Spike fought as long and as hard as he could, but he knew from the start that it was a losing battle. Siron’s men would have given him quite a challenge, even if he had been up to his full strength.

And he certainly wasn’t.

He had been enslaved for months, beaten and tortured and half-starved, deliberately kept weakened and injured, to prevent his being able to fight back -- and unfortunately, Siron’s efforts had been mostly successful.

Within minutes he was subdued, forced to his knees on the floor, his face shoved roughly against the floor and held there by a hard foot on the back of his neck. One of them grabbed his wrists and bound them tightly behind his back, before jerking him back up to his knees by the hair.

“What is going on here?”

Siron’s dark, angry tone as he came into view at the end of the hall caused Spike’s stomach to twist inside him with terror, and he found himself struggling instinctively, desperately, though he knew he could not escape. As the demon general made his way nearer to him, however, Spike automatically went still, frozen by his own panic.

He looked up at his master with fearful eyes -- and then immediately looked away, unable to hold that dark, deadly gaze for long.

“Is somebody going to answer my question?” Siron snapped, his warning glare now directed at his men.

“We caught him trying to escape,” one of them finally spoke up, his own eyes respectfully averted, and his tone slightly nervous, as if he expected to be blamed for the near-escape of Siron’s favorite slave. “He was halfway down the stairwell before we caught him.”

Trembling uncontrollably, Spike kept his eyes down, unwilling to see the expression that had to be on Siron’s face by now. The silence was overwhelming, adding weight to his terror, as he waited silently for a reaction -- any reaction -- from his master.

When Siron finally crouched down in front of him, bringing himself to eye level with his frightened slave, Spike flinched violently, trying again to pull away from the restraining hands holding him in place, panic driving actions that logic told him were useless.

“Now Spike,” Siron spoke in a very soft, dangerous tone of voice, a deceptively gentle hand reaching out to turn the vampire’s face back toward him, forcing him to look at him, “you know that’s not going to do you any good -- don’t you?”

Spike swallowed hard, with an effort, as his throat felt like sandpaper by now.

“Why would you do something so stupid, Spike?” the demon general asked, a thoughtful frown forming on his features, and Spike felt his chest tighten with fear at the realization that he was beginning to put the pieces together. “You had to have known you’d get caught. You’ve tried to escape before -- but not in months!”

“Please,” the vampire whispered, shaking his head slightly, though he didn’t dare to move enough to pull his face from Siron’s firm grip. “Please -- I’m sorry…” Perhaps, if he could draw Siron’s attention to him personally, distract him from the line of reasoning he was headed down, he could buy a little more time for the young Slayer who was hopefully nearing the building‘s exit by now. “I just -- just couldn’t take…”

“Shut up,” Siron ordered almost casually, releasing him and standing up straight again, still looking down at Spike as he addressed one of his men. “Karuk -- go to my quarters and check on the prisoner.”

Spike couldn’t help but flinch at the words, glancing up at his master with a trapped, panicked expression for just a moment -- and Siron did not miss the instinctive reaction.

“You little idiot,” he snarled softly, drawing back his fist to deliver a brutal backhand across the vampire’s face, hard enough to knock him to the floor, had he not been supported by several of the demons, who were still holding him down.

“Never mind that!” he snapped suddenly, and the demon he had ordered to check his room now stopped in his tracks, a look of confusion on his face. “She’s not there, she’s getting away. Go after her, all of you!”

The half dozen or so of Siron’s servants who had subdued Spike now took off down the stairwell without hesitation, not knowing how their leader had figured out that the Slayer had escaped, but knowing enough to take him at his word and follow orders without taking time to question.

As they released Spike, Siron grabbed his hair and jerked him painfully to his feet, responding to his startled yelp of pain with another vicious blow to the face, snarling, “Shut your mouth! You think that’s something to cry about, slave? I’ll give you something to cry about!”

Moving at a swift, angry pace, Siron dragged Spike down the hallway toward his room, slamming the door open and glaring down at the floor, at the empty chains that had held his escaped captive. Cursing under his breath, he released Spike with a violent shove that sent him stumbling against the wall.

Breathless and terrified, the vampire spun around so that his back was to the wall, his blue eyes widening with fear as he watched Siron reach under his cloak, pulling out a very familiar object -- the metal-laced whip that he had used on Spike the night he had finally broken him, and had used frequently since then.

Of course, he had never beaten him quite so severely as that first time, never again. To do so would have made his slave pretty much useless, with the extent of the damage that particular weapon inflicted. That one time, it had taken Spike nearly two weeks to heal, even with rather generous amounts of blood to speed his healing, and Siron had found that usually just a blow or two with the whip was perfectly effective.

Somehow, Spike was dreadfully certain that he was not going to be satisfied with such a lenient punishment this time.

He shook his head pleadingly, swallowing back a sob of terror. “Please,” he whispered in a trembling, desperate voice. “Please…don’t…”

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

“This way!” one of the pursuing demons barked out. “She must have gone out this door!”

Without looking back, he ran through the space where the now-shattered wooden door had been, leading outside. He was quickly followed by the others behind him., determined to capture the fugitive Slayer, and bring her back to their master, to assuage his anger before it could be directed at them.

After they had passed, the lobby was still, the empty images of the imaginary human employees of the apartment complex eerily still in the large, empty room. There was no movement at all for a few moments, before the skirting around a small end table next to one of the comfortable sofas in the waiting area shifted slightly, as if in a slight breeze.

Except that there *was* no breeze.

A moment later, dark eyes peered out from under the skirting, looking for any sign of any remaining pursuers. Satisfied that she was alone, Melinda cautiously climbed out from under the small table, looking warily around her, before turning her eyes dubiously back in the direction from which she had come.

The demons chasing her would be out of sight of the exit by now -- and freedom was only moments away.

For her.

For the one who had helped her escape, she knew that there could only be torment. If they were already coming after her, then that meant that Spike had already been subdued by the demons he had tried to fight, and their scheme had been found out. She recalled the many bruises and scars that had covered his body, and her heart hurt at the thought of doing anything to contribute to more of them.

*He likes to burn me…*

The vampire’s haunted words echoed in her mind, and she suppressed a shudder, swallowing hard, sick with uncertainty.

With a heavy sigh, cursing her own stupidity, which would surely lead her back into the clutches of her own doom, Melinda turned and jogged slowly back in the direction she had come from, carefully watching in case there should be others coming after her. She knew that she had to be very careful, and that even if she *was* careful, she was likely to be captured again.

But in the end, it didn’t matter. She simply couldn’t just leave her rescuer to suffer in her place.

*Never had a chance in the first place, did I?*

Again, the vampire’s words echoed in her mind, applying just as well to herself, as she made her way back into the belly of the beast.

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

“You want a fight, Spike?”

Spike flinched as the larger demon moved in close to him, speaking softly into his ear. Siron had turned him so that his face was to the wall, and was now, much to his surprise, unfastening the chains at his wrists. He then spun him around to face him again, slamming him hard against the wall and smiling coldly, his dark eyes inches from Spike’s blue, terrified ones.

“N-no,” he whimpered pleadingly, his shoulders shaking with repressed sobs. “No, I don’t…please…”

“Oh, but I think you do,” Siron insisted, cruel amusement in his voice. “You were fighting my boys out there, weren’t you? Thought you could take them?” He paused, his voice softening as he added thoughtfully, “Maybe you could have, one at a time…”

His voice was even lower, chillingly soft and dark, as he shifted in even closer, refusing to allow Spike to look away as he asked in a voice barely over a whisper,

“Think you could take *me*?”

Spike felt his insides turn to jelly, his shaking intensifying, as he shook his head desperately and insisted, “No, no, Master…please, I’m sorry, I don’t…”

His words were cut off with a harsh slap across his face, more insulting than painful, as Siron smiled, “Sure you do. Come on, Spike. You think you’re still the big bad master vampire? You think you can take me on? Give it your best shot.”

Spike was terribly confused and frightened by the way Siron was talking, behaving. He was not sure how to respond, how to react in a way that would not earn him even greater pain. Surely his master did not *want* him to…?

But it was so, so very tempting. Although he knew it was a trap, a trick by this master manipulator to further engrave upon his mind the knowledge that he was helpless, that fighting would only serve to make his suffering that much worse -- he could not help feeling a sense of anticipation and raw, vengeful desire at the very thought of drawing back his fist and plunging it into the demon’s sneering face.

How good it would feel, to feel Siron’s bones crunching under the force of his fist, to draw his blood and cause him even an instant’s worth of the agony he had put him through over the course of the past two months! Although he knew it was foolish, knew he couldn’t win such a fight, Spike felt his hands itching for the violence of it, the vindication that the struggle would provide…

*The others are gone,* a tiny voice reminded him in his head. *He sent them all away after the Slayer…*

*You almost took on six of them…maybe…maybe…*

“Come on, Spike…how many blows do you think you could get in before I strike you down? How bad do you think I’ll hurt you for every one you *do* get in?” Siron continued his soft, menacing words, unaware of the rising conflict within the broken heart of his slave.

Spike’s eyes widened slightly with a sort of wondering hope, his trembling increasing, though now there was a desperate anticipation mingled with the fear that had originally caused it.

Was it so very impossible to think that he might win a fight with Siron -- Siron, who had never once attempted to face him when he was *not* at a terrible, hopeless disadvantage?

“I said *hit me*, you little piece of *shit*!” Siron snarled, raising the whip in his hand.

Spike did not move, and the large demon swung the whip in a wide, vicious arc, aiming it to fall across the vampire’s exposed stomach.

But the blow never fell.

Before the sharp metal strands could connect with Spike’s tender flesh, the vampire’s hand had struck out swiftly, gripping the demon’s fist that held the handle of the whip, shaking it slightly in a gesture that caused the metal strands to fall limp, just short of their intended target.

Siron’s dark eyes widened in disbelief, and Spike could see the incredulous indignation rising there, knew that his captor was moments away from striking back. Before that could happen, Spike slammed his free fist into Siron’s face, with all the strength he had -- but it was enough strength to send the demon staggering backward, dropping the whip in his hand to the floor.

Spike kicked it out of Siron’s reach, even as the furious demon general’s hand scrabbled to pick it back up, following that kick with a second one, aimed at Siron’s stomach. The demon doubled over, coughing and choking from the blow. Even as he did, however, he was struggling to rise on one arm, determined to get back to his feet.

And Spike knew that he could not let that happen.

His meager strength was already waning, and he knew that if Siron rose again, it would be to take him down, and take him down hard. He looked around wildly for some kind of weapon, something to keep the demon master down -- and his eyes settled on a heavy iron candlestick beside the bed.

Behind him, he could hear the struggling demon general groaning, “You stupid little fool! I’ll kill you, Spike!”

His eyes narrowed, and he blinked back bitter tears, at the memories of the horrible ways in which Siron had used the candle that rested in that stick, and the flame that had often been attached to it. He tore the wax pillar from the stick and hurled it against the wall angrily, before turning back to Siron and bringing the heavy candlestick down hard across the back of his head.

The demon collapsed to the floor, moaning slightly as he struggled to keep from losing consciousness -- but could no longer attempt to rise, not just yet.

And that arrangement was just fine with Spike.

His shoulders heaved with deep, trembling breaths of shock, as he was scarcely able to believe yet what he had done -- what he was still doing. He looked around the room again, and his eyes fell on the discarded whip, lying on the floor near his feet. He suppressed a shiver of dread, as he reached down to pick the hated thing up -- and then turned narrowed eyes of bitter hatred on his fallen captor.

Siron was still moaning, making it obvious that he was still conscious, but unable to move much.

Which was just how Spike wanted him.

When the first blow fell across the demon’s back, eliciting a sharp cry of startled agony, Spike felt a sweet sense of vindication, even as his tears began to flow. He could not see where the blows fell through the tears that now blinded him, but he could hear the impact as they hit flesh, could hear the cries of pain -- and finally pleading -- from his former master, as the sharp wires tore through his tough flesh, reducing it to ribbons.

Yet Spike knew, even as he exacted his vengeance, that no amount of revenge could ever undo the damage that had been done to him.

And for that -- that lost part of himself -- he wept.

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

Melinda was surprised by the emptiness of the penthouse when she reached the top level of the building, but was relieved to be able to make her way swiftly through the apartment, toward the horrible sounds she could hear coming from the room where she had been held captive.

Screaming…sobbing…deliriously muttered words of pleading and desperation…all in the voice of the slave who had kept her from becoming one.

She steeled herself at the door, preparing herself for what she might find on the other side, determined only to stop Siron from doing any further damage than he had already done.

She slammed the door open, prepared to attack -- and froze in her tracks.

Siron was lying on the floor, his hideous body still and lifeless, surrounded in a dark pool of his own thick, congealing blood. The blond vampire was standing over him, swinging a whip that looked vicious, painful -- and clearly deadly. It was stained rust red with the blood of the demon, who was obviously already dead -- and yet, Spike kept swinging it.

Melinda’s confusion over the sounds she had heard faded, as she realized that even as he beat the body of his past tormentor, Spike was sobbing, muttering incoherent words of mingled pleading and accusation, hoarse screams of anguish and torment torn from his lips -- and suddenly Melinda knew the truth.

He *was* on the verge of losing his mind -- and if he did not stop soon, he would.

“Spike!” she called out loudly, trying to break through the trance that seemed to hold him, reaching carefully to stop his arm.

He merely shook her off with a warning snarl, bringing the whip down again on the body, sending blood splattering with the blow.

“Spike, stop it!” Melinda insisted, reaching for him again, but this time he tossed her backward hard enough to knock her into the wall.

Melinda glanced around her in desperation, trying to think of some way to stop him -- until her eyes fell on the candlestick on the floor, the one Spike had clearly used to subdue his opponent. She slowly leaned down and picked it up, testing its weight in her hand.

She didn’t want to strike any harder than she had to.

One swift, firm blow to the back of the vampire’s head had him crumpling to the floor neatly -- unconscious, but not seriously hurt.

By her, anyway.

Melinda was just anxiously wondering how she was going to get him out of this house, in the middle of the daylight hours, without being stopped by Siron’s remaining minions -- when she heard a quietly rising, tumultuous sound, like the sound of battle.

She looked around, bewildered, unable to tell where it was coming from, until her eyes fell on something she had not noticed before, a small security monitor mounted near the ceiling in a corner of the room. From the tiny speakers, she heard the sounds of female battle cries, sounds that had become blessedly familiar to her over the past year.

Looking closer at the screen, she saw that the Slayers had realized that something was wrong when she had not returned as quickly as she was supposed to, and had come to her aid. The demons, who had apparently just returned to the building, were swiftly taken down in the path of the powerful warriors, who then hurried toward the stairs, headed for the penthouse from which Siron had once reigned over his followers.

Once. Never again.

Melinda dropped to her knees, gently stroking back the unconscious vampire’s disheveled, dirty blond hair, as she listened to her sister Slayers making their way up the stairs.