“I was with the men who lamented and the women who mourned.” – The Book of Going Forth by Day


The crossbow was an elegant invention: easily reloaded, powerful, accurate, effective. Spike’s eyes had been drawn to it amongst the other weapons in Buffy’s storage chest after their little tableau on the stairs. Thinking that he might need some ranged weapons, especially since he had little interest in being plowed by that bitch of a hell goddess again, the device had been casually slung over one shoulder and carried into battle, full quiver hanging off of his belt.

He blessed his foresight when, trapped at the bottom of the tower by an angry mob of crazy human minions, he noticed someone at the top of the rickety construction with Dawn. He sighted carefully, noting that the chip did not fire when he aimed, and let the first quarrel fly. It was a long shot, but his eyes were keen and his arms steady. The figure jerked, but remained standing. At least until the second arrow hammered home.

No one else approached the girl until Buffy herself scaled the tower and found Doc’s bleeding body sprawled there.

*****

Day 15

Spike had been putting off this moment.

Ever since Giles had mentioned in passing that Buffy’s tombstone was being erected today, he had known that his evening rounds would end here.

That didn’t mean that he wouldn’t drag his feet beforehand.

After spending a solid hour deciphering his rambling, sometimes incoherent notes in the paperback copy of The Book of the Dead, he had spent most of the afternoon discreetly pouring through Anya’s inventory. He had listed every reference to potential spell components that were listed in the book, and cross referenced his findings against the Magic Box’s records of recent sales.

It had been a good idea, which didn’t make it any less unhelpful.

He had a short list of buyers, at least the ones who hadn’t used cash, but no one on the list had purchased more than one or two items, and they were fairly innocuous herbs or trinkets.

Scratch one for the good ideas.

Then he had decided that visiting stores that catered in unusual meats might be a good place to look. It seemed like Ammut’s diet of hearts was a requirement instead of a strange metaphor. Spiritual hearts… physical hearts… the exact theology and metaphysics escaped him, but it seemed a good guess that the demigod might seek out her favored food in whatever form she took. Since there hadn’t been an abrupt spike in ‘chest rupture’ reports on the news to go along with Sunnydale’s unusual neck problems, that meant that if she was in town, she was feeding some other way. Or that someone was providing her with more discreet meals. Either way, he must have visited every butcher’s shop and fresh market in the city limits by nine o’clock.

This plan was a little more problematic. He couldn’t exactly waltz into a store and ask the guy stocking steaks if a part crocodile, part lioness, part hippopotamus demigod had broken into the store and absconded with large quantities of hearts. The same went for asking about a representative of said goddess. His more circumspect questions had been met with blank stares, rude refusals, followed by offers to call up Sunnydale’s finest, and one overly helpful employee who was either a Moran demon or a wanna-be Satanist. The two were often hard to tell apart.

Either way, this good idea was also a bust. Ammut 2, Spike 0.

The set time to meet at the Magic Box crept closer, and Spike’s reluctant feet finally carried him to the tiny plot of land that marked Buffy Summers’ final resting place.

There was a moment of disorientation before the words on the stone swam into focus. Tara had found a glamour that would obscure the text on the tombstone from anyone who did not already know what was inscribed there; it was another little attempt to keep Buffy’s death a secret.

The final ripples of the illusion faded and Spike dully read the epitaph of the woman he had loved, still loved, above all others.

Buffy Anne Summers
1981-2001

Beloved Sister
Devoted Friend

She Saved The World
A Lot

Short and to the point, even humorous, he thought bitterly that she would have heartily approved. He instinctively sought any remaining trace of her scent in the air, but all he caught on the breeze was soil and decay. His mind rebelled against the idea of her rotting, just beneath the soil. He wanted to imagine her preserved, like Bernadette of Lourdes, whose body Dru had insisted they visit so many years ago.

Logic insisted otherwise.

Buffy had not been embalmed, another layer of secrecy over her death, and while she had been many things, she had never been a saint. Her flaws had only made her more real, more beautiful in his eyes.

The others had obviously been here earlier; there was a bouquet of daisies resting against the freshly carved marble. They looked forlorn, rapidly wilting in the muggy California heat.

Spike didn’t know how long he had been standing there, motionless as a statue, when the prickling sensation drew him out of his lethargy.

“If you came to finish the job, don’t bother. Someone beat you there.” Spike looked over his shoulder at his grandsire. “It didn’t take.” The admission sounded flat, as if he was reading from a grocery list.

“I heard.” Angel’s voice was equally toneless, and his eyes were trained on the marble marker as he stepped forward to stand next to the younger vampire.

Some unspoken truce, either because of their mutual respect for the slayer or the knowledge that neither could actually dust, stayed both their hands, even though it was obvious that neither wanted the other there. They had known each other too long to not immediately understand the tension in the hard line of Spike’s jaw and the dark creases on Angelus’ brow.

Every muscle in Spike’s body was held taut, tense and ready like a bowstring. It didn’t matter if a hundred more years passed; some lessons learned would never fade, such as what kinds of things tended to happen when Angelus smelled blood in the water. Spike had never really bought the whole ‘Angel’ persona. Oh, the soul definitely made a difference, but his grandsire was still there, lurking beneath the surface like a whisper of constant threat.

Standing there, six feet above the woman he loved, next to the man she had loved, was eating away at Spike’s control. Everything from the past two weeks was bubbling to the surface, threatening to destroy the brittle façade of indifference he had thrown in the face of Angelus’ interruption. Much as he wanted to pound his grandsire into the ground, Spike would not disturb the peace of Buffy’s grave, but he couldn’t retreat either. That tasted of surrender as much as tears would have smacked of weakness. So he was stuck in place, hands fisted deep inside the pockets of his jacket, actively ignoring the pain reflected in the silent vampire beside him.

Spike had never been so relieved to hear a scream in his entire unlife.

Before he really knew what had happened, Spike was running, though whether it was towards the sound or away from the grave, he couldn’t have honestly said.

He quickly found the cause of the commotion: four fledges who were playing with their dinner, tossing a pretty brunette who had lungs like bellows back and forth between them. With a snarl, he was on them, releasing his pent-up emotions with every bone shattering strike.

Spike was so absorbed in the distraction that it took the first un-staking to remind him of his other problems. Perversely, the tiniest corner of his mind was thankful when Angelus joined him in the fray.

*****

“Why did you help that girl?” Angel slid the lid of the first sarcophagus back into place with a grunt of exertion.

‘That girl’ had gone screaming into the distance, leaving her two rescuers to deal with the cleanup.

And a nasty cleanup it had turned out to be.

Spike dropped a severed arm into the neighboring stone sarcophagus. “Gotta hand it to you, Gramps,” he gestured with another limb, which flopped loosely around a broken elbow, “This plan kind of reminds me of the old days.”

Angelus grimaced, it has been his suggestion to cut up the young vampires and hide their ‘remains’ in separate placed to prevent them from healing and rising again. Spike hadn’t been terribly concerned with the ethics of the move, but it was a bloody, filthy job, which he could have done without. Besides, it wasn’t like the not-quite-dead vampires were going to wake up in their dismembered state.

Probably.

Angelus picked up the last head and dropped it in the second sarcophagus with the others with an angry scowl. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Spike wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving long smears of muddy red against the faded black fabric. “Keep your shirt on, Nancy. Just did is all.”

“Not good enough, Spike,” that baritone rumble seemed lifted from another time, another place. “I want to know what your game is before I go back to L.A.”

Apparently, away from Buffy’s grave, all bets were off. “Well, that’s all you’re getting’, so piss off.” Spike was in no mood for posturing and empty threats. He’d already been staked, what more could Angelus really do to him? He glanced at the contents of the blood-stained sarcophagus, and let that line of thought die a rapid death.

The response earned a threatening growl. “If Mr. Giles hadn’t made me swear to bring you back in one piece, I’d be paying you back right now for that little game of twenty questions with rebar you played the last time I saw you.”

The lid of the second sarcophagus slid into place, hiding its gory contents from view. Spike snorted in derision. “Nothing you haven’t done to me before.”

One meaty fist slammed down on the stone. “That wasn’t me,” Angelus said.

“Bullshit. Maybe the pulsers believe that line of crap, but I know you, Angelus.” Spike turned and stalked towards the crypt door. He picked up his jacket from where he had draped it on a concrete urn. “Better accent, worse taste in clothes, but you’re still you.”

That earned a prolonged silence. In fact, they were more than half way to the Magic Box before either spoke again.

“You loved her, didn’t you? That’s why.” the elder vampire asked.

Yup, still Angelus. The old bastard always had known exactly where to stick a knife to make it hurt the worst.

*****

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Willow said plaintively. “Now there’re ghosts all over town too?”

Giles, who was searching through the books along the back wall of the Magic Box, said distractedly, “It certainly seems that way.”

“But,” Tara interjected, ducking her head when all the eyes in the room turned to her. “They don’t seem dangerous. Just, you know, confused.” Willow laced her fingers through Tara’s and squeezed in silent support. The scrying spell that had revealed this new development had taken a lot out of both of them.

Spike, from his position on the loft ladder, opened his mouth to finally spill the beans about Ammut, when something caught his eye. There, in the glass display case holding an array of hand-carved scarabs, was a reflection. Not his own though, walking-undead or not, he was still a vampire. No, it was Anubis himself who was staring back at him, dark eyes grave as he shook his head in silent warning.

He had to admit, that was more than a little disconcerting.

“Do you have something useful to add, Spike?” Angel’s unwelcome voice rumbled from his post in front of the shop’s counter, jerking him out of his preoccupation.

And just like that, the vision was gone. Spike couldn’t tell if it had been real, a hallucination, or something else, so he decided to play it safe. “Yeah, I do,” he snapped, dragging another thought he had been having to the surface. “Just thinkin’ that the only thing that keeps fledglings from overrunning the world is the fact that they’re usually so stupid they get themselves killed pretty quick after rising.” That certainly drew speculative glances from the others. “Unless we find a way to deal with them, we’re gonna be up to our ears in my distant relations before we ever start dealing with the big problem.”

In the ensuing silence, Giles removed his glasses, face drawn in grave lines. “That is actually a very valid point.”

Angel mumbled something unintelligible, but probably not complimentary. Spike bristled defensively. “Don’t you have your precious SoCal fiefdom to get back to?”

“Don’t push me, Spike.” The elder vampire’s brown eyes glittered with gold. “You don’t have any little girls to defend you this time.”

“That ‘little girl’ is the slayer’s sister, and you’re right, she’s not here.” Spike dropped from the ladder, angry and ready to take this conversation in whatever direction Angelus was suggesting. “She’s at home, helping the Whelp and his bird hang a new kitchen door… Why’s that again?”

“Stop it!” Raw energy crackled in the air, driving the gold from both vampires eyes. Willow’s own eyes, dilated beyond recognition, seemed ready to drown them both in their red-black depths. “Stop it right now!”

Spike ducked his head, embarrassed in spite of himself. Angelus always had brought out the worst in him. Probably always would. “Sorry, Red.”

Seemingly appeased, the witch turned darkened eyes on Angelus, who looked like a vein in his forehead was about to burst. Under her unblinking, unwavering glare, he seemed to wilt. Spike could almost see the black, brooding clouds gathering around his grandsire.

Tara, her face hesitant and nervous, brushed a soft hand against her girlfriend’s arm. Her touch seemed to draw the girl out of her magical rage. Spike could still feel the power humming in the air; it seemed like Willow’s control had been slipping ever since Buffy had died. Grief did strange things to a person, especially one of a more supernatural persuasion. The redhead slid back into her chair, trembling in the aftermath of her outburst.

“Angel,” Giles said, trying to diffuse the situation further with a deep breath. “Didn’t you say that Cordelia called earlier?”

Angelus looked plaintive, of all things. “But what about…” his eyes slid across the room to Spike, glittering with confusion and more than a little well-concealed anger.

In the face of that weighted stare, Spike had an unwelcome flash of insight.

Angelus had missed it.

Buffy was dead and he had missed it, the lead up, the fight, the chance to do anything about it. And now he was grasping at straws, trying to make himself useful, as if it would retroactively make some kind of difference.

Which it didn’t. Nothing would ever make a difference again. Not for Buffy, and not for Spike.

He could almost pity the old bastard. Maybe he would have, if he hadn’t hated him so much.

Giles continued blandly, “Spike isn’t your problem, Angel. He’s ours.”

“Gee, thanks,” Spike mumbled.

“Spike,” the watcher’s voice was deceptively smooth and calm.

“Yeah?” Spike asked wearily.

“Do shut up.”

With a wry expression, not really a smile, but close, Spike just nodded and slipped away into the practice room. When it came to getting what he wanted, Giles could be as underhanded as Angelus. Spike would play along, for a while at least. He could swallow his pride for the greater good. Or, you know, the greater benefit. Whatever.

Angelus was gone within the hour.