Banner by the always amazing always_jbj. Much thanks!

WARNING: I'm killing off a very popular character in this chapter. It isn't that I don't love the character to pieces, it's just that Spike is still trouble.

Ten Years Later

When in England, you’d never notice an extra tweed-clad fellow or two. At least, I wouldn’t. But Spike’s been jumpy, and I finally tackle him.

Literally. Even if I’m starting to look older than him, between Pilates and weight training with Rodrigo, I manage to hold my own.

“Yessss?” he asks, as I pin him to our big bed.

“You’ve been quiet. You’re never quiet.”

“Am so. Can even brood, if necessary.”

“Puh-lease. You so cannot.” I frown and sit up, releasing his wrists, but squeezing with my thighs. “What’s up, Spike? Spill.”

“Think I am up, and prepared to do the latter if you’ll just remove this silly little skirt.” He reaches for me, and only the sound of my zipper brings me back to my mission.

I smack his hands away.

“Spiiiike.”

“Fine.” He huffs. “I think someone is following me. Older guy. He’s good, but …”

“But you’re better?”

“Tough to track a vampire, love.”

I sit back. I’ve become accustomed to my lover’s status as an undead creature of the night. It’s almost like he’s diabetic, or a parolee. Inconvenient at times, but not a situation that troubles me. Much.

“Why?”

Spike looks away. “Don’t rightly know.”

“Is it for revenge?”

He meets my eyes again. “That’s possible. Very possible.”

I’m nervous, and the tiniest bit guilty that I don’t care about Spike’s past actions, just his present safety. “Well, we leave for Santa Fe tomorrow. He’ll have a heck of a time finding us there.”

***

I’m not lying to her, I think, as we soar across the ocean.

Sure, I have my suspicions, but until I know, I don’t know. And I’ve found, over the years, that the less said about vampires, the better. Buffy's no fool.

She’s asleep, in our private first class demi-cabin, all dark and secret. If she stirs, I might see if I can talk her into some nice distracting mile-high sex. But for now, I’m alone with my thoughts.

Truth is, I suspect Mr. Tweedy’s tracking me like a birdwatcher goes after an endangered kestrel. I’ve seen him making notes.

There are secret societies. Or, at the very least, there are rumors about secret societies. Some devoted to the destruction of aberrations like yours truly. Others are just … curious. Interested.

Weirdest one I heard about was back in LA. Bunch of street kids after immortality. Wanted to find a vamp willing and able to change ‘em all. The way I heard it, they ended up being a banquet for some unscrupulous types.

Serves ‘em right. Or should that be serves ‘em up? Whatever. Buffy doesn’t know about any of this, and if I have it my way she’ll never know.

She shifts in her sleep, stirring. I work my hand underneath her skirt, and suddenly she’s awake.

“Hey, you,” she whispers.

“Hey yourself, gorgeous.”

“Whatcha doin’ down there?”

“We’ve still got at least four hours ‘til New York.”

“Didn’t you bring a book?”

I smile. “You’ve got something much more interesting here, kitten.”

“Spike! I’ll be soooo embarrassed.”

“Then keep your screams to yourself, lover.” I sink onto my knees, adjusting her leather boots and spreading her wide.

Girl might be protesting, but she’s already liquid wet for me.

I bury my mouth in her folds and she stifles a moan.

The rest of the flight passes quickly, and she’s all boneless and glowing by the time we return our seats and tray tables to their upright positions.

And me? I’m feeling relieved to have put an ocean between me and my watcher.

***

“This place is goin’ off,” she tells me as she returns from the ladies’ room.

“You don’t say?” I look around the emptying dining room of El Farol. We’re here to celebrate her show in one of the Canyon Road galleries. Little Miss Buffy Summers just made a mint with that camera of hers, and even though her success is old news, it still feels like a dinner-worthy achievement.

“Apparently the bar turns into a dance party. There’s a DJ out there.”

“Wanna bust a move?” I quirk an eyebrow.

She laughs out loud, and I smile.

“Maybe between the sheets,” she offers. I sign for the check and we head out into the night.

Santa Fe is Mecca for art collectors, and Canyon Road is the holy of holies. We arrived here in a taxi just at dusk. Now it’s full dark.

“Wanna walk back?” she suggests. I nod. The road is dark and poorly lit, but the advantage of being an apex predator is that there’s little to fear.

She chatters of this and that, and I manage to murmur the right responses.

Usually I find her charming when she’s like this – tipsy and high on her artistic endeavors. And I love that she feels safe, just taking a stroll down a poorly-lit street in some unfamiliar town, knowing that I’m more than a match for anything. But tonight I feel it again.

We’re being followed.

***

Back at our upscale little inn, I tumble her into the bedsheets and take care of her completely. She’s sated and stretched out when I tell her I’m heading outside for a cigarette.

No sooner have I lit up than he appears, trying to keep a discreet distance.

I close the gap, and tap him on the shoulder.

“Nice vest,” I tell him. Mr. Tweedy has traded his suits for jeans and a Southwestern-designed vest over a white shirt, but you can still tell he’s English and proper.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve been trailing me all about bloody Londontown. Now you should up a couple thousand miles away and pretend its just coincidence? Wanna tell me what you’re after?”

“Fashion tips,” he drawls, taking in my all-black attire.

I blow smoke in his face.

“My name is Rupert Giles. I represent an organization interested in the study of … of creatures like you.”

“Like me?”

He looks around the street. It’s deserted.

“I’ve been aware of your case for some time.”

“My case?”

“Your choice to live among us. As one of us.”

“Sorry, I don’t follow.”

There’s a bar a few paces away. “May I buy you a drink?”

I nod, and follow him into the welcoming dim of the bar.

***

“You want to write a book about me?”

“I already have.”

“An unauthorized biography, as it were?”

“No. It is my belief that,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “vampires can change. I’ve cited your case as a primary example.”

“What makes you think I’ve changed?” I swirl my scotch in the glass and wonder why I’m not back in bed.

“You don’t kill. You’ve given it up for, well, for love, I suppose.”

“How ‘bout you lend me a copy of this little masterwork of yours?”

He nods, and reaches into his bag.

“Here. It’s a copy, for you.”

I flip through it. There’s more than one of my kind profiled here, but I’m the first story.

Damn.

He’s got it all down.

Even a picture of mortal me. After a few minutes, I make my decision.

“Rupert – may I call you Rupert?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know how you know all this-”

“We maintain an extensive library, covering all known,” he whispers again, “vampires currently extant.”

“Extant. Okay, well, that may be. But I’m not exactly eager to have the details of my life recorded and summed up in your little leather bound journal here.”

“But it’s a remarkable journey. A quest for redemption. It deserves to be told, to be celebrated.”

I glance at the cover. The old sod’s named his book Redemption Road.

“You can get the bill. Let’s take a walk.”

He does, and follows me out into the night, surely convinced that I’m going to agree to be profiled for his history club.

That’s where he’s wrong.

I wait until we’ve wandered into the dark of night, far away from seeing eyes, and I take out my lighter.

“This,” I tell him with a flourish, “is what I think of my life and times bein’ fodder for your academic studies.”

He blusters and huffs and even gets out an “I say.”

“And yet somehow, I don’t think that’s gonna be enough of a warning for you and your friends to stay far, far away from me and my girl, is it?”

Terror flickers across his face, and he reaches for a crucifix.

I bat it out of his hand. Stings, but doesn’t stop me.

With the familiar crunch, my features shift and I’m staring at him through golden, hungry eyes.

“This should do it.”

***

We’ve just sat down in the hotel dining room the next morning, mostly because my girl mumbled something ‘bout wanting waffles. When Buffy sees the headline, she gives a surprised little gasp.

“Christian Louboutin givin’ up the shoe business, pet?”

She frowns at me. “A tourist was found dead last night. Not far from here.”

“You don’t say,” I reply mildly.

“A British tourist.”

She gives me the eye, and I meet her gaze steadily. “That right?” I push away the menu. “Still a little full from last night’s feast,” I tell her.

“I bet you are.”

If she thinks anything more, she doesn’t say it.

It’s a truce that’s held for all these years. WIth a little luck, it might hold for the rest of her life.