A/N: I'm sorry it's taken me a while to come back to this one. First Words and Music, then some beta shuffling, then me getting sidetracked by other fics. I'm trying to discipline myself into writing ahead from here on, and Tuesday's gonna be the posting day. Thank you for bearing with me, and for revieiwing.

Huge thanks go to: Megan, for betaing even when she really didn't have time, and slaymesoftly, for her keen eye.

Prodigal - Chapter 8

Buffy rolled over, her arms closing around the thick duvet and pulling it into her body. It was cool against her skin and she muttered in her sleep, a smile curving her lips. In her dream, it was flesh and blood in her arms, a smooth, muscled chest against her cheek and a low rumbling reverberating in her ear. She was safe and sheltered, cradled against her undead lover as they dozed in post-coital bliss.


The rumbling grew louder and more high-pitched, drawing her brows together in a small frown of irritation, her lower lip protruding in a subconscious pout. Buffy's eyes fluttered open.

"Angel?" She queried, the dream clinging to her as she woke.

"Fuck," she grimaced seconds later, slapping her alarm clock and returning the loft to silence. Reluctantly, she pushed the duvet from her legs, rolling into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress and ignoring the small circles of salt water darkening the fabric on the blue cotton pillows.

Wandering into the bathroom, she looked longingly at the bath before moving into the large shower stall.

'After work. Long, long soak session later,' she promised herself, removing her nightshirt and stepping into the warm water. She kneaded the muscles at the base of her neck, sighing appreciatively as the tension loosened before tipping her head backwards. Buffy focused on the ritual of lather, rinse and repeat, pushing the remnants of her dream into the dark, shadowed places in her mind. As Bethmara, she had no reason to crave security or comfort as though she were still a frightened child. She was more than that now - so much more - and she was stronger than she had ever been. Emotional weakness was merely a vestigial leftover of her humanity and something that would pass, given time. Already the dreams came less often, for which she was thankful - if she'd not been transformed, the fugue state into which she'd retreated would have destroyed her.

Instead, she felt liberated. All the impossible standards and the responsibilities she'd had to contend with since Merrick turned her life upside down no longer applied; discarded even as becoming the Slayer had seen the demise of all her teenaged plans and hopes. Now that she wasn't burdened with the expectations of her family, her friends and her Watcher, Bethmara found that it was possible to combine the two halves of her life, the normal and the supernatural, and enjoy both. It made her wonder if the Watchers' Council deliberately demoralized Slayers to ensure the reliance of such powerful creatures upon their dogmatic commanders, or whether the Council's views on demonic existence were just extremely skewed.

Bethmara snorted. The Council's prejudice was well known amongst the demon population, and she'd experienced the controlling nature of the Watchers at first hand, so the emotional blackmail? So just another manipulation. Another way to cripple the innocent girls the Council used, to hobble them and make sure they really were just tools; vessels for the power those righteous pricks would happily employ as a weapon, whilst maintaining their distance as though it left their hands clean.

Well, now she had the power and the control. Bethmara had it all: the strength, the speed and the bloodlust. Death incarnate. Who knew that destiny could be so fulfilling?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The guard at the rail station was utterly convinced he had never seen such a beautiful woman in his life. She was exquisite. Tall, lean and delicate, with an air about her that was at once confident and demure. He knew he was staring but he simply couldn't tear his eyes away. When she smiled at him, he felt like his knees were about to give out. Drusilla swept past him, humming an eerie tune, and sucking at one long, painted finger even as the man fell to the ground, his lifeblood spreading around him in a dark stain..

"First things first. Titania wants an enchanted bower before her lover comes to her. I must have an ivory tower from which to call my sweet William back to me," she murmured, closing her eyes. Like gossamer, she could see the link between herself and her paramour, stretching across the vibrant city. Drusilla blew a mental breath along the strand, watching it tremble in her mind and following the movement. Seconds later, her human disguise was gone, revealing her demon visage as she hissed in fear and anger. The web she'd first seen as a child was in tatters, no longer the neat threads of fates intricately knotting, twisting and dividing but a moth eaten tapestry with gaping holes and a mass spreading like a cancer across it.

Drusilla didn't like it when people played with her toys, and the web had been hers for a very long time. It whispered to her in her sleep, showed her the way when all was obscured and comforted her when she was troubled. Now something had ruined it, and while the vampire didn't know how, she instinctively knew who had done this. The Slayer. The statuesque brunette allowed her ridged features and fangs to vanish beneath her skin once again, and narrowed her eyes. One more reason to see the girl burn and bleed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Where was she? Christ, he'd been waiting for two and a half hours for Bethmara to show her face, biding his time with bottled beer and whiskey chasers and he was beginning to feel cushioned enough to call the Watcher. Before he tackled that little bundle of joy, he felt he needed an incentive, a reminder of just why he was doing this. Now if the girl in question would just oblige him, he could get on with his night.

Spike didn't really want to over-analyze the reasons that dragged him back to Buffy/Bethmara, or his motivations for helping the opposing side. It was much simpler to think that it was the promise of young, warm flesh that lured him, because God forbid he actually cared what happened to the girl or her rag-tag "family".

'Too late,' he realized, sourly. All this waiting around and time spent on his own was making it harder and harder to avoid these alarmingly honest conversations with himself. There were definitely thoughts and feelings in his subconscious that he really didn't need to know about, reflections he'd spent over a century burying and subsuming with the demonic urges to kill, feed and destroy. It looked like he was reaching the end of the line in running from them now though, and all because of one seventeen year old girl. His lips twitched in a rueful smile.

'No bleeding wonder you couldn't kill her, you pillock,' the vampire admonished himself. It was always about the girl. It always had been. The fairer sex had led him step by stumbling step to this moment. First his mother, then Cecily —even with her harsh rejection — then Drusilla and her tainted, eternal blood. And now another inspirational young woman had provided the catalyst for this change, this personal evolution. He didn't know whether to curse her or worship her for bringing him to this crisis, and maybe it was all the same emotion. Stubborn William, led by the nose, or rather, an equally unreasoning part of his anatomy, putty in the hands of the women who'd shaped him into what he was. He'd never been able to find a middle ground, a compromise of his emotions and actions. It was all or nothing for him, and now it appeared he was on the threshold of reconciliation of his passion and his reason, his humanity and his demon. He suppressed a sigh, knowing that the time ahead would be so far from easy. He was poised on the anvil of the gods, awaiting the blows that would change him yet again. Time to grit his teeth and hope there'd be something left over when the sparks had settled, but until then, he'd just have to endure.

A feather light shiver thrummed through the base of his skull, startling him from his maudlin monologue. At first he thought it was his Slayer early warning signal, but when he concentrated, he knew Bethmara hadn't yet arrived. For one brief moment, a flicker of steel blue eyes flashed before his own, and he felt a curious mix of titillation and dread slide from his suddenly dry throat and into his stomach. His poisoned chalice was looking for him, and she was none too far away. A complication he didn't need, but then hadn't Bethmara said something last night about his sire?

"Time to run home to Drusilla, lover..."

Just what he needed, two prescient bloody women. How was a bloke supposed to enjoy himself when the bints knew his every move? Oh, really like this! Perfect sentiment for being pissed at them.

He'd best make that call to the Watcher before Dru caught up with him, because whatever she wanted, it wasn't going to be good. The vampire slid from the bar stool with liquid grace, ignoring the admiring glances he attracted from a variety of women throughout the club. Business first, and pleasure... the memory of a lithe, panting, hot body grinding into his washed across his mind and body. Pleasure would definitely come later. We in the peanut gallery so hope so!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hello?" Giles dropped his luggage just inside the door to his apartment, rushing to the telephone.

"Watcher," the mocking greeting lilted, and Rupert Giles's face fell from hopeful to chilled.

"Spike. What the hell do you want? How did you get this number?"

"Slayer's mum passed it on. I've got something you'll be interested to hear, old man."

"What the hell were you doing with Buffy's mother? Oh god!" Giles' heart rate increased to the point that Spike could faintly hear it down the phone line.

"I swear, if you've hurt Joyce Summers, I will hunt you down and make you wish Buffy had staked you years ago," Rupert grated, and Spike was reminded of how even Angelus' extensive torture of the man had failed to break him. Not your average librarian, this one.

"Hold your horses, Rupert. There's no need to call the cavalry. As a matter of fact, this is the cavalry calling you. I ran into a demon by the name of Whistler a few days ago, and you'll never guess who he recruits for." The vampire didn't bother hiding the smug tone from his voice, knowing he was goading his repressed countryman.

"Whistler? Recruiting? Spike, get to the point. Assuming there actually is one," the Watcher ground out, clenching his jaw. He felt a small headache building between his eyes.

"Keep your knickers on, mate. And you could try being a bit nicer to me, seein' as the Powers That Won't Leave Well Enough Alone are the ones that dragged me into this." Spike's lips twitched into a smirk at the man's shocked intake of breath.

"Looks like the Slayer's gone and done something rash, again, Rupert. Something bad enough to get the Powers all a-flutter, and she's going by a new name into the bargain. Does Bethmara mean anything to you?"

"Er...not really, no. Listen, Spike, just tell me what the hell's going on?" Giles stammered, removing his glasses and holding the pressure points either side of his nose.

The blond sighed.

"If I knew, I wouldn't be stuck with calling you, would I? The only clues I've got right now are that Whistler said something about elevation, Buffy's calling herself Bethmara, and if you thought she had an attitude problem before, you really wouldn't want to try ordering her about now."

"You've seen Buffy?" Giles exclaimed, feeling the band around his heart relax despite the cryptic information Spike had relayed.

"Yeah, I've seen her. She's alright, Watcher. At least as far as I can tell, and she's still very capable of taking care of herself. Get your books out though, Watcher-man. Something big's coming and your girl is right in the thick of it. I'll call again in a few days, see if you've found anything." The vampire didn't want to go into details about his encounters with Bethmara, hanging up while Rupert was still sputtering.

Spike leaned against the side of the payphone booth, bowing his head as he thought. Drusilla wasn't far away; most likely in the city given the strength of the link he'd felt earlier. Spike wondered if she was looking for revenge or reconciliation, or if she just blew into town on a whim. Trying to second guess his sire was futile as after a century he still had no idea what went on in her mind. He'd just have to deal with her when the time came. In the meantime, he still had one priority and he was nothing if not single-minded. All this hanging about waiting for Bethmara to show herself was getting old - tonight he was going to find out where she lived. He took to the rooftops, making his way to a building opposite the club, where he settled down to watch.

TBC....