The fabulous banner is by the awesomely talented Ben Rostock.

Chapter 3

Of course she hadn’t listened to him. Spike hadn’t expected her to in the slightest. Slayer wouldn’t listen to any demon and especially not to him. But at least he’d gotten it off his chest. Explained his motives, that they weren’t what she and Doc and probably the rest of them thought they were. At least he’d had his say.

He listened with amusement to Xander whining about having to sleep on the hard stone floor of the cave. Spike had deliberately cut only enough pine boughs to provide a bed for the four girls. He himself had his duster and that, folded up lengthwise a couple of times, made padding enough for one night. If Xander wanted a bed, let him go out in the rain and cut his own boughs. Sure it was petty, but, hey, demon here. He didn’t like Xander and wasn’t going to put himself out for him. And he did so enjoy listening to the wanker whine and groan all night.

Breakfast for the bunch of them was cold pork warmed up over the fire. There was enough left over to wrap in those large leaves and take with them for lunch if they didn’t get to a town by then. They had all decided to try for the town. Spike didn’t care one way or the other. But he preferred action to sitting around here waiting for the witches to get their act together. He’d have quietly made his own explorations if they’d chosen to stay here instead.

The cave was left as it was, in case they had to come back here again, and Willow marked the spot where they had arrived, so they’d know where the presumed portal was on their return.

The climb up to the top of the cliff face was difficult for the Scoobies. Slayer had no trouble, of course, but the others could have used a rope. Spike hadn’t found anything that would provide one though, no vines or anything of that sort. He stayed below the three girls as they climbed, ready to catch them if one of them slipped. Slayer was doing the same, plus keeping an eye on Xander whom Spike would have let fall with pleasure.

They all reached the top without incident though, then sat down to get their breaths back and figure out which way to go. Spike took a gander both ways, then came back shaking his head.

“Six of one and half a dozen of the other. Toss a coin.”

Willow did and the result was they headed north. Spike took point, zigzagging back and forth making forays into the thick woods on both sides but with the road always as his center. He stayed well ahead of the Scoobies, in no mood today for their distrusting glances and Buffy’s coldly hating stares.

Their pace got slower and slower, to Spike’s exasperation, and they kept stopping to rest more and more often.

“God, you bunch are out of shape!” he said, after going back to find them once he realized they had stopped yet again. “We’re never gonna get anywhere at this rate.”

“Well, there’s no rush, is there?” snapped Buffy.

“My feet hurt,” moaned Anya, who was wearing heels. “And I think I’ve got a blister already.”

Spike sighed. They’d only managed to make a couple of miles so far and who knew how many more miles it would be to even a farm or a village, forget about a town. He looked the lot of them over. Anya was the worst off, with her high heels, pencil skirt and gauzy blouse loose over a camisole, all fine for a day at the Magic Box but totally unfit for trudging along miles of dirt road. Tara was better off in flat sandals, an ankle-length skirt and a thin, knitted top. Willow and Buffy had come off the best when Doc’s spell had caught them—both in jeans and tees, Buffy wearing boots and Willow sneakers.

“Gotta be a better way,” he muttered.

“Yeah. See if you can find us a car,” said Buffy bitterly.

“Try for a little discipline, Slayer. Don’t sit down every five minutes. Take a ten minute break every hour and we’ll have a longer one at noon. Doesn’t that sound reasonable?”

Should have known better than to expect her to accept one of his suggestions.

“Nothing you say would ever sound reasonable,” she flung back, pigheaded as ever.

But they did make a little better time of it after that because, stung by his words, she did keep everyone moving. Noontime came, the bunch of them stopped dead.

“An hour,” said Buffy flatly when he went back to find out what the holdup was this time.

“Yeah, okay,” he conceded reluctantly. The slow pace was killing him. His curiosity urged him to suss this place out and he was having a hard time waiting for them. “But don’t sit down right by the road. That’s dangerous. Who knows what might come along?”

“Someone who might help us.”

“Optimistic of you. Don’t be daft. This isn’t Sunnydale. Folks might not be friendly here.”

“Only a vamp would think like that. We prefer to give people the benefit of the doubt,” said Buffy loftily.

Spike counted up to ten, then changed his tactics. “Aren’t you thirsty? There’s a stream in the woods over there. I can smell the water.”

The makeshift bucket he had created last night was shallow and leaked; the water that it had held when they started out this morning was long gone. They all looked around hopefully.

“Water? Where?”

“Show you.”

They had to scramble through heavy underbrush which they weren’t too happy about, but which he knew with relief would conceal them from passers by. Spike insisted on scooping up the first palmful of water, his vamp immunity to poisons coming in handy, then let them drink when he was sure it was clean. The water was cold and fresh, and they all drank deeply, then sat down to eat, Anya with her feet in the stream.

Spike had a cigarette instead, savoring it now that he was rationing his pack.

“What say I go ahead, Slayer? You gits are too slow. If you stay on the road and don’t deviate, I could find you once I’ve sussed out what’s ahead.”

A glance like the flick of his switchblade. “Don’t care where you go.”

Shouldn’t even have asked. Dumb-ass. Had said it without thinking, just being polite. He changed the subject to keep from snarling back at her.

“You sure that translation spell you and Glinda put together at breakfast will work, Red?”

“It should. That one wasn’t too hard or too far off one of the transmutations spells Tara had in her notebook. You should understand what’s being said and they should understand you.”

“Not planning on talking to anyone. Just eavesdropping.”

“Sneaking around as usual,” Xander muttered into the pork he was scarfing down.

Spike flicked his cigarette stub at his face and Xander struck it aside, then glared at him. Then Xander’s eyes widened and he jerked to his feet.

“Hoofbeats! Someone’s on the road! Come on!”

“No!” said Spike sharply. He had heard it five minutes ago, but had hoped the others wouldn’t.

No one listened. They were all racing down to the road like fools. He followed them. Xander was ahead of them all, running out onto the road, waving his arms. Spike scanned the area, then made a fifteen foot leap up into a tree and swung onto a branch that overhung the road, from where he could strike if things went pearshaped.

A single rider. Recognizably human, which was a relief; no bug-eyed monsters here. And his mount was a recognizable horse, so this dimension wasn’t too far from theirs. Quality horse, well-to-do rider if the gold embroidery on the good broadcloth of his long tan jacket, breeches and cloak was anything to go by. No pistol holster at either side or saddle; a sword instead, which was some indication of the level of technology here. Walnut brown skin, black hair, brown eyes widening in shock and fear at the sight of Xander barring his path.

“Quenya!” Which must be either a name of some kind or an epithet because it didn’t translate. “Get away!”

“No! Wait!” Xander waved his spread hands.

The horse danced as the rider checked it, staring at the girls struggling out of the underbrush.

“Bandits! The Magister shall hear of this!”

“Wait! Wait!” Xander yelled. “We just need help!”

The rider dug in his spurs and the horse sprang forward. Xander just barely jumped out of the way before being ridden down. A whip slashed and Xander yelped, then horse and rider were past, pounding down the road.

“He hit Xander!” Willow was gasping, shocked. Tara and Anya ran to him.

“Moron deserved it,” snapped Spike as he swung himself down from the tree.

Xander choked, almost more angry at Spike for witnessing the debacle than for being hit. “You bastard!”

Spike was already flashing away through the trees. The road made a bend here; he had found that out previously when he had explored ahead before coming back to the rest of them. If he cut through the woods, he should, with his vampire speed, be able to intercept the rider before the man was out of reach.

He could hear Buffy shouting after him, but ignored her. Right at the moment, he was out of patience with fools who refused to listen to plain warnings and didn’t have a speck of ordinary commonsense. What did they expect the man to think, seeing a bunch of weirdly dressed people running at him out of the woods? Vagabonds, beggars, bandits, wolfheads—that’s what Spike himself would have thought in the days before Dru turned him. He might have been a nerdy poet, but he had also been a monied Victorian gentleman and the first thing that would have leaped to his mind was that they were after his purse.

The rider had slowed his headlong pace now that he was away from the perceived threat. Spike was ready on an overhanging tree branch when the man arrived beneath him, leaped down behind him in one swift, flowing movement and struck him precisely behind the ear before his prey had time to react. The rider sagged, unconscious, and Spike reached around him to catch the reins from his lax grip. He turned the horse into the trees, then stopped when they would not be visible from the road.

“And lunch,” he said with satisfaction.

After a year and a half of dead pig’s blood, the live human blood flowing into his fangs now was pure ambrosia. He drank deeply, savoring it. Thank you, Doc!

No death though, which was a pity, because the life taken was also nourishment. But still he had promised the Slayer. And to have fresh human blood after so long was delight enough. He could judge it to a nicety, knew when the man’s heart started faltering and withdrew his fangs before the critical point. Between the blow and the blood loss, the git would be out for at least six hours which would give plenty of time before the alarm would be raised. Spike had plans for those hours.

He dragged the man deeper into the underbrush where he wouldn’t be seen, then relieved him of his purse. The saddlebags on the horse provided several more coins, a flask of liquor of which Spike took a couple of appreciative swallows, and a packet of bread, cheese, and jerky which he appropriated since the Scoobies could use it. A search of the man’s person also delivered up a watch, a couple of rings and a snuffbox, all of which Spike left alone. Those were traceable and he wanted nothing on him that could be tracked back to the victim in case the law in the district caught up with him.

The horse showed no aversion to the change of rider. Spike patted its neck affectionately and headed on down the road at a steady gallop. Two hours later, he was lying on his stomach in some underbrush on the outskirts of a village, the horse tied up and hidden in the woods behind him.

There weren’t many houses in the village itself, but there were several cottages scattered across the strand and plenty of boats and nets drying. Fishing community, he guessed. But the place had three roads leading out of it, an inn at its center and a couple of what looked like general stores. The village was a focal point of some kind, despite its size, due to the location of those roads. That might be useful or that might be a disadvantage, depending. The stores were what interested him, because they might provide the supplies the witches needed.

He studied the people intently, his vampire hearing picking up snatches of their talk. They were stockily built, but all of average height, so the Scoobies would not seem that much out of the norm in that sense. But they were also all brown skinned and black haired, and their eyes had a slight epicanthic fold. Which meant that even if pale skin and hair were not unheard of in this land, the bunch of them were certainly going to be noticed.

With Earth history in mind, he had wondered whether gender would be a factor. But jobs didn’t seem to be segregated by sex. Both sexes seemed to work the fishing boats, and the livery stable beside the inn had both male and female grooms. And clothing—pants vs skirts—seemed to be related to the occupation and personal preference rather than gender. A rider passing by wore a brigandine of leather that from the visible riveting was lined with metal plates. Someone’s man-at-arms, Spike thought, before a closer look revealed that it was a woman. Female warriors accepted. Interesting.

He watched the village for over an hour, then collected the horse and headed back down the road. The village was over twenty miles from where the Scoobies were. At the rate they were going, it would take them two or three days to get here and they would be footsore and bone weary by the time they did. One horse wouldn’t make a difference, though they could put Anya on it. In those high heels, she wasn’t going to make many more miles.

He found the Scoobies a couple of miles along from where he had left them and drew his horse into the trees to watch them. They hadn’t made much progress in the time he was gone. Anya was limping badly and she and Xander were squabbling loudly. Willow and Tara looked grimly resigned and Buffy looked like she wanted to kill something. Spike couldn’t help grinning at the sight.

But what really interested him was that his hearing could pick the rattle of wheels a mile behind them. He slid his horse through the trees, passing the Scoobies so quietly that they weren’t aware of him. The wheels turned out to belong to a wagon like a buckboard, laden with kegs and pulled by two stocky, powerful carthorses, one man driving. Perfect.

He tethered the horse behind a stand of trees, then waited in concealment beside the road, flowed up the wagon as it passed before the driver realized he was being attacked and struck the man with the point of his elbow just below the ear. The man collapsed. Spike caught the reins and drew the horses to the side of the road, then tipped the driver back into the body of the wagon, where he plopped into a boneless heap.

The various-sized casks half-filling the wagon turned out to be kegs of ales and spirits. Spike had a strong suspicion they were meant for the inn in the village, which suited him just fine. He located a cask about a foot high, knocked the bung out of its hole and sniffed at the contents. Brandy.

Spike grinned, took a slug, then poured a considerable amount down the carter’s throat, carefully making sure that the man didn’t choke. If the wagon hadn’t been carrying booze, he would have used the liquor in the flask he had liberated from his lunch. But this was better, since the brandy was way more powerful than the stuff in the flask. In a little while, the git would be drunker than a skunk and shouldn’t come to till morning. If he did, Spike would do the same thing all over again.

He splashed more brandy over the man’s clothes so that the sod looked and smelled as if he had been on a bender, then hopped down off the wagon. He had to work fast now, before someone came along and saw the wagon standing there unattended.

He hitched the reins of the carthorses to the branch of a tree beside the road, then recovered his original horse and went back to locate its master. He found that one still passed out where Spike had hidden him and good for a couple more hours of blotto. He dragged him out into the middle of the road, dumped him in a sprawl so that it would look like he had fallen from his horse, then dropped the horse’s reins to trail in the dust beside him. The horse was docile and didn’t look like it would wander far. When the man came to, the loss of his money would tell him that he had been attacked, but he wouldn’t know how or by who. The man hadn’t seen him, wouldn’t know him from Adam even if their paths should cross in the future.

The carthorses were still waiting patiently by the time he got back to them and no one had passed by. Spike hopped up onto the seat, gathered up the reins, took the brake off, then clicked his tongue. The carthorses plodded off, uncaring who held the reins, and Spike grinned happily.

He came up to where the Scoobies should be and was gratified to see that the road was empty. They had finally learned their lesson and had ducked into the woods at the jingle of harness and the creak of wheels.

“Anyone want a ride?” he called and they all came staggering out of the trees, staring at him and the wagon.

“Where,” Buffy drew a deep breath that he knew was the prelude to a shouting match, “did you get that?”

He jerked his chin over his shoulder. “From him.”

They all stared over the side of the wagon at the limp figure snoring among the casks.

“He’s drunk,” said Willow.

“No shit, Red. Couldn’t hold his liquor. Pathetic.”

“You made him drunk,” accused Buffy and Spike shrugged.

“Yeah, I did.” But he didn’t tell her how. “Gets us a ride though, doesn’t it? There’s a village some twenty odd miles up the road. He was heading there and so are we and I don’t think he’s gonna be objecting any to a few passengers. So unless you feel like turning down a lift and keeping on using shank’s mare the rest of the way...”

“Twenty odd miles?” muttered Anya. “The hell with this. I’ll take the ride.”

She scrambled into the wagon and took off her heels with a groan. Spike grinned and tilted his scarred eyebrow at Buffy’s glare.

“Why am I getting the feeling that there’s more to this than meets the eye?” she growled.

“Because you’ve got a mean, suspicious nature, Slayer? You’d better watch that. Keep scowling like that, you’ll have these nasty grooves all over your face before you’re thirty.” He glanced back at the rest of them clambering into the wagon, and grinned at the whiplash cut on Xander’s right cheek. “Marked you, did he? Maybe now you’ll come around to the idea life isn’t all roses and kittens out here.”

“He didn’t have to do that,” Xander muttered.

Spike snorted. “Weirdos running at him out of the woods? You’d have screamed and run yourself, hero, even back in Sunnydale.” He looked down at Buffy, still standing beside the wagon, with her hands on her hips. “You planning on walking, Slayer? Still too stuck up to accept a ride if I’m the one offering it?”

“How’d you guess?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be an ass, Slayer. Get up here or get in the back, one or the other. I’ve got some info about this world which might be useful for you to hear. Or are you determined to make the same mistake as you did when you wouldn’t listen to me about Doc?”

She looked as if she wanted to snarl at him again, then took a deep breath, let it out and climbed onto the wagon seat beside him. He knew that if he said one word, she’d jump off again, so for once held his tongue between his teeth and just clicked to the horses.

“Right,” he said when they were on their way. “Here’s the gen so far.”

He laid it all out for them, everything that he’d seen and heard.

“So, once we get to that village, you’ve got two choices. Either we be upfront about it and just brazen our way in or we sneak in under cover of night and make a raid on those stores. Trouble with walking in is that we’ll be conspicuous. We don’t look the way they do. We could buy whatever supplies we need honestly, but they’ll all be freaking out about the aliens in their midst. Don’t forget that an agrarian society is usually a parochial society.”

“So we sneak in and raid the store,” said Anya, which made everyone else shift uneasily.

“We’d be stealing,” muttered Willow.

“Don’t have a problem with that here,” smirked Spike.

“Big surprise,” snapped Buffy.

“Trouble with sneaking in,” Spike went on, ignoring her, “is that Willow or Tara would have to come with me, because I don’t know the herbs and whatall they need for their spells. Neither of them are any good at breaking and entering, and the consequences if we get caught could be pretty dire.”

“Isn’t there any other option?” asked Willow plaintively.

Spike shrugged. “We could go back to the beach.”

“We’ll have to steal,” said Anya. “We don’t have any money.”

“Oh, we do.” Spike held up the now heavy purse that he had liberated. “Enough for a while.”

“How...?” Then Buffy gasped. “That rider! What did you do to him, Spike?”

“My lunch? He’ll be all right. A bit groggy from blood loss, but he’ll survive.”

“You stole that from him! Give me that!”

He struck her hand away as she snatched at the purse. “Mine now. You thinking of giving it back to him, Slayer, or throwing it on the road? Sod that.”

“We can’t profit from theft!”

“Maybe you can’t, but I can. Evil here, remember? Deal with it, Slayer.”

“Damn it!”

“‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his need,’” said Spike pontifically. Then he snickered. Buffy glared at him and he was amusedly aware of the rest of them frowning at his back. “Forget about that. You gits have bigger problems. In a couple of hours, we’re gonna be at that village and you’re gonna have to decide on the way you want to play this. Concentrate on that, will you?”

Which started an ongoing debate that raged on for miles, as he had known it would. After about fifteen or twenty minutes, Buffy fell silent beside him. He glanced sideways at her. The others were still arguing and yelling behind them, but he guessed that she had made up her mind. Her profile was cool and withdrawn, its clean lines intransigent. That intransigence of hers, that black and white thinking, drove him crazy. But it was part of her, part of what made Buffy Summers.

Spike adapted to circumstance, was as fluid as water while still, like water, keeping his own essential nature. Buffy was like the rock the water broke itself upon. And that was her nature, hard as iron, unyielding. But true as steel, a swordblade. And he couldn’t help admiring her for it, though that very factor in her was a death knell to all his hopes.

“What are you looking at?” she growled and he realized that he had been staring at her for he didn’t know how long.

“You’re going straight in, aren’t you?” he said. “Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes.”

She laughed involuntarily. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”

“I know you.”

Buffy glanced at him, surprised. He was looking back at the road now, and his profile was still and quiet and a little sad. The slanting light from the westering sun filled his one visible eye with blue light like a goblet, and emphasized the cut-glass cheekbone and strong jaw. Now that he wasn’t fleering and jeering at them, she saw the poet that he had told her he had been, the thinking man that he kept hidden. Behind the mockery, it was a sensitive face; and she found herself wondering suddenly whether the mockery was a defense.

“How do you know?”

“Watched you. I’ve had years to watch you. Know your enemy. You may not have seen me, Slayer, but I’ve seen you. Know what makes you tick.”

She shifted uneasily on the seat and he turned his head to grin at her.

“Don’t like that idea, do you? I’ve studied you, Slayer. I’ve got video of you fighting. Analyzed your moves. You weren’t hard to figure out. You’re all one piece. Everything up front.”

He wasn’t. He was all layers. That mockery wasn’t a defense. It was part of him. He was a mass of contradictions. Mockery and sensitivity. Violence and gentleness. The killer and the poet.

“Are you saying I’m shallow?”

“No. But what you seem is what you are, Slayer. There’s no admixture of other metals. You’re one thing straight through. Pure gold all the way. Or iron or whatever. A sword is a sword is a sword.”

“I think that’s a compliment,” she said dubiously and he laughed.

“Is. Wasn’t meant as one, but...”

“I didn’t think so.”

“But it’s the truth.” He looked away from her frowning face, glancing back over his shoulder at the debate still raging on behind them. “How long are they going to keep this up?”

Buffy sighed. “Till we get there.”

“Don’t you ever get sick of it?”

She did. Hours and hours of debate and argument; the constant pressure put on her to act this way or that. It wearied her. But...

“They’re my friends,” she said flatly.

He said nothing, just clicked his tongue at the horses. A silence fell between them. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, just sort of peaceful as the miles rolled on and the Scoobies’ voices yammered and argued behind them.

She found herself watching him. She had never really looked at him before. He was just this irritant that she wanted to avoid and didn’t ever want to think about. These last two days was the longest they had ever spent in each other’s company.

He finally became aware of her gaze and glanced at her in surprise. “What?”

“Trying to analyze my enemy,” she said dryly.

He laughed a little under his breath. “I’m not your enemy, Slayer. And until you see that, you’ll never get things right.”

“You’re not my friend either,” she retorted.

He looked at her suddenly and his eyes were all blue light and intensity. “What do you want me to be, Slayer? Tell me what you want. I’ll be it.”

She caught her breath in shock, her jaw dropping. But then he was laughing, drawing the wagon to a halt, twisting in his seat to look back at the Scoobies. He had to have been sending her up.

“Right, you gits. Listen up. Village is right around that bend. Slayer wants to go straight in. Thing is, we’ll need a cover story about what we’re doing here, weird looking people like us. Something that will make sense to these sods.”

“Yeah, being flung here from another dimension is not going to cut it,” muttered Willow.

“Another continent?” suggested Tara. “T-there’s always another continent and, chances are, without newspapers or TV, ordinary people wouldn’t know what its inhabitants look like.”

“We’re castaways,” Spike nodded. “Our ship was wrecked and we’re the only survivors. We don’t know anything about this continent and we’re trying to get home. It’s the truth, only with a bit of a twist.”

“This wagon,” said Xander sharply. “How do we explain that? Or do we just ditch it and the driver?”

“Thought of that,” said Spike. “That’s another reason I got the sod drunk. We could ditch it and the carter will bring it in when he comes to in the morning. No one’s gonna believe any story he’s gonna tell, the way he smells of booze. Or we could drive the wagon in ourselves. We could say we were walking to the village and ran into the wagon a couple of miles back, with the driver dead drunk in it. Being the helpful gits that we are, we’re bringing the wagon and its load in to the authorities.”

“No, too complicated,” muttered Buffy. “Let’s just ditch it.”

“H-he’ll get in trouble, won’t he?” said Tara, softhearted as usual. “Because you made him drunk.”

Spike shrugged. “Can’t be helped.”

“Spike...” began Buffy and he gave her a totally unrepentant look.

“We needed the ride and he wouldn’t have given it to us if he’d been sober. I’m betting those kegs are being delivered to the inn here. That means that they’ll know the cart and the driver, so it shouldn’t be too bad for him.”

“An inn,” sighed Anya. “Could we get rooms there for the night? You can’t mean to just go to the store and then start walking back all that way! It’s late. It’ll be dark soon.”

Spike glanced at Buffy. “It’s your call, Slayer. Most natural thing really would be to take rooms at the inn.” He tilted a sardonic eyebrow at her. “We do have the money.”

Buffy sighed. “Yeah, I guess we better. They’ll all be watching us, won’t they? Because we’re so weird. Or just because we’re strangers.”

Spike nodded. “They’ll be suspicious. Some spy would follow us if we leave. Just to make sure we don’t steal things or set fire to barns. Vagabonds like us aren’t to be trusted.”

“More walking,” Anya groaned as she reached for her heels. Even after the time she had spent in the wagon, it hurt to have to wedge her shoes back on.

While the others climbed stiffly out of the wagon, Spike yanked the carter’s legs around so that he looked as if he had fallen backwards from the driver’s seat. Spike dribbled a little more brandy over him, then left the cask close to his hand as if he had dropped it when he passed out. It made a believable picture.

“That was one painful ride,” Xander groaned, rubbing his ass. The wagon had no springs and they had all been jounced around like jumping beans when it had hit ruts and holes in the road.

They limped into the village and were immediately met with popping eyes and consternation. The children playing in the road took one look and fled, yelling. Men stopped dead in the street; women leaned out of the windows of their houses to stare; youths followed them, whispering and elbowing each other in the ribs.

“Smile and keep going,” said Spike tightly under his breath. “Don’t stop on any account or we’d get mobbed.”

They smiled grimly and headed determinedly for the inn. The sign outside it had a picture of a dove on it under script they couldn’t read and a real dove was huddled, bedraggled and pathetic, in a cage hanging from it.

“Oh, the poor thing!” said Tara and moved without thinking towards the cage.

“Glinda, if you set that bird free, I’ll bite you!” said Spike savagely. “A hassle right off with the locals is the last thing we need.”

Tara jumped and blushed. “S-sorry.”

“Humanitarian impulses can come later. Survival comes first. Everyone shut up and let me do the talking.”

The inn door opened on a taproom, already half-filled with customers now that the twilight was falling. A dead silence fell on their entrance, everyone turned to stone and gaping.

“Evening all,” said Spike jauntily. “Where’s the proprietor?”

After a moment of frozen shock, a beefy man edged forward, wiping his hands on his apron.

“I...” he said nervously, “I am the... I own...” He swallowed hard and recovered himself. “What would be your pleasure, good sir?”

Under a battery of staring eyes, Spike launched into their tale of shipwreck. He asked blandly if there was a ship they could take passage on to get home, knowing full well that there would be no vessel like that in this village.

“Not here,” muttered the innkeeper. “In Micad.”

“Where’s that?”

“Some fifty stads up the coast. But...but you must speak to the authorities first...”

“Happy to. Who’d that be, mate?”

“Magister Relke.”

“Right. Let’s see him then.”

“He is in Arun, er, three stads to the north.”

“We’ll go see him in the morning then. Got any rooms available for the night?”

“Three. But...”

Among the collection of coins in the purse Spike had stolen had been five distinct kinds: a larger and smaller gold piece, the same in silver, and a copper. Spike had one of each loose in the pocket of his duster. He took the larger of the gold ones out and held it up.

The innkeeper drew a deep breath. Awed whispers hissed in the back of the room. Spike got the strong impression that most of the people here had never even seen a coin of that denomination. He grinned.

The innkeeper let out his breath in a shuddering wheeze. “You wish the rooms for the week then, my lord?”

Spike didn’t miss the promotion or the implication of the worth of the coin. “We might. Depends on your Magister. But we’ll also want food...”

“And baths,” said Buffy suddenly from beside him.

“And baths,” agreed Spike. “And a private dining room if you’ve got one.”

He put the large gold coin back into his pocket, took the smaller one out and tossed it to the innkeeper. The innkeeper caught it nimbly, glanced at it and swelled like a frog with satisfaction.

“Of course, a private dining room, my lord, my lady. We have every amenity here at the Dove. This might be a small village, but nobles have rested here...”

“The location, I suppose,” said Spike lightly to cut off the innkeeper’s babbling.

“Yes, yes, precisely. If the gentlefolk would come this way...”

“Money talks,” said Spike dryly when they had been shown their rooms and the innkeeper had finally bowed himself away after a great deal of bombast and flattery, promising to have the serving girls bring hot water for the baths as soon as possible.

“It seems you stole from the right man,” said Buffy bitterly.

“‘M lucky that way,” smirked Spike. “Only got a couple of these gold ones that’ve got everybody freaking out. Most of it is copper, with a handful of silver. Have to find out what they’re worth. But it looks like we’ll be able to buy what we need. Just in case we get separated though, you all better have some.”

He handed everyone some of the copper coins and a couple of the silver.

“How come you’re keeping the gold?” Xander grumbled.

“First off, I’m the one who stole it. Second, I’m the one who can defend it if we get jumped.”

Eyes went wide and round.

“You think...”

“I’m just saying that in a village as small as this, those gold coins might be a very big temptation.”

“Give them to Buffy then.”

“Slayer has problems clobbering humans. I however,” he grinned nastily at Xander, “have none.”

“How are we going to share rooms?” Willow said hastily. “You guys take one and we girls take the others?”

“No way I’m sharing a room with Deadboy here!” Xander yelped. Each room had only one bed— kingsized, but only one.

“Got that right,” said Spike and shuddered. “Though it might have its advantages. I do tend to get peckish during the night.” He kept his face carefully straight as Xander did a horrified doubletake. “How about Willow and Tara in one, Anya and Harris in another, and you and me share the third, Slayer?”

He grinned at the glare she gave him.

“Not a snowball’s chance in Hell, Spike. Those beds are big enough for three, so I’ll be bunking with Willow and Tara.”

“Room all to myself. Oh, the possibilities.” Spike slanted a suggestive glance at the two pretty serving maids bringing cans of hot water to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Giggles and half-lidded, reciprocal glances came back. “Yeah, definite possibilities. You’re right about those beds. Threesomes can be such fun. And...breakfast in bed is a bonus.”

He turned away to follow the maids and grinned at the sound of Buffy’s footsteps chasing after him.

“Just hold it right there!” she snapped.

“Not in the hallway, Slayer. Have to present a solid front here. Gotta make like happy families. Don’t want these people getting the idea that there’s dissension in the ranks. ”

Buffy yanked open the door to one of the bedrooms they had been assigned. “Shut up and get in here!”

Spike shrugged and strolled in. “Wanna be alone with me? Always happy to oblige.” He laughed as she snarled. “And don’t slam the door, pet. Same reason as before. Might give the wrong impression.”

Buffy had been going to slam the door. Now she gritted her teeth and closed it with care, then turned to glare at him standing in the middle of the room, smirking at her.

“What’s got your knickers in a knot this time, Slayer? The threesome or the breakfast?”

“You’re not snacking on these people!”

“The breakfast. Bugger off, Slayer. Already have. Will again.”

“Absolutely not!”

Spike sighed theatrically. “We had this discussion yesterday, remember?”

“It’s different now!”

“Why? Because they have faces now? Because it’s not just some anonymous someone I’m drinking you don’t have to know about?”

Buffy bit her lip.

“They always have faces, pet,” he said with wry gentleness.

“You can’t...”

“I have to.” His face hardened. “You have to eat, I have to feed. You bunch are always so good at denial. But this is a cold, hard fact that can’t be denied away. So unless you’re willing to surrender your lily-white neck to my fangs, deal with it.”

“There are alternatives and you know it!”

“Animal blood. Dead blood. Why don’t you eat bugs, Slayer? They’re protein. People have, during famine times.” He smiled sardonically at her involuntary look of revulsion. “Better things around to eat, right? Don’t talk to me about alternatives. I’ve been eating garbage for the last year and a half. Not going to do it now that I don’t have to.”

“I’ll...”

“Only way you can stop me is to stake me. And I will fight back.”

“Dammit, will you give me a chance to talk?”

“Got some argument I haven’t heard? Go ahead.” He grinned as she floundered. “It’s not like I’m gonna be killing them. Said I wouldn’t and I won’t. And it’s not like they’re gonna remember or that it’ll even hurt them. That threesome? Those two girls are gonna love being bitten. I can make it so good for them. They’re gonna have such a rush, they’ll be begging for more.”

“Don’t make me barf!” snapped Buffy, her nose wrinkling in distaste, and his eyes narrowed.

“Ohh, that’s what it is. It really is the threesome not the breakfast that’s bugging you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself!” she spat furiously and he shook his head.

“Oh, I’m not. You’re wondering what it’s like. Because of Cardboard. You’re wondering what could be so intense that it would draw him that much.”

“Shut up!”

“Bull’s eye.” He gave her a slow, sensual smile. “I could show you.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“You want to know, don’t you? You’re dying to know.”

“Get away from me, Spike!”

“Haven’t moved,” he said softly. “You just want me to. So many things you want, Slayer, that you don’t let yourself have. Because you’ve been told it’s wrong. Like that number Angel pulled on you.”

She stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Couldn’t take the heat, so he hightails it out of Sunnydale. But because he can’t have you, he makes sure he fucks up every other relationship that you might have.”

“He didn’t do anything of the kind!”

“Didn’t he? He’s the one who laid this ‘normal’ thing on you, isn’t he? Normal!” he said contemptuously. “Like a Slayer would ever be satisfied with normal. Humans will never do it for you, pet. You found that out with Finn and that Parker git, didn’t you? Don’t have the strength. Don’t have the endurance or the stamina. Would break in half if you really cut loose. So you have to hold back all the time and you never get off. A Slayer needs someone as powerful as she is.”

“God!” She gave him an incredulous look. “Can you possibly be saying you’re the only one for me? As if! Geez, Spike! Ego much?”

“Me or someone like me, Slayer. Remember yesterday? You responded, pet. You wanted it.”

“I did not!”

“Think I couldn’t tell? You damn near ate me alive, Slayer!”

“You bastard!” She struck out at him furiously, burning with shame. How dared he bring that up, throw it in her face like that? He had taken her by surprise and she had responded automatically, without thinking. Only to the stimulus. Not to him. Never to him!

He struck her fist aside. She swung at him again, shaking with rage. He ducked, then slammed her up against the wall, his full weight on her to keep her from striking him.

“Hit me and I’ll hit you back, Slayer! Not gonna take this shit!”

“Get off me!”

She shoved at him violently and he caught her wrists and pushed them against the wall, holding them there with all his strength. They thrust at each other, she trying to force him away, he trying to keep her still.

To her horror, she found herself intensely aware of his body against hers, all that hard muscle and vibrant strength, his breath on her face, the masculine scent of him, the cavern of his mouth, open and panting. She was appalled to realize that she was aroused, could feel herself all buttery and throbbing. And he was aroused too. She could feel that.

“At least I’m honest,” he said under his breath. “I want you. Don’t want to want you. Pissed as hell I should be such a sodding idiot, but there it is. There’s something between us, Slayer, and if you were honest, you’d admit it. But you’re the queen of denial and you never will. So, okay, I accept it. But push me and I won’t answer for myself.”

She was shuddering, fighting that blind response of her body, fighting the way the heat of rage had turned crazily into the heat of desire. This was insane, so utterly, preposterously wrong. She wouldn’t accept it, wouldn’t permit it. Her own reactions repelled and revolted her. She went suddenly cold with anger and fright, her skin chilling.

“Let me go,” she said fiercely, carefully holding herself rigidly still.

He did, releasing her wrists and shoving himself away abruptly. He was breathing hard, as was she. Vampires didn’t need to breathe, so she guessed he was as affected as she was. What had seemed just challenge and mockery yesterday had taken on a whole new aspect that she didn’t want to face.

The bones of his face were standing out in strain and his eyes were very dark as he watched her, their pupils dilated within a thin rim of intense, blazing blue. Something moved within them, a bitterness. She blocked that out swiftly, expertly, practiced in blocking out anything she didn’t want to see in him.

“If you touch me again...”

He made a scornful gesture. “You’ll kill me. Yeah, yeah. Got that song memorized, Slayer. Get yourself a new one.”

She truly, truly wanted him dead.

TBC