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Nan
AU, continues from The Blood Is the Life. As Spike and Buffy try to
hold onto their partnership and their love, recently unsouled Spike tries to
secure his position as self-proclaimed Master Vampire of Sunnydale...against
the wishes of The Powers That Be and the Slayer's ancient mandate. Magic, new
arrivals, old friends (and enemies), dreams, visions, e-Bay, tribute blood,
and cookies all play a part in the tense give and take between vampire priorities
and human necessities.
Disclaimer: All is Joss's. None is mine. No profit. Just more Spikejoy for everyone.
At breakfast Tuesday morning, Willow woke up enough to notice Dawn and they
spun together, each gripping the other’s arms, both saying, “We have to--” and
then shutting up. Willow realized Dawn must have had a blinking-strange incoherent
early morning phone call from Spike too.
So they both said simultaneously, “Later.”
“Espresso Pump?” Dawn asked.
“Magic Box,” Willow counter proposed, and Dawn considered, then bobbed a nod.
Then they whirled away into their separate preparations for the day.
There was no need to set a time because Willow know Dawn got out of school at
three. So they convened at the big table at the Magic Box in the familiar nose-twitching
mélange of smells, with the implicit consent of Anya, busy with customers since
it was only two days to Halloween.
Setting down a cappuccino and a cold can of Dr. Pepper, Willow commented, “Guess
he’s taking those pills again.”
“He can handle it,” Dawn defended, sliding her backpack off and depositing it
on a chair. Then she settled and popped the top of her soda.
“Sure,” Willow responded skeptically. “Like Dr. Franklin and the stims. Maybe
he’ll go walkabout soon.”
Dawn shook her head hard enough to make her hair fly. “Not on the agenda. Too
much backed up to take a break.”
“Yeah. That’s what Dr. Franklin said. Before he freaked, collapsed, and admitted
to Sheridan there was a problem.”
“It’s not like that, and anyway, Franklin wasn’t a vamp.”
“You think? So.” Willow poked the straw into her cup and bent it at exactly
the right angle. “About the soul.”
Dawn shook her head again. “That’s his agenda, not mine. Sure, he called to
say I could talk about it--everything except where it is. At least I think
that’s what it was about. A call like that at six in the morning, from Loopy
Land, some interpretation is required. No, that can wait. What I’m worried about
is Digger’s Plan B.”
While Willow sipped her cappuccino, Dawn explained that when Digger had taken
her as a pax bond, a kind of formal hostage to secure a meeting, and Spike had
come for her, Digger had ended up throwing a big handful of sparkly powder at
Spike. It had kind of sizzled, gone into a glowy field at contact, and then
vanished.
“Spike said it was nothing,” Dawn commented, elbows on the table and head low,
hair falling curved onto its surface, “but I don’t like it. Plan A, the deathwish,
was pretty bad. I’m not gonna assume Plan B was just a bust and a waste of whatever
Digger paid for it just because Spike says so.”
“Everything seems pretty normal. New normal. Never would have thought Spike
would need chemical help to get even more hyper.” Willow rolled her eyes expressively.
“He seemed OK yesterday. For Spike.”
“He didn’t drink the tribute blood: there were no empty bags in the trash.”
“It was a party. Everybody around. He’s shy.”
“I checked the basement trash too.”
“Oh.”
“I think he gave it to Sue. I don’t think he dusted her. He wouldn’t give me
a straight answer.”
Willow thought about that, drawing small circles on the table with a fingertip.
They both knew he’d dusted Kim, another SIT who’d been turned. “Why wouldn’t
he?” Willow asked finally.
“Don’t know. It’s not as if he answers his frelling cell phone. Or will stand
still long enough for me to actually ask him something anymore. I tried
to get him to talk to me about Plan B last night but oh no, it’s a school day,
have to stuff the Bit back in the van, no time for idle chit-chat.” Dawn’s mimicking
of Spike’s accent and cadences was deliberately bad and sour.
So that had been what the little drop-off hiccup had been about, Willow thought.
“It wasn’t a good time. He was busy.”
“When isn’t he busy? Back to topic: what do you think the sparkles were?
A spell, sure--but what kind of spell?”
“No good answer to that. That was just the delivery method. It would be like
looking at smoke and trying to know what kind of wood was burning. Or paper,
or….” Willow frowned, considering, and Dawn kept still and watched, letting
her. “He was wearing my locket by that time. That would block most kinds of….
No, he wasn’t: he’d given it to Buffy. So, no: he didn’t have any magical protection
when he went in. And the dust reacted.”
“Bad sign?”
“Could be. No immediate, obvious effect…. Was Digger wearing gloves, handling
it?”
Dawn looked for the answer in the ceiling. “Nope.”
“And no kind of chanting or visible preparation?”
“Nothing. Just grab and fling.”
“And it reacted on contact.” Willow paused to sip. “I don’t like the sound of
that either. There’s two things I can do, Dawn. One is test him for magical
influence. See if anybody has…handled him, magically, in the last few days in
a way that still has effects. The other is to go to the source and find out.”
Dawn’s eyebrows arched high. “You expect Digger to be chatty?”
“Not Digger. The one who made the spell. My sometime roommate cum pet:
Amy the Rat. Or at least that’s my first guess. She’s gone into the spells-for-hire
line lately. And she’s not too particular about what she whips up. Or for who.
If I test Spike, I can try to get a magical signature off him in the process.
All magic has…the flavor of its maker. Because nothing’s mass produced. Each
spell is individual, hand-crafted. Full of the will and intent of its maker,
that shaped it. I think I know the work of all the resident mages and witches
in the area. Aren’t that many. Most left when the Hellmouth started to get all
rumbly, flare-y. Contrary to popular belief, there is such a thing as
too much power.” Making a wry face, Willow sipped and swallowed. “But the Hellmouth
is shut now, so it’s possible somebody’s come back and has been laying low,
or some stranger has come on the strength of Sunnydale’s reputation as a power
well, power just for the reaching out and grabbing. It’s not just vamps that
are attracted. Or were.” Willow twisted around in her chair. “Anya?”
At the register, inserting a purchase in one of the new Harry Potter themed
bags, Anya said to the customer, with bright enthusiasm, “Thanks for spending
your money here!” Waiting until the customer left, Anya cast a suspicious glance
toward two teenagers fumbling with the candle display, then hustled within talking
distance of the table. “What is it? I’m really very busy.”
“I can help out until five,” Dawn volunteered, and got a surprised look and
a wide grin from Anya.
“For free?”
“Usual rates.”
“Oh, all right. Very well. Go watch the candles, then.” Anya settled on the
edge of the chair Dawn vacated, still watching the store.
Willow said, “I need some spell components. I’ll make up a list, but since you’re
so busy, I’ll collect them myself. Will that be OK?”
Anya considered, then said, “Go ahead. You haven’t stolen anything in several
months. Perhaps I should consider you reformed. Like Dawn.”
“Thanks a lot. Actually, it will be charged to Spike’s account.”
“Then fine--I always add a 10% service charge. For carrying the account. I want
to see the list, though. Any component over $ 10, I want to see and verify.”
Willow sighed. You had to take Anya as you found her or not at all. Anya didn’t
especially mean to be rude--she just was. As rain wasn’t intentionally
wet. It just came that way.
“Nobody’s yet met the reserve on the Chaos Stone,” Anya mentioned. “But the
bidding’s come within $ 10,000.”
“Better than last time,” Willow responded. “Maybe e-Bay’s not the best place.”
“To sell it, no. Of course not. But nothing like it to spread the word that
a rare artifact like that is on offer. I’ve had much more interest from the
major European dealers since the first time I put it up. And raised the price
accordingly.”
“Oh? What are you asking now?”
“It’s at sixty thousand dollars at the moment. But that the bidding is even
coming close makes me think it’s still underpriced. I don’t think I’ll let it
go for less than a hundred thousand.”
Willow whistled silently. “Major moolah. Aren’t you worried about burglary?”
Anya shook her head--a brisk, tight little motion. Her hair at the moment was
a burnished chestnut. Willow thought last week it had been champagne blonde,
but it was easy to lose track. Generally, the dark colors were expressions of
Anya’s confidence; the lighter colors were demands for attention, reassurance,
brittle and hesitant.
Anya said, “I’ve given it to Olaf to guard. Few burglars can do a dimensional
jump. And then, well, Olaf.” She spread her hands, indicating the matter was
self-evident. Which maybe it was, since Olaf was a troll, about eight feet high
and broad in proportion, and Anya’s ex.
Willow winced. “You sure that’s a good idea? I mean…Olaf.”
“Once I’ve had my vengence, it’s redundant to carry a grudge.”
“But are you sure that’s the way Olaf looks at it?” After all, Olaf hadn’t been
a troll residing in another dimension until Anya had made him that way--the
start of her career as a Vengeance Demon. “I mean, he wasn’t all that happy,
the last time you saw him.”
“Oh, piffle. That doesn’t mean anything. And I’ve seen him since. Popped over
for an afternoon. To make sure there were no hard feelings. Besides, Olaf gives
excellent orgasms. He’s quite large, you know. If he’d just been content to
confine himself to giving them to me, we never would have had any problem. Not
that orgasms are everything, I don’t mean that. Pretty close, but not everything.
After all, there’s also money. And in that department, Olaf leaves a lot to
be desired. Zip,” Anya reported smugly, then followed with a sad headshake.
“He never would save and has no concept of compound interest. To say nothing
of high-yield bonds. However, that means I can pay him a pittance and have him
think it’s a fortune. So it all comes right in the end.” Birdlike and sudden,
Anya looked at Willow directly. “What are the components for: more smells?”
“I’ll need more of that soon, but no. Magical influence check-up. On Spike.”
“Good! Because I thought yesterday he didn’t look at all well. Allowing for
his being dead, of course. Vampire, naturally. But beyond that.”
“Well, there’s that deathwish, of course: really takes it out of somebody, that
does. You don’t just bounce back in a day, afterward.” Willow frowned, reflecting
that shrugging off Anya’s remarks probably wasn’t wise: Anya saw a lot. Anya
was the first to notice Spike’s soul, when nobody else had a clue. “Did you
notice anything in particular?”
But it was too late: reacting to the dismissal, Anya had gone all stiff and
huffy. “If there’s nothing else, I’m very busy, as I said.”
As Anya stood, Willow set a hand on her wrist. “Anya, I’m sorry. I always want
to assume everything’s OK. But if it’s not, I need to know. And, after all,
well…Spike,” she said, in the same tone as Anya had invoked the surly awfulness
of Olaf. Calling up the whole gestalt of a person, and all their history and
nuances of relationship.
Willow knew Anya had a soft spot for Spike, even if she did charge him an extra
10%.
Anya settled back, allowing herself to be mollified. “Of course he was tired,
and radically overpeopled, and ready to punch out any interference with the
smooth unfolding of the party, and twitchy toward Buffy and prickly to Giles,
and blah, blah, blah. Just what you’d expect, of course. But…he seemed abstracted.
Not completely there somehow. Like somebody with headphones, and you’re
talking to them, and they’re not hearing you at all or barely because they’re
actually listening to something completely different. Not music, because he
likes music. Whatever he was hearing was something he didn’t like. And it’s
not like Spike not to be present. Except when he’s drunk, of course. Which he
wasn’t. Not last night. And it wasn’t like that, anyway. More like headphones,
as I said.” Describing her impressions, Anya had been frowning, thoughtful.
Concluding, she brightened, pleased to have chosen an apt analogy. Then her
expression changed completely: closed, blank, secretive. She shot Willow a sly,
assessing glance.
“We know,” Willow said quietly, uncapping her cup to get at the last of its
contents. “About the soul. That he’s shut it away someplace.”
The tightness in Anya’s face relaxed. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell.
This time.” She shrugged. “His business, after all. How has Buffy….”
“Under negotiations. Nobody’s happy. He claims it’s necessary.”
“Well, of course. Dealing with vamps, opposing the Powers, how’s he to do that
tripping over a soul every two minutes? There’s a reason vamps don’t come equipped
with souls, after all, just as there’s a reason vultures don’t have feathers
on their necks. Why, they’d collect decay, all kinds of diseases, no good way
to get them clean. Vultures, not vamps.”
Willow nodded to show she’d understood.
Turning thoughtful again, Anya remarked, “That’s not the problem, if there is
a problem. I’ve known Spike soulless for years and years. That’s just normal.
This was different…and possibly magical. I hadn’t considered that. You think
of vampires as pretty impenetrable, magically speaking. But they’re not. Quite
a lot of spells involve vampires…as part of the components. Because they’re
intrinsically magical, I suppose. Their innate magic, just being what they are,
generally sheds any outside magic that tries to affect them. So I don’t like
the sound of that deathwish. Not at all. Somebody’s found the right angle, the
right deflection to hit him. So it’s good you’re going to check him out. Get
your components, Willow. This time, this once--it’s on the house.”
**********
Parking at the foot of the weedy, potholed drive, Buffy checked nervously that
everything was straight and tucked in. Patted carefully at her hair. Then she
lifted her chin and marched up toward the factory that wasn’t as abandoned as
it looked. All the windows were blackened and the doors boarded over with plywood
that would have looked suspiciously fresh if she hadn’t already known why it
hadn’t yet had time to become weathered. Taking her best guess, she veered toward
an annex, stomped up to the door and yanked it open, surprising what was almost
certainly a vamp sitting at a desk, reading a magazine.
Confronting the woman, Buffy started tightly, “I’m coming in, and I don’t want--”
Rising, the woman had a definite oh, shit! expression. Turning only her
head, the she-vamp elbowed open the inner door and shouted, “Emil! Get Spike.
Now!”
From inside, a male voice replied, “He said--”
“Slayer’s here!”
Faintly, the voice responded, “Oh, shit.”
Well, that was one way to make an entrance. Buffy stomped past the sentry, through
the door. She was looking at a vast dim open space, part of which was set up
as a training area with weapons on the wall, pads on the concrete floor. Three
vamps in motion there, turning to stare at her like cows watching a passing
car. In the other direction, to her right, she saw the back of a big vamp disappearing
through a gap in a barricade wall of dead machinery. Figuring that was probably
the oh, shit! guy, she followed him, watching in all directions. Any
vamp that so much as looked at her crosseyed, she’d put down, hard and fast.
Beyond the barricade, no problem figuring where to go. The whole space was bare,
floor to high ceiling, with a bright, glassed-in cubicle freestanding in the
middle. The big vamp was leaning in the doorway but he turned and backed off
as Buffy approached. Buffy didn’t bother to notice where he went, intent on
Spike, standing up behind a computer desk filled with things she didn’t understand.
“’Lo, love. Thought you weren’t coming up here.”
He looked really terrible, Buffy thought. Slow and awkward and used-up. He wasn’t
looking exactly at her, only in her general direction--as though his eyes weren’t
focusing but he hoped she wouldn’t notice. Which made her feel even more nervous,
considering the favor she’d come to ask him.
He was pushing papers off an ugly pink molded plastic chair, to clear it for
her. Then he changed his mind and started working at the strewn cushions of
a Morris chair, pitching off a pizza box, some beer bottles that clanged on
the cement. In the middle of that, he just ran down, bent with his forehead
against the top of the back cushion.
“’M fine,” he insisted automatically, when she clasped him around the chest
and laid her cheek against the back of his head. “Jus’ come over a bit dizzy,
it’ll pass, always does.”
He sounded in the last fading stages of drunk, but she could tell he wasn’t:
the smell was wrong. She asked him softly, “Didn’t you get any sleep at all?”
His shoulders hitched. “The odd minute, here and there. Couldn’t. Wasn’t time.
An’ by then, might as well come back here, take a run at the translation. Nearly
got a piece done. But noplace near caught up, noplace….”
Spotting a cot, she turned away from him to fling off trash until she’d uncovered
a pillow and a threadbare blue blanket. She walked him over to it and made him
lie down. Not hard, considering he was weaving and unsteady on his feet--in
no shape to resist effectively. It took no more than a spread hand on his chest
to keep him flat.
He pulled an arm up across his eyes: what he did when he was hiding. “Can’t
do this, love. It’s all way behind.”
Buffy paid no attention. He was always cool to the touch. But his lifted arm,
when she touched it, felt ice-cold. She pulled the blanket up, then knew that
wouldn’t be much help: blankets only kept warmth in. They were no help in generating
it in the first place. And from experience she knew cots tended to collapse
when asked to support two.
She wanted to get him home. Get him into a really hot shower for awhile, then
tumble him into bed. Get him to feed from her: what he needed. What he wouldn’t
willingly do anymore. Put it in a cup, then. Not as good, but if he didn’t take
it, it would be wasted. That was a lever she hadn’t used yet….
Except it was 3:30 in the afternoon on a bright, sunny day…and the SUV wasn’t
sun-proofed and had no trunk.
While she considered, Buffy heard running feet. Straightening, turning, she
found Kennedy leaning in at the door, wide-eyed and wary. Chosen, obviously,
as the go-between, between a bunch of nervous vamps and the Slayer.
Buffy asked curtly, “Does this place have hot water?”
“For tea, yeah, or--”
“In quantity? Like a shower?”
The SIT shook her head quick, like a shudder. “No. No heater. Buffy, he’s OK.
He said--”
“I don’t give a damn what he said. Is there….” Buffy paused, thinking some more.
“You said tea. Is there any cocoa?”
“Yeah. Willow brought it, for housewarming.”
Buffy remembered saying to Willow, How come you know, when I don’t? And
Willow had replied, with awkward gentleness, I ask. Or something along
those lines.
Housewarming. Right.
“Fix some, then. Kennedy,” Buffy added, calling the SIT back. “I’m sure there’s
something around by way of liquor. Bring that, too.”
“Not a good idea, pet,” Spike slurred, from the cot. “Don’t sit all that well
with the pills. I try not to do ‘em both at the same time. Mostly.” Scraping
the blanket aside, he pushed to sitting: leaned forward, forearms on thighs,
hands loosely clasped, head bent. “’F I knew you were gonna come calling, I’d
have straightened up the place. And myself. Sorry. What was it, you were looking
for?”
Buffy dragged the ugly chair around, so they were sitting knee to knee. “I tried
calling,” she mentioned. “Phone--”
“--was turned off. Yeah. Hard to skulk, pet, with this loud buzzing thing in
your pocket. Rather spoils the mood.”
“And after skulking?” Buffy asked pointedly.
His shoulders sagged a little more. “Yeah. Forgot. Didn’t expect you. Said you
wouldn’t set foot here. To train, or anything.”
“I lied.”
“Yeah, right.” That got a chuckle.
“I wanted--” Buffy changed her mind. “I want to ask a favor. Notice the hat
in hand.”
He was enough out of it that he actually looked. “No hat.”
“Figurative hat.”
“Yeah. Got that now. So what could be so dire to make you fetch your figurative
hat up to the Forbidden Fanged Menagerie, then?”
“If it’s something you can do on maybe four hours of sleep. Assuming you get
started right away.”
Spike finally lifted his head and shut his eyes. “Get right started. ‘F I don’t
die of the suspense. Name it.”
“You remember Principal Doty approved my self-defense class.”
Spike was quiet a moment. “Yeah. Recall you said that. Now that you remind me.”
“The first class is tonight. Eight o’ clock. In the gym. For an hour. Fourteen
people have signed up. And I’m supposed to show them exercises when what I want
to show them is how to dust vamps. I was OK, mostly, with the SITs. They knew
what the score was. But what am I gonna do, facing Ms. Happy Homemaker, Chatty
Cheerleader, Nora Nerd, and at least one guy, and babble about the benefits
of regular exercise?”
Spike thought some more. “You’re not scared, are you, Slayer?”
“Frickin’ terrified. And I want you there so bad my teeth started aching. It
will be fine, if you’re there. Everybody will be looking at you. Nobody looking
at me. And we could show them a few simple throws, and make touching your toes
look sexy, and nobody there will even know you’re a vamp, and please come, please.
I know it’s an imposition, I’m taking advantage, but I don’t care. I can’t face
it otherwise. Please.”
Still with his eyes shut, he opened up his hands, and she set hers in them.
“Yeah. All right.”
“You don’t have to. I mean, if you just can’t. I can always--”
Buffy’s babbling cut off when Spike opened his eyes and she fell into them.
“You don’t get how it goes, pet. After three ‘pleases,’ you’re not allowed to
argue me out of it again. I got your back. Even facing Chatty Cheerleader and
her chums. Maybe I could roust out some SITs for the demos. Ken!”
“Yeah, Spike. Coming!” came the reply from out of the dim, big space. A moment
later, Kennedy came hustling into view at a flat-footed glide, balancing a very
full mug of cocoa. She watched the floor, coming from the door. Holding out
the mug, she warned, “Careful. It’s hot, and it’s full.”
The transfer was made. Spike inhaled the steam with apparent rapture. “Ken,
get hold of ‘Manda and Rona. What time’s it got to be?”
“You have a watch now, Spike,” responded the SIT, with a small, knowing smile.
“Tell me anyway. Not convenient to look.”
“If you mean, is ‘Manda home from school yet, the answer is probably. Post school,
pre tribute delivery.”
“Right then. Get onto them, tell them the mark’s the school gym, eight o’clock.
Doin’ demos for Buffy’s new class. Not optional.”
“Me too?”
“You too. New thing. Have to back her up. Lots of flourishes, so nobody notices
when I fall down.”
“Ha! Got to see this!” The SIT ran out.
“You know what?” Buffy remarked thoughtfully, looking after her.
“No: what?”
“Sometimes, she’s almost human. I nearly liked her, there for a minute.”
“You can’t have her: you’re taken.”
Buffy felt herself blushing. “Not like that, you idiot!” She almost shoved
him but remembered in time about the cocoa. Which, she realized, was already
gone: Spike handed over the empty mug, then let himself tip back onto the pillow.
“You see Red and Bit get their suppers all right. You, too, of course. An’ I’ll
have a bit of a kip here. Tell Mary, wake me up seven thirty, even if she has
to use a cannon. Have a car ready. An’ we’ll all come together at the appointed
place.”
Buffy didn’t ask how she’d know Mary from the other vamps. She’d work it out.
Some things, she could manage just fine on her own. Just not the really scary
ones not involving the supernatural.
When she took his lax hand, she thought it was a little warmer. Less chill.
Better, anyway. And she decided she wasn’t gonna push the feeding issue now:
he needed the sleep more. She sat, quietly holding his hand, until she was certain
he was asleep, which didn’t take very long. Then she kissed him, let go, and
steeled herself for the challenge of identifying Mary.
**********
Sitting beside Willow about midway up the otherwise empty indoor bleachers,
Dawn leaned a little to grab popcorn from the bag and catch Willow’s explanation
of shadenfreude: unholy glee at someone else’s misfortune.
“That’s not French?” Dawn whispered, trying not to spit popcorn. Willow was
taking French.
“Nope. German. And universal.”
“Huh.” Trying to keep a straight face, Dawn thought a moment, swallowed the
rest of the popcorn, then whispered, “It’s a very vamp concept.”
Willow nodded noncommittally: she was having a hard time keeping a straight
face, too. Holding off the giggles by biting her lip and looking anyplace except
where Buffy was doing a terrible job of cajoling a dozen or so assorted townies,
most of them teenaged, female, and overweight, into doing jumping jacks. About
every two minutes, Buffy would forget herself and go all sergeant major on them,
single out some slacker and chew her out, as though they were SITs, to the conspicuous
non-improvement of either morale or performance. One had already run off, red-faced
and crying. Afterward Buffy tried to make it up to the rest with insincere compliments
and perky wheedling that didn’t improve things either.
And that was only the newest misfortune.
To start off with, there’d been no lights on in the gym and everybody poking
and groping around near the door trying to find the light switch. That was how
Dawn had found them, arriving with Willow. When somebody at last located the
lighting control panel, cleverly concealed in its shut box on the wall where
no sensible person would ever look for it, much less recognize it when they
found it, Dawn had winced aside with a protesting whisper of, “My eyes! My eyes!”
because the attendees were revealed in all their ragbag day-glo glory. Outfits
ranged from extreme denim through unremarkable baggy sweats to shorts and halter
tops and, at the pinnacle of bad taste, bulging skin-tight lycra aerobic togs
with what appeared to be thongs and bras worn on the outside, in a variety of
vomit-inducing colors, all satin-finished and shiny.
Even Buffy had stared and gulped. Then she’d launched abruptly into her opening
greeting speech, introducing herself, glaring steadily at the shut doors that
led to the corridor as though she’d presently remove them by bodily attack and
meanwhile declaring that personal fitness was the necessary first step to self
defense, and Dawn had settled onto the bleacher seat with a happy sigh, feeling
herself recompensed for every Friday night Slayer State of the First harangue
she’d had to suffer through.
Because the attendees weren’t terrified SITs and didn’t have to be polite. Dawn
thought a girl’s interrupting, “Can we just get to the sweating part?” was about
the best.
The two guys present had plainly come to check out the chicks and couldn’t decide
whether to stay in back, with the best view of the ample assets, or to move
in front to put their own assets on display. So they wandered tidally, back
to front, then back again, doing about five jumping jacks to every one the girls
performed, so nobody could get into or maintain a rhythm.
Then the double doors whacked back and Spike and his entourage made their entrance,
checking out everybody’s assets. Three flanked out to either side: the
three SITs to the left, and Emil, Mary, and Mike on a mirroring diagonal to
the right. All in the colors. All doing the slo-mo-looking power walk thing
with just the hint of a catch and hang between strides, that really only vamps
could do right but the SITs were making a respectable try at imitating, all
of them in stride, anyway. And Spike, with controlled energy, grace, and arrogant
amusement absolutely crackling off him like rug static, with a slight, speculative
smile that was pure predator as he surveyed the attendees as if deciding which
was first up on the menu, half a step in front of the others, duster swinging
to his stride.
Gazing raptly, Dawn whispered, “I think the one in the puke green, with the
outside underwear, is gonna have an aneurysm.”
Willow whispered back, “Redefines making an exhibition of yourself. Long time
since I saw that. Not since the chip.”
“Never saw that,” Dawn replied. “Always knew he could if he wanted to, though.
Just never wanted to, I guess, when I could see him. So that’s the Big
Bad.”
Then they concluded together, “Pills,” and Willow added, “Lots and lots of pills.
Hate to think of the crash.”
“Worth it,” Dawn decided. “At least, he won’t get a heart attack.”
Perversely she was a little peeved that Mike paid her not the least attention.
Sure, she was still furiousfuckingmad at him for taking pot-shots at Spike as
a rough vamp prank, and sure, she still wasn’t speaking to him. That didn’t
alter her disappointed surprise at being ignored altogether when she positively
knew he’d have recognized her smell right away. The gentlemanly thing
would have been to show her some sign so she could loftily ignore him.
Then she froze because Spike noticed her. The blazing blue eyes locked a second
and a nod acknowledged her. And because Spike had looked, everybody else looked,
all the eyes on Dawn, and to her chagrin, she Eeped, swallowed hard, and tried
to hide behind Willow.
She hoped Spike hadn’t seen, because he’d halted before Buffy, who had her arms
folded and was glaring up at him the way she’d glared at the shut doors.
“You’re late,” Buffy accused.
“Oh, are we? Thought we were right on time.” Gazing around again, he said, “Introduce
me to these fine folk, pet.”
Caught flat-footed, Buffy dove for a sheet of printout and began reading names.
Spike went and greeted each one as he detected a reaction to the name. But it
looked as though hearing the name, he knew at once who it belonged to by some
magic of recognition. He took and clasped their hands, even the guys (who were
welcome to consider it a handshake if they liked, although Spike did them all
exactly the same), then paced back to Buffy, waiting for her to do the honors.
Buffy said, “Everybody, this…is my boyfriend: William.”
Willow made a fizzing noise, choked off almost instantly. And Kennedy twitched.
“Well, thank you Elizabeth Anne, for inviting us,” Spike drawled, lingering
over the name. “What’s the first order of the evening? Warm-ups, or go right
to the attacks?” He rubbed his hands together briskly, a gesture of anticipation.
Dawn confronted the awful prospect that Spike was gonna do something.
In a fey mood with the brakes off and the clutch released, he had a fairly gruesome
sense of what was funny. His own personal version of schadenfreude, except he
got to cause the misfortune, not just gloat from the sidelines.
Apparently Buffy had the same misgivings because she went up on her toes to
whisper something fierce directly into his ear. Spike spread both hands slightly,
protesting innocence of any such dire intent. There was a moment of locked glances:
Buffy tense and mistrustful, Spike all happy affability. Except for the second
his eyes flashed gold, which none of the Desperate Dozen plus behind him could
see.
Sort of like a wink, Dawn decided. Except one just short of showing fangs.
First order of the evening was, predictably, exercise. More jumping jacks, the
vamps and SITs just like clockwork so the whole of the group actually managed
to achieve something like a unanimous rhythm in imitation. Except a pair in
the back: standing leaned forward, gaping in forlorn adoration at Spike, who’d
lit a cigarette over Buffy’s hissed protests, showing her his boot soles in
turn and clearly making the point that the gym-shoes-only rule wasn’t one he
was honoring either so why all the fuss about a sodding smoke? (Dawn made out
the final phrase by lip-reading.) But he was only being provoking because the
next minute, he’d pitched the smoke and stepped on it, then made a bee-line
to the yearning pair in back, taking them by the shoulders and walking them
away, chatting them up, then giving them private instruction in how jumping
jacks were properly done, the three of them off everybody else’s pace, but in
gradual synch with each other because Spike patiently kept to a slower rhythm
they could match. And they would obviously rather have died now than give up
or stop and thereby cease to be the focus of his attention.
Dawn sniped to Willow, “And he claims he can’t do thrall. He’s just mocking
them. Making them look even sillier.”
Willow leaned close. “The one on the left. In the stupid pink print. Remind
you of anybody?”
Dawn looked, but it was just a chubby, badly-dressed girl, maybe sixteen, in
droopy sweats: dark hair flopping as she panted open-mouthed, flinging her arms
wildly up and down as she jumped with her feet apart, then together, eyes riveted
on Spike. “I don’t--” she began, and then saw it and said softly, “Oh.” Because
if the girl were a SIT, she’d have been Kim. And what Dawn had taken for mockery
was therefore a kind of wistful courtesy, and sincere. There was more to Spike
than snark. She should have known better.
Dawn deducted points from herself because Willow had seen it--the resemblance
and what it meant--and she hadn’t.
Dawn asked, “How’s his aura?” In response, Willow’s eyes went unfocused and
distant.
“About what you’d expect,” Willow reported calmly, after a minute or two. “Ginormous
and blazing white. Putting out energy like a blast furnace.”
“Oh.” Dawn had never been able to make herself see an aura but could imagine
them, from Willow’s descriptions, just fine. “So--no sign of magical tampering?”
Willow shook her head, but it wasn’t No. “Can’t make out anything through that.
No use trying until he settles. A lot.”
They’d gone to the factory in Willow’s second-hand chugging green Fiat, seen
the parked SUV, and met Buffy partway up the drive. Buffy had listened to their
concerns but forbade their waking Spike for anything short of actual apocalypse,
and they’d trailed the SUV obediently home. But over supper, Buffy had explained
about the class, and asking Spike to come, so Dawn and Willow had decided to
tag along and do the testing afterward. Willow still had the spell components
in her bag. The one that didn’t contain popcorn.
After the jumping jacks there were toe touches: first straight down, then fingers
to opposite feet, each arm reaching high, then down, in turn. At that point,
Buffy decreed everybody sufficiently warm and waved Spike in to enact a mugging
scenario. He left the two thoroughly enthralled girls with a small bow and a
twinkle, then came sauntering across the floor, shedding his duster and collecting
it in a bundle. Bypassing Buffy, he stepped up the tiers of bleachers, six rows
in two steps, and held the duster out to Dawn.
“Keep this for me, will you, Bit? Don’t trust one of those yobs not to nick
it when I’m not looking, except it’s guarded.”
“Sure, Spike,” Dawn gulped, uncomfortable again to have everybody looking at
her. As she gathered the bunched duster into her lap, Spike drew a knuckle down
her cheek.
He murmured, “Missed you, Bit.”
“Missed you too, Spike.”
“Red, you havin’ a good time?”
“So far,” Willow agreed. “Want to talk to you awhile, after.”
“That’s all right, then. Ta.”
He wide-stepped back down the tiers of seats, landing on the floor with a bounce.
He was in the full mall regalia: the black shiny kidskin pants, studded belt,
broad studded watchband, skin-tight black T and scarlet button-down loose over
it, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. At a distance, with the duster over it
all, Dawn hadn’t been sure. On his left forearm she could see part of the spiraling
green tattoo he'd gotten for her: a line of poetry that meant "Dawn."
“So,” he said, and got the first syllable of Slayer out before he caught himself
and corrected to, “Elizabeth. Who’s to be the mugger, and who’s the muggee?”
Another brisk rubbing of palms.
“I’ll mug you, the poor helpless creature that doesn’t know how to defend himself,”
Buffy declared in a tone that suggested she thought he was having entirely too
much fun.
Apparently Spike took mugging literally because he made dire faces of fear and
dismay when, strolling peaceably, he was accosted by the short pony-tailed blond
in white halter top and satin-finished, slinky black slacks and moderate heels,
who blocked his way demanding his money or his life. When he attempted to hit
her, a slow, telegraphed blow that a crippled grandma would have had no trouble
dodging, she grabbed his wrist and flung him over her back. The gym wasn’t padded.
Sprawled on the floor, Spike made a horrible fuss, declaring himself ruined
for life, refusing to budge until Buffy consented to come give him a hand. Grimacing,
she did, and he allowed himself to be pulled up. Dawn had suspected he’d throw
Buffy in turn but he didn’t, standing clear and working his shoulders, gentling
and bending his back, checking for plainly non-existent damage.
When the giggling and laughter from the audience finally died down, Spike said
hopefully, “My turn to be the mugger, pet?”
There was an exchange of suspicious and blandly innocent gazes. Then Buffy said,
“Oh, all right. Your turn.”
Buffy became the incautious pedestrian, whistling and kicking away imaginary
stones until confronted by the Big Bad, jumping into her way with a loud thud
of boots. For the sake of variety, Spike demanded her virtue and proceeded to
try to steal a kiss, breaking off in the middle and ignoring Buffy’s feebly
slapping hands to explain to the audience, “Kiss mugger. Run into ‘em all the
time, where I come from.” Then he reacted as one of Buffy’s hands apparently
did something much less feeble. He stood on the toes of her shoes with the toes
of his boots and she couldn’t get him off. She smacked him, hands and then elbows,
and he smacked her back, leaning in to plant quick, chaste kisses on whatever
part of her face he could get at, in between swats. Then she gave him a good
one and he went into a back handspring and onto his feet again, pointing to
the laughing audience and warning, “Stunt being performed by professional molesters.
Do not try this at home.” When charging Buffy spun into a roundhouse kick at
his chest, he wasn’t there, clapping and exclaiming, “Oi, good one! That would’ve
hurt!”
Then they got into it, at speed. Almost too fast to see. Dawn had seen them
spar a few times, and this wasn’t it. This was something else. Every time she
caught sight of Spike’s face, he was grinning, generally with his tongue showing.
Every time she could see Buffy’s face, it was grim and intent. Most of the time,
neither was actually touching the floor.
After a few minutes, Spike called, “These are the paying customers, love: let
‘em see the moves.”
Pausing, Buffy shook her head hard, shaking off the fighting trance, or whatever
it’d been. And they began the slo-mo sparring--every blow prolonged, every kick
impossibly slow, barely poised on the toe of the other foot; every fall a gymnastic
demonstration of how long it could take to actually touch the floor and then
fold into a flip or extend into a handstand or cartwheel.
The audience had started in laughter, then fallen silent when things went fast
and scary. When Spike consented to take a tumble, every individual joint striking
the floor separately, ending in the same unlikely, artistic sprawl as before,
the civilians erupted in applause as Buffy scuffed over and assisted him back
to his feet, consenting finally to smile and let him drape a casual arm across
her shoulders.
Making a winding gesture overhead with his left hand, Spike called, “By pairs.
My lot, find yourself a partner, simple wrist throws. You don’t throw them,
they throw you. Warn you: this floor is fu-- very hard. Not like that
fine, bouncy concrete you’re used to. All right, have at it. Ten minutes.” Then
he stabbed a finger at each of the two guys, who eyed each other and him nervously.
Disengaging from Buffy, Spike said to them, “Come on, nobody’s gonna hurt you
here. Fine strong blokes like yourselves, no mugger in his right mind would
come at you, right? So a little practice footwork here. See if you can put me
down. All good sport.”
Then he proceeded to trip them, over and over, no matter what they did or tried
to do. He’d hook a knee or an ankle, from the front, behind, or either side,
and dump them again. “Soccer moves,” he explained, and dumped them some more
with sudden sweep kicks and scissors clamps, balanced on the palm of one hand,
his body parallel to the floor. The few attendees not practicing throws with
a vamp or SIT partner were watching and giggling.
When Spike felt he’d frustrated los guys sufficiently, he stopped and started
showing them moves. How to hook a heel. How to go after the rear foot, the balance
foot unless your opponent was really stupid, and push it aside so the body couldn’t
help but fall, losing that key support. The beginnings, Dawn recognized, of
the fine and subtle art of stance.
She’d seen him drilling the SITs on that.
When Buffy ended the first round of practice by observing each pair and making
suggestions, corrections, and adjustments, Spike still instructing in stance
by the far wall, was when the vamps burst in.
**********
Immediately Dawn’s taser was in her hand and she was thinking how to get it
to somebody who could do more damage with it than she could. Because, no stakes.
No weapons of any kind.
But before she could come up with any sort of plan, she heard Spike call, “Here!”
and “Bit--Lights!”
And Dawn knew where the lighting box was: directly in front of her, at the other
end of the gym. Since the lights were on, that must mean Spike wanted them off.
She didn’t try to work out the sense, just sprang to her feet and started running,
paying no attention to anything except her footing on the narrow boards. Not
even when they reverberated and bounced, warning of someone in pursuit. She’d
visualized it in her mind: the instant she reached the wall, she banged the
box open and started pushing the switches (or breakers or whatever they were
called) efficiently with the side of her hand, clicking them down by rows. The
next second, the gym was pitch black.
But not to vamps.
The boards were still bouncing under her. Visualizing the structure of the bleachers,
she dropped flat and slipped through the space between rows, wriggled around
until she was swinging by her hands, then let herself fall. She had the distance
pretty much right: she landed prepared and started retreating, one arm sweeping
behind her and the taser in front, intending to put her back against a wall
or better, in a corner, to limit the ways a vamp could come at her. But the
back of her head banging into a riser told her she’d turned in the drop or the
landing and was in fact backing toward the small end of the wedge, the lowest
tiers, not toward the wall. Discarding Plan A, she went to Plan B: curl up small
and put a good shock into the first touch she felt.
“Dawn,” said a voice right beside her, and she jabbed reflexively. Didn’t make
contact, which probably was just as well, because it was Mike. He’d seen the
strike coming and dodged.
She blindly offered the taser on a palm. “Here.”
She felt a brief touch on her palm, but the taser wasn’t collected. “Just watching
out for you,” Mike murmured. “Wasn’t but six of ‘em. Two, maybe, left. Nothing
we can’t handle. You just sit tight. Better, come around behind me.” A hand
closed over her arm and guided her, duck-walking, then let go. “I can’t get
into a tiny little space like that, like you can. But somebody could reach through,
grab.” Something in his voice told her the words were pushed through fangs.
Game-faced: a no-brainer, really, in the dark. They all would have shifted aspect
immediately, to see.
There’d been a lot of confused, frightened yelling, at first. Now it was so
quiet that Dawn caught the distinctive crackle/hiss of a vamp dusting. A moment
later, it was repeated.
“Spike,” Mike whispered, “he’s got his garrote. All tidy. Nothing left to see.
That the light box, up there on the wall?”
“Yeah,” Dawn whispered back. “But you can’t slide through the risers. Boost
me through.”
Although she waited, crouched with her hands gripping the inside of the long
bench seat, Mike made no move to touch her until somebody gave a very high-pitched
whistle. Then he helped her align herself horizontally and skinny through the
gap. She swung her feet around, stood, and groped forward until she found the
wall. Patting until she found the lighting box, she reversed all the switches:
bang, bang, bang. All the lights were restored.
Blinking in the sudden stark brilliance, Dawn looked at once for Spike and Buffy
and found them: Buffy with the SITs in a semicircle, the civilians herded into
the corner behind them--relaxing now, breaking the protective formation--and
Spike walking toward Buffy at a deliberate pace across the open floor, stowing
something away in a pocket. Mary and Emil together near the doors, talking together
idly as though nothing at all had happened. Mike appearing from between two
assemblages of bleachers and converging with Spike, merely waiting but claiming
pride of place at Spike’s right hand as Buffy and Spike exchanged a few words.
Nothing but human faces showing now, of course.
The finesse of particular position was also claimable by Willow: still sitting
calmly exactly where she’d been, munching popcorn, quite untroubled. Which brought
home to Dawn that Willow was now a powerful enough witch that not even a vamp
attack constituted a particular threat.
Willow’s taking no action also implicitly stated her confidence in the people
on the floor to handle it without her intervention, which struck Dawn as a hair
optimistic. But the determining factor was that not a single sign of the intruding
vamps remained. All tidy, as Mike had remarked.
Laughing unconvincingly, Buffy was offering the explanation that it was a stupid
pre-Halloween prank staged by a few students in masks, trying to frighten them
by turning the lights out. Then she offered the more paranoid explanation that
certain unspecified persons didn’t want this new class to succeed, and she hoped
she’d see them all back on Thursday.
On that note, the attendees grabbed jackets and left, chatting, nobody seeming
much alarmed. The two guys at the rear were trying to trip each other up as
the doors closed behind them.
Everybody that remained drifted together, most perching on the first and second
rows of bleachers--some with legs dangling, some with feet on the bench below
and knees tucked up tight. The atmosphere changed, now that the ignorant civilians
were gone.
“Well,” said Buffy, leaning wearily back, “to what do we owe that little visitation?”
“Parked cars,” commented Spike, dropping crosslegged onto the floor and lighting
a cigarette--this time without anybody objecting. “Lot’s generally empty this
time of night. Bunch of cars, and then the building standing open, unlocked.
So a few vamps figured they’d come up lucky--meeting or something. Big empty
building. Easy feed.” Putting his lighter away, he added, “Not 100% certain
but best guess.”
“Not aimed at you,” Buffy interpreted, still half a question.
“Don’t think so, no. Just the usual Sunnydale nightlife on the hunt. Feed and
get gone before midnight, before the sweep. Their bad luck that they run into
us. Most of them fledges. Hardly a shred of a brain among ‘em. No.”
“Just a fluke,” said Buffy.
“Yeah. I think so,” Spike responded, and Buffy nodded, accepting it.
“Then put it to the test,” she proposed. “Come back Thursday for the next class.”
Spike sighed, hung his head, and didn’t answer. The fight in the dark seemed
to have used up all the manic energy and exuberance. Pills wearing off, Dawn
thought: exhaustion washing back in fast. Sliding toward an awesome crash.
“Tell you what,” Buffy said. “I’ll offer you a swap. You help me with the class
and you can have all the training gear from the Magic Box, that you wanted.”
When there was again no response, Buffy added, “And I’ll come train there.
And help train your people. Run them through the drills. We trained the SITs
to dust vamps, kill demons, stay alive. As best I can see, that’s what your
sweeps are about. No difference. So I’ll help. If you want.”
From the way Buffy’s offer slowed and backed, she was puzzled and disappointed
by the lack of rah rah reaction at the concessions she was prepared to make
for a repeat of the Buffy-and-Spike show.
Dawn remarked, “I don’t think there’s much rah rah left, Buffy. The show and
the fight burned it all off. He’s crashing now.”
“Oh.”
“Not a real great time for negotiations. Or linear thought. You got all there
was.”
“Oh,” Buffy said again blankly.
Willow came stepping down the rows, clasping the bag and Spike’s duster. Declining
Dawn’s silent offer to take something, she continued down to the floor and knelt
by Spike. She said to him, “Don’t want to do anything unwanted or high-handed,
here. There’s a little test I’d like to run. Is that OK?”
Spike was concentrating on stubbing out the cigarette against his boot sole.
“Cold,” was his blurred response. He wrapped his arms around himself.
“All right,” Willow muttered, “not a great time for informed consent, either.
Spike.” She waited until she got some minimal reaction. “Want to rest?”
“Oh, yes, please.” The voice didn’t sound like Spike at all. Startling. Creepy.
As if he was channeling Giles.
Placing a hand on his forehead, Willow said, “Sie schlafen,” and Spike
toppled over with the duster as a pillow. “Don’t know why German’s best for
boring someone senseless, but there it is. One of the lesser mysteries.” Willow
looked up at Buffy. “I think it’s time for everybody to go home.”
The SITs left without fuss; the vamps, not so much, until Mike dismissed them.
Arms calmly folded, Mike then made wordlessly plain he was staying unless somebody
wanted to dispute it with him and probably after, too. Considering Mike’s size,
that would have been a major dispute.
“It’s OK,” Dawn told Willow. “Spike wouldn’t mind.” From Willow’s dubious glance
and Buffy’s completely ignoring him, Dawn was startled to realize neither of
them had the vaguest idea of who Mike was, except another vamp in the colors.
He just didn’t register with either of them as a person. Whereas to Dawn, he
was completely, unmistakably himself--just as Spike was. Or Mary. Or Huey. Or
the little odd guy with all the piercings, whose name she hadn’t been told.
Sue, they might have recognized, she thought…for a minute at least, before the
mind-blinds came down.
Mike commented, “Not hunting no trouble. Know he’s safe with you.”
Nobody but Dawn took any notice whatever. She was embarrassed for them and lifted
her eyes to his in mute apology.
He came and sat beside her on the bottom bench. Looking straight ahead, he asked,
“You talking to me again? Don’t care whether or no. Just want to know where
I stand, what I’m s’posed to do.”
“I trusted you with my taser, didn’t I?” Dawn responded crossly.
“Don’t know what that means and didn’t take it anyway.”
“Means I trust you. Doesn’t mean I like you much, but I guess I trust
you. So I suppose I’m talking to you, anytime it would be real dumb not to.
Like in the middle of a fight.”
“Not in a fight now,” Mike pointed out. “Still talking, sounds like to me.”
Dawn ignored him. But in a personal, specific sort of way. Quite different from
what Buffy did.
Mike was breathing. Ostentatiously. Smelling, actually. Back when they were
still talking, he’d ride miles just to smell her. Bask in it, claiming no more
was needed to be perfectly content. And how fucking freakazoid was that?
Dawn ignored him harder.
While the non-conversation and the non-breathing had been going on, Willow had
been earnestly explaining to Buffy about Digger’s sparkly powder and the influence
test. Buffy looked appropriately frowny and concerned. She’d settled on the
floor, holding Spike’s hand and absently playing with his fingers.
“I’d ask him,” Willow went on, “but now he won’t be awake for at least a day,
and he’s turned real hard to catch up with or get hold of.”
“Yeah. I’ve noticed,” Buffy commented dryly. “Really, really noticed.”
“And it’s already been two days. So I don’t think it’s a good idea to wait.
I’d do it on your OK. On a scale of risky, it’s about a minus three. Not even
the juice of a locator spell. Still kind of nosy, though, so consent is required.
Somebody’s. Not really apt to ask Angel. Nor Dru, may she already be dust. So
that leaves you.”
Immediate family. Next of kin.
“Yeah,” Buffy responded, very softly. Then she looked around. “Dawnie, you have
any problem with it?”
Dawn colored, surprised and uber-pleased to be consulted. “My idea in the first
place.”
“Then fire away,” said Buffy. “We seem to have a quorum.” Fondly, she ruffled
Spike’s hair, adding, “One abstaining.”
Nobody consulted Mike. As was right. Mike had no say. He didn’t seem to mind,
just watching placidly. And breathing, of course.
Willow laid out the spell components with her usual meticulous fussiness. Most,
ground to powder, she poured out of a zip bag into a small stone bowl with indecipherable
symbols carved around the outside. Adding a thick, glurping liquid from a squeeze
bottle, Willow stirred the mixture vigorously with the point-end of a feather.
Then she dipped the feather end, using it to dab the runny paste onto Spike’s
wrists and throat.
“Pulse points?” Dawn asked.
Willow shrugged. “Like I’ve said before, there’s almost no magic designed for
vamps. And mostly it doesn’t work. This may not, either. I’ve made what adaptations
on the fly I could. So I may get a false negative. But I don’t think there’s
any chance whatever of a false positive.” She dabbed Spike’s forehead and, with
a soft “S’cuse me, Spike,” opened the scarlet overshirt and pulled up the black
T to add a final splotch over his heart. Setting the soppy feather back in the
bowl, Willow looked up. “It’s not required for the spell, but there’s always
extra mojo for any sort of Earth magic in threes. So maybe if we held hands…?”
Buffy offered her hands, but Dawn didn’t, her fingers knotting together. “What…if
one of the three isn’t…precisely human?”
“Oh, right: the scary blood magic, that went all wildfire. Good catch, Dawnie.
I’d almost forgotten that. Better not, then.” Holding spread fingers over Spike’s
forehead and heart, not quite touching, Willow began muttering. Once, she winced,
commented, “Later,” and went on.
Spike greyed out. A foggy haze rose slowly from him and enclosed him. It gradually
turned black and opaque. It tried to climb up Willow’s arms but she shooed it
off with a couple of snapped words. As if angered, it curdled--thick, heavy,
and roiling--then dissipated with a sudden flash and pop.
Willow pulled her arms in, rubbing them as if she’d been stung.
Buffy started patting Spike all over--reflexively checking for damage. “I think
I speak for us all when I say ‘What in hell?’”
Wringing her hands, Willow commented, “No false positive there, no siree!”
“What is it?” Dawn asked anxiously.
“No clue, except it obviously wasn’t intended for his well-being. The next step
is an intimate tête à tête with our skanky but stylish rat witch, Amy Madison.”
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