Xindung demon) was bloody well over-rated. It was nowhere near the quality ride he'd lifted from the Hellion road pirates and driven into Mexico. Pity he had to abandon that beauty on the Carretera a Toluca motorway a month earlier with the daylight chasing him out of town. Although freshly filled with petrol and a quart of oil, the bike had gulped and gurgled, and died with a whimper, rudely leaving the vampire about fifteen minutes to find shelter before the phrase a ‘pile of dust' was all that was left to define him.

Spike had set out for Sunnydale with the idea of riding all night and keeping out of the sunshine all day. It was a simple plan. A week at most was all it would take. ‘Course, he was bloody wrong. Three weeks later he was still on his way to Sunnydale. The bike he'd swiped from the Hellion pirate had given out almost as soon as he'd started. It took him two weeks of night walking from poor village to poorer village to find another mode of transportation that worked. By the time he came across the Xindung demon, he'd been desperate.

Tossing precaution aside, Spike had attacked the demon gang blatantly ignoring their razor-edged claws and venomous spittle. Damned demons couldn't ride a bike with those claws anyway, figured Spike. Twenty minutes later, he had a broken noise, a few rearranged ribs and a huge slice of his flesh removed from his side by a demon's claw. He'd also disposed of three of the creatures, snatched the bike away from another and was riding his new wheels un-pursued off into the night. He'd even had a chance to feed during the scrimmage. Chomping through some tough demon hide, he'd swallowed at least a pint of bitter blood. More than enough to fuel his trip back to Sunnydale.

A drop of rain hit him in the face. Then another drop and the next thing Spike knew, a deluge of water was falling on his body as he maneuvered down the highway.

He jerked the steering wheel to avoid a pothole, launching his bike into a hundred yard skid. He righted it almost instantly thinking he should take better care riding a motorcycle over a bumpy wet road, especially if the speedometer was inching toward 150 miles per hour. Next time, his fingers might slip from the handlebars and his body, hurled through the air, might strike a tree with a sturdy branch and impale him through the heart. He shuddered, without losing control of the bike. The ‘pile of dust' scenario was in his head again.

"Too fucking bad," he muttered. He'd spent enough time away from Sunnydale and Buffy.

“Bugger this sodding rain!” he cursed. The Triumph Bonneville claimed speeds up to 180 miles per hour. Might as well put the pedal to the metal. Bloody hell. That turn of phrase worked for the DeSoto, not the bike. At any rate, it was time to see what this damn machine could bloody well do. Relaxing his thigh muscles and clutching the bike firmly with his hands, Spike revved up the engine and leaned back, guiding the bike to its zenith over the slick road.

A few moments later, he caught sight of a road sign. Only 50 miles to Sunnydale. He smiled and leaned his body and the bike into the rain.


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There was something off about Sunnydale. It was 4 a.m., still very dark, but the roads were beginning to dry after the night's rainstorm. From a hilltop overlooking the town, Spike could see a smattering of lights. He also could smell the fear spiraling toward him in waves.

He'd thought about heading straight to his old crypt. Made sense to have a shower and change into a dry black t-shirt before dropping in on Dawn and Buffy. It might go better for him if he was nice and clean. But a sickly feeling crept into his stomach. He kicked the bike up a gear and pointed it toward the only part of town where anything of importance in his un-life resided.

As the bike's tires skidded onto Revello drive, his senses picked up the next wrong thing about Sunnydale. Buffy wasn't there and neither was Dawn.

“What the hell is going on?”


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Anya alternated between pacing and standing perfectly still. Then she slumped bonelessly onto the sarcophagus, exhausted.

By now, Xander had figured out she'd left him. Any minute, she expected him to barge through the crypt door and demand an explanation. But what could she say? She could barely understand it herself. Here they were engaged, having announced it to everyone in Sunnydale who might care, and she suddenly couldn't stand to be around him.

Signs of her betrayal were scattered all over the apartment. He'd find the empty dresser drawers and the bathroom cabinets that no longer overflowed with her favorite girly fragrances and scented soaps. The twin 100-thread count oversized white cotton towels she used to dry Xander's body after his evening bath were folded and stored in the hamper in the hall closet. Usually, they were set out, clean and warm (fresh out of the dryer), ready for when he'd come home all tired, hot, and smelly in that enticingly musky manly way. She'd take his lunch bucket out of his hands, throw his hard hat onto the couch, pull his dirty shirt over his board shoulders, and lead him into the bathroom where a hot, sudsy tub awaited them. And of course, the towels were there.

He'd never find them in the hall closet. He never looked there. She smiled at the thought that those towels would never be used by anyone else ever again.

But the towels were only part of her vanishing act. She'd gone on a cleaning rampage. All of his laundry had been washed, folded and shoved into a drawer. The dishes from yesterday's lunch, dinner and that morning's breakfast were in the dishwasher. For sure that would raise his curiosity. And the bed, yes, she'd cleaned the sheets, fluffed the pillows and made the bed. In a year, she'd never made the bed. Never a need.

With that realization Anya slid from the stone slab onto the floor, tears flowing from her eyes. She was going to miss orgasms – his and hers. Wiping her nose ungracefully on the back of her hand, she chewed on her lower lip for a moment. This decision couldn't be helped, though, she whimpered. It just had to be made. Sniffling loudly, Anya gulped in air between sobs.

Wiping the tears from her face, she raised her head to look around her new home. It wasn't beautiful. But it was the only place she could think of that was livable – well, not by much – but livable for a demon. Besides, it was free. Spike's old crypt didn't have a monthly fee attached, unless you counted avoiding fledging vampires and entertaining his demon friends. Other than that, it was a perfect home as long as you were willing to pay the price.

Spike had been gone for what seemed like forever and Anya doubted that he'd be back. True, it had surprised them all when he'd left Sunnydale. Especially since he'd made his exit so soon after they'd brought Buffy back from the dead. Anya had believed, really believed, that Spike loved Buffy. But now she realized she shouldn't have been surprised when he left. Love was way too fragile a thing to count on.


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Spike smelled someone. The demon girl was in his crypt. He pushed open the iron door and saw her huddled on the hard ground in front of the sarcophagus. He could tell she hadn't been there long. Her scent was fresh, barely there. He knew they were alone, too as he looked around the now dusty and unkempt tomb he'd kept spotless all summer long. He and Dawn had spent countless hours together in his crypt (or on Revello Drive), nearly inseparable in their 147 days of grief.

“What are you doin' here?” He cocked his head to the side and glared at her.

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

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

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

“Where's Buffy?” Spike didn't really care why Anya was in his crypt. He needed to know about Buffy and Dawn.

“Gone.”

“Yeah, knew that,” He snapped, but then softened his tone. "Where?”

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

“Changed everything. Everyone.”

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

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

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

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

“Okay, go on.”

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

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

“Don't patronize me,” she warned, her eyes furious. “Thousand-year-old vengeance demon, here. Lived many lives compared to your sorry century and a few decades of purposeless wandering.”

Spike shrugged. "This so-called portal jumper, did it take Buffy and Dawn?”

“You don't believe in the portal jumper, do you? But the jumper doesn't have them,” she shook her head and he noticed a small smile on her lips. “You'll love this, though… Willow came up with a spell.”

“A fucking what?” .

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

“Where the hell is she?”

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Too late, he grinned.

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

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

“Then we'll have to play the game." He dropped the boy's head onto the dirt floor and stalked out of the barn.

To be continued…