TITLE:  Consequence
AUTHOR:  L.A. Ward
DISCLAIMER:  Not Mine.  Never Mine.  Wish they were
were but they belong to Joss.
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Riley staking Spike in "Into the Woods" 
has some dire consequences.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Reports of Spike's death (and
character death in general)are greatly exaggerated.


**************************************************

Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a 
banquet where every heart revealed itself, where 
every wine flowed.
One evening I took Beauty in my arms--and I thought 
her bitter--and I insulted her.

I steeled myself against justice. I fled. O witches, 
O misery, O hate, my treasure was left in your care!

I have withered within me all human hope. With the 
silent leap of a sullen beast I have downed and 
strangled every joy

[...]

Now recently, when I found myself ready to croak! 
I thought to seek the key to the banquet of old, 
where I might find an appetite again.

That key is Charity. . . 

            "Once, if Memory Serves Me Well.."
            Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

**************************************************** 



                     
                    CHAPTER 1
              THE PAST IS PROLOGUE... 

Know that piffle about your life flashing before your 
eyes just before you die?  It's true. I should bloody 
well know.  I've been killed.  Twice.  

Notice I said I've been killed, but I'm not dead. 
Well, I am dead, but I'm a vampire so that's beside 
the point, innit? What I'm trying to say is I was 
killed, transformed into a vampire, and have now been 
killed again. Go find a Dustbuster.  I'm done.

So, if these are my final moments why am I prattling 
like some hysterical bint? The truth is--I don't know.  
It's damned embarrassing, but I can't seem to stop myself. 
I must be in that moment where my life is passing before 
my eyes...and I do mean my life--those days of sunlight 
and delusion which make me want to retch or hurl in 
alternating order. 

I remember being a kid in short knickers standing on 
the back stairs of my family's country house listening 
to my parents fight.  It wasn't a fair fight.  Mum 
always won.  That I called our home a "country house" 
proves she won.  Father said calling it that was 
pretentious. Mum said was it necessary to "keep up 
appearances." Father was right, but Mum won in the 
end.  She always did.

So country house it was.  After all, it was in the 
country, and it was a house.  But Mum's insistence on 
the title of "country house" implied that somewhere 
existed a "city house," and there wasn't one. The 
house where we lived was all we had.  Though if memory 
serves, it was a rather nice house built of white 
limestone standing on the edge of an intensely green 
field.  Of course most fields in England are intensely 
green, so there's nothing unique about that. My home
was your generic bucolic setting for you ordinary 
country squire. . .the country squire would be my 
father.

If I'm being honest--and since these are my final 
moments before being sucked into hell, I see no reason 
to not be honest--my father was hardly the inspiring 
sort.  He was average looking, of average height, and 
of average build. He wore tweed most of the time, and 
I vaguely recall that he was developing just the hint 
of a gut the last time I saw him. He was also a good 
man.  A very good man.  Bought me tin soldiers. Read 
me books. Taught me to ride a pony.  But I didn't 
mean he was 'good' just because he was a good Da or 
because he attended church services every Sunday and 
paid his tithe.  I mean, he cared about people. He 
listened to them, and--when he could--he helped them. 

Bloody stupid fellow wasn't he? But I loved him. 

Naturally--being good and all--he succumbed to cliché 
and died young.  Poor bugger never saw his thirty-fifth 
birthday. He caught the flu, that turned into pneumonia, 
that turned into death. I was ten years old at the time, 
and cried for weeks.  Then our creditors threw us out of 
our "country house," and more tears followed.

Father was a kind man.  He was a generous man.  He was 
not, however, a wealthy man, and Mum had the tastes of 
a very wealthy woman.  

Ah, Mum... No need to worry about going all warm and 
fuzzy about her. To use an expression of my day, she was 
a "diamond of the first water" which loosely translates 
to drop dead gorgeous. To use a modern expression, she was 
a ball bustin' bitch who knew how to get what she wanted, 
and when she was young and poor and working as an upstairs 
maid for some Viscount who owned a REAL country house, 
what she wanted was my father. I was born six months and 
three days after the wedding.  

Father, being a good man, never openly resented being 
trapped into marriage.  The same cannot be said for Mum.  
She may have set the trap, but once in it she discovered 
that my father's purse was very lightly padded and that a 
country squire didn't rate highly with the cuffs and 
collars crowd. Mum voiced her displeasure about that 
loudly and often. . .which was the cause of one of 
countless arguments I listened to on the back stairs.

When Father died, Mum and I went to London. Mum managed 
to stay three steps ahead of our creditors long enough to 
snag Mr. Winton J. Oddbody.  Mr. Oddbody was two decades 
older and two stone heavier than my father, but that was 
not the only difference between the men. Mr. Oddbody was 
wealthy, not of the genteel class, and was not...kind.  

How do I explain? Wasn't there some abrasive bastard of 
a step parent in a Dickins' tragedy? Being Dickens I'm 
sure there was, but I can't seem to remember which book 
I'm referring to.  Not that it matters.  Just use your 
imagination and know that was what Mr. Oddbody was to 
me. . .

Copperfield. David Copperfield. That was the novel, and 
Oddbody was my own personal Mr. Murdstone. Knew I hadn't 
forgotten the book even if it has been more than a 
century since I read it.

I read a lot as a lad. I was bloody clever. Earned a 
scholarship to Eton. Not much to crow about, actually. 
The sons of Lords and Earls looked down on me.  My Mum was 
common. Da a mere knight. And me? I was slight of build, 
wore glasses and stammered. No surprise that I became the 
class whipping boy.

Of course, being a good little martyr I endured it with 
stoic, timid 'bravery.'  At least that's how I explained 
it to myself -- leaving out the timid part. What I should 
have done was sneak into their rooms late one night and 
whaled on them with a cricket bat.

I was an idiot. Had some idea of making my father proud, 
so I smiled in the face of humiliation and hid myself in 
books while admiring pretty girls from afar. Sodding 
fool, I was. What was I trying to be? An idealist?

Well yeah, I was.  

Anyway, after Eton came Oxford and after Oxford came 
unemployment. It was a part of the peculiar Victorian 
mindset that work was beneath the upper class, and 
even though I was only on the fringes of that class 
and had no money to speak of, there were very few 
professions open to me. I was a 'gentleman' after all.

By that time Mum was having a go at Mr. Oddbody's legal 
counselor.  She wanted to make sure Oddbody's will was 
locked up right and tight. She intended on inheriting 
every pence the old miser had scuttled away.  

If there had been a radish in sight--and Gone With the
Wind had been written--Mum would've imitated Scarlet 
O'Hara swearing, "I will never go hungry again." And just 
like dear old Scarlet, Mum wouldn't have given a damn who 
she hurt to make things turn her way...even if it meant 
disinheriting Mr. Oddbody's daughter Meg.   

Meg.  Poor girl.  Around the turn of the century 
--the last century--I decided to find out what had 
happened to Margaret. What I discovered wasn't pretty. 
After Mr. Oddbody''s death, Mum kicked the girl into the 
streets.  Dear little Meg met a bad end, and not at the 
hands of vampires or demons and the like. Ordinary men 
can be monsters too.  

Bollocks.  Didn't mean to bring up that bit of ancient 
history. It's enough to remember, all short and sweet 
like, that Mum did her best to set me on the path of 
becoming an amoral and soulless creature...a lawyer.

I resisted at first, but in the end I took the job.  
I needed the money. I was quite the spineless poof 
and *always* knuckled under to everyone's wants 
but my own.  

What did I want? I wanted to be accepted, to be loved,
to belong.  I was a wanker who wanted puppies and 
Christmas and home fires burning. I wanted to be a poet 
like Blake, Browning, Shelly, or Keats. I wanted to put 
into words all the beauty in the world...I was hopeless. 

My first love was a little opera singer who hardly
knew my name.  I sat in the audience night after night
just to see her, to hear her. She had a frothy French 
accent that was entirely fake, a wardrobe dominated 
by white lace, and--why should I lie about it now?--she 
was a lightskirt...which was only a polite way to say 
whore. 

I heard others call her that, but I refused to believe 
it.  I decided I could save her from such cruel barbs. I 
could help her gain respectability. I would wed her and 
love her and care for her... and she laughed in my face. 
Give up money, jewels, and fame? For what? For me?  

For years her laughter rang in my ears. Who am I 
kidding?  I can still hear that pitch perfect giggle.

You'd think I'd have wised up then.  Love is futile, 
and all that rot.  It tempts you with a carrot then 
beats you with a stick...but I hadn't copped to that 
info yet. And even if I had, not sure I would have 
cared.  Not sure I care now.  Love may be a bitch, 
but it's that or nothing at all. 

So I stupidly crawled back for more--only this time 
I set my sights higher. I decided I needed someone 
admirable. Someone noble and worthy. I chose Cecily. 
After all, I wasn't just a stupid blighter. I was an 
*incredibly* stupid blighter.  

Cecily was a lady of refined sensibilities, and I 
wished to place her on a pedestal so that I might 
admire her more fully. I adored her...and she told 
me I was beneath her. Nix that. She said even my 
*admiration* was beneath her.  It was in the dark 
moments that followed, as I shed bitter, hateful 
tears that I met my Dru--my beautiful, broken pet. 
She gleamed in darkness and gave voice to my pain. 

"What possible catastrophe came crashing down from 
heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?" 
she asked.

I must have looked at her as though she was insane
--which of course she is. But in that moment it was 
an intoxicating insanity.  I liked the way she looked 
at me.  I liked the words she said. I wanted that 
bright, gleaming, effulgent vision of myself. I was 
seduced.  Willingly.  Eagerly.  Completely.  

William died that night.  He left this earth unmourned, 
for who would mourn him?  Not a mother wrapped up in 
her greed and fading beauty, not a singer who had 
laughed at an offer of fidelity, and not Cecily who had 
thought even my admiration  beneath her.  There was no 
one...I couldn't even mourn myself because in my final 
moments I saw what a pathetic sod William was. He was 
nothing.  He was unneeded, unwanted, and unloved...so 
I created Spike whose life may be no more fruitful than 
William's, but at least it's a hell of a lot more fun.

There were four of us in those days--Darla, Angelus, 
myself and my darling Dru...or as Angelus put it--himself, 
his women, and me.  What a cocky bastard Angelus is.  So 
full of himself he can't see half of what's going on 
around him.  

'His' women?  Bollocks.  Darla owned Angelus body 
and...well...body. As for Dru, no one could touch her. Oh 
her body was up for grabs, and I became quite possessive 
of it, all white and soft and sweet smelling.  But the 
rest of her?  She's beyond the reach of man or vampire. 
She's lost in darkness, clouds, and stars.  I saw that 
almost from the first and became quite determined to 
find out why.  Why was my precious pet, such a 
beautifully broken bird? 

I found my answers and saw Angelus clearly. Women might 
be blinded by the poof, but not me. I've seen what he 
is and know what he's done. 

I was seduced from the world of the living to the world 
of the undead.  My darling Dru asked if it was what I 
wanted; and, even if I didn't really understand what 
she offered, I still answered eagerly. It was my choice, 
but Angelus took Dru against her will, and even that is 
too kind a description. What Angelus did was unspeakable.

Angelus wasn't satisfied with simply killing the girl 
Dru had been. He had to *destroy* her.  He lay waste to 
everything Drusilla held dear. He stole her God, her 
family, her innocence, and her sanity before stealing her 
life and soul. And even then he didn't have the fucking 
mercy to let her die...even I would have let her die.

Angelus broke Dru into a million pieces of ice, and years 
too late I found her. I cradled her in my arms, and loved 
her though it would do no good. No good at all. She was 
lost and mad and possessing talons that could sink into 
a fellow's heart making him scream in torment...and I was 
the lucky bloke she chose. 

The two of us cut quite the path of destruction, and when 
the days grew long and she wanted to retreat. . .well, 
retreat was a path familiar for me. I didn't mind. I held 
her as she cried pitiful tears and wondered about lost 
souls.  

"Do they exist?" she would ask. "Miss Edith doesn't think 
they do. She thinks souls are naught but wraiths who mock 
us, laughin' 'cause we were so careless as to lose them." 

Dru lived in mortal fear of her soul returning. "Where do 
lost souls hide?" she would ask with her eyes large
and dark.

I would smooth her hair and kiss her forehead. "Don't 
know, pet. Doesn't matter. They aren't here and that's 
never going to change.  Promise."

She would cuddle close and sometimes, just sometimes, 
I thought Dru reached beyond her insanity to love me. 
Just a little. Just every now and then...which was why 
when Angelus would touch her and call her 'his,' my 
blood would boil, and I'd dream of ways to make him 
suffer. He knew it too which was why he'd drag her 
to his bed. 

Angelus never approved of me. I was too wild, too 
impatient, and too emotional--but he could have lived 
with that.  What he hated was he couldn't control me. 
What I hated was his touching Dru and lecturing me on 
"clean kills."  

Clean kills? What the hell is that? It would take a 
creature of Angelus or Darla's ilk to think murder 
could be 'clean.' It's dark and bloody. At least respect 
it enough to call it what it is. Don't dress it up with 
platitudes like cleanliness or art. 

Translation: a 'clean kill' is an easy victim, a poor 
blighter who doesn't stand a chance against you. You 
can torture 'em like Angelus, or kill'em quick and 
be done with it. My money was always on the latter. 
There's no glory in culling the weak from the herd. 
Triumph comes from conquering the unconquerable, in 
overcoming the odds, in laughing in the face of 
death...in besting the Slayer.

Slayers. Saviors of mankind? Piffle. Most of them dust 
a few vampires then get dusted themselves--metaphorically 
speaking in their case. They fight well though. They 
fight real well.  Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. 
You never know which and *that* is what makes it worth 
doing.

I've killed two Slayers, but I've been vanquished by a 
third. Her name is Buffy. 

Yes, it's a ridiculous name.  Sounds like something 
you'd name your poodle.  All fluff, no substance, not 
what you'd expect of a Slayer...at least that's what 
I thought until I knew her.  Getting to know her was 
a mistake.  A fatal one.

I watched her swoon over Angel. I enjoyed the way they 
wallowed in angst because I knew they were doomed.  
After all, this is Angelus we're talking about. I saw 
the end coming from a mile away--well not really. I 
didn't know how or when it would end. I just knew that 
sooner or later it would, and I planned to have a bloody 
fine time when it did.

I didn't.  

When it all came down, when Angel lost his precious soul 
and became his bastard self again, nothing happened as I 
planned...especially not my business with the Slayer.

Angelus hurt her.  He bloody well tortured the girl, 
but Buffy didn't break. She only became stronger. It
drove him mad.  He couldn't control her, and Angelus 
always wanted control. 

Now the girl's got her flaws -- stupid hair, a
chipper smile (not that I'd know much about that
'cause she's never smilin' at me). She's got brains 
but doesn't use them half as often as she should. And 
Buffy's got friends when it'd be a hell of a lot safer 
if the only back she guarded was her own. But she has 
a couple of things going for her--a hell of a backbone 
and a hell of a backside. Looks quite nice in a tight
pair of leather pants. Hey, I may have wanted to kill 
the girl, but I wasn't blind!

Anyway, at some point when I was contemplating all 
irritatin' things Angel and figuring the only way to 
stop his plan to suck the world into hell was to go 
through the Slayer, I realized...she and me?  We had 
something in common.  We loved creatures who would 
never truly love us in return. 

Sure, Angel 'loved' Buffy, but only under the right 
--soulful--circumstances. The thing to understand is 
that Angel is more than just a soul trapped in a 
vampire's body. There's a demon there as well. And that 
demon? He doesn't love her. He doesn't even like her. 
So for all their googly eyed passion, their 'great love' 
would always be bound by rules, conditions, and out 
clauses. It would never be complete. Never whole. 

I knew something about that. Been living it for more
than a century.

So I watched Angelus make Buffy suffer for having the 
bravery to love him. It brassed me off. Either shag 
her or kill her, but don't make a mockery out of love. 
But that's Angelus for you. Cause as much pain as you 
can before going for the kill. It's his bloody 'art.' 
He took every emotion Buffy felt and twisted it, and 
Angel didn't give a damn when she cried for him. 

She cried. . .for him.

Bastard. Someone should torture him good--oh wait, 
I already did that. 

Anyway, as the Slayer teetered on the edge of an 
emotional abyss, Angelus laughed and returned to his 
path of destruction. Bastard wasn't back five minutes 
before he's shagging *my* girl and trying to destroy 
the world. 

The Slayer fought back though. It broke her heart but 
she sent Angelus to hell--a hell of a thing that (pun 
only partly intended). To kill what you love and somehow 
hold yourself together takes balls, and you gotta respect 
it. I do...which is why Buffy took root in my brain even 
before that damn chip was shoved into it.  

Not that I realized it at first. When Dru talked about 
it in Brazil I thought she was out of her bloody mind
--which of course she is.  But Pet has the sight, and 
she saw straight through me. She knew what I was 
feeling before I had an inkling or clue.

I should have listened. Should have killed the Slayer 
when I had the chance. But I didn't, and now it's too 
late. 

Now I live in hell--not literally, but close enough. 
And not just because of the chip that prevents me from 
feeding, or giving some Initiative asshole what for.  
It's been hell because I've been watching her, the way 
she moves, the tilt of her head, her smile, her eyes, 
her long slender fingers which would be warm against my 
skin if she ever touched me for a reason other than to 
punch my lights out. I've become bloody well obsessed 
with the bitch, and to see her giving herself to that 
bland farmboy sets my fangs on edge.

The farmboy doesn't really know her.  He actually 
thinks slaying is a job, that it's something you can 
shove into a corner and forget about.  He doesn't know 
how death seeps into your soul until it's no longer a 
thing you fear...and how dangerous the lack of fear 
becomes. He has no idea of how it feels to have dark 
magic sizzle your veins, or how frighteningly tenuous 
are the bonds that hold the Slayer to earth.  He doesn't 
know...but she does. It's why even in a crowd, even with 
her friends, even with her oh-so-self-righteous lover, 
she is alone.  

In a way Soldier Boy is not so very different from 
Angelus who had the nerve to call Darla and Dru 'his.'  
He doesn't see the true way of things, and the truth 
is he doesn't want to--not that the hall monitor has 
the balls to admit it to himself.  That's what started 
his addiction to the trulls.

Some part of Farmboy must have seen that like the demons 
she hunts, the Slayer is a creature of the night.  It's 
what lures her from his bed. It's what pulled her toward 
Angel, and what brings her to dance with me. 

To give the Bland One credit, he wanted to understand, so 
he started the game.  The problem is, it was only a game.
Even in the dark he played by rules. Farmboy offered 
himself to a vampire who would suck him but not bleed 
him dry...for money! 

At least there's profit in it, which makes some sense--for 
the VAMPIRE...but for the boy?  It was a stupid game. It 
wasn't real. Captain Cardboard risked nothing, and without 
risk he could never understand.  The bite of some nameless 
whore doesn't compare to having your heart and soul bled 
dry. Stupid bugger was going about it all wrong, so I did 
him a favor. I gave him the answers he sought. 

I brought the Slayer to see him in the act.  *Now* he 
would know what risk meant, what fear felt like, and 
how loss can shred your soul. 

Of course, it didn't hurt that Buffy looked at him in 
disgust.  That was my extra special bonus... not that 
it felt good having her look at ME in disgust.  Though 
why I should be surprised, I don't know. She's always 
loathed me.  But would she have preferred *not* 
knowing what the hall monitor was doing behind her 
back?  

Right.  Thought not.  

So how did Boy Scout thank me for the epiphany I 
provided?  He's killed me that's what! Came to my 
crypt--MY crypt mind you--and shoved a stake through 
my heart. 

Bloody hell!  I won't go out in a blaze of glory, or 
in the midst of a battle, or even by the hand of the 
Slayer who haunts my dreams and nightmares.  No, I'm 
taken out by a cowardly boy who knows I can't fight 
back.  I'm a soddin' clean kill! 

Bollocks!

Oh wait. What if those are my last words?  Those can't 
be my last words. They should be something more grand, 
more poetic.  Something to fit a life that has spanned 
almost a century and a half. Then I see her.  The Slayer 
is standing in the doorway, and her eyes are wide with 
surprise and anger and perhaps--just perhaps--something 
else.

I manage one final gasp. "B. . ."

And dust.




                                                         
                      CHAPTER 2
                  ALONE IN THE DARK

Buffy stood in the sunlight staring into the dark shadows 
of Spike's crypt.  She blinked and forced herself to 
cross the threshold, to step into the dust that covered 
the floor. It was only dust after all. It wasn't Spike. 
It couldn't be Spike...even if she had just seen--

"You killed him." 

Buffy almost turned to see who had spoken the words. 
Then came the realization that SHE had spoken them. But 
how could that be? She hadn't thought it. How could she 
say it?

Riley lowered his hand, and for a moment Buffy thought he 
would hide the stake behind his back. He would deny what 
he had done. Instead Riley lifted his chin and said,  
"So what? Spike was just another vampire."

Just another vampire. . .

"But he couldn't fight back."  And again Buffy was 
stunned to realize the foreign words came from her.  

It was only Spike! What did it matter if he was dust? 
He was a vampire, and she had killed how many?  A 
hundred?  Five hundred? A thousand? Spike was no 
different from the rest.  No different at all. He 
couldn't be. . .could he?

Buffy shook herself.  She wouldn't--COULDN'T--be upset 
about Spike.  It was impossible. She was just messed up 
because things hadn't gone the way she had planned.  
This wasn't what she had expected to find when she had 
thrown open the door.

All Buffy had wanted was to barge in, kick ass, make 
Spike sorry for what he had done, and leave him 
groveling in the dust.  She hadn't meant for him to *be* 
dust. She hadn't expected to see Riley standing in the 
shadows holding a weapon that had reduced Spike to a 
thin gray film on the floor.

She murmured, "He couldn't fight back."  Somehow that 
bothered her most of all. Spike was a good fighter. One 
of the best, and he'd gone down without being able to 
throw a single punch.  He'd hate that.

Buffy remembered one of their countless fights --"I'd 
rather be fighting you anyway."

"Mutual."

Voices from her past.  Voices from Spike's past...and 
in the end she hadn't been there, and Spike hadn't 
been able to fight at all.

Riley tossed the stake into the corner and walked over 
to where Spike's chair sat forlornly in the middle of 
the room.  "He was a vampire. The Initiative never 
should have chipped him.  It stopped him from killing, 
but it didn't stop him from causing trouble."

Riley sat in Spike's chair and propped his feet on an 
empty crate.  "He should have been staked long ago. The 
only thing a vamp is good for is killing."

Something hot bubbled inside Buffy. "You found another 
use." 

Riley flinched but after only a second he shot back, 
"Why should you be the only one?" 

Fury ripped through Buffy.  A dark rage made her 
overturn Spike's chair throwing Riley to the floor. 
"Get up," she ordered.

"Buffy. . ."

"Get up!"  It disturbed her to see Riley covered 
in dust...Spike's dust. "Get up! Get out. Go!" 

Riley stood. "Spike was a killer."

Buffy picked up Riley's stake and tossed it to him.
"Yeah, and now so are you." At Riley's surprised look 
Buffy said stridently, "He couldn't fight back!"

"Oh and he's such a loss to the world. Buffy, it 
was Spike! A vampire! Walking, talking unrelenting 
evil. Why do you give a damn?"

Why did she? "Who said I gave a damn about Spike?
Maybe you're the reason I'm disgusted."

"I understand that."

"Do you?  Gee, thanks Riley. Nice to know you
understand how I might be a little upset about you
getting suck jobs from vamp hos." She frowned.  
"Thought I told you to go."

"We should talk this out."

"Why?  What's there to say?"

"A lot."

She shook her head. "Nothing that matters. Nothing
but excuses. Excuses like. . ." Buffy glared at
Riley.  "Like you killed Spike because he was 
a vampire.  That wasn't why you killed him. You 
killed him for telling me the truth."  When Riley 
didn't answer she demanded again.  "Didn't you!"

"So what if I did. He was only--"

"I know what Spike was. Now, get out."  

Riley raised his head and looked at her.  Let him 
look, Buffy thought.  If Riley was expecting her to 
forgive, he could forget it. She wasn't in a 
forgiving mood.

After a long moment, Riley walked away. Buffy didn't 
watch him go.  She couldn't. She was blinded by the 
sunlight beyond the door.  It was white and warm and 
seemed to create an aura around the doorway as dust 
motes floated in the rays of light.  

The crypt had probably never seen this much light 
of day.  Now it cut a swathe through the shadows. 
Minutes passed and a stray wind caused the door to 
creek on its hinges and swing shut. Silence enveloped 
Buffy, and the room became still--too still--because it 
no longer contained the frenetic movement and ceaseless 
energy of a vampire who was no different from the 
others...only sometimes it hadn't felt that way.

Kneeling in the dust, Buffy lifted the battered chair 
and sat it upright. She angled it toward the television, 
setting everything to the way it had been before...only 
it wasn't the same. It would never be the same. Now 
she stood alone in the dark...

                 *      *      *

Riley stood in the middle of the cemetery not sure 
where he should go or what he should do. He felt he 
should do something, but he didn't have a clue what 
that 'something' should be.  

He shook his head.  What the hell was he doing? Buffy 
didn't want him.  Yeah, sure, the scene with the vamp 
whore might have had something to do with that, but 
not as much as he would've liked to think.  Deep down 
Riley knew--had always known--that Buffy didn't really 
want him.  He was just someone who in the wake of 
Angel fit a very short list of qualifications--normal 
and non-threatening.  Someone who would never pull 
Buffy out of her safe zone, never threaten to tear her 
world apart...someone she could easily live without.

Oh, Riley had tried to deny it. He had tried to bury 
it.  He had even tried to accept it and say it was 
enough. . .and maybe it would have been if Buffy 
hadn't turned more and more toward another vampire.  

It wasn't that Riley didn't take Buffy's word when
she said there was nothing between her and Spike. 
Buffy believed it.  And it might even be true. But 
Riley had watched Buffy and Spike spar with one 
another. Spike kept pace with her...something Riley 
had never been able to do even before the Intiative's 
doctor had returned to Sunnydale. 

Unlike himself, Spike was a threat to the walls 
Buffy erected around herself. As soon as she built 
barriers making an insular world, Spike tore them 
down.  Spike had the uncanny ability to force Buffy 
to accept hard truths, to send her spinning in a fury 
or pull her back to ground. Spike affected her.  He 
pushed her, pulled her, challenged her at every 
turn. 

Riley couldn't deny it. Spike had been IN Buffy's 
world--in it in a way that Riley had never been 
and could never be. And the very fact that Buffy 
allowed Spike to exist in that world, even if 
only on the fringes of it, meant that secretly 
she wanted her walls torn down.  If not now, then 
someday Buffy would find the strength to tear them
down herself.  Then she would be ready to move 
beyond her past with Angel...but it wouldn't be 
with him. Riley was just something safe to hold 
onto while she prepared herself to take charge
of her future. 

When Buffy let go of her deathgrip on a dream of 
normalcy, it would be for someone she could meet 
on equal ground, not someone she felt belonged in 
a protective box. Buffy needed someone she could 
allow to sit next to her and offer comfort when her 
world came crashing down, someone who could share 
the fall and stand the impact. She didn't need yet 
another person she felt she HAD to protect.  

Riley sighed. It all boiled down to the fact that as 
much as Buffy wanted a lover, what she needed was an 
ally who could not only carry his own weight but lift 
some of the burden from her shoulders.

Riley flushed with sudden mortification. Buffy had 
been wrong when she said he'd killed Spike for
what Spike had done and not for what Spike had been.
Riley HAD killed Spike for what Spike had been...it 
just hadn't been because Spike was a vampire. 

                 *    *    *

Buffy stood in the entry of the magic shop and
felt numb. . .well no, not numb exactly. Actually 
not at all.  Truthfully, she felt tired and cranky 
and confused.  Mostly confused...or cranky. 
Honestly? Both. 

Why had Riley done it?  Why go to the vampire
prostitutes?  Why go to Spike's crypt rather than
talk to her?  Why stake Spike--actually the last
one wasn't difficult to figure out.  Spike was a 
vampire. . .and a vampire who had exposed Riley's
dirty little secret, at that.  Riley was pissed, 
and Spike was dead.   

The bigger question was why she cared--cared about
Spike being staked, not about Riley.  Buffy knew why
she cared about Riley, and why she felt betrayed by
his going to the vamp whores. At least she thought 
she knew.  She hoped she knew. But as she sank to 
onto the step, Buffy began to wonder if she knew 
anything. Everything was such a gray muddled 
mess in her head. 

Buffy admitted to herself that she was confused.  
Well, why shouldn't she be confused? It had been a 
confusing twenty-four hours. Riley had betrayed her, 
and the biggest pain in the ass in Sunnydale had 
just been dusted. She had every reason to feel off 
kilter, and being off kilter was the only logical 
explanation for the bizarre thoughts running through
her head suggesting that killing Spike might be the 
just the tiniest bit...wrong.

Buffy gasped.  Was she nuts? Spike was a vampire. He 
was bad. He was evil, and he was...gone, for good 
this time.  He wasn't ever coming back to bug her, 
and the only reason she was obsessing about it was 
because when Buffy had thrown open the door to find 
Riley shoving a stake through Spike's heart, Spike had 
looked at her and said... 

She didn't know what he said, and it was driving her
nuts.  Buffy only knew it had started with a 'B.'  

Bollocks? Bloody hell?  Bloody hell was probably it. 
Spike said that a lot. It was just that part of her 
wondered if maybe, possibly it had been her name.  
What if Spike had been calling for her? 

No.  That couldn't be right.  Spike would never be
insane enough to ask her for help--Buffy determinedly
ignored the memory of a time or two when he had. Those 
incidents didn't matter.  What mattered was that Spike 
hadn't really *wanted* to ask for help and if given
a choice Spike would rather die than ask for a favor 
from her. . .Buffy hoped.  She really hoped because 
otherwise... 

Buffy took a shaky breath and became aware that Willow, 
Xander, Giles and Anya watched her with curious 
expressions.

Willow glanced at the others then took a hesitant
step forward. "Buffy? Why are you crying?"

Buffy touched her cheeks and was startled to discover
that Willow was right.  She was crying.

Willow sat down beside her and asked gently, "What's 
wrong?"

Buffy gazed into Willow's patiently concerned face the 
whole sordid story came tumbling out. Spike coming to 
her in the middle of the night saying there was 
something she needed to see.  Buffy taking a chance 
and following him.  Buffy seeing Riley with that...that 
vampire prostitute in that dark, dingy tenement. It 
was gross and disgusting...and only a prelude to 
standing outside Spike's crypt watching Riley murder 
her old nemesis. Only it couldn't be murder could it?  
Spike was a vampire.

Willow blinked.  "I never would have believed Riley 
could be such a doody-head."

Buffy almost laughed.  Well no, she didn't almost
laugh.  She *tried* to laugh because she thought
it would be easier than crying, but only more
tears came out instead. 

Xander asked, "Spike's dead?  Was he wearing the
leather coat?  The duster's so cool. I'd sort of like 
to have--"

Buffy turned on her friend and glared.

Xander gulped.  "Or maybe not."

Willow sighed. "You're missing the point, Xander."

"The point?"

"Riley.  Doody-head." Willow tilted her own head 
toward Buffy. "You know."

"Oh."

"If I was still a vengeance demon, I could turn him 
into a troll," Anya chirped. "There was this one 
cheating boyfriend I made this very enormous troll 
with teeny, tiny--"

"Anya!" Xander warned.

"Feet,"  Anya explained guilessly. "He fell over
a lot."

"Hello!" Willow called.  "Not helping. And Giles
where are you going?"

Giles lifted his head from the book he was reading
as he crossed the room. "Oh. . .I. . .uh. . .I was
about to call the Council. They like to keep record 
of when infamous vampires are--" Giles paused and 
seemed to search for a polite phrase  "--taken out 
of circulation."

"Dusted," Xander translated then shifted his position
to look at Giles.  "Okay, Drac dust--contact council.
I get that. But Spike?  Why Spike?  It's only Spike." 

Gile's frowned.  "Not 'only' exactly.  Spike was part 
of an infamous bloodline.  The Master, Darla. . ." 
He paused.

Buffy lifted her head. "Angelus.  You can say it,
Giles.  We all know it."

"Quite right, Angel, Dru, and --"

"Spike, the runt of Darla's litter." There was a
suspicious amount of glee in Xander's voice.

Giles removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Well,
Spike did earn a little infamy of his own.  He bested
two slayers." Giles returned his glasses to the bridge 
of his nose.  "The Watchers might want to add a 
footnote about Spike's death."

Buffy surprised herself by murmuring, "They had his 
age wrong." 

Giles arched a brow.

Buffy didn't know why she felt compelled to repeat
the statement. "They had Spike's age wrong.  You 
should tell them to correct that."

"Quite right.  I'll...uh...see that the Council 
corrects the error."

"Whatever," Xander dismissed.  "Now to the important
part, does Riley get credit?  Is he going to make it 
into the Guide.  Cause that would be cool. Yay, Riley!" 

Buffy jumped to her feet.  "Why should Riley make 
it into the Watchers Guide?  It wasn't like what he
did was a big deal.  Spike couldn't fight back!"

"It's like Riley cheated," Willow echoed.

Buffy nodded. "Right."

"And, if you think about it Riley did cheat. On 
Buffy." A stern expression crossed Willow's gamine 
features. "Therefore Riley's a doody-head, and you 
can't root for him."

Xander glanced from Willow to Buffy to Anya before
sighing. "Oh, all right." 

Buffy sank onto the step once again. She felt like 
a puppet whose strings had been cut.  Giles frowned 
and looked worried as he placed the Watchers Guide on 
the counter and crossed the room to sit next to her.

Buffy glanced at Giles. "I thought you were going to 
call the Watchers."  

"It can wait. Spike's of no consequence." Giles 
wrapped his arm around Buffy's shoulders, and 
after a few moments she rested her head against 
his chest and sighed.  

"Thank you."

Willow asked, "Okay, so exactly how big of a doody
head is Riley?  I mean is he 'we never want to see
him again' doody-head or 'he'll have to grovel and 
crawl back to you on his hands and knees' doody-head?"

                  

                    CHAPTER 3
              THE THIRD LAW OF MOTION

Riley hadn't been conscious of leaving the cemetery
and walking to the old apartment building.  He hadn't 
needed to be conscious of it.  It was habit now. Riley 
couldn't even pretend to be surprised when he looked up 
to discover he stood before a now familiar door.

He couldn't fight it.  This...this rush, this pain mixed 
with pleasure, this sense of being wanted, needed, and 
desired felt necessary to him now.  The vampires brought 
a comfortable numbness  that allowed him to forget the 
way he felt when he realized that for Buffy he was 
little more than a bookmark placed between the pages of 
her past and her unwritten future.

In the dim light and shadows of the entry vestibule, 
Riley noticed something was different. The place felt 
empty and grimier. . .and wetter.  There must have been a 
fire and the local fire department had put it out.  
Riley wondered if the place was now deserted, and if 
it was, what would he do?  He needed the vamps and 
their gift of forgetfulness.  He wanted to erase 
from his mind the look of disgust on Buffy's face 
as she stood in Spike's crypt and told him to go.

There was a sound behind him.  Riley turned to find 
a strange woman standing there.  Her hair was dark as 
were her eyes. She wore a long flowing dress that 
looked slightly out of date, and she had a curiously 
expectant look on her face. She was also a vampire.  

The woman beckoned, and Riley gladly went to her--
which should have scared him but somehow didn't. As 
he got close, Riley noticed the vamp swaying gently 
from side to side.  It was almost as if she danced to 
music no one else could hear.

"I came too late," she said in a lilting English
voice.  

"You missed the fire?" Riley asked.

The vamp looked at him oddly.  "Miss?  No. I don't 
like fire."  Then she smiled. It was a bewitching smile, 
and she ran her hand lightly over his temple.  "I know 
you," she cooed.

Riley frowned.  "I don't think so."

"But I do.  Saw you once.  In my head."

Riley began to back away.  He had a the feeling this 
woman was a few rounds short of a full revolver.  
"Uh. . .you probably think I'm someone else."

"No.  Think you're you."

Riley's back was against the wall, and she stood between 
him and the door. The vampire had followed him across 
the room, always remaining within easy arm's reach.

"Saw you once," she said in a sing-song voice. "In 
a dream or nightmare.  Saw what you did. . .but 
I forgot--which was quite wicked of me."  The dark 
haired woman wrapped her arm over his shoulder while 
her other hand continued to play in his hair. "I 
meant to stop this."

Her slender form pressed against Riley allowing him to 
feel her every curve. Riley could have felt her heartbeat 
if she'd had one. And--wow!-- she was good at this. She 
was hot...even if her body temperature wasn't degree 
above the cool night air.

"Meant to stop you, but I forgot." She nuzzled Riley's 
neck.  "Now he's dead."

"Who's dead?" Riley voice sounded strangled.

The woman pulled back...only she was no longer a woman. 
She was a demon of rage and vengeance and retribution. 
"I made him, and he was mine." 

The vampire's nails skimmed his jaw, and Riley began 
to sweat because some instinct warned him this woman
--this creature--was not like Sandy or the others he'd 
met in this place. Death hung on her in a palpable way.    

"You smell of ashes and sandalwood," she whispered. 
"Like's Spike's ashes and his sandalwood candles too."

Riley felt teeth graze his skin.  

"He was mine," she insisted.  "Mine to make and mine 
to break.  Not yours to kill."

Spike.  This was about Spike.  That couldn't be
good. 

Riley struggled to breathe. The vampire's grip had 
tightened and something in the pit of Riley's stomach 
sank. Despite her gentle touch and whispered words, 
this vampire was clearly in a killing rage.

"I picked him sweet William for my own dark knight," 
she hissed as her nails sliced a jagged line across his 
jaw.  It hurt as she licked the wound in a sensual, 
horrifying way. When the woman faced Riley again, her 
eyes glowed yellow and there was no gentleness left in 
her.  "You've been a naughty boy."   

Riley glimpsed gleaming white fangs.

"And you must pay. . ." 

She tore into his jugular. 

It was a soft, muted sound but a sharp, piercing pain. 
Heat ran through him and ran out of him.  Blood trickled 
down his throat, soaking his clothes. It hurt and was 
horrible. 

Pain exploded in Riley's head, multiplying with an 
avalanche of fear that glowed white and blinding. It 
froze him and buried him, gripped him and drew him 
down. 

"I'm dying," Riley thought in some dimly functioning 
corner of his brain. 

Then the light faded and the world grew dark. Nothing 
was left but this dark haired creature and her pitiless 
revenge. . .nothing but pain and fear and blood.  So 
much blood.  Riley choked and drowned in it as she 
brought his head to rest against her breast with an 
oddly mothering gesture.

                  *    *    *

Drusilla dropped the boy's bloody corpse to the floor 
before she licked her lips.  

"He was mine!" she shouted. 

When the corpse didn't answer she kicked him the side.  
"Now you're sorry, and you should be. You weren't 
supposed to kill my Spike."  

As Dru gathered her shawl around her shoulders and 
stepped gingerly over Riley's body, she murmured to 
herself, "'Course I wasn't supposed t' forget."

She stopped at the warehouse door then returned to 
kick Riley's corpse once more.  "Didn't like you much. 
You tasted like milk and crackers. Not interesting.'
Not interestin' at all.  Not like my Spike."  Dru paused 
and thought. "Now who else should I kill?"

                  *    *    *

Dawn broke the horizon and Xander was due at the 
construction site by 6am.  Dry wall was supposed to 
be finished today, and he had to do field measurements 
for casework. Still, Xander couldn't resist the urge 
to make one detour. 

Clutching a stake in his right hand Xander entered 
the graveyard. The first rays of sunlight brightened 
the gloom, but in Sunnydale it paid to be cautious. He 
glanced around, not wanting to be attacked by a 
wandering demon or be seen by Buffy.  After 
determining the coast was clear, he made his way 
along a series of tombs and crypts and gravestones 
until he found what he sought--Spike's crypt.  

The door creaked on its hinges as Xander moved into 
the silent, still room.  He shivered.  It didn't 
feel right.  He'd been in the place once or twice 
before, but, strange though it was to think it, the 
crypt had never before felt like death. Xander had 
always thought that was because it was filled with 
stuff. Life stuff.  Candles, Ramones tapes, a 
television, a dorm room type fridge, and a big comfy 
chair--proof of a living presence...or at least 
an un-living presence.  

Now that presence was gone, and the crypt felt cold 
and dark and empty despite the clutter scattered 
around the room. It felt weird and creepy in a way 
it never had before--and it had always been kind 
of weird and creepy.  It was just that now it felt 
...dead.

Shaking off his misgivings, Xander went in search of
what he'd come for -- the coat.  Okay, so it was
probably not too nice to be borrowing from the dead
...or in this case the dead who were now dusty.
But leather was expensive and that coat was just
too cool to go to waste.  

So where would Spike have kept the thing? It had 
been rare to see the blood sucker without it.

Xander blinked in the dim light and thought he 
saw something behind the bier.  He started forward 
and -- 

"Damn!"  Xander jumped up and down on one foot as 
he rubbed his shin.  He'd run into something. Glancing 
toward the windows and seeing that though it was light 
outside it was still dark in here, Xander decided to 
brighten the place. 

Matches.  There had to be matches around here somewhere. 
Spike had kept about a million candles so there had to 
be matches.

After lighting ten or twelve candles, the room was light 
enough to see fairly well--well enough for Xander to 
notice a small trunk that served as a side table 
for Spike's lone chair.

Hmmm, not many storage options. The bier was a 
possibility but moving the stone lid of the sarcophagus 
was a bit ambitious for the Xan-man. He'd have to try 
the trunk.

Xander absentmindedly cleared off the top of the chest. 
It actually took him a moment to recognize what was in 
his hand. Glasses. Small, wire rimmed glasses.

What the hell?  

Xander lifted frames and examined the lenses. Spike 
could be quite the kleptomaniac but why steal glasses, 
unless...Xander snickered. Had Spike needed glasses?  
How perfect. The bad ass blood sucker had been a four 
eyes.  

So what had Spike needed glasses to read? Playboy? 
Hustler? Rolling Stone?

A book lay face down on the chest. Xander frowned as he 
picked up the tattered tome.  It looked old.  Really old
. . .like a hundred years old. Squinting, Xander read 
the title in the candlelight. "A Season in Hell."  

Well, that sounded like vampire appropriate reading 
material.  Sitting in the dust, Xander opened the
volume and read, "For a long time I boasted that I 
was master of all possible landscapes and I thought 
the great figures of modern painting and poetry 
were laughable.

"What I liked were: absurd paintings, pictures over 
doorways, stage sets, carnival backdrops, billboards, 
bright-colored prints; old-fashioned literature, 
church Latin, erotic books full of misspellings, the 
kind of novels our grandmothers read, fairy tales, 
little children's books, old operas, silly old songs, 
the naive rhythms of country rhymes.

"I dreamed of Crusades, voyages of discovery that nobody 
had heard of, republics without histories, religious 
wars stamped out, revolutions in morals, movements 
of races and continents: I used to believe in every 
kind of magic. . ."

Xander arched a brow as he read. "What the hell?"  

He turned the book over and examined the worn leather
cover.  Then laid it down and opened the trunk. Other 
books were inside, many of them every bit as old as 
the first. For a moment Xander had to remind himself 
this was Spike's crypt and not Giles' house. Books? 
Spike?  

Xander found another copy of Rimbaud's "A Season in 
Hell." It was even older than the first one...and 
it was in French. Then Xander found a copy of Ulysses, 
Paradise Lost, several Shakespearean plays plus a book 
of sonnets, Oscar Wilde, Frankenstein, Le Morte D'Arthur, 
some stuff that looked Greek, Wuthering Heights, Byron, 
Shelly, Poe. . .The Fountainhead, Valley of the Dolls, 
The Shining, Clockwork Orange, and three Jackie 
Collins novels.  

Xander pushed the books aside. This was getting weird. 
Why had Spike kept all these books? Seemed like a very 
un-Spike-like thing to do. Xander almost decided this 
wasn't Spike's stuff until he spotted Sex Pistols and 
Smiths cassettes, Our Lady Peace CDs, black fingernail 
polish, and a carton of cigarettes.

Then he heard something and glanced up to find... 

"Dru!"

Seeing Spike's things scattered around him, Xander 
started picking them up. "Um...I'll just put this 
stuff back.  See--" he dropped the books back into
the box.  "All neat."  Xander frowned as he examined
the jumbled tumble of books.  "Okay not so neat, but 
in my defense--neat as I found 'em.

"Spike's not here," Drusilla said softly.

"No." Probably not the best idea to tell the crazy 
woman that her ex-lover was dead. "Tell you what, 
why don't I go look for him."

"Spike's dead. And dust."

Xander backed toward the door.  "And I'm real sorry 
about that.  Spike and I were. . ." He raised 
crossed fingers. "We were like this."

Dru frowned.

"Well not so much like 'this." He uncrossed his fingers 
into a Nixon 'I'm not a crook' peace sign.  "More like 
this. Roommates--strictly platonic, 200% heterosexual 
roommates. And. . .I'll just be going."

Dru circled him.  She stood between Xander and the 
door. "Spike is dead, but he'll be back."

Yeah, soon as they found the cure for being dusty. "I'm 
sure you're right. Spike'll be back. Good as new. Better 
even."

Her dark brown eyes were wide and guileless. "You know 
that too?"

"Huh?"

But Dru seemed to be off to another thought.  It was as 
if what had come before had no meaning, or at least as 
if she had no memory of it.  Dru swayed and smiled and 
sang,  "One world goes and another takes it place. 
Another time.  Another way.  Some things are meant to 
be and others are not.  Some things die and come back 
again." Her gaze cleared as she looked at Xander. "Like 
you."

Oh God.




                    CHAPTER 4
                A SEASON IN HELL

It was raining--not heavy rain, just a depressing
drizzle that slicked the streets and formed puddles
in the gutter where raindrops made small concentric 
circles that radiated outward.  Buffy stood on the 
sidewalk watching the way the ripples refracted light 
in distorted patterns.

"Have you seen Xander?" Anya asked.

Buffy jumped at the unexpected sound of Anya's voice
and was immediately bothered by the fact she hadn't 
noticed Anya's approach.  Her Slayer senses were 
seriously off which could be dangerous. . .or fatal.
Buffy didn't want the ex-demon asking questions so 
she somehow managed to say, "Was Xander supposed
to be seen here?"

Anya looked mildly annoyed. "He was supposed to stop 
at the bank to get money.  Then we were going to go 
to dinner, see a movie, and have sex."

More information than Buffy really needed to know.

"You're sure you haven't seen Xander?"  Anya asked
again.

"Quite sure."

Anya fell into step beside Buffy as they made their
way to the magic shop.  Buffy was damp and only
becoming more damp as rain fell on her head. Anya
on the other hand bounced along under a pink and 
yellow umbrella. Buffy hoped Anya didn't start 
singing because if she did, Buffy might have to deck her.

Buffy sighed.  It really was a dark and dreary night
--too dreary for a stupid pink umbrella. 

"It isn't like Xander to be late, or to forget about 
sex," Anya announced.

Buffy searched for something to say.  "But he was going 
to get money."

Anya smiled.  "That's right. I suppose it's okay then."  
She stopped walking and looked up at the sign saying 
'Magic Box.'  "Here we are."  Then she pointed to the 
glass. "And there is Xander. I hope he remembered the 
money."

The bell rang over their heads as Buffy and Anya 
entered the shop to find Xander sitting on the counter 
reading a book.

"Are you wearing Spike's coat?" Buffy demanded.

Xander looked up.  "Well, yeah. Cool, isn't it? Lots 
of cool stuff in crypt.  Lots of crappy stuff too.  
Like this" He held out a book--A Season in Hell.  

Anya glanced at the book but looked completely
uninterested.  Shrugging, she walked away as Buffy
examined the elegant gold lettering on the book binding. 

Reaching into the coat pocket, Xander removed a delicate 
pair of antique glasses and put them on. The glasses gave 
him an oddly quizzical expression that looked nothing 
like typical Xander.  Buffy frowned as he began reading 
in an imitation 'Spike voice:' 

"Idle youth
Enslaved to everything,
By being too sensitive
I have wasted my life..."

"Xander!" Buffy snatched the book out of his hand.
"What are you doing?"

"Exposing Spike's dirty little secret."

"What?" Buffy turned the book over in her hand. "This?"

"That."  Xander jumped down from the counter. Spike's
black leather coat fluttered around him as Xander 
pointed to the old fashioned glasses perched on the 
tip of his nose.  "And these.  Don't you get it? 
Spike was a geek!" 

"And this matters why?"

Xander shrugged.  "Don't know.  But it's funny."

"Take off the coat." 

"Huh?"

"The coat.  You wearing it is weird and kind of creepy."

"And hot!" Anya chimed as she walked around the checkout 
counter. "In a sexy not temperature kind of way." 

Buffy ignored her. "Take it off, Xander."

Anya screamed--a serious scream, an earsplitting, heart 
wrenching scream.  "Oh God!" Anya fell to her knees.

Startled, Buffy ran around the counter then stopped 
dead in her tracks. There was a trail of crimson across
the black and green tile floor. 

"Giles?" Even to Buffy's own ears her voice sounded
small, young, and lost.

Anya cradled Giles' head in her lap and her hands
were covered in blood. Giles' blood. 

"Giles?" Anya looked confused. "Giles, you shouldn't
be bleeding all over the floor.  Are you all right?"

Xander, still wearing Spike's coat stretched tight
across his shoulders, peered over the counter. "He's 
dead."

It wasn't *what* Xander said but the way he said it that 
made Buffy's stomach sink.  Xander sounded unconcerned.  
He sounded cold and callous. He didn't sound like Xander
. . .and Buffy knew. She just *knew.* If she hadn't been 
so distracted she would have sensed it the moment she had 
walked through the door.  Xander was a vampire.

"What's that look for?" Xander pulled off Spike's glasses.  
"I didn't kill him."

"I did." Riley announced as he stepped from behind 
the bookcases.

Laying the glasses on the table, Xander explained 
blithely, "I killed Tara." 

Buffy's gaze followed the trail of blood--too much
blood she realized now.  Too much for just one person.
There were splatters and sprinkles and finally a
horrific puddle of deep, dark red lying under the 
crumpled corpse of the shy blonde witch. "Oh, God."

Anya looked helplessly from Xander to Riley. "I 
don't understand."

"They're vampires," Buffy snapped and the words felt 
like they'd been ripped from her gut. 

Anya shook her head.  "No, that isn't true." She 
gazed pleadingly at her boyfriend. "Xander, you 
aren't a vampire.  Tell Buffy you aren't a vampire.  
Tell her you're my Xander."

"Anya, that's *not* Xander." It hurt Buffy to even think 
the words.

"No!" Anya climbed to her feet.  "No, Xander you're not 
allowed to be a vampire." She stamped her foot. "Be 
human."

Buffy shook her head. "It doesn't work that way. You 
know that."

Anya's dark brown eyes narrowed. "How do I know that?  
I was a demon. Now I'm not. Xander, you can do it.  
Be human."  

He didn't react.

"Please be human."  Suddenly Anya looked fragile
and confused, not at all like her usually indomitably 
cheerful self.  "Xander, please. You can't leave me 
here alone."

Someone started clapping.  Riley.  He was leaning 
against a display case, casually reaching inside and 
removing a monkey's skull. "Very heartfelt." He shifted 
his gaze to Buffy. "Where are your tears? Why aren't you 
begging for my life?"

"I don't beg."

Riley set the skull on the table and approached her. 
"Maybe you don't have a reason to cry. Maybe this is what 
you wanted all along.  I'm a vampire now. That probably 
ups the odds of you loving me."

Buffy pulled away as Riley reached for her. . .and 
stumbled over Giles' body.  She gasped.  Pain
--unbelievable, mindblowing pain exploded inside her.  
Giles was dead. . .and Riley had killed him. Oh God.

With a scream of rage Buffy attacked. She kicked Riley 
aacross the room, sending him crashing into a display 
case, shattering glass into a million jagged shards. 
Riley fell the to floor with a thud, but rested there 
for only a moment before rising. 

Buffy didn't think.  She fought. All her pain, anger, 
and grief coalesced into primordial rage.  

The fight was brief and brutal.  Riley was no match 
for her. He had the strength but not the will, the 
determination. . .the pain and the emotional imperative 
that this man--this *creature*--must be destroyed before 
he killed again.

Dust exploded beneath Buffy's hands. It drifted over 
her, covering her in death.  It seeped into her pores 
and into her soul. She would never be free of it. It 
was all that was left, all that she knew.

"Buffy?"

Xander. Buffy closed her eyes.  She didn't want to turn 
around. She didn't want to know.  She didn't want to 
gaze into the eyes of her friend and know that he wasn't 
her friend.  She didn't...she couldn't...and she had no 
choice.  

Buffy turned.  

Xander had his arm wrapped around Anya, and despite
being in mortal danger Anya did not struggle. She 
cried. Anya's sobs were deep and inconsolable as 
if her heart was as broken as the shards of glass
on the floor.

"Let her go," Buffy commanded.

Xander gazed into Anya's face. He lifted his hand and 
caressed Anya's cheek.  He actually seemed surprised by 
the woman's tears.  The demon who possessed Xander 
looked confused by Anya's grief.

"She's mine." Xander said in a voice so soft it sounded 
like disbelief. "Mine."  And the gentleness of his touch 
and the caressing tone of his voice almost masked the 
threat behind the words. "Mine to love or mine to kill."

As Buffy stepped forward, glass crunched beneath her 
boots. "You don't want to kill her, Xander."

He looked at Buffy.  "I don't?"

"You love her. At least the man you were loved her. 
You don't want to kill her."

"I don't want to kill her."

"No."

"I want her with me."

"No!"  Sensing the change in his intent Buffy lunged
forward as Xander turned Anya around in his arms. "No!"

Anya didn't struggle.  She caressed Xander's cheek
with a tremulous hand. "I love you, Xander" Anya 
confessed. "More than sex or money."

Xander smile transformed into game face.

"No!"  Slayer instinct overcame revulsion and Buffy 
just did it.  No thought.  No intent.  She just acted.
She killed. A cloud of dust and her friend was gone.  
Xander was gone, and Anya collapsed on the floor.  

When Buffy reached to comfort her, Anya reared back 
with eyes filled with the wrath of a woman in torment. 
Buffy stepped back, clearly seeing why Anya had once 
been chosen to be a vengeance demon. 

"You killed him!" Anya accused. "You killed my Xander!"

"He was already dead."

"No!  He walked.  He talked.  He loved me."

"No, he didn't.  He couldn't.  He--"

"How do you know?" Anya dragged herself to her feet.  
She stood in a flowery, floaty little dress covered 
in dust and blood.  "How do you know anything?"

Buffy shook her head.  "I don't.  I. . .the Xander 
we knew and loved.  He wasn't here."

"Part of him was here," Anya insisted through her
tears. "And part is better than nothing."

Buffy tentatively touched Anya's shoulder. "Would
part be enough to love?"

Anya knocked Buffy's hand away. "Yes! It's something!  
It's a start.  It's--"

"Not over," said a lilting English voice.

Drusilla stood in the doorway.

"Bitch!"  Buffy launched herself at Dru. . .who
backhanded Buffy, sending the Slayer flying across
the room.  Dru was old and fierce and unfettered
by sanity.

The vamp drifted into the room. "Broken toys and 
pretty boys cover the floor," she sang.

"Because of you." 

Dru wagged her finger.  "Not me. You. You're the
one who done it."

Bitterness rose in Buffy's throat. "Really? Could
swear you were the one who turned them into monsters."

"Took nothing from you.  You took from me.  Took MY 
boys. Infected them. Gave them humanity.  Tried to 
save Spike, I did. Such a horrible fate. But I got 
distracted. Didn't remember 'til it was too late."

"Stop rhyming and make sense. . ."  Buffy rose to
her feet and grabbed a chair. "Oh wait. I'm sorry.
You don't have any."  She smashed a chair over the 
research table and pulled out one of the back slats 
to use as a stake. 

Dru cocked her head to the side. "Can't kill me. Won't 
stay dead."

"You'll stay dead if you're dust."

"Do you think so?"

Buffy flipped her still wet hair over her shoulder.
"Don't need to think.  Don't want to talk. Let's
skip the chitchat and go straight to the dying."

Dru pouted. "So angry. And I was trying to fix things."

"Fix? You've made a blood bath!"

"A dust bin."  Dru walked over to the pile of dust 
that had been Riley.  She ran her fingers through the 
silt. "Fools lead the way to dusty death. But all is 
not as simple as that.  There is more than one way to 
skin a cat."  

"You should know."

Dru stood.  "There's more than THIS world. There's
right then left. Up and down.  Forward and back. 
Choose a direction, which way will it go?"

Buffy's breath stilled.  Dru might speak in riddles
but she had a scary habit of being right. "What are 
you talking about?" 

"You can't get there from here." Drusilla looked oddly
certain that.  "Made the wrong turn somewhere along 
the way."  Then she smiled. "So I've fixed it."

Nothing. No help. Insane rambling. Nothing more.

"Does anything look fixed to you?" Buffy felt sick 
and stunned and tired to the depths of her being.    
"Good people are dead--not that you care. It's sort 
of a habit for you."

Dru looked distracted.  "Wore a habit once.  Took Holy 
vows, then Angelus came and changed my mind." She 
giggled. "Daddy changed my mind!"  Then Dru abruptly 
stopped and returned to the earlier conversation. 
"'Course I don't care about this world."

"Guess you won't mind leaving it then."

"Not if you do." The demented demon smiled. "but
it won't end here."

"This time it will."  One thrust. One moment and Dru's 
dust exploded in the air before mixing with the blood 
on the floor.    


                    CHAPTER 5
                   TIME'S ARROW

"No!"  Willow's scream was raw with fresh grief,
different from Anya's whimper of defeated despair.

"No, it can't be true," Willow insisted as she glanced
wildly around the room looking anywhere but at the
blood spattered blonde figure on the floor.  "Not Tara!"

Buffy desperately held her friend's cold hand. "I'm 
sorry, Willow. So sorry. I was too late."

Something arrested Willows movement.  The young red 
headed witch stood perfectly still and her wildly 
searching gaze moved slowly upward to focus on the magic 
shop's mezzanine. 

"Not too late,"  Willow whispered. Then repeated in a 
stronger voice, "Not too late. Not yet."  Breaking free 
of Buffy's gentle grip, Willow ran to climb the ladder.

Buffy followed her across the room. "Willow?"

Willow looked over the rail.  "It's not too late!"

Despite herself, Willow's words lit some small spark 
of hope inside Buffy.  "What are you talking about?"

Willow tore through the books muttering incessantly. 
"Not too late. Not too late.  Not too late."

Anya suddenly lifted her head. She blinked red rimmed 
eyes and miraculously seemed to pull herself together.  
"Willow!" 

Willow dropped a book off the loft.  It landed with a 
loud splat at Anya's feet.  

"No, that's not that one."  Anya suddenly seemed to
be filled with her normal exuberant energy as she 
followed Willow up the ladder.  "It's an older one!"

"What's an older one?" Buffy asked.  "An older what?"

"Try the 12th Century section," Anya suggested.

Buffy was becoming frustrated. "A twelfth century
what?"

"I found it!" Willow cried.

"Found what? Not a resurrection spell.  That's would 
be all dark and dangerous and. . ."  Buffy frowned. 
"Wouldn't it?"

Willow climbed down the ladder carrying a book under 
her arm.  Anya was right behind her.

"Not a resurrection spell," Willow explained as she 
opened the book on the table.  "A time spell."

"Time spell?"

Anya bumped Buffy aside and began leafing through the 
book.  "We have to hurry.  We don't have much time."

Buffy blinked. "Not much time for a time spell?" 

Willow didn't seem to hear her. "Do we have the 
ingredients?"

Anya's fingertips traced a long string of words. "I 
think so."

"What time spell?!" Buffy cried.

Willow looked discomfited.  "Well...um...I'm not
quite sure of the specifics -- Damn!"

"What damn?  Damn can't be good."

Willow's forehead creased as she read. "This is 
the spell is in some demon language."

Anya said breathlessly, "I think I can decipher it."

"Thank God."

Buffy, standing at their side, repeated to the room
at large.  "Hello!  Time spell.  Specifics."

Willow looked up.  "I'm not sure how it works, but 
it's supposed to roll back time."

Anya shook her head. "Actually, it rolls you through 
time."

"Whatever.  The important part is it can take us back 
to before this happened."

Again Anya shook her head. "No 'us.' One. There can be 
only one."

A frown creased Buffy's brow. "That sounds familiar."

Anya ripped a page out of the book, then ripped it 
in two.

Buffy gasped.  "That can't be good."

Anya handed one half of the sheet to Willow. "We have 
to find these things before dawn."

Buffy followed her two friends around the room. "Before 
dawn?"  Then she stopped.  "Why am I repeating everything 
you guys say?"
  
"Don't know." Willow looked pensive.  "But if we
don't do the spell by daybreak we'll be too late."

No further explanation was needed.  Buffy straightened 
her shoulders. "What can I do to help?"

                   *   *   *

Willow knelt on the freshly scrubbed floor and finished 
sprinkling sand and rosemary in a small three foot wide
circle. "Buffy, step into the ring."

Buffy dutifully complied.

Willow asked Anya, "Have you finished the translation?"

Anya glanced up from the book. "Almost"  An anxious 
look crossed the ex-demon's face. "Did you find the 
mugwort?"

Willow nodded. 

"How about the woad and orris root?" Anya asked.

"Yes and yes.  Also found the amulet of Aine, the 
chalice of Arawn and filled it with water from Pwyll."

"I believe that fits all the parameters of the list."
Anya laid down her pen. "And because of the 
circumstances, I won't demand payment." 

Willow blinked.  "I can't believe you just said that."

"Well, I--"

"Never mind."

"Some of the ingredients are extremely rare and 
expensive, and. . ." As she stood Anya looked down 
at the blood and dust on her dress. Her shoulders 
slumped. "Do we have everything?" She
asked in a tiny voice. 

"Yes." Willow bowed her head and whispered, "I hope."

Pink light fingered the sky outside the Magic Box's 
window as Anya crossed the candlelit room. "We don't 
have much time.".

"We'll hurry."  At the ex-demon's anxious look Willow 
added, "We'll get it right in a. . .a quick and 
efficient fashion."

Anya handed the witch a copy of the incantation.  
"We'll take turns."

"What do I do?" Buffy asked.

Anya looked at the paper in her hands. "It says here
to stand in the circle." 

"And save them." Willow figetted, shifting her weight
from foot to foot while adding, "I mean, it doesn't 
actually say that but we mean that. Just. . ." Her 
pained gaze met Buffy's.  "Just save them."  

"I want...I *need* my Xander back," Anya explained.

"And Tara. And Giles." 

Both Willow and Anya added in a surprising bout of 
unity, "And Riley too of course." 

Buffy's eyes burned with unshed tears.  She couldn't 
speak so she nodded.

Willow readied the spell.

"Oh, wait!" Buffy glanced at her friends.  "How do 
I get back? In time I mean. That is -- how to I get 
back to now... did that make sense?"

Willow and Anya looked at each other.

"What?"  Suddenly Buffy felt very, very nervous.

"You don't come back," Willow explained.  "It's 
a one way spell."

Anya hastily added, "But that shouldn't matter.
We are only sending you back one day."

"Everything will work out," Willow reassured.

Everything will work out.  Buffy looked around the
ruined Magic Box.  Books and ingredients littered
the floor.  Tiny shards of glass glinted in the 
candlight which was dim enough to hide the blood 
and dust.  

Anywhere would be better than here.  

Buffy straightened her spine and looked straight
ahead.  Through the window she could see pink
light brighten to pale yellow. Time was running
out.  "I'm ready."

The room grew quiet and still.  Willow's voice
filled the air.  "Blodeuedd, Boann, Brigantia...

Anya picked up where Willow left off.  "Caer
Ceridwen, Hallawes. . ."

"From Dyfed to Avalon we seek thee."

Buffy felt butterflies in her stomach as Willow 
continued the spell. "Etain, Medb, and Fand we 
beseech thee. Intercede on our behalf."

Iridescent blue-green light filled the room as
Willow closed her eyes. "In every time there 
is a season. We are born and then we die. . ." 

Wind from an unknown source surrounded them in a 
curiously silent rush. Anya's hair flew into her eyes 
as she chanted, "Turn back the tide. And find the 
reason." 

The blue light became streaked with gold as Willow 
raised her hand. "To fix what's done--" She dropped
something into the circle where Buffy stood. "Carpe
Diem!"

A flash.  Darkness.  Then Buffy heard a scream.




                  CHAPTER 6
              AN HONORABLE OFFER

LONDON, 1880

"Shelton, really, this is most embarrassing."
Cecily Addams smoothed the folds of her ballgown.

William had watched the small debacle as Shelton
Addams missed the carriage step then fell into 
the gutter.  Shelton was now casting up his accounts 
and Cecily looked quite mortified as she glanced 
back at the Whittendon's townhouse. It was clear to 
see that she hoped no one had seen the indignity of 
her brother's actions.  It was also clear that she 
needed help. . . that was why William stood in the 
shadows wondering what he should do.  

Approach her?  Offer the help she needed; or stand 
in the shadows and give her the privacy she so 
clearly wanted?

Cecily tugged at her brother's now soiled sleeve.  
"Shelton, you simply must get up."

Unable to bear the distress in her voice, William 
gathered all his courage and stepped out of the 
shadows.  "Cecily, if I--"

She turned around quickly.  "What are you doing here?"

"I..." he stepped back into the shadows.  "I...thought
...that is, if you are in need of assistance I would 
be happy to offer it."

Cecily glanced around quickly.  Other than the drunken 
Shelton and himself, the only human in sight was her 
coachman.

"Oh, all right."  Cecily sighed. "But do be quick 
about it. I don't want anyone to see."

"Yes, of course. I understand." William adjusted his 
glasses.  "Upmost discretion."

Cecily settled her silk shawl around her shoulders.  
"If  you could just. . ." 

Drag her brother out of the gutter, William thought.  
That was what Cecily was thinking but would not say.  
William frowned.  She looked the picture of distressed 
innocence all dressed in white.  So far above the 
dirt of the gutter where her brother lay. William 
stepped forward and took Shelton's arm. 

"William, old fellow!"  Shelton called in far too loud 
a voice.

"Sh!" Cecily hissed.  "Shelton, you must be quiet."

"See my sister pout," Shelton slurred. "She's quite
vexed."

"You are embarrassing me," she said harshly under her
breath.  "I'll have no more of it.  'Tis because of
you, we must leave the soire so early. Too early by
half.  'Tis not quite twelve."

Shelton snickered.  "And you haven't had a chance
to dance with Lord Camden.  Poor Cess."  Shelton
stumbled, and grabbed William for support.  "Oops!
Sorry old man.  A tad unsteady on my feet."

The coachman looked down from his perch and asked
William,  "Need help, guv?" 

"Uh. . .no. I think everything is under control."

"Just direct him into the carriage," Cecily 
instructed.

William ducked his head.  "Oh yes.  Right."  He
angled Shelton toward the door.

A scream split the air.

Momentarily snapped out of his drunken haze, Shelton 
glanced around wildly. "What the bloody hell was that?"

Cecily admonished, "You shouldn't swear."

Shelton frowned.  "I can shwear whenever I bloody
well like.  'Specially when it sounds like someone's 
being murdered."

The coachman jumped from his perch, landing on 
the cobblestones his only a slight grunt. "Milady, 
please step into the carriage.  There have been 
tales of--" The coachman stopped mid breath. Even
William knew what the servant had been about to 
say.  There had been tales of murder and vile 
deeds done. 

William had tried to pay no attention to the tales.  
He had assiduously avoided them, but for the past 
fortnight London had buzzed with whispers of murder 
and mayhem. Some said monsters roamed the streets. 

Nervously, William urged Shelton toward the carriage 
as the coachman handed Cecily into the vehicle.

Another scream split the air.  "Good God." Shelton
blinked owlishly.  "Murder IS being done."

William looked into Shelton's eyes and could not find 
a way to disagree.  He turned and gazed into the deep 
shadows of the fog shrouded London night.

Fear suddenly lit Shelton's bleary gaze and he started 
pawing the carriage floor. "We should be going."

The look on Cecily's face said she agreed, but the 
coachman stood immobile with Shelton only halfway through 
the door.

Another scream and the four of them stared at one another.  
The coachman straightened his long great coat and ran 
his hand through his amazingly pale hair. "Right then.  
Nothing to do but--"

"Thornton!" Cecily cried. "You cannot leave us 
defenseless. I forbid it!"

A slight smile crossed the coachman's face. "Forbid it, 
do you?"

"Yes. I forbid you."

Thornton cocked his head to the side. "Murder's bein'
done only steps from us and you're forbiddin' me to help."

"Murder may be done *here* if you do not protect us," 
she protested.

The coachman looked at William.  "And you, little lordling, 
what good are you standin' there lookin' ready to piss in 
your pants?"

Cecily gasped.  "There's no cause for such vulgarity.  
William, help Shelton into the carriage.  And you 
there--" she waved at Thornton. "--climb back to your 
box. We are leaving this place."

Thornton's face showed a mixture of surprise and 
contempt.  "Bloody, worthless toffs. Hope the lot of 
you rot in hell.  Not an ounce of honor in any of you." 
He pushed the drunken Shelton at William and turned to 
stride into the night.  

"Wait!" William was surprised by the sound of his own 
voice.  "You cannot mean to go alone."

"Is the lordling offerin' to go with me?"

"Why I... " William glanced anxiously around him as he 
searched his soul for an answer. He gazed at Cecily, so 
beautiful and so pristine in her crisp white gown. She 
looked like a princess in a story book.  How could he 
face her if he proved such a craven coward now? He 
took a deep breath. "Cecily, perhaps you should return 
to the party--"

Cecily gasped. "William, have you quite lost your 
senses?"

He rather thought he had.  But the coachman was right. 
An honorable man could not stand by doing nothing.  

"I can't go inside," she protested.  "I've taken leave 
of the hostess.  It wouldn't be proper."

The coachman laughed harshly. "Right. Wouldn't want 
to offend."

The drunken Shelton patted his sister on the arm.  
"I'll stay with you, Cesh. You go, William. Play 
knight.  Be a bloody funny thing to see."

William flushed as reality closed in on him. Go into 
the darkness? Look directly into the face of danger?  
Could he?  Dare he?

William's palms felt cold and sticky.  His heart beat 
at thrice its normal rate.  He was frightened out of 
his mind and yet somehow exhilarated too. Could he 
possibly...? And yet how could he not...? And somehow
--despite everything telling him no-- William suddenly 
thought he COULD.

The coachman seemed to sense William's decision and 
gave an approving smile. Suddenly William's shoulders 
and spine were just a little more straight and his head 
held just a little more high.

Thornton held out a pistol and William took it in
a shaking hand.  

"Careful, guv. It's loaded."

William stammered, "Y-yes, of course."

"Know how to use it?"

No.  But William didn't admit that.  Seemed to him
brandishing the weapon about might be enough.  "Yes,
of course," he lied.

Cecily blinked. "You cannot go!" 

William glanced in her direction, "Cecily, I--"

She ignored William and glared at her coachman, 
"If you do this.  I'll see you sacked!"

"Give over, Cess," Shelton protested.  "Think of someone 
other than yourself for a change."  

With his muscles trembling and his breathing shallow, 
William managed a half hearted smile. "Everything will be 
all right, Cecily. You'll see."  He tugged at his jacket. 
"Right, I'll...uh...just be going." He followed the 
coachman into the dark.


                    CHAPTER 7
                 REVERSE ENTROPY

William concentrated on the coachman's back. Society
would call the man common. He was nothing more than a 
stable hand who spoke in wretched cockney cant, but 
William found himself believing Thornton exhibited
the true valor. William admired him for it.

Who gave society the right to elevate or dismiss some
people for no reason other than their birthright?  
Who created the label saying that Society was better? 
By definition Shelton was a "gentleman," but Shelton 
sat puking a nights worth of claret into the gutter 
while Thornton showed nobility of purpose and deed... 
more nobility than his own timid self, William admitted 
with a sudden belly full of self contempt.  

As a lad in some quixotic moment William had vowed to 
live by the archaic chivalric code. But if he was honest
William would have to admit to never having quite found 
the courage of his convictions. Funny how he now wished 
he simply possessed the courage of this common man.

The streets were now quiet which was somehow worse 
than the screams that had been.  Everything was still 
as death until something came charging out of the night, 
barreling into William, tossing him to the ground, and 
sending the pistol in his hand skidding into the 
shadows. William looked into the face of a man...a 
creature...a thing!  

Death.

Oh God.

A smaller form flew into the monster, pushing it
aside and giving William time to turn over and crawl
through the muck to search for his lost pistol.
He bumped into a heavy inert lump and pulled back
to see the wide eyed glassy stare of a corpse.  A
girl, probably a lady's maid had her throat ripped
out.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Thornton let out a bellow of rage sounding like
some ancient Celtic warrior as he plunged into the
fray.  Two creatures attacked him.  They were small
and lithe and quick, and when Thornton pushed one
away, the other climbed onto his back.

William desperately pawed through the mud and dung 
searching for his pistol. Finding it, he clutched it 
tightly and climbed to his feet.

Somewhere to his left William heard a scuffling noise and 
saw a small feminine form struggling with the. . .the 
*thing* that had attacked him only moments earlier. The 
girl, quite a small one actually, landed a kick then a 
right handed blow.  For a moment her attacker fell back, 
but only for a moment, then he was on her again.

Holding the pistol in quivering hands, William called, 
"You there! Cease what you are doing. Let the lady go."  

The dark figure turned his attention from the girl 
to William. 

"I...uh...have weapons,"  William announced and wished 
he sounded the least bit intimidating. 

"Do ya now?"  Came a menacing Irish lilt. The creature 
stood over the girl and wiped his hands on his trousers 
seeming oddly focused on William. 

The girl on the ground gasped. "Angel!"

The creature stopped and looked down at the girl who in 
a singularly impressive move almost flew to her feet. 
"Angel, what--"

The creature attacked her again.

William fired his pistol.

It happened so fast.  William couldn't describe it if he 
tried.  The dark figure fell back but grabbed the girl 
who then  spun and kicked the monster to the ground.  
Somewhere else in the darkness Thornton fell under the 
weight of his attackers and the sounds coming from his 
direction were. . .horrid.

William looked helplessly around himself. What was he 
to do?  Thornton yelled and William stumbled in his 
direction aiming wildly into the shadows. Something 
moved and William aimed and fired. There was a screech 
and a flash of long blonde hair falling to slender 
shoulders.  "You bastard," she--*it*--hissed. "You shot 
me.  You'll pay for that."

"Not tonight," said the strange girl just before she 
backhanded the creature.  The creature fell to the 
ground and gazed at them with hate filled eyes.

"It's a Slayer!" the Irish voice yelled in the 
darkness.

"No duh," answered the girl as the blonde monster flew 
at her.  Both females blended into the night.  Seconds 
passed and the blonde creature emerged pulling a dark 
haired companion of a similar ilk behind her.

Then as quickly as it had started, it was done. The 
alley was still and quiet. . .and terrifying.  William 
noticed the young woman who had fought so valiantly 
slumped on the cobblestones. He staggered toward her, 
landing clumsily at her side.  She looked at him with 
dazed and confused hazel eyes.  "Spike?" Then she 
collapsed.

"Miss?"  He desperately took her hand in both of his. 
"Miss, can you hear me?"

William noticed the bright red welt marring her pretty 
face.  There would be a bruise there tomorrow, and he 
was frightened that she didn't answer his pleas for a 
response.

"Thornton!" he called.

No answer.

William tried to pull himself together. Tried to force 
himself to look into the shadows.  And slowly, 
torturously, he pushed himself to the sticking point 
and forced himself to gaze at the specter of Thornton 
lying face down in a pool of blood. 

The coachman was dead. 

William's bones turned to jelly and he felt quite
sick.  He turned over and now he was the one casting 
up his accounts, splattering them in the gore filled 
gutter. 

William wanted to run screaming into the night. He 
wanted never to move again.  He wanted to go back to 
five minutes ago when he had stood blithely naive under 
the gas lamps of Mayfair. He wanted to be anywhere but 
in this cursed back alley. 

The young woman lying beside him moaned causing William 
to release a shuddering breath. He was not completely 
alone in the darkness. 

He gathered the woman's small form in his arms. She was 
delicately made, light and exquisite.  He lifted her and 
she turned her face into his chest as he carried her out 
of that muck hole of death. He saw the carriage in the 
distance.

"Cecily!" he yelled. "Cecily send for the constable!"

Cecily peeked out the carriage window, Shelton just 
behind her. 

"Good God, William!"  Shelton looked shocked.

William's breathing was hard and labored. "The constable."  
When Shelton still didn't move, impatience flooded 
William's usually passive nature.  "The constable! 
Scotland bloody Yard! Someone, Shelton, now!"

Hearing William of all people issuing loud, insistent 
orders must have startled Shelton out of his drunken 
stupor because suddenly Shelton stood, hitting his head 
on the carriage's door jamb then stumbled out of the 
vehicle before disappearing into the Whittendon mansion.

William moved toward the carriage.

"What are you doing?" Cecily demanded in a high, 
strained  voice.  "William, you cannot mean to put that 
creature in my carriage."

"She's injured, Cecily."

"But look at her!  She isn't decently dressed!" 

William glanced at the woman in his arms.  What Cecily 
said was true. The pretty stranger was quite indecently 
clothed in a white chemise and leather britches, the 
likes of which he had never seen--even on a seasoned 
huntsman.

"She is injured," he reiterated needlessly, while
remembering how admirably the girl had fought in the 
alleyway.

"She is a trollop!" Cecily squeaked.

"She's very pretty," Shelton added as he and a few male 
companions--one of which was Lord Camden--came out to the 
street.  William--and most probably every other male in 
the near vicinity--could see that the strange girl was 
indeed quite pretty. William would even say beautiful. 
Achingly so. . .which made him suspicious of the 
lecherous looks of the other gentleman.

Cecily slammed the carriage door.  "I won't have that 
creature in this carriage.  'Tisn't proper.  Not a bit."  
She lifted her chin. "Lord Camden, would you be so kind 
as to find my coachman.  I want to go home. It has been 
a dreadful night."

"He's dead."

Everyone turned to look at William, and William's stomach 
sank.  He wanted to disappear.  He wanted recede into 
the shadows and go unnoticed.  He didn't want to be in 
the middle of this debacle.  But then Thornton deserved 
better than that.

"The coachman.  He fought well. It was an honorable act.  
He was trying to save the young lady."  William bowed his 
head.  "Would someone *please* send for the constable.  
Murder has been done." 

              *        *        *

Buffy felt a swaying movement and the soft caress of 
cool night air.  Some part of her urged her to open her 
eyes and fight! It was what she had been born to do, 
what she had always done. Fought. Struggled. Persevered.  
But now she was tired--so terribly, impossibly tired--
and so filled with grief that she couldn't bear to 
move or open her eyes.  She wanted to lay there and 
die...only someone had obviously picked her up off the 
ground and pulled her inexorably toward life.  

Buffy knew she should open her eyes to find out who
the someone was.  Was it friend or foe? But if she 
opened her eyes she might be called to fight and 
she couldn't. She just couldn't.  Not yet.  Not
now. So much easier to  surrender and rest, to 
pretend there was no destiny, no obligations, or even 
evil in the world.  She could listen to a honeyed
male voice somewhere in the distance and sink into
a vague sense of peace.  She could keep her eyes 
closed and lose herself in the swaying motion while 
feeling some measure of safety in the arms that
surrounded her.  And somewhere in the gray void 
beyond her numbness and exhaustion, she felt the
touch of a gentle hand and thought it felt like
compassion. . . 




                  CHAPTER 8
                 A V-8 MOMENT

"Going to sleep all day?" a sharp feminine voice 
demanded.

Buffy groaned and turned over dragging the covers 
over her head.

The covers were jerked aside. "Don't think I'll 
tolerate sloth from the likes of you no matter what 
the young sir says. Up with you!"  

With eyes still closed, Buffy patted her hand looking
for the covers and saying, "Five more minutes, Mom.  
Just five--" Buffy stopped and opened her eyes. 

The woman staring down at her was NOT her mother. 
Buffy glanced around the room.  This wasn't her home. 
Not close.  Not even a distant second.  This place 
was. . .

"Who are you?" Buffy asked as she pulled the blanket
out of the strange woman's hands.

"Now, there's a question.  Only I should be the one
askin' it."

"I asked first so you're out of luck," Buffy snapped.  
"So who are you? Where am I? And why are you dressed 
like a Titanic extra?" Then Buffy gasped. "Willow!" 

The time spell. A shiver ran down Buffy's spine.  
Something must have gone terribly wrong.  She wasn't 
in last week. She was in the last century! 

Her frown became more pronounced as she noted there 
were no light bulbs in the light fixtures.  They were
gas. It was worse than she thought.  She wasn't in 
the last century. She was in the century BEFORE 
the last century! 

The woman didn't deign to answer Buffy's question
but sniffed in her general direction. "Up with you.
The madam will be awake soon, and though the young sir 
is an easy touch, the Madam most definitely is not."

A pretty young woman with long, shiny brown hair stood
in the bedroom's doorway, "Mrs. Fitzherbert, isn't it 
a bit early to be so cross?" 

Mrs. Fitzherbert looked startled. "Miss Margaret, what 
are you doin' here?"

The girl--who Buffy thought looked a great deal like
a so slightly older version of Dawn--smiled. "I wanted 
to see what my brother brought home last night."

"He isn't your brother," Mrs. Fitzherbert snapped.

Margaret shrugged. "Stepbrother then. But I don't like 
the word.  Makes Wills sound wicked, and you have to 
admit it's rather difficult to imagine Will as wicked."

Mrs. Fitzherbert snapped, "Everyone has wickedness, 
young lady.  Even you."

"Oh piffle."

Mrs. Fitzherbert glowered.  "Off with you. You shouldn't 
be here.  Tisn't proper."

"And whyever is it not? Proper that is. It's my house--
well my father's at any rate--so I can go where I want." 
Margaret inspected Buffy.  "You're awfully pretty."

Buffy was wary. "Thank you."

Margaret tilted her head to the side.  "Are you 
really a courtesan? That's what Mrs. Fitzherbert 
thinks.  That's why she's trying to chase me away, 
and why if she frowned much more sternly 
her face would crack."

Mrs. Fizherbert huffed.

Margaret appeared blithely unconcerned about the 
housekeeper's upset as she dropped onto the bed in a 
puddle of skirts, petticoats and ruffles.  "It's all 
so very ridiculous.  As if Wills would have the courage 
to approach a courtesan much less bring one home."

"Miss Margaret!"

Margaret's gaze never left Buffy, but she waved at the
housekeeper. "Mrs. Fitzherbert, it is ever so obvious 
that Wills would never do anything so improper as to 
bring home a--"

"Saying it once was enough, Miss."

"I said it twice."

"Well do not say it a third time."

Meg grinned defiantly.  "Courtesan."

"No. Not courtesan!" Buffy blurted. Buffy wasn't one 
hundred percent sure what a courtesan was--although 
she thought she had a pretty good idea--and if it was 
what she thought it was then she definitely wasn't one.

Margaret whooped with triumph.  "See!  What did I say?"

The housekeeper sniffed.  "I say you have as much sense 
as your brother--which is no sense at all. Not a drop 
between the two of you, and it will be the death of you 
both."

"Oh pooh!" 

With a glare in both their directions the housekeeper 
left the room. Margaret's bright young face was filled
with expectation as she looked at Buffy.  "So...?"

So what? Buffy searched desperately for something to 
say. Something that would make some kind of sense 
in this bizarro world.  "Should I be thanking your
brother for the cozy digs?"  Buffy stretched out her 
arm indicating the bed and the room.

Margaret nodded eagerly. "Amazing isn't it?"

"It's a very nice room. And --hey--fresh flowers and 
everything."

"No, I mean amazing that Wills would do this."

Buffy felt. . .blank. "Amazing how?" 

Margaret stood and swirled around with her long 
skirts dusting the floor. "Absolutely astounding."

"Astounding how?"  Could the girl stop swirling? It 
made Buffy feel dizzy. She caught Margaret's hand. 
"I take it bringing strange women home for sleep overs 
isn't your brother's standard operating procedure.

Margaret looked confused.

"Not like something your brother would normally do?"
Buffy restated.

The girl looked amused.  "Oh yes, rather...or perhaps 
rather not."

Oh yeah.  That cleared things up.

"That is, if you were a kitten or three legged dog or 
some such, it wouldn't be a shock," Margaret confessed.
"But a girl? A real live girl?  That's something else 
entirely."

That was when Buffy noticed something so painfully
obvious she wanted to imitate one of those old V-8 
commercials and smack herself on the forehead.
The girl was English. The housekeeper was English.
Everything around her bloody well reeked of being 
English. How had she missed it? Had she hung around 
Giles and even Spike so much that she was tone deaf 
to a British accent?  

"I'm in England aren't I?" Great, Buffy thought, a 
jump across time, a continent AND an ocean.  Willow 
and Anya seriously screwed up that spell. What was 
she supposed to do now?

"Course you're in England. Where else would you be?" 
A little frown knitted Margaret's brow.  "Wait a 
second, you have an accent."

"I'm not the one with an accent.  You are."

Margaret looked offended.  "I beg your pardon. I 
speak proper Queen's English."

"Well I got a C in English but I speak just fine 
Californian."

That caught the girl's attention.  "California?
As in the Gold Rush? How exotic!"

"Oh yeah, real exotic in a 'not' kind of way."  
 
Margaret's smiled started to look bemused, but then she 
glanced down at her hands and seem to find direction. 
"I...uh...brought you a dress." She offered a frothy 
pale pink creation. Buffy tried really, really hard 
not to shudder at the thought of ruffles and bows. 

"You're older than I am," Margaret explained. "But 
you're not very big and he. . .uh. . ."

"He?  Your brother?"

"Well, yes, Wills thought something of mine might 
work for you since you really couldn't wear what 
you..."  She blushed, turning almost the exact same
shade of pink as the dress.

Buffy touched the obviously expensive fabric. It was 
delicate, soft and innocently feminine.  Not like the 
stuff Buffy usually wore, but nice all the same.  
"Thank you," Buffy whispered. "And, uh, thank your 
brother for me.  If there's anything I can do--"

"Oh there is!" The girl pounced on Buffy's bed. 
"Tell me your name then tell me everything that 
happened last night. My ninny of a brother wouldn't 
breathe a word."

Images tumbled into Buffy's mind. Horrible memories
of the Magic Box, of Willow's and Anya's spell,
of darkness and screams. Vampires. Death. . .Angel. 

Buffy knew hadn't fought well last night.  She rarely 
did against Angel. Too many thoughts and feelings got 
in her way--much as they did with Spike--except with 
Spike fighting was much more *comfortable* somehow.  
At the very least it was familiar.  

Buffy paused. Had Spike been there as well?  For a 
moment she had thought he had, but Spike was dust so 
that was impossible.  

Or maybe not so impossible. 

Looking around the antique looking room that wasn't
antique at all--well, Spike wasn't dust yet. . .which 
probably meant the female vamps in the alley had been 
Darla and Dru.

Great.  Just great.  She was stranded alone in the
distant past with a greatest hits list of Big Bads. 
Giles was dead. Xander was dead. Riley and Tara
were dead. Buffy was completely and utterly alone,
and if she started crying now she would never stop.

Margaret's blue eyed gaze seemed to be caught by 
someone off to Buffy's left.  "There you are!" Meg 
cried and Buffy turned to see. . .

"Spike?"  




                 CHAPTER 9
             TROUBLE WITH VERBS

The man in the doorway tilted his head in a way that 
gave him a quizzical expression.  The gesture was 
familiar, and Buffy knew she was staring--really 
obvious staring like when you were in 7th grade and 
had a crush on a guy but you were too young and too 
stupid to think about hiding it. Or maybe she was 
staring in the way she would if a horny toad had 
looked up and said, "Give us a kiss."  Same dif 
because a horny toad talking to her was as likely as 
the vision standing in front of her.

The cheekbones were Spike's, so were the deep blue 
eyes and the appealing mouth that Buffy wasn't 
supposed to notice but somehow always did. It was 
Spike's face--Spike, her sometimes nemesis, 
occasional ally, and constant pain in her ass
...except it wasn't Spike at all.

Okay so the face was the same but everything
else was different. No platinum bleached hair.  
No leather duster. No cocky, defiant smirk that 
made her want to haul off and hit him or grab him 
and...do other things.  He stood in a patch of 
sunlight that spilled through the windows and wasn't 
flinching or bursting into flames or anything.  He 
was human.  

"William?" The name felt strange on her tongue,
not at all like the familiar and easily snarled 
"Spike!"

Something flickered across his mobile features but
Buffy couldn't make out exactly what it was. Talk
about unfair!  Spike had a really expressive face 
but most of the time she couldn't read it. And, yes,  
she did see the contraction in that. Her Psych 101 
professor would probably say that she couldn't read 
his face because she didn't want to. It was easier 
if Spike was a thing and not a person...even if he 
was a person to her. 

The deep, dark, secret truth was that Spike had 
always been a person to Buffy--an evil person, but 
a person all the same. That was just the irritating 
kind of vampire that Spike was. . .or had been.  

Damn.  Time travel made for trouble with verbs.

But Spike wasn't a vampire now.  He wasn't even Spike.
He was a man standing in the bedroom doorway gazing 
at Buffy until she felt like blushing--which was 
ridiculous because Buffy didn't blush and she certainly
didn't blush for Spike. Besides the nightgown she wore
covered more than most of her CLOTHES did in 
Sunnydale.  Still, something about the stock still, 
embarrassed cast of his features made Buffy reach 
for the blanket and wrap it around herself. "William?"

"Begging your pardon, miss.  I didn't know..."  He 
blushed. 

Spike. Blushed. Beet red. Who would'da thunk it? 

Then he ducked his head.

Buffy recognized the head duck.  He'd done it before.  
He did it all the time when he was confessing something 
that didn't quite fit his well honed Spike persona.

A flash of a memory.  Spike standing in the headlights
of a police car, a slight smile on his face. "I want
to save the world."  The words had been followed by 
a head duck of embarrassment as Big Bad Spike confessed
to having a broken heart that wasn't all that 
different from her own. . .then he'd made the crack 
about people being happy meals on legs.  Spike never 
did know when to shut up.

Still, the head duck gesture?  It told Buffy this 
shy creature standing in the doorway WAS Spike...even 
if it wasn't.

Spike stammered. "I didn't realize...that is...uh...
sorry to intrude but--"

"Wills!" An indulgent smile lit Margaret's face. 
"We'll be down when we're ready."

William lifted his head and complained, "You're 
taking long enough."

Hearing the impatience in his voice, Buffy almost 
smiled.  Now he sounded more like Spike...only 
not really.  The accent was wrong.  It was proper.

Buffy shook her head and wondered if instead of 
going backwards through time she had actually fallen 
into some alternate universe because one thing she 
never could have imagined was Spike being 'proper.'

"Off with you!" Margaret scolded and pitched a pillow 
in his direction. It missed and with a shy smile he 
slipped from the room.

Buffy resisted the urge to run to the door to watch 
Spike's retreat down the hall. It would imply that 
she was curious about him, and the one thing Buffy 
could never ever be was curious about Spike.  

Margaret handed Buffy the pink dress.

Half an hour later, Buffy followed Meg--Margaret 
had asked her to call her Meg--down a wide set of 
stairs to a marble tiled foyer. There were statures 
in niches that in some odd way reminded Buffy of the 
cherubs and angels in Spike's crypt. It had always 
struck Buffy as odd that a vampire had angels in 
his crypt, but looking around the foyer Buffy 
wondered if in some strange way the crypt reminded 
Spike of home--if his home had been more dark 
and dank and gothic.

"This is intolerable!" a female voice shrieked
from behind a closed door.

Meg stopped dead in her tracks and turned quite 
pale.  The girl swallowed before saying in a small 
voice, "Perhaps we should go into the breakfast 
room."  

Behind the door the woman shrieked again, "William 
what were thinking to bring that CREATURE into 
this house?"

It was impossible to hear William's response...which 
lead Buffy to press her ear against the door.  Meg 
gave Buffy an odd look then did the same.

"You're mother is right, William." A deep male
voice echoed.  "What you have done is unconscionable.
Think of your mother.  Think of your stepsister."

"I...uh... was thinking of the girl. She swooned 
and--"

The male voice growled, "You weren't thinking at 
all! You should have left that trollop lying in 
the gutter where she belongs."

"I--"

"Do you have something to say, William?"

"No. . .that is, Yes.  Yes, I believe I do. Sir,
it seemed the only right thing to do--"

There was the squeak of a chair being pushed against
a hard wood floor. "Why have I not pitched you into 
the streets?"  

"Pardon?" 

"The streets, William.  Why have I not pitched your 
worthless hide into the streets? Do you think I enjoy 
housing my wife's foppish get?  What use are you with 
your head in the clouds or in some useless book?  
What possible use are you to anyone?"

"I don't know, sir."

Footsteps.  Pacing? "Let me tell you your worth. It 
is exactly equal to the blue blood in your veins.  
Ridiculous I know, but your breeding gives you entre 
into Society."

"I'm only the son of a knight, sir," William 
protested

A harsh laugh "*Only* the son of a knight.  That you 
are capable of phrasing it in such a way proves my 
point. All it takes are a few drops of the right 
blood and you are nobility--"

"I don't believe that, sir. Nobility is a thing apart 
from blood." In that moment William's voice sounded 
amazingly like Spike's when he was stated some 
startling, incontrovertible truth.  "It is loyalty, 
courage--"

"Oh you bloody useless FOOL! Blood is all that 
matters."  The man sounded angry.  "I'm ten times as 
wealthy as your father, but am I welcome in 'Society?'  
Of course not.  I am a commoner. You, however useless 
you may be, are deemed a gentleman by blood.  You 
alone can provide my daughter escort into ballrooms."

"And I am happy to do so," William interjected.
"Meg is a wonderful girl."

"That she is, but Society does not consider her
a lady."

"Then Society is wrong."

There was a harsh laugh.  "Society is *never* wrong.
They make the rules.  Meg's origins are such that
no matter what her deportment or education, she will
never be considered an equal...unless someone intercedes 
on her behalf.  That someone would be you, William--a 
stepbrother with blue blood in his veins."  There was a 
pause before the low voice returned and stated more 
harshly.  "If you endanger your good name for some 
doxie you found in the street, you will be tainted by
scandal.  Not even blue blood overcomes scandal. I 
want that trollop removed from my house. Remove her 
or *you* will be removed."

Silence followed.  Finally William said quietly,
"But we do not know that she has a place to go."

"And I should care?"

"We cannot throw her into the streets! Not after 
all she has been through. It would not be right."

"William?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do not worry over what is right. Worry over what is 
prudent and what will keep a roof over your head."
 
Buffy heard footsteps on the other side of the door.  

Meg looked at Buffy huge eyes and squeaked,  "Hide!"  
 
Meg tugged at Buffy's sleeve. The two of them ran down 
the hall, skidded across the marble floor, and stumbled
into the  breakfast room.  Slamming the door behind them 
Spike's sister began pacing across the carpeted floor.

"How perfectly horrid of Father to speak to William 
so." Meg paused and looked at Buffy. "And to speak 
about you as well.  He hasn't even met you." She stopped 
pacing. With her back to Buffy she gazed out the window.  
"William's only value is his blood? Piffle. William is 
the dearest, the most impossible--" She stomped her foot.  
"Father makes me so angry sometimes. What does he know 
of anyone's worth?  All he's ever cared about is money. 
Wads and wads of it, and what has it gained him? Society 
doesn't care!" She looked at Buffy with wide blue eyes.  
"Why do people do that?"

"Do what?" 

"Why do people care more about *what* you are than *who* 
you are? It doesn't matter what father accomplishes. It 
doesn't matter how many polishing schools I attend. We 
are defined by something we cannot control." Meg bit the 
nail on her index finger. "It's why Father married the 
witch, you know."

"What witch?"

"William's mother."

Buffy blinked. "Sp--uh--William's mother is a witch?  
That explains a lot."

"Yes, she's mean and cross and wears too much perfume--

"Too much perfume?  What does that have to do with being 
a witch?"

"What?"

"Perfume.  Witch.  Looking for the connection."

Meg tilted her head.  "She's not *truly* a witch you 
know."

"Oh."

Meg frowned. "There are no such thing as witches."

Buffy reached for a pastry. There was an elaborate 
breakfast buffet laid out on the sideboard.  "If you 
say so."

Meg sat in the chair at the end of the table and asked 
almost conspiratorially, "Do you *really* believe in 
witches?"

Buffy shrugged.  "Sort of have to.  My best friend
is one."  She popped a piece of pastry into her mouth 
and chewed.

Meg was agog. "Really?"

Mouth still full. "Mmm-hmm."

"Could your friend put a nasty spell on my--" Meg grinned 
"--'wicked' stepmother?"

Buffy swallowed.  "Probably. But she isn't available at 
the moment." Talk about understatement. "Besides magic 
has a way of being unreliable."

Meg looked crestfallen and propped her chin on her hand.  
"Fiddlesticks.  Would have been nice to see Stepmum 
turned into a stink beetle or something. I certainly 
wouldn't miss her. Father only married her because she 
convinced him she was a lady. He was furious when he 
found out she wasn't."

"She wasn't? But I thought. . .that is your father
said William's blood was blue and all that."

"William's is.  His mother's isn't."  Meg leaned 
closer and whispered conspiratorially, "Just because 
the witch married a gentleman doesn't make her a lady."  
Meg paused. "Still. . ."

"Still what?"

Meg stopped chewing her fingernail. "I think it's 
what saved William. " 
 
"Saved William, how?"  Buffy frowned. "I mean, huh?" 

Meg rose and filled a plate from the sideboard. "It's 
a horrible thing to say about one's parent, but I think 
if it wasn't for the fact that Father NEEDED William, he 
would have pitched Wills into the streets the day he 
turned eighteen...and William is such a helpless dear." 
She gave a wan smile. "Sometimes Wills is the only thing 
that makes living in this house bearable."

Why didn't that sound as impossible?  It should be
impossible.  Spike making a bad situation *better*? 
If anything should be categorically impossible it 
should be that.

A memory.  Sitting on her back porch doubled over 
crying and lifting her head to find Spike staring 
at her.  

A frown had knitted his brow as he tilted his head 
slightly to one side. "What's wrong?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Is there something I can do?"

Buffy had looked away but after a moment Spike had
settled himself beside her.  In the space of a breath, 
a heartbeat, Buffy had felt Spike gently pat her 
back--exquisitely gently for a creature who was only 
supposed to know violence and who had in the previous
five minutes wanted her dead.  Buffy had heard a sigh
. . .from Spike.  He had no breath, so why did he sigh?  
Why sit beside her, keeping her company so she wouldn't 
be alone in the dark? 

Just then "Wills" entered the breakfast room looking 
amazingly like the irritating vampire Spike. . .if 
everything Spike-like had been stripped from him and a 
shy, bookish geek had been left in his place.  Buffy
sat and waited for Spike to kick her out of the house,
for him to say her hair looked stupid before shooting
her an obnoxiously smug look and pointing her toward
the door.  

He did none of those things.  

Instead William silently crossed the room to the 
sideboard and filled his plate with three rolls, 
marmalade, a serving of bacon and some fishy thing that 
looked a lot like fish, but who in their right mind would 
eat fish for breakfast? Then again she had once watched 
him eat Weetabix and pig's blood so that sort of put the 
whole "fish for breakfast" thing in proper perspective. 

Well one thing hadn't changed, Buffy thought.  Spike 
was still a pig. Figures that even as a human Spike ate 
like a horse. Buffy frowned. Willow would say metaphor 
mixing, but  what did it matter? Horse or pig Buffy still 
couldn't see how Spike kept his oh so nice compact form.  

Buffy stopped chewing.  She had NOT just thought that.
Nope.  Absolutely not.  It had not crossed her mind.  It
had not popped up full blown in it either.  She did not
care about Spike's form, compact or otherwise.  It
was unthinkable.  Impossible.  Icky (in a 'not' sort of
way.)

Okay, so maybe she had thought about how nicely he was
built a time or two. You noticed these things when you
were fighting someone. Spike was lithe and athletic,
and impressively made. . .and Buffy would stake anyone 
who forced her to admit it. In the black leather duster 
when he wasn't being a complete ass Spike could be. . .
attractive. . .in an evil kind of way.  But that had 
been Big Bad Spike not neat, nerdly William.

You know, maybe Willow's spell had done more than simply 
send her back in time. Maybe it had scrambled her brains.

A full fifteen minutes passed before Buffy realized Spike 
wasn't going to kick her out of the house.  

Despite all the threats that had been leveled at him, 
William wasn't going to make her feel unwelcome.  Not a 
bit. He was going to sit there silently protecting her 
from the wrath of evil parental units when he had no 
reason to do so.  

What a scheming sneak he was, always turning her hate 
into doubt, always making her question things she'd 
been happy not to know.

"I have a place to go," Buffy announced, gaining both 
Spike's and Meg's attention.

Buffy waited for Spike's look of relief, but he sat
looking impossibly patient.  So much patience...when
had Spike ever been patient?

Buffy started again. "These people, they're friends..."

Well, not *exactly* friends.  In fact, not friends at
all.  The Watchers Council. 

 
                    CHAPTER 10
               ALPHABET FREE SLAYER 

Spike--correction, William. . .Buffy really needed to 
start thinking of him as William--stuck his head through 
the open carriage door.  "The butler said he would see 
us."

"What us?  Not us," Buffy insisted. "Definitely not us."  
Just the thought of dragging a once and future vampire 
into the Watchers Council gave Buffy serious shivery 
thoughts.

Spike--WILLIAM. Damnit it was William!--insisted, "You 
cannot go alone.  It isn't right."

If anything was meant to convince Buffy that this was not 
Spike, those words should do the trick. "Spike" and 
"right" didn't belong in the same sentence.  

He offered his hand.  "Let me escort you."

Spike's hand was beautifully shaped, and for the first 
time in Buffy's memory it didn't have black nail polish 
on it. To her horror, she reached out and accepted what 
he offered and felt warm, strong fingers gently entwine 
with her own. His grip was firm but not crushing as he 
tugged her into the light.

Buffy gazed at his face.  She had seen Spike in sunlight 
only once before.  He had sneered and challenged her to 
a fight.  She had straddled him, yanked a magic ring from 
his finger, and laughed as ran for cover. And look at 
them now, standing in sunlight holding hands and all 
'non-flamey.' And if that wasn't enough to seriously 
confuse her, they were *smiling* at each other.  Smiling
--her and Spike...um... William. Even weirder, her smile 
grew as she remembered the fight on the lawn of 
Sunnydale U.

Buffy shook her head and wondered when the memory of a
fight to the almost death had become something she 
smiled about. And *why* was she smiling at Spike? Bad 
Buffy.  Buffy, stop smiling and frown.  Now.

She frowned. "I think I should go in alone."

Without waiting for her brother's assistance, Meg 
jumped out of the carriage and landed solidly on the 
curb.  "Oh, Buffy, we can't let you do that. We're 
dying of curiosity."  Meg smiled. "Besides, it was 
William's calling card left at the door."

Calling cards.  What weird sort of old British
tradition was that?  Buffy didn't have time to ask
the question or wait for an answer because Sp--WILLIAM 
took her arm and led her up the steps.

A butler who looked a bit like what's-his-face from the 
Batman movies stood in the doorway saying the 
he's-a-butler-so-he's-got-to-say-it line, "This way, sir." 

The butler led them into what he called the 'blue 
salon' then announced that it would be a few minutes 
before Mr. Wyndham-Price would see them. 

Wyndham-Price? Buffy thought.  As in Wesley Wyndham-Price?  
Was Watching some sort of hereditary thing?  

Actually it would make sense if it was. Demons, vampires, 
and  your general assortment of apochalypses (or was 
that apochalypsi?) weren't common knowledge.  Maybe 
Council secrets were kept in the family.  Buffy wondered 
if Giles' great, great (how many greats?  Any greats?) 
grandfather was hanging around.

Butler Mr. What's-his-face returned saying, "Mr.
Wyndham-Price will see you now."

"I should meet him alone,"  Buffy explained. After all 
as ideas went it was probably a good one to meet a 
Watcher without a vampire in tow.

Meg looked ready to protest but William touched her
arm.  It was a gentle, almost hesitant touch--very 
deferential, very un-Spike, and--oh hell, it was 
sort of endearing.  Meg glanced at her brother and 
seemed to accept whatever silent suggestion he gave
her.  

"Oh all right, go see your friend alone." Any sulking 
tone in Meg's voice was belied by the self deprecating 
smile on her face.  Then, as if sensing Buffy's sudden
reluctance to meet the Watcher, Meg said encouragingly,
"Go on.  Off with you."

Somehow Buffy found the courage to put her feet into
motion and followed the butler into the next room.
It was a dark library with heavy green velvet draperies,
walnut paneled walls, and books of every size and 
description that covered  two levels of shelving.
A large stained glass window admitted blue, green and 
red tinted light that cast funny multi-colored patterns 
on the floor.

So this was what Council headquarters looked like. It 
was sort of what she had expected.  However, the man 
behind the desk was *not* what she expected.  He was
young.  Not much older than his great-whatever grandson 
Wesley.  They even looked alike.  Well no, they didn't 
actually look alike if you judged their features one by 
one.  It was just with the brown hair, glasses, and 
stodgy exterior mixed with relative good looks, Mr. 
Great Grandwhatever Wyndham-Price fit the same general 
description as Wesley Wyndham-Price.

He looked up.  "Do come in, Miss. . .Watcher?" He
sounded doubtful.

Buffy walked boldly into the room but managed a
small grimace.  "Sorry about that.  It's just 
that Buffy Slayer sounded so obvious."

"Indeed."

She rushed on. "And I knew you wouldn't pay attention 
to a Buffy Summers. Probably just say 'who's she?' 
and send Spike back to the carriage with his tail 
between his legs...which isn't a bad idea but it would 
be really inconvenient."

She narrowed her gaze as she examined him.  "So you're 
head watcher guy.  Not exactly what I expected."

He blinked and looked surprised. "Who said I was 
head watcher?"

"Big house. Stuffy library.  Supersize desk. Has
'head watcher' written all over it."

He stood and circled the desk.  "I am not head
watcher.

"Not, huh?"  That was disappointing.  "Maybe you
should go get him then.  I need to talk to him."

The Wyndham-Price guy didn't look happy to be
taking orders.  "And just *who* are you?"

"Oh, did I leave out the 'Slayer' part?" She 
straightened her shoulders. " I'm the Slayer."

"You can't be the Slayer.  You're a young woman."

"Slayers in general are sort of girlie."

"*Girl,* not woman. You're too old."

Buffy's eyes widened.  That was a new one.  And
then she became a tad offended.  "I have a few
years to go before my Slayer expiration date."

He paced across the red and blue oriental carpet.  
"The Slayer is just turning eighteen.  The senior 
council members have gone to Spain to test--"

"Oh, ew, you're doing that 'let's almost kill her to 
see if she is up  to fighting evil' test aren't you?  
That test is sick." Buffy turned on her heel. "I 
shouldn't have come here."

Buffy was half way to the door before the Watcher 
called, "Wait!" He approached her. "Who *are* you and 
how do you know about the Watcher's Council?"

Buffy crossed her arms impatiently.  "Did you miss
the 'I'm the Slayer' part?"

"No, but we have established that you are *not*
the Slayer."

"No, we have *not* established that I'm not the 
Slayer because I *am* the Slayer."

"There is only *one* born into each generation."

"Yeah well, there are some loopholes in that but let's
not go there."  Buffy looked him dead in the eye.  
"I'm not the Slayer from this generation. I'm from 
several generations after this generation.  Post
Gen-X. Pre-Gen Y.  The alphabet free generation."

"Pardon me?"

"Okay, let's cut to the chase.  I'm no good at twenty 
questions.  I'm the Slayer in the year two thousand."

His pupils grew huge.  "The millennium?!"

"Don't make it sound like some huge deal. No 
apochalypse, just lot of tv coverage of fire works 
and a no show of a Y2K bug.  Big whoop."

"But you're from the future?"

"That's what I said.  And the other night. . ."
Buffy paused as suddenly the reason she was here 
came crashing down on her. It felt like a ton of
bricks landed on her chest as memories of Giles' 
and Tara's blood and Riley's and Xander's dust 
suddenly overwhelmed her.  Her voice was quiet
and subdued and pained when she continued, "Some
really bad things happened the other night. Things
that I couldn't...I *shouldn't* have allowed to 
happen. Willow, my friend, cast some sort of spell 
so I could stop the stuff before it happened, but 
something wigged out and I wound up here."

The Watcher huffed and looked outraged.  "A time spell?  
Do you have any idea how dangerous not to mention how 
erratic those spells can be? What was your Watcher 
thinking--"

"My Watcher is dead." God it hurt to say those words.  
Giles. How could she have lost Giles?

Wyndham-Price's head bowed for a moment. Maybe he felt 
for a fallen comrade.  Then the Watcher seemed to gather 
himself together.  "Tell me everything that has happened. 
In detail."

Buffy was never particularly good at details but she did 
her best.  There were things she left out. Things like 
Riley and the vamp ho, like Spike showing up in her 
bedroom. Things that were just none of this stranger's 
business. It was enough to say that a crazy female 
vampire had slaughtered her friends, and that she wasn't 
going to accept something like that without a fight.

When Buffy finished her story she stared at the 
watcher and silently prayed he would have an answer.  

"What was the spell?" he asked.

"I told you.  A time spell."

The watcher looked impatient.  After gazing at Buffy for 
a moment he crossed the room and began pulling out old 
books.  "I need a few more specifics than that.  What 
spell in *particular* did you use?"

"I don't know."

He snapped the book closed as his face purpled with 
outrage. "You used a spell you didn't understand?!"

"I didn't need to understand. Willow did...well she 
mostly did." Buffy glared at him. "It worked didn't it?"

"If by 'worked' you mean stranded you 120 years in 
the past, then yes, it worked exceptionally well."

Buffy sank into a large, leather wingback chair.  
"Never said there weren't glitches."

Appearing to be a bit mollified the Watcher knelt by 
her chair.  "Do you remember anything about the spell?"

"It sounded a lot like that old song."

"What old song?"

Buffy could feel her frown creasing her brow.
"To everything turn, turn, turn..." She sighed.
"I don't know.  It said something about the
seasons.  Oh and something about fish."

"Fish?"

"Carp."

The Watcher rose to his feet.  "Carpe Diem?"

Buffy nodded and was completely unsurprised by the way 
the Watcher closed his eyes and shook his head. That 
was the same thing Giles and Willow did when she 
mangled some demon's name or Latin phrase. 

"That's the spell," she repeated. "To everything 
there's a season, something, something, Carpe Diem."

She hadn't finished the sentence before the watcher 
guy made a beeline for a ladder in the corner of
the room.  After climbing the ladder he began 
frantically searching through books.  He went through
a dozen before calling out, "This is it!"  A pause,
and then he said, "Oh dear. I see your problem."

Buffy jumped to her feet.  "You do?  Great.  Can you 
fix it?"

He climbed down the ladder with book in hand. "Actually, 
no, that is what you are here to do." He laid the book 
on the desk.  "You see, this time spell doesn't specify 
the amount of time through which you will travel.  It 
says to seek out the reason for the tragedy you were 
trying to avert, the root cause."

"The root cause?"

"What began your troubles?"

'Becoming a slayer,' was the first thought that popped 
into Buffy's mind but that wasn't the answer the 
Watcher needed.

Wyndham-Price fingered the gold lettering on the book 
binding in a meditative manner.  "Perhaps it was the 
vampire."  He lifted his head and met Buffy's stare 
directly.  "Is it possible that the vampire who turned 
your friends is in existence now?"

This was something that Buffy could grab onto. "Oh 
yeah, she's here.  I saw her last night."

"Here last night or home last night?" 

"Both.  Only at home she's kind of dusty. Here? Not 
so dusty."

He arched a brow.  "That is your answer then. You 
must track down this vampire. . .which may prove quite 
difficult."

"Why?"

"London is a large city, Miss Summers.  Finding a 
particular vampire will be a daunting if not impossible 
task.  To find her you would almost need to know where 
she was going to strike or who she was going to strike 
even before *she* did."

Buffy sucked in a sharp breath.

The watcher noticed.  "What?"

Buffy walked toward the library door. Slowly she turned 
the cold brass knob until she could look through a small 
opening to watch a young and rather innocuous looking 
Victorian couple. Meg said something. William laughed, 
and all Buffy could think was...Spike.



                     CHAPTER 11
           ONCE OVER BEER AND CHICKEN WINGS

"You brought a vampire into the Watcher's Council?!"
Wyndham-Price looked outraged.

"William isn't a vampire." Buffy protested.  "At least 
not yet. Look, he's sitting in the sunlight all neat and 
non-dusty. He isn't bursting into flames or anything." 

"But you said he *will* be a vampire."

"Well, yeah."

"And you walked him into the Watcher Council. Are you mad?  
Why would you do such a thing?!"

"He insisted--on escorting me that is.  Plus, he had 
the horsies."  Buffy opened the door just a bit. "Just 
look at him.  He's harmless."

"Right, a harmless vampire." The watcher massaged his 
temples as if they pained him. 
 
"Again I repeat--not a vampire *yet.* Dru will turn him 
into one though."

Wyndham-Price stepped back from the door. "And you know 
this how?  There must be an incredibly detailed Watcher's 
account of this. . .this. . ."

"Spike.  Only his name at the moment is William."

The watcher frowned.  "Spike?"

"Weird name.  I know.  But he likes it."

This seemed to agitate the Watcher even more.  "Exactly 
how detailed *is* the Watcher account if you know the 
name he 'likes.'"  Wyndham-Price gazed at Buffy and, yep
she saw it, he looked curious and suspicious all at once.  
"And how do you recognize this vampire's human form?"

"Why wouldn't I recognize him?" she asked.  "Hair dye
only hides so much."

"You KNOW this vampire?!"

"Well, yeah, it's Spike."

He began pacing.  "Excuse me, if I've missed something
but in the year 2000 Slayers still KILL vampires don't
they?"

Okay, now Buffy was offended. "Of course I kill 
vampires." The watcher looked relieved but then Buffy 
added, "Mostly."

Wyndham-Price's brows lowered.  "You *mostly* kill 
vampires?"

"Well, demons too.  Lots of demons. Big smelly piles
of dead demons."

"Let me rephrase the question. Do you only kill
*most* vampires?"

"No, I kill all vampires. . .except Spike. . .and
Angel.  And I know I haven't gotten around to staking
Harmony but I'm sure I will really soon."  Buffy paused.  
"Well not so soon seeing as how I'm 120 years in the 
past and she's in the future...or present or whatever.
Jeez, is this a Star Trek moment or what?"

Wyndham-Price shook his head in evident disbelief.  
"Let us start from the beginning. You said the vampire 
you are searching for--"

"Drusilla."

"Drusilla. Yes. You say she is the sire of the vampire
sitting in the blue salon."

"He isn't--"

"A vampire yet.  Yes, Miss Summers we have established
that fact, but let us continue to the heart of the matter.
How do you know who sired this vampire?"

"Other than the fact that Spike and Dru were joined at 
the hip when I first ran into them?"  

The Watcher nodded.

"Spike told me."

The Watcher went back into glower mode.  "And I suppose
the two of you discussed his bloodline over a nice cup 
of tea--"

"Beer and chicken wings actually."

That seemed to be the straw that broke the camel's back.
"Good God girl, what kind of Slayer are you?!"

"A very good one--good as in I can put a major hurt on 
big bads.  Explaining Spike? That I'm not so good at.  
Explaining Spike is. . . well it's like explaining 
Calculus--"  Then realizing the flaw in her statement 
"--and you probably *can* explain Calculus. But I can't, 
so the comparison still works.  Just know that if we want 
to find Dru, all we have to do is follow Spike."

Again Buffy peeked through the opening in the door.
She couldn't help thinking that she'd been doing that a 
lot lately.  It seemed. . .unseemly. . . and that wasn't 
a word Buffy used lightly.  Okay, she didn't use it at 
all, but it seemed kind of appropriate considering 
she was sitting in some Victorian Watcher's library.

It was just that Buffy was beginning to realize that
nothing good came from her