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"Where are we going?" Buffy asked as they pulled out from between the mansion’s gates.

"My place," Spike said as he shifted into third.

"Your place?" He glanced over at her.

"Yeah. The mansion isn’t the center of my universe, pet."

They eventually pulled up outside of a broken down looking building in a section of LA known for its darker edges. Buffy had done quite a few jobs for her father in this part of town, two of which she’d almost gotten killed doing.

As they got out of the car, Spike pulled a rather large looking nail out of his leather coat and tucked it under the driver’s side wiper.

"What’s with that?" Buffy asked, raising an eyebrow.

"A calling card, pet."

"A calling card?"

"Nobody’ll touch the car with that on it."

Buffy grinned.

"I should probably get one of those. I’m sure Casey would appreciate if I came home with a vehicle in one piece for a change."

Buffy followed Spike into the front hallway of the building, a long stretch with threadbare gray carpet splattered with ominous-looking stains. From there they descended down a rank staircase to the basement, their way lit by a weakly flickering fluorescent light overhead.

Spike paused in front of a banged up steel door, unlocking it with a key pulled from his pocket. He stood aside so she could pass, and Buffy walked into absolute darkness. She heard him close the door softly behind them, her eyes fighting to find focus in the dark of his apartment. She felt him brush by her, and a moment later the lights came on.

Buffy felt a wave of shock go through her as she regained her vision. The apartment was immaculate and macabre, done almost entirely in black. Fat black candles sat on nearly every surface, wax trails down the sides showing evidence of frequent use. An occasional crimson cushion or lampshade gave momentary relief from the dark. Heavy black drapes covered the basement windows, leaving the room to the mercy of artificial light.

"Wow with the decoy packaging," she said, pivoting on her heels to examine the kitchenette and rather spacious living room. There were two doors along the back wall of the living room.

Spike shrugged, pulling his smokes out and lighting up.

"None to shabby, I ‘spose." He took a long pull on his cigarette, then glanced at her pointedly.

"As long as we’re here we can talk private, pet."

"How do you know that?" she asked as she wandered over and trailed her fingers down the black leather sofa.

"Know a chap who cast a bit of a charm on my digs. Your father isn’t the only one in town with tricks up his sleeve."

He studied her seriously for a moment, and Buffy felt heated from the intensity of his gaze. Then his expression lightened and he walked over to the left of the two doors on the back wall.

"Come ‘ere. There’s something else I really want you to see."

Buffy lost her breath as she stepped into the room. It was a study in violence, walls covered in weapons ranging from ancient, to antique, to modern. There were swords, daggers, scythes, a variety of guns ranging from pistols to the fully automatic.

And against the far wall, a board with a series of wicked looking stakes neatly lain out. Buffy walked over and ran her fingers down the roughhewn wood of one of the stakes, a thrill racing through her as she caressed the weapon.

"You’ve been planning this for awhile, haven’t you?" she asked softly as she turned back to face him.

"Since I knew."

"And how did you know?"

Spike walked closer to her, stalking her. He leaned his head down, inhaling along the line of her neck.

"Your smell, pet. It changed, almost over night. Went from being like sweets to steel over night."

"This is so not of the clear."

"It will be soon enough." Buffy chewed on her bottom lip anxiously.

"How come none of the other boys figured out what I am? Why not my father?"

Spike shrugged.

"May be your magickal blood is throwing them off track. May be they just can’t sense what they don’t want to realize. As for your father, he’s too interested in your magicks to see anything else."

He ran his fingertips down her cheek.

"But I would know you anywhere pet. Your spirit, your strength. It whispers to me like secret things in the dark."

His mouth came a hair’s breadth from hers, and she reluctantly turned her head away.

"Let’s try something safer," she said, stepping back from Spike.

"Like what, pet? You and I are not safe creatures."

"Let’s fight."

She drew out her matching Desert Eagles and put them on the table near the door. Then she shed her jacket. Walking over to the row of weapons lining the wall she chose a wicked looking dagger and a sword.

Spike’s eyes gleamed as he took up her challenge. Walking to the wall he removed his favorite of the swords.

Buffy took a fighting stance, dagger in left hand and sword in right. Spike circled her, his movements feline. Buffy followed him, mimicking his actions. But just as she thought he was going to go left, he twisted right, catching her by the throat from behind.

"Lesson the first, pet. Trust your instincts. You have them, under your skin, an animal’s gut response to match the animals you kill. Use it."

He spun her out, and she whirled to face him again, blades at waist level. This time when he moved, she watched his eyes instead of his limbs. When he came at her, she stepped easily out of reach.

"Good, pet."

He moved again, swinging his sword in a high arc towards her. She parried his move, jabbing outwards with her dagger. He avoided the thrust smoothly, stepping back into fighting stance.

"Never be too eager to kill, pet. Let them wear themselves down, tire out. Then go for blood."

They danced a bit longer, testing each other’s skills. When Buffy finally found an opening, she took it gracefully.

The tip of her dagger sliced down Spike’s cheek, a quick flaying of skin. He hissed, raising his hand up and wiping at his face. His fingers came away stained red with blood. Buffy felt her pulse quicken as Spike lifted his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean. Then he threw down his weapon and stalked towards her.

He was right in front of her, and she felt a flush rising beneath her skin, her heartbeat quickening at his closeness. She realized that he was hyperaware to her, that he was reading her body like it were a poem. She shivered, his breath on her skin setting the hairs on the back of her neck on end.

And then he was kissing her, cool lips strangely warming. It was a mad thrust of tongues and teeth, his arms bands of iron wrapped around her back. The flush rose, the desire to push him away falling quickly prey to the passion he was offering. He tasted like smoke and copper, and the flavors were strangely comforting.

Buffy pulled away, shoving her face into his chest for the second time in two nights. Again, the control was slipping away, the walls she’d built up threatening to crumble under the weight of passion Spike offered.

He was stroking her hair silently, a tender contrast to the fury of his mouth. She felt her heart softening, but internally slapped the walls back into place.

"This part of the lesson, then?" she asked as she pulled back to look up at him.

He grinned.

"Pet, I could give you lessons of this sort that would make you weep." Her groin leapt, but she ignored it.

"Maybe later," she said softly. "I have to… get used to this first. Used to you and me, as in together."

Used to what I am becoming, she thought inside her head.

She set the weapons down on the table near the door, started back towards the living room. She glanced back over her shoulder to where Spike stood wearing a predator’s expression.

"Come on. Let’s go talk."


*


The cabby had taken him exactly where he wanted to go in Beverly Hills, the Summer’s Mansion. It had a softer look than he’d expected, done in English style stone and surrounded by neatly maintained foliage. No one would have suspected the place of darkness from outside appearances.

Giles had sat in the softly idling cab and watched through binoculars as his obsession drove away. His view of her had been mostly blocked by the blond vampire, but he’d seen enough to know it was Joyce’s daughter. It was in the face: the cheekbones, softly formed lips, same spirited toss of head as they pulled out of the gated driveway.

"You see ‘nough, sir?"

"Yes," he’d said softly as the black Nissan sped from view.

"Enough for now."

Giles had straightened in his seat, facing forward and catching the cabby’s eyes.

"Take me to the LA Hilton," he’d told him.

He’d unpacked his meager bag, and now he sat in the hotel bar, swirling his scotch in his glass. Anyone passing by would see a man idly enjoying his liquor, relaxing in the evening’s early hours.

He knew Quentin’s wishes without a doubt; he wanted the girl dead so that a more malleable, controllable Slayer could be called. A Slayer that would heed the Council’s word as if it were the word of the Gods.

But Giles knew better than anyone that the Council was not the Gods’ hands on earth, and that every player had a vital part to be played out.

For Joyce, he thought as he took a shallow sip of his scotch. I’ll give her a chance for Joyce.


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