Being William Pratt by Verity Watson

Chapter #1 - Ch. 1: Regrets, I've Had a Few

Banner by the lovely and talented always_jbj Author's Note: If you've read the first two installments, THANK YOU! But I should warn that this is darker, even angsty in places. Meet the Pratts was a romp, Finding William Pratt held a little more tension, but was still mostly fun. This is ... well, this is what I think happens next, and it isn't easy for anyone. “You’re not really going?” “No, Owen,” I reply, hefting my last bag. “I’m already gone.” I leave the key on the table and head out to the waiting taxi, all without looking back. I know what you’re thinking. That’s a cold-hearted way to leave six years of marriage, almost a solid decade of togetherness. But, really, what’s the point? We’ve agreed to the divorce. There are no kids, no pets, very few joint possessions to consider. It should be harder, but it isn’t. Before I can get choked up about my dry eyes, I’m at LaGuardia, boarding a flight for LAX. I have an aisle seat, and as the plane begins its ascent, I’m not even a little bit tempted to look back at the city disappearing behind me. *** “So … what now?” I fled New York on a snowy Tuesday at lunchtime. Dinnertime Wednesday, and I’m wearing a tank top in Willow and Tara’s backyard while their daughters splash in their inflatable pool. Los Angeles is in the middle of a heat wave, and I’m melting. It feels heavenly. “I mean, you’re welcome as long as you want. As long as you can stand the madness,” she adds, as Anneliese and Emmaline start a splashing fight that splatters us both with water. “Girls! The water has to stay in the pool. Right?” The girls stopped laughing long enough to look contrite, and then resumed their gleeful shrieking. “We thought it would be ideal for them to be close in age,” Willow grumbled. “They’re adorable, Wil. You guys are lucky.” “Yeah,” she said. “I know. I didn’t mean …” “It’s okay.” I push away a tidal wave of regret and disappointment. “It’s better this way. It didn’t matter … Owen was just a … well, he was just never what I needed.” “Buffy, not this again!” “Look, I know how you feel about it, but it doesn’t change the fact that even when things were good with Owen – even at their best – I wondered. I thought about him. It’s awful, but I wished it was him, so much of the time. I’d close my eyes and …” “Okay, TMI!” “Sorry.” “Buffy, don’t you think you’re just clinging to some fantasy about the unattainable? I mean, I know that what happened … well, I know it was a nightmare. If the girls ever … no, I can’t imagine it. But why are you so sure that leaving Owen is the way to deal? Don’t you guys need each other?” “He’s writing poetry about it. Heck, he’s probably writing poetry about me by now.” “Well, um, he’s a poet.” “Come on. He’s a tenured faculty member. If he wanted to write, I’d get that. But does he really need to publish it?” Willow fell silent. “He was my son, too. And Owen just … he just doesn’t seem to get that mourning in print, for money, might strike me as problematic.” Willow nodded, knowing there was no possible response. *** I’m nursing a pint in the Dove, one of the few pubs round these parts that still rates as a proper pub, though much of the clientele here tonight would not be out of place in a trendier establishment with an extensive wine list. Take a seat in a meet market and inevitably the appraising looks come. Especially if you happen to be as handsome as yours truly. ‘Course, I’m not here looking for any type of romantic entanglement, no matter how fleeting, and before you get squeamish on me, I’m not hunting, either. No, I’m just your garden-variety vampire, getting my ale on in a convivial watering hole. Alright, fine. So I’m out here, at least in part, because I don’t want to sit up in my basement flat and suck down bottle after bottle of Jack. I could. I have, more nights than I care to admit. But I’m waiting for lightning to strike again. They say it never strikes twice, but that’s in a normal human life span. Surely there’s an exemption for my kind. My kind. Some romantic fool called us The Lonely Ones. He had no idea. Most of us – vampires – behave something like frat boys on a perpetual spring break. Except we intentionally commit not only mayhem, but murder, too. Then again, no one blames frat boys for killing the keg, so maybe that’s not exactly fair. But a place like this, tonight? Most vamps would already be fangs deep into their victim in the alley. I’d say that would show a remarkable lack of subtlety and finesse, but it isn’t as if it’s rhythmic gymnastics and the gold medal is at stake. Besides, there’s no way out. It’s the original existential crisis. If I wish to continue my existence – and may I assure you that I very much do – I’ve got to kill. I can’t go veg. There’s no Morningstar Farms cooking up the dietary equivalent of facon for my kind. This puts a kink in the forming of warm friendships. It was different. Once. One time in all these years. I didn’t just put her on the “do not eat” list because it would jeopardize my set-up to tear open her jugular. She got a reprieve – even when she was begging for death – because she saw me. Saw that I was a creature of the night and exhibited neither morbid fascination borne of too much SciFi channel nor a horrified fear for her life. My girl was curious. Quietly and stubbornly curious, but not about to dismiss me because I was a serial killer. Wasn’t out to save me, didn’t have any delusions that I could change. And then … then … she went and seduced me! Can you imagine? This demure little thing, kitten as a cat, goes after me. The Big Bad. And something in her – that mix of quiet confidence, poise and still horrible uncertainty – cracked me in two and made me hers. If she hadn’t left that second time, would I have really gone? I don’t know. What I do know is that it wasn’t our last meeting. She’ll be here soon. It’s been well over a decade since we first met. I’ve followed her work – she’s famous now, or as near to it as a photographer can be – and when I least expect it, I’ll see her work. Which isn’t the same as seeing her, but that will change soon. I can’t tell you how I know. I just have this feeling, this sense, that she’s coming back to me. Does that sound hopelessly romantic? You caught me out, then. Better than a century on this rotten Earth, and I’m still a hopeless ponce. *** Tonight marks the Lunar New Year. “Happy Year of the Snake,” Emmaline tells me, only it comes out more like “Heppy Yeh of da Nake!” I’m cleaning the bathroom in preparation for Willow and Tara’s big party. Their guests will be the usual mix – their neighbors and colleagues – but with lots of families including children adopted from China, like their girls. In fact, their guests will include lots of lesbian couples adopting from China, because the LA area has enough such families that they have their own Yahoo! Group. The thought of being with so many kids doesn’t trouble me too much. Only pregnant women move me to tears. Pregnant women, and tiny newborns. I love Willow like a sister – and truthfully I didn’t have any place else to go – but if she were married to some guy named Dan and had pushed out her two darling daughters the old fashioned way? The way I’m feeling, there’s no way I’d be here. *** Of course, fate seems to be throwing glowing pregnant women and brand new mommies in my path. In the middle of a sea of faces, I end up next to the one woman nursing a petite, six-week old baby girl. She is Tara’s former neighbor, a counselor who works with runaway teens. This stranger does not deserve my rage. So I slip into the guest bedroom and try to practice the meditation techniques my grief counselor suggested. It helps, but only a little. Not nearly enough. One of the platitudes that you hear in difficult times is this: when one door opens, another one closes. As I hide in the guest bedroom, I amend this statement. When one door slams in your face with hurricane force, sometimes you have no choice but to shimmy out the tiny crack in the window. *** There are ways, of course. There’s the Pretty Woman scenario. The hooker with the fangs of gold. Slightly harder for men to work, but far from impossible. And since we aren’t subject to disease and have little to fear from an aggressive customer, it isn’t an unappealing route. But it requires hanging about to attract your clientele, chatting and flirting, and I’m not exactly a people person. Some of us just fall in love with a single victim and manage to subsist on a semi-starvation diet. But that way? It’s always very possible that you’ll miscalculate and drain your beloved. Not for me, thanks. And even if your willpower is iron, well, what happens when your human tap starts to wrinkle and grey? If you offer up eternal life, then you’re just creating one more starving fledgling, another mouth to feed. Now and again you’ll hear about a vamp living on pig’s blood or stealing supplies from the local hospital. I’ve drained rats on long ocean voyages, and they’re not so bad. Bag blood re-heated is, of course, close to indistinguishable from the real thing. But I’m a predator. And even if I were to find an alternate food source, what would I do about my longing to stalk, to hunt, to kill? There is more than one appetite I need to sate.

Chapter #2 - Ch. 2: Each Charted Course

Banner by the fabulous always_jbj That night I dream of London, even though I’ve never been there, though I’ve covered much of Europe and Asia on assignment. And so my dream London is the London of television and movies. Jane Austen novels mixed with Bridget Jones and James Bond, a splash of Charles Dickens and Oliver Twist. Somehow, I don’t think they still use gas lamps to light their public streets. And I doubt that the Sex Pistols blare out of the gates of Buckingham Palace. But I’ve never been there, so how would I know? What I do know, when I wake up, is that I’ve made my New Year’s Resolution. Even if it took me until the Lunar New Year to decide. I’m going to London. He never told me, specifically, if it was his home. But I’m certain that London is meant to be my next stop, and before any of the Maclay-Rosenberg family members stir, I’m checking flight prices on Travelocity. *** When I finally leave the guest room, Willow is already at the lab. She dropped Anneliese and Emmaline at the university childcare center en route, leaving me with Tara. For a lesbian couple wed by a Wiccan priestess on a mountaintop in Taos, with two daughters adopted from the other side of the Earth, Tara and Willow are surprisingly 1950s. Willow earns a ton of money at a research facility affiliated with UCLA, and Tara works part-time raising money for a local arts center. She doesn’t work on Mondays, so Tara is making coffee and buckwheat pancakes, a colorful apron tied over her flowing, floral print skirt. “You don’t have to go to all this trouble.” “It isn’t any trouble, Buffy.” She slides the plate in front of me, and for the first time in months, I feel ravenous. “Do you want some turkey bacon?” My mouth is too full to reply, and I’m grateful that she’s already heating up the skillet without waiting for my answer. “So I was going to take a yoga class at 10. If you want to come, we could grab some lunch afterwards.” I haven’t done yoga since my prenatal classes, but it sounds like a good idea this morning. At least in LA, there’s no chance that I’ll run into any of my former classmates back to lose the baby weight. I had crushing grief to melt my pounds away. It is the kind of thought that would’ve sent me back to bed in New York, but here, with Tara’s calm and accepting presence, things are different. “That’d be great.” *** Tara chooses a vegetarian café, one where she is well known, and seems to signal that we’d love some privacy and dawdling service. By the time my farfalle with spinach pesto and portobellos arrives, I am ready to spill. “I think I need to go to London,” I explain. Tara nods. “Have you spoken with him recently?” I shake my head no. “But you know he’s in London?” “I don’t. I guess I don’t even know if he’s from London, or … I don’t know, Tara. It’s just a feeling.” “And you’re sure that things with Owen are over? I don’t say it to judge, I just think you owe yourself … well, certainty.” “I’m not sure if Owen and I were ever really right.” Tara gives me a reproachful look, and I reconsider. “Okay, that’s not fair. It’s just … our lives became so much about having a baby. At first, I wasn’t even sure if I was cut out for it, you know? And then we had so much trouble … and it became an obsession.” She nods. I remember she once sent me information on the international adoption agency she and Willow had used to adopt the girls. But the truth was that it was never about becoming parents as much as it was about becoming pregnant. Maybe this should’ve been a sign. Tara is waiting patiently, looking at me in that quiet, seeking way she has. “I loved him. I did. But it wasn’t … strong. It wasn’t meant to last. Not like what you and Wil have together. I think we were out of love before we descended into fertility treatment hell.” I take a bite of pasta, the truth of my words sinking in. “And I guess, maybe, if Hugo hadn’t … maybe we would’ve gotten to another place. Found each other again.” Tara nodded. “I understand what you’re saying. You and Owen, you’ve been through a lot.” “Yeah.” “But maybe … and I don’t mean that I disapprove … but maybe you’re chasing a fantasy, Buffy.” I swallow, and can’t help but smile. “Tara, I’m chasing a horror movie.” She draws herself up, and I remember that she’s much, much taller than me. “Okay, then. Let’s say you’re going after a fairy tale, but it’s one of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, not the Disney version. I don’t think this story has a happy ending, and if you think you and Owen had problems …” “I know, Tara. I know. But he’s been there for me before. When I was new to LA and just fumbling … when I was just starting out and didn’t exactly have all the confidence I needed. He’s been there for me. And I love you and Wil, but in a funny way, he’s the one that’s always given me what I need.” Tara nodded. “Like I said, I don’t want to judge. And I don’t know him, don’t know him at all.” “But you know he’s not my handsome prince.” “Well, Wil said he was pretty tasty-” “Tara!” She laughed, one of her surprisingly sly, knowing laughs, and I knew that they’d forgive me. *** If you’re turned by an amateur, you might end up legally dead. In other words, they might let your corpse be found and buried. A death certificate is issued. You no longer exist. So, yeah, you’ve got some problems if you show up in the town square ‘bout nightfall the day after they’ve finished mourning your poor self. But if you’re turned by a smarter-than-the-average-vamp type – and I was turned by one of the cleverest – your loved ones never find your corpse. You disappear. And maybe you even stage your disappearance carefully, so your family thinks you’ve just taken an extended – and unexpected – excursion to the Italian countryside. This subterfuge allows you to continue to exist, on paper. And eventually become your own child, and then grandchild. And so you’ll always have a passport and a bank account. If you’re really bright and shiny, you’ll even find a way to build your net worth. And so I’m William Pratt X, and the modest little nest egg that I inherited when I outlived – ha! – my entire line is now a big ol’ fat ostrich egg. When I bought Minus Zero a few years back Joseph, my accountant, gave me a curious look. It wasn’t exactly a profitable business, though it usually scraped by on the right side of the red. But then ol’ Joe remembered that it was managing my dosh that paid the mortgage on his place in Belsize Park, and what do you know? He put through the transaction right quick. It’s Wednesday morning, and I’ve just emerged from the Ladbroke Grove station and tromped the six minutes or so to my storefront. I do this with the help of a long, black leather duster that drags over my wrists, long leather gloves that extend to mid-arm, sunglasses that closely resemble Virtual Reality goggles, a watch cap pulled low on the brow and a large, sheltering black umbrella. Factor in the generally overcast London weather, and yeah, if I’m willing to look a bit odd, I can get about during daylight without burning to a cinder. As I unlock the door and step inside my haven, I feel at home. More than I did playing the rock star, though the hours were perfect. More than I did hanging out in a tattoo parlor, even though living above the shop spared me the dangers of a commute. London is a sprawling place, and Minus Zero records is the tiny speck on the map where I make sense. I flip on the house lights and move towards the store’s backroom, stripping off my layers of sun protection and wondering. Why would Little Miss Buffy Summers, she of the iPod generation, come exploring a secondhand record store? It doesn’t make any sense, and yet I’m strangely confident that she’ll wander into this gin joint. Fate just seems to work that way. *** By the time my taxi pulls up, I’m convinced that Tara has talked Willow around. It took about three weeks. I managed to find a divorce attorney who promised to make it painless. There’s a sublet in Notting Hill that I find through a friend of a friend. And my agent, while not thrilled at my transatlantic relocation, agrees that London isn’t exactly the end of the Earth. Despite all these semi-important details – ending a marriage, putting a roof over my head in a foreign land - I mostly stewed about how tense things were between me and Wil. But those last few days, she was good. We seemed good, drinking margaritas on the back porch while the girls played in the yard, just like when I first showed up on their doorstep. I thought I was forgiven. And then, about ten seconds after the captain announces that we can now use approved portable electronic devices, I flip open my laptop and find that my best friend has slipped a DVD into my MacBook. Shadow of the Vampire. I sigh. I’m trapped in my seat for ten hours, and so I hit play. Author's Note: The chapter titles are taken from the lyrics to "My Way," by Frank Sinatra. And famously covered by the Sex Pistols.

Chapter #3 - Ch. 3: Not In a Shy Way

Banner by the very talented always_jbj I wake up with a start. I’m still on the plane, but everyone is stowing their carry-on items in preparation for landing. As I hurry to do the same, my brain is stuck on the last image from my dream: William Dafoe costumed as Nosferatu, telling John Malkovich’s mad director Murneau character: The script girl? I’ll eat her later. There’s a churning in my stomach, and I can’t tell if it is from the descent, or from anxiety about what I’ll find on the ground. *** Somehow, I always imagined the English would be classy. Instead, the landlord looks like the inspiration for Eliza Doolittle’s dad in My Fair Lady, but with none of the charm. Plus drunker. And stinky. It’s okay, though. The flat in Notting Hill is teensy-tinsy, but I only had a carry on. I normally travel light, but this is extreme even for me. Because I hadn’t imagined coming to London when I hopped on the flight to LA, I’d stowed most of my stuff in our storage locker, including most of my heavy clothing. Which reminds me – my lawyer says that Owen has asked to stay in the apartment until the end of June. Sixteen weeks or so. He claims this is to allow him to finish teaching the spring semester uninterrupted, but in my brain, I think that sixteen weeks is less than Hugo lived. Eleven weeks during which Owen traveled three times, even though we knew … The landlord interrupts. “You got all that, miss?” “Sure,” I reply. Of course I haven’t heard a word. As soon as he goes, I hang up my few pieces of clothing and balance my toothbrush and make-up kit on the tiny ledge in the equally tiny bathroom. My time zones are all screwed up and I still feel nauseous, but I decide that shopping is bound to cheer me up, so I head out onto the city streets. *** “G’morning, boss.” “Harris.” Unlocking the door in my leather gloves takes a bit of grace, and this morning I fumble, the keys clattering to the walk. “Lemme get that.” My employee – that’s right, it wasn’t just an affectionate nickname – deftly grabs the keys and twists. I manage to disarm the security system, then we’re inside and Harris flicks on the lights. “Got anything good for me today?” “Coupla crates in the back. Bought it from some hausfrau getting rid of her late husband’s things. Hoping you could sort through it, see if I got my money’s worth.” He nods, and heads for the boxes I’ve stacked on the worktable. I hire staff here, from time to time, not so much to man the store. I can handle that. It isn’t like I’ve got to have a Saturday free for my cousin’s wedding out in Chorleywood. If you must hire employees for a second-hand record store, slacker Americans are a safe bet. Their knowledge of music tends towards the encyclopedic, and they’re perfectly willing to spend hours on eBay shopping for comps or posting your own wares. Minus Zero sells punk rock, which I know cold, having been present at the creation, but also lots of things that never held my attention. Enter the pup. I call him a pup and a whelp and a boy, but he’s actually a fully grown adult on an extended teenage rebellion from, I gather, extravagantly wealthy parents somewhere in the U.S. He has a little Slavic girlfriend called Anyanka, a slim girl with big eyes and a pretty face. Anyanka doesn’t much like me, but I hired Harris and my generous paycheck funds at least some of those nights out in trendy clubs and decent restaurants of which the girl is so fond. In fact, Xander Harris has far more of a social life than I do. He thinks I’m just closed-mouthed about my private life, but the truth is that I plain haven’t got one these days. Unless Buffy stumbles into my shop, the Dove or the Ladbroke Grove tube station, she could already be in London and I’d be none the wiser. Harris has a better chance of spotting Buffy than I do. I’m wondering whether to take him into my confidence when I hear a whoop of delight from the back room, and I head back there to learn what mint condition Beach Boys disc he’s uncovered. *** Things that are reasonably easy to do: divorce your husband. Move to a foreign country. Buy a ton of new, season-appropriate clothing at Question Air, a fashion forward little shop just blocks from my temporary home. Anglomania and Ella Moss and Kitson, oh my. Things that are difficult to do: track down your former vampire lover. Wait, your former lover who was then, and is still now, a vampire. And then, as I sit in my rented digs among someone else’s furniture, it hits me. Maybe Spike is in the phone book. I check the table under the telephone, and sure enough, there’s a big ol’ British Telecom directory. P, P, P … Pratt. Wouldn’t you know it? There are bunches. And more than one Wm. More than one W. So much for the phone book. *** I take up jogging. Actually, I take up running, and once I’m confident that I can hit a fleeing speed in my Nikes, I start running through shady neighborhoods. The problem is that I can’t bring myself to run at dusk and I know from past experience that expecting Spike to be mixed in with the morning commuters is ridiculous. I keep running anyway. *** I think I’ve made it clear that I am friendless, and that this is both a professional necessity and a deliberate choice. I’m out for my evening meal – draining a pair of tourists who strayed too far off the beaten. They’re not American, and they’re not blonde. After my dining preferences attracted the glare of local media, I’ve opted for a more varied diet. These two are dark-haired and spoke one of those harsh-sounding Slavic languages. Maybe they’re Anyanka’s cousins. After I’ve drained the last drop out of both these poor souls, I kick their mortal remains into an abandoned building. What? I just did double murder. Not as if I’m fussed about where I leave the bones. *** I quit the cheerleading squad when my Mom got sick, and I’ll admit that my social life never really bounced back. There’s Wil, and now her family. And there are professional contacts – agent, editors, clients. Owen was the one with the big network of colleagues and confidantes. They’d call me Buffy Thurman, even though I never took his name. And when Hugo died, they were the ones who sent the fruit baskets and flowers that overwhelmed our little apartment. I hear a young woman cursing in a foreign tongue as she hauls groceries up the steps, and mostly think that I should stay out of her way. But I also feel relief that she isn’t a little old lady likely to invite me over for tea, or a fellow American ready to ask question after question. Anonymity is the name of the game here. There’s only one stranger I want to meet. *** “Anyanka wants you to come for dinner.” “Anyanka can’t stand me, Harris.” “No, really. She’s discovered Nigella Lawson.” “Harris, I don’t need to eat.” He goes silent for a minute. I haven’t told him what I am, but I don’t hide it, either. “Not ever?” I roll my eyes, but suspect that I’m about to lose this one. *** My luck runs out. Actually, this isn’t true. I’m very lucky. My agent, after grousing about the lower rates and higher competition for photography gigs in Europe, lands me a fat commission for work in central London. I accept, even though I wouldn’t go hungry if I skipped the assignment. Not too long after my last Spike sighting, I was commissioned to do a whole series of photographs in support of a new ad campaign for Jeep. It was commercial, and I made noises about not wanting to sell out. But Owen and I had met while he finished his PhD at UCLA, and he was moving to New York. I wanted to go with him, and the paycheck meant a roof over our heads. Not only was the initial campaign a huge success – showcasing Jeeps in a gritty, urban environment – it spawned a whole series of ads, many of which became posters and even a calendar. Brand licensing. Gotta love it, right? Anyway, the popularity of the campaign faded, but it ratcheted up my visibility. Now not only can I charge oodles of dollars for assignments, but I’m still earning residuals from every sale of a poster. Since college kids buy about a gajillion posters every year, some are going to skip the Monet and the Klimt reproductions and go for one of my Jeep pics. This translates into a lot of money. As I’m on my way out the door, loaded down with equipment and hoping I can navigate the Underground or hail a taxi, my neighbor pops his head out the door. Not the foreign girl with the potty mouth, but a guy with shaggy dark hair and a ready smile. “Hey! You must be the new girl.” “Hi.” “American, right?” “Um, yeah.” “Let me help you with that.” He takes the bag I was juggling while trying to lock my door. “So are you a door-to-door camera salesman?” “Photographer, actually.” “That would’ve been my next guess. I’m Xander Harris,” he says, as he hands my bag back. “Buffy. Buffy Summers.” “You headed for the tube?” “The tube? Oh, the subway. Right. I am.” “Me, too. Come on, I’ll get the front door.” *** By the time I reach my assignment, I have spoken more words than I usually do in an entire day. I learn that Xander Harris is from New Jersey, that he dropped out of Yale, and that he now lives in London with his Budapest-born girlfriend Anyanka. He mentioned that he works in a record shop, a shrine to vinyl, he called it. Something in this last bit of information strikes a chord. Vintage vinyl seems like a Spike-haunt. But I dismiss it. After all, it turns out that my tube ride is longer than I guesstimated and requires a transfer. So mostly I’m focused on not missing my stop. *** I check the papers. It’s a good morning. None of my victims has surfaced. It’s Saturday, and Harris is here, along with my other part-timer, Andrew Wells. Wells is even more of a wanker than Harris, but he knows dance and electronica inside out, and, much to my amusement, he also knows Motown better than Berry Gordie himself. Between the three of us we do a tidy day’s business, selling plastic to a mix of nostalgic old codgers and young-uns born after discs were already obsolete. I even have a chat with a fellow about the Buzzcocks and he tells me how great it is that younger people are still into the greats. I’m in a surprisingly good mood as we lock up. Andrew doesn’t linger, but wouldn’t you know it? Harris does. “Anyanka’s still after me to have you around for dinner, boss man.” “Can’t keep your bird on a tether, Harris?” “Come on, Spike. It’s one dinner. Couple of hours. Won’t kill you.” “I don’t know. Can your girl cook?” “Actually, yeah, she’s pretty handy with a skillet.” I know I’ll regret it later, but I agree and settle on Tuesday. “So, should I tell her no garlic, or …” “I like garlic.” “Okay,” he says, a little too quickly. I smile. This could be fun. *** On Tuesday afternoon, I run into Xander. He’s loaded down with shopping. “Let me get the door.” “Thanks. Sometimes I miss the suburbs,” he says with a smile. I know what he means – when I first moved to New York, a trip to Gristedes could set me off on a serious rant. Owen, native New Yorker that he was, would stare at me blankly as I mourned the lack of adjacent parking lots and attached garages. “Yeah.” “Hey, I know it’s late notice, but we’re cooking up a feast tonight. You want to stop by?” “Um …” I stammer something about an early morning and thanks, maybe some other time. “Okay, well, I don’t think it’ll be a late night, but ring the bell if we’re too loud. Or, you know, if you change your mind.” I decide that tonight is a good time for one of my twilight runs and escape behind my door. *** Before arriving at Harris’ on Tuesday, I make two stops. First, I polish off a teenage runaway. No point in showing up hungry and restless and making this ordeal even more unendurable. Once I’ve gorged on the blood of the innocent, I find myself a nice little corner flower shop and pick up an arrangement for the dreaded Anyanka. I resist the urge to steal the blooms, offering up cash to cover my purchase. After all, that little runaway had a lot of money in her pockets. *** I’m lacing up my sneakers when a strange feeling washes over me. It’s like the time that I knew the doctors were going to tell me that Mom wouldn’t recover, or the time that I knew I was finally pregnant and that there wouldn’t be a miscarriage this time. The feeling takes me down the stairs, and right out to the front steps. *** The other night, it hit me that biting someone is supposed to form a bond. What that means is anybody’s guess. Isn’t like we covered it in vampire school. But something tells me that what I’m feeling is Buffy, and I’ve slowed down my pace to a crawl as I head toward Xander’s Notting Hill address. ‘Course I don’t know what to do about it, though the idea of taking Harris into my confidence crosses my mind again. And then I’m at his door, or the door to his apartment building. I’m about to ring the buzzer when every dead nerve in my body begins to jangle. I turn. And there’s a petite woman in jogging clothes, running towards me. With a sharp intake of breath, I find myself stepping up against the doorframe, leaning a little as surprise washes over me. Just like that, here she is. I should see fate casting its tangled net for me, because just as I’ve decided to fade into the stonework and track her, maybe stalk her for a few days before making myself known, she jogs right up. Right up to the steps she runs, and it is her surprised gasp that I hear. Just then, Xander appears at the front door. “Spike, you made it. Oh, have you met my neighbor, Buffy?”

Chapter #4 - Ch. 4: My Share of Losing

Banner by the lovely always_jbj There will be demands forthcoming, I think. The tip of my tongue is between my blunt teeth, and I cock my head, waiting for her to speak. “You two know each other?” Xander asks, puzzling out our strained expressions as we stare at each other and ignore him. I wanted her – wanted this moment. She’s sweating, and her hair is much lighter than I remembered. It doesn’t suit her. Not that whiter shade of pale blonde, and not her incredibly skinny frame. She looks grown-up, yeah, but there’s too much burden on her bird-like shoulders. Whatever I wanted from her is moot, because while she is still my beautiful, curious girl, it looks as if she’s got nothing left to give. *** Why am I angry? I search his face, and he’s remarkably unchanged. Despite the cool night, he’s out in just a t-shirt and jeans, and I can see the familiar tattoos. I recognize this pose – this waiting, head cocked to the side, wondering what happens next pose. “Give us a minute?” he asks Xander, and I’m surprised that my neighbor nods and retreats. He’ll probably be listening at his door. Frustrated, I attempt to yank Spike into my apartment, but he won’t budge. “Hey, now,” he interrupts. “Let’s do this civilized like. You say, why don’t you come in, Spike?” “You’re worried about manners?” “There are certain manners that are inescapable, love.” I don’t get it, but I say the words. “Fine. Spike, why don’t you do me the honor of getting your ass in here?” He extends a hand through the doorway. “Right. Good enough then.” And then he’s in my apartment. *** “Nice place, pet. Isn’t yours, is it?” The house is comfortable, but something about it doesn’t bear her stamp. It’s too determinedly English, and her scent is faint. Not that I’ve ever seen any place she’s lived, but the thought that her arrival in London is recent fills me with a certain amount of relief. I’d feel a right fool if she’d been here all along. “It’s a sublet,” she answers. “Staying in London long?” “I don’t know yet.” “But you’re not here for work.” She hesitates, but my girl has never been one to lie. “No.” I take a seat. Her couch is a fussy floral print. “Going to offer me a cup of tea?” She is still standing near the doorway, and now she scowls. “Don’t you have a dinner party waiting?” “That I do. But if you’re not in London for work, and you’re not here to visit friends …” I shrug. *** The spark in his eyes is infuriating. In seconds, he’s figured out that I’m here in London to find him. And while I did cross an ocean to be in this room tonight, somehow it feels wrong. It feels like he’s crashing in on me instead of me going to him as a confident, mature woman. All of a sudden, he’s here and I’m not ready. *** This isn’t like I expect. “Well, then. It’s nice that we’ve had this little chat. Pr’haps I should be heading across the hall to my previous engagement.” I stand. And then she moves. Even though she’s going at normal human speed, it takes me by surprise when she kisses me. *** I did it on impulse, and maybe because it has been too long, far too long, since I was kissed. Really kissed. He responds immediately, and I’m clutching at his shoulders as his roaming hands mold me to his body. God, he’s good at this. *** Here’s my girl. She’s eager, and as she leads me from her little sublet parlor into her little sublet bed, I am just as desperate for her as she is for me. I lick her neck, laving the faint scars left from our last encounter. She shivers, and arches against me. “You taste all salty, love.” “Oh-” she pulls back, blushing. “Should I – I mean, I should just hop in the shower. I was running and -” I bite back a little laugh and draw her in again. “You want to strip off and climb into the shower, I won’t object. But I’m coming in with you, yeah?” She freezes, then nods and leads the way. I’m a little bit surprised, but after all these years, I’m a flexible guy. She toes off her sneaks, and I’m behind her, yanking that sweatshirt over her head and undoing the drawstring on her pants. Not to be outdone, she’s pulling my tee off, and pretty soon we’re a tangle of limbs and clothes, still trying to kiss and touch and find our balance as Buffy reaches in to start the water. *** Do I have to tell you that this wasn’t planned? We’re in the tiny shower, and the water is barely warmed up before he’s lifting me, and my legs wrap around his hips, and he’s thrusting inside. Owen and I hadn’t touched since late in my pregnancy, so it’s been ages. I’m not wet enough, and he’s stretching me and it hurts. But it hurts in this delicious way, and I throw my head back, banging into the tile and gulping down a mouthful of shower water. And then I laugh. It’s my first laugh in so, so very long. He looks at me, curious, but then senses that everything is all right. Our eyes lock and he’s watching me. His thrusts slow. He breaks our gaze to kiss me, cataloging me, covering every bit of my skin with his surprisingly tender lips. “Spike,” I breathe. And then he’s bracing me again, setting a steady rhythm. I arch against him, finding that place, and I’m there. It’s been so long. I groan and clench up around him and he meets my eyes again. “That’s my girl,” he growls, and follows me over the edge. *** He towels me off, and I try to return the favor, but we’re stumbling and groping each other and kissing, kissing, kissing. Then we’re falling into bed, and my wet hair is snarling and staining the borrowed pillowcases. My old, precise self worries for a split second before I remember that all that is behind me. With a graceful gesture, he pulls me to straddle his hips, and I’m rubbing against his growing erection, then guiding him back inside of me. This time I’m wet and melting inside, and he slips home in one thrust. It’s slow this time, and I ride him to another quiet climax. My body is as flooded as my brain, and when he comes, too, and I can roll over and curl up by his side, I’m relieved. *** “Gonna tell me your story, pet?” “Sorry?” She’s curling up against me, hair still wet, head pillowed where a heartbeat oughta be. Hard to tell if she notices its absence. She doesn’t say a word. We lay there for long minutes, long enough for me to wonder if this is a mistake, like when the little mermaid trades for legs at the price of her voice. But my girl has her vocal chords, because after long minutes she does start to talk. “I met a guy. After – after the last time.” I shift to my side, propping myself up on my elbow. “He was a poet. Is a poet.” This strikes a chord in me, but I stay silent. I’ve never told her. “We moved to New York – he was always calling California a ‘literary wasteland.’ But it made sense for both of us. He landed this incredibly prestigious position at NYU. I started doing more commercial work. Made a lot of money. And then we got married.” “But you didn’t have a happily ever after?” I say it mildly, but I want to kill anyone who could hurt my girl. “At first,” she says. She takes a long pause, and I’m expecting a sordid tale of infidelity or gambling debts. “He wanted kids,” she says finally. “And I wasn’t sure. I never – I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if I saw myself like that.” She’s quiet, but I have a sudden sinking fear that Buffy has a passel of brats at home with the ex. “I got pregnant. It just seemed like the thing to do. And then I miscarried.” I shouldn’t be so relieved. “And got pregnant again. And miscarried again.” Her voice is surprisingly stony. I might take this as good news, but I wonder that she isn’t more tortured about the loss. “Enter the specialists. Turns out I have a condition – a chromosomal abnormality. I can get knocked up like any drunken teenager, but there are almost always problems. Like, a three out of four chance that the – the fetus, the baby won’t be healthy. Won’t make it.” She won’t meet my eyes. “So we spent a fortune on IVF. Screening. Prenatal testing. And after two years, and hours and hours in clinics, I was pregnant.” She’s starting to crack. Ah, here’s the heartache. “In my seventh month, they detected an abnormality in my baby – my little boy’s – heart. They couldn’t tell, in utero, how serious it was. There were tests. And then a cesarean section. He was so tiny, so weak. I couldn’t even hold him, at first. He went to the NICU, and I stayed, pumping breast milk and crying and trying to pretend that I was happy. But after everything, after everything …” I feel like a prize ass for being happy that Buffy comes to me without children. But I know how this story ends, even if I have to let her tell it. “There were three operations. It was bad. Hugo – my baby – was worse than they thought. His heart – it just – he died after the third, after the last chance, last ditch, Hail Mary try to save my little boy.” She dissolves into sobs, and it is long minutes of lying there, me stroking her hair and trying to feel what she feels. I can’t muster it. My overwhelming emotion is relief that she’s not looking for me to play foster pop to some mewling brat. “And the truth is, the worst part is, that after he died in my arms, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted him. I went back to that place I’d been before I found out I couldn’t have kids – unsure. And it feels so wrong, so awful, so eeeevil.” She chokes back another sob and meets my eyes. “Do you think I’m bad, Spike? Do you hate me for it?” “Hush, pet. Could never hate you. Can’t blame yourself for not feeling exactly what everyone expects you to feel.” I gather her up, because I can handle morose and sulking, depressed and confused. But if she had been aching to start all over again, to mother a babe of her own? I’d have to exit stage left. “I cried all over you.” “Gave me a good seein’ to first, so I s’pose I’m alright with that.” She smiles. I extricate myself from her bedding and stumble to my jeans. “I should go apologize to my host. Here’s where to find me. Tomorrow, around sunset, yeah?” I leave a card for Minus Zero on her nightstand and head across the hall, boots in hand, to deal with the fallout. Author's Note: Minus Zero is a real place, but not one that I've ever visited. I'm taking, um, artistic liberties.

Chapter #5 - Ch. 5: Each Careful Step

Banner by the outstanding always_jbj As if apologizing to Anyanka for spoiling her dinner party wasn’t bad enough, Harris is doing his best impression of Hercule Poirot, tryin’ to suss out the how and when and what it all means for me and Buffy. Wells is on hand, too. The local Oxfam shop ended up with a truckload of donated records from some defunct radio station in the sticks, and we’re handling the sale and sharing the profits. “So Spike has a girlfriend?” he’s asking, looking between me and Harris like someone just told him aliens landed in Covent Garden last night. “Oi, Wells! Come on. Children are starving.” “Right, Andrew. That B-52s disc could feed half of the Sudan.” I glance back and wouldn’t you know it? It’s one of those gems – a mint-condition, 12” streaky blue vinyl disc printed in South America. Those puppies go for $100 a pop. “Rock De La Langosta and Baila Alrededor,” Andrew sounds out in halting Spanglish. “Langosta? Is that Spanish for Love Shack?” I roll my eyes and bite back a comment about the American educational system. “Speaking of love shacks,” Harris continues. “Don’t seem to recall that I was.” “Where did you meet her?” I decide that I’ll reveal enough history to thrill the boys, then go back to waiting for sunset. “We met in California. 15 years ago.” “California. Did you surf?” “Had this sun allergy long before the Beach Boys harmonized their first, son.” Xander nods, and I can see the wheels turning. Darkness can’t come soon enough. *** “The sun sets and she appears,” I murmur, as I lock the gate on Minus Zero and turn to watch Buffy walking towards me. No fear. She never has any fear. A trio of young women stroll past, breaking my view of her for a minute. The girls all have that dark, silky hair and dusky skin. They’re chattering about something, and I catch the name of one girl – Parminder. My mouth waters. They move on, and Buffy is crossing the street to stand in front of me. “In the mood for Indian?” *** “It’s pretty much replaced fish’n’chips as the national dish of England,” I tell her as we wait for our chicken tikka masala. “This is the best place to get it ‘round these parts.” She nods and fidgets. Then her cell phone rings, and she just about leaps out of her seat, spilling the contents of her purse all over the floor. I let her scramble, but a red leather notebook has landed at the toe of my boot. I scoop it up and realize – not a notebook. It’s a picture frame. She doesn’t realize what I’m holding. Now there’s some rule of etiquette about snoopin’ in others’ belongings. But I don’t think it applies when the belonging sails into your foot at a nice little dinner place, and I certainly don’t believe any of Emily Post applies to a vampire. “Hmm,” I sound. She looks up, debris stowed and cell phone silenced. When she sees what I’m passing between my hands, her skin turns the color of the leather. “I think it’s going to be me.” She purses her lips. “Or maybe just some safe photo of a friend’s sprog?” I flip it open, and she doesn’t try to stop me. On the right, a tiny newborn is pictured, all scrunched face and balled fists. To the left, two little Asian girls in denim jumpers smile back at me. There. She’s done it again. Caught me out, taken the ordinary bravado and made me feel vulnerable. Human. I’m about to tell her that I’m a prize ass, when I realize that the Asian girls’ snapshot is atop another one. With quick fingers, I slip it out. This one wasn’t in the packet of pictures she left for me. I’m laughing. Shirtless, obviously, but since she’s cropped it from the shoulders, it’s impossible to know I was full starkers at the time. Regardless, this is not a picture of a brother, a husband, a friend. It does not take a mighty brain to see that this is the kind of snapshot a girl keeps of her lover. I wonder if she’s hidden it all this time, or if she’s in the habit of keeping it on hand, daring her husband to discover it. With a smile, I hand back the pictures and she hastily shoves them into her bag. Our food is served, but we’re both distracted. Not twenty minutes later, she looks at me and says she’s not really hungry. “We probably shouldn’t just end up home in bed again, right?” I recognize it as an invitation to go back to her place and fuck away the pain. So I settle the tab, and we head out into the night. *** He’s tracing the design on my back. He chose it, but it is as much a part of me as my eyes now. “Why this one?” I ask, as his fingertips skim a spiked point. “You never said.” “The Vergina Sun,” he says. “Life and death, it means, at least when you draw it like this, on the horizon line.” He’s talking about the horizon of my hips. The design starts just above, with a half circle. Nine rays shoot up my back. In black with shades of grey and white, it is a startling, tribal image. I’m glad it can be easily covered. “Seems like that’s what you were after. All these times you find me.” “Which one?” “That’s just it,” he says. “You know you’re supposed to be afraid of me.” I can’t read his meaning, so I stay silent, enjoying the ghost of his touch. Besides, laying on my belly saves me the worry of my sagging abs. They’ll never be taut again, not after nine months of stretching. Hugo, I think, with a pang. “Wonderin’ when you’ll come to your senses and head home to your husband, pet.” “Owen?” I snort. “That his name?” “He has a book coming out now. An anthology about it. About my body, our son. It’s called My Thursday Child.” “You followin’ his career?” “No! No. I just – there’s this chat room. For people like me. And someone mentioned it. Said it captured her feelings exactly.” Anger floods me. How dare he pour all that emotion into the book when he barely showed up for our son’s life? When he left me, recovering from my first miscarriage, for a conference? All that feeling would’ve come in handy when I was sleeping on the green vinyl chair in Hugo’s hospital room. Could’ve really used it when I sat crying by myself, trying to pump breast milk and praying to a God I don’t believe in for a miracle I didn’t really expect. He senses the change and his busy fingers slow. “I shouldn’t have tried to marry a pale substitute,” I explain. His fingers press, briefly, into my back with bruising force. And then he turns me over, and brings me to oblivion all over again. *** There’s a bookshop a few doors down from Minus Zero. In my day – I’m talking about my sunlight-wandering days, mind you – books were like diamonds. The wealthy might adorn their manors with strands, but most of us merely affluent clung to a few leather-bound volumes, reading them until the spines unstitched. Seeing paperbacks abandoned on the Underground today? Tugs at my sensibilities, such as they are. The bells jangle on the door, and the shopkeeper gives me a familiar nod. There’s just one shelf of poetry, but I prefer it to the stacks of Laurell K. and her lot. And there it is, prominently featured, three copies available – considerable backstock for this dusty little place. My hands reach for the discrete dove grey cover and I flip it open to the inscription. To B. My heart is heavy with regret. Ought to send her back to her husband.

Chapter #6 - Ch. 6: More Than I Could Chew

I don’t send her home. I buy her dinner. Again. And then again. Not every night. After all, I have to eat. She’s putting on some weight, and dark black roots are showing, untouched up with her pale blonde dye job a stark contrast. Looks intentional - properly punk, even, when she’s kitted out in black like she is now. “Actually, he was a gentleman,” she’s telling me. “Never heard of him.” “He’s sold a bajillion records, Spike!” “Not into rap.” “Me neither. But he-llooooo paycheck.” “Please. That little Canon of yours has already made you richer than the queen.” “Not quite, but the Queen doesn’t need photos for her website. Jay-Z does.” She smiles. Lately I can see the girl in the alley, the girl in my tattoo parlor, this woman and they all make sense together. That fragile creature from a few weeks back? It’s like she was an aberration. Just waiting for me to heal her up again. She’s hoovering her pad thai as I toy with my chopsticks. Maybe, I think, maybe she’s just here for this. For a check-in, a top-off. Maybe you’ll do for her, and she’ll go back into the ordinary world and find her way again. She’s already been here much longer than our last interlude, nearly as long as our friendship in LA. With a start, I realize that I’ll miss her. Miss her like a parent misses a favorite child, I insist to myself. Even that emotion is ridiculous on something like me. As she chomps and chatters about the rapper’s entourage, I convince myself that she’ll be moving on soon, and that it is the only possible way. Just as I’ve nearly explained to myself why this is fine, she pauses. “So, I talked to a realtor today.” “Sorry?” “Oh, what do you call them? Estate agents.” “You thinkin’ of stayin’ on a permanent basis, then?” She shrugs. “There’s tons of work here, and the immigration attorney said it wouldn’t be a problem.” I take a swig of my beer and force myself to count to ten before calling for the check. *** It isn’t like I need him to buy me dinner before I’ll put out, but somehow that’s the way we’ve worked it. Dinner – he eats or he doesn’t – and then my place, where we try everything, in every possible combination. He’s incredibly bendy. I’ve taken up yoga. And he’s gone before morning. I’ve bought those special blackout curtains. And I know he uses that ridiculous umbrella to get around during daylight. But I don’t bring it up, and he doesn’t change his pattern. On our off nights, I fall asleep in front of whatever I can find on television. Not American TV, either, and preferably not light romantic fluff. Tonight it was a Dr. Who marathon. I didn’t follow most of it, but the voices filled up the space where he wasn’t. I’m staggering to bed, teeth unbrushed and hair tangly, dressed in my raggedy sweatpants and my I’m an Artist and I Vote tee when I hear the window sash rattling. It’s him. In the light from the hallway, I can see that’s he’s flushed, somehow healthier looking that I usually see him. His eyes look funny, too, and he’s baffled that I’m not in bed. “Spike?” He’s on me before I finish the syllable. “Buffy,” he growls. “Need you.” “Where have you-” He tears my tee in two, and I abandon my question. I break our kiss to breathe, our foreheads touching as he unties the drawstring on my sweats and shoves them roughly down my hips. There’s blood on his chin, another smear on his cheekbone. And then his mouth is back on mine, and I recognize that coppery tang. Blood. Someone else’s blood. I freeze, but he’s too busy stripping me and tossing me onto the bed to notice that I’m not exactly here with him. And then he’s burying himself between my thighs, and I don’t care where he’s been, or who’s going to hell because of it. *** The blackout curtains come in handy the next morning. I’m in the kitchen making coffee when I hear him stir, and since he usually moves without a whisper, I know it is for my benefit. “Good morning, pet.” “Morning.” I hand him a cup. “Should my next remark feature an apology?” “It wouldn’t be very Spike-like.” “Guess not.” He looks impossibly rumpled and sexy, his blonde hair shooting up in spikes like the ones he wore on stage all those years ago. “So do you have to be at the shop?” He shakes his head no, and stands there, wearing just his jeans and sipping his coffee. “I’m off today, too. Roland’s taking me to see a place.” “Roland?” “Jealous?” I tease. “Of a bloke called Roland?” “He’s the estate agent.” “Ah. Still got the property bug, then.” “Maybe,” I admit, deciding to spare him the frustrations of my search. Everything is too new, too ordinary, too un-London-ish. Too much like it could be in New York, and I’m after something different. “Alright then.” We stand in silence for a few minutes. I notice that his eyes are bloodshot. *** I got carried away last night. Happens. Vampire, remember? Anyway, I don’t usually prowl the clubs. Too obvious, and too easy to get yourself spotted if you’re not careful. The little chippie you don’t notice is all of a sudden explaining, “My cousin Maxine? I last saw her talkin’ to some bloke with peroxide blonde hair and no tan, officer.” But last night there was a decent band on, and what with seeing Buffy three nights out of four, I was starving. So I snacked on an Australian, and wouldn’t you know it? She must’ve been hopped up on E, because the blood barely hit my system before I was headed for Notting Hill. Left the corpse where it hit the floor, too. Can only hope it’s ruled an overdose, because I wasn’t terribly careful about anything. And now, with the deadly morning light filtering into Buffy’s tidy flat, I can’t figure how to broach the subject. Does she just not realize that I came to her dirty with a dead girl’s blood, or has she really made her peace with my wicked ways?

Chapter #7 - Ch. 7: When There Was Doubt

Banner by the fabulous always_jbj That good old London rain is falling in sheets by the time I leave to meet Roland, and Spike insists he can make it home intact. There are texts on my cell phone, and messages. I type a hasty reply to keep Willow at bay. All good, CU soon, luv to T & girls. California feels a world away, and I guess it is, technically. Willow’s been careful to sound un-judgey in her messages, but I’m not fooled. She’s against my romance, and if she knew what I knew about where Spike was before he came to me last night? She’d be over here with holy water quicker than you can say Jonathan Harker. *** Wells is playing LL Cool J when I roll into the shop that afternoon. What’s worse, he’s singing. “Shadow boxing when I heard you on the radio … oh, hey, Spike.” I scowl, and he frantically pushes buttons until an old Wreckless Eric track comes on. Truth is, I don’t much care about what he plays. Well, except for that time I caught him with the Britney CD. But mostly I just like scaring him. What can I say? I’m a rude, bad man. There’s a customer browsing in electronica, his back to us both. Wells grabs a receipt book and scribbles a note. He’s looking for you. Anyanka sent him over. “Can I help you?” He turns. No … could it be? “So you’re the new guy?” he asks. I examine him. Buffy used the phrase pale imitation to describe him, and I get that now. He’s what happens when a tortured misfit adolescent grows up into a handsome man and figures out how to make all that angst into lemonade. Professionally speaking. I’m what happens when the same guy gets killed in an alley. I unpack all of my swagger and malice and meet his eyes. “Wrong, mate. I’m the old guy.” “I’m her husband. I think that gives me …” “Not gonna quibble ‘bout monikers. Just sayin’ I knew her first.” He scowls, and I realize he suspects this is true. “She’s not in her right state of mind. This is just a … a reaction to grief. A childish over reaction. Running away.” “Not tellin’ her to stay or go, mate.” “I’m not your mate.” I catch something in his eye – pain. The pain Buffy insists is missing. I dial down the testosterone and step back. “No, I suppose you’re not.” “I want her back,” he mumbles, looking at the toe of his practical Camper slip-on walking shoe. “Not gonna work like that, and I think you know it.” He swallows, and I feel a rush of emotion that takes me back to my last few hours with a fully functioning heart. “Why don’t you stop wasting your time on me, and go find your wife?” He nods, and leaves without another word. Wells is staring at me, mouth open like a codfish. “What a wanker,” I say quickly. My employee accepts my show of bravado and gets busy dusting the countertop. And me? I watch Buffy’s husband cross the street and head towards the tube. *** Roland is showing me around the latest offering. He’s finally gotten wise to the fact that “Southern exposures, lots of sunlight” isn’t for me, and this place has some character. Original wood paneling and molding is unspoiled, dark and rich. Lots of leaded glass, nice and opaque. Hemmed in by two larger and more remodeled townhomes, it feels like it could be a vampire’s love nest. Until we get up to the master suite, and wouldn’t you know it? French doors. But there is a huge bed in the center of the room, a real antique with draperies surrounding it on all four sides. I remember the last time – the time after we’d showered, and ended up back on our backs anyhow. He’d flipped me over to my belly, pushed me into the mattress, flat, and covered me, entering me from behind. “Pinned like a butterfly,” he’d whispered into my ear. Roland is saying something, and I shake my head, clearing out thoughts of fucking Spike in that huge canopy bed and focusing on matters of real estate. “The owner is quite motivated,” he’s telling me. “He inherited from a great aunt, I believe. She hasn’t made many modernizations, and I’m told he isn’t eager to embark on a course of home improvement.” I’m still staring at the bed. “And I’m sure he’d be amenable to including some of the furnishings in the sale.” For the first time during my home search, I smile. *** My smile carries me all the way back to my temporary digs, and then crashes off my face as I see him standing there. “Owen?” “Buffy!” He tries to hug me, but I sidestep him. “What are you doing here?” “I came to say, to say …” I wait. “I came to say that I want us to have another chance.” Night is gathering, and there’s a cool wind blowing from the north. Owen is dressed for a much warmer day, and I feel a shimmer of pity. “Let’s go inside,” I tell him. But as he climbs the stairs behind me, I know that there is nothing he can say. *** “Willow told me. Where to find you. I was at LaGuardia, all ready to hop the red eye to LAX when she called me back and said I was headed in the wrong direction. I didn’t believe her at first. Buffy, what are you doing in London?” I shrug. “Working. Moving on.” “To the living dead?” “Gee, you and Willow had a nice long chat, didn’t you?” “She’s worried. We’re all worried.” “All two of you.” “We can try again, Buffy.” I’m not sure if he’s talking about our marriage or a baby, but I shake my head. “No. We can’t. I’m done. And if that’s what you want, well … I’m sure you can find someone.” “And leave you to do what?” “To do whatever I want.” “That’s ridiculous!” “Actually, that’s divorce, Owen.” “You’re throwing your life away, sweetheart. We had something. We were good together. The poet and the photographer – a modern day fairytale.” “You’ve kind of lost me, there, Owen.” In more ways than one, I add silently. “I flew all this way.” “Great. See the Tower of London. Maybe the V&A.” “Buffy, I’m worried about you.” I force myself to pause and think. He’s flown all this way. Maybe I ought to … and then I realize he hasn’t told me he loves me. Then again, neither has Spike. I sigh, a world-weary sigh, and head towards the door, swinging it open. “Thanks for your concern. But I think we both know this isn’t going to work.” He begins to protest, but something in my face gives him pause, and instead he settles for storming out, dignity in tatters. *** I sit in my dark basement hovel and tell myself that she’ll be leaving soon. Maybe this time, I’ll get the note from the courier. What with all this emotion, I’m off my feed. But it is midnight, and the time of year when London teems with reckless tourist types, backpacking their way to my dinner table. Before I can think it over any more, I’m out in the night, trying not to imagine the happy couple fumbling together in Buffy’s dirty bedsheets. *** “You sent Owen to me?” “Gee, Buffy. I thought you’d broken all your dialing fingers.” “Willow, you shouldn’t have done that.” “He’s your husband, Buffy. And you’re the one who ran off to London.” She says some more hateful things, and I respond in kind. *** Instead of snacking on any one of the many mobile Happy Meals that cross my path, I find myself in front of her building, standing in the shadow of a shade tree. I can see her clearly. She’s talking on the phone, and she looks desperately unhappy. With considerable effort, I extend my predator’s senses, looking for any sign of a second person – a heartbeat, a scent, the sound of footfalls. Hard to be certain in such a crowded neighborhood, but I believe she’s alone. Joy floods me, and I turn, a spring in my step. All of a sudden I could devour a dozen Starbuck-swilling Americans.

Chapter #8 - Ch. 8: Without Exemption

Banner by the amazing always_jbj We eat at a Cuban place the next night, and in between bites of palomilla, Buffy tells me that her husband has come to see her and she’s sent him packing for good. I keep silent. Don’t rightly care if she knows about our run-in or not. Just feature that her need to talk outweighs my urge to tattle on the silly boy. “But I have good news.” “Yeah?” “I found a place.” “Tell me where I should send the fruit basket, then.” She describes it, and I suppress an amused smile. Life’s a funny thing. The girl’s after my great-great-great-great-great niece Amelia’s place – the last of the living Pratts, at least from my line. “I’m sure it will work out just as intended, pet.” *** We’re in bed, in my too-small bed, facing the foot instead of the headboard. I’m trying to catch my breath, but he’s just sprawled out, looking satisfied. And human. Tonight, he’d folded my legs back – thank you, Breathe Yoga – and deliberately hit this spot. You know. The one I didn’t believe existed until, oh, ‘bout forty minutes ago? Maybe some of his stamina is because he’s forever young. And while I’m not about to ask how many notches he’s put in his coffin over his many years on Earth, this is more than just experience. Spike’s the kind of lover you don’t let go. “So this place I’m buying, it’s pretty big.” “That right?” I nod, and push myself up on my elbow so I’m looking at his face. It’s dark, and I think he can see me better than I can see him. “I want you to, you know. Live with me.” “Not gonna happen, pet.” He says it casually, but with a finality that I know I shouldn’t question. I do anyway. “Why not?” “Buffy, you know what I am.” I roll my eyes. “It isn’t a joke, lover. I’m a vampire.” “I’m not stupid, Spike.” He stands in a whoosh, so quick he’s just a blur. “Not so sure about that, pet.” “I know what you are. Nobody’s perfect. And I’m an artist. Kind of hard to live with sometimes, if I’ve got, you know. A deadline.” “A deadline?” He emphasizes the dead, and for the first time ever, I feel a shiver of raw fear. I pull the blanket up to cover my breasts, as he fixes me with a burning stare. “I am a vampire. You are a photographer. You put down your little camerata and you can go be whatever your heart desires. Go be a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker. No, wait, I’m the butcher. You can choose from the other two.” He’s pulling on his jeans. I spill what I’ve been thinking about for days now. “Spike, you don’t have to kill to live.” “What, you think there’s a telethon to cure this dread disease? Some crack team of researchers tinkering with m’ DNA? There’s no tonic, no potion. This is what I am. Thought you knew that.” “You kill people.” “People die, Buffy. What are you? Medecins Sans Frontieres? People die every day.” He speaks French, I realize. In the middle of our argument, it is a ridiculous thing to notice. “Some at your hands, Spike.” “Fangs, technically. And more than some. More than a few.” He’s standing there, jeans on, shirt in hand, and he’s on fire with a kind of rage and passion that I haven’t ever seen on him. I ought to let him go. Really, really, really ought to let him go. Instead, I throw myself into his arms and kiss him desperately, until he falls back into my bed. *** “I can’t stop thinking about it.” “Buffy, it’s four in the morning.” “You’re a creature of the night.” “Yeah. And I ought to be out creaturing,” he says with a snarl. “Or failing that, getting’ some sleep so I can go play shopkeeper bright and early.” “Well, I can’t sleep.” “Fine, then. Want to tell me what’s haunting your dreams?” “As a matter of fact, I do.” I sit up and flick on the bedside light. He groans, but his eyes open – the left eyelid first, and when he sees my determined face, the right one, too. “Yessss?” “What happens if they come for you?” “Who? The villagers with burning torches?” “Yeah.” It sounds absurd when he says it, but I’m worried by the image of terrified, pitchfork-wielding peasants. “Already happened, love. And I lived to tell.” I scowl at him. “That’s not a reassuring answer.” He sits up, too, stretching like a cat. “Let’s get this straight. You can accept that I’m a monster, but you can’t stand the thought that I’ll be brought to justice?” “I’m just worried. About you.” “Buffy, the fact is that you don’t get to worry about me. Or you can, I ‘spose, but that’s not the way the story works. I don’t end. Forever young, and all that rot.” “Forever?” He nods and I wonder how to ask my next question. “Still my curious girl, aren’t you?” “You look the same. As in LA. Well, different hair. Maybe a few lines.” “Look, I don’t know a lot of my kind. But most of us stay pretty for hundreds of years.” “Most?” “Let’s say those villagers do come after me – ‘course where you’ll find a pack of medieval peasants in 21st century Europe, can’t say,” he teases. “If they come for me, I go underground.” “Underground?” “Living corpse here. I burrow into the dirt and wait it out. Never had to, and don’t fancy bedding down with the worms. If it happens, for too long, when you do wake up, you’re not … pretty.” I find myself thinking of Hugo’s wizened little face, so different from the healthy newborns in my parenting magazines. Usually I crumple up and cry with the memory. But this time, he pulls me into his lap, like I’m his weepy little girl. “Hush, Buffy. Hush. I’m here. And if you’ll have me as I am, I’m not going anywhere.” He rocks a little, and I melt into him. The little part of my brain still switched to on insists that this is weak and lacey of me. Where’s the armadillo skin that got me through the consults with the doctors, the endless paperwork, the funeral arrangements? “Just be here with me, kitten. Just be here.” He’s rocking more now, murmuring soft little unwords, and I feel hypnotized, lulled into sleep at last. As I drift off, I hear one last thing. “I’ll be fine, love. It’s you who’ll grow old and die.”

Chapter #9 - Ch. 9: Say It Clear

Banner by the wonderful always_jbj My cell phone trills ridiculously early the next morning and I fumble for it, my reach confirming that he’s gone. “Hello?” “Miss Summers, Roland Hart here. If you have a minute?” I glance at the clock. 10 a.m. Not even remotely early. “Yeah, sure.” “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Apparently, the owner of the property has reconsidered his decision to list.” “Does he want more money? I did kinda lowball.” “I’m afraid that’s not the case. He’s informed us he won’t be selling at all.” “Oh.” “But I do have some other places you really ought to see. There’s a lovely …” I tune out. He jaws on for another five minutes, before I interrupt. “They sound nice. I just, I have some work to get done this week, and so I really should focus. I’ll call you.” “I’m sure I could arrange-” “Thanks, Roland. We’ll catch up real soon. Bye.” *** It’s a rare sunny day in Londontown, so I’m lurking towards the back of the shop. Harris is polluting my workspace, and I’m not in the mood for two scoops of chipper American with a side of slacker. He’s spinning an old Madness track, all upbeat trumpets and such, and he’s singing along, reasonably on key. “Bless you and bless me, bless the bees. And the birds,” he croons. I arch an eyebrow. “I don’t usually poke tigers with sticks, but any chance you want to talk about it?” I snort. “What?” “Bloody emoting Americans.” “Don’t knock it. Made Oprah a billionaire.” “Not worth talking about anyway.” “Try me.” “It’s a problem without a solution. Get to my age and you can be pretty zen about that.” “Right. You’re real zen, Spike.” I turn my back, and he does the same. There’s no use dredging it up. “If you ever want to talk, man,” he adds, without turning around. “Thanks.” *** “Willow, it’s me. I – I’m sorry. About before. It’s just that, well, I found him.” “Gee, I figured. Nice of you to call.” “Wil, don’t be like that.” “Like what? Honest? You dodge my calls for months, Buffy, and now I’m supposed to ask about the weather?” I pause. “It’s raining.” “Buffy, are you in trouble?” I laugh. “Buffy?” Maybe it’s more of a cackle. “I’m great, Wil. Really. It doesn’t hurt any more. Or it does, but it’s like – it’s like I can deal with it. Not just … Hugo. But all of it. My rotten marriage and not being able to, you know. I’m getting beyond.” “Because of him?” “Maybe. Maybe because I’ve got the courage to find him. To figure this out.” Willow pauses, and I’m not sure what to say. “Tara told me that the heart wants what it wants.” “That’s true,” I nod into my cell phone. “She also told me that you can’t go just on your heart.” “I know that, too.” “We’ve known each other since we both had Wonder Woman UnderRoos, right?” “Yeah,” I smile. “And you really wanted Josie and the Pussycats instead.” “Well yeah, ‘cause Melody was a fox.” “Wil!” “And I don’t want to lose you.” “Me neither.” “But honey, this isn’t me not liking your guy. This is me fearing for your life.” “He’s good to me, Wil. He’d never hurt me.” “Maybe. But what if there’s someone else, someone in your orbit that maybe, yeah, you don’t know that well, but you know. And he … you know.” “Yeah, Wil. I know.” *** I’m out for a bite, and instead of sticking to the seedy familiar, I’m cruising a block of office towers, eager to fill up before I meet Buffy at the Indian place we just call “the Indian place.” I’ve had my shoes longer than she’s been in my life, and yet, she’s as necessary as blood. Speaking of which, I’m tailing a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with short, dark hair and the neatly tailored suit of a City banker. I can make it look like a mugging, I think, and follow him until we’re near an alley. With a rough shove, my dinner is out of sight, clattering against the rubbish bins. I spy a dumpster. Body’ll be found in the morning, most likely, but I like my odds for tonight. “Please,” he says, as confusion passes and he realizes he’s in a world of trouble. They always beg. He’s taking out his wallet, and as I haven’t been to the cashpoint, I wonder if he’ll have enough to cover tonight’s tab. I vamp out, eager to make it quick. But he’s not taking out money. “Please,” he repeats. “I have a wife, a daughter. And this is my little boy. He’s just a few weeks old. We don’t know-” his voice cracks, and I find myself looking at the picture. “He needs an operation. They aren’t sure if he’ll – I need to be there for him. Please. Take my money, my cards, I don’t care. But let me go.” Wrong gender, wrong voice, but all of a sudden he’s Buffy, with me in that alley, about to die. I shake off the fang face and leave without another word. *** She’s on her cell phone, in front of the restaurant, when I roll up. I check my breath, wondering if she’ll smell the rat on me. The critters taste a little gamey, and they’re a bitch to catch. I tell myself it’s just this once and head towards her. She snaps her phone shut and we go inside, both of us lost in our own thoughts. “When did you decide?” she asks, as soon as we’ve taken our seats. “Sorry?” “That you weren’t going to kill me. That night, back in LA. You said you hadn’t decided yet.” “Ah.” “Well?” I shrug. “Always have something of a Do Not Eat list. Got to if you want to make your way in the world without summoning the villagers, right?” She’s not buying my casual unapologetic stance tonight. And after the alley, it even takes me some effort. “When Spike?” “Does it matter?” She nods her head. “Fine. Probably when you showed up the next night. After finding out the truth about yours truly. I admired your gumption.” “Gumption?” “Fearlessness, curiosity. Dunno. Liked you.” “And Willow? Would you eat her?” “Your bartender friend?” “Yeah.” “If I recognized her, I’d give her a pass.” “She has kids.” “How nice. Sorry I didn’t send a gift.” “Do you …” “Do I kill children?” Damn. She’s gunning for me, looking for a reason to walk away. I wonder what’s changed. “You do,” she presses. “I have.” Buffy pushes back from the table, but I grab her wrist before she can flee. “Not for years, Buffy. And I wouldn’t now.” “But their parents? You kill grown-ups, and leave their kids orphaned,” she hisses. This hits a little too close to tonight’s events, and I feel the rat’s blood draining from my face. I let her wrist go, and she’s off into the night without another word. *** Three hours later, I’m back in my favorite corners of this ancient town, looking for someone vulnerable. Preferably blonde. There’s a light, chill rain falling. I find her huddled in a doorway, selling herself, but not very well. I put on my indifferent but interested face, and she makes a little effort, too, asks me if I’m looking for some company. This is usually when I vamp out and go to town, even though a skinny thing like her isn’t much to savor. Then she lifts her eyes to mine, and they’re green. Buffy green. Instead of vamping, I find myself saying, gently, “You shouldn’t be on the streets. Dangerous out here at night.” From my back pocket I pull the rest of my cash, and hand it to her, a messy crumple of bills and coins. And I head off to try to catch me some rat. *** “It isn’t like he’s the wrong guy, Buffy. I wouldn’t judge you for that. I’d believe that you see something in him.” “I do, Wil.” “Buffy, he’s the whole wrong species. He’s not even supposed to exist.” “Yeah.” “Is he killing?” “Yeah. But if he weren’t a vampire-” “Let me stop you there. It’s not like he’s Episcopalian. He can’t convert. Or stop being it.” “That’s what he said.” “He knows he’s no good for you, sweetie.”

Chapter #10 - Ch. 10: Not the Words of One Who Kneels

Much love to always_jbj for the nifty banner! It doesn’t trouble me any to be selfish, but lately I’ve gone all Good Samaritan. Now I’m standing in the doorway of my great-great-great-great-great niece Amelia’s place, signing off on the last of the remodels with the contractor. “So you say this property’s been in the family, Mr. Pratt?” I nod. “Long time.” “You’ve made some good choices here.” He’s talking about preserving most of the original features and restoring others. But I wonder – it’s been two months since I’ve seen her. Two solid months of rat, pig and duck, the latter two supplied by a butcher happy to take good hard cash for something he usually spills down the drain. She’s still in London, of this I’m sure. Every few nights I stroll past her little flat in Notting Hill. I’ve seen her silhouette. When I started my fast, it wasn’t a choice thing so much as every time I tried to hunt, I’d end up talking m’self out of the kill. Don’t mistake me. There’s no guilt for past actions. But if I can have her, for a little while, I can resist this urge. I think. Two months. Handed over scads of cash to spruce up this pile of bricks. I’m just going on instinct. Going towards being something that she needs me to be. It’ll be a front, in some ways. And in other ways, well … Trick is, I’m not sure and certain that she’ll have me. And the more time passes without her in my arms, the more I wonder if I’m a fool. *** I’m not avoiding him, I tell myself. I’m just not finding him. And I’m working like a maniac. This Italian cosmetics company hired me to work on a campaign for their new line. It’s young and edgy; they’re not. I’ve been hopping flights for meetings, for photo shoots. Commercial work wasn’t my first choice, but when my agent called, I had to do something. Had to keep my mind off of him. Though it is commercial work, it might just be my best. I feel like I can see things – shadows, lines, angles, the kinds of things every photographer needs to see – just a little sharper than before. Whether this signals the lifting of my misery or not, I can’t say. But everyone is pleased. We’re doing some work in London right now, and I’m walking towards the studio, hurrying, because I was supposed to be there 10 minutes ago. Something’s so wrong, though. Usually the studio feels like controlled chaos, but this? This is actual pandemonium. “What’s going on?” I ask one of the assistants. “It’s Barney.” “Barney?” I picture one of the scrawny hipster junior assistants, the guy who mops up when someone spills their skim half-caf latte. Cute boy, shaggy dark hair, always heading off to hear some friend’s band. He’d stopped showing up for work two days ago, I remember, and there was a kerfuffle and talk about trying to contact his mother. “What about Barney?” The assistant hands me the paper, folded over to an article. I scan the page, a sick feeling in my stomach warning me what I’m going to read before I read it. Two small puncture wounds in the victim’s neck … police have no leads … anyone with information … My hands are shaking as I drop the paper. *** Any city bigger than a hamlet boasts at least one bar where demons are welcome. In London, it’s called the Fang & Claw. Besides having O-neg on tap, it’s considered neutral ground. Start a bar brawl in the F&C, and you’d be in a world of hurt. I’m here tonight, looking for word on anything that might help me. Been here for the last few nights, actually, sticking to the otter to keep from sparking a hunger I don’t want to sate and asking around. Two nights ago some warlock tried to sell me a soul revivification spell. Yesterday some fellow with antennae told me ‘bout some spirit in deepest Africa who can help a fellow out. It’s all shite. Even as I sit here, swilling my otter, I know there’s no help. If I’m gonna go killing-free, it’s all on my shoulders. So far I’ve made it. But there have been close calls. *** I need to know. Everyone’s upset about Barney. I need to know if I’ve been loving his killer. Not that I was exactly tight with Barney. I gave him my latte order and sometimes remembered to say thank you. But it doesn’t matter if he and I weren’t the best of friends. He was in my universe, my very small universe. And if Spike could snack on one of my colleagues, then he could hit closer to home. How would I be with him then? Not that I’m with him now. My head spins. *** “Gloom doesn’t look good on you, boss.” “Told you to drop it, Harris.” “I’m just sayin’.” “What happens when she’s old and grey, Harris?” “Sorry?” “She will grow old. And die.” “No guarantees in life. Well, except death. Even for you.” I nod. “So how do you know you’ll be around to bury her?” *** I find a pic of Barney. Work in a studio and you eventually get used for test shots, so it isn’t hard. It’s in my hand when I spot him, locking up the doors to Minus Zero. “Did you kill him?” “Buffy.” “This guy. Did you kill him?” Spike looks at me like a wild animal, trapped. He swallows. “He a friend of yours?” “Kind of.” “Lover?” I can tell I’ve caught him off guard and he’s trying to find his balance. “No, Spike. I just need to know.” “When did he die?” “Earlier this week,” I reply. He still hasn’t looked at the picture, still hasn’t taken his eyes from mine. Spike relaxes, the tension draining from his body. “That’s easy then. No.” “You haven’t looked at the picture.” “I haven’t killed anyone in two months.” “Two months?” Now it’s me trying to find my equilibrium. “Since I last saw you.” “You stopped killing for me?” He takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Not exactly. Let’s sit, yeah?” We walk in silence, heading towards a tiny coffee shop. We’ve been here before, but for some reason, tonight it reminds me of Millie’s, back in LA, and all those nights we spent talking. The waitress brings us tea, and I meet his eyes again. “Talk to me, Spike.” “Don’t know where to begin.” His voice is raw. “Most vamps are … animals. The id runneth over.” “That’s not you.” “No. There’s some … variation, I guess. My way was always simple. Settle in enough to spot the right ones. The unattached, the lonely, the aimless. Always the young. Stuck mostly to cities. It’s where people go to disappear, right?” “People like me.” He nods. “No parents. Not a lot of friends. A job that wouldn’t exactly be surprised if I no-showed.” “Yeah. Not that I always stayed around long enough to get the bio. But you can tell. I’ve got an eye for the little lost lambs.” “What changed your mind? About me?” I want him to say love. “Curiosity, I ‘spose. You were so broken, but I could see a hint of spine. And you were never properly afraid of me.” “No one at Caritas was really-” He snorts. “Buffy, everyone at Caritas got trembly when they were alone with me. Remember Lorne? He used to turn green.” “And I was different.” “You’ve always been, luv. And I’ve been around long enough to know. You’re one hell of a woman.” I blush. “Why did you leave me?” “Not much of a future for us, is there?” “No, I guess not.” We both smile, and despite our words, I feel a leap of possibility and settle into the booth.

Chapter #11 - Ch. 11: All So Amusing

Banner by the always amazing always_jbj. Much thanks! WARNING: I'm killing off a very popular character in this chapter. It isn't that I don't love the character to pieces, it's just that Spike is still trouble. Ten Years Later When in England, you’d never notice an extra tweed-clad fellow or two. At least, I wouldn’t. But Spike’s been jumpy, and I finally tackle him. Literally. Even if I’m starting to look older than him, between Pilates and weight training with Rodrigo, I manage to hold my own. “Yessss?” he asks, as I pin him to our big bed. “You’ve been quiet. You’re never quiet.” “Am so. Can even brood, if necessary.” “Puh-lease. You so cannot.” I frown and sit up, releasing his wrists, but squeezing with my thighs. “What’s up, Spike? Spill.” “Think I am up, and prepared to do the latter if you’ll just remove this silly little skirt.” He reaches for me, and only the sound of my zipper brings me back to my mission. I smack his hands away. “Spiiiike.” “Fine.” He huffs. “I think someone is following me. Older guy. He’s good, but …” “But you’re better?” “Tough to track a vampire, love.” I sit back. I’ve become accustomed to my lover’s status as an undead creature of the night. It’s almost like he’s diabetic, or a parolee. Inconvenient at times, but not a situation that troubles me. Much. “Why?” Spike looks away. “Don’t rightly know.” “Is it for revenge?” He meets my eyes again. “That’s possible. Very possible.” I’m nervous, and the tiniest bit guilty that I don’t care about Spike’s past actions, just his present safety. “Well, we leave for Santa Fe tomorrow. He’ll have a heck of a time finding us there.” *** I’m not lying to her, I think, as we soar across the ocean. Sure, I have my suspicions, but until I know, I don’t know. And I’ve found, over the years, that the less said about vampires, the better. Buffy's no fool. She’s asleep, in our private first class demi-cabin, all dark and secret. If she stirs, I might see if I can talk her into some nice distracting mile-high sex. But for now, I’m alone with my thoughts. Truth is, I suspect Mr. Tweedy’s tracking me like a birdwatcher goes after an endangered kestrel. I’ve seen him making notes. There are secret societies. Or, at the very least, there are rumors about secret societies. Some devoted to the destruction of aberrations like yours truly. Others are just … curious. Interested. Weirdest one I heard about was back in LA. Bunch of street kids after immortality. Wanted to find a vamp willing and able to change ‘em all. The way I heard it, they ended up being a banquet for some unscrupulous types. Serves ‘em right. Or should that be serves ‘em up? Whatever. Buffy doesn’t know about any of this, and if I have it my way she’ll never know. She shifts in her sleep, stirring. I work my hand underneath her skirt, and suddenly she’s awake. “Hey, you,” she whispers. “Hey yourself, gorgeous.” “Whatcha doin’ down there?” “We’ve still got at least four hours ‘til New York.” “Didn’t you bring a book?” I smile. “You’ve got something much more interesting here, kitten.” “Spike! I’ll be soooo embarrassed.” “Then keep your screams to yourself, lover.” I sink onto my knees, adjusting her leather boots and spreading her wide. Girl might be protesting, but she’s already liquid wet for me. I bury my mouth in her folds and she stifles a moan. The rest of the flight passes quickly, and she’s all boneless and glowing by the time we return our seats and tray tables to their upright positions. And me? I’m feeling relieved to have put an ocean between me and my watcher. *** “This place is goin’ off,” she tells me as she returns from the ladies’ room. “You don’t say?” I look around the emptying dining room of El Farol. We’re here to celebrate her show in one of the Canyon Road galleries. Little Miss Buffy Summers just made a mint with that camera of hers, and even though her success is old news, it still feels like a dinner-worthy achievement. “Apparently the bar turns into a dance party. There’s a DJ out there.” “Wanna bust a move?” I quirk an eyebrow. She laughs out loud, and I smile. “Maybe between the sheets,” she offers. I sign for the check and we head out into the night. Santa Fe is Mecca for art collectors, and Canyon Road is the holy of holies. We arrived here in a taxi just at dusk. Now it’s full dark. “Wanna walk back?” she suggests. I nod. The road is dark and poorly lit, but the advantage of being an apex predator is that there’s little to fear. She chatters of this and that, and I manage to murmur the right responses. Usually I find her charming when she’s like this – tipsy and high on her artistic endeavors. And I love that she feels safe, just taking a stroll down a poorly-lit street in some unfamiliar town, knowing that I’m more than a match for anything. But tonight I feel it again. We’re being followed. *** Back at our upscale little inn, I tumble her into the bedsheets and take care of her completely. She’s sated and stretched out when I tell her I’m heading outside for a cigarette. No sooner have I lit up than he appears, trying to keep a discreet distance. I close the gap, and tap him on the shoulder. “Nice vest,” I tell him. Mr. Tweedy has traded his suits for jeans and a Southwestern-designed vest over a white shirt, but you can still tell he’s English and proper. “Excuse me?” “You’ve been trailing me all about bloody Londontown. Now you should up a couple thousand miles away and pretend its just coincidence? Wanna tell me what you’re after?” “Fashion tips,” he drawls, taking in my all-black attire. I blow smoke in his face. “My name is Rupert Giles. I represent an organization interested in the study of … of creatures like you.” “Like me?” He looks around the street. It’s deserted. “I’ve been aware of your case for some time.” “My case?” “Your choice to live among us. As one of us.” “Sorry, I don’t follow.” There’s a bar a few paces away. “May I buy you a drink?” I nod, and follow him into the welcoming dim of the bar. *** “You want to write a book about me?” “I already have.” “An unauthorized biography, as it were?” “No. It is my belief that,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “vampires can change. I’ve cited your case as a primary example.” “What makes you think I’ve changed?” I swirl my scotch in the glass and wonder why I’m not back in bed. “You don’t kill. You’ve given it up for, well, for love, I suppose.” “How ‘bout you lend me a copy of this little masterwork of yours?” He nods, and reaches into his bag. “Here. It’s a copy, for you.” I flip through it. There’s more than one of my kind profiled here, but I’m the first story. Damn. He’s got it all down. Even a picture of mortal me. After a few minutes, I make my decision. “Rupert – may I call you Rupert?” “Of course.” “I don’t know how you know all this-” “We maintain an extensive library, covering all known,” he whispers again, “vampires currently extant.” “Extant. Okay, well, that may be. But I’m not exactly eager to have the details of my life recorded and summed up in your little leather bound journal here.” “But it’s a remarkable journey. A quest for redemption. It deserves to be told, to be celebrated.” I glance at the cover. The old sod’s named his book Redemption Road. “You can get the bill. Let’s take a walk.” He does, and follows me out into the night, surely convinced that I’m going to agree to be profiled for his history club. That’s where he’s wrong. I wait until we’ve wandered into the dark of night, far away from seeing eyes, and I take out my lighter. “This,” I tell him with a flourish, “is what I think of my life and times bein’ fodder for your academic studies.” He blusters and huffs and even gets out an “I say.” “And yet somehow, I don’t think that’s gonna be enough of a warning for you and your friends to stay far, far away from me and my girl, is it?” Terror flickers across his face, and he reaches for a crucifix. I bat it out of his hand. Stings, but doesn’t stop me. With the familiar crunch, my features shift and I’m staring at him through golden, hungry eyes. “This should do it.” *** We’ve just sat down in the hotel dining room the next morning, mostly because my girl mumbled something ‘bout wanting waffles. When Buffy sees the headline, she gives a surprised little gasp. “Christian Louboutin givin’ up the shoe business, pet?” She frowns at me. “A tourist was found dead last night. Not far from here.” “You don’t say,” I reply mildly. “A British tourist.” She gives me the eye, and I meet her gaze steadily. “That right?” I push away the menu. “Still a little full from last night’s feast,” I tell her. “I bet you are.” If she thinks anything more, she doesn’t say it. It’s a truce that’s held for all these years. WIth a little luck, it might hold for the rest of her life.

Chapter #12 - Epilogue: The Final Curtain

Banner by the always amazing always_jbj. Much thanks! New York City “Ms. Summers, welcome back to the Gramercy Park Hotel. Your suite is ready.” “Thank you.” The clerk is new and so young it looks like he’s playing dress up in his smart uniform, but my status as a frequent guest and lavish tipper precedes me. “If you and your son require …” I bite back a smile. Spike wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close. The clerk stammers an apology. Guess no one clued him in. “No worries, mate,” Spike replies to the flustered boy, pulling me in for a kiss that borders on the obscene. “The only thing we need,” I say to the dumbfounded clerk as I break for air, “is for you to hold all of our calls.” *** Cougar. Boytoy. Arm candy. Gold diggah. Ssssslut! If I actually were shacked up with some sweet young-enough-to-be-my-son thing would the whispers bother me? No, I don’t think so. The girl I was going to be? She’d have freaked. Or maybe I’m not giving her enough credit. Live five decades, travel the world and your whole perspective changes. It’s easy to ride that high horse when your world is small and your choices are limited. And then sometimes, one tiny thing happens and everything changes. In a funny way, I owe it to Willow and her gig at Caritas. Otherwise, I’d never have slipped past the velvet rope and found myself in Spike’s orbit. Then there was Owen. I can almost thank Owen for being such an ass. I was on the verge, then, of giving up and thinking I could live in the workaday world without Spike. Of course, if Hugo had lived, I’d have never dared. Hugo would be a man by now. I might even be a grandmother. There are places in New York that remind me of my days of baby lust and anxiety, of longing and suffering. But mostly that’s a chapter that’s closed, a maybe that wasn’t meant to be. We stayed almost six weeks in New York that time. By the end of our visit, the pale little clerk with the soft hands was checking out my legs when I walked through the lobby. Maybe 52 is the new 21. *** The night sky peeked in through the French doors, slanting across the floor boards of our bedroom, the room in the London home we'd shared for more years than I'd bothered to count. Buffy sprawls on the bed, naked and satiated, as I gaze at the moon. Been doin’ things like that lately. Poncey, romantic, moon-gazing things. “You’re so good to me.” I turn, slowly, and take her in. She’s long since given up the blonde in favor of her natural brunette, and lately she’s stopped fighting the streaks of grey. “You take care of me proper, too, luv.” She stretched, and I let my eyes roam over her body. The effects of aging have come, but to my surprise, it hasn’t cooled my ardor. Want her just as much as when she was a little slip of a girl, all bones and blonde-dyed hair. Buffy mewled. “Heat wave, pet?” She nods and fans herself with her hand. This is something I can help with. I cross the room, covering and cooling her heated skin with my own. “Better?” “Um …” “Take that as a yes.” She’s visibly older than me now. Has been for a while. I think about it, about turning her, about keeping her by my side forevermore. I’d be lyin’ if I said the thought didn’t appeal. Even now, the change would restore some measure of her lost youth. We’d still be May-December, yeah. But it turns out I get hot for a younger older woman just as easily as I did for the girl who fascinated me so many years ago. And Buffy? Buffy never asks. Beneath me, she’s relaxing into my touch and growing fevered for another reason. She arches into me, teasing and impatient. “Thought my embrace was s’posed to cool you down?” I ask. “That never lasts, Spike,” she says with a saucy smile. And even though her phrase – never lasts – echoes in my brain, I oblige. *** He never says he loves me. We’ve been together half of my life. I’ve known him much longer. And he’s never said love. “Need you,” sure. “Want you,” all the time. But I don’t know if he loves me. Or maybe I don’t know if he knows that he loves me. Willow asked me, the last time we visited LA, if he still killed. And I had to tell her the truth. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. I didn’t mention that one time. That was self-defense. I think. I’m not a little girl anymore. Even Willow has stopped seeing my as some innocent corrupted by a villain. Instead, the very few who are in the know treat me as more of a lion tamer. They’re not crazy about my pet’s appetites, but they trust me to keep him in line. All I know is that he’s never come to me blood-stained again, like he did that night in London. Secretly, I almost wish he would. *** It happened in Oranjestaad. Got lost down a dark alley a little too close to sun-up. We barely made it back to the hotel. My girl’s not as young as she once was, and yet I won’t insult her by tossing those brittle bones over my shoulder and sprinting. So even as I felt the night fade to a shattering blue dawn, I calmly lent her my arm, and let her scurry in her slow, seventy-something way, back to shelter. The next day, while Buffy slept, I asked the concierge to send up a canvas and paints. I’d sold Minus Zero to Harris, and hadn’t had a proper job in better than twenty years. When she woke up and asked me what I was doing, I told her it was yet another reinvention. She told me she’d much rather I work my artistry in bed, and I agreed. *** Harris is an old man now, bent and bald. “Xander, I’m so sorry,” Buffy says, hugging him. Their bones creak in a mutual acknowledgement of old age. “Harris,” I nod. “She was a good woman. She’ll be missed.” Tears glisten in his eyes, and I’m relieved when one of their kids comes up and takes dear old dad by the elbow. I help Buffy into one of the pews, and we sit in church to bid farewell to a friend. *** We’re at the first class check-in at Heathrow, bound for New York. “Will your grandmother require a wheelchair?” It was funny to be mistaken for his mother, but now that I’m Granny, it’s not the laugh that it used to be. Spike fixes the gate attendant with a steely glare. “My wife will be fine, thank you.” “I – I’m – I’m sor-sorry sir.” “Spike,” I reprimand, and he dials it down. We’re not legally wedded – though I suppose the same false identity that lets him clear customs would suffice to tie the knot. He’s never offered, and I’ve never asked. Calling me his wife is just his way of staking a claim to a world that doesn’t know what to make of the weak old lady and the hot young guy. Since air travel took steroids back in the 2020s, it’s almost possible to commute from London to New York. We’re headed there on business. My business. Spike hasn’t shown his paintings, even though I tell him he should. He tells me there’s time. All the time in the world. I suspect he’s saving his new craft for when I’m gone. *** Photography Online Buffy Summers dies at 88 She was once called the eyes of a generation. Summers picked up a camera in her 20s, and mounted her first independent show not long after. With a body of work spanning the commercial to the avant-garde, few photographers have worked in so many styles. Her campaigns for Jeep and Borghese were both runaway international successes. In later years, her images became starkly erotic. While she rarely photographed individual faces, Summers had a way of capturing a crowd that evoked the energy and tension in a gathering. Her shots of scenes from the Parisian nightclub Banc during the rash of killings in the 2020s have been celebrated as some of the most startling and revelatory of our time. Protests greeted her first major museum exhibition, at the Phillips Collection in Washington DC. The resulting press led to one of the most successful exhibitions by a modern artist, a phenomenon reminiscent of the Robert Mapelthorpe showings in the late 20th century. Her personal life was no less controversial. Briefly married to the poet Owen Thurman, she is thought to be the inspiration for much of his melancholy work. Following their divorce, she became known for her liaisons with much younger men and her reclusive ways. In fact, she was rarely seen during daylight hours, so much so that New York galleries only scheduled her showings in the heart of winter. While Summers lived most of her life in London, she is a native Californian. A memorial service will take place in her hometown of Sunnydale next week. *** I laid her to rest in Sunnydale. First time I’ve been here. She’d been back a time or two, I guess. Mostly she wanted to be buried next to her mum, and who was I to begrudge her? For those last two years, she was in and out of the hospital. Killed me to know I could put her out of her misery. She forbade it. Wanted to go out of this life, she’d whispered, just like she’d been born into it – by fate, by the dictates of a cruel and capricious God. By the time she breathed her last, I’d made my peace. Even told her – finally told her – I loved her. My only regret is that she might not have understood, not with the medicine and the machines and the stark white of the hospital walls. I sigh. That chapter of my life is closed. Buffy is gone, and with her, I think all of the good in me might be gone, too. It’s dark now, past midnight, and I’m prowling the streets of Sunnydale, wondering what the denizens do for a good time. There’s a coffee shop on the main drag, with some older, sincere type strumming a guitar. I amble in and take a table. Before long, there’s a pretty blonde glancing my way. I can see her doing the mental math – am I over 30? She doesn’t think so, and so she co-eds her way over to me. “Hi,” she says. “Mind if I join you?” I smile hungrily. "Please do." Author's Note: And so ... that's it, folks. That's all she wrote. I never intended to write anything more than the original four chapters of Meet the Pratts, a story I thought was so wierd it would get me drummed out of the fandom. The reviews and encouragement have been amazing, and I can't thank everyone enough for taking this trip with me. I'm only sorry it has to end. :)