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Barb
The Hellmouth swirled
in the center of town, a sullen Charybdis of mystical energies. Lesser scars
and dimples in the fabric of reality orbited about it: there was the rift through
which she and Anya had pulled her vampire doppelganger, over there the multiple
ragged tears opened when Dawn's blood had seared the air last spring, there
the fault line in which the Master had been trapped, and there the still-throbbing
wound where the portal had escaped her control during Buffy's Raising. There
were older rips and flaws in plenty, torn by not-so-subtle knives. Some were
raw- edged and fraying, others knit up more or less well by time or their makers,
ghosts of old summonings and failed rituals. The reality beneath reality was
a fragile and much-mended thing--a quilt patched once too often, till the fabric
itself was beginning to disintegrate.
Willow?
Far, far away, a
tiny voice was calling to her, an ant-sized Tara squeaking hypersonic pleas.
Inspiration struck, and she descended, swooping down towards earth once more.
Tara?
Willow? Oh, Willow--
I'm here,
baby. Just keep talking. You can bring me home. Willow soared on phantom
winds, circling like a hunting hawk, drawing the focus of her search closer
and closer to its goal.
Tara sounded bewildered.
Willow? Where are you?
Right here. Just
keep...talking... Hah! There it was, the magical signature of the spellcloak,
dark and gleaming as heart's blood. No wonder she hadn't been able to
spot it earlier; the pearly glow of Tara's magic was distorted by Giles's
puzzle-box subtlety and Spike's demonic ferocity. Two centuries of black
cunning for Tara to draw on, there. It was unlike any spell cast by any of the
three alone, and they'd managed to conceal it from her for what, forty-eight
hours?
Pathetic,
aren't they? her constant companion murmured. Really, they're
fortunate you're on their side. A dark chuckle. More or less.
Willow ignored the
comments from the peanut gallery as she picked the weave of the spell apart,
analyzing it thread by thread. She had to admit Tara had done fantastically
well on short notice and shorter resources. And was beginning to grow suspicious
at her silence.
Willow? What
are you doing?
Just dropping
by to say hi, baby. Love you.
Willow!
And she was back,
plummeting back into her body with the shock of a plunge off the high dive.
Willow sat up and massaged the beginnings of a cramp out of one calf, then lit
the nearest bank of candles with the wave of a hand and a whispered "Ignite."
Goblin-shadows danced across the irregular walls of the cavern as she slipped
into her shoes. Now that she knew what they were up against, there were options.
Breaking the spellcloak by force was possible, but would leave her drained and
vulnerable; it drew on the energies of at least half a dozen people, forming
a moebius of power as strong and as fragile as the braided loop of hair the
spell was founded on. The crazies were human, and unaffected by the spellcloak.
She could just send one of them to dig up the empty Mrs. Fields cookie tin buried
under the edge of the front porch, and burn the loop of hair inside. There was
more than one way to skin a Muppet.
And once that was
done... Willow ran a comb through her hair, mulling over the possibilities.
Opening another portal here, so soon, would be dangerous beyond belief, something
that might make Sunnydale go poof, and possibly the entire world. But if she
didn't, Sunnydale was most definitely going to go argh, urk, splat. She
could go ahead with her plan, taking what steps she could to reinforce the walls
of the world around her portal. Or she could try spiriting Buffy and Spike off
to Encino and doing the big switch in someplace less prone to sudden aetheric
collapse. Or she could chuck the whole thing and--no. Taking them on a road
trip was probably safer, but that meant wasted time and more opportunities for
them to escape or be rescued. Going ahead...
"Exalted Vessel?"
The Harbinger appeared in her doorway, its gruesomely scarred head bowed. "There
is a problem with one of the humans."
It lead her down
the winding passage to another cave--smaller than the main cavern, but larger
than her private quarters, guarded by another matched set of Harbingers. Crude
beds were spaced along the rocky walls, along with a few filthy backpacks and
duffle bags crammed with items scavenged from their campsite in the dump--clothes,
food, plastic milk jugs of water, a motley assortment of medical supplies. Thirteen
pairs of eyes focused on her entrance, bitter, bewildered, or dull with resignation.
The old man lay
in a fetal curl on a pallet against the rear wall of the cavern where the crazies
were housed. "He's not eating," the man in the yellow windbreaker
said, getting up from his crouch to meet her. Jim, Willow reminded herself;
it was important that she remember their names, because people, not faceless
pawns. "We can take care of them as long as they eat on their own, but
if they can't eat..." He raised his thin shoulders and let them fall
in a helpless shrug.
Willow dropped to
her haunches to inspect the patient. He was a dried-up, cicada-shell husk of
a man, his slack toothless mouth and rheumy eyes framed by lank grey hair and
grimy stubble. The kind of guy who'd lurch past you on the street, talking
to thin air and stinking of stale urine. They called him Bench, because that
was where Tanner had found him on the night Xander and Spike had gotten away
from them; his real name was anyone's guess. "Hey," she said.
"Can you hear me?"
For a second the
faded eyes caught fire, full of pain and confusion and urgency, and knobbly
fingers closed around her wrist. "Important," he whispered. Willow
bent closer. "Blisters. You don't wear socks, you get blisters."
He slumped back to the cavern floor, mumbling and twitching in his own world.
"What's
wrong with him?" Willow asked, jerking her hand from his loose grasp. "Besides
the brain-sucky thing, I mean."
Jim shrugged again.
He was one of the ones from the alley, coherent now, but he used as few words
as possible, as if he had a limited supply and feared to run short. "Dunno.
DTs. Alzheimer's. Schizophrenia. Stroke."
One from Column
A, two from Column B. Running into Tanner had probably been the best thing that
had happened to Bench in months, maybe years; in exchange for the last useless
scraps of sanity he'd gained a society of protectors and providers. That
was a moderately sickening thought. Willow sighed, brushed hair from her eyes
and got to her feet, looking around at the cavern and the dozen-plus men and
women encamped there. Most of them, deprived of Tanner's restorative spell
for days now, were deteriorating, but they took care of each other as best they
could. She'd wanted to help, but were they really any better off now, crammed
into an underground bunker?
They gave her the
heebies and the big-time guilt. She couldn't help being reminded of Tara's
brush with madness every time she passed their little slumber party. But she
needed them, and the ones she'd bespelled in the alley were as sane as could
be expected under the circumstances; that was something, wasn't it?
"So what do
you do when that happens, the not-eating?" she asked Jim.
"They die,"
he said flatly. "After three-four days with no water."
"We could take
him to the county hospital."
Jim shrugged again.
"Could." He'd do as instructed. Even the nominally sane ones were
passive, half-convinced this was just another degree of madness. They might
be right about that.
Young Buffy wiggled
up, sucking on a lollipop. "No insurance, no family, no desperate measures.
He'll be dead inside a week."
Willow gritted her
teeth and ignored it. The First was seriously starting to get on what was left
of her nerves. She stalked off to the main cavern, where a work gang of Harbingers
was busily lugging fallen rock away and reconstructing the altar which the cave-in
had destroyed. In another day or two it would be finished and re-consecrated,
and the Bringers could resume the unending chant which channeled the spirit
manifestations of the First--which couldn't happen any too soon as far as
Willow was concerned; being the only one capable of communicating with it was
kind of like having a satellite dish that brought in two hundred channels worth
of the Manson Family Network.
A second group of
the robed priests was bustling around at the opposite end of the cavern, drawing
mystic symbols on the sandy floor and laying out the components for her planned
spells. The scene was weirdly like one of Xander's job sites, except with
chicken bones.
Willow stopped to
survey their progress, giving the stones and bones and smudge sticks of bundled
herbs a cursory inspection. She'd performed the Ritual of Restoration twice
now, and had no doubts she'd be able to do it a third time, blindfolded
and standing on her head if necessary. The spell to cure the remaining crazies
was likewise a lock; all she needed for that was Dawn. The rest wouldn't
be quite so easy. She wouldn't be playing 'Where's William'
through seven zillion dimensions; Spike's soul had been a direct exchange
for Buffy's life, so in theory, putting Buffy into the portal should make
his soul pop right out. The tricky part would be opening and closing the portal.
"You
know how you can make it less tricky," Young Buffy said with a
lascivious lick of her lolly. Her eyes went big and liquid and her lip trembled."Willow,
I'm depending on you."
"No! We're
just opening a portal and doing an even exchange. I have enough power to just
do it now. It doesn't require a life."
"Ritual
has purpose, Willow,"Jenny Calendar said, reasonable. "Ritual
channels the magic, shapes it, controls it. It's not just about power; you
know that. Magic has a price, and you can't always name one that suits you."
She began pacing the cavern floor, her feet leaving no trace on the sand. "The
solstice is next Friday."Her concern seemed absolutely genuine
for a second. "If you fail to right the Balance before then, Sunnydale
will go up in flames, but if you bungle the opening of this portal, it'll
be destroyed just as surely." She leaned close, her immaterial
lips only inches from Willow's ear. "Blood opens the gates. Blood
can seal them. What's the population of Sunnydale these days? Thirty thousand?
Fifty thousand? Against one old man--one old man whose existence is nothing
but pain and dementia anyway."
The sense memory
of the last portal spiraling out of her control, of pouring her magic and her
life into that bottomless sucking hole in an attempt to fill it, close it, control
it, warred in her brain with the vision of Sunnydale as a slaughterhouse for
vast shining shapes. Why was it that the powers for good in the universe never
deigned to step down to Earth and give the occasional pep talk or commemorative
T-shirt or something? No, the only time they'd make an appearance was for
wrath-of-God type events, like those annoying people who'd only come to
your party if they knew ahead of time you were serving really good hors d'oeuvres
and never helped do dishes afterwards. It really ticked her off sometimes.
Lower beings.
That's us. The Vorlons were just as dangerous as the Shadows in the
end. Willow clenched her fists, concentrating on the bite of her nails into
the soft flesh of her palms. "You can't measure lives like that."
Jenny smiled. "Not
a bargain Buffy would make, hm? That's right, the sister who wasn't
even real, didn't even exist before last year, was more important to her
than you, or your parents, your friends, or the entire rest of the world. If
you could ask that old man, do you think he'd rather waste away hooked to
a battery of tubes in some hospital? Or go out as a hero, saving the lives of
thousands with his death?"
Willow swallowed.
She wasn't like Buffy, existing in her own righteous little Slayer cocoon.
She'd been born in Sunnydale, grown up here. She had friends and teachers
and family here, and she couldn't just write them off for principle. But
she couldn't--
"You
don't have to,"Jenny murmured. "You're my vessel.
Remember how it was with the vampire, in the alley? I'm always with you.
Always in you. Be with me. Be me. Relax, and let me make the hard decisions."
"And then it
won't be my fault?" Willow replied bitterly.
Buffy was back,
tossing her shiny cheerleader hair. "You know what's your problem,
Wills? You're still looking for the right answer. There aren't any.
All the answers are wrong. They all suck. Some just suck harder than others.
Some prices--"Joyce Summers looked at her, pale and wan, with thin, radiation-ravaged
hair. "Are higher than you're willing to pay." Her
understanding smile was like a knife. "It's all right, dear.
We all get frightened, and Buffy will never know what you could
have done for me...or for the world."
"SHUT UP!"
Willow screamed. Half the Harbingers shrank away; the other half stared as if
she were the madwoman. She closed her eyes. It was nice inside her head. Dark.
Quiet. "Jeeves," she said, "Go get Bench, and bring him out here."
But well you can't refuse
And you just can't choose
What she's gonna do
I said you can't refuse
And you just can't choose
What she's gonna do
Spike would have
put the top down, but a steady rat-tat-tat of raindrops beat on the windshield.
"This is not the way back to the house!" Buffy yelled over the raucous
blare of the stereo. In deference to the change in the weather she was wearing
an extremely distracting V-necked claret sweater which showcased the hints of
actual cleavage she'd started to display in the last week or so. The bulk
of the Torino's spacious front seat remained unused; her warm lithe body
tucked neatly under his arm, warding off the December chill.
"World's
round, Slayer, we'll get there," Spike yelled back, kicking the volume
up another notch. Whatever its flaws as a conveyance for the UV-allergic, the
Angelmobile had a bloody marvelous sound system. "The Grand Poof's
running up my mileage, and turnabout's only fair play, innit?" The
Torino soared over the crest of a rise and swooped into the next curve, tires
spraying a ragged silver crescent of water across the shoulder. The road switchbacked
higher and higher, up the sloping backside of Kingman's Bluff. Spike canted
his head out the window and howled into the wind, "Top of the world, ma!"
Buffy groaned, butting
her head against his shoulder. "I knew you were being way too reasonable
about the car!" She tugged at his sleeve. "Come on, left turn at Albuquerque."
Spike let go the
wheel with a tongue-wagging grin. "Ah, ah, ah, love, don't want me
to lose control and dent Grandad's Penis Machine, do we? Loosen up a bit
and enjoy the ride!"
Oops. Bit too far,
there. The small warm hand on his elbow vanished, and reappeared with frightening
swiftness on his crotch. "Turn around, Spike," Buffy cooed, giving
him a squeeze. "Or I'll stop torturing you."
Her fingers kneaded
playfully, like a kitten pretending it didn't realize it had claws. Spike
nearly ripped the steering column free of the dashboard, instantly iron-hard
in her grip. "Fuck that for a game of soldiers," he gasped, slewing
to a stop in the parking lot for the scenic overlook at the top of the bluff.
"Better yet, fuck me."
"I don't
know," Buffy murmured, the tip of her tongue protruding in concentration
as she maneuvered around the gear shift. Through the windshield behind her the
tile roofs of Sunnydale fell away below, the dull red-brown of dried blood in
the storm's half-light. A fairy-web of streetlights glimmered wetly against
walls and buildings leached of color by the rain. On the horizon the leaden-grey
Pacific stretched out to meet the bank of fresh storm clouds sweeping in from
the west, dragging wedding-trains of vapor across the waves. "You've
been a very naughty vampire."
Her right hand did
wonderful, agonizing things while her left worked the tab of his zipper down
with equally agonizing slowness. "If I have, it's your job to--ah!--punish
me, innit?"
Buffy freed him
from the confines of his jeans, cradling his balls, fondling him as his cock
rose up, swaying towards her like a charmed cobra. Her fingernails traced shivery
patterns up and down its length. She pinched the foreskin, hard, and his hips
jerked spasmodically. "I've given this a lot of thought," she
said, "And your punishment is to be the guinea pig in a terrible scientific
experiment."
"Ah? Got a
history of slipping my cage in those, love--oh, God, bite me, you magnificent
bitch--aaaahhh!" Hands, lips, teeth, tongue, hot wet heavenly suction and
he was coming so hard and fast he scarcely had time to breathe, not that he
needed to breathe but fuck almighty he wanted to. Release went on forever, wave
after glorious wave, until he went blissfully limp in her mouth.
Buffy drew back,
panting, all flushed cheeks and tousled hair. Her little pink tongue made the
rounds of her glossy lips, licking pearly spunk from the corners of her sweet
wicked mouth. Stretched belly-down on the front seat, her hard little nipples
were twin points of fire against his thigh, perilously close to poking right
through her skin-tight fuck-me sweater. Her golden head descended again and
she was devouring him, making little yummy purry noises deep in her throat.
In minutes, hell, seconds, she had him achingly hard once more, thrusting deep
into her willing mouth, no finesse, no control, no attempt to make it last,
justcoming coming coming again again again!
Buffy was getting
off on getting him off, hips undulating in wanton rhythm with her tongue, practically
humping the edge of the seat. Spike gathered enough of his scattered volition
to slip a hand down under her belly. Hard cold fingers probed the warm crevice
between her thighs, seeking out the damp spot on the seam of her jeans and working
it till it was sopping. Buffy moaned and squirmed against his hand, coming with
him as she sucked him off for the third time in fifteen minutes. Spike growled
protest when her mouth left him, but it quickly muted to a lustful rumble as
she sat up, fumbling with the buttons of her own jeans and trying to wriggle
them down over her hips in the cramped confines of the car. All higher brain
functions shut down; Little Spike smelled home and was chafing at the bit to
get back to the stable.
The cooling metal
of the engine pinged and ticked in the rain. They wrestled together for space
and leverage, choking on giggles from the awkwardness of it. The gearshift was
jabbing him in the thigh; thank God both of them were short. Buffy flopped over
backwards, hair cascading over the door handle, her slim chest heaving with
exertion as she won the battle with her painted-on jeans, baring her pretty
quim--Paradise by the bloody dashboard lights indeed. Spike buried his nose
in her curls, tongue lapping out for a quick teasing caress that made her whimper
and twitch under him. "So wet you are, love," he rasped, "all
dripping with milk and honey--fuck the Promised Land, I'll take your cunny,
wrapped round me like a velvet glove. You're like warm cream, not too hot,
not too cold--tonight my li'l Goldilocks is getting it just right."
He didn't need
poetry to sing her body's praises, no, buried between her trembling thighs
he could speak in tongues, or with them. Didn't take long to bring her to
a thrashing frenzy beneath him, fingers wound tight in his hair, moss-agate
eyes luminous with ecstasy. The back of her head thumped against the window
glass. Delirious with the taste of her, Spike elbowed his way across the seat,
licking and nibbling every tender crease of sweat-luscious skin. The clever
juncture of hip and thigh, the gentle dip and swell of belly and breasts, the
elegant curve of her collarbone--his lips traversed the intimate geography of
her body meridian by meridian until at last he could sink himself into her welcoming
depths. Buffy arched cat-lithe beneath him and hooked both calves over his shoulders,
granting him deeper access. Her shiver of response as he began to move sent
lighting jolts of pleasure radiating out from his cock.
Buffy cried out
as they rocked together, a wordless paean of physical joy, nails digging into
his shoulders, hips bucking up to meet him. She came like the storm breaking
against the cliff-face, torrents and forked lightning, and began building to
a second climax almost immediately. The car really was shaking as he pounded
into her, and the gleeful realization that he was going to be sending Angel's
car back reeking of Slayer musk and his own jiz brought Spike home with a triumphant
roar. Buffy wasn't quite there yet; she snarled against his chest, biting
his nipples through the fabric of his shirt and clenching around him till he
was filling her to bursting once more.
Outside the car
a lone ray of blood-red sunlight pierced the clouds. Sunset glazed the car windows
just long enough to raise a warning tingle on his bare backside and winked out
as Buffy keened her release. They lay there panting as the cold wind whistled
around the car, Spike lodged soft and sated within her, luxuriating in her warmth.
Buffy's hands wandered idly over his torso as they often did in the quiet
moments after, as if she were memorizing him against future privation. He nuzzled
her ear and heaved a long contented sigh. "Right, guess this makes up for
falling asleep on the couch the minute we got home. What's my value to science,
then?"
"Mmm. Trying
to determine if men can achieve multiple orgasms. Was the experiment a success?"
Spike traced the
convolutions of her ear with the tip of his tongue. "I think more clinical
trials are in order."
Buffy placed a palm
in the center of his chest and gave him a playful shove. With considerable reluctance
Spike pulled himself free and sat up. She retrieved her purse from beneath the
front seat, where it had gotten kicked at some point in the proceedings, and
began making repairs in the rear-view mirror. Spike rolled down his window and
lit himself a cigarette. He took a lazy puff and settled back to watch Buffy
put herself back together, a far more intensive operation than his own tuck
and zip. What she had to go through to pour herself back into those jeans was
almost as arousing as the blow job. "That'sit," she grumbled,
"I can barely get these pants zipped, tomorrow I go on a--" She took
a took a deep breath and did up the last button. "You and Tara are in this
vile plot against my waistline together, aren't you? She keeps cooking things
and you keep making me hungry."
"Ah, you've
sussed out the evil plan," Spike said with a cheerful leer. It was lovely
to watch day to day as her body slowly regained the curves he remembered from
that long-ago night at the Bronze, like a river finding its way back to its
proper bed. "She keeps you fat and I keep you happy and you won't stand
a chance next time I take a fancy to destroy the world."
"Which you
do so often, and with such stunning success."
"What, destroy
the world? Over-rated."
She smiled, the
secretive, tender little smile he treasured above all others, the one that was
meant for him and no one else in the world. "No, make me happy."
A blaze of light
washed over the bluff, rescuing him from going all soppy over that one, and
Spike scooted down under the steering wheel, out of reach of the... "What
the hell?" He levered himself up again and peered over the top of the dash.
"I know it's been a long time since I had much personal acquaintance,
but I don't remember sunlight going all blue as a usual thing."
Buffy was leaning
forward, gripping the dash and staring down at the darkening town below. "Not
as a usual thing, no."
Out of the darkness
below a coruscating fountain of light erupted, illumining the sky with an arcane
aurora borealis. Radiant spears of crimson and gold, violet and viridian, soared
upwards, arcing across the cloudy sky and falling back to earth at various spots
across town--the ruins of the old factory, the construction site where Glory's
tower had been, an apparently random apartment complex. At each impact a burst
of light flared up and then vanished, swallowed into nothingness.
"I'm going
out on a limb and predicting this isn't good." Spike turned the keys
in the ignition and hauled on the steering wheel; gravel crunched as the car
wheeled round on its own length.
"Well, of course
not," Buffy muttered, tugging her sweater back into place. "I had
sex, naturally something evil's going to come along immediately afterwards."
Spike chucked his
cigarette butt out the window as they slalomed back down the bluff. "Well,
then, love, it 'n me'll be having words. I'm the only evil thing
that gets to come when you have sex."
"...and the
skin had healed right over some of the splinters, so I totally had to cut him
open with a razor blade. I mean, it wasn't deep, they were right under the
skin, and he doesn't really bleed much because no circulation, but still,
no shaky hands or anything." Dawn held out the hand in question to demonstrate
non-shakiness.
"And all this
without him screaming like a girly-vamp and waking me up? Golf claps all around."
Buffy slurped up a strand of spaghetti. In light of the earlier life-or-death
struggle with the forces of Gloria Vanderbilt, she'd firmly intended to
restrict herself to a small salad, but Tara had made enough spaghetti to put
the Olive Garden out of business. Willow baked in the aftermath of disaster;
Tara, apparently, cooked in the forlorn attempt to keep disaster at bay. Which
meant, she consoled herself, that eating two helpings with garlic bread and
tossed salad was a virtuous action designed to make Tara feel better, not just
post-slay, post-Spike indulgence.
"What can I
say, Bit's got a way with a knife." Spike stole a piece of Buffy's
garlic bread and dunked it into his blood. "Healed up right nice once they
were out, too, and a good thing, considering the way you had me... exerting
myself." Buffy kicked him under the table and Spike smirked at her over
the vinegar cruet. "What? It's like bleeding Mardi Gras out there tonight.
We must have dusted half a dozen of my nearest and dearest between Main and
Wilkins alone."
Dawn executed Eye
Roll #37, I Am Way More Mature Than You. "I've seen you guys on 'patrol',
remember?" She surrounded 'patrol' with air quotes. "Stake,
smooch, stake, smooch, pointless argument, smooch, and then one of you throws
the other against a wall and next thing you know you're running up the premiums
on some poor guy's earthquake insurance." She grinned with sisterly
malice and Buffy seriously considered dunking her in the salad bowl. "Oh,
and also, Anya called and said if you guys can get that demon slug skin over
to the shop tomorrow, she's got a meeting with the buyer lined up."
Spike nodded and
took a healthy swig of garlic-butter-flavored pig's blood. "Sorted.
Good bet the tunnels will have cleared out by then after Red's latest showstopper."
"Remember the
good old days when everyone just pretended the weird stuff wasn't happening?"
Buffy stabbed an innocent meatball in a fit of Slayerly pique. "I swear,
the whole town came out to stand on their lawns and gawk up at the pretty colors.
Vampires included." She sopped up the last of her spaghetti sauce with
a frown. "But if the Wonderful World of Disney teaser was Willow trying
to break through Tara's spell, or find Dawn, her aim's off. She hit
everywhere but here."
Tara nodded. In
the wake of Willow's astral fly-by she looked red-eyed and sniffly, and
hadn't eaten more than a bite or two, though she'd pushed her food through
enough laps around her plate to qualify it for the Indy 500. "I don't
think--it had to be something else. It felt... big. Way bigger than getting
through one little cloaking spell."
"Angel checked
in yet?"
Dawn nodded. "He
called around eight and said he was just getting onto the 101." Hostility
tinged her voice. "Elvira, Mistress of the Skank's with him."
Buffy frowned; playing
nice with Faith again wasn't high on her Make A Wish list, but fifteen awkward
minutes while Angel switched cars was hardly a slumber party complete with hair-braiding
and giggly boy talk. She'd deal. Dawn misinterpreted her silence. "You're
not still going to have Angel take me to Dad, are you?" she protested.
"That's the first place Willow would look!"
"You're
right." Dawn, about to burst forth with more argument, shut her mouth with
a blink of surprise. Buffy glanced at Tara. "Even Supercharged Willow's
got limits, right? Angel can take Dawn some not-Dad's place out of range
of any locator spell Willow can cast. Bonus: None of us will know where she'll
be, so if Willow gets hold of any of us even a truth spell won't help."
Tara nodded. "That
could buy us some time."
"No!"
Dawn leaped to her feet, sending her chair scooting across the dining room.
"I have school, and I can't believe I'm using school as
an excuse! I'm sick of spending my life as the ball in a game of magical
keepaway! Besides, you can't send me away. You need me."
Buffy grit her teeth
and very carefully arranged her silverware on her empty plate. "I do, Dawn.
But so does Willow, and--"
"You don't
get it." Dawn squared her shoulders, her still-girlish features taking
on an adult determination. "You need me because Willow needs me.
To lure her into the Hellmouth." She spread both arms wide and pirouetted.
"Voila. Dawn 'They call me Schmuckbait' Summers."
For a second Buffy
was certain someone had heaved a brick at her stomach, leaving her breathless
as any new-risen fledgling. "No," she got out at last. Her voice sounded
surprisingly normal.
"No, why?"
Framed defiantly in front of the painted-tile mural over the sideboard, Dawn
played up her superior height for all it was worth. "No because I'm
too young? I'm the same age you were when you started fighting vampires.
No because it's too dangerous? You said yourself Willow doesn't want
to hurt us. Or is it just no because I'm your sister? Everyone else puts
themselves on the line! God, Buffy, let me do something for once!"
Some small cool
rational part of her sat in the back of Buffy's skull, nodding at everything
Dawn said, just as it had nodded last spring when Giles had pressed another
argument concerning her sister. As then, another, atavistic portion of her brain
rose up with a snarl and strangled it. "Just no! I promised Mom I'd
keep you safe! In what universe does using you as the cheese in our better mousetrap
qualify as keeping you safe?"
Tara ducked her
head and fiddled with the crumpled napkin in her lap. "That reminds me,
I need to feed Amy." She disappeared swiftly and completely enough that
Buffy strongly suspected magic was involved, but she couldn't divert her
attention from the Dawn stare-down to be certain.
Dawn threw up her
hands with a strangled rrrgh! of frustration. "There is no safe!"
She aimed a lethally accurate hair-flip at her sister, snatched up a random
armload of dishes and stomped off to the kitchen to clatter them around in the
sink as loudly as possible. "Send me away, see if I care! Maybe I'll
just stay in L.A. and let Dad ignore me in person. It'll be better than
being pwecious baby Dawnie forever here!"
"Oh, you're
about a million miles from precious!" Buffy yelled after the back of her
sister's departing head. She stood glaring at the kitchen door for a second,
then whirled and stomped off in the opposite direction. She grabbed her coat
from the rack in the foyer, shrugged into it and stormed out onto the front
porch, where her drive abandoned her. With a discouraged sigh she leaned against
the railing and stared out into the darkened street. Christmas lights twinkled,
reflecting in wet asphalt; the rain had slacked off and the world was wet and
still and cold beneath a ragged ceiling of clouds. Her breath smoked on the
air. It was the dark of the moon, nearing the longest night of the year, and
she had a week to figure out how to lure Willow into the Hellmouth and keep
her there long enough for... what? And no ideas. Zero, zilch, nada. Except for
the unthinkable.
She felt Spike's
presence before the front door opened. He sauntered out onto the porch and lazed
against one of the supporting pillars, thumbs tucked into his jeans pockets.
"The Bit... Dawn... she's a brave girl. Like her sis. She just wants
to be part of it," he said softly. "Mix it up a bit. Gets so you've
got to do something, sometimes."
Buffy tilted her
head back and looked up; a patch of starless matte-black sky showed through
a rent in the clouds. "I used to think Mom was so unreasonable about me
and slaying. I just...I wanted... Dawn was going to have everything I couldn't.
College, and parties, and boyfriend troubles that don't involve mass murder,
and a real job. And now she's getting sucked into all this. Again. She wants
to get sucked in and I just don't understand how she can throw everything
away like that!"
Spike was quiet
for a moment. "Sometimes it's worth it, giving things up." He
cocked his head in wordless invitation, shifting position to accommodate her
in the circle of his arms, and Buffy allowed her body melt against his.
He felt so good
to melt against. Lately the hollows beneath those breathtaking cheekbones weren't
quite so deep, and the austere planes and angles of his body were muting into
sleek muscular curves. She approved--he must have dropped a good twenty pounds
living on whiskey and grief after her death, until her sister'd bullied
him into laying off the Jack Daniels and feeding regularly again. Some of the
photos of him and Dawn over the summer were positively scary. And there was
another example of grown-up responsible Dawn she didn't want to think about
right now, taking care of Spike as much as Spike had taken care of her... She
burrowed into his chest, blotting out worry in his scent. "Mmm. Comfy."
The corners of his
eyes crinkled with laughter. "Yeh, good thing the Slayer's blood special's
only a few days a month or I'd be as tubby as Peaches."
"Dork. Play
nice." Buffy stroked the firm bulge of his biceps. "I'll just
have to make sure you get lots of exercise, won't I?"
They were both losing
their sharp corners, the edges honed by desperation and loneliness. She didn't
know if that was a bad thing--if she were still measuring out her life in low-fat
yogurt cups and lonely, unsatisfied nights, would she have come up with a solution
by now? No thinking. Kissing instead. This was good. Right here and now. The
crisp post-storm air. The quilted warmth of her jacket. The satisfying aches
of a good fight or three. The liquid interplay of tongues, the sinuous twining
of warm flesh with cool. Spike's hard-muscled black denim thigh, thrust
between her legs at just the right angle. Her hands slipping up beneath his
shirt, kneading the broad plateau of his shoulders. Spike's eyes, half-lidded,
near-indigo in the shadows, as she laminated her mouth to his...
Was it a demon thing,
this willingness to submerge herself in the moment? Fight, fuck, and feed--they'd
certainly been doing enough of all three. Was that her, really, a veneer of
humanity as thin as Spike's, stretched over some inner core of dark hedonistic
power? Or was it just that after six years living on the edge of the Hellmouth
she'd finally learned that any fleeting pleasure was to be snatched and
savored?
The familiar growl
of the DeSoto pulling into the driveway merged with the familiar growl of its
owner, and Buffy pulled back, blinking away spots as the headlights washed over
the porch and died away with the engine.
Faith woke face-down
in jolting darkness, surrounded by a sickening miasma of stale tobacco, old
leather and grease. Flung out an arm to steady herself, bit back a gasp as torn
muscle and bruised bone shrieked in protest. Looked up, squinting through the
dark blotches smeared across her vision...
No, wait. The dark
blotches were smeared across the windows. She was lying in the back seat of
some unfamiliar monster of a car, swaddled uncomfortably in county hospital
blankets, as it sped along a potholed access road. On the floor an empty whiskey
bottle nestled in a litter of fast-food wrappers and old blood bags, clinking
against the door with each jounce and bump. Highway lights flashed past overhead,
and the whoosh of nearby traffic vied with the roar of the engine. Where the
fuck was she?
The last thing she
remembered was the digital panic of the machines that went ping, and running
feet from the nurses' station down the hall. Faith rubbed her chest; there
was a deep throbbing ache radiating out from her breastbone, as if someone had
none-too-gently rammed a six-inch needle between her ribs. It was a newer pain
than the already-healing gash in her side. The attack had been a joke, the home-made
blade barely creasing the muscle--just an excuse to get her transferred into
the hospital, where the injection of supposed painkillers sent her into spasming
darkness. She still felt like shit, stomach roiling with post-anesthesia nausea.
"...no. An
hour ago."
Deep, slightly impatient--she
knew that voice.
"...not sure.
Two minutes, maybe. Not as long as you were gone the first time, but it did
stop before Wesley got the adrenaline into her, so..." Angel paused, cell
phone pressed awkwardly to one ear. She couldn't see his expression in the
rearview mirror, but she knew it was irritated--weird, how he'd adopt one
modern convenience without blinking and whine and bitch about another as if
it meant the end of the world. "I'm getting off the Ventura now,"
the vampire said. "We're almost to the city limits."
Angel flipped the
phone closed and stuffed it back into a jacket pocket, taking a fresh grip on
the steering wheel and sinking back against the seat--he looked morose yet determined,
like someone heading for a root canal. Major issue, with the fangs and all.
"Hey," Faith said, levering herself up on one elbow and squinting
into the endless tunnel of red taillights ahead. "What day is it?"
He looked over the
back of the seat with one of the rare genuine smiles that reached his eyes.
"Friday. For another few hours. How you feeling?"
Damn. She'd
been out for half the day. "I think I'm gonna puke."
"Spike's
car. Be my guest."
She would have laughed,
but it hurt. Whatever the creeps at the hospital had shot into her, it had locked
her up like a full-body charley horse. Even her toes were sore. Adrenaline.
Wesley. Her ex-Watcher had saved her life. The Irony Fairy was working overtime.
Sucks to be you, Wes.
A hand reached over
the back of the front seat and groped in mid-air for a moment before finding
the curve of her forehead in the dark, and cool fingers brushed the sweat-soaked
waves of hair aside. "You want me to pull over?"
"Nah."
Barfing would hurt as much as laughing. "I wouldn't complain if you
rolled down a window or something."
"Sure."
The hand disappeared,
and seconds later a river of cold exhaust-flavored air poured into the car.
Signs flashed by outside, peppered with corporate hieroglyphs advertising the
delights to be found at the next exit--when had they stopped using words, she
wondered, and started expecting you to recognize everything by logo? Faith huddled
down into her cocoon of blankets. "This is gonna look bad at my next parole
hearing."
Angel's reply
came from very far away. "On the bright side, you'll be alive to go
to it." In only minutes, it seemed, his hands were on her shoulders, shaking
gently. "Faith. We're here."
Sit up slowly, carefully...
yeah, baby, Faith is locked in the upright position. They were parked in the
driveway of the Summers place, and up on the porch two figures were briefly
illumined by the glare of the headlights. A couple of hours must have passed,
enough to give Slayer healing something to work with; underneath the hospital
dressing her ribs itched ferociously and the nausea was gone, leaving lightheaded
hunger in its wake. The glimpse of her own face in the rear-view mirror showed
eyes sunk deep in the bruised hollows of a too-pale face, but overall she felt
remarkably not dead. "We're not staying here, are we?" she asked,
trying to keep the apprehension out of her voice.
"Not long,"
Angel said. "I've got to move the things in the trunk over to my car
and I'd like to make sure Spike hasn't put sugar in the gas tank by
way of a parting gift." His look towards the porch said volumes, none of
it flattering. He extended a hand and Faith climbed stiffly out of the car and
stood on the lawn, swaying a little, staring up at the house and rubbing her
arms in the cold. The wet was seeping through her thin shoes. When Angel put
a supportive arm around her shoulders, she didn't shrug it off.
Buffy was standing
backlit on the top step, arms folded. Guardian of the fuckin' threshold,
with William the Drop-Dead-Wait-He-Already-Is-Gorgeous at her shoulder, radiating
power and confidence and all that shit. Faith stopped at the bottom of the steps,
tossed her head and planted her fists on her hips. Bright side, at least she
had pants. She could be running around with her ass hanging out of a hospital
gown. "Hey. B. Can I use your can before we take off again? Some people
don't know the meaning of the words potty break."
Buffy tilted her
head to one side, perfect bows arcing over wide eyes. "I notice you make
with the walking and talking. This normally means you're not dead, but in
present company..."
Faith grinned, betting
it was a pretty ghastly expression in her current condition, and rubbed her
breastbone. "Present and accounted for, cap'n. Dying wasn't that
bad, but coming back hurts like a sonofabitch."
"Luckily Wesley
realized what was happening in time," Angel said, rather sourly--annoyed,
perhaps, that he hadn't. Sweet, in a broody way. She'd have to let him
know it didn't matter--he'd come through for her again, the way he always
had; Wesley wouldn't have been there if he hadn't rallied the troops.
"The 'nurse' got away and it was too crowded for me to track her--I
lost the scent before getting out of the hospital. We've got to assume that
she, and possibly a few confederates, are still out there and potentially dangerous."
Buffy gnawed on
her lower lip. "Pretty certain that heart stoppage calls the next Slayer
in line, but..."
Angel's massive
shoulders hunched beneath his coat. "According to Wesley it's not clear
how long a Slayer has to be... incapacitated for a new one to be called--"
"So,"
Spike drawled. "To sum up, Angel knows bugger all. Lovely to have met you
all. Can I have my car back now?"
Angel was up the
steps with a swift menacing lunge and Spike danced back grinning, with a loose-limbed
roll of his shoulders that made you momentarily forget he was only five-eight
with his boots on. "Oi, Ref, penalty for unnecessary looming!"
A dead guy, apparently,
was still a guy. "You two gonna start pissing on fire hydrants next?"
Faith inquired.
Buffy grabbed Spike's
elbow with a hiss of annoyance and propelled him forward. "You, him, out."
At Spike's disbelieving look, she added, "Go forth. Slobber over your
respective cars. Whatever. Do guy-vampire-type things, none of which are to
involve staking, burning, beheading, property damage, or excessive drunkenness."
"That cuts
out talking football, then." Spike gave Angel the suspicious glare accorded
to potential Arsenal supporters. "And while we're re-enactingThe
Quiet Manwithout any of the entertaining bits...?"
"Faith and
I have girl stuff to talk about. You know. Hair care and evisceration tips.
Scoot." Buffy made a little shooing motion with both hands and motioned
Faith to follow her inside. She shut the front door on two startled vampire
faces and collapsed against it. "I love Spike truly, madly, deeply, but
sometimes he really needs a severe killing." She eyed Faith up and down.
"You look like crap."
Faith rubbed the
back of her head, surreptitiously trying to work a few of the tangles out of
her hair. "Goes with the feeling like crap." B. looked fabulous, of
course, always did, and here she was in a funky, slept-in mixture of prison
blues and hospital scrubs, looking like something the cat hacked up and there's
that green-eyed monster licking its chops again. Down, boy.
Buffy essayed a
strained smile. "Bathroom's upstairs. Uh, well, I guess you remember
that. There's spaghetti, if you're hungry. There's also furniture.
I'm told some people sit on it." Faith nodded, uncertain; there wasn't
any glass between them now, but their eyes kept sliding away from each other
anyhow. They stood in the foyer without for a long awkward minute before Faith
turned and took the stairs as fast as she dared.
The last time she'd
been in this house she'd been wearing Buffy's body like a shoplifted
Versace. The prints with the doors were still hanging in the stairwell, but
the end table at the bottom was different--smashed by something spiny and replaced,
probably. It was the same, and it was different. Maybe that was all she needed
to know. Buffy didn't follow her up the stairs to guard her while she peed,
which was something.
When she got downstairs
again Buffy was facing off against Dawn in the kitchen, the two of them arguing
in low strained whispers. "...no discussion, Dawn! Just get packed!"
Dawn's mouth
set in a grim line. She gave Faith the laser eyeball of death as she hesitated
in the doorway, slammed past her and out of the kitchen in a full-blown teenaged
huff. Buffy grimaced and began to ladle leftover spaghetti into a bowl, looking,
just maybe, a little apologetic. Yeah, fun for the whole family. Faith cleared
her throat uneasily. "So. How's your mom?"
All the nascent
warmth in Buffy's face evaporated. "Dead. Last year. It seems to run
in the family lately."
"Oh."
Fuck. So much for glorious sisterhood. Had Angel ever mentioned that?
Had she just blown it off? "I'm sor--I didn't know. Where's
that spaghetti? If my mouth's full I can't put my foot in it."
Even reheated, the
spaghetti tasted better than anything she'd eaten in years, and Faith tore
into the meal with single-minded intensity--Slayer metabolism had been working
overtime today, and Angel tended to forget about the whole needing to eat thing.
Buffy drifted around the kitchen with arms tight-folded beneath her breasts,
picking up salt shakers and potholders and putting them down again without looking
at them. She finally ran aground staring out the window over the sink. Faith
prompted at last, "I don't wanna look gift pasta in the mouth, but
is there a reason for the fatted calf treatment?"
Buffy looked away
from the window, twirling a strand of hair around her forefinger with that big-eyed
angstful look she got, the one that said she was bearing up bravely under a
terrible fate. About half-way between the stone face of Summers denial and the
trembly lip. "Giles found out what causes it," she said. "The
potential wonkiness that has the Council spitting tweed bricks. Apparently whoever
whipped up the first Slayer was much into the fighting of fire with fire. Whatever
power it is we've got that makes us all Chosen? Demon. We're part demon."
"Oh."
Faith rested her chin on her hands. "Well, shit. Makes sense, I guess."
Buffy spun on her
heel to face her, somewhat miffed that her bombshell had proven to be a dud.
"'Oh?' By the way, you're not entirely human, and all I get
is an 'oh?' Anticlimax much?"
"Well, what
else am I supposed to say?" Truth to tell she felt more stunned than anything
else, but damned if she was going to roll over and wallow; she'd had enough
of that to last a lifetime. "Fuck, B., we've seen the enemy and she
is us--yeah, it's scary. But slapping a label that says 'demon'
on my forehead doesn't change anything. I already got labels saying 'jailbird'
and 'murderer.'" Faith shrugged. "What's one more? So
I got part of a demon squirreled away somewhere, maybe wantin' to mess with
my head--it can just take a fucking number and get in line behind my asshole
dad and my drunk mom and the undead prick who killed my Watcher and every other
piece of coal-black shit that's been thrown at me in the last twenty years.
Scared? I feel sorry for the damn thing." She scowled. "I just
can't believe that's it. This is the big secret? This is why
the Council wants me to join the choir infuckinvisible? 'Cause we're
part demon? What the hell are they so scared of?"
Buffy snorted. "That
we'd go march in the Demon Pride Parade the minute we found out, I guess."
"Huh."
Faith rested her chin on clasped hands. "Maybe I would have, once. It's
a hell of a lot more fun being a demon than being a Slayer. Letting go. At least..."
"...until the
human part of you catches up." Buffy leaned against the kitchen island,
looking somber. "But then, it's more fun to be a human than to be a
Slayer, too. Ihatethis."
"Being a Slayer?
You don't have to. My gig now. Once I'm a contributing member of society
again and all. Hey, is there any more garlic bread? Did you know Angel's
got a whole freaking restaurant kitchen in that hotel of his, and they all live
on take-out burritos?"
"There's
more in the oven. No, not being a Slayer. I'm kind of...semi-annual apocalypse
aside, lately it doesn't entirely suck, being a Slayer. Probably because
lately it doesn't entirely suck being a Buffy." A frown sketched a
small precise line between Buffy's brows. "It's just... if I didn't
know anything else, I always thought I knew who I was. What I was. The work
I had to do. And now I find out it's all been a lie."
"No, it's
not." Faith dropped her fork with a clatter, surprised at her own
vehemence. "I don't give a shit if we're human or demon or the
Great Gazoo. What we do--that's real."
Buffy regarded her
for a moment with something like...respect? then gave her a brief nod, acknowledging
the point. "If Giles is right, this demon thing's always been part
of us. Our ticket in the Chosen One sweepstakes. Becoming the Slayer just wakes
it up." She fell silent for a moment. "It explains a lot. And it doesn't
explain anything--how did it get into the Slayer line to begin with? How's
it passed on? Do the Powers That Be reach down and zap unsuspecting baby girls
with demon juice, or is it some X-Files thing with aliens injecting the First
Slayer with demon DNA? Was Mom one of us? Is Dawn? Giles says there's dozens,
maybe hundreds of potential Slayers--why does one get picked and another not?
The Council's known this stuff all along, and they've kept it from us.
That whole aspect of the demon thing in high school? Wiggy enough waiting to
grow horns or a tail, but ha ha, joke's on me, I already had one!"
Anger began edging out the bitterness in her voice. "And let's not
go into the years of obsessing over whether I'm a whack job for getting
off on the slaying."
Faith ran a finger
around the rim of her bowl and licked off the spaghetti sauce. Would things
have been different, with one less voice whispering bad sick wrongin her ear?
Probably not, but you couldn't help wondering. Unnerving to hear Buffy Summers
admitting to the same kinds of fear. "You were always in control."
"Oh, yeah,
I was Control Girl." Buffy picked viciously at a worn spot on the Formica.
"Lying awake nights, trying to make the sweaty Angel thoughts disappear
by going out and dusting one more vamp--I envied you so much."
That earned her
a stare. "You envied me?" Faith finally looked up, tucked her
hair back, and met her fellow Slayer's eyes. Weird to think back--was it
only three years ago?--and remember that year, she herself spiraling out of
control as Buffy wound tighter and tighter. "That's a kick and a half."
"You made handling
the Slayerness look so easy, with your unstoppable force thing--well, until
the whole murderous psychotic break." She gave a fierce little shake of
her head. "If I'd known from the beginning... at least I'd've
known why I felt things that...God, poor Riley." She tucked one
hand under her chin, toying with the skull ring on its chain. "He had no
clue. I had no clue. We lived in a clue-free zone."
"He was..."
Faith stopped, wondering just how much scab she could afford to pull off this
particular wound. "He was a really nice guy."
Buffy pulled out
a nostalgic smile, as for a favorite childhood toy. "Yeah. Yeah, he was."
"Nice can be
nice."
"Relaxing."
Couldn't help
bringing a bit of sly in here, could she? "But not to be compared to the
pony ride the bleached bombshell can give you?"
Buffy actually grinned
back. Caught off-guard, maybe. "Comparisons are tacky," she said with
a prim little toss of her head.
"Y'know...B..."
Was there any way to say this without sounding pathetic? Probably not. "That
last time in L.A.--I was never trying to...to steal him, y'know? Angel,
I mean. It's just--he believes in me." God, how much lamer could she
sound? "Nobody ever did that before. And--"
"You couldn't,"
Buffy interrupted. "Steal him. I never had him to be stolen. Not really.
I know that now." She twirled the ring with a small rueful smile. "I
loved him. I loved him so much I can't even describe it, but sometimes I
think that from the minute we met we were walking away from each other."
Her eyes strayed to the window again, though Faith could barely feel the vampiric
presence out in the yard at this distance. "It's funny. I know Spike's
favorite band and his favorite books and favorite soccer team and the street
he was born on and the name of the cousin who dunked him in a rain barrel when
he was eight and why he talked Drusilla out of eating Billy Idol and that he
leaves the cap off the toothpaste no matter how often I yell at him--I never
knew Angel like that. We never... we never really talked about ordinary stuff."
"Angel's
not much with the talk, small or otherwise," Faith agreed. After a minute
she plunged forward with, "I'm with you on the talking thing, 'cause
I was thinking--we're the only Slayers in history that have the chance to.
Talk. To each other." We were almost friends once. Almost sisters. Cain
and Abel in drag.
Buffy's expression
went guarded. "So you're saying maybe we ought to exploit the historic
opportunity and talk sometimes?"
Faith made her shrug
as nonchalant as possible. "Just sayin'. I'd like to find out for
sure if the Council's still got a bullseye painted on my ass, see if I'm
gonna be doing a Richard Kimble or virtuously turning myself in to the LAPD
again."
"Yeah, about
that." Buffy's eyes narrowed. "I don't know about you, but
taking time out to paper-train the Reservoir Dogs is putting a crimp in my social
life. We're the only Slayers, but--see above--we're not the only possible
Slayers in this best of all possible worlds. I think Giles even has a list.
With e-mail addresses. So how far would Quentin Travers's head spin around
on his shoulders if we started giving the next generation the benefit of our
wisdom and experience? If all of a sudden every potential Slayer in the world
found out exactly what she was?"
"Blackmail?"
Faith leaned back with a big lazy tiger-grin. "Hey, I prefer violence,
but with an ocean in the way and plane tickets through the roof..."
"Blackmail
is such a sleazy word. I prefer to think of it as a threat. If they don't
back off and let us kick vampire ass in peace and quiet--" Buffy smiled
back, and it wasn't a pleasant expression. "Then the truth will be
out there. All over the place. And then--"
Upstairs, something
went smash, and Buffy's face went white.
Dawn pulled another
sweater out of the drawer and scrunched it up with vicious disregard for whether
or not it matched any of the half-dozen pairs of pants laid out on the bed.
That's Buffy. She stuffed it into her suitcase and reached for another
one. Fold, spindle, skip the mutilation--couldn't afford to poke holes in
anything. That's Willow. But she wasn't going to be a little
kid about it, no--she wouldn't give Buffy the satisfaction. She'd be
all packed and ready the minute her sister decided to kick her out. Stupid
end of the world.
Angel and Spike
down in the front yard, jealously inspecting their cars for damage and snarking
at each other. No love lost there. She could catch a word here and there when
they got loud enough. Stupid Buffy-whipped vampire. He could have stuck up
for her, but no, Buffy says frog, Spike asks how high he should jump. Buffy'd
better be really good at the sex thing because--
Something scraped
against the shingles, barely audible over the renewed patter of rain. Was Miss
Kitty still out? Dawn walked over to the window and pressed her nose to the
cold glass, but all she could see was rain-filled darkness and the tangled branches
of the oak tree off to one side. Farther away street lights glowed in the darkness,
glittering with a million fugitive gems as raindrops passed through the aura
of light around each one. Her breath was starting to fog up the windowpane,
and she undid the latch and heaved the window up. "Miss Kitty? Here girl!
Come on in, meaning the cat and not any random vampires in hearing distance!"
If the cat was out
there, she wasn't risking a dash to the window from wherever she was hiding.
Behind her, the suitcase she'd left balancing precariously on the edge of
her bed slid off and hit the floor with a thump, spilling socks out onto the
floor. "Crap," Dawn muttered, turning away from the window and bending
down to pick it up. She really ought to fold all this stuff properly if--
An arm snaked around
her waist, pulling her back against a thin ragged torso and pinning her arms.
A hand clamped over her mouth from behind. Dammit, this wasn't fair, she
specifically hadn't invited anyone in! Dawn screamed, the noise muffled
by the pressure of cold wet fingers, and thrashed violently in her captor's
grasp. She could tell immediately that this wasn't a vampire; she could
actually make some headway against his grip. A frantic voice hissed in her ear,
"Quiet! Be quiet! I'm not going to hurt you, little girl! Please just
shut up!"
Dawn ignored him
and kept struggling, wishing desperately that Spike had had time to teach her
that neck-snapping thing. "Let me go!" she screeched, or more accurately,
"Lm muh gmh!" The whole thing was a horrible replay of Ben dragging
her off to the tower, but she was half a year older and several inches taller
now--yay, growth spurts!--and at least she could make things hard on whoever
this was. She flailed back backwards with one foot, trying to find a vulnerable
toe, and sank her teeth into the flesh of the man's palm. Her captor yelled
louder than she had, overbalanced and planted one foot in her suitcase, which
snapped shut on his ankle. He staggered into the dresser, pulling her with him.
The open drawer slid out and hit the floor with a crash.
There was a immediate
thunder of feet in the stairwell, and a lean, pale blur shot up over the edge
of the porch roof and dove through the open window in a flurry of wet leaves
and rain--Spike in full game face, fangs bared, roaring mad. The man screamed
and let Dawn drop as her bedroom door burst off its hinges and her sister appeared
in the gap, eyes blazing. A heartbeat later Buffy'd grabbed a handful of
wet, grimy t-shirt and hoisted the intruder a foot off the floor, slamming him
up against the wall and ripping Dawn's Justin Timberlake poster off its
thumbtacks. "What do you want with my sister?" Buffy snarled, quite
as fearsome as Spike, if slightly less flamboyant about it.
"She sent me
to get the girl, please don't kill me, oh, God, I just want to go home,
please let me go home..." The man--it was one of the guys from the alley,
Dawn could see now, the one in the blue baseball cap--writhed against the wall
like a pinned butterfly awaiting the camphor, blubbering pitiably. Buffy's
gaze and the pressure of her fingers against his throat remained merciless,
wringing torrents of words from him along with the tears. "She's in
my head now all the time, I gotta do it, they took Bench away and we haven't
seen him since and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't, I didn't
wanna hurt her, I don't wanna die!"
Dawn stumbled over
to the bed. There were muddy sneaker prints all over her clothes where Blue
Cap had stepped in her suitcase, and for some reason this was way more disasterous
than the attack. Faith and Angel were right behind Buffy now, crowding the door
of her room, with Tara wide-eyed in the hall behind them. Spike crouched at
her side, his golden eyes brimming with wordless concern. His nostrils flared--snuffing
the air for blood, she realized, to see if she were injured. "I'm fine,"
she said. Why was she shivering? She'd been kidnaped by hellgods; this was
nothing. "I'm--"
Spike put an arm
around her shoulders and all of a sudden she was sobbing stupidly into his chest,
like the little kid she absolutely wasn't, while he pressed his hideously
beautiful demon-face into the top of her head and made comforting growly noises.
"'S all right, love, we've got him."
"I hate this!
I hate it!" Dawn pounded an ineffectual fist against his shoulder. "I
just sit here while people c-come and--"
"Hush, you
didn't sit. Drew first blood, you did--look at his hand, there; couldn't
have taken a better chunk out of him myself. Come on." He rose to his feet,
drawing her up with him. "Let's us give your sis room to work."
She followed Spike
downstairs and sat on the couch, hugging her knees and staring at the now completely
fake Christmas tree. There was some kind of weird kinship there--she was fake
too, just made to seem real for awhile. Spike disappeared into the kitchen and
re-emerged a few minutes later carrying a mug. A cloud of fragrant steam hit
her nose as he pressed it into her hands, and Dawn wrapped her fingers around
the slick ceramic and let the warmth seep into her bones--hot chocolate vampire
style, made with a flotilla of mini-marshmallows and enough cocoa powder to
leave a thick sweet sludge in the bottom. She took a sip and felt the inner
numbness start to thaw.
Angel padded downstairs
as Spike picked up the phone. "What are you doing?"
"What's
it look like?" Spike punched out 911 and flopped down on the couch beside
Dawn.
"Since when
do you call the police?"
"Since my girls'd
object to my draining the bastard and leaving his corpse on the lawn for the
mailman to trip over," Spike replied. "Assuming Buffy leaves him in
pieces large enough for me to get a fang in. Yeh. Got a break-in. 1630 Revello
Drive. No, he's cornered. No gun."
The heavy line of
Angel's brow dipped lower over his dark eyes. "Did it occur to you
that I've got a fugitive in tow?"
Spike hung up and
blinked, mouth falling open in mock horror. "You mean--you'd have to
leave early? Bloody hell. Never entered my mind."
Angel and Faith
made themselves scarce before the squad car arrived; there'd been no mention
of Faith's disappearance on the news, but no one wanted to take chances.
Buffy turned on the charm for the officers, smiling, batting her eyelashes--it
was so lucky that Spike had been here, and that she'd taken that
self-defense class. Dawn answered questions--no, she didn't know the suspect,
she might have seen him panhandling once or twice downtown, she'd never
spoken to him before and didn't know of any motive for the attack. Spike,
absolutely lapping up the opportunity to be the Supportive Boyfriend in public,
hovered over both of them to the point that Buffy almost thwapped him a couple
of times.
"...don't
think there's any point in pressing charges, he's obviously a little..."
Buffy twirled a finger beside her temple. "I mean, claiming a vampire chased
him through the window? Right."
"Yeh, ridiculous,"
Spike chimed in. "Stray vamp couldn't get in without an invite."
Buffy elbowed him
in the ribs. The officers exchanged looks and the larger of the two handed her
a sheaf of papers. "If you change your mind, ma'am, call this number."
Tara managed to
slip out to the back yard to be sure the talisman powering the spellcloak was
still intact wile Buffy ushered the policemen out. Dawn stayed where she was,
too tired to move; it was almost two in the morning. Buffy shut the front door
and the company smile fell away in an instant; she looked small and fragile
and tired, and Dawn was immediately sorry about the sweater voodoo. Her sister
tucked her feet up on the couch and laid her head on Spike's shoulder with
a yawn. "We've got to get you some fake ID," she said. "I
don't think 'I left my wallet in England' is all that convincing."
"Had a perfectly
good set last week, and Harris made me toss it back," Spike grumbled, slouching
down and wrapping an arm around Buffy. "And speaking of people I can't
eat, what're we going to do with that lot from the Council? I'd like
my crypt back at some point, and Clem'll only watch 'em as long as the
Cheezy Poofs hold out."
"'M working
on that." Buffy stifled another yawn. "Got an idea. Talk to Giles
about it tomorrow."
"Is Angel coming
back?" Dawn asked. "I can get packed if..."
"No,"
Spike said, at the same instant Buffy said "Maybe." They glared at
each other, ruffled, and then Buffy laughed and kissed him on the nose, one
of those sudden just-because gestures that always made Spike's eyes go all
melty and adoring--some Big Bad. "You don't need to pack."
"It's OK,"
Dawn said. She still felt strangely listless. "Look, I get it now. I'm
the McGuffin. Again. As long as I'm around someone's always going to
be storming the castle. FedEx me off to Alaska or wherever."
Buffy sat up a little
straighter, pressing her lips together, and studied Dawn's face for a moment,
"No. I'm going to need you here."
Hope and dread did
a Matrix in Dawn's stomach. This couldn't be right. "You're
letting me--?"
"Leap headlong
into terrible danger? More like a bunny hop. With all of us right behind you.
I've been in the Hellmouth. Partway, anyhow--not as far as the actual Hell
part, and it was... vertical, but survivable. We'll have to break out the
rappelling gear."
"That was a
sight for sore eyes." Spike looked misty. "You climbing out over that
rubble with that scabby-looking bloke under one arm..."
Buffy looked puzzled.
"I left the dead demon by the Hellmouth."
"I meant Finn."
Buffy gave him a
dirty look and turned back to Dawn. "You're going to be with Tara at
all times if one of us isn't around--I'll think of something to tell
the school. It's table-turning time. We're going to make Willow scramble
for a change. She may have the tunnels all funhouse mirror-y, but that just
means we need to kick a little glass. The Harbingers have this whole brown thumb
thing going. Tomorrow we start scouring town for crop circles of the dead grass
variety, and dig our way in if we have to. Then we start picking off minions.
Once we whittle down Willow's stable of hit-creatures, she'll have to
come after you up close and personal."
She took a deep
breath and reached across Spike's chest to smooth Dawn's hair away from
her cheek. "I love you, Dawnie, and I'll do anything I can to keep
you safe, but I never want you to feel like--I want you to feel protected,
not helpless. Because you're not. You're brave, and I--" Buffy
hesitated. "I need to let you be brave. The monks made you out of me, and
sometimes it feels like--but you're not. I'm proud of you, Dawn. Mom
would be proud of you. Tara'll have to come up with some kind of protection
spell for you--the Hellmouth's murder on your T-zone. The red-hot minute
we get Willow where we want her, you will run like the fiends of Hell are on
your tail, which they might just be. No heroics."
"I--"
Dawn swallowed. Never tell a vampire they can come over any time, never say
'I wish' in front of a vengeance demon, and never tell the Slayer you
only want to help. "I won't let you down. I promise." She
sat there for a minute, the enormity of what she'd agreed--heck, what she'd
begged--to do starting to sink in. She'd wanted to be something more than
wasn't Buffy's stupid little sister, but the position looked a lot more
attractive when she wasn't in it. Still, as long as Buffy was in the mood--
"So... about that learner's permit?"
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