Spike was not even aware that he had risen to his feet, until the girl had been dragged away, and Siron turned cold, dark eyes on him in a severe question.

All at once, the momentary resolve he had felt, the fury at the thought of this evil creature enslaving the young Slayer, melted away into that all-too-familiar terror, and Spike meekly lowered his gaze, starting to sink back down to his knees.

Siron swiftly stood up and gripped the back of the collar around his neck, choking him as he jerked him back up, holding him on his feet and refusing to let him resume the submissive position he had been trained to maintain at all times, unless otherwise ordered.

“No, Spike…” Siron’s voice was falsely pleasant as he shook his head and smiled with false reassurance at his trembling slave. “…if you’re getting to your feet without my permission, you must have a pretty good reason, right? What’s so important that you felt the need to disobey my orders, slave?”

The last sentence was spoken in a harder tone with a frightening edge of menace, and Spike flinched, expecting brutal punishment to follow. He struggled to respond against Siron’s fierce grip on his collar, one hand rising to just barely touch the taut leather, his blue eyes wide and pleading as they momentarily met his master’s eyes, before dropping to the floor again.

Siron abruptly threw him to the floor on his hands and knees, moving quickly to place his foot across the back of the vampire’s neck, before Spike could even begin to rise to an upright kneeling position.

“Answer me,” he ordered coldly.

“I -- I j-just thought you were -- g-getting ready to leave the room -- Master -- and I thought you would w-want me to attend you.”

Siron removed his foot from Spike’s neck, but the vampire knew better than to move without permission. He shuddered as the hard toe of Siron’s boot slid between his knees, brushing lightly against his abused genitals, barely covered by the scrap of leather tied across them, yet bound cruelly so that the slightest touch caused him excruciating agony.

Spike could hear the deceptive smile in Siron’s voice, as he asked calmly, “Is it your place to assume you know what I want, slave?”

Spike shook his head immediately, desperately, whispering, “No -- no, Master, please…”

“Shut up.”

Spike was instantly silent, as Siron reached down and gripped his collar again, yanking him to his feet, his body moving in close behind Spike’s, so that the already terrified vampire could feel the evidence of the demon’s arousal prodding against him.

“Now,” Siron spoke softly, his free hand wandering across the front of Spike’s body in a possessive gesture of intimidation. “You will go to your quarters -- and I will attend to some household business here, before welcoming our new little guest -- and when I’m finished, you will be prepared to serve my needs. Is that clear?”

Spike nodded, swallowing back a sob, as he replied without hesitation, “Yes, Master.”
Siron released him with a shove, snarling, “Now get out of my sight!”

Spike made his way on trembling legs out of the library, and down the hall toward his quarters -- a tiny, dark room with no light, no heat, furnished only with a hard cot, with no blanket, where he was forced to stay when his master did not have use for him. He was nearly there, when he suddenly stopped, reconsidering.

He glanced anxiously back in the direction of the library. Siron would surely be some time yet in leaving, he realized as he watched two of Siron’s top men walking through the double doors into the room. He looked anxiously back toward his own tiny room, knowing that the safest course was to go there as he had been ordered, and wait for his master to come and abuse him again.

But -- that girl -- that *Slayer* -- was locked up, alone, waiting for the same fate, or worse, to befall her. Surely it would take more to break a Slayer than it had taken to break him -- right?

Before he could talk himself out of it, Spike turned around and made his way quickly toward Siron’s bedchamber, and the young Slayer locked inside.

*************************************

The demons dragging Melinda down the hallway finally threw her down on the floor of a large, richly decorated bedroom, to await whatever horrible fate her captor had in mind for her. As they left the room, she tried to think of what he might want with her -- and then immediately tried just as hard *not* to think of it. She doubted that he planned to simply kill her -- at least, right away -- or he would have done so already, in the library.

However, all things considered, that thought was hardly comforting.

Her mind brought forth the image of the kneeling, trembling slave who had been at Siron’s side, and she shuddered, swiftly putting it out of her mind.

If she allowed her terror to consume her, she knew that she would never get of here.

A moment later, she heard the bedroom door opening, and it was suddenly very hard to remember her resolve. She was lying on her side, facing away from the door, but she quickly rolled over, determined to at least face whatever threat was being leveled at her now.

Her eyes widened with surprise, even as her fears began to fade for the moment.

It was the slave.

What had Siron called him again? Spike? And why did that name seem familiar to her?

Then, her apprehension began to return to her, as her overactive and highly over stimulated imagination once again began to wreak havoc in her mind. Sure, the battered, abused vampire didn’t appear to pose much of a threat; but despite the natural sympathy she couldn’t help feeling for him, he *was* still a vampire -- and a slave to her current captor.

What if he had been sent here by his master? What if he was supposed to bite her, to weaken her, before Siron came to her, to make her more compliant, more submissive to his will?

*What if you’ve heard one too many of Andrew’s overdramatic stories?* she asked herself dryly, inwardly rolling her eyes at the melodrama of the whole situation.

“Um -- hey,” she spoke hesitantly, forcing a weak, half-hearted smile to her lips. “What…”

“Shhh!”

Melinda blinked at the sharp whisper, staring as the vampire held a finger to his lips, before closing the door tightly behind him, looking anxiously up and down the hall outside before he did.

Once the door was safely closed, Melinda tried again, “What…?”

“Quiet, are you daft?” the vampire snapped, holding out a hand for silence, before drawing it nervously back as he began to slowly pace the floor. “Shouldn’t talk to me…or I shouldn’t be talking to *you*…you don’t know the rules yet, so can’t rightly punish you, now, can he? But he will…I know he will…”

His words, and the dark, foreboding sound to his trembling voice sent a shiver through Melinda, and she found herself instinctively fighting against the bonds behind her back.

A bitter laugh left the vampire’s lips, and he shook his head as once again those piercing blue eyes locked onto hers, and Melinda was startled to stillness again. “You shouldn’t be here,” he told her sadly, and she could see tears welling in his eyes. “*I* shouldn’t be here…this is all wrong…it’s just all bloody wrong…”

“You shouldn’t be -- here? In this room? Or -- in this house? As Siron’s -- as his -- slave…” She nearly whispered the last word, her voice softening with compassion and a sort of regret at even having to say the word.

“Quiet!” he snapped at her again, turning in his pacing to face her, hissing his next words in a loud whisper only inches from her face. “Don’t you know you haven’t got the right to talk here! No one talks here unless he lets them -- but you don’t know that yet, do you? But you will…you will, little Slayer…” He drew back, resuming his pacing, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his entire body trembling. “…unless I do it. Unless I…I…I can’t…no, I can’t…”

Melinda’s eyes widened as the vampire’s rambling rant gradually increased in volume and emotion, and she realized with a trace of alarm that this vampire seemed to be on the verge of losing it. There was a slight glint of madness in his anguished eyes when he looked at her, and she could see the conflict in his taut expression.

“I could do it,” he remarked softly, nodding, as he looked at her again, biting his lip in an expression of indecision. “I could do it. Know just how, too. I could do it -- could save the girl…though I’d have to go up in flames again myself to do it…” Again, that nearly maniacal laugh filled the silence, as he lowered his eyes and shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips.

“Done it before -- s’pose I can burn again.” He looked up at her suddenly, his eyes darkening with an aching sorrow, a hollow look of subdued terror. “He likes to burn me. He’d like to burn you, too. I know. Such -- perfect, lovely chocolate skin…he’d love to…”

Melinda felt her spine tingling with the horror of his words, her eyes widening as her throat went dry with terror. She opened her mouth to speak, but all she could do was shake her head.

Suddenly, she wanted to beg him, plead with him to help her if he could, regardless of the cost to him. She was ashamed of her terror, but she couldn’t stand the thought of being a helpless victim again -- and especially not to the monster who now held her captive.

She couldn’t find the words -- but she didn’t need them.

The blond vampire’s conflict seemed to fade as he stared into her terrified eyes, and his shoulders slumped, shaking with dry, soundless sobs as he shook his head in defeat.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, without looking at her. “ ‘S not like I ever had a soddin’ choice in the first place, is it? Gotta do it…gotta save the girl…”

As he spoke, he moved quickly to her side, his every motion fluid and graceful now, now that his choice had been made. In moments the chains at her wrists and ankles were off, and he helped her rise to her feet with an arm that was still strong, despite its gaunt appearance.

“Quiet,” he advised her, his expression suddenly alert and serious. “Can’t blow this by drawing attention to ourselves too soon…”

He opened the door and peered out into the hall again. Satisfied that it was empty, he reached behind him without looking and grasped her hand, drawing her out with him into the hallway.

“You could get out too,” Melinda told him in a whisper, well aware that as a vampire he could hear her clearly. “We could…”

“No,” Spike cut her off in a whisper just barely louder than her own. “We couldn’t.”

She stopped in her tracks, her hand in his easily pulling the weakened vampire to a stop as well, and he turned to look at her with an impatient question in his eyes.

“If I can get out, you can get out,” she reasoned.

“Silly girl,” he sneered softly, sadly, a faint smirk visible in the corners of his mouth. “Doesn’t work that way.” He tried to pull her forward again, but she resisted, planting her feet and jerking him to a stop again.

“Why not?” she demanded simply, her jaw setting with the beginnings of determination. She *really* did not like the thought of his helping her escape, only to remain behind and suffer the consequences for it.

He blinked at her with an expression of slight surprise, as if the answer should be obvious, as he replied, “Because somebody has to create a diversion.”

She was enough taken aback by that that he managed to pull her along again, dragging her toward a stairwell near the end of the hall. He stopped outside the door, which was padlocked shut, and turned to face her again, his soft blue eyes sober and intent.

“The door’s hooked up to an alarm,” he explained. “The minute you break that lock, Siron’s men are gonna come runnin’.” He paused, drawing in a deep breath before he added, “They’re gonna find me. I’ll keep ‘em busy as long as I can. All you need to do is start running and *keep* running until you get to the bottom, then make a run for the front door. It’s not locked down there, you should be able to get out. With any luck, they’ll think it was me that broke it, not even have a soddin’ clue you’re even gone until it’s far too late to catch you. Sound good, love?”

Melinda swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her dilemma as she stared into those troubled blue eyes, touched with a terror that in a few moments, she would not have to feel again -- but that he would be feeling for the rest of his life, if she left him here to Siron’s lack of mercy.

“We can make it out…both of us…” she tried again, though she did not sound completely convinced -- because she wasn’t.

She knew very well that there was no way she would be able to make it all the way down the stairwell and out the door before the alarm drew the attention of her captors and they managed to run her down. Spike’s holding them off was the only thing that would possibly allow her to make it out unhindered.

His painfully expressive eyes told her that he had read her conflict -- and reluctant acceptance -- in her eyes.

“Just go,” he said softly. “Before it’s too late.”

Melinda struggled with the decision for a moment longer, not wanting to leave him to suffer in her place.

“If they find us standing here,” Spike pointed out quietly. “We’ll *both* get it -- and you *won’t* get another chance to get away.”

She felt that shiver run through her again, as she realized that he was speaking from painful experience. She turned toward the door, her jaw clenched in preparation, and delivered a sharp kick that shattered it, before she could change her mind again. The alarm sounded, and she took off down the stairwell as fast as she could, not stopping to think, just running for all she was worth.

The hallway above swiftly filled with demons, their dark eyes fastening immediately on the slave, who caught sight of them and stepped into the stairwell, over the remains of the door that he had apparently just kicked down.

It was only moments before they caught him -- not that he had really been trying to outrun them -- and dragged him back up to the penthouse level.

He fought desperately, for his freedom they assumed -- though that was something he had long since ceased to hope for. Spike was fighting for their attention, their focus, hoping that he could provide enough of a distraction to keep them from thinking of the young Slayer they had left bound in Siron’s bedroom, and the possibility that she might have escaped as well.

And for the moment -- he seemed to be succeeding.