1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37
Barb
(OK, I caved. This was gonna be a squeaky-clean, wholesome PG-13 story about a good girl and a not-good-but-OK vampire, with, y'know, unresolved sexual tension and looks of fevered longing and all. I mean, not every S/B story has to have a sex scene, right? Right? [Is that crickets I hear chirping?] But then "Smashed" aired, and I've got these characters glaring at me and snarling "THEY get sex! WE want sex! Lots of it! NOW!" And believe me, when Buffy and Spike want something, they get it. Threatening them with the horrible stuff you have planned three chapters down the road just does not do a damned bit of good. So this is me, caving and upping the rating to R. Are you two happy now?]
There was an awkward silence. "Maybe we should take a break from
the research," Tara said. Expressions of relief broke out all around the
table.
"Great idea." Buffy tightened
her arm around Spike's middle with the rebellious glee of a small child bouncing
on the good sofa. He couldn't blame her; he had the dizzy feeling that
this was all a figment of his overactive imagination. If he pulled her
closer, would she disappear? The slight, strong body in his arms remained
flesh and blood as he draped both arms round her shoulders, and the rebuff he
still half-expected didn’t come. Elated, he bent his head, nuzzling her
ear. She tensed a little, then leaned into him defiantly, shoulders against
his chest, the sweet curve of her ass pressing into his crotch. Ha
ha, I'm touching Buffy! Touch touch touch! Felt good.
Felt wonderful. Felt like... felt like the mood was making a remarkable
comeback. "In fact, I think we should try to find out more about all the,
uh, bears and things, and if there's any--" Buffy gasped slightly as his arousal
became more evident, straining towards her warmth. "--connections.
Spike and I can search--" She cast a quick look at the front door; still sunlight
out. "--the tunnels."
Spike nodded. “I’m game.”
Without further ado Buffy broke for the door to the basement, Spike right behind
her.
Willow called after them, "Do
you need any he--"
"NO!"
Spike kicked the door shut
behind them. Buffy spun around and grabbed him, yanking him down a step
or two. They collided on the stairs, hands clutching bodies with white-hot
bruising passion, slamming against each other, blind with two years of pent-up
need. He caught hold of her waist, hands sliding up under the halter top,
stroking, caressing, drawing little whimpering moans from her while her lips
and tongue traced patterns of fire down the cords of his neck. Her hands
went back to work on the buttons of his fly--good, going to be some serious
damage done if something didn't give down there soon. Warm hands,
fuck, there was a God. She freed him from the jeans and he gasped in relief,
but it was only momentary; her touch made him so painfully hard it was a marvel
he didn't come right then and there.
Fresh desire surged up in her,
musky and intoxicating, the moment she took him in her hands. Spike staggered
for a second, drunk on her scent, caught his balance, and lifted her up bodily.
They crashed into the storage shelves at the bottom of the stairs, sending vials
of mandrake root and asphodel flying. Buffy braced herself against the
shelf. He heard cloth ripping as he pulled her jeans off her hips--didn't
care, not when his Slayer was squirming and moaning under his hands, her teeth
nipping at his lower lip, her mouth warm, so warm, but nothing compared to the
tropical paradise between her thighs. She was wearing some lacy scrap
of nothing under the jeans and both layers of cloth were soaked through already;
she yanked the underwear aside and reached down to guide him into her.
Then he was sliding into that
lovely moist heat in one long sure stroke, borne up in the ocean of her eyes--if
the world had stopped turning on its axis, he would not have felt it; if prophesy
was fulfilled, he would not have cared. All he knew was that in her body
he had returned home at last.
5:00 PM
"Again?
Can’t--oh. OH..."
"Oh, but you can. Again. And again, and again. Don't know your
own strength, Slayer?"
"I--oh, yeeessss. Get in me, now. Harder. Didn't know
your strength. Everyone else... got... tired... OH!"
"Rrrrrowwrr... Ah, that's
lovely, that is. You've got the prettiest little pink quim, and you're so
wet, all for me, so hot and tight... I get hard just breathing you in, you
know that?"
"Getting the
picture. Nice big picture. God, Spike, you feel so
good... yeeeesss! That's it! Right there! Yes, yes,
YES!!"
6:00 PM
"Do you think they're still
up there?"
"Do we give a
fuck?"
"Welll..."
"Makes me horny, thinkin'
of them clustered around the door, listening for pointers..."
"Everything makes you
horny."
"True. Let's
not waste it, eh?"
7:00 PM
"Oh, come on, love, you act
like you've never seen one before. I know damn well the poof wasn't
snipped."
"I know, but we
didn't exactly... you know, spend a lot of time looking at each other.
It's so... cute. Like a little turtleneck." (a giggle) "OK, a
not so little turtleneck."
8:00 PM
"Say it."
"I bloody well will not."
"Say it. You know you
want it. You won't get it till you say it."
"Buffy Summers is the
Goddess of Head and the owner of the Magic Tongue and I beg her on bended knee
to apply her rosy pink lips to my poor abused cock before I fucking explode."
"That's not what
I--oh, screw it, it'll do."
9:00 PM
"Are you sure? I've
never--"
"Love, I could
break the damned thing in two ticks if I wanted to. I don't want to.
I like it."
"But it looks
like it hurts."
"Oh, yeh,
it hurts. Hurts real good. Just keep on--ohfuckingchristYES!"
"Wow. I guess you do
like it. What if I... oooh. You know, a girl could get into this..."
11:00 PM
"Buffy? Love?
What's wrong?"
"I--don't
stop! I'm not crying. I'm not. I--I never knew it could be
like this. I--no one ever did that to me before."
"No one...? What, was
Commando Boy sodding insane? He had you in his bed for a bleeding year and
a half and never...? I'll fly down to Brazil and kill 'im
tomorrow... Or better yet, I'll stay here and do it again."
1:00 AM
"Mmmm. William..."
"What?"
"Oh. Sorry.
Spike. Spike? Are--"
"No--s'all right.
Just... no one ever said that name that way before."
"Hey. I’ll say your
name any way I like."
"Ah,
so now it’s my name?"
"Shut
up and do me, William."
3:00 AM
"I love you."
"Spike, I..."
"Don't. I know.
It’s all right. I've just got to say it now and again."
Buffy awoke to the sound of
a heart not beating.
In
repose, they fit together, an interlocking puzzle in ivory and gold: his nose
buried in her hair, his occasional breaths stirring the fine loose strands; her
head still pillowed on his shoulder, an unforseen advantage of sleeping with
someone whose circulation couldn’t get cut off. His arm curled across her
body, hand cupping her breast. Her fingers splayed across his chest,
savoring wiry muscle layered over bone. She could see the trail of
fingernail-welts over the curve of his shoulder, already starting to heal.
She watched the flutter of his lashes, startlingly dark against his pale
cheek. He looked younger, more vulnerable, in sleep--hair tousled, the
lush, almost feminine curve of his lower lip all the more irresistible set
against the severe planes and angles of cheek and jaw.
Had she intended to take it
this far, this fast? She couldn't remember; skin-to-skin contact with
Spike left her brain little more than a cascade of white sparks. She
flexed her body experimentally, wincing at all the delicious little aches the
movement roused. She was ravenously hungry, in desperate need of a shower,
and feeling...
Spike made a
little protesting noise, drawing her closer, and she curled into his side; there
was a warm spot there, where she’d lain next to him all night. All of this
changed nothing, of course. Last night she’d screamed, laughed, wept, made
him do the same. They’d touched ecstacy beyond her wildest dreams--and
then had a rousing fight over whether or not he got to smoke in bed after
touching ecstacy. Some time in the night the glass wall had shattered for
good, cutting her to the bone and making her howl with joy at the pain.
She couldn't remember if
Angel had breathed in his sleep.
One thing she was going to
have to keep in mind if this went on was that wild spontaneous sex in unheated
basements was very Blue Velvet and all, but waking up in the unheated basement
next to an unheated vampire was just chilly. Was that rag in the corner
what was left of her halter top? Forget the morals of it all, your
wardrobe can't afford an affair with Spike.
His arm tightened around
her and his eyes blinked lazily open, blue and clear, with a told-you-so smirk
that had nothing to do with being a demon and everything to do with being a
guy. His fingers began tracing arabesques on her breasts and belly,
and she arched into his touch, her mouth seeking his with unerring
instinct. After a moment she had to breathe, and forced herself to sit up,
casting about for her clothes, whatever was left of them, anyway. "What
time is it?"
Spike yawned,
(why on earth did someone who didn't breathe yawn?) did a long, slow,
crack-every-muscle stretch--and pounced, pulling her down and nibbling her
earlobe. Melting now. "Buggered if I know. Buggered if I
care. C'mere and let me give you a nice thorough shagging."
"Noooooo!" she moaned, not
at all convincingly. She squirmed out of his grasp and crouched on hands
and knees, surveying the storeroom with alarm. There were pieces of broken
glass from the toppled mandrake jars all over the floor, along with splinters
from the broken shelf. Amazing that they hadn't sliced themselves to
ribbons or accidentally staked Spike. If we don't happen to be in an
alley, by gum, we'll make the place look like one! Anya was going to
freak. "No touchy! Dawn's probably worried sick--"
Spike caught her ankle and
ran the tip of his tongue along her instep. "Dawn's fifteen, not five, and
probably thrilled to have a night to herself for a change. 'Sides, Will
and Tara’ll have told her where we were." He grinned. "Not exactly
where we are, I hope."
"Well... oohh... No! If nothing else, I've really gotta pee.
And I'm starving."
He
sighed and let her go, reaching for his own clothes. "I could use a spot
of brekky myself." The grin widened. "Nothing like exercise to work
up a healthy appetite."
Buffy, clutching the remains of her halter top to her chest, bit her lower
lip. "Spike..."
"Yeh,
love?"
"You didn't..."
"Eh?"
"You didn't go all
grr. Even once."
He
raised an eyebrow. "So?"
"Does that mean..."
She felt herself going red. How on earth was she supposed to ask
this? "I mean--was--did you... enjoy it?"
He cocked his head to one
side and stared at her. "Did I--? That's a damned fool
question--there's things a bird can fake, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm
not a bird."
She ducked her
head. "It's just--whenever Angel got...uh... excited..."
Wrong thing to say.
Hurt and irritation swept the look of nostalgic lust off Spike's face in an
instant. "Look, Slayer, if this little get-together was about indulging
your death wish, take the next sodding bus to L.A. and look up Grand-sire.
I don't screw my food."
Buffy flinched. "It wasn't Angel who kept reminding me I wasn’t worth a
second go!"
She didn’t try
to keep the bitter edge out of her voice, and got the dubious reward of seeing
him flinch in turn. Spike made a disgusted noise and got to his
feet. A moment later his hand was tipping her chin up roughly, forcing her
to look at him. His winter-blue eyes caught hers, looking right down into
the bottom of her soul; was it fair that he, who had none, was so good at
reading hers? She felt his fingertips tracing the old bite scars on the
side of her neck, and shuddered. He studied her face for a moment, then
bent his head. Slowly, methodically, his lips brushed her neck, teasing
her--then he bit down, hard, suckling at her throat, that amazingly talented
tongue caressing her sensitive skin in the wake of his grazing teeth until she
was dissolving under his touch. She was gasping when he drew away, on the
verge of another climax, and she could feel him hardening against her. His
face was still completely human; he hadn’t broken the skin. "Listen," he
said, harsh and intense. "Last night was the most amazing experience of my
life. Better than the best kill I ever had--if sex was blood I could live
off you, Slayer. I’m yours. You and the Bit. In the immortal
words of Buffy Summers, deal."
He was still a
monster. A beautiful monster, a monster who loved her, her very own
leashed and muzzled man-eating tiger. Buffy lifted a hand to his face,
stroking his cheek, not caring that her fingers trembled. Nothing had
changed--
“Here,” he said,
handing her his T-shirt. “Looks like this survived the carnage.”
--except that someone,
somewhere, had just won that pool.
Tanner sat on a hummock of
limestone, rubbing his upper arms with his hands. He was cold.
The temperature in the caves was constant, but chill, and his coat was too thin
for comfort when sitting still. A few guttering candles dripped wax down
the sides of the stalagmites where they were perched--as an attempt to hold back
the immense rolling darkness, they were pathetic, but that was not their primary
purpose.
The figures
huddled around the central altar didn’t appear to notice either the cold or the
darkness. Skeletal limbs swaddled in rags, eyeless faces turned upwards,
they brandished staves adorned with fragments of bone and feathers, their
droning chant importuning the attention of something ancient and dark.
Tanner didn’t understand the words; they were in a language that had died before
the first ape stood upright on an African plain. The echoes rolled back
and forth across the cavern, creating a polyphony that gnawed its way into the
brain, an endless tapestry of sound.
Ganag’sh awruun, ganag’sh hlal
Raukh al ankhun f’khaeth guih
nawrn
Hauth hauwrug yawva’thir rukh
Shkaur ri yawkweth
f’kruth anih gawrn!
First One, thou who dwellest in the night places
Thou who art
the darkness between the worlds
We have made ready the path
We have opened for thee a doorway.
The hand of our messenger has fallen
On the head of thy
anointed
On the head of thy chosen
Enter in where the
dwelling has been prepared.
One by one the chanters
dropped out, until only a single ragged voice remained. “Shkaur!” it
cried, striking downward with the butt of his staff. Sparks flew from the
cavern floor, as if the staff were steel to its flint, and for a moment actinic
green light illumined the whole vast space around them, glinting off swags and
canopies of flowstone, translucent crenelations, pendant forests of rust
and cream and gold. Then it was gone and the darkness rolled in once more,
still and cold and overwhelming. The eyeless men stood rigid for a long
moment, then lowered their staves, slumping in exhaustion. One of them
turned to Tanner, the muscles of its ravaged cheeks twitching with
fatigue. “It is done.”
“Great. So what about
my half of the bargain?” Tanner got to his feet, stiff with long
sitting. “I can’t keep this together much longer. It was sheer luck
we found that poor schmuck under the picnic table.” And poor fare the
man’s mind had been, too--half gone already, as so many of the chronically
homeless were. Odds were good he’d remain one of the ones who never left
the junkyard camp, one more mouth to feed and back to clothe for those of them
who remained able to function.
The eyeless man smiled,
perhaps the most unpleasant expression Tanner had ever witnessed. “Your
foolish panic has wakened other powers. Their arrival stirs others yet, already
made wary by the shifting of the Balance. Complications such as these we
needed no part of.”
Tanner
shrugged. “You pick a crazy guy to do your dirty work, you take your
chances.” Unease coiled within him even so. He’d been running on the
ragged edge of sanity that night, or he’d never have tried that half-assed
summoning to begin with. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the
time, but he couldn’t begin to analyze his own motivations now. The loa
were not forgiving masters, and he had no right to beg their protection--yet
Ghede had answered. chill black waves flowing from his hands into the Red
Witch’s skull He shivered. “I did what you asked me to.
Pay up.”
A desiccated chuckle. “Never fear. Your reward is
at hand.”
"OK, so the spell you
used on me--the incantation was Fomorian, right? And no physical components at
all?"
Willow, head
propped listlessly on her fist, nodded and flipped over another page of
Unnatural Maladies. Grimacing at the gory illustration of a victim
of a Fyarl demon's acid mucous, she skimmed the accompanying text and flipped
the page again. "That's right. Just words and hand-wavy stuff.
I didn't figure I'd have time for anything fancy while Glory tried to pop my
head off."
Tara went
back to the diagram she was working on. Willow sneaked a look over her
shoulder; it was a more elaborate version of the scribbles she'd been working on
yesterday, showing all the component parts of the altar. They'd taken the
bus out to Weatherly Park that morning and hunted till they found the isolated
picnic table-altar and the scattered remnants of the spell. Tara had
sketched the whole thing carefully, and now she was trying out different
reconstructions of the patterns formed by the stones and the ritual
objects. Willow didn't know what Tara expected to get out of the project;
obviously Daniel Tanner's version of the spell wasn't what they needed, but she
didn't feel up to arguing about it.
You're not up to much
lately.
She stared
down at the ornate script on the page before her and heaved a sigh. It was
a whole big ol' fashioned Scooby research party--well, minus Giles, who'd bowed
out, as he did so often these days, to deal with the shipping company which was
moving his library back to England. And minus Buffy and Spike, who'd been
incommunicado since the previous afternoon. No one had quite gotten up the
nerve to knock on the basement door yet.
Willow should have been in
her element, but she felt fuzzy and unfocused, unable to concentrate.
Something inside was dried out, scraped bare, and how long it would take for her
inner reservoirs to renew themselves... ugh. She didn't even want to think
about that.
Xander and Anya
were having an argument over by the counter; eavesdropping on them was more
interesting than trying to puzzle out what the author of Unnatural
Maladies meant by 'lesions caused by the unmentionable foulnesse practiced
among the Fyarl of Bavaria.' They were arguing a lot lately--about
the wedding, about money, about anything at all. "Look, it doesn't matter
how the bear fits in." Xander sounded edgy and snappish. "We just don't
have enough info, so we stick to the mission: find crazy people, catch crazy
people, fix crazy people."
A chill worked its way up Willow’s spine, as if dark water were rising around
her. Of course, you realize all this is futile--without a source of
power to tap, you won't be able to fix the crazy people without making more
crazy people. Every spell has its price.
No! That's not
so! Well, the price part, yes, but-- She looked round at the stacks of
books, feeling the dark water rise, a wave of defeat washing over her.
There wasn't anything in them that could help, she knew--she'd gone through
every single one of them researching the original spell she'd used to cure
Tara. The niggling little voice was right. You couldn't draw power
out of nowhere. But she’d had a lot of experience in being creative about
where she drew it from--work at anything hard enough and you’d find a
catch. If you couldn’t beat the simulation, reprogram the simulator.
Wasn’t that what Buffy’d been doing for the last six years?
Anya sniffed. "The
last time one of those bears came around, you got cursed with a grotesque
sexually transmitted disease. As the person you have sex with, I have a
right to be concerned." She unlocked the lid to the front counter display case
and arranged a pair of enameled bracers (guaranteed to fend off shark bites) in
a prominent position in front of the 'Store Special!' placard. She stood
up and surveyed the shelves critically. "Drat. We're out of the
lemon meditation candles. Go get me another carton out of storage,
Xander."
"Oh, thanks for
the reminder! I'm not the one who stirred it up this time." Xander tossed a
snide look in the direction of the basement door. "Someone else’s parts
can fall off. And I am not going down there."
Anya shrugged. "All
right, I will." She started off towards the forbidden door.
Xander caught her arm, his
voice taking on a note of panic. "You can't go down there!"
"Why not? It's my store."
"Because--because it might
be dangerous! What if they left the door to the tunnels unlocked, huh? They
haven't come back yet, maybe something got them and maybe it's down there right
now about to--"
"Xander,"
Anya said with commendable patience, "They didn't go into the tunnels.
They went down to the basement to have sex. Although I wish they'd gone
into the training room instead; there are far fewer breakable items in there,
and I know I heard crashing noises. But since the training room has no
exit, it would have been obvious that they intended to have sex, and I did
notice that Buffy was employing the misdirection you keep talking about.
It doesn't work very well. Or maybe she's just not very good at it."
Xander clapped his hands
over his ears. "Gnnng."
"Poor Xander," Tara
whispered.
Willow wrinkled
her brow. "I wonder if he's really upset or if this is some kind of
autonomic reflex. If he didn’t kick up a fuss it would ruin his
reputation. Besides, you know, him and Anya--I suppose technically she's
got a soul, but--" If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at
all. What a boring philosophy. She tried very hard for Xander's sake,
but Anya was just annoying. Nails-on-chalkboard annoying. She
speculated idly on the chances of Xander noticing if Anya lost a little mental
energy for a good cause. Bad Willow.
Still, said
the niggling little voice, not a bad idea in theory. You could steal
a tithe of energy from many minds to heal one. Who would miss it?
The necessary spell flashed
into her mind, almost fully-formed. Eww. No. Where did that
come from?
"I'm
surprised it's taken this long," Anya continued blithely. "It's been
obvious for some time that Buffy's sexually attracted to him. Spike is
plesent to look at, has well-defined muscles and appears to be exceptionally
well-equipped to give her orgasms. Also the two of them have a great deal
in common. They both enjoy witty repartee, wearing leather and killing
things."
Dawn slammed her
book shut, pulled her backpack from beneath the table, and hopped to her
feet. "Not that hearing you guys speculate about my sister's sex life
isn't oodles and bunches of fun, but I'm getting nowhere and it's almost
twelve. I'm supposed to meet Lisa at the mall. Can you tell Buffy
when she gets back from her, uh, search that I'm gonna have dinner at Lisa's
and--"
"I'm sure Buffy will
be back by then," Tara said firmly. "Phone home at six and see what she
says."
"Buffy will say be
home by ten or face the Slayer's wrath," Buffy said.
Everyone's attention was
immediately riveted to the back of the shop, where Buffy stood, wearing
yesterday's jeans (somewhat the worse for wear) and Spike's t-shirt. Spike
lounged in the doorway behind her, equally rumpled-looking and bare-chested
underneath the duster. It was astonishing how the ever-present tension
between them was simply gone--evaporated. Spike took in Xander's look of
exaggerated horror and Anya's frank appreciation with amused equanimity; Buffy
just looked disconcerted to see that everyone was staring at them. Dawn
bounced over to her sister (and someone was going to have to tell Dawn that with
the way she was growing, getting Dawn-bounced was becoming a little alarming)
and hugged her. “This is so great!"
"Ah," Xander said,
straight-faced. "I see. We're now looking for a clothes-eating
monster."
"You guys haven't
been out here since--?" Buffy asked nervously.
"Not at all," Anya assured
her. "We left when the noises got too distracting. You’ll be paying
for everything you broke, of course?"
"She's joking, Buff,"
Xander said, glaring at Anya.
“Of course.” Anya
looked quite earnestly upset over the idea that her humor might have been
misconstrued. “Except for the paying for breakage part. Oh!”
An expression of rapture blossomed over her face. “If the two of you are a
couple, I can save money by getting you one Christmas present!”
“Because our tastes are
so similar? But I’m getting you and Xander separate presents,”
Buffy shot back. “No fair.”
“Right, no cutting back on
the prezzies when you and Harris are the only ones in this merry band with a
steady income.” Spike leaned over and whispered something into Buffy's
ear. She smiled up at him and tugged him down for a kiss that rapidly
deepened to the point where shutting the door on them again began to look like a
viable option. "I'm going to nip home and get something to drink," the
vampire said when they finally broke apart, doing the whole husky-voiced,
smouldering-gaze thing. "Later, Slayer." He started back down the stairs,
stopped, and leveled a warning finger at Anya. “And yes, I’m coming back
for my car, so if you have it towed I’ll come hang about through your whole
Christmas sale week and harass the paying customers.”
Buffy watched Spike go with
a little smile, took a deep breath and turned back to the others. "So,"
she said. "Got something for me to beat up yet?" Not carefree, bouncy,
pre-Angelus Buffy; that girl was long gone. But certainly happier than
Willow could remember her being since before the whole mess with Riley and vamp
hookers, before Joyce Summers had died. If Spike can do that, then
maybe I should be playing matchmaker. Come to that, Spike had looked pretty
darn pleased with the universe, too.
Hard to believe it
was only three years ago he was threatening to cut your face open with a broken
bottle, isn't it? Of course he's harmless now--for the time being, at least--but
it's sobering to think any new-risen fledgling could do the same to you now,
with your powers at such a low ebb...
Willow fought off a
reflexive shudder as the memory of that horrible night in the old factory washed
over her afresh--and Spike had been the least horrible part of it, in
retrospect. Perhaps that was why she'd been able to let go of the fear and
anger towards him so easily: when it came down to it, she'd hurt herself far
more than he'd hurt her. Still... she had been afraid, that
night. It could never happen to her now--
Except, of course,
that it just did. At the hands of a mere human hedge-wizard.
"You'd better just go
looking for crazies," Tara was saying. "Because the leads we have on any
of the rest of this stuff are--well, they aren't."
The others didn't notice as
Willow rose from the table. She had the eerie feeling that time was
slowing as drifted over to the stairs, the earth ceasing its revolutions for her
and her alone. Everyone else was frozen in place, too busy talking to
Buffy about the unsolvable problem, as if the Slayer could beat it into
submission. But it wasn't unsolvable. The solution just wasn't in
any of the books down on the lower level. Willow whispered the words that
allowed her access to the balcony.
She knew exactly what part
of the restricted section of the library to go to, exactly what part of the
shelf to reach towards, exactly which book to slip out from its dusty slot,
taking care not to disturb the volumes around it. It was small and squat
and bound in battered black leather, and any title embossed upon its spine or
cover had worn away long since. It was one of a box full of books Xander
and Spike had recovered from Doc's apartment over the summer, when they'd
searched it for clues to who the mysterious old man--or demon--had been.
Most of them had been concerned with necromancy of one sort or another--not
surprising, considering that Doc had been an expert on the subject.
Her fingers brushed the
greasy leather. This one... this one had proven valuable.
She'd found the passages that had inspired her modifications of the Raising
spell here, part of the Protocols of Osiris. She'd intended to translate
the rest of it at some point, but there just hadn't been time. Quickly,
Willow tucked the book under her arm and climbed down the ladder again.
She slid the book into her dufflebag and zipped it up. Time lurched into
motion again around her.
"--just doesn’t seem right somehow,” Buffy was saying. “Buffy the Homeless
Wino Slayer? Not exactly a fair fight, is it? What do I do, catch
them with butterfly nets?”
“Say that again after a pack of them come this close to sucking your brains
out,” Xander said with great feeling.
“Mm.” Buffy didn’t
look convinced. “All right, we’ll get on it. I’m gonna go home and
hit the showers or no one will be able to tell me from the crazies.”
“Get the mail, will
you?” Willow asked. “I forgot to check the box when we left this
morning. Oh, and tonight before patrol? There will be dish.”
“It goes so well with that
eyeshadow!” Lisa peered over Dawn’s shoulder at her reflection in the mirror on
the counter. Dawn tilted her head this way and that, doubtful.
“You don’t think it’s too
red? But then, Buffy does go for that blood-of-the-innocent look.”
“Trust me, it’s
luscious. She’ll love it.”
Dawn stuck the lipstick
back into its slot on the tester rack and twiddled a few others round to read
the names. Raspberry Dew, Cotton Candy... no wonder little kids tried to
eat the stuff. She looked around, but there were no clerks in evidence
anywhere near the makeup counter. Par for the course. Nordstrom’s
was festooned with swags of gold and silver crepe and crowded with early
Christmas shoppers, and the air was redolent of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”
and the smell of Department Store: a mingling of perfume, leather, plastic,
wool, and fake evergreen scent. “I can’t believe they had this stuff out
before Thanksgiving,” she muttered.
“Are you kidding?”
Lisa waved at the nearest display of holiday cheer. “They had it out
before Halloween. Here, smell this.” She spritzed her wrist and
stuck it under Dawn’s nose.
“Phhweh. Smells like cantaloupe. I don’t think fruit salad is sexy.”
“Huh. So much for
designer fragrances. On the other hand, mothers aren’t supposed to be
sexy.” Satisfied, she dropped the bottle into her shopping basket and
consulted her list. “Got Mom, got Dad... he’ll be so thrilled with another
tie, but honestly, I have no idea what to get him--Jamie wants that Green Day
album...” She hesitated, then choked out in a rush, “Do you think I should
maybe send that guy a card or something?”
“What guy?” Dawn asked
absently, trying out a slightly less fire-engine shade of lipstick.
“Alan?” Forbidden Passion. Oh, yeah, this was it--if nothing else,
watching Buffy’s face when she read the name was going to be worth it.
“Stand right there. Hold it.” She took another quick glance around
to ascertain that there were still no clerks in sight, and shifted her body so
that her back was towards the security camera. One quick flick of the
wrist and the lipstick of her choice was in her purse.
“You’re so good at that.”
Lisa was frankly envious. “I’d totally panic. No, the--the vampire
guy. He did kind of save my life.”
“It’s a knack,” Dawn said,
giving her hair a careless flip. She was good. Even Spike
said so, and he was the professional. “Sure, send him a card. I
think he’s got a post office box, I’ll see if I can get the number. If not
you can leave it at my place and I can pass it on.”
Lisa nodded, still a little
red about the ears. After the way Megan had been drooling all over Spike,
maybe she was afraid he’d take it the wrong way. Little chance of that
considering recent developments.
She was glad she’d already
had plans with Lisa for this weekend; it kept her from obsessing to much about
those recent developments. She was happy for her sister and for Spike, of
course, but she couldn’t help worrying about how this would change
everything. She’d wanted this--wanted the two people she loved most to
come together, wanted their weird little almost-family to finally coalesce into
something real. Sure, it was silly to think that Spike would move in and
he and Buffy would show up together for Parent-Teacher Night, but the fact that
there was now a solid, nameable connection between them was reassuring.
From This is Spike, the dead guy who hangs around a lot to This is
Spike, my sister’s boyfriend was a big step. Sister’s boyfriends got
to come over for Christmas and didn’t have to skulk around in the bushes with a
beat-up box of chocolates on birthdays.
Still, it was hard not to
be nervous. Every change over the past year had been one for the
worse. Change was bad. So naturally something awful had to be
lurking over the horizon to mess up this seeming good news. She just
wasn’t going to think about it. “Men’s clothing next?” Dawn asked.
“I want to get Xander just one decent shirt and I’m gonna have to pay for
that. Oh, and we have to stop at Williams and Sonoma, I know Tara wants
some weird egg-strangler kitchen device.” Which she wasn’t going to be
able to afford, most likely. She had a Williams and Sonoma shopping list
and a K-Mart budget. Which made it practically noble to take a
five-fingered discount on a few things, since they weren’t for her. Right?
They set out for Men’s
Casual, navigating the maze of clothing racks and dodging displays of
elegantly-dressed mannequins tastefully disporting themselves amidst piles of
fake snow. Neither girl noticed the man in the dark suit step out from
behind one of the mirrored pillars and start to follow them.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37