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West of the Moon, East of the Sun by KnifeEdge
 
Chapter 55: The West Wind
 
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Author’s Note: Thanks for all the wonderful comments and reviews on the previous chapter. :)

WARNING: This chapter contains scenes of violence, implied sex, and possibly offensive racial slurs (my sincere apologies, it was a character choice, not my personal feelings on the subject).

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science







Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode “Fool For Love” written by Douglas Petrie.


Chapter 55
The West Wind


I stumble when I jump off the back of the subway car, hitting the ground sooner than I expected. When I right myself and look behind me, the subway is gone.

And I'm in hell.

Fires burn all around around me. People run, screaming, clutching one another. Others run after them waving weapons of all sorts. Everything is painted in flickering shades of red and orange, gold and black. The scent of smoke, burnt wood, and flesh makes the air feel thick. Yuck.

My demon sense is going crazy.

Once more I feel like I'm Scrooging it here. People run past me without ever acknowledging me, giving me time to notice things. Like that some of them... many of them... most of them, even, are Chinese. There's a heaping handful of white people running around, too, although they're all dressed in old fashioned clothing. It's hard to tell who is chasing who.

Maybe this isn't hell?

Think, brain.

Chinese. Spike. Old fashioned clothes.

The Boxer Rebellion.

I have a feeling that I'm going to find Spike and another Slayer somewhere nearby. All I have to do is follow the tingles.

Only there's a lot of tingles right now, all with that slight echoey feel; some of them feel familiar.

I concentrate, trying to isolate signatures.

The only one I recognize for sure is Spike's Mr. Gordo-like echo. How did I go so long without realizing that Mr. Gordo was just... an echo of Spike?

Easy. I didn't want to know.

Blind. God, I was blind.

My feet follow the tingles, weaving between burning buildings and fleeing people. They seem to be coming from a building up ahead; a...temple of some sort, maybe? It looks big and important. Most of the fire and fighting seems to be staying well away from it. One of the side doors is open, and I creep in.

Once more, I'm greeted by the sounds of fighting. Guess I'm late for the party again.

When I round the corner and step into the shadowy interior of the temple, I almost don't recognize him.

Seriously, Spike? Suspenders?

The rough pants and linen shirt make him look like he's wearing a costume. Guess we're back before jeans and t-shirts, and long before punk music, by the looks of it. His hair is a mess. In the firelight it's a sort of reddish brown, and it looks like he's let it grow out to try to get rid of the curl. Hanks of it flop in his face, and the rest is tied back into a low tail.

Plus, he's vamped. Spike almost never vamps when he's fighting. Almost like he's too good to need to.

Only right now... I can see why he needs to.

"...Didn't know what to expect, did I? Thought I'd just walk in and the fists would start flying. I was wrong. She danced. Had this sword, long and shiny and blessed. The way she moved with it... poetry..."

She's small, maybe smaller than me. Her long black hair hangs in a braid down her back, and it swings out in an arc with every kick, every spin. Her black shirt and pants look like silk pajamas, but, you know, probably aren't. And then there's the sword, just like Spike said.

She dances with it.

He manages to avoid a thrust to his head, leaning back out of the way. She merely flicks the tip of it across his face, gashing him above one eye. When he recovers I can see the fresh and bloody mark that still scars his eyebrow over a hundred years later. Even though there's blood running into his eye he's grinning, showing off gleaming fangs.

The idiot looks like he's having the time of his unlife.

At least until she does this wicked spin kick thing right into his face.

Guess wiping grins off Spike's face is a built in Slayer instinct. Nikki did it, too.

"Just like I pictured it," Spike says, dancing backwards. "This good for you?"

And mocking Slayers appears to be a built in Spike instinct. And here I thought I was special.

This girl... she's incredible. The way she spins, her sword swinging out in silvery blurs.

And Spike...

Well, he's not as good. But he's not dust yet. I have no clue how he manages to avoid that blade; it's spinning so fast I can't even follow it.

Until she miscalculates and stabs at him, just as Spike steps out of her way. The blade sinks into a statue and he locks her wrist there, punching her hard enough that it sends her spinning back, weaponless.

Now she looks scared, but determined, kicking out at him and throwing a few well-timed blows.

I can almost see Spike calculating, following her moves... and then he turns them back on her.

Still, she manages to get him up against a pillar, pinning him there and whipping a stake out of nowhere. I start to step forward, but the barrier is back, keeping me from moving. It hits me at the same time as the window beside the two of them explodes...

My first instinct was to help him.

Not her.

While my brain spins a bit, dizzy at that thought, the two of them are forced back. They lunge at one another, but Spike is just a little faster, a little stronger. He manages to disarm her. Her elbow comes up, hitting him in the jaw.

And there it is.

"...a Slayer must always reach for her weapon. I've already got mine..."

She hesitates.

Half a second.

And Spike slips in, grabbing her arm and twisting it back, pinning her against him.

She could break his hold. I know she can. It'd be tricky, but this girl, she could do it.

But she doesn't. She closes her eyes, braces herself, and waits for his fangs to descend. He drinks, deeply, and I feel a sympathetic twinge from the scar on my own throat, knowing how it feels. Then he pulls back hard, staring at her; she lifts her head and meets his eyes. Roughly he spins her around to face him and she grips his shirt to hold herself up. For a moment, they look like they're embracing. Spike holds her gently against him, and she clings, whispering something I can't hear. Then he takes a deep breath.

"Sorry, luv," he says. "I don't speak Chinese." And he tosses her to the ground like so much trash. Breathing hard he swipes at the blood on his chin, then sucks it off his thumb. "Fella could get used to this." For a moment he just stands there, staring down at the body, and his game face melts away. Still, he stares, and the look on his face... like he's trying to puzzle out the secrets of the universe.

I'm no longer alone behind my barrier.

I turn to look at her, swallowing hard to keep from throwing up.

Her expression is impassive as she watches him. Then her eyes flick towards the entrance, just as the tingles tell me that someone is coming.

"Oh, Spike, look at the wonderful mess you've made. That's a Slayer you've done in. Naughty, wicked Spike." Drusilla glides in, looking... not as skanky as usual, to be honest. The long, white dress suits her, and the way she wears her hair. She looks like something out of a book of Victorian fashion models, delicate and doll-like. Spike turns to look at her and his whole body changes, straightening, more confident.

Drusilla extends a hand to him, like a princess waiting for her knight to kiss her knuckles, then beckons him closer.

When he moves now, it's with that familiar prowl of his, and Drusilla seems as shocked as I am when, instead of taking her hand, he grabs her around the waist and hauls her roughly up against him. "Did you ever hear them say that the blood of a Slayer is a powerful aphrodisiac?" he says, his voice so low I can barely hear him. "Here now, have a taste." He raises a bloody finger to Dru's lips. The way she sucks it off is so dirty it makes me blush, but the Slayer beside me doesn't even bat an eye. She just watches.

And when Spike lifts Dru into the air and slams her back, hard, against a pillar, then dives in for a kiss, we both watch, disgusted. Riveted. ... okay, maybe a little fascinated. Flames lick the far wall, the fire from outside spreading. They don't seem to care. Dru starts to strip off his shirt and he yanks up her dress, the two of them sinking to the floor... Something inside of me growls.

I can't watch this.

I can't.

I know Spike and Drusilla were... and I know this was a hundred years ago but...

"Is that what it's like?" the Slayer beside me asks, still staring.

"What?" I ask, glad for the distraction. "I thought you didn't speak English."

"I don't," she says, in perfect, unaccented English. Okay. I guess this would probably be difficult if we couldn't understand each other, or, you know, had to have subtitles. Or bad dubbing. She's still staring, her eyebrows raising as I hear Spike growl and Dru give a little gasp. "Oh," the Slayer says, her eyes cartoon huge.

I grab her by the shoulder and spin her around. "We shouldn't be watching this," I tell her. "It's wrong."

"The demon has slain me while you observed. Yet, you are concerned for their privacy?" she asks, frowning a little.

"Vampire sex? Totally icky," I lie, trying not to squirm. She glances dubiously over her shoulder.

"I would not know," she says, a little sadly. I look at her again. She looks young.

"How old are you?" I ask. "I mean... were, or ..."

"Sixteen," she says, still looking back over her shoulder. There's definite gasping noises going on back there. "I would have been seventeen in a few weeks. Why is he touching her there?"

"Where?" I ask, glancing back and getting an eyeful of... oh.

Oh.

I spin back around and face the wall. "Oh, thats... uh, normal. It, um... it feels... good and you are way too young to be watching this."

"I am dead," she says. "I do not think it matters."

Okay, so, maybe she has a point. But still. Her eyes slide my way.

"You were seventeen," she says, a little slyly. Crap. Busted.

"Completely different culture!" I argue.

"Yes," she agrees. "In my culture I am old enough for marriage. But the matchmaker was never sent for me. I have always been the Slayer." Her gaze drifts back to watch whatever Spike and Dru are doing now, which, from the sounds of it, is going to last awhile. Vampire stamina, I guess, though honestly Angel and I never really got a chance to test that. And I'm not going to turn around to see what he's doing to Drusilla to make her make that noise.

Instead I frown. "You couldn't have been born the Slayer," I say.

She shakes her head. "No," she says. "But the fortune teller saw on the day of my birth, and then the white shifu came. In secret I trained in the ways of the warrior. My brothers say the first word I spoke was 'vampire'. I am yóuxiá. Not by choice, by fate. It is my duty to my family, to my people."

She doesn't sound like she regrets it, but I can't help but shudder at the idea. At least I had a normal life until I was called. I can't imagine what it would be like if I'd grown up knowing I was going to be the Slayer.

"Did you hate it?" I ask. "You barely got to live."

She gives a weird little shrug. "It was as it was meant to be," she says. "I am glad to have died in battle. The demon fought well, if strangely."

"He's fought better," I say. "He got lucky."

"Fortune favors the brave," she says, which makes me shiver. "His will is strong, and destiny shapes his path as much as it has yours and mine. For now he is but iron, but for you, he could be a sharp weapon. Would you see?"

"Do I have a choice?" I ask.

She turns to face me fully then. "Always," she says, absolutely serious.

I'm sensing a theme. None so blind, right?

"Yes," I say. "I would see."

***


There's no subway car, this time; no windows to look out of. Instead the world shifts around us, flickering a little as time moves. Then we're standing on a street paved with cobblestones and bricks, in the dark and the fog, and a black carriage, drawn by horses has just stopped up ahead of us underneath a weirdly green streetlight. The buildings around us are mostly dark, but I can't tell if it's because it's really late and everyone is asleep, or if it's because this place is abandoned. It looks abandoned. There's trash drifting down the street, and the smell from the gutters is pretty stinky.

"Where are we?" I ask, wrinkling my nose.

"Before," the Slayer says, watching everything with interest. "It helps to know where iron comes from."

The carriage door opens and a man gets out. From this distance it's hard to tell much about him. He's dressed in light colored slacks and a jacket, and he's wearing a top hat. My Spike sense knows him, even if his clothes are weird. He stops and reaches out a hand to someone inside the carriage, then helps her down. She wears a white gown and some kind of long coat thing, and something about the way she moves and the tingles that are crawling up and down my neck tells me clearer than seeing her face, this is Drusilla.

They cling to each other, laughing softly as they move down the sidewalk. The carriage moves off into the fog. If I didn't know any better these two would look like moving targets, wandering through this bad part of town. But I do know better.

The three men who step out of the shadows of the alleyway just ahead of us... don't.

"Ev'nin' guvna," says the smallest of the gang with a grin. The others move into position around Spike and Drusilla. Or maybe it's William, still. "Don't often see toffs like yourselves down 'ere. Got a bit lost, eh? No worries. Old Tom's 'ere to set you to rights."

"Bother," William mutters.

"Are we going to play a game?" Drusilla says with a smile at the biggest of the three men.

"Yeah," Old Tom says with a nasty laugh. "It's called pass the purse. Want to be the purse, ducks?"

"Like ring o' roses? I quite like that game," she says.

"Your bird's a bit barmy, ain't she, guv?" laughs Old Tom. William scowls. "No matter, bet she's a bit of allright where it counts, eh?" William steps slightly in front of Drusilla, who is now humming softly to herself.

"You're addressing a lady, I shall have you know, sir," William says, and I have to shake my head to clear my ears. Surely I didn't hear him right. He sounds totally different. Maybe he's acting? You know, pretending to be all stiff upper crusty or something in order to fool these guys into being dinner? "You should be more polite."

"Ooooh," Old Tom says, glancing at his boys. "A lady. Why didn't you say so? An' 'ere we thought she was a bit of a lightskirt. Seen 'er about a time or two, always with dif'rent gents. But a lady you seys?" He laughs, totally missing the low animal growl that comes from William's throat. "I ain't never 'ad a lady before. 'Ow 'bout you, lads?"

The other men laugh and shake their heads, no.

"C'mon over 'ere to Old Tom, luv, and give us a kiss. My lads are just goin' to have a bit of a chat with your man, there," Tom stretches out a hand to Dru, bowing mockingly. Her eyes light up and she touches William on the shoulder, their eyes meet and something seems to pass between them.

"Shall I, my sweet?" she asks. I watch as William's fists clench for a moment, then he relaxes, glancing back at the two thugs behind him.

"Go on then," he says softly. "Give him a kiss."

Dru drifts over to Old Tom who wraps an arm around her waist and holds her tight, clearly delighted. She actually leans in and kisses him, humming to herself again.

Meanwhile the other two thugs close in on William, backing him away from Drusilla. One reaches out and grabs his arm and Spike pulls away, breaking the guy's grip.

"'Ere now, guv," says thug one. "You're in our world, now. 'And over your purse an' we promise, it'll only 'urt a bit."

"And if I choose not?" William says, his eyes glinting gold. Neither of them seem to notice.

"Well, then I guess it'll 'urt a lot," laughs thug two, none too bright.

"Promise?" William says, his voice lower now, a little more dangerous. The two thugs exchange a glance, then look back at Old Tom, who's got Drusilla backed up against a wall now, mauling her breasts through her dress. When they turn back to William, he smiles.

And shifts into game face.

The fight takes longer than I expected. William has all the strength and skill of a fledge, maybe even less. His style is clumsy, concentrated entirely on his fists. He barely uses his legs at all except to dodge like an amateur boxer. If he'd met a Slayer right now, he'd already be dust.

But for these two morons, he's more than a match. They're pretty clumsy, too, but more inventive, especially when faced with a monster. William, however, is faster, stronger, and a quick learner. Just like in the fight with the Slayer beside me, I can almost see the calculation in his yellow eyes; the way he takes in their moves, then adapts them to suit his own purposes. The first thug goes headfirst into the nearby brick, his head making a sickening crunch.

The second one, William toys with a little before grabbing him by the shirt and hauling him up close, sinking his fangs into the guy's neck. His feeding is messy, and thorough. He drains the guy, then drops the empty body on top of the first. Full now, he licks his lips and tilts his head back to the sky, laughing at the rush.

Then he glances over at Drusilla. "Finished yet, ducks?" he asks, aping Old Tom's accent and sounding slightly more like Spike. Dru looks up from the throat of Old Tom's corpse, her mouth stained red. She smiles.

"Ashes to ashes, we all fall down," she says softly. She drops her corpse on top of the others and reaches for William. He grabs her hands and spins her in a waltzy sort of twirl, then pulls her in for a kiss. "Did you enjoy yourself, my William?" she asks.

"Rather more than expected," he says, reverting back to Giles-isms. Okay, so maybe not an act. "It's... quite freeing, isn't it? Exhilarating. I never realized..."

"You shall hunt with Daddy tomorrow," Dru says, leaning back and letting her long hair swing as he spins her. "He will teach you all sorts of lovely games."

"Must I?" William says, frowning a little.

"Oh, yes," Dru says, straightening and clasping her arms around his neck. "And the stars themselves will tremble and whisper your name."

"And will you?" he says, his voice dropping as his mouth dips to hers. "Will you tremble and whisper my name, darling?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, no," she says. "For you must find it first, and then... oh, then I shall scream it and so will all the world."

He growls a little, clearly pleased with that.

And the world ripples again.

***


This time it dumps us on the edges of a bar fight. The place is old, low beamed, and lit mostly by a smoky fire at one end of the room. A dozen or so people stand around the edges with us, most of them men dressed in sort of old style workman's clothes. Long wooden tables have been flipped over and pushed against the wall, leaving a rough area in the middle. William, wearing an old fashioned shirt and trousers, with a handkerchief loosely knotted around his neck, stands in the center of the floor. Blood dribbles from his nose and smears his chin, but he's not in vamp face. Not yet. In one fist he clasps what looks like a stake.

He's grinning, watching the five men circling him like sharks.

"'Come on, then," he says, and now his accent is somewhere closer to the one I know. "You pillocks goin' to dance about all night?"

"You killed Buford," one of the circling men says. William looks surprised.

"Was that his name?" he says. "Did him a bloody favor, I think, puttin' him out of that sort of misery. What sort of name is that? Buford."

"It were a family name," one of the other men growls. "And better than yours, whatever you're called, you murderous dog."

William dodges as one of the men make a grab for him, easily ducking a second blow that comes from behind. "They call me William the Bloody," he says, proudly.

The men look unimpressed. "William the bloody what? Coward?" sneers one of them. "Poofter? Prat?"

In a lightning fast move, William grabs the man by the collar, punches him twice in the face, then rams the stake in his hand through the guy's skull.

"Just Bloody," he says, off hand. "Though I've been thinkin' of changin' it. What do you lads think of 'Spike'?" He yanks the thing free of the twitching corpse and holds it up, admiring it.

It's not a stake at all. It's what must be a railroad spike. About eight inches of solid iron, with a blunt head and a chiseled tip, coated now with gore and blood.

The men reel back, appalled. I guess they weren't expecting him to murder someone right in front of them. I know how they feel. My stomach clenches a little. Beside me, the Slayer watches, impassive. I wish I could be that stoic, but watching people die is so not my thing. Give me slimy, green demon guts any day.

"I think it'll be nice an' short to carve on yer headstone!" one of the men roars.

"Bit late for that," Spike comments, and smoothly sidesteps the man's charge. "But, yeah, I kinda like it, too. Really gets, ya, right here." And with that he jabs the spike through the man's gut.

Like one big animal, the remaining three guys fall on him, and he's lost for a moment under all of their flailing fists. But even though he's not vamped out, he's still stronger, still faster, and one by one he throws them off.

It's funny that I've fought him so many times, and beside him more than once, but never really had a chance to watch him as he fought. He's still not a particularly good fighter, not nearly what he will be, but he's graceful as a dancer and insanely fast. The real danger, however, is that he's observant and a quick study. Just like the previous two fights, he watches the men closely, picking up on their fighting styles and matching them blow for blow. Then he adapts it, changes it up, turns it back on them. It's brutal.

And then he's standing over five men, three of which are dead, one that probably will be very soon, and another that's knocked unconscious. He's breathing hard, but they didn't even really bruise him. He glances at the metal spike still gripped in his fist. "Yeah," he says. "Spike. Got a bit of poetic irony to it." Then he giggles a little hysterically. "Spike. Irony. Get it?"

The crowd isn't really all that appreciative. They're gathering weapons—bottles, pieces of wood, tools, there's even a pitchfork—and glaring at the monster in their midst. If only they knew. Someone yells, "Murderer!" and they all come at him at once. Spike pauses for only half a second to laugh, then he bolts out through the door into the street, grinning the whole way.

We don't follow. Instead, the floor and walls ripple around us, shifting and changing as we move forward in time.

***


We're back in China, I think, judging by the decor. The room is dark, lit only by candles stuck in niches in the walls and little holder thingies all over the room. An old man sits, meditating by candlelight. He doesn't even flinch when the door opens and in strolls Spike. He's wearing the same clothes from when he killed the Slayer, and he's added a long brown coat that looks like the leather duster's great, great ugly grandfather. The cut over his eyebrow is an angry, red, bloody mess. It doesn't look like he's had it even long enough to clean it properly.

With a swagger in his step he strides across the room, stopping a few feet away from the old man. "Rise and shine, teach," he says without preamble. "You've got a new student. Heard in Peking you were the bloke to see about learning how to fi—"

The old man lashes out with a nearby cane, sweeping Spike's feet from under him. Before Spike can even think to rise, the old man is standing over him, the wooden cane poised above Spike's heart, pinning him to the floor. His eyes are still closed.

"Guess I heard right," Spike says, staying very still, though his eyes are sizing the old man up again, taking it all in.

"Your accent is terrible," the old man says, once more in that smoothly unaccented English. That can't be natural. I can't decide if that means that the two of them are actually speaking Chinese and I'm just hearing it in English or what, but I figure I can go with it.

Then the old man opens his eyes: solid, demonic black. He stares down at Spike.

"Vampire," he says.

"Demon," Spike says, sarcastically.

"Shut up," the old man says. "You stink of fire, wood, and sunlight. It fascinates you, even though you should fear it. You are water, metal, darkness. Strength like iron, but adaptable. Changeable like the moon. The fire will temper you, sharpen you. The sunlight will define your darkness. Still, there is too much water in you. Your mouth runs like a man with dysentery."

"Well, aren't you Lord Byron," Spike drawls. "All this yammerin' mean you'll teach me?" The old man whacks Spike in the head with his cane. "Ow! Bloody hell!"

"Lesson the first," the old man says. "Learn to like pain. It means you are still alive." The cane comes down again just as time wrinkles.

When it stops we're in the same place, some time later.

"I feel like I should be listening to Eye of the Tiger or something," I say. "Please tell me that Spike isn't the original Karate Kid. If I have to watch a training montage..."

The Slayer just rolls her eyes.

Spike's collapsed, panting, in a corner, stripped to the waist, and barefoot. His white chest is streaked with bleeding cuts and he's got a freshly blackened eye. But he still hasn't shut up.

"You cheated," he yells, presumably at the old guy who is somewhere out of sight. "All that bollocks about forms and harnessing energy and the honor of the warrior and then you bloody well cheated." Mr. Miyagi's evil twin comes around the corner, carrying two bowls of something steaming and hot. He hands one of them to Spike, then sits across from him, picking up his chopsticks and calmly beginning to eat.

"There is no cheating," he says. "In a fight you use every advantage in order to defeat your opponent. Know the rules so that you may break them, hékǒu. We are demons. Honor is optional. If your enemy is more concerned with honor than living, use it against her. Now, eat."

Spike sighs, frowning at his bowl. "Lesson the hundred and twenty-soddin'-seventh, I suppose. Has it escaped your attention that I don't need to eat human food? I'm a vampire. I'm supposed to drink blood."

The old man squints at him, then pokes him in the chest with the chopsticks. "Oi!" Spike yells, leaning back. "Watch the wood, you daft old git."

"Will you always only do what you are supposed to?" the old man asks. "Immortality is a long, long time, and still too short for us to bore ourselves. Learn to enjoy life's pleasures. Break the rules. Live a little. Now, eat."

Spike sighs and fumbles with his chopsticks. When he fails to pick up anything with them, he pitches one of them over his shoulder, then uses the other to stab his food. He takes a bite and chews thoughtfully. "Not bad," he says. "Bit spicy. What's in it?"

"Peppercorns, chilies, chicken... garlic," the old man says slyly.

Abruptly Spike chokes, the veins in his forehead popping out in sharp relief against his skin. He somehow manages to swallow it. "Garlic?" he rasps. "Are you trying to bloody kill me?"

"You are already dead," the old guy says. "But in a sense, yes. What does not destroy you makes you stronger."

"Bloody Taoist crap," Spike mutters.

"Actually," the old man says. "It's Nietzsche."

Spike glares, but he takes another bite. "Wanker," he says. They continue to eat, Spike defiantly chewing every bite while glaring at his teacher.

I suppress a giggle. This explains soooo much. The Slayer beside me sighs.

"Are you sure that this vampire is what you want?" she asks. "He seems... unruly."

"He is," I tell her. "But I'm starting to think that that's part of his charm. Don't get me wrong, it's annoying as hell but... I don't know. I'm pretty stubborn myself, and not so good with the rule following."

And that's the thing about Spike, I realize. That incredible pig-headedness that keeps him from giving up, from backing down when he really wants something. "A man's got to try." Isn't that what he said, over and over? Knowing how he felt for me, knowing it was wrong, he still couldn't give it up for hopeless. How many times did he keep coming back here, trying to kill me and then unable to leave even though he didn't have the slightest encouragement or reason to stay?

Angel gave it all up when he had all the reasons in the world to stay. Riley, too. I'd given both of them nothing but encouragement, handed them my heart, and they'd walked away. All I've ever given Spike are reasons to hate me, but he's so stubborn he can't quit.

For a moment, I'm dizzy with the desire to reach out and touch this ghost Spike's shoulder, to tell him that, if I can get him back, I won't push him away anymore.

The scene ripples and shifts.

Spike and the old man are fighting. Judging by the fact that the mark over his eye is still a red, angry mess and the length of his hair, I'd say this is not too long after the first two scenes. Maybe a few months.

Spike's good. Whatever this old guy has been teaching him, he's good. I don't recognize just one fighting style, either. The two of them seem to switch fluidly between styles, changing with the fight. And they both fight dirty. Spike goes down, rolls, grabs a fist full of dirt off the floor and hurls it in the old guy's face even as he regains his feet. He backhands the demon hard, lashing out with his feet and fists now, pummeling the tiny old guy into a shrine full of grotesque little figurines. The old man grabs a candle off the shelf and stabs it at Spike, burning him with it and spattering his skin with hot, red wax. Then he follows up, pushing the vampire back into the room, leveling the fight once more.

They practically demolish the room, and it becomes pretty clear that they're not just sparring. This is a no holds barred, all out, fight to the finish.

And Spike is winning.

The old guy, he's strong, and fast, and he's got who knows how much experience over Spike. But Spike is stronger, faster, and more resilient. When the old guy manages a punishing kick to Spike's groin, he doubles up briefly, clutching himself, then uses the same movement to elbow the old man in the face as he dives in for another blow. You know... I kicked Angel in the groin once, at least that hard, and it incapacitated him for a few minutes. But I watched Nikki kick Spike the same way and the same thing happened, he used it against her, barely seemed to register it. I'm not sure why that impresses me, but it does.

The fight picks up speed, and they ramp up the power of their blows. Whichever of them survive this is going to walk away with a mess of bruises—and I already know which it will be. Still, the old guy is good and it's something of a shock to all of us when Spike manages to pin him to the floor, a sword he snatched from somewhere in the last few minutes, held at the old man's throat.

"Checkmate," Spike says.

"Finish it," the old man says.

"Got a death wish, teach?" Spike asks.

"Lesson the—"

"Bugger the lesson number," Spike growls.

"Compassion, mercy, pity... these are human emotions. They will not serve you. I have taught you all I can. It is traditional for the student to kill his master when he has surpassed him. Finish it, and learn the last lesson."

With a growl, Spike lifts the blade high, then jabs it into the old guy's ... shoulder? He must have put a lot of strength into the blow because the sword sinks deep into the dirt floor beneath, until the hilt is flush with the old guy's robes. I'm not sure which of us is more surprised. The demon master doesn't scream with pain, though it clearly hurts.

"Lesson the first," Spike drawls, stepping out of range of the old demon's legs. "Learn to enjoy pain. Means you're alive. Lesson the second—I'm not stupid. I've known what kind of demon you were since day one, and beheading you doesn't kill you. Lesson the third—there are some things you'll never, ever be able to beat out of me. And lesson the fourth—bugger your soddin' traditions. You come after me, though, and I will kill you."

He leaves the room, disappearing further into the house. The old guy lays there for a few moments, panting and bleeding. Tentatively he reaches up to grab the sword hilt, but he's got no leverage to pull it out. After a couple of painful tries he flops back on the floor. Spike comes back in, fully dressed and shrugging into his ugly coat.

"Where will you go now?" the old man says.

"Not sure," Spike says with an uncaring shrug. "Somewhere. World's my bloody oyster, yeah?"

"If you go to Japan, hékǒu, look for a teacher named Hisato Kurokami. Send him my regards," the old man says, grinning sharply. Spike gives him a look, but nods. Just as he's about to go out the door, the old man stops him again. "The last lesson... for your kind, and mine... death is what we are, what we bring. It is our gift. It is only the beginning."

A shiver goes down my spine. Her gift is death, and it shall love her above all others...

Maybe...

"God, but you're full of crap," Spike says, but he grins as he leaves and time shifts again.

***


This time I'm not sure where we are. Or when. Not immediately. It looks like the front lobby of a hotel, very late at night. The floor is white marble and the walls have this gorgeous dark wood paneling all the way up to the intricate plasterwork along the ceiling. The desk is dark wood, too. Stairs at the back lead up to the rooms, and a pair of old fashioned elevators wait for passengers. The elevator guy is half-asleep, dozing in his chair in the corner, his little red cap is kinda tilty on his head in spite of the strap holding it in place.

There's a set of open doors just beyond the desk, near the doors to the street. They're pulled wide to show a bar and some kind of restaurant. The Slayer leads me inside.

Only a few hardcore drinkers and the bartender are left this late, and a young Chinese girl dressed in traditional clothes is clearing the tables quietly in the corner. All the men at the bar are wearing suits and ties, hats lay next to them on the bartop. Most of them are smoking and the scent lingers heavily in the air. There's no TV or anything. Most of these guys are drinking alone with nothing more than some low key jazz music playing from somewhere. Little logos throughout the place tell me we're in the Pickwick Cafe.

The outside door to the hotel lobby opens behind us, and my Slayer senses tingle. I don't have to turn to know that Spike just walked in the door. He passes us, close enough that I could reach out and touch him this time, but once more we're the ghosts in the scene and he doesn't even notice us. He's dressed in a black pinstriped suit, with a crimson silk shirt underneath his tie. He even has on a black hat with a red band around the crown, though it doesn't do much to hide his very blond hair.

He swaggers up to the bar and has a seat. "Whiskey," he tells the bartender. "And none of that prohibition crap. I know you've got some back there, and not that shite that crawled out of a bathtub."

The bartender looks like he's going to complain, but Spike just gives him a look and he shuts up, digging under the bar until he comes up with a bottle.

"You're English," says the guy on Spike's left, blinking at him drunkenly.

"Very good," Spike says, sarcastically, then holds up a fist. "How many fingers am I holdin' up?" The drunk quickly turns back to his drink and Spike turns his attention to his. After awhile the drunk's curiosity gets the better of him and he glances again at Spike, who is clearly enjoying his whiskey. Spike just glares at him. Trying to cover, the drunk looks up at the mirror across from the bar, hoping to study Spike that way.

Only the mirror doesn't show Spike at all. The drunk blinks from Spike, to the mirror, then back to Spike. Finally he gives up, clearly willing to blame the booze. He wobbles down from his stool. "Think I'm done for the night," he tells the bartender, slipping an obscenely small amount of cash under his glass.

"Need a cab, mister?" the bartender asks. "I can have the doorman flag one for you."

"Got a room," the guy says, showing a room key. "See you tomorrow."

He stumbles out into the lobby, leaving Spike, the bartender and a couple of old guys at the bar. The Chinese girl is still cleaning in the back, and I watch Spike watch her in the mirror, his view unimpeded by his own reflection.

When the bartender comes back to fill his glass, Spike tilts his head in her direction. "Who's the bird?"

"The chink?" the bartender says, with a little bit of a sneer. "Dishwasher's daughter. We're short handed so she's filling in for Joe on the late night shift. If it bothers you I can send her in back til you're gone. Some guys don't care for chinamen. Or girls, for that matter." It's pretty clear that the bartender is one of the 'don't care' crowd. Ugh. Racist jerk. Guess we’re before political correctness.

Spike just shrugs. "Doesn't bother me. I rather like the Chinese. Best meal of my life was in China. What I wouldn't give for another taste of that," he says, his blue eyes fixing on the girl. She keeps shooting him strange, puzzled glances, too. Then I see her eyes focus on the mirror and widen. Spike turns around and glances at her, then winks.

She goes pale, then hurriedly goes back to cleaning tables.

Spike nurses his drink, right up until it looks like she's finished. Then he downs it in one go, slaps a few coins on the bartop and stands. He prowls over to her, blocking her from going back to the kitchen. Nobody even looks like they're going to stop him. "Kitchen's closed," he says.

She mistakes it for a question, and answers in English, her words accented heavily. No magic translation for her. "If you hungry, I ask—"

"Wasn't asking, pet," he says, his voice low and amused. "Why don't we step outside? Get some air. Bit smoky in here."

She looks scared. A quick glance at the bartender tells her that there's no help coming from there. The jerk is practically ordering her to go outside with Spike with his eyes. I can almost see the 'customer is always right' sign tattooed on his forehead. Spike takes the girl by the arm and steers her toward another set of doors at the other end of the cafe.

We follow them out. Above us a sign hangs most of the length of the building, the big incandescent bulbs spelling out "Hotel Pickwick." Now that we're on the sidewalk, though, I vaguely recognize the place. San Fransisco, I think. I'd gone there once or twice on trips with my family. This looks like it's near Union Square. Only this is old San Francisco... maybe right after the big earthquake at the beginning of the century. The jazz music drifting from a club down the street tells me it's probably the 1920's.

Spike and the girl go around the building into an alleyway, the barrier stops the Slayer and me right at the mouth. The Chinese girl is crying a little, scared. With a rough shove, Spike pushes her away from him, takes off his hat and jacket and rolls up his cuffs.

"Been looking for one of you for a few years, now," Spike says with a grin. "Never thought to find another Chinese Slayer, not so soon. Not on a completely different continent."

Oh.

Oh crap.

I glance at the Slayer beside me, but once more her face is impassive.

"C'mon, then," Spike says. "Let's see what you've got." He's practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready for some action. The girl, on the other hand, clearly hasn't the faintest idea of what he's talking about. He dives at her, and she manages to dodge... more because he lets her, though, than because she knows what to do. With a frown, he pauses, eying her up and down. "What are you waiting for, Slayer, an engraved invite? How's this?"

He shifts into game face.

The girl screams. Then she starts babbling in Chinese, backing away from him toward the mouth of the alley.

With a snarl, Spike's on her, gripping her by the shoulders and twisting her around so he can stare into her face. She's trembling in his hands. "Bloody hell," he mutters, shaking off the demon. "You don't know what you are, do you?"

"Please, sir, let me go. I'm a good girl. Good family," she says, whimpering.

"Shut up," he tells her, and she does. With a frown he leans in and inhales, then growls. "I'm not wrong," he says, but mostly to himself. "Maybe it'll kick in?" But she's still crying silently, trying to get free. "Fuck. Thought it'd be like last time. Thought... Fuck."

Disgusted he pushes her away.

"Go on, then," he says. "Get out of here. Go home. When you figure out what you are, if you live that long, come track me down. We'll have ourselves a dance." She doesn't wait for another chance, instead she just scurries out of the alley, then takes off running for home without looking back.

Spike stands there looking after her, listening to her retreating footsteps. Then he puts his coat and hat back on, straightens his cuffs and sighs.

"God, I'm a prat," he growls, then goes back inside.

"He let her go," I murmur, watching his retreating back.

"It would not be the last time," the Slayer says.

"That he let a Slayer go?" I ask, confused. She nods.

"He is a strange demon," agrees the Slayer. "And he follows a strange code. He made himself strong enough to hunt the strongest of our kind. To hunt you. Are you certain that you want him?"

I don't really even need to think about it. "Yes," I tell her. "I do. If you were supposed to be showing me clips from the anti-Spike campaign, you pretty much failed, you know. This... this especially. Yeah, I know he let her go because she wasn't enough of a challenge, but isn't that the point? He let her go. He chose to. Just like he chose not to kill that demon guy. Fighting Spike... he's the toughest vamp I've ever fought. The only one I've never been able to dust. There's no one I'd rather have at my side in a fight."

She nods, as if she expected this.

"It is not my duty to influence you one way or the other. My ability to choose what I show is limited. I am simply to show you the things you need to see. This Spike, he is not only a demon, he is a warrior. That is something I can respect."

"Then will you take me to him?" I ask.

"I have taken you as far as I can," she says. "But you still have far to go."

"Great," I say. It was too easy for this to be the end

She reaches down and unfastens the silken cord that ties her sword to her waist, then presents the sword to me. "May this help you on your journey," she says. Reverently I take it from her.

"Thank you," I say, unsure of the correct response. Spike's coat was one thing. I mean, it's pretty much his already, I'm just bringing it to him, right? But this...

"Si ma dang huo ma yi," she says. Apparently I don't get an automatic translation for that.

"What does that mean?" I ask. She smiles.

"Do the impossible." She points me toward the hotel door, which Spike has left open. I tie the sword to my belt, and she bows. I bow back, wishing Giles had been more insistent on the whole formalities thing. Although, really, how often do you find yourself facing the ghost of a Slayer dead for more than a century, killed at the hand of the vampire you're trying to save?

My Slayer sense kicks in, pulling me toward the open door. I take a step forward, and when I look back, she's gone.




Author’s (Non-Spoilery Postscript):

Most of the nods in this chapter are to events in “Fool For Love” and a slight reference to the Spike comic set during the Chicago World’s Fair. The scene with the men in the bar is the leadup to the mob that chased Spike, Angel, Dru, and Darla into a mine up in Yorkshire, just prior to Spike learning about Slayers (if you want a time line reference).


 
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