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Buffy climbed the grand staircase quickly, the marble steps resounding lightly as she rose. There were two hallways at the top, and she took the left one, going nearly all the way to the end of a long row of doors. She opened the last one on the right, and slipped inside.

In the safety of her room, she quickly shed her leather jacket, setting it on her bed. She pulled her holster with her Desert Eagle off and dropped it beside the jacket. Then she went over and sat in front of her gold vanity.

She studied her image, surrounded by the gilded frame of the mirror. It was another gift from her father, the carved angels and demons that decorated it forever entwined in the throes of battle. And in the midst of their furies, she sat staring blindly at her blood caked shoulder.

Buffy knew what would happen if she wiped away the dried blood, just as she’d known with all the other injuries she’d suffered as of late. The flesh beneath would already be knitting, practically healed, smooth and pink in vivid contrast the rest of her tan skin.

She sighed and rose from her seat, stripping off her t-shirt and heading into the bathroom that adjoined her room. She pulled a wash cloth off of the black marble sink and dampened it, wiping it easily over the wound. Dried flakes fell into the sink, and she turned on the water to wash them away. She kept wiping, and watched as her prediction came true.

Smooth, pink flesh reflected back at her in the mirror, daring her to ask questions she didn’t want the answers to. She sighed, shut off the faucet, and dropped the towel to the floor; she’d clean it up later.

Buffy went back into her room, crossed to the closet and pulled out a black tank top and black jeans. She shed the blue jeans she was wearing and quickly donned the black garb. She paused only to grab her jacket, gun, and a pair of her favorite stakes.

It was time to go hunting.


*
She stood on the balcony overlooking the city, lethal in black stilettos and a black dress so tight he could see the outline of her ribs through the fabric, loosening up only as it came off the hips. He knew that beneath the skirt of the dress she wore a gun strapped to the inside of one thigh, a stake to the other.

She was, though she fought to deny it, her father’s daughter.

"Daddy’s not here tonight, eh pet?"

"Don’t call me that, and you know he’s off doing that ritual with the Gustuuk head. He’ll drop in later to make an appearance and wow us all on his new stock market gain, or the new island he just purchased. You know the deal."

Spike studied her profile as she spoke: the subtle blush on her cheeks and those pouty red lips of hers. He wondered that the others couldn’t smell it, the musk that only Slayers give off, the scent that sent thrills through him.

But then, he’d been the one that had taken out the Watcher, tortured the truth out of him, and left him practically bloodless as a warning to the Council. And he was the one who was stalking her on her secret hunts, trudging around LA’s various graveyards at night. He had watched the violence her father had sown in her transform into the artistry of a predator, carefully concealed from everyone in her life.

Except for him.

Tonight he smelled soap over the rush of her blood, from the hasty shower she must have taken before coming down to the gala. He’d followed her back from her three-kill trip to the graveyard south of the mansion, on Westland Avenue. That she’d only been ten minutes late for the party was amazing, considering how poised and elegant she looked.

He came to stand close to her, listened with some satisfaction as her breathing altered pitch and her heart started racing. This time, when he reached his hand out to touch her shoulder, he didn’t pull back. And she didn’t pull her weapons.

"You know, pet," he murmured as he ran his fingertips along her collarbone. "Eventually someone other than me is gonna start figuring you out."
She turned her head sharply and stared at him.

"What do you mean by that?" His fingers slid into a deliberate caress where the bullet had nicked her earlier.

"I mean, someone’s gonna start noticing that all your pretty bits are rapid healing, pet. From the blood I smelled on you, you’d should have needed sewing up at the very least."

She was silent at first, unease filling her. It figured that he’d be the first to puzzle her out.

"I don’t know why it’s happening," she confessed finally. "But I’ve been healing like… I don’t know what, like a-"

"A demon?" he finished for her.

"Yeah," she said softly, hazel eyes set firm on his. "Something like that."

"I know why. But don’t worry pet," he whispered in her ear, causing her to shiver as his lips grazed her ear lobe.

"I won’t tell. Not even ‘Daddy.’"

With that parting tease he was gone, leaving her to the solitude of the balcony.

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