Summary: A slayer barters with a demon to rescue her lover, and finds herself unwittingly projected nearly three hundred years into the future with no memory of the life she left behind.
There was nothing in the stars or in his sire’s cryptic warning which could have prepared him for this. This wondrous, delightful madness dancing across the Hellmouth’s gates. Demons lurked around every corner. Attacking pedestrians, messing with traffic lights, leaping in front of moving vehicles; it was chaos at its best, and he’d never witnessed anything so bloody amusing.
It was as though every classic horror tale had suddenly spurned life. Everywhere he glanced, he met a demon’s eyes. Species of demon he’d never before encountered; demons he’d never heard of; demons he’d only seen described in pages of mythology. Demons which only lived in the minds of writers and the squeamish religious sort. A parade of demons.
He absolutely loved it.
Spike wasn’t a fool. He knew there was a mystical explanation, and that his time in the devil’s playground most likely ran regrettably short. He also had brains enough about him to piece together the likelihood that the Slayer was a victim of this madness, and hence weak as Drusilla had suggested. Whatever had affected all the little tykes and their residual desecration of everything Halloween was supposed to represent had affected her as well. And all he had to do was find her.
Before Angel the walking party-pooper interrupted and set about raining on his parade.
Spike wasn’t about to toss away a golden opportunity like this. He’d hunt her down and snap her neck. He’d spice his liquor with her blood and make a trophy of her body. He’d been merciful with slayers in the past–with Buffy, any semblance of his favorable side would be nonexistent.
In order to obliterate her from his dreams, he needed to obliterate her.
Perhaps then he’d win back his nights.
Or perhaps he’d be haunted by her face forever.
Spike shuddered and snarled, causing the army of miniature demons behind him to murmur speculatively in a range of tongues he couldn’t identify. The sodding Slayer best not even consider wheedling her way further into his psyche than she was already. He truly didn’t fancy beating himself over the skull with a blunt object until his memory of her was nothing more than a shadow. The way he figured it, he’d have to send his brain through a bloody shredder before Buffy’s face faded to ambiguity. And there were too many instances of his existence that he didn’t want to forfeit for the sake of banishing one troublesome blonde.
It was ridiculous how deeply one chit could affect him. One chit whom he’d only twice encountered in the flesh. He’d seen her dance and he’d felt her hot little body pressed intimately against his in a span of forty-eight hours. Every glance he’d stolen of her since the disastrous mess he’d made of St. Vigeous had been at a woeful distance.
Spike had already reconciled he wasn’t one for master plans. He had a bloody hard time of staying away so necessary events could unfold. What he truly wanted was to storm up to her, provoke her into a fight, and rip her beautiful head off her shoulders. He didn’t want to be patient. He wanted this to end. Now.
He wanted to get her up close. He wanted to get his hands on that annoyingly perfect skin of hers.
He wanted…
To fuck her into the bloody ground.
Spike snarled again and turned a sharp corner down an unfamiliar alleyway. And without warning–without anything at all–her scent filled his nostrils. Her potent, intoxicating scent. The musk of slayer, undeniable in its richness. The flavor of Buffy Summers. Undeniably Buffy Summers.
Something significant shifted inside him. His cock took immediate notice as well.
And then he saw her. A fucking vision if there ever was one. She moved down the dark passageway with nothing but confidence at her side. Her hair was long brown: a true visage of his night angel prior to barreling down the Welcome to Sunnyhell sign and initiating himself in a world he was in no way prepared to face. Her eyes were large and bright; she was lost, but unafraid. She moved like royalty. And she was looking for something.
He knew the moment she sensed him. He saw the shudder of realization grip her shoulders, heard the gasp that claimed the night air, watched as she raised her head and met his eyes. The mini-monsters behind him cackled and cooed with delight, and while his brain told him to relish this moment as the last she’d ever enjoy, something carnal stirred within his loins and his demon howled for recognition. All at once, he felt thoroughly paralyzed. Felt trapped in an odd moment of pure déjà vu; his mind scrambled to catch up with the fading memory of something long forgotten, but it was too fast for him to catch. Somehow in the shadow of an instant everything had changed.
He needed to kill her quickly before he talked himself out of it. Before the angel of his dreams turned into something of his nightmares.
And being a vampire, he knew how particularly horrific nightmares could be.
“William,” she breathed, her eyes shining with tears.
Everything inside him collapsed.
This was her. There was no hiding from it. There was no denying it. There was no talking himself into sanity when he’d lost whatever he had left.
Buffy hadn’t simply become his night angel. She was his night angel.
And somehow, she had been all along.
“My God,” he said, holding up a hand to prevent the eager demons behind him from storming forward. “Bleeding hell…”
And then she burst into tears. Hard, body-consuming tears. Tears which could only be shed in the light of one’s greatest loss or one’s greatest triumph. She lurched over, holding her stomach as her whole being collapsed in sobs. And before he could stop himself, Spike rushed forward, a twist of fear and concern seizing his insides, shielded with an overpowering veil of confusion. The whispers in his brain commanding him to snap her neck faded to the hysterical screaming which suddenly demanded her safety. He didn’t understand it, and he was moving too fast to allow second-guessing.
He didn’t even have time to shake off his bumpies, or realize that Buffy had identified him even through the eyes of his demon. Before he could even consider blinking back to the part of him which wasn’t stark-raving mad, Buffy choked a heartbreaking sob and lunged into his arms. Then she captured his face between her warm, warrior’s hands and touched her tear-stained lips to his.
Some inner dam broke; reason shot far out the proverbial window. The salt of her tears collided with his taste-buds, meshing everything he knew and everything yet-to-be-decided in a colorful frenzy of meaningless shapes. All he knew at that moment was that somehow redemption, purity, and light had manifested in the Slayer’s kiss, and he found himself aching for something he’d never thought to touch. Never thought to desire. The part of him screaming in protest was swiftly defeated by the man yearning for the visage of perfection which haunted his dreams.
The warmth of her tongue invaded his mouth. Her tears doused his cheeks and her kiss set his body aflame. He was touching the sun, her taste consuming every nerve in his body. She ripped him apart and pieced him together; she caressed him like a lover, holding him to her as she explored every crevice of his mouth. As she touched him as no other woman had ever touched him. Her hands didn’t abandon his face–didn’t dip between them to rub his denim-clad erection. Didn’t do anything but hold him to her as she bathed him in sunlight.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed against his mouth when their lips parted. “Will, I’m so sorry.”
Spike blinked, bewildered.
“I had to do it. I had to. I had to find a way to bring you back. I couldn’t…God, I couldn’t…”
He stared at her broken face, the fragmented pieces of his mind clawing for some sense of understanding. None was forthcoming. Instead, all he had was an armful of weeping slayer–one who called him by his Christian name. A slayer whispering soft, tender kisses across his face, uncaring of the demon ridges or the yellow slant of his vampire eyes. She even kissed his fang when his jaw refused to snap upward.
“I’m so sorry,” she whimpered again, her small, perfect breasts pressed fully against his chest. “Will…oh Will…”
Spike’s eyes wandered covetously over her face before focusing on her round, perfect mouth again. He was painfully aware of the monsters behind him, as was he of her feminine softness, encased in a warrior’s firm physique. She was burning him up through layers of fabric, and if he got any harder he was going to burst through his zipper.
He needed to get her somewhere secluded. Away from prying eyes.
Not that he cared a lick if the Slayer showed the world her goodies. The fact that she was currently looking at him as though he’d descended from the heavens was an entirely different matter. She was under some wonky spell, and if he wasn’t careful she would entangle him in her web.
He tossed a hurried glance over his shoulder. “Go,” he barked, wrapping an arm around the Slayer’s middle and ushering her quickly through the nearest doorway he spotted.
He found himself inside what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse and without the faintest clue how to proceed. His mind was rapidly deteriorating–what had seemed so important just a few minutes ago had muddied into something beyond his understanding. Intellectually, Spike knew it’d be simple to off her now. Trap her gorgeous little head between his hands and give it a good twist until she was nothing more than a lifeless heap at his feet. It’d be easy–beyond easy. She’d be nothing more than a footnote in history. A name with an asterisk beside it in some old Watcher’s dusty volume.
But he couldn’t. God, he couldn’t. Bugger if he knew why, but he was powerless against it. Powerless against her.
She was weaving a spell around him–fogging his senses and dragging him into the murky place where dreams attempted to overpower reality.
And God help him but he was letting her.
“Hush now,” he murmured, his voice resonating with tenderness he’d never used with anyone other than his sire. He placed her atop a crate, his hands sliding up her body, barely skimming her breasts, and cupping her face as she’d cupped his outside. “Look at me. Slayer…”
“I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
Her face began to crumble again, her tear-filled eyes taking in his face. “You changed your hair,” she said, running her fingers through his platinum locks.
“Did I?”
“It’s…bright.”
“’S a look I picked up in the seventies, love.” His hands slid down the length of her, careful not to cross any boundaries, if there were boundaries to cross. “Fancy it?”
Buffy shook her head and glanced down again, her body going rigid under his hands as she battled another incursion of tears. “I…I…”
“Slayer…” He watched her dissolve again, feeling more helpless than he had in the whole of his existence. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to shake her and wrap her in his arms. He wanted to beat her to death and kiss her blindly. He wanted so many things and none of them made sense. “What the bloody hell is going on?”
The world was swirling around him.
“I…I did…”
“Yeah?”
“A spell. I did a spell.” She glanced up again, her face a shield of contrition. “I did a spell. I summoned a demon.”
He blinked, a blur of rage coming over him. “You what?”
Well, at least that much made sense. Barmy bint had cast some sodding spell over him. Over the both of them. And as was typical, the spell went wonky.
The spell went wonky. Perhaps it was the reason his night angel suddenly wore her face. Perhaps it was the reason he suddenly couldn’t stomach the idea of ripping out her throat. Perhaps it was the reason he wanted to hold her to his chest and whisper that everything would be all right.
Bitch.
“I had to! I couldn’t…” Buffy’s voice failed her, her soft lips quivering as tears consumed her once more. “You were gone. I watched you leave me. And I tried, Will. I tried to…I didn’t know what to do. They tried to kill me a-and…”
Spike’s heart softened before he could help himself. He blamed it on the spell. “Who, pet?” he asked gently. “Who tried to kill you?”
“The…they thought I was a witch.” She paused and searched his eyes. “Do you remember that?”
It wasn’t the fact that she was completely off her tree that bothered him; it was the fact that he wanted to tell her yes. He wanted to reassure her of anything which demanded reassurance.
He hated this.
“Kitten, I don’–”
“I did it. I summoned him,” she continued. He could practically see her mind racing. “It was easy. It was so easy. I found one of Kenneth’s books. The sort he never let me near, you know?”
“Buffy…”
The sound of her name brought everything to a still. She glanced up at him with wide eyes, swallowing him whole into an abyss he’d never before ventured.
To keep himself grounded, Spike tried not to focus on how wonderful her name felt on his tongue. Saying it in his head was problematic enough–giving it life in the real world, calling her something beyond Slayer hardened her in his head. It humanized her, and while such was never a problem for him–as a vampire–something about her name made his nerves tingle and his body sing. Humanizing her was a dangerous move.
“Are you real?” she asked him softly, her soft breaths doing things to his skin that he’d never known a breath could do. “Please tell me you’re real.”
This was something he knew. He was real. He was as real as anything.
He just didn’t know what sort of real she needed him to be.
And why the bloody hell does it matter?
“I’m real,” he heard himself murmuring, his eyes falling shut as her hands took to exploring his face again. He’d fallen back into his human guise without realizing it, and fuck if her touch didn’t feel wonderful. “’m real, Buffy.”
“Then can we…can you just kiss me?” Her mouth brushed his. “Please? The rest–”
He smashed his lips to hers without allowing himself time to think. He didn’t want to think anymore. He just wanted to touch her. At the moment, nothing seemed more important. Her thighs parted and he fell between them as though magnetized, the warm heat of her pussy doing more to set his skin aflame than any amount of sunlight could ever accomplish. The taste of her had him thoroughly drunk. His mind raced around in circles before collapsing completely. There was nothing but the feel of her. Nothing but the way her mouth moved against his, the way she held onto him as though trying to anchor herself. As though her existence in this world depended completely on how tightly he held her.
“Buffy,” he moaned, sucking her tongue between his teeth. He wanted to draw her blood but didn’t dare. That would shove him across a threshold he wasn’t prepared to cross. “God…”
“Please,” she whimpered again, her teeth ripping at his lips. “Please…”
“What do you need, baby?” Spike heard himself asking. He was losing himself further down the rabbit hole and bugger if he cared. He released her just long enough to hike her skirt up her legs and bunch the fabric around her waist. “Need me to touch you?”
Buffy sobbed and nodded hard, thrusting herself against his hand. “It’s been so long.”
“Lifetimes,” he found himself agreeing, not without a dose of irony.
“Please…”
Spike inhaled sharply, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. It’d been a long while since he undressed a woman in Victorian clothing–not that she was wearing Victorian clothing. No, the dress she sported was something before even his time. But he didn’t care. Whatever it was, it had her believing he was something other than what he was. A man beyond his reckoning. Beyond anything that anyone had ever believed him to be. Not even Drusilla had looked at him the way the Slayer was looking at him. He was falling too quickly to grab hold of anything but her, and with reality distorting around him, he couldn’t bring himself to give an honest damn.
“Please!” Buffy gasped again. “Will, please…”
He wheedled through what felt like yards of fabric, his body rejoicing when he finally touched skin. Christ, she was so hot. She was so bloody hot, and one touch was going to do rot to satisfy him. He ran his fingers over the soft curls of her mound, the heady aroma of her desire tickling his tongue and making every inch of him hunger for a taste. He wanted to experience everything. He wanted to feel her wet, warm pussy clench around his cock. He wanted to tease her sweet little clit and thrust his tongue deep inside her body. He wanted her to drench him–drown him in her sweet ambrosia and mark him as no woman had ever bothered to mark him.
He wanted to ruin her for all men. He wanted anyone who ever looked at her to know she was claimed.
Buffy jerked against him with desperation he’d never before encountered. He’d never seen a woman so starved for him, and fuck if it wasn’t brilliant. “William!” she cried. “Please! Don’t tease me!”
“I live to tease, pet,” Spike replied coyly, flicking a brow.
“It’s been too long. I need you!”
“Want me inside you, sweetness?” He ran his index finger between her pussy lips, dipping as far into her sweet liquid warmth as he could without forfeiting his title as a tease. “Fuck, but you’re wet.”
“Oh my…ohhh…”
“This for me, kitten? All this juicy–”
“William!”
He’d never heard his name screamed that way before. He’d never known how bloody hot it could be. He’d never even considered it.
A bloke could get used to this in a big way.
Spike grinned as his thumb slipped over her clit, the symphonic moan which tore through her lips hardening every vessel in his body with lust.
He had to have her. He had to have her now.
Which naturally made the arrival of her chums one bloody inconvenience.