Chapter 14: Strong Enough

Spike’s stomach lurched at the sight of Buffy sprawled on the ground, her body cold and spattered with blood. He stood frozen for a moment before he dropped to his knees, retching. He gasped in shuddering lungfuls of useless air, his chest burning, though not from any physical affliction. Crawling across the ground, he scooped Buffy’s lifeless form into his arms and cradled her to his chest. “No,” he moaned, his voice rough with unshed tears as he pressed his forehead to Buffy’s. “No, no…” He stared up at Drusilla, fierce accusation in his eyes. “You did this!”

“I’m naught but dust, William,” she said, her voice chastising yet sweet, giving him an expression of feigned innocence, with just the barest hint of a wicked smirk beneath. “You did this to her. Everything you love turns to ashes.”

As she spoke, Buffy’s body disintegrated into dust in his arms. “Buffy!” he sobbed, staring down at his ash-covered hands as they balled into fists. He couldn’t lose her; he couldn’t go through that again. He wasn’t strong enough.

“Spike, my sweet,” Drusilla said, coming up behind Spike and stroking a comforting hand through his hair. “She was never meant for you. You belong to me.” Wrapping her arms around him, she drew him up and turned him to face her. “My deadly prince,” she sighed, cupping his cheek with one black lace-gloved hand.

They were both clothed again, he noticed then. He recognized Dru’s dress as the one she’d been wearing the night she had turned him. Glancing down, he realized that he, too, was dressed in his nineteenth century party clothes.

“Don’t care for games, Dru.”

“Not my game, Spike,” she giggled. “Not my head.”

Placing her hand on the lapel of his coat, she walked around him in a circle, drawing her hand sensually across his chest, then along his back, scraping her nails lightly against his coat. “The bravest knight in all the land,” she murmured, coming back around to face him. “You are mine, William. Always.”

Pulling back Spike’s shirt collar, Dru brushed her fingertips across the mark on his neck, now just a barely noticeable white scar against his pale skin, where she’d once taken his life. She replaced her fingers with her lips, mouthing his throat and making his entire body tremble with need.

“You wanted it, yes? Something effulgent.”

“Yes. Oh, God, yes,” he murmured, clutching the fabric of her dress tightly in his fists.

She stepped away from him, tilting her head back and slightly to one side, exposing her neck to him. “Take it.”

Spike hesitated for a moment before closing the distance between them and fastening his mouth to her throat. He kissed her, laved her skin with his tongue, and then his fangs descended, puncturing her flesh and drawing her blood to the surface. They clung to each other, a lovers’ embrace, as he drank deeply of her, letting her borrowed blood flow down his throat like sweet forgotten wine.

Her body changed, then, bones, muscles, and clothing shifting under his touch; and then it was Buffy’s neck he was biting, Buffy’s blood that was coursing into his mouth. He barely registered her soft cry of pain before the chip went off, and he abruptly pulled away clutching his head, shocked by the jolt to his brain and horrified as he realized it was her.

The real Buffy.

Gone was the illusion of Drusilla, the old-fashioned clothing, the lulling complacence of the past. The Glarghk guhl kashma’nik was nowhere to be found, but Spike was back in the woods, a puncture wound in his shoulder, while Buffy stared at him in surprise and alarm, one hand clamped over her bleeding throat.

“You’re not real,” she breathed. She lashed out quicker than he expected, landing a punch to his jaw before swiping his legs out from under him.

“No, Buffy, it’s me!” He tried to apologize, to explain, but she was already scrambling for a stick big enough to use as a stake. He wasn’t sure if she was still hallucinating, or if she just thought she was; either way, she was bent on killing him.

Spike fought for his life, beating back her attacks as blows landed across his arms and face. Buffy was weakened by the demon’s poison and the blood loss, but she still met him with a fury that only a Slayer could summon.

“Buffy, pet, listen to me!” he begged her, but she would not hear reason. She drove him backwards, until a kick to the stomach found him with his back against a tree, and she lunged forward with her makeshift stake. With lightning-quick reflexes, Spike caught her by the wrist and held her back, the stake hovering just inches from his chest.

“You’re not real!” she sobbed, beginning to break down even as she exerted her full force in an attempt to overpower him and drive the stake home. “You’re not real!”

“Yes, I am, Buffy!” With Buffy’s emotions getting the better of her, Spike managed to wrestle the stake away from her and held her by both arms, shaking her as though he could physically shake some sense into her.

Just then, there was a flash of recognition in her eyes, and she stopped struggling against him, her expression stinging with betrayal and shame. “Spike?” she whispered, before her eyes rolled up and she collapsed against him, unconscious.

*****

Spike burst through the front door of the Summers house, carrying Buffy in his arms. She’d been in and out of consciousness on the way back from the woods, crying and shouting and hitting him when she was awake, and occasionally having such violent episodes that he’d had to put her down on the ground and physically restrain her until they passed. And he couldn’t be certain, due to his already lowered body temperature, but he was pretty sure she felt feverish.

He, on the other hand, was fine. Right as rain.

Tara and Dawn were already waiting at the house. When it didn’t look like Buffy and Spike would be back to the Magic Box any time soon, the Scoobies had agreed that someone should take Dawn home. It was a school night, and she really ought to have been sleeping; but her sister and her best friend were out there possibly getting themselves killed, so she was too nervous to settle down and go to bed.

Spike’s entrance startled them both into a frenzy. “Buffy!” Dawn shrieked, rushing over and getting underfoot as Spike laid her out on the sofa.

“Call the others. Get ’em here now!” Spike barked, oblivious to everything except Buffy. She was unconscious now, her complexion pale and her forehead glistening with sweat. Her breathing was shallow, but her heartbeat was steady.

“Spike, what happened?” Tara asked, taking in not only the puncture wound in Buffy’s stomach, but also the bite mark on her throat and the stain on her shirt where the blood had dripped down her neck.

“She’s hurt!” Spike snapped. “Call the others. Tell Red to get that antidote together.”

Frightened, Tara nodded and headed for the phone to call the Magic Box. Spike raked his hand through his hair and began franticly pacing the living room. With the most important orders given and the burden of Buffy’s survival lifted from him, he seemed to lose his bearing, spiraling into panic and barely able to string a full sentence together. “Bit? Can you – can – get bandages, yeah?” he stammered.

Instead of following his instructions, Dawn crouched on the floor next to her sister, taking in the extent of her injuries. “Stomach or between the ribs,” she said softly, “enough to kill you.”

“What’s that, Bit?” Spike asked, distracted.

“Plenty of squishy organs to skewer, and…” her voice hitched, “…bleeding from the gut is –”

“Hush,” Spike said, realizing she was repeating what he had told her during their knife session. He grabbed her and pulled her into a hug, somewhat grateful that he was forced to be the strong one again. He could hold himself together as long as one of his girls needed him. “Sis is gonna be fine. Slayer healing, right? Not like normal people.”

“Willow says we can heal her with the demon’s pokey stinger thing,” Tara announced, coming back into the living room, cradling the cordless phone to her chest. Before she could say another word, Spike was digging through the weapons chest and making a break for the door.

“Spike, where are you going?”

He stopped in the doorway and turned to Tara. “To find that demon and bring back the sticker thing for her.”

“You mean you didn’t kill it?” Tara asked, furrowing her brow.

Spike shot her a look, unconsciously rubbing his shoulder. “Was a bit preoccupied with my own acid trip, pet.”

“The demon got you, too?” The witch’s hand came up to cover her mouth. “Oh, Spike, I didn’t realize…”

“Then, how come Buffy’s all…” Dawn waved a hand at her sister to indicate her state, “and you’re not?”

Spike paused for a moment, his mouth open but not speaking as the other two gave him curious, expectant expressions. “I… bit her,” he finally confessed, unable to meet either of their gazes. “Woke up just as I… The slayer blood must’ve snapped me out of it.”

“You…” Dawn trailed off, not sure what to make of this.

Spike heard the “how could you?” implicit in her tone, but he couldn’t hold it against her. He’d been thinking the same thing ever since he’d realized it was Buffy.

“You should – you should tie her up,” he said, his voice breaking. “Or keep her sedated or something. When she wakes up she could be… violent.”

With one last guilty look at Buffy, Spike was out the door, heading back out into the night without another word.

*****

“The Slayer’s been neutralized,” the hooded demon said, his words accompanied by the sound of a cell phone snapping closed. The technology seemed out of place in the warlock’s study, which, unlike the rest of the modern, tastefully decorated mansion, was ornamented with medieval weaponry and ancient occult symbols and artifacts.

“The Glarghk guhl kashma’nik worked, then?” David asked mildly, as he crisscrossed the room, which had been set up exclusively to house his magical interests, gathering supplies for the upcoming ritual.

“My spies tell me she’s been incapacitated by the hallucinations. Her friends are working on the antidote, though…”

“Of course they are, Rah’lik. And they’ll get it, and they’ll heal her. It’s what we expected.” David carefully packed his ingredients into a bag and hefted it onto his shoulder. “But by the time they do, the ritual will be finished, and we will have moved on to the next phase.” He glanced at his watch. “We have to leave now if we want to make it to the burial ground in time.”

“Yes, of course, sir,” Rah’lik replied, following the mage as he headed out of the room.

David paused in the doorway and turned around. “What about the vampire?”

“He bit her,” Rah’lik announced triumphantly. “More than we could’ve hoped for, really.”

Pursing his lips in thought, David nodded. “Good. Grab the rug, would you?” He turned on his heel, heading out into the hallway with the demon trailing dutifully behind, internet-purchased magic carpet in hand.

*****

Spike had almost made it to the edge of the forest when an SUV came speeding up, brakes squealing as it came to a halt in front of him. He was hardly surprised when Xander came tumbling out of the driver’s seat.

“Slayer wouldn’t want you out here,” Spike told him dismissively.

“Willow said she needs the demon alive. Thought this might come in handy.” He held up a tranquilizer gun, the one they used to use when Oz was wolfy and needed to be subdued.

Spike let out a reluctant sigh. “Yeah, all right.” He wasn’t thrilled about the company, but considering that the Glarghk guhl kashma’nik had bested both him and Buffy the last time they fought, he was at least grateful for the tranquilizers. Maybe Harris could get off a shot without even needing to fight the damned thing.

They walked in uncomfortable silence through the trees, and Spike could tell that the boy was pissed as hell at him. His jaw was set in a tight line, his broad shoulders tense with restraint. He kept his eyes focused determinedly straight ahead, as though even a sidelong glance at the vampire would release the deluge of anger he was holding back.

Edgy and stressed himself, Spike pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up with slightly shaky hands, ignoring Xander’s dirty look and muttered comment about second-hand smoke. It wasn’t until he’d ground out the butt under the toe of his boot that Xander finally said, “Tara told us what happened.”

“Yeah?” Spike tried to sound nonchalant, though he wasn’t really sure why. Maybe just to piss off Harris a bit more.

“She told us you bit her. That’s what made you better.”

“Yeah.” This time, his voice was tinged with resignation. He certainly didn’t need the reminder.

Xander stopped walking and stared at him. “God, I was really starting to think maybe you were different, you know? After everything… But you’re not, are you? When the chips are down, you’re still nothing but a demon. Angel bit her, too, one time. Nearly killed her to save his own sorry life –”

“Bloody – buggering – fucking hell!” Spike yelled suddenly, swinging his sword at the closest tree and wishing it was Xander’s head. “I’m not him! Why can’t any one of you lot fucking see that?”

“Because he was here first,” Xander replied coldly, the tranquilizer gun trained on Spike, even as the vampire’s outburst subsided. “He was here first, and he did things that – things we’ll never forget. But he left, and you’re still here.”

“So, I have to pay for his sins, is that it?”

“I didn’t say it was fair.”

Spike’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, but after a moment, the rage faded and he shook his head. “Fuck you, mate,” he muttered. “Not gonna help Buffy like this.” With that, he stalked off through the woods, leaving Xander to follow.