chapter 21, bittersweet – part II

Spike stood bare-chested in front of the bay window in the alcove in Buffy’s living room staring through the paned glass as the sun shined on his face. New York City had changed since he and the Slayer and Dawn and the boy had disappeared into the portal and escaped to the Night World. This town was barely recognizable with its no traffic or flashing lights or people. Just barren streets and silence. Nothing buzzing about to interfere with him listening to the deeper sounds of the Earth. His mind tuned them in like a beacon. The screams of the first demons blared in his eardrums.

Resting his forehead against the glass, he inhaled deeply, searching for scents left behind by whatever had lived in this world before he’d arrived with his girls and the boy. But the air smelled ancient and long dead.

Then he accepted what he already knew.

Nothing alive existed in the Bronx, except for the three humans cloistered inside Buffy’s apartment and him—whatever he was. His newly acquired portal jumping skill had brought them to a world very different from the one they’d left behind the day before. This dimension was void of desire, an empty, black hole of a world with a blazing sun, tall deserted buildings and little more.

Spike banished his mind to search further. Find something alive to latch on to and distract his demon’s growing urge to destroy and maim and bash and feast. If he didn’t, the three humans in the tiny apartment with him would become his salvation, and Spike didn’t want that. He couldn’t what that. Not for Dawn, and dear God, not for Buffy.

He forced his thoughts out of the apartment. He had to think about what existed beyond the Bronx, beyond the city.

Willow was out there and Jacob was with her.

His fingers tingled and his breathing quickened. The smell of their blood engulfed him, warming his body more completely than he ever imagined possible. He felt Willow dancing around in his mind and knew that they’d found him as well.

Spike staggered at the headiness of linking with the witch. She was stronger than the last time he’d seen her. His knees buckled and he struggled to keep from sinking to the floor. He grabbed hold of the windowsill with both hands, swaying precariously as the power of the connection flowed through him.

Then he was standing in two worlds at the same time.

He stared out the apartment window and stood in the Night World, the sweet taste of Buffy's lips on his mouth and the feel of her arms around his neck. Just like when they'd kissed.

He placed his hand on the glass and pulled it back. It burned his fingertips.

“Spike, what do you see? What’s going on out there?” He turned.

Dawn was sitting on the sofa next to the boy, Carlo.

The demon was shouting in his head, screaming at him. Feast, you bloody bastard. Kill them.

Spike’s heart pounded inside his ribcage and his fangs elongated in his mouth.

He had to get them out of the room. Their smell was choking him. The boy had sweated through his shirt and his musk punctuated the air. The scent of Dawn’s youthful lust lingered on the inside of her thighs and her hair had a mild, sour odor like rotten melon.

His senses moved away from the children and down the hall to the bathroom and the Slayer. She was washing the sweat from her body and rinsing his smell from her skin. His cock stiffened at the thought of her nakedness and how it would feel to fuck her so hard she’d only whimper as he ripped open her throat with his fangs.

Spike shuddered, trying to wipe the image from his mind.

He stepped away from the window toward Dawn. “Go tell Buffy I need her and then go into the bedroom and stay there.”

Dawn and the boy had to get away from him. He moved back, closer to the window and pressed his spine against the glass.

“Hey man, don’t talk to her like that.” Carlo was on his feet.

“You insolent fool!” growled Spike as he willed himself to stay connected to the window. “Shut up and do as you are told. I have no prior memory of you and would just as soon snap your bloody neck than deal with your fucking mouth.”

Not since waking after being turned by Drusilla had he ached so thoroughly for the taste of blood and the feel of the warm, thick liquid in his throat. He wanted to gorge on them, fill his belly with their gifts.

“Go get Buffy. Please, Dawn. Do it now.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

If they didn't get the fuck out of there fast, he couldn’t be responsible for what happened next.

“Okay, Spike,” said Dawn as she yanked Carlo by the arm and backed out of the room. She pushed him toward Buffy’s bedroom door and then ran toward the bathroom.

Spike’s body went rigid as the bloodlust roared within him. He had to think of something else. He latched onto a thought and repeated it in his mind like a chant.

He loved Buffy Summers, the Slayer, the Chosen One. He loved Buffy. He loved her.

Willow had to know what was happening to him, and somewhere within her, she had to remember she loved Buffy, too. She had to help him, release him from their connection. He couldn’t do it alone. He needed her and fast.

Spike leaned forward and rested his forehead on the hot glass and waited.

God, he hoped Buffy had a stake. Just in case.


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Buffy splashed the cold water onto her face. She needed the shock to jar her battered mind and help her get unstuck.

Portal jumper? He was a portal jumper. Just like that, Spike was a portal jumper. She couldn’t wrap her brain around it. Here the Scoobies had run, hid, cast spells and abandoned their lives to save themselves from the wrath of the portal jumper, and just like that, Spike was the portal jumper?

Or was he just one of a big portal jumping family that also happened to be breathing, living, stand in the sunlight vampires?

She pulled her hair away from her face and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Since arriving in New York, she had stopped highlighting her hair and had touched up her dark roots only twice. Her skin had lost the constant Sunnydale tan, but she still looked…okay. Her eyes were clear and her face fuller, and oftentimes she’d feel unexplainably happy, even though she longed to return home. But in New York City, she'd felt better about being Buffy than she ever remembered feeling in Sunnydale. And a hell of a lot better than she had those first weeks after digging her way out of her coffin.

A twinge of regret drifted into her head. She hadn’t thought about being dead in a long time. All she had remembered was leaping from the tower and waking up buried.

She stared at her face in the mirror and wondered why regret had crossed her mind. Had there been something about being dead that she missed?

She splashed the water on her face again, reached for the towel and patted her skin dry. Such a strange year and now there was Spike.

This particular roller-coaster ride was cluttered with broken track.

Buffy pulled on a fresh white tee, a pair of cut-off jeans and shoved her feet into her black running shoes. She’d been surprised to find summer clothes in her drawer. When she’d left Sunnydale in the fall, she’d never thought they’d be in the city during the warm months. Of course, they weren’t. It was mid-December. But as soon as they’d materialized back in New York, she’d felt the heat. It was like they were still in the Night World, except they weren't. But she didn't have time to deal with that puzzle right away.

She had to get her brain unthawed.

Spike was a portal jumper.

She threw another handful of cold water over her eyes.

“Buffy! Buffy!” Dawn’s terrified voice suddenly filled the room and she dropped the washcloth into the sink.

Now what?

Buffy’s tilted her chin to the ceiling and mumbled a small prayer to the Powers-That-Be. Begging seemed so un-slayery, but she and Dawn needed a break.

She flung open the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway.

Dawn was standing on the other side, breathing hard.


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Xander hadn’t ever gotten used to the whole ritual of chanting—the let’s speak Latin, Romanian or Greek thing when it came to spell casting and other witchy type things had always given him the heebie jeebies. He hadn’t said anything to Willow or Buffy or Anya, ever, but he believed that casting a good spell or calling upon higher beings would’ve been easier for all of them if they’d been able to get the deed done in English. Their forefathers were certainly in the know on witches and things. Remember Salem, he’d said to Willow more than once. Surely, English could have worked.

But he knew his idea would never be taken seriously. The most he could expect was a raised eyebrow, a ‘tsk, tsk’ and an ‘Oh, Xander”. Then of course, Giles would whip off his glasses, handkerchief at the ready, and then wipe away as if his life depended on it.

Now he was the one sitting cross-legged in the desert in front of a bonfire muttering verses in a foreign tongue, reading from a leather-bound book with Giles leaning over his shoulder. Holy shit, he thought. It was way past too late for his ideas.

“We’ve got it now,” said Giles from behind him.

“Are you sure this is going to be enough?”

“Willow will figure out how to harness the added power and give Shemhazi a match-up he won’t forget.” Giles dumped a bucket of sand on the flames.

Xander stared at the ashes as the sparks rose toward the sky. He then inched away from the fire and pushed up onto his feet. He’d been skeptical about the entire thing. He hadn’t wanted any part of this, but Giles had said you’ve got to do it if you want to help Willow save Buffy and Dawn, which meant he'd never really had a choice.

to be continued...