DISCLAIMER: Property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Not making profit, please don't sue.

Chapter Eighteen
 
 

In the hotel room that served as her new home, Willow rested on her knees, eyes closed, and let Angel's soothing voice guide her in her inner journey.

"Focus on your breathing, Willow...Breathe in...and out...let the air fill you...feel it rise and fall like the tide...evenly...there is only your breath...rest your mind on your breath...the breath is your mind..."

It had been a week since her trip to the emergency room and Angel's own, vampire-style "intervention", which had finally forced Willow to confront her fears and work through them rather than hide from them. From that moment on, Angel had steadfastly assisted her in meditations that helped sharpen her mental acuity and enhanced her ability to navigate the worlds compressed inside her head.

She did wonder how a vampire knew so much about meditation routines that involved breathing.

Willow had asked Angel about that once, and he'd grinned at the apparent absurdity of the idea, but explained that it was merely one method among many he'd learned. According to Angel, meditation helped him channel his energy and control the demon. He might not have any breath to focus, but he could concentrate on a candle's flame.

Under Angel's patient guidance, Willow concentrated on deep, regular breathing and followed the velvet timbre of his voice as it led her down a fluid, shimmering tunnel of memories. As if emerging from a dark cave, her mind's eye suddenly opened onto warm sunlight and green, cloud-bedecked mountains.

There was a momentary disorientation as she adjusted to being "inside" the Guardian, Poydras. Willow still found it kind of...weird. She was completely within his sinews, his stride; she could feel the cool, fresh air on her face; yet Poydras, and everything else about his world, was in her mind.

Willow quickly took stock of her surroundings. It was a rocky path that ran along a steep cliff. Garat had taken Poydras along this path every year on the way to the annual gathering of Guardians. Remembering these journeys well from her first pass through this dimension, Willow knew that old Garat had used their long, solitary traverse of the mountains to lecture Poydras about his sacred calling and the challenges he would face in protecting his people from the Trackers. A rush of adrenaline flooded her and she listened intently, hoping to pick up the thread of Garat's words before he suspected that his student's mind was wandering.

"--or just you and three other apprentices," Garat intoned as he trudged forward, leaning on his gnarled walking stick. "How would you answer, if those were your choices?"

Willow groaned in the deep recesses of Poydras's mind. Since her first attempt to tamper with the worlds in her head, she'd learned that her presence had a far different effect when she was trying to alter events than when she was merely observing. Her arrival was more disruptive of her host's perceptions -- in this case, she couldn't count on Poydras to answer for her. For better or for worse, she was in control of his mind.

And she had no clue what Garat had just been saying.

"Er...the three?" she stammered in Poydras's gruff, masculine voice.

Garat paused and narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Safety in numbers?" To Willow's chagrin, her reply came out as barely a squeak. Just great. Poydras was officially in for a scolding. And Garat was worse than Giles.

"Safety in--?" Garat choked indignantly. The quills on his chin twitched beneath a stern frown, and Willow knew she was in for it, big time. "What does that have to do with deciphering runes? Hmph! So, an old man like me is worth less to you than three knuckleheaded youths where magic is concerned? You would rather have them by your side during the magic trials at the gathering?"

Willow had no doubt that Poydras's green skin was rapidly deepening to a mottled blue, signaling his embarrassment. "No, no, I meant--"

"If you are that confident in your abilities, then how would you approach this rune, hmm?" With a deft flourish of his hand, the dwarfish Master murmured a brief incantation and an intricate, spiral rune appeared on the path before them.

Warily, Willow crouched down within the Guardian's body to peer at the rune through his eyes. However, no sooner had she done so than the rune ignited and expelled a puff of smoke. Poydras barely had the chance to blink before he vanished and rematerialized in mid-air, just over the edge of the cliff. Yelping in alarm, he managed to catch hold of a rocky ledge as he fell.

To Willow's amazement, Garat's spell sent her flying back through her consciousness into her own surroundings in L.A. The sound of his boisterous, hearty laughter was abruptly replaced by Angel's cry of astonishment. In a heartbeat, Willow discovered her predicament, and her cry joined Angel's.

Somehow, Willow had been teleported from her meditative position in the center of her room and hung suspended outside her window. Just as she felt gravity tugging her downward, she scrambled for purchase on the windowsill. Behind the closed window and heavy drapes, the panicked redhead could hear Angel calling out to her in confusion.

"I'm out here!" Willow shouted, gripping tightly onto the ledge and scraping her shoes against the Hyperion's exterior wall.

Instantly, the drapes were swept aside and Willow caught a brief glimpse of Angel's astonished face before he recoiled from the sunlight. She cursed the mid-afternoon sun which burned down on her rapidly tiring shoulders. A moment later, Angel managed to raise the window, albeit with a few colorful phrases Willow hadn't ever heard him use before.

"Hang on, Willow," Angel urged through clenched teeth.

"Definitely good with the hanging," Willow agreed shakily. "But--uh, getting tired pretty quick here. Thinkin' floor under feet would be a good idea really soon."

Angel reached out and grabbed hold of her upper arms. He began to pull her up, gritting his teeth as his skin smoked. However, when his arms caught fire he growled in pain, released her, and ducked back inside.

As he smothered the flames, Angel hollered for assistance. "Gunn! Wesley! Buffy! We need some help up here!!"

Willow's arms began to tremble, but she grit her teeth and hung on. After a few moments, she heard a jumble of voices and to her great relief was soon being hoisted to safety by Gunn and Buffy. As they pulled her through the window, she saw Wesley examining the damage to Angel's arms.

"What happened?!" Buffy demanded, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide with concern.

It took a second or two for Willow to catch her breath. Gunn eased her over to the desk chair and helped her sit. Buffy moved from Willow's side to crouch down next to Angel and gently examine his burned arms. He tensed slightly, but seemed to welcome her concern.

Shakily, Willow gasped, "Garat...someone from one...of...the other dimensions...conjured... a...rune...teleported me..."

"Hold on -- you mean one of the people in your head zapped you out the window?" Gunn asked incredulously. He exchanged a doubtful look with Wesley. "How's that supposed to work?"

"Well, it isn't," Wesley conceded with a frown. "That shouldn't happen, although in theory, it is possible that events that transpire during Ms. Rosenberg's journeys into her mind could somehow channel her own magic and produce effects on this end."

"What?!?" Willow squeaked. The implications were too staggering to comprehend. How was she supposed to fix these worlds if any small change might rebound on her in this dimension? She slumped against the back of the chair, floored by this unexpected twist. Furrowing her brow in helpless disbelief, Willow protested, "I thought this was supposed to be a one-way deal. Are you saying that when I change something in one of the other dimensions, it could have consequences in this one?"

Wesley grimaced apologetically, folded one arm across his chest and rested his chin on the knuckles of his other hand. "I guess more research is in order."

"I'll go let the others know," Buffy volunteered. She rose from her place beside Angel.

Willow glanced at her and was grateful when she saw the sympathetic expression on her friend's face. The young witch knew that Buffy was still somewhat uncomfortable with their situation. For one thing, Buffy refused to allow Dawn near Willow unsupervised, and even then the Slayer kept watch like a prison warden. Still, though, Buffy had been nothing but supportive since Willow's return from the emergency room, and had made it clear that what she wanted most was to have her old friend back.

Gratefully, Willow flashed her a smile. "Thanks, Buffy."

"Sure." Buffy smiled back, and left Willow to grapple with the daunting challenge that confronted her.

This was getting way too complicated.

*****

A familiar sight greeted Buffy when she poked her head in the office just off the lobby. Lorne sat in one of the cushy, upholstered armchairs, bouncing Connor gently on his knee and crooning soft, melodious nonsense. Either that, or maybe a lullaby in his native, demon language. Connor grinned up at Lorne's jade green face, wide-eyed, apparently enchanted by the smooth, subtle tones. Without warning, Connor's grin became a wide, warbling cavern of glee as he let out a laughing shriek, responding to some unknown message or insight only comprehensible to infants.

Buffy smiled. She may have been getting anxious recently about her prolonged absence from the Hellmouth, which left Sunnydale's residents unprotected, but part of her was deeply grateful that scenes like this had become a regular part of her day. Completely unaware of the troubles that surrounded him, Angel's son embodied all that was normal, serene, and hopeful. He was the one, tiny grain of normalcy that Fate had seen fit to allow any of them.

On the other hand, the discussion between Cordy and Fred, who were crowded together behind Cordy's desk, focusing intently on the computer monitor, was a reminder of how twisted "normal" business was for this motley group.

"And Gunn is sure he can trust his source?" Cordy asked, frowning as she clicked the mouse, then typed with a rattle of manicured nails against keyboard.

Fred nodded, screwing her nose to the side in an effort to nudge her glasses upward. "Not only that, but he's heard the rumor on the street a couple of times, so it's a pretty safe bet there's some truth to it."

"Truth to what?" Buffy asked as she approached the desk. She sat down on the smooth wood surface and craned her neck for a better view of the screen. "What rumor?"

Without looking up from her work, Cordy explained, "Oh, just a smooth-talking psycho who has apparently been holding a majorly powerful vampire prisoner for the past week and slowly starving it."

Buffy frowned. "Creepy. Any idea who'd be suicidal enough to keep a starving vamp under wraps?"

Still bouncing Connor, Lorne glanced up and volunteered, "I know who gets my vote for Most Dangerously and Single-mindedly Obsessed this year."

In unison, Cordy and Fred chimed, "Holtz."

Buffy folded her arms across her chest and lowered her gaze thoughtfully. Angel's gang had filled her in about the self-appointed vampire hunter from Angel's past, whose sole ambition seemed to be Angel's complete and utter destruction. The office was silent save for Cordy's rapid typing and Lorne's cooing, allowing Buffy to evaluate the situation. It was possible that Holtz was doing a trial run of tortures he planned to inflict on Angel. However, it was more likely that he intended to set the vamp loose on Angel when it was so insane with hunger that it would be uncontrollable. Or, it could be something too depraved for Buffy to imagine yet.

"Does Angel know?" Buffy asked at last, her voice hoarse with concern.

Cordy's eyes never left the computer screen as she sighed impatiently, "Uh huh. Gunn broke the news yesterday. That's why Wesley has me searching through *two* *freaking* *months'* worth of reports logged by the Watchers of any notable vampire activity in North America. Angel was planning to check around with his contacts this evening when he was done coaching Willow for the day."

"That reminds me," said Buffy, her expression sobering even further. "Something happened while Willow was tinkering with one of the worlds crammed in her head. Somehow, someone cast a spell in the other world and it affected her here. Wesley said it meant back to the research."

Fred gaped back at her. A second later, the petite physicist sprang from her seat, crossed behind Buffy, and began pacing agitatedly from one end of the office to the other. Gesturing absently with her hand, Fred babbled, "Oh my! This isn't good at all. I mean, it's not end-of-the-world bad, on account of those worlds already ended, but this will make it a *lot* harder to fix things. At least ten to the sixteenth more complicated...or...I'm not sure by what factor this increases the variables--"

The clatter of keystrokes stopped.

"Fred," Cordy cut in, diverting her gaze from the computer screen to stare patiently at the jittery brunette. "Why don't you go check in with Wesley, see what he thinks?"

With an embarrassed smile, Fred stammered, "Oh...right...I'll just...I'll go...oh, gosh!"

Buffy shook her head slightly behind Fred's retreating form. Her own stomach was in knots, as if Fred's nervous energy had left behind a residual trace. Turning back to Cordy, Buffy asked, "Why didn't anyone tell me. I mean, I know I'm out of the loop on a lot of the details, but I could still help out. Might as well not take a total vacation from the Slayerly duties."

Once again, Cordy's hands stilled over the keyboard. The Seer fixed Buffy with a cool, pointed stare that instantly reminded Buffy of the catty, aloof cheerleader from high school. "You probably could. And when Angel decides he needs your help, he'll ask for it. But he hasn't, has he? You know, he does have his *own* friends who are happy to look out for him." Arching a slender eyebrow in disdain, Cordy concluded, "He's uncomfortable enough having you and your fangless vamp-toy around as it is. Don't expect him to turn to you for everything the way he used to. You're not in Sunnydale any more."

Buffy's cheeks burned as if Cordy had slapped her. The edge of the desk creaked in protest as she gripped it so tightly that her nails dug into the wood. Even the pain of splinters gouging into her fingertips did little to take the edge off the shock.

"Uh, Cordelia? Sweetheart?" Lorne urged warily. "Now may not be the time to re-open old wounds. I've got a pretty happy little man over here, and I'd like to keep him that way."

Before Cordy could reply, Buffy seethed bitterly, "How dare you?!" Shaking, Buffy fought to contain her rage, lest she do serious, bodily harm. Too angry to see straight, Buffy choked again, "How dare you?!"

Livid, Buffy stalked out of the office. She had wanted to scream at Cordelia, but the brunette Seer's words had struck at the heart of Buffy's own insecurities about being an outsider in Angel's world -- both because of her involvement with Spike, and because he had a new circle of trusted confidantes. Worst of all, Buffy had been poised to ask Cordy who she thought she was, but the cold truth had stopped her. Once upon a time, Buffy may have been his heart's desire, but Angel now shared an equally profound, albeit different, connection with Cordy, who served as his liaison to the Powers That Be. Cordy may not have replaced her as the love of Angel's life, but neither was she the same, inconsequential girl from high school, a mere bystander who knew the dark vampire only through Buffy.

Feeling a lump rise in her throat, Buffy headed toward the basement where she knew Spike was teaching Dawn the basics of self-defense. Buffy desperately needed to wrap herself in the solace of her own loved ones.

*****

"C'mon, Bit, you're not even tryin'," Spike taunted, feinting at Dawn, then circling behind her.

They'd been going at it in the basement workout room for nearly half an hour. Dawn glowed with a light sheen of sweat. Spike could hear the blood pounding vigorously in her veins. Something was missing, though. He was all for the Little Bit learning to defend herself, what with all she'd been through, but she was still holding back, like she was waiting for someone to do all the work. Time to step it up -- she needed a good scare.

Seizing her abruptly, Spike pinned her arms to her sides with one arm and yanked her head to the side with the other. Dawn cried out in alarm as he plunged his head down at her exposed neck--

--and gave her a quick kiss right over the jugular.

He pushed her gently away.

Panting, Dawn managed to say, "You *so* scared me for a second there. What was with the Big Bad routine?"

A rush of pride surged through Spike. It was nice to know that even though the damned Scoobies had grown used to seeing him as a tame little kitten, he could still scare somebody. Nevertheless, he frowned sternly and retorted, "You're supposed to be scared, pet. That's the idea. D'you think any of the nasties we're tryin' to get you fit to handle would settle for a little peck on the cheek? Need to make you take this seriously."

Pouting defensively, Dawn insisted, "I'm taking this seriously. I'm totally down with the training."

"You're holdin' back. Can't always assume Big Sis'll be there to watch your back."

"I'm not assuming anything! Why do you think I'm down here with you? I'm tired of everyone treating me like they have to take care of me. I want to be able to take care of myself," Dawn argued, stalking over to the edge of the mat where a white towel lay heaped beside a water bottle. She grabbed the bottle, twisted the cap, and took several, deep swallows.

Spike sauntered over. "Then put a little effort into it. Haven't even given me a scratch yet. What would you do if some nasty vamp had you cornered and Buffy couldn't come running right away?"

Dawn's expression clouded and all the fight seemed to drain out of her. Softly, she murmured, "I'd tell him I thought he loved me, stake him, and try not to cry too hard that the only guy who ever acted like he was interested in me turned out to be a creep."

Sod it. He'd forgotten about that little escapade on Halloween. Seemed like that was ages ago, and bloody tame compared to everything that'd come after.

Spike sighed, scooped up the towel, and began gently dabbing sweat from Dawn's forehead. "Sorry, luv. Wasn't thinkin'."

Dawn sat down on the mat and Spike followed suit. She shrugged. "It's okay. I know you're just trying to help out. And it's been fun, hanging out with you like this."

"If you even think of using the words 'like a brother', I'll rip that tongue right out of your head, chip be damned."

Grinning, Dawn swatted playfully at him. "Fine, but then you can kiss the Buffy action good-bye."

"Oooooh, naughty girl, Dawn," Spike teased. "I can see who got all the vixen in your family."

Dawn's grin broadened and she blushed a little, but said nothing. After a few moments, she grew thoughtful and said, "It's still weird knowing that it's not just Buffy. I mean, that there have been other Slayers that fell in love with vampires."

For a moment, Spike felt the hollow, still, emptiness in his chest as his lifeless heart ached at Dawn's innocent remark. Softly, he corrected, "She's not exactly in love -- least, she hasn't said it yet. But I take whatever she'll give me."

"She so totally does love you," Dawn protested, rolling her eyes at him as if he were the densest git on earth. Her expression softened and she added, "Buffy's just been trying too hard to be things she's not. Ever since mom died...it's like she doesn't think it's okay for her to make a mistake...like she thinks if she'd done everything right, mom might still be alive."

Resting his arms across his knees, Spike fiddled with the laces on his right boot. Nodding, he agreed, "Hurt her pretty bad. Guess it's hard, her bein' the Chosen One, savin' the world over and over again, and yet she couldn't save her own mum."

Dawn hugged her knees to her chest and they sat together in silence for a few minutes. Then Dawn asked, "Did you ever meet him?"

Puzzled, Spike frowned. "Who?"

"Ramon Diaz," Dawn clarified, eyes twinkling eagerly.

Spike shrugged. "Once. 'Bout a hundred years ago. Thought he was a ponce."

"A ponce?"

"Real pathetic bugger. I'd heard the rumors about him an' his Slayer, but it was right around the time I'd...well, back then, I had a different opinion about Slayers."
 
 

//Amsterdam, 1902//
 
 

The pub was crowded and boisterous. It teemed with the stench of human vice: beer, smoke, the rich odor of sex wafting from beneath a whore's skirts, and the acrid, diseased miasmas exhaled by poor wretches who were infected with everything from consumption to syphillis.

Not the sort of place Dru cared to visit. But it suited Spike just fine. He rested his head against the dingy plaster wall and surveyed the drunken human patrons of the establishment. Not many he'd care to bite -- on the whole, they were a filthy lot. However, a few looked like they might be good for a nice, bloody fight. He could do with a spot of violence. Ever since China and that glorious kill -- his first Slayer! -- he'd had an edginess that just couldn't be stilled. He itched for a rematch with a worthy opponent. His body quivered in anticipation...for something...

As his studied, predator's gaze roamed over the pub's raucous denizens, his lips curling in a slow, feral grin at the multitude of churning heartbeats, he sensed the arrival of his own kind. Spike glanced across the room to the entryway and narrowed his eyes at the curious pair of vampires who had just come in. One was tall and dark-haired with a slight hint of beard on his chin. Spike figured him for a Spaniard. He looked proud but...sad? With a sneer, Spike reached for his stein of ale and took a swig. What self-respecting vamp'd go about looking sad?

'Course, maybe it had something to do with the wretch taggin' behind him like a dog. Looked like a minion, but there was something about its eyes...Dull, dim, haunted in that way only something very old can look. A network of scars cris-crossed its face, punctuated by a fresh, ugly bruise darkening its cheek. All the way across the room, Spike was able to detect a faint blood scent that suggested further injuries were concealed by its ragged clothes.

Spike's gaze returned to the first vamp. Their eyes locked and a tacit acknowledgment passed between them. Neither was interested in a fight over these hunting grounds. The somber, dark-haired vampire made his way across the pub, radiating an aura of command that prompted one human patron after another to give way. Without hesitation, the minion trailed obediently in his wake.

With a diplomatic nod of his head, the lead vampire sat down at Spike's table.

"Cómo es la caza?"

Spike shook his head. "Sorry, mate. Don't speak Spanish -- or Italian, if that's what that is."

"Spanish. I asked how the hunting is."

"Fair enough," Spike acknowledged with a shrug. "Haven't made my choice yet."

The taciturn vampire merely nodded and turned his attention to the surrounding humans. He reminded Spike of Angelus: all business. Get in, make a clean kill, get out. Spike, on the other hand, planned to stick around for a while, maybe stir up a fight.

A thought came to him.

"Get caught by a mob?" Spike asked conversationally. When the other vampire stared at him blankly, Spike cocked his head toward the battered minion, who certainly looked like he'd been roughed up by an angry crowd.

Pure, cold hatred hardened the dark-haired vampire's eyes, so intense it sent a slight shiver through Spike. Now this was a demon.

"He belonged to the Council of Watchers before. I turned him, and now it amuses me to torture him. It is a small revenge, but one that has taught them a lesson."

Spike warmed to the venom in the dark-haired vampire's evenly spoken words. Sounded like a wicked arrangement. He was intrigued.

"Revenge, eh? For what? Who're these Watchers?"

A slight clench of the jaw was the only reaction the Spaniard gave him. For several moments, the dark vampire stared absently at the humans carousing at other tables. Then, quietly, he said, "The Council is composed of pretentious mortal fools who think it is their place to control the Slayer."

"You don't say?" Spike mused with a feral grin. "Thought the girls just worked alone. S'pose it don't matter -- they fight alone and they die alone." Warming to the memories of his battle with the Chinese Slayer during the Boxer Rebellion, Spike thought little of it when the dark-haired vampire stiffened suddenly and stared at him with the same, slightly crazed look that Drusilla had. Smugly, Spike boasted, "Y'know you're lookin' at the vamp who killed the last Slayer. Damn, but they've got sweet blood, 's like--"

Without warning, the dark-haired vampire delivered a vicious, powerful blow to Spike's chin and sent him hurtling across the next table. Several of the humans bellowed indignantly as their drinks clattered to the floor. Abruptly, their cries sharpened in terror and Spike sensed the thundering increase in their heart rates. Rubbing his sore jaw, he looked up and saw the Spaniard looming over him, enraged, demon to the fore.

Spike had been chilled by the vamp's demeanor before; now there was something terrifying about the stranger. His eyes had the desperate, wounded look of an animal that wants to die.

Spike let his own true face emerge. Looked like he was about to get that fight he'd been hoping for. All too soon, and to his humiliation, Spike found himself outclassed. The dark vampire attacked him with a fury unbound, like all the forces of hell unleashed. They battled back and forth across the abandoned pub -- the humans having fled in mortal fear at the sight of two unholy monsters locked in combat. Spike managed to hold his own for a while, but eventually fell beneath the frenzied onslaught. He howled in pain as his skull cracked against the floor and curled in on himself to defend against brutal kicks to his ribs, only to suffer more kicks to his back. Slowly, oblivion swallowed him up.

When he came to, whimpering in agony, the Spaniard and his minion were gone. Drusilla sat beside him, gently stroking his hair.

"D-Dru?" he rasped painfully.

"Sshhhh," she soothed. "Musn't hurt yourself any more than you are, precious Spike."

"How'd...you...f-find...?" Spike's question trailed off as he coughed up stolen blood.

Gently, Drusilla gathered him in her arms and cradled him across her lap like an infant. Shifting to her demon visage, she sank her fangs into her own wrist, then held the wound to Spike's swollen, bruised lips and urged him to drink.

"I followed the fear...all the people scurrying away like little mice from the hungry cat!"

Strengthened by his Sire's blood, Spike pulled away from her wrist, blinked up at her dark, glistening eyes and asked, "The vamp I was fightin'...did you see him?"

Dru, consoling her wounded childe, murmured sadly, "My poor boy. You still have your princess. He lost his -- naughty men! She gave him her heart, but the nasty Watchers stole it away and cut it into tiny little bits, snip, snip, snip..."

Spike shivered, his entire body in searing torment, as his Dark Goddess continued to stroke his hair. Too tired to press her for answers, he clung to her and let the rich scent of his beloved's blood soothe him and wash away the pain and humiliation.
 
 

// Los Angeles, 2002 //
 
 

"How did you know it was Diaz?" Dawn asked.

Spike cocked his head to the side in surprise. He'd expected her to be more upset that he'd bragged about killing a Slayer, but Dawn relaxed companionably beside him, her legs stretched out before her on the mat, seeming more curious than angry.

With a wry grin, Spike sighed, "Word got around about the fight -- no way it couldn't have. Dru got me out of town all right, but my reputation had been buggered good and proper for a few years. Couldn't turn around without hearin' how Ramon Diaz gave me a sound thrashing. Spent a long time fightin' with tossers who rubbed my nose in it, workin' my way back. Meantime, I heard more than enough about Ramon Diaz -- most of it rumors. Told me himself he'd turned a Watcher, but everything else I got were vague stories -- he'd turned a Slayer, he'd killed a Slayer, he'd loved a Slayer...I just thought he was a bloody psychopath."

Dawn smirked. "Pot calling the kettle?"

"Yeah, well..." Spike's retort trailed off as he caught the faint scent of blood.

Very familiar, intoxicating, blood.

He looked to the stairwell and a moment later Buffy appeared at the top of the stairs and started down. Spike's eyes narrowed in concern at the sight of her hand gripping the handrail. Small traces of blood dappled her fingertips. Yet when he searched her eyes, it was emotional pain he saw.

Rising to his feet, Spike crossed the mat to meet her. "Buffy? What's wrong, luv?"

When she didn't answer, merely gazing at him in numb sorrow, he drew her into his arms. Tenderly, he brought one of her abused hands up to his mouth and kissed it. One by one, he took each finger between his lips and soothed the damaged flesh with his tongue, struggling to keep it relatively chaste in Dawn's presence. Buffy closed her eyes and leaned into his embrace, sighing at his loving ministrations.

After several moments, Buffy murmured, "I don't belong here."

*****

In the darkened basement of a run-down, abandoned building, behind a thick metal door reinforced with dead-bolts, a vampire slumped against the chains that bound her. Her senses were agitated, painfully inflamed by hunger, and she could hear the mice skittering across the floor in the shadows.

She could hear their blood -- sweet, tempting blood.

Little mice, with little blood, but, then, a little was better than none.

She wanted to eat the naughty man who kept her here. Every time he came to taunt her, to tell her about daddy's new family, his warm blood called to her. How she wanted to sip the man's blood from a china cup as the little mice crawled over his body, nibbling, nibbling at the house...

With a low, frustrated growl, Drusilla tugged on her chains.
 
 

(To Be Continued)

Ch. 19

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