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It doesn’t trouble me any to be selfish, but lately I’ve gone all Good Samaritan.

Now I’m standing in the doorway of my great-great-great-great-great niece Amelia’s place, signing off on the last of the remodels with the contractor.

“So you say this property’s been in the family, Mr. Pratt?”

I nod. “Long time.”

“You’ve made some good choices here.”

He’s talking about preserving most of the original features and restoring others. But I wonder – it’s been two months since I’ve seen her. Two solid months of rat, pig and duck, the latter two supplied by a butcher happy to take good hard cash for something he usually spills down the drain.

She’s still in London, of this I’m sure. Every few nights I stroll past her little flat in Notting Hill. I’ve seen her silhouette.

When I started my fast, it wasn’t a choice thing so much as every time I tried to hunt, I’d end up talking m’self out of the kill.

Don’t mistake me. There’s no guilt for past actions. But if I can have her, for a little while, I can resist this urge.

I think.

Two months. Handed over scads of cash to spruce up this pile of bricks. I’m just going on instinct. Going towards being something that she needs me to be. It’ll be a front, in some ways. And in other ways, well …

Trick is, I’m not sure and certain that she’ll have me.

And the more time passes without her in my arms, the more I wonder if I’m a fool.

***

I’m not avoiding him, I tell myself. I’m just not finding him.

And I’m working like a maniac. This Italian cosmetics company hired me to work on a campaign for their new line. It’s young and edgy; they’re not. I’ve been hopping flights for meetings, for photo shoots. Commercial work wasn’t my first choice, but when my agent called, I had to do something.

Had to keep my mind off of him.

Though it is commercial work, it might just be my best. I feel like I can see things – shadows, lines, angles, the kinds of things every photographer needs to see – just a little sharper than before. Whether this signals the lifting of my misery or not, I can’t say. But everyone is pleased.

We’re doing some work in London right now, and I’m walking towards the studio, hurrying, because I was supposed to be there 10 minutes ago.

Something’s so wrong, though. Usually the studio feels like controlled chaos, but this? This is actual pandemonium.

“What’s going on?” I ask one of the assistants.

“It’s Barney.”

“Barney?” I picture one of the scrawny hipster junior assistants, the guy who mops up when someone spills their skim half-caf latte. Cute boy, shaggy dark hair, always heading off to hear some friend’s band. He’d stopped showing up for work two days ago, I remember, and there was a kerfuffle and talk about trying to contact his mother. “What about Barney?”

The assistant hands me the paper, folded over to an article.

I scan the page, a sick feeling in my stomach warning me what I’m going to read before I read it.

Two small puncture wounds in the victim’s neck … police have no leads … anyone with information …

My hands are shaking as I drop the paper.

***

Any city bigger than a hamlet boasts at least one bar where demons are welcome. In London, it’s called the Fang & Claw. Besides having O-neg on tap, it’s considered neutral ground. Start a bar brawl in the F&C, and you’d be in a world of hurt.

I’m here tonight, looking for word on anything that might help me. Been here for the last few nights, actually, sticking to the otter to keep from sparking a hunger I don’t want to sate and asking around.

Two nights ago some warlock tried to sell me a soul revivification spell. Yesterday some fellow with antennae told me ‘bout some spirit in deepest Africa who can help a fellow out.

It’s all shite.

Even as I sit here, swilling my otter, I know there’s no help. If I’m gonna go killing-free, it’s all on my shoulders.

So far I’ve made it. But there have been close calls.

***

I need to know.

Everyone’s upset about Barney.

I need to know if I’ve been loving his killer.

Not that I was exactly tight with Barney. I gave him my latte order and sometimes remembered to say thank you. But it doesn’t matter if he and I weren’t the best of friends. He was in my universe, my very small universe. And if Spike could snack on one of my colleagues, then he could hit closer to home.

How would I be with him then?

Not that I’m with him now.

My head spins.

***

“Gloom doesn’t look good on you, boss.”

“Told you to drop it, Harris.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“What happens when she’s old and grey, Harris?”

“Sorry?”

“She will grow old. And die.”

“No guarantees in life. Well, except death. Even for you.”

I nod.

“So how do you know you’ll be around to bury her?”

***

I find a pic of Barney. Work in a studio and you eventually get used for test shots, so it isn’t hard.

It’s in my hand when I spot him, locking up the doors to Minus Zero.

“Did you kill him?”

“Buffy.”

“This guy. Did you kill him?”

Spike looks at me like a wild animal, trapped. He swallows. “He a friend of yours?”

“Kind of.”

“Lover?” I can tell I’ve caught him off guard and he’s trying to find his balance.

“No, Spike. I just need to know.”

“When did he die?”

“Earlier this week,” I reply. He still hasn’t looked at the picture, still hasn’t taken his eyes from mine.

Spike relaxes, the tension draining from his body. “That’s easy then. No.”

“You haven’t looked at the picture.”

“I haven’t killed anyone in two months.”

“Two months?” Now it’s me trying to find my equilibrium.

“Since I last saw you.”

“You stopped killing for me?”

He takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Not exactly. Let’s sit, yeah?”

We walk in silence, heading towards a tiny coffee shop.

We’ve been here before, but for some reason, tonight it reminds me of Millie’s, back in LA, and all those nights we spent talking.

The waitress brings us tea, and I meet his eyes again.

“Talk to me, Spike.”

“Don’t know where to begin.” His voice is raw. “Most vamps are … animals. The id runneth over.”

“That’s not you.”

“No. There’s some … variation, I guess. My way was always simple. Settle in enough to spot the right ones. The unattached, the lonely, the aimless. Always the young. Stuck mostly to cities. It’s where people go to disappear, right?”

“People like me.”

He nods.

“No parents. Not a lot of friends. A job that wouldn’t exactly be surprised if I no-showed.”

“Yeah. Not that I always stayed around long enough to get the bio. But you can tell. I’ve got an eye for the little lost lambs.”

“What changed your mind? About me?” I want him to say love.

“Curiosity, I ‘spose. You were so broken, but I could see a hint of spine. And you were never properly afraid of me.”

“No one at Caritas was really-”

He snorts. “Buffy, everyone at Caritas got trembly when they were alone with me. Remember Lorne? He used to turn green.”

“And I was different.”

“You’ve always been, luv. And I’ve been around long enough to know. You’re one hell of a woman.”

I blush.

“Why did you leave me?”

“Not much of a future for us, is there?”

“No, I guess not.”

We both smile, and despite our words, I feel a leap of possibility and settle into the booth.