Spike hung from his wrists, muscles taut and angry, watching Maclin from beneath lowered eyelids. The warlock had finished setting up his altar and dismissed his demonic helpers. For the next hour, he had laboriously painted two stylized serpents on the cavern’s floor: one feathered and red, the other gaunt and green. Spike thought he recognized the design as Aztec in origin, but he could not be sure. When the picture was complete, Maclin took a post standing quietly in front of the raised slab of stone. He seemed to be waiting for something, but for what the vampire could not guess.

The vampire had asked Dawn to try contacting Meret, but her efforts met with the same resistance his had. Maclin had done his work well. Dawn had lapsed into silence after that, and try as he might, Spike could find no words of comfort for the girl that would not insult her intelligence.

And so he waited, and watched, and called to mind all of the things he would like to do to Maclin if he got the chance.

The rattling of rusty links drew his attention back to Dawn. She was watching the warlock with a worried expression.

“Somethin’ in particular caught your fancy Bit?” Spike said for her ears alone.

She answered in an equally quiet voice. “I think I know what he’s going to do.”

Spike snorted before he could catch himself.

Dawn turned to look at him and scowled. “No really. Remember those spells I found when we were trying to figure out Meret’s bond at the Magic Box?” When the vampire nodded vaguely, she continued. “Well, I kinda blackmailed Giles into letting me help research them since I found them and all. Anyway, that set-up looks an awful lot like the description of a spell that creates a permanent gateway between dimensions.”

“So he’s gonna make another Hellmouth or something close to, huh?”

Dawn shrugged and her forehead wrinkled in thought. “Spike?”

“Yeah Bit?”

“What happens if you get two Hellmouths right next to each other?”

Spike thought for a moment before memory made his eyes open wide. His mind was miles and years away, replaying the earthquake in Kangra, as well as what had caused it. He could hear the long-dead witch’s words clearly in his mind. “They will be small gates, very easily controlled…”

Easily controlled my ass.

Spike was never sure exactly what had happened, but he had felt some kind of resonance between the energies of the two portals. The magical vibrations had increased at an alarming rate, feeding off of one another, until the magic tore itself loose from the witch’s control. The gates finally consumed one another and the ensuing earthquake had been incredible. The earth had bucked and heaved, destroying the countryside for miles around. Amazingly, the vampires had escaped the ordeal with few injuries. The same could not be said for the witch. The earthquake had been forgiving, but Darla had not. Another scheme to find Angelus and “cure” him of his little soul problem thwarted, Darla had taken out her rage on the witch. The screams had lasted a long, long time.

Two days later, Darla had gone hunting and never returned. Dru had wept for weeks at the loss of both her “Daddy” and “Grandmummy.” Despite his sire’s depression, Spike had reveled in his newfound freedom, especially in the midst of the earthquake’s destruction. He could still see the wholesale devastation in his mind: a perfect playground for a young demon newly released from familial obligations.

He winced at the memories. The scenes of gleeful carnage were strangely distasteful.

“Bit. We may have a problem.”

“How much of a problem? Are we talking an ‘Oops my spell backfired, don’t I feel silly,’ or an ‘Oops, I just destroyed the world’ kind of problem?” Dawn asked with false humor.

“You want the good news first or the bad?”

“Good. I’m an optimist.”

“There might not be a Hellmouth once this spell goes down,” said the vampire in a dull voice.

“Wait, that’s really good! I mean, yay, no Hellmouth! So what’s the bad news?” Dawn gave him a wan smile, trying to be cheerful.

Spike face was set into a bleak grimace. “There might not be a west coast either.” The earthquake in India had been caused by two very minor gates. What would happen if two Hellmouths created the same kind of resonance and consumed one another?

Dawn’s face fell into similarly grim lines. “Oh.”

“Bit, I need you to tell me everything you can remember about that spell…”

*****

Wanker forms the gate through me, anchors it with Meret, and offs us both to open it. Fan-fuckin’-tastic.

Spike was brooding. He would have cheerfully driven nails through the eyes of anyone who accused him of it though. Maybe stewing was a better word, or “thinking deep thoughts.” Just as long as it wasn’t called brooding.

He had wracked his brain, searching for something that would interrupt the spell. Trashing the altar wouldn’t work according to Dawn. Maclin was undoubtedly too skilled to let minor irritations break his concentration. The only things he could think of that would stop the spell were to kill Maclin before his casting was complete, something that seemed downright impossible thanks to the chip, to escape, which seemed equally impossible, or to kill himself before the spell ever started.

Spike was willing to fight the good fight alongside the white hats, but he was not ready to give up on this situation completely and go straight to the martyrdom. That was his Rubicon, if he mentally crossed that line there really wasn’t any going back. He might as well trade in his fangs for a cape and tights.

If he couldn’t come up with a decent plan of attack, he would fall back on his standard Plan B: fly by the seat of your pants and hit anything that moves. It wasn’t like his schemes usually went according to the script anyway.

Spike was so lost in his thoughts that he did not notice Maclin’s approach. The warlock’s voice, so close at hand, snapped the vampire back into the present though. “It is time.” Spike could feel the smallest sliver of hope enter into his mind. Maclin must have set up some kind of alarm to warn him when Meret was near. If the coatl was coming, then Buffy couldn’t be far behind. Kidnapping her sister was the best way to guarantee a truly brassed off slayer, an edge Spike would value in the coming fight.

Without any preamble, Maclin strode over to Dawn and grabbed her by the throat, shaking her threateningly when she started struggling. “Do not test me little girl. Your life means nothing to me beyond making the vampire behave. You live because he seems to care about your wellbeing. I will crush your throat in a heartbeat if you do anything to make this evening run less smoothly.” Dawn instantly fell limp in his grasp, eyes wide and terrified. Maclin smiled coldly, his plain features taking on a truly malevolent edge, and murmured a single word, “Laxare.” Her shackles fell to the floor, but his hand remained, locked like a vice over her windpipe.

Spike’s eyes spoke of murderous intent, but he somehow managed to control the wild growl that was tearing at his chest. He spoke in a low, even monotone. “If you hurt her, I will see you dead.” There was no joke in his voice, no irony. He was simply stating a fact, a promise.

“And if you move against me, I’ll do the same for her,” Maclin’s voice was equally devoid of emotion. “Just so we understand each other.”

Spike gave the barest of nods.

Maclin whispered the word of power again and the vampire fell free of his chains to land heavily on the hard stone. In spite of the pain in his shoulders, Spike stood and made a show of brushing himself off. He would never show weakness in front of an enemy, not if he had strength left in his body. He had learned that lesson well under Angelus’ tutelage.

“I take it that reasonin’ with you is futile?” Spike drawled.

Maclin responded with a cruel smile. “Absolutely.”

“Well, I do have to ask you this, why are you opening another door into hell when Sunnydale already sports a perfectly functional Hellmouth?”

Maclin’s expression faltered, he had probably not counted on Spike knowing much about the coming spell, but the condescending grin was soon back in place. “It opens to the wrong dimension for my purposes. Let’s just say that I have a friend who would very much like to immigrate. The rewards will be incalculable.”

Spike could well imagine that many members of the demonic populations would pay dearly for an open doorway into the mortal world.

“Why me?” he growled.

Maclin smirked in his face. “Now that is an interesting question. My patron requested that I use you. She was quite helpful, gave me a lot of information on you. The funny thing was, you made things almost too easy. Moping after your dead slayer, drinking constantly, and feeling sorry for yourself. In the end, all I had to do was play a little poker. Oh, and William?” Maclin leaned in and spoke with falsely conspiratorial tones. “You should really do something about your tell. Whenever you have a good hand, your eyes start turning gold.” He grinned in the vampire’s enraged face. “Just like they are right now.”

The two men stood staring at one another for a moment more. The vampire finally broke the silence. “Right then, let’s get this over with. After you,” Spike suited his civilized tone of voice with a particularly offensive hand gesture.

Maclin’s smile only deepened and took on an even more malicious edge. “No, I insist.” He waved expansively with once hand and flexed the fingers of his other, “You first.” A tiny whimper escaped Dawn’s throat at the pressure.

The vampire gritted his teeth and walked towards the center of the room.

C’mon Slayer, think I’m gonna need backup to see this one through.

When he reached the altar, Maclin imperiously ordered him to stand in front of the raised slab of stone. The warlock angled himself so that he could keep an eye on both of his prisoners. This situated the vampire so that he was facing Dawn, but was too far away to easily reach her. The girl was terrified, Maclin’s hand an iron band around her neck, but Spike was proud of her. She had forced down her tears and was facing the situation with silent stoicism and clenched fists. They were both waiting for their moment. Spike could only watch and wait as Maclin started chanting, hoping against hope that their opening would come.

Maclin’s chanting grew louder and tendrils of magic danced around his face and chest, but he dared not flinch away. He accepted the magic’s feather-light touch, knowing that the warlock’s attention would soon leave him. He steeled himself against the coming spell.

What he did not expect was the debilitating weakness that suddenly spread throughout his body. The vampire fell to the floor, muscles twitching uncontrollably as the warlock tore the energy that animated his undead body from his chest and used it to boor a hole between dimensions. Spike watched with detached fascination as the stone floor across the majority of the cavern slowly warped and swirled, moving like a sluggish whirlpool. A green light, sickly and dull, started at the center of the disturbance. Connected as he was to the spell, Spike could see the weave of the magic, powerful and primal, as it spiraled the boundaries of the portal wider. And underneath it all, the sickening resonance that Spike remembered from so many years ago.

As quickly as it had started, the terrible feeling of being drained stopped. Spike struggled onto his hands and knees, still weak but no longer paralyzed. He turned his head just in time to see Meret shoot out of one of the tunnels like a red arrow, Buffy not far behind.

His wild elation died as quickly as it had come when Maclin raised a hand towards the pair and two distinct waves of energy were sent hurtling towards the coatl and the slayer. He tried to call out a warning, but before he could even open his mouth, the first spell reached them and a sea of flame erupted from the stone where the slayer had been moments before. He strained to hear any sound, watched for her to appear, phoenix-like from the flames.

Nothing.

Something snapped deep inside of the vampire. He knew without knowing that no one, not even a slayer, could survive such a conflagration without strong magical protection. By waiting to give Buffy the Sangre de Cristo ruby, he had signed her death warrant.

My fault. Myfaultmyfaultmyfault…

The golden eyes that turned towards Maclin were far from sane. Some corner of his mind, the tiniest rational fraction that was left, watched the warlock stumble and realized that something had gone wrong with the spell. Dawn fell to the side, loose from her captor’s suddenly nerveless fingers.

On some level, Spike recognized his moment and launched himself at Maclin, roaring like a wounded beast. They went down in a tangle of leather and black robes. Still weak from the spell, the vampire’s muscles were driven instead by madness and the strength of his guilt. He soon found himself sitting on the warlock’s chest, hands wrapped around the spell caster’s throat. The chip fired, sending bolts of pain through his head, but even it could not compare to the emotional agony he was feeling. The vampire accepted the pain, embraced it as his due. He had failed Buffy utterly. The slayer, the woman he loved more than unlife itself, was dead.

Because of him.

Again.

If he could not kill Maclin and stop the spell, her family, friends, probably everyone she had ever known or met, would join her as the forces of two Hellmouths sought to tear each other apart.

Eyes blazing gold and teeth bared in a rictus grin, Spike squeezed his hands tighter around Maclin’s throat. The pain from the chip crescendoed in a blinding white agony, but he would not stop. He could feel blood starting to run from his nose, eyes, and ears, but he ignored that too. Stones from the ceiling fell, the ground rippled beneath him, and fissures opened in the cavern floor as the magical resonance grew, but none of it mattered. Maclin gasped and struggled under his hands, clawing at Spike’s arms in an attempt to escape his fate, but even his enemy’s death throes earned no notice. There was nothing beyond his boundless guilt and the feel of the exposed neck in his grasp.

He heard a dull snap, but he did not stop even as Maclin’s struggles faded to nothing. He kept squeezing even when he felt brittle cracking under his fingers. As he slid into unconsciousness, the chip’s fiery rage finally overpowering him, his hands never left the warlock’s throat.

As blackness overtook him, he continued his litany, damning himself over and over again.

My fault.