Chapter 3
Author's Notes: WARNING: Graphic violence will be present in this chapter, including a scene dealing with violence towards children. PLEASE BE AWARE. If you are tender to that sort of thing, PLEASE DO NOT PROCEED, and if you would like a recap, I'd be happy to provide one, just email me.
Buffy pauses to check her reflection in a car window. She’s fluffed, spritzed, curled and glossed for upwards of an hour, and it shows. Her eyes sweep up from her brown micro skirt to her pink cashmere sweater. Not bad. She reaches up to adjust her neckline, and her fingers graze the still healing flesh on her shoulder, sending a shiver up her spine.
No. No more of that.
With a resolute shake of her hair, she resumes walking. It doesn’t matter that the wound still tingles or that she can sometimes still remember exactly what Spike’s mouth felt like. It was just mistake. The biggest, grossest mistake ever, but it’s over. She doesn’t need evil vampire deals. She needs to remind everyone of exactly why she is the Chosen One.
Buffy clenches her fists and speeds her pace as the Bronze entrance comes into sight. She pulls the door open, drinking in the thump of the music and the appreciative glances she receives from the guys nearest the door. Good. It’s well past time she starts mingling with members of her own species. In fact, from here on out, any up close and personal encounters with vampires are only going to end with her dusting them off her hands.
A mental image of Angel’s smile comes to mind, and she takes a breath. Yeah, that vampire, too.
She moves further into the club and scans the dance floor, spotting Willow alone at a table near the band. Her eyes are fixed on Oz, and a half finished soda is in front of her. Buffy worms her way through the throng, feeling more confident with every step. She taps her lightly on the shoulder to announce her arrival and Willow turns, her face lighting up with a smile.
“Hey,” Buffy calls over the music.
“Buffy, you made it! You look great!”
She stands up to quickly embrace her, and Buffy returns the hug with a relieved sigh. It’s going to be fine. Everything is going to be just like it was.
They separate and settle into opposite chairs, enjoying the rest of the song and clapping wildly at the end. The band announces a break and Willow turns with a grin, taking advantage of the sudden lull in noise.
“They just keep getting better, you know? Did you hear his solo? Well, it wasn’t really a solo per-say, but it was a…” she trails off, beaming over Buffy’s shoulder. Buffy turns, unsurprised to see Oz. Willow addresses him sweetly. “Hi, you!”
“Hey,” he says, leaning around Buffy to press a quick kiss to the corner of Willow’s mouth. Buffy wishes she’d ordered a drink, because she could have occupied herself during that nanosecond of affection with a strategic swallow of diet soda. Instead, she has to pretend she didn’t see it and it isn’t making her wistful.
“Hey, Buffy,” Oz nods and she flashes a smile.
“You guys sound great,” she offers, seeing Willow’s enthusiastic nod out of the corner of her eye.
“Thanks,” he says, then eyes his band near the side of the stage. “We’re rearranging the next set. I’ve got to go.”
“Oh, okay,” Willow says agreeably. “See you later, though?”
“Definitely.”
Another kiss, and this one lingers just a tiny bit longer, but she manages to stare at her cuticles so she doesn’t have to see it. She’d stake someone for a Diet Coke right now. They do still employ waitresses at these establishments, don’t they?
When she looks up again, Oz is gone and Willow is beaming at her. “I’m so glad you’re here!” Her pale brows knit with a small frown as she lets out a nervous laugh. “At school this week it almost seemed like…”
“Like I was weird and avoidy girl?” Buffy supplies.
“A little bit?” she squeaks, rushing on, “And that’s okay, really! I know there’s so much going on with Angel….I mean, of course you’d be avoidy. It’s just…well, you usually aren’t avoidy with me.”
Yes, well you usually aren’t plotting behind my back. Buffy bites back the snarky thought, forcing herself to remember the waver in Willow’s voice in the library. She’d been there, but she had tried to defend her. Willow might still believe in her.
“I know, Will,” she sighs. “I’ve had a lot to sort out…”
She trails off as unbidden memories rush through her mind. Angel kissing her, Angel gently removing her clothing, Angel taunting her with cold eyes, Spike’s fangs pricking into her skin. She shakes her head hard, jarring the memories loose. Focus, Buff.
“And?” Willow prompts, and Buffy manages a small smile.
“And it’s sorted. Alphabetized, color-coded, the works,” she says, and Willow smiles happily. “I know what I need to do.”
“Well, you definitely look put together,” she grins.
“I feel it, too. But there’s still something bothering me, something I need to ask you about.”
Willow stiffens instantly, stirring her own soda a little too vigorously with the straw.
“I feel like I’m out of the loop. Like I wouldn’t even recognize the loop if it ran me over.”
Willow’s eyes go wide and her face goes pale. She seems to be torn between a reassuring smile and a shrug. Both are awful. Buffy tilts her head and eyes her expectantly when she suddenly blurts out, “Xander!”
Buffy frowns, then turns to see Xander approach the table. He edges closer to Willow and it takes every ounce of Buffy’s energy to not narrow her eyes.
“Girls,” he says, then with a briefly appraising look at Buffy, adds, “Wow. Got a date?”
“I’m sharing my date with Oz,” Buffy says with a conspiratorial grin at Willow.
Xander chuckles, “As much as I hate to break that up, and all the tasty possibilities surrounding it, I’ve got news from the G Man.”
Buffy offers a thin-lipped smile. Giles doesn’t track her down at nine o’clock on a school night for pep rallies. So, why does Xan look so freaking happy?
“What’s the up?” she asks.
“Looks like Dudley DoWrong is at it again,” he says and Buffy flinches.
Xander seems to catch himself, adopting a marginally more somber expression. He speaks quietly when he continues. “There was a triple murder at the junior high school over on Oak Street.”
“Oh, no!” cries Willow, “Was it…I mean…were they…”
“Kids?” Xander supplies, then laughs bitterly, “Yeah, apparently he doesn’t want to strain anything wrestling down full-grown people, so he’s switched to children.”
“That’s awful.” Willow says, staring at her hands. She looks back up to Xander with a frown, “But are we sure it’s really Angel? I mean, any vamp could have—”
“Snuck into the school library and systematically murdered three little kids that are rumored to closely resemble the three of us?” Xander snarls, catching attention from the nearest table and lowering his head and his voice in response. Buffy’s rubs her sweaty palms against her skirt and tries to even out her breathing. “That’s a special breed of psycho, and we all know Angel holds the patent on it.”
Buffy stands up from the table abruptly, leveling Xander with a cold glare. He ducks his eyes and she flexes her hands. No. It’s not the time. She almost had Willow tonight. She’s got to prove that she can handle this. She’s got to convince them that she’s the same Slayer she always was if things are ever going to be normal again.
“I need to get to that crime scene,” she says, “Maybe I can get a lead on where he’s going or what he’s up to next.”
They both nod, but Xander interjects quietly, “Buffy, are you ready for that?”
“More than,” she grits out with steely conviction that doesn’t reach past her voice. They relent in silence and Xander softens visibly.
“Be careful, Buffy. If you need us…”
“Yeah,” Willow agrees, “If you want, we could come with?”
Buffy warms a little at the sincerity in their faces. Maybe they’ve changed their minds already. Maybe she’s blowing the whole thing out of proportion.
“I appreciate that, but I’d rather have you guys safe. And someone needs to tell Giles. We could all meet up tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning?” Willow asks, clearly panicked.
Or maybe you should wake up and smell the mutiny.
Xander rushes in, “Uh, morning isn’t so good for us. Willow and I have this thing with Mrs. Nealy. Extra credit,” he says, waving his hand as Willow drops her head and sighs.
Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly what you’re doing tomorrow morning.
“How about lunch, though?” Xander asks with a smile.
“Sounds good. Be careful getting home, you guys. I’ll call you if anything turns up.”
By the time she steps out of the Bronze, she’s seeing red and spitting fire. She reaches the school just before eleven, spotting a few news trucks are still milling around the front of the school, and one patrol unit apparently restricting access. Buffy sneaks around the back, jimmying the lock on a door that opens into the faculty lunch room.
She creeps quietly around the tables, letting herself into the adjoining hallway. There is an oppressive silence in the air. She’s pretty sure the police have finished up any preliminary work, but she moves cautiously down the dimly lit corridor nonetheless, using a helpful wall mounted map to find her way to the library.
Peeking in the window, she sees a single desk lamp is still on. It’s like a candle in a warehouse, leaving the cavernous room washed in shadow. Even still, she can see some dark splatters on the walls and shelves, as if someone’s slung around a muddy paintbrush. But it isn’t mud and it isn’t brown and when she pushes open the door softly, she isn’t surprised by the coppery tang of blood that overwhelms her.
She lifts her hands to her mouth and lets the door close quietly behind her. Her heart thunders as she moves into the room. There are several round tables, and behind them several rows of shelves, most of them in shadow. The librarian’s desk is in the corner, where the single desk lamp glows ominously. Other than the occasional spray of blood on the walls, the place looks calm and quiet.
Buffy forces her hands down from her mouth and moves forward to the first table. As she approaches, she feels a familiar prickle in her gut and she pulls her stake quickly. She hears a soft scrape and the hiss of fire and as she whirls around, Spike eases in front of the door, effectively blocking her in.
He lights his cigarette and shakes out the match she’d heard him strike. While he exhales a ribbon of blue his eyes trail up and down the length of her body. Buffy finds herself acutely aware of just how short her skirt is as his eyes linger on the hemline.
“Well, well. Trolling for a new toy tonight, I see.”
“Been hiding behind the card catalogue long?” she accuses nastily, eyes flicking to the high counter in the far back corner of the room where he must have concealed himself.
The muted light plays his sharp features into sinister shadows, but she thinks he’s smirking. The idiot is always smirking. “Been waiting for you, pet. Thought you might need a little help.”
“You thought wrong,” she said, gripping the stake more tightly forcing her hand to not touch either her shoulder or her neck, both of which are tingling.
In lieu of a response, he takes another hit off his cigarette, and she turns her back on him. She’ll kill him later. At some point, the cops are going to return and she needs to be done snooping when they do. He isn’t a real threat anyway.
“Still solo, I see,” he observes tauntingly as she moves to the center table where three chairs seem pushed strategically together. A quick survey reveals several small blood splatters on the carpet and table. This must be where he put them.
Apparently unimpressed with her strategy of ignoring him, she hears him roll toward her.
“Watcher and your little Rah-Rah gang still busy with their own justice system?”
She tries not to flinch at his awareness of this situation, but he notices it anyway, and a low chuckle greets her ears. Maybe if she goes ahead and just kills him, she’ll get this done sooner. God knows she could do without the commentary.
“Poor little Slayer. This was more fun when you were just killing baddies in your kicky boots and fruity lip gloss, wasn’t it?” Buffy starts at that, surreptitiously licking her lips to discover that the gloss is indeed strawberry flavored. She turns away from the table, making a wide arch around his chair to head towards the shelves.
“Course, now it’s all different, innit? Now you’ve got your heart all tied up with one of those baddies, and you’ll do anything to save him.”
Hearing him following her, she turns around on a dime, hands propped on her hips. He smirks around his cigarette, then stubs it out on one of his wheels. “You can’t do this by yourself, not with Dru getting in your way. You need me.” he says softly.
“I need a canker sore more than I need you, Spike,” she laughs. “What part of that destiny of mine aren’t you getting? Me, Slayer. You, stake fodder.”
To her extreme satisfaction, a muscle in his jaw jumps and she turns away, browsing the shelf aisles and finding nothing of interest.
“Do you know what he did here, Slayer?” he asks. “What he did to those children?”
She ignores him, walking back out of the shelves and over to the table. There’s a stack of books, classics mostly. She picks the first one up, sighing irritably when she hears Spike approaching.
“He took pictures, you know,” Spike said. “Had them propped up like a bunch of dolls, pet. Folded their hands just so in their laps and had their books scattered around.”
She swallowed hard against the rising nausea, and tried to focus on the books she was flipping through, instead of the idea of their bodies growing stiff and pale in these chairs.
“Course the cops took the books, as well as the soda cans that he’d filled with their own blood. He made sure yours was a Diet, pet. Didn’t know he’d be that careful, did you? He carved a swastika in the little redhead’s forehead and tore the other little girl’s throat the same way the Master ripped into yours. And you don’t want to know what he did to the boy. Give you nightmares for a month.”
Buffy dropped the book she was looking at and turned, brandishing her stake threateningly at Spike. He’d crept up closer with every word and was easily within staking range. His own white-knuckled grip on his wheels and wide eyes made it pretty clear that he was aware of their proximity as well.
“It isn’t going to work, Spike. I know what vampires are capable of. I know exactly what I’m dealing with.”
Spike gives a bitter laugh and pulls a book he’s had tucked inside his chair. Little Women. Even from here, she can see the ‘e’ is crossed out, and replaced with a handwritten ‘a’.
“No, I don’t think you have a bloody clue, pet,” he snarls, flinging the book at her with enough force to take her head off. She catches it with a grunt, knowing instantly that her palm will bruise.
She turns the book over, staring at the four girls on the cover and the bloody ‘a’. Why is it always blood? “Little Women,” she says woodenly. “What am I supposed—”
“You’re supposed to find the bloody calling card!” he roars, moving closer and gesturing wildly. “There’s always a calling card with Angel. He fancies himself an artist.”
Buffy ignores the clear disgust in Spike’s tone and opens the book. Some of the pages feel sticky, but she doesn’t have a clue what she’s looking for until she finds it on page 119. The back side of a photograph looks up at her with a message scrawled in blood.
One gift isn’t enough for my beloved.
“My birthday,” she breathes, her hands trembling as she turns the picture over. It’s Angel, squatted behind the dead children, his arms around their shoulders, pulling their lifeless faces close to his own as he tips one of the soda cans to his lips.
“They’ve got the bloody pictures all over the factory. That one’s pretty tame, actually.”
Stiffly, she places the picture back in the book, closing it perfunctorily. She feels her body tightening, feels that eerie silence before the storm, but can do nothing more than turn the book over in her hands, frowning at the tacky surface.
“What the…” she trails off, rubbing her hands on her skirt. “It’s got glue on it,” she mutters.
“Uh, Slayer,” he says, with a bark of laughter. “That’s not glue.” After brief consternation, her mind spirals to a dark place that makes her stomach cinch like a corset. There is a revolting mental image of Angel’s hand fisted and his eyes squeezed shut, and the dam breaks. She drops the book to the floor and scrubs her hands viciously on her skirt as hot tears prick her eyes. Spike’s laughter roars behind her and she can do nothing but march to the door.
“Oh, come now, Slayer, you’ve already had your share of his glue on you. No need to rush for the scouring agents now.”
She ignores him and continues to try to escape, toppling a chair as the tears stream down her face and nausea twists her stomach. He’s following her. She can hear the soft tread of wheels behind her, but she moves quickly for the exit, heart pounding and ears ringing.
“What makes it worse pet? The fact that he gets off on killing children or the fact that deep down in places you don’t talk about with your gang, you love him anyway?”
She stops at that, trying to will her lungs to release the breath she’s holding. He’s come closer now, so close that she can smell the recent cigarette that lingers on his leather coat.
“Course you better suss out your grand plan, pet. Watcher learns what he’s scheming next and you won’t have time for a rescue.”
She can’t help but whisper miserably, “What does it matter?”
“Oh boo bloody hoo,” he mocks cruelly, “Yes, whatever could undo this terrible thing? Surely not the same magic that caused it.”
Buffy’s eyes clear and the world seems to slow. She tilts her head and hears Spike cluck disapprovingly behind her.
“Figures you wouldn’t think of that.”
“Are you saying…” her voice cracks into silence.
“If a bunch of drunken gypsies managed it once…” He trails off leaving a world of possibilities that sing through her veins. Her heart skips a beat and she sucks in a tight breath. It tastes like hope.
“I do have connections, Slayer. I can find people that can do anything. That will do anything,” his voice hardens as he concludes. “But it comes with a price, pet.”
She swallows hard, knowing this won’t come cheap, knowing already what this deal is about. “What do you want, Spike?”
There is a rustle behind her and she shivers when he reaches for her wrist, his fingers pressing softly against her now thundering pulse.
“I think we both know the answer to that,” he breathes, and his voice is somehow velvet and gravel together. It’s disturbingly not disturbing.
“I need my legs and you need your magic. Seems like a fair trade to me.”
She wants to resist. She feels the words of protest forming in her mouth, but she can’t force them out. She can’t even picture it, because behind her closed eyes, she can only see Angel. The warmth of his smile. The cool press of his lips against hers. Shame burns her cheeks scarlet as she bows her head in assent, relaxing her wrist in Spike’s grip.
He laughs then, fingers tightening on her arm as he gives it a little shake. “Not exactly what I had in mind, pet.”
With only a feral growl as warning, he yanks her backwards. She finds herself splayed awkwardly, her back over his legs. His grip shifts, and suddenly his arms are around her, hauling her close, until she feels his nose and chin slide through her hair. She hears his bones shift and feels his fangs drag lightly against her flesh and all the while, she’s holding her breath, fingers numbed from gripping so tightly on whatever it is she’s gripping.
“Let go,” he murmurs against her skin, prying her fingers from the stake that she didn’t realize she was still holding, and she doesn’t know why, but she’s frozen. Absolutely frozen.
She hears it clatter softly to the floor and then there is the satin slide of his lips at her throat. The same place as that first night in the factory. It’s slow, so slow she can feel her heart thump once. Then again. The sting of his fangs sucks the wind from her lungs like a vacuum. She feels the liquid heat of her blood meet the soft curl of his tongue and he is not the only one who looses a groan.
She is trapped within her body, all sense and logic pressed down, hidden deep beneath the intensity of pure sensation. Her eyes drift shut and she can hear nothing but the even thrumming of her own heart, can feel nothing but the delicious pull at her neck and his arm around her middle, pulling her close, closer until she can feel the hard plane of his stomach against her back and the unyielding flex of his thighs beneath her bottom.
Her body shivers and she’s panting as she feels his long fingers curl over her bare thigh. Helpless against her own instincts, she pushes back against him, fingers clawing, not into the chair but into his legs, nails scraping over denim.
She forces her eyes open and feels her head swim. Blood loss. Blood loss? With a desperate grunt, Buffy wriggles in his grip, the reality of the situation pounding her on every side. She heaves desperately, pushing her feet against the floor and using every ounce of her waning energy to struggle. Her bottom grinds against something even harder than his thighs and as he groans, she gasps as a sickening sensation curls at the apex of her thighs.
He wrenches his fangs free of her neck abruptly and she clasps her hand to the wound as she staggers to her feet. He is breathing heavily and when she turns around, his human face returns, eyes sparking with glee. He flexes each foot with a pleased expression, then surveys his pelvic area with an arched brow. Finally, he offers her a rakish grin that he wears much better than any vampire should.
“Told you,” he says with a lascivious wink. “Wicked strong.”