Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Summary: A slayer barters with a demon to rescue her lover, and finds herself unwittingly projected nearly three hundred years into the future with no memory of the life she left behind.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence, language, sexual content
Banner number: 27
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. They are being used out of love and admiration, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

The demon Paimon is based in Christian mythology.

“The devil takes a hand in what is done in haste.”

- Kurdish Proverb loss



A/N: A few things…

First, thanks so much to megan_peta, spikeslovebite, dusty273, elizabuffy, yutamiyu, and angelic_amy for betaing. The support and feedback you guys have lent me has been irreplaceable. Thank you so much!

Secondly, I interpreted the challenge guideline “William days” as Spike’s “human days,” which I believe faithfully adheres to the guideline challenge. And in that, I was absolutely faithful…just inventive. I did double check with angelic_amy to make sure inventive interpretation was acceptable, and she OK’d my plotline based on the guidelines of the banner-challenge. She’s also one of my betas, which helps muchly.

I’m having such a blast with this fic; I can only hope you guys are ready for a wild ride.

1701, New England

She knew not to do anything without salt. There was no rhyme or reason to such knowledge—only the knowledge itself. Salt was invaluable. Salt bade witches away. Salt shielded hallowed grounds. Salt was the only mineral of the earth which offered pure, unadulterated protection. She knew, then, to encircle herself in salt before conjuring a demon.

Even with the Powers in her corner, salt might well be the only thing that could hope to keep her alive.

The circle of salt would not protect her if she had a stake in hand. Salt required a tacit contract of pacifism. She could leave the book open and on the table beside her sacred circle, but she could not bring it into the circle itself. No, save for the clothing on her back and the ritualistic dagger needed for the sacrifice, nothing synthetic could enter the circle.

She thought it odd that she could hold a dagger but not a stake; she decided not to dwell on it.

She felt so alone here. In her Watcher’s abandoned cottage, surrounded by the very symbols which had betrayed her. She’d stopped weeping if only out of exhaustion, her tears rubbing skin raw. Her eyes ached at the thought of shedding more tears. If she paused, if she allowed reality to catch up with her, she was certain the rest of her would break.

He was gone. He was gone.

Resolution hardened her veins. She shook her head in defiance.

Nothing is ever set in stone.

The thought only offered a blink of peace. No matter how many dimensions she battled, no matter what sacred part of herself she had to forfeit, no matter what the cost of his return, she knew nothing in the world could eradicate the sensation of his dust on her fingers. The ghost of his hand against her cheek. The soft smile on his face, knowing his time was ticking to an end but gazing into her eyes with such loving trust that she knew he would trade nothing in the world to save himself.

Don’t cry, sweet girl. Don’t cry.

She shook hard, her trembling hands struggling to light the first of her three candles. Her vision blurred with tears, a storm of sobs crashing against her chest without hint of warning. The air around her was thick and humid after the recent rainfall; she felt flogged with the weight of premonition and bereft with the pain of loss.

If she stopped—if her thoughts caught up with her—she wouldn’t be able to function.

She would dissolve completely.

“I c-call thee,” she muttered softly, her voice trembling against the still breath of night, “oh spirit of shadows, giver of darkness. I beseech you to heed my prayer.” She expelled a deep breath and raised her left hand to her eyes, swallowing hard before applying the blade in her other hand to her wrist. “I offer blood for your mercy.” It didn’t hurt too badly; one little flick of the knife and a dark crimson line stretched across her skin. She blinked hard and twisted her arm until the cut was facing the floor, then pressed her thumb against the incision to encourage drops of blood to spill onto the wooden planks below.

Physical pain was secondary. She was no stranger to bleeding.

“I swear upon the fates,” she continued, turning her wounded wrist back to her eyes so that she was gazing at her open hand. She inhaled sharply and pressed the tip of the blade against her roughened, splinter-laden palm, and carved an upside-down crucifix into her flesh. “To honor my vow. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

She shivered impossibly against the moist, hot air, and turned to face northwest.

“Paimon, King of Hell, servant of the Legion, I beckon you. Appear before me.”

There was nothing for a long minute aside from the chirping of crickets outside the cottage doors. She didn’t know what to expect—this was, of course, her first demon summoning. The only one she had ever, or would ever attempt. A hysterical scream in her head forewarned in advance she would regret any bargain made with a demon, but the part of her that cared had died alongside her lover. The part of her that cared had abandoned her, along with every other human comfort.

Kenneth Travers had betrayed her. The townspeople would have her head if they knew she had returned to her Watcher’s home. Poison had ripped Will out of her life. She was left gutted, hollow and charged with grief.

Losing her soul mattered little against these odds. It was the only thing of value she had left.

The only thing of value she didn’t want.

Not if a soul meant caring about a world that would rape her of her one source of happiness. Of her greatest love. Of her personal salvation.

Kenneth had betrayed her. He was dead now. A victim of his own deceit.

But he’d taken Will with him.

Will…

A great, thunderous roar pierced the air, reverberating through the walls and sending shock waves under her feet. She cried out in surprise and stumbled back, her legs nearly tripping over the protective circle of salt, but balance returned before her sanctuary was soiled. Blind panic speared her veins; she seized control of herself before her emotions spilled into pure terror. A blink of nothing and the entry to the Travers’ home burst open with a great gale of wind, a tall, solitary figure silhouetting the doorway.

The air around her crackled and the hair on her arms stood at attention.

Elizabeth Travers was accustomed to facing demons. Battling vampires. Washing inhuman blood from her clothing and learning new techniques by which to banish the unholiest of creatures back to the bowels of Hell. Her Watcher had taught her everything. Had adopted her, raised her as his own, and instructed her in the old ways of the world. In the manner by which her destiny determined she live.

She was the Slayer. This was her cause. Her existence. Her everything.

Only Kenneth was dead. And he’d taken Will with him. He’d murdered the only man in her life she’d ever truly loved, and he’d tried to end her life in the process. Her surrogate father had betrayed her, and thus everything he’d ever taught her was now in question.

Will was dead. Nothing else mattered.

Nothing but the circle of salt in which she stood, and the demon crowding the doorway.

“Do you know who I am?” the demon asked.

Elizabeth had imagined several incarnations of a Hell Demon’s voice, but whatever expectations she had were quickly banished in a fit of surprise. Despite the booming roar of his entrance, the demon’s words rode out in a cool, elegant timber. There was a sliver of malice, deadly but deceptively calm, edged in the underlying rhythm of his greeting. It was fashioned to send shivers down her spine—to keep her perfectly aware of whom she was dealing with. This was a demon who cared not that she was the Slayer—one some had called the best in history. This was a demon who cared not that her career consisted of sending his friends back to Hell. This was a demon molded of a caliber she had never before encountered.

This was a demon old as time itself. He could blink her out of existence without actually blinking if he so willed. No amount of salt would protect her.

And yet, even knowing this, she refused to tremble.

“You are Paimon,” Elizabeth replied, her voice strangely composed. “King of Hell. Servant of the Legion.”

Paimon inclined his head politely. He was tall—nearly seven feet in height. She was surprised he didn’t have to crouch inside the cottage, but then, demons could likely bend the laws of physics to their particular whim. He was dressed extravagantly, complete with a great jeweled crown atop his head. Elizabeth sensed the movement of others outside the lodge walls. He had not arrived alone, and she was not surprised. The books Travers had left behind had indicated that no figurehead of Hell traveled alone—at least not those of truly noteworthy significance.

“You accept the consequences of my summons?”

She nodded solemnly. “I do.”

“You understand it is my right to ask whatever I desire?”

“I do.”

“You understand it is my right to demand whatever I desire as payment for services rendered?”

“I do.”

“You understand that failing to adhere to any request will result in the immediate acquisition of your mortal soul?”

A beat. Elizabeth swallowed hard and thought of Will. “I do.”

Paimon gestured elegantly as if to give her the floor, a curious smile playing across his lipless mouth. “By all means,” he offered softly, “make your case.”

“I seek the release of a demon.”

“Ah,” he replied, his red eyes flaring with immediate recognition. Of course he’d know immediately the reason of his summons. She had expected no less. “A certain vampire, if I am not mistaken.”

“William,” she agreed with a nod.

Paimon arched a brow—or what would have been a brow had he possessed one. His strikingly feminine facial features were frighteningly void of emotion. The only indication as to the nature of his reaction came in the unnerving tone of his voice. “Does your vampire not possess a surname?”

“Surnames hold no value to vampires.”

“Ah, young Elizabeth. Try again?”

She swallowed hard and nodded, a chill poisoning her veins. Her wounded wrist ached. Her head felt light. She was aware of the muted splatters of blood striking the wooden floor, but made no move to hide or tend to the cut. “William had no use of his surname,” she replied. “At least none that he shared with me.”

“Mmm, yes,” Paimon cooed. “William was a rare breed. He left his past in his past. Didn’t even bother to slaughter his family, as so many vampires are prone to do.”

“He was unique.”

“Others might call him weak.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed dangerously and fight strengthened her tired body. “They would be wrong.”

Paimon smiled indulgently. “A woman prepared to fight for her man,” he said appraisingly, his eyes trailing down the length of her body and focusing on her bleeding wrist. “And sacrifice anything to acquire what she wants.”

She flexed her hand demonstrably. “It’s only blood.”

“Of course,” he replied politely. “And you’ve sacrificed your fair share of blood for dear William before, haven’t you?”

“I love him.”

“A slayer in love with a vampire.” The devil’s eyes twinkled. “I must admit, I am fascinated. What did you find so…how do you say…appealing about this particular species? I’ve known many vampires, as you might imagine, and they are quite a sloppy race. All fang, no courtesy. Many won’t pause long enough from ripping one’s throat out to ask civilized questions.”

“William was different.”

“Ah. Amore. It affects all, yes?”

Elizabeth couldn’t imagine the Hell Demon being at all affected by love, but wisely bit her tongue, fighting the urge to glance down. She wasn’t afraid. She truly wasn’t. And in honesty, her lack of alarm was what truly terrified her. She stood before a minion of the Legion without fear. Losing William had stripped her of concern for herself. She just wanted him back, and if dark magic and bartering with the Devil was the way to do it, she would navigate the necessary channels and sell what of herself she needed to sell.

William might have been a vampire, but he was a good man. She couldn’t abandon him. She wouldn’t.

“You do know what you ask is highly unorthodox,” Paimon continued thoughtfully. “It has never been done before.”

“I know.”

“Resurrecting the spirit of a demon…would you like him just as you remember him?”

She would give anything to see her love’s blue eyes again, but would similarly accept William in any form. “Yes,” she replied hastily. “Yes, please.”

“The scar above his eyebrow. The uncouth twang of his underclassman accent. Yes, you’d want it all. Right down to the sneer on his lips, unless I’m mistaken.” Paimon nodded, his blood-red eyes narrowing into two thin slits of contemplation. “And I am not mistaken. You truly would sell your soul for a vampire. A demon.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard. She hoped to whatever Powers existed that it would not come to that, for she knew she would. A rash move undeniably, but one made out of grief and devotion. If she came to regret it, she would find solace in the knowledge that anything was worth saving her William. Anything. Even at the cost of herself.

“I would,” she replied.

Paimon studied her for a long minute.

And she knew without question he believed her.

“Foolish,” he decided after a long, quiet beat, “but noble. It is a worthy man who earns such devotion, or in this case, a sublimely fortunate vampire.” He paused. “And perhaps you are fortunate as well. You see, I have no interest in your soul.”

Elizabeth blinked disbelievingly, but she did not question him.

“You are surprised?” Paimon chuckled and waved dismissively. “Yes, I’d imagine you are. Believe it or not, child, slayer souls hold little value in the underground. Certainly, there are demons that would bloody each other to tiny bits—rather redundant of them, I must say—to get a taste of you down there. As it is, the Powers set you loose in this world with a handy clause which makes you utterly useless. You, my dear girl, are untouchable. That soul of yours. Even if I dragged you kicking and screaming to the gates of Hell itself, Lucifer could not so much as blow you over.”

A potent rush of panicked relief flooded her veins. If her soul could not be touched, she was in no danger of losing it. No danger of losing herself, and committing that ultimate act of self-betrayal. And yet, if her soul could not be touched, William might be lost to her forever.

She might have summoned a demon to her doorstep for nothing at all.

Her bones froze. It could not be. She would make it work. Somehow, someway, she would make it work.

Better now before she bled to death.

“There is something, though,” Paimon continued, “that you have. Something I want.”

“It’s yours.”

“Don’t you want to hear what it is?”

“It can’t be anything of consequence. Not if my soul is off-limits.” Elizabeth shuddered, her arm going numb. “I will give you whatever you want. Just return William to this earth.”

He fell silent again, considering her thoughtfully. “You truly desire this?”

“Yes.”

“No matter the cost to you?”

“Yes.”

“It could be years before I could reconfigure his existence into this realm. A vampire can not simply disappear and reappear without throwing the whole of the universe out of order.” He shook his head gravely. “No, it must be planned. He must be born again. Right into the blessed womb of his mother, grow up and be shaped into the man he was before he was sired. And ultimately, yes, sired again. There will be remnants of this life, of course. One cannot simply exist, not exist, and exist again without some…mark carrying over. He might hate you.” Paimon chuckled. “He might hate what you’ve done. What you’ve made him relive. He might wish you dead.”

“William would never.”

“He loves you so?”

Elizabeth nodded fiercely, her heart full. “Yes.”

“And you trust the word of a demon?”

“I trust the word of my William. There is nothing else but that.”

“Mmmm.” A few beats of quiet settled between them. “And I suppose, in this perfect universe, you would be reborn as well.”

“Yes.”

“As I said, it might take some time—”

“Time does not concern me.”

He arched a brow. “Oh?”

“I will find him. He will find me. Of this I am certain.”

Paimon fell silent again, considering. It seemed an eternity passed in those few endless minutes. As he watched her, debated her—as though tossing stones into a murky sea of knowledge beyond her understanding.

Ultimately, it was a battle of wills. When she thought she might lose her mind for the silence, he offered a solemn nod.

“I accept your bargain. What you ask shall be done.”

Euphoria raced relief as her balance wavered. The blood-stained planks beneath her feet heaved as the air around her head grew even heavier, her eyesight beginning to dim. There was nothing but understanding—a golden promise for the cosmos to grasp and make into reality.

William.

She would not have to live without him. He would be coming home.

A long sigh rolled off her shoulders, carrying with it a relieved sob. Elizabeth lurched forward, her feet coming dangerously close to the barrier of salt, her voice crackling with liberation.

“Name your price.”

Sunnydale, California, 1997

Somewhere distantly, a bell was ringing.

And someone was nudging her. Pushing her. And…okay, waking her up.

“Buffy? Buffy! You can stop pretending to be…ummm…” Willow took in her tussled, sleep-worn appearance and offered a lop-sided grin. “Studying? The bell. With the ringage? Time for munchies.”

Buffy blinked wearily and sat up. She had no idea when she’d fallen asleep—likely sometime around the Boston Tea Party. The endless droning of Mrs. Hatfield’s old, scratchy voice had proved yet again to be a nice relaxant. So she caught up on all the sleep she missed in slayage, rather than learn anything that would be constructive on, oh say, the final or SATs.

Not that her life was compiled of moments of studious panic. She didn’t have time.

She had a Calling.

“We going shopping after school?” Willow asked as the girls filed into the hallway. “I don’t have anything resembling a Halloween costume at home. And I doubt Snyder’ll consider jeans and a sweatshirt as acceptable attire for marching the kiddies around.”

“Shoppage,” Buffy confirmed with a nod, her mind racing to catch up with the day’s events. Snyder. Halloween. Mandatory trick-or-treating. Shopping.

Right. Because Halloween was dead day for the dead. No demonic tricks or treats. Just good ole fashioned fun.

And hopefully some scheduled smoochies with Angel. After she found a period-appropriate dress.

Oh yes. Buffy was determined this was going to be a Halloween she wouldn’t forget.

 

 

A/N: Thank you to everyone for the wonderful response to Chapter One. You guys completely blew me away.

To satisfy some inquiries, allow me to reassure you: I am not going to neglect my other WIPs. There will be an update of both TdA and SF—I’m approaching the first “stopping point” I set up for this fic at a good pace, so I’ll be working on the others here soon. I just need to go where my muse takes me or I know I won’t be satisfied with the outcome.

In the meantime, I hope you guys are enjoying this, ‘cause I’m having a ball with it.

I should add that much of this fic will be anachronistic in nature. I'm not too concerned with historical accuracy (concerning words; not events. Events, if any, will always be researched) - I'm just having fun.

*hugs*

OH! And thank you so much to whoever nominated Dreamscape at the fl_awards !

The dreams had grown stronger since arriving in Sunnydale. There was no point in denying it—denial did not make the truth any less significant. Denial didn’t make the dreams vanish. Denial didn’t do anything but exacerbate an unmovable fact. The dreams were growing stronger, more frequent; he was lucky now to escape a single night without a visit from his nocturnal angel. And perhaps he wouldn’t be so concerned about the dreams had the faceless woman remained faceless. The dreams had been with him since infancy—always the same thing, always the same woman. Always the same everything.

Only now they had a face.

And the face looked frighteningly similar to the Slayer.

Spike honestly didn’t know what to make of it. Not once had the phantom woman in his psyche assumed the persona of a woman in his life. Not when he was an awkward teenager in middleclass London, not when Drusilla rescued him from mediocrity, and certainly in neither of the two instances in which he’d hunted down and bathed his hands in slayer blood.

The fact that something consistent in his life had suddenly turned inconsistent didn’t really bother him; it was unusual, yes, but not unheard of.

No. What bothered him was the dreams were the only remnants of his human days which had carried over into the twentieth century. The only thing he relied upon when Drusilla was too weak to respond to his amorous touch, or when his sire’s emotional distancing left him in the uncomfortable reality of how alone he truly was. The dreams brought a woman. A woman composed of poetry and shining with light. A woman whom, in his youth, he’d assumed was his guardian angel. Adulthood had transformed the romantic notion into a proverbial pipe-dream; his subconscious telling him what sort of woman he truly wanted. Vampirism had molded the interpretation into the pinnacle of desires: what he needed in Drusilla but never received. What he wanted more than anything—a perfect, nonexistent being who would complete every hollow crevice of his worn body.

Suddenly, the angel of night had transformed into something else entirely.

Suddenly she looked like the Slayer.

It was bizarre the way it happened. Spike had always seen a young woman with emerald eyes. Her hair was dark brown—the color he now assumed was Buffy Summers’s natural shade. Her smile was infectious, her laughter addictive. Her skin tasted like honey and smelled of raspberries; her lips were soft and warm, her tongue a golden caress against his own. Her skin felt like cashmere beneath his touch, and her body molded against his as though they had been fashioned together.

There was power in her hands and loyalty in her heart. And the love she gave him in a single glance bent time and reshaped realities.

None of that had changed. The only thing that was different was that her face carried over now. It hadn’t before. He’d always awaken from the dreams with a vague recollection of what had occurred—of what he’d seen and experienced. He’d feel her skin beneath his hands and taste her kiss for the day’s duration, but her face always eluded him. He recognized her instantly at night, of course, but never during the day.

Not until now.

At night. Every night. Ever since he met her outside that bloody alley, there was the Slayer. The Slayer was his woman. The one to comfort him in the lonely emptiness of night. The one who stroked his cheeks and whispered soothingly into his ears. The one who encouraged him to rest his head in her lap so she could stroke his hair.

It was bloody outrageous.

More than that—it was insane.

It had to stop.

Spike knew he wasn’t helping matters. His obsession with the Slayer had exploded beyond his reckoning. He wanted more than anything to snap her neck and be done with the whole sordid affair. The fact that the idea alone made him feel nauseous was more than enough reason to proceed with her regularly scheduled death. The sooner Buffy Summers was out of his unlife, the better. Perhaps her face would fade and the nightly angel would return to him, enigmatic and distant. A proverbial woman who did not exist.

He tried to tell himself he was watching the videos his lackey had made to study her moves for that very purpose.

He wasn’t getting very far in convincing himself.

“Here it comes,” Spike said to the room, his body tightening with excitement. Annoyance that she was, no one could deny the Slayer was pure poetry in motion. Her body twisted like lyrics come to life. The fiery, seductive determination on her face served as a walking aphrodisiac. He licked his lips and inhaled sharply, nodding to the nearest lackey. He could watch this all sodding day and not get bored. Say what you would about the Slayer; she was gorgeous. So bloody gorgeous.

And so bloody off-limits.

“Rewind that,” Spike instructed the lackey, not taking his eyes away from the screen. “Let’s see that again.”

The tape backtracked a few frames. He strolled to a different screen, exhilaration pumping his dead veins. He masked his inappropriate reaction with a chuckle, though he doubted any of the cronies around him would have mistaken his shudder for anything but desire. “She’s tricky,” he drawled. “Baby likes to play.”

On the telly, the Slayer fell hard against a makeshift fence in the Sunnydale pumpkin patch, and even though he’d seen it a thousand times, Spike still grinned at her quick recovery. Buffy was on her feet in an instant, snapping off a piece of the fence and shoving it through her attacker’s heart. She had no way of knowing that the vampire was there on a suicide mission, of course, or that every second of her battle was being recorded for the purpose of uncovering and exploiting a weakness. The vampire-attacker hadn’t held back—if he had, the tape would be worthless. Rather, he’d been sent after the Slayer without knowing his was a suicide mission. Spike had known his lackey wouldn’t return. The lackey in question hadn’t known it until the second before he tasted dust.

There was something addictive about being the local vamp mob-boss. He could get used to this.

Even if cronies and giant master plans weren’t his forte. No, Spike much preferred the lonely road. As long as he had blood in his stomach and Drusilla at his side, not to mention a spot of violence every night and something catchy on the telly, he was a satisfied bloke.

He wasn’t the sort to sit at home and plan the apocalypse. No, that was Angelus…before Angelus turned into a ninny lapdog. Spike was in Sunnydale for one reason and one reason only: restore Drusilla to her former glory. He’d off the Slayer, guzzle her blood, snack on her friends for dessert, and the world would be set right again.

“You see that?” Spike said loudly, doing his best to ignore the internal angry growl of his demon. Sodding thing was getting wonkier by the day. The Slayer’s death was cause for celebration. Maybe there was something in the water. It was the Hellmouth, after all.

Not that he drank the water, but he was reasonably certain the blighters he offed did.

And if he’d learned anything from Woodstock…

Spike shook his head, belatedly realizing he’d paused in mid-thought. “The way she stakes him with that thing?” he continued, gesturing to the telly. “That’s what’s called resourceful. Rewind it again.”

“Miss Edith needs her tea,” Drusilla singsonged from the other room, waltzing over the threshold.

He turned rapidly, a guilty flash warming his cheeks. He was able to quell it just as quickly, but knowledge had a funny way of remaining long after initial sparks had vanished. “C’mere, poodle,” he said, extending his hand to hers.

He tried bloody hard not to compare her cold, fragile touch to the warm, strong touch of his night angel. It was unfair—it wasn’t right. Never before had the dreams disrupted his life. The life he led between sleeps. The life with Dru.

Now he was holding his love’s hand and wishing she were someone else.

There was nothing at all right with this picture.

As though reading his mind, which he was almost certain she had, Drusilla cooed, “Do you love my insides? The parts you can’t see?”

Spike swallowed hard. “Eyeballs to entrails, my sweet,” he replied, nodding fiercely at the telly. “That’s why I’ve got to study this slayer. Once I know her I can kill her.” He bloody well hoped. “An’ once I kill her, you can have your run of Sunnyhell. Get strong again.”

Once he killed her, she’d no longer haunt him.

Only he didn’t say that part.

“Don’t worry,” Drusilla breathed, and for one horrible instant he thought she truly had read his mind. A fear which lapsed the next second. “Everything’s switching. Outside to inside.” A small gale of cool, dead air hit his neck. “It makes her weak.”

Weak. Weak.

The Slayer weak. Now that was something he could get into.

“Really?” he demanded eagerly. “Did my pet have a vision?”

“Do you know what I miss?” Drusilla asked airily. “Leeches.”

“Come on,” he probed, his hands taking hold of her waist. Again he tried to wane off comparison between her cool frigid body and his night angel’s warm, welcoming embrace. Again he failed. “Talk to Daddy. This thing that makes the Slayer weak…when is it?”

His dark princess averted her eyes as though embarrassed. It was rot, he knew. Dru never got embarrassed. She danced naked in the moonlight—often when she knew mums and little tykes would be around to see her in full glory. No, Dru was anything but modest. “Tomorrow,” she replied softly.

Spike frowned. “Tomorrow’s Halloween,” he argued. “Nothing happens on Halloween.”

She shook her head, meeting his eyes again. “Someone’s come to change it all,” she whispered excitedly.

Spike blinked at her, his mind racing to mesh her words with reality.

And then a silver light of knowledge.

Change could be a very, very good thing.

And the way things were going, he could use all the change he could get.

The air tasted different. Balmy. Warm. Humid. It was not the air of home. The air she knew so well. The air which had breathed life into her worn, tired body more times than she cared to consider. Nights in her village had been kissed with cold. Often while waiting for the dead to rise, she would entertain herself by observing the curious swirl of her breath as she did her best to keep warm. Warmth was not a concern once battle broke out, of course. More often than not, Elizabeth relied on adrenaline to keep her body heated.

At least in the beginning. After William, she didn’t need to search for heat. Heat found her.

William…

Elizabeth blinked wearily, a tired, pained moan whimpering through her lips. It seemed her body had betrayed her. She was on the ground, her back propped against what felt like a tree. Screams ripped through the balmy air—screams of what sounded like hundreds. She felt a shudder of old fortitude and forced her eyes to remain open. Not that it did much good—her vision was blurred. There was nothing discernible about her location. Nothing but a hodgepodge of shapes and colors; faceless blurs racing across an unknown terrain in a place she’d never before ventured.

Demons. These were the cries of demons.

Elizabeth gasped and shot to her feet, shaking her head hard to clear her murky vision. Endless seconds passed until the scene before her hardened into something tangible, and even then she remained irrefutably lost.

This was unlike anything she’d encountered—anything that could be construed as a slip of reality. This was no reality. Lights. No trees. A rampage of demons and crowds of panicked humans in bizarre clothing scurrying into the most curiously illuminated cottages she’d ever seen.

Witchcraft.

The word sent a dark shudder down her spine and her resolve fortified.

The last thing she recalled was the face of a demon lord. One she’d summoned. She’d been on her back, drowning in her own blood. He hadn’t allowed her wound to heal itself. Her inherent super-strength should have guaranteed her survival beyond the offering of blood, but Paimon had denied her. It was just as well; the sooner her life ended, the sooner she could be reborn.

The sooner she and William could be reunited.

Reunited.

Elizabeth glanced down to herself. She was wearing some god-awful dress that only Kenneth could have selected for her. He’d gone through a phase in her adolescence in which he’d tried to dress her up as a live doll—present her as the perfect young lady to those around them. To protect her, or so he said. To ensure that no one would ever dream of connecting the violence of the night to the sweet girl in the pretty dress.

So she was dressed to please the locals.

And the locals were running around screaming with demons from all walks of life hot on their heels.

She was not home. She was far from home.

Paimon had inserted her into a society far from her own. Her body felt the same. When she looked down, she saw her hands. When she spoke, she heard her voice. She fisted handfuls of her own hair and recognized the familiar contours of her face as her fingers explored what she could not see.

Everything was there. She was Elizabeth Travers.

She was here.

“Buffy!”

Her heart leapt into her throat. She’d never heard that name colored in a woman’s voice. She’d never heard anyone save her beloved breathe it to life. Elizabeth’s stomach clenched and she whirled around, her eyes landing on an exuberant redhead who was dressed like…well, she’d never seen anyone dressed in so little. Not in public, anyway. Perhaps this was some modern version of a streetwalker.

But that was neither here nor there. What truly mattered was the name she’d called her.

“My gorgeous li’l slayer.” A lick of his tongue across her quivering skin. Her insides pooled into desire, and she reached for him with trembling hands. He grinned in kind and kissed her lips, his hands framing her face. “My sweet Buffy.”

Buffy.

How did this girl know her name? The name only William knew?

The name William had given her.

“Buffy?” she replied, indignant. “What sort of name is Buffy?”

“Your name.”

“I prefer Elizabeth, thank you very much.”

“Elizabeth is the Slayer,” William countered, his calloused fingers tugging expertly at her hard nipples, his mouth exploring the creamy flesh of her throat. “The Slayer is not welcome here.”

“I am always the Slayer,” she replied, her words little more than a dreamy gasp. She thrust her hips hard against his and melted when he growled and thrust back. She’d grown addicted to the hard feel of him between her thighs, rubbing her with reckless disregard to anyone who might find them.

“Not here, you’re not,” William replied simply, wheedling a hand between them. “With me…you’re…mmm…”

“Unh…”

“You’re…” His fingers pried her vaginal lips apart and slipped across her swollen, tender pearl. He favored her with a cocky wink. “Buffy.”

She fought the urge to laugh. “I am not.”

“You’re Buffy. You’re my Buffy.”

“I bloody well am not!”

William’s dancing eyes glazed over her face, wandering southward until he was staring at her breasts. “You most certainly are,” he told her heaving bosom. “You should see it from this angle.”

“Will—”

“You’re mine, an’ I’ll call you whatever I bloody well like.” He grinned and tickled her lips with his tongue, the fingers at her pussy massaging her throbbing clitoris into a new form of madness. “You’re Buffy.”

“You’re nutty.”

“Love tends to turn a bloke wonky, yeah? ‘Specially a bloke who falls for the enemy.” He nuzzled her throat tenderly and pressed a kiss against the sacred mark blushing her flesh. “You’re my Buffy, darling. Accept it.”

Elizabeth’s vision blurred, another gasp clawing for freedom. Around him, air seemed in short supply. “I might need some…convincing,” she conceded, feeling very wanton and rather unapologetic about it.

William met her eyes, the demon in his all but purring with pleasure. “Oh kitten,” he growled, his hand abandoning her center to free his cock. “You know how I feel about challenges.”

“Remind me.”

The redhead was at her side now. She attempted to grab Elizabeth’s arm but her hand whipped right through her skin as though made of nothing. But even that didn’t faze the Slayer; it was the fact that the girl was still calling her Buffy.

William’s name for her.

“Buffy, are you okay?” the streetwalker demanded.

The streetwalker was not alone. A man in strange clothing and a wicked-looking musket was at her side. Elizabeth’s eyes sized up the weapon covetously. She would have to find a way to get her hands on that.

Perhaps this was a test. Perhaps Paimon meant for her to rescue William from these people.

Or perhaps these people were truly allies. Perhaps she was supposed to rescue William from the monsters around them.

Perhaps this was Hell.

“This could be a situation,” the man stated by way of greeting.

The streetwalker looked petrified, but was quite adamant on the familiarity of their acquaintance. “Buffy, what do we do?” she asked fearfully.

The words were innocuous enough, but they fueled her with a strange sense of authority.

These were allies. And they’d just made her their leader.

“Well, I think it’s obvious,” Elizabeth said firmly. “We find William.”

 

 

A/N: Thank you all so much for the unbelievable response to this fic. I haven’t enjoyed writing this much in a long, long time. Thank you guys for making it so much fun.

I think it’s that special time of year wherein I rediscover love of Spuffy, BtVS, and fandom altogether. *hugs everyone*

I should remind everyone that much of the flashbacks are going to be anachronistic in nature. I’m just having fun. Anything that’s not actually a historical event won’t be looked up. Everything that is a historical event will, of course, be researched.

Again, thank you guys so much. I can’t tell you what your support and feedback means to me.

It was quite possible her first instinct was off the mark.

“Obvious?” the streetwalker demanded incredulously. “You call that obvious?”

“Who’s William?” demanded the man with the weapon, his eyes not meeting Elizabeth’s. “Is this a drill?”

He kept aiming the muzzle of the musket-replica at the demons around them. Not that a musket would do much good, but it was better than nothing. Elizabeth found she was woefully lacking in the stake department.

“A what?” she repeated, perplexed.

“A drill. Sergeant Nichols said we’d be doing drills.” The man swung his musket around until it was pointed square between her eyes. “Identify yourself.”

“Xander, put that down!”

He whirled around again. “Stop calling me that!”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

He seemed to balk at that, blinking rapidly as though to unify two completely different trains of thought. “Well…yes. But I still don’t see how—”

“I’m your friend,” the redhead insisted. “So is Buffy.”

“Who’s Buffy?” the man called Xander demanded.

Elizabeth raised her hand. “That would be me.”

The streetwalker waved dismissively. “He doesn’t remember who he is,” she said by way of explanation. Then she grew silent, sizing up Elizabeth with slanted speculation. “Wait a second…do you remember who you are?”

“Of course I do. I’m Elizabeth Travers. Or Buffy, if you prefer it. Though I’d like to know where you heard that name.” She paused. “Do you have a name?”

The answer obviously wasn’t the one the redhead expected. The frown on her face attested as much. “I-I’m Willow. A-and I think we should—” She gasped and ducked as a small blue goblin scrambled up their way. Not that ducking would do any good, seeing as goblins were about two feet in height and the best way to avoid them was to go up rather than down.

The musket dealt with the goblin accordingly, but the swarm of demons wasn’t thinning.

A fact seemingly not lost on her strange companions.

“—I think,” the streetwalker continued shakily, “we should get inside.”

“And away from the demons,” Elizabeth said in agreement, turning her eyes to the bizarre creature moving at a frighteningly speedy pace up the road. She’d seen her fair share of evil creatures; never before had they sported lights and been on wheels. “Have demons grown…larger since I’ve been away?”

Xander and Willow exchanged what could only be a dubious glance.

“Is this woman insane?” the man asked.

“She’s from the past,” Willow explained.

Well, it seemed the redhead was far more in tune to what was happening than she was. Elizabeth couldn’t remember much past the last ten minutes, let alone the life she was allegedly to have led since her deal with Paimon.

Paimon…who evidently had yet to collect his payment.

“And you’re a ghost,” Xander said, staring at the streetwalker.

“Yes!” the girl exclaimed. “Now let’s get inside!”

The man pursed his lips and swallowed hard. “I just want you to know that I’m taking a lot on faith here.” He nodded. “Where do we go?”

“To Buffy’s,” Willow insisted.

“I live here?” Elizabeth repeated incredulously. She was certain she would recognize the warm air if this was true. The air, the ambiance, the strange-looking cottages and the demons on wheels. Quite obviously there was much missing from her memory. She just needed to decipher what.

“Yes,” the redhead acknowledged hurriedly, attempting to grasp her wrist. Her fingers waved through her skin as though made of nothing, and a chill raced down Elizabeth’s spine. “Erm,” Willow said, shaken. “I need to…not do that.”

The path they took was very much not familiar to her, nor was the house the redhead was adamant upon entering. However, seeing as she was very much out of her element until someone filled in the gaps, Elizabeth was not in the mood to argue. She filed in obediently behind the ghost-girl and stepped across the threshold and into the unfamiliar home.

The one which was allegedly hers.

“Hello?” Willow called tentatively. “Mrs. Summers?”

The use of her old surname struck Elizabeth like a proverbial slap across the face. She’d heard Kenneth refer to her birth parents once, maybe twice, but never as anything more than cursory acknowledgment. She’d never once been called Elizabeth Summers, even if that was how she entered the world.

Wherever she was, her mother was still here.

Still alive.

Elizabeth sniffed hard with a sudden incursion of unwanted tears. She didn’t enjoy showcasing weakness, especially among strangers. And yet there was no hiding the surge of emotion storming her insides. Her mother. The woman she’d never known, but had loved all her life. Her mother was here.

She would see her. She would see her mother.

“Good, she’s gone,” Willow said quickly, earning a sharp glare which went entirely wasted.

“Where are we?” Xander asked, shutting the door behind them.

“This is Buffy’s place. Now we just need to—”

A sharp knock at the door made the walls explode with sound. Xander immediately turned to investigate.

“Don’t open it!” the ghost exclaimed.

“Could be a civilian,” Xander replied reasonably.

“Or a mini-demon,” came the just-as-reasonable retort.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and turned her attention to her home. It was comfortably furnished, if not compact with devices and objects she didn’t recognize. There was a large box in front of what she could only assume was a modern settee. A fireplace stretched the wall, and a staircase led to the bed-chambers above, or so she concluded. There was a dining area and small portraits encased in glass on practically every fixture.

Her eyes settled on one. It was a rendering of herself and the two people with her.

Only she looked different. Very different. Her attire resembled the streetwalker’s. Her hair was short and light. There was no hint of unfamiliarity on her face. She looked, indeed, to be in the company of friends.

“It’s us,” Willow said softly, startling Elizabeth out of her skin. Not that she’d ever admit it. She whirled around quickly and met the other girl’s imploring gaze. “We are friends, Buffy.”

She licked her lips and nodded. “And…the year?”

“1997,” the girl replied. “Why? What year is it…for you?”

The answer nearly knocked her over. Air was suddenly very thin. Her heart pounded furiously against her chest. All feeling abandoned her body. She was numb. Cold. Very cold.

Now this felt more like home.

“Buffy? Oh God, she’s gonna faint. Xander!”

“No,” she answered quickly, waving hard at the approaching man. She didn’t think she could stand to have anyone touch her. Not now. Not someone she didn’t know. “I’m…I’ll be…I will be…fine.”

It was nearly three hundred years in the future.

Three hundred years.

Perhaps she wasn’t going to be so fine after all.

“Buffy? Talk to us.”

Without warning, Elizabeth found herself plopped into the nearest chaise, the redhead in the streetwalker clothing kneeling in front of her. Xander kept vigilant at the nearest window, peering at whatever lurked outside.

“What year is it for you?” Willow asked again.

“Seven…oh Lord…” She was very dizzy. “1701.”

Xander tossed her a curious look. Willow’s eyes widened considerably. And Elizabeth felt inexplicably and utterly alone.

Thankfully the moment didn’t last too long. A crash exploded through the air as the glass pane of the window shattered. Xander was thankfully alert, as Elizabeth felt about as prepared to slay a demon as she did to attend a church service.

“Not a civilian!” Willow screamed.

He aimed at the glass hole with the musket. “Affirmative!”

“Hey! What did we say?!”

Sound boomed as he activated the trigger. Willow winced. Elizabeth found herself covering her ears. It seemed to last forever, but was likely over in a matter of seconds. Long, endless seconds.

Whatever modifications had been made to muskets in the past three hundred years, she fully approved of.

And she wanted to get her hands on it now more than ever.

“Big noise scare monster, remember?” Xander explained simplistically.

Willow nodded. “Got it.”

The sound of a screaming woman pierced through the calm aftermath of the musket’s firing. And before Elizabeth could prepare for whatever was about to attack them next, Xander swore and fled out the front door, slamming it closed behind him.

Uncomfortable silence settled around them. Willow tossed Elizabeth an awkward glance.

“So,” she said. “1701, huh?”

Elizabeth waved dismissively. “We can discuss that later. Right now, the important thing is finding William.”

Willow’s eyes slanted with incredulity. “Uhhh. I think the important thing is ending this spell so the craziness goes away. You with the…eighteenth century mumbo jumbo. Xander, who’s all with the…” She winced. “Gun. A-and me…” She waved at herself. “Dead.”

“You don’t understand. I’m here to find William.”

“No…you don’t understand. You’re Buffy Summers. You live in Sunnydale, California, and we don’t know anyone called William.”

“Are you a vampire?”

Willow blinked. “Am I what?”

“A vampire.” Elizabeth frowned. “Oh…no, you must…you must not…know.”

“No, I know!” the redhead countered, her voice shrill. “I so know. The…thing. With the Slayer. And the Calling. And the…once every generation? You just…I’m not a vampire. I am so not a vampire. If I was any less a vampire, I’d be…well, something that’s not a vampire.”

“A human?”

“That’s right.” Willow nodded hard. “No, you’re the Slayer. You’re the Slayer, we’re the slayerettes. We help you…and stuff.”

Well, that was certainly a shocking revelation. Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath, her mind racing with flashes of knowledge. A clash of absolutes. The Slayer was alone in this world. She didn’t have companions or…or slayerettes. She wasn’t allowed close friendships. She wasn’t allowed anything other than a Watcher.

She wasn’t allowed anything.

She hadn’t been allowed William, and that was the reason Kenneth had taken him away from her.

“I have…help?”

Willow nodded eagerly. “Lots. Or…erm…however much we can…we can give you. I-I mean, Xander’s just…Xander and I’m…I’m good with computers a-and…well, you wouldn’t know what computers are, but I’m good with them—”

“I’m sure you are.”

“And—”

The door flew open again, making them both to jump. Inward came Xander once more, this time accompanied with the strangest looking woman Elizabeth had ever seen. She appeared to be dressed in a long, one-piece strip of thin fabric, with makeshift cat-ears attached to her head and what appeared to be painted whiskers stretched across her face.

“Cordelia!” Willow exclaimed.

Evidently, this living cat-person was someone else that she was supposed to know.

Times had certainly changed.

“Wait a…” The cat-person’s facial features contorted into something almost comical. “What’s going on?”

Willow jumped in hurriedly. “Okay, your name is Cordelia. You're not a cat, you're in high school, and we're your friends.” She paused and added as an afterthought, “Well, sort of.”

“That’s nice, Willow. And you went mental when?”

“You know us?”

Elizabeth fought off another eye-roll. That much seemed more than obvious.

“Yeah, lucky me,” Cordelia retorted dryly. “What’s with the name game?”

“A lot’s going on.”

Another piece of knowledge which seemed more than obvious.

“No kidding,” Cat-Woman replied. “I was just attacked by Jo-Jo, the Dog-Faced Boy. Look at my costume!” She gestured to the torn fabric dangling from her strange attire. “Do you really think that Partytown's gonna give me my deposit back? Not on the likely.”

A smile tugged on Elizabeth’s face. She admitted a growing, albeit begrudging fondness blossoming within her chest. Friendship was something she’d never had before—and while she didn’t know these people from Adam, she would have to assume them to be genuinely good and well-intentioned, especially if they took the existence of demons and vampires at face-value.

She wanted to get to know them.

Not as much, however, as she wanted to find William. She needed to find William. He had to be here. If she was here and it was nearly three hundred years in the future, he had to be here, too. There had to be a reason she was here now. That she knew without a fault who she was. Not Buffy Summers, though the name did have a particular ring to it that she could see herself growing to like.

William was somewhere out there.

Perhaps he was just as confused as she was.

God, perhaps he was looking for her.

Elizabeth swallowed hard. She needed to get out of here.

“I need to get out,” she said. “I need to find William.”

“Who’s William?” Cordelia demanded.

“Don’t know,” Xander replied, assuming his place beside the window, the musket prepared to fire through the broken pane if necessary. “Don’t really care.”

“It’s…we don’t know,” Willow replied. “I don’t…I don’t think he’s real.”

The suggestion that William and by implication their love could be anything less than real made her chest swell with a fury of outraged grief. “He’s real,” she all but growled. “He’s very real.”

Willow suddenly looked like a small animal about to be trampled. “A-and a vampire, apparently.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said testily.

“Oh!” Cordelia exclaimed. “Are we talking about Angel?”

“Angel?”

“Y’know—the mega-hottie who you tried to convince me was a vamp so I’d back the hell off and let you have free-reign over all that salty goodness?” She arched a perfectly-shaped cat brow. “Is he William in this bizarre-o universe you’ve created around yourself?”

“Whoa!” Willow screamed, throwing her hands up. A sound Elizabeth barely registered as a growl split through her lips, her feet carrying her toward the Cat-Woman—whom had just slid considerably down her list of nice people—with a mind to hurt. The redhead tried to situate herself between them, which did little good as she was presently a ghost. “This is completely not the time to anger the Slayer who has no idea who you are, Cordy!”

Cordelia blinked stupidly. “She doesn’t?”

“She doesn’t,” Elizabeth confirmed, still growling. “And unless you want to explain yourself, I suggest you run.” A pause. “Now.”

“I-it’s like amnesia,” Willow explained quickly. “They don’t remember who they are.”

“I remember exactly who I am,” Elizabeth interjected, her eyes narrowing. “And yes, while I…while my memory is lacking in certain areas, there is absolutely no doubt as to who I am or who William is. Or who we are to each other. Therefore…if you don’t mind…” She inhaled sharply. “William is—”

“Suddenly very much here,” Cordelia said breathily, her eyes shifting to a shape behind her.

It was a very strange feeling—going from absolute bliss to the lowest form of disappointment in less than a second. The instant the words left the Cat-Woman’s lips, Elizabeth experienced an inflation of happiness she had never expected to reach again. All at once she could feel William’s hands on her body and his lips at her ear, whispering that her nightmare was finally over and all would be right again. The dream was so vivid she could practically taste it, but it left her just as quickly. William’s presence was one inherently familiar to her. One she could identify if she was blindfolded and surrounded by vampires. Even the first time their eyes met, her body had sparked in such a way she knew without fault that he would change her life forever. Undeniably. One way or another.

The person Cordelia had identified as William was not William. Not even close.

He was, however, a vampire.

Elizabeth’s eyes darted to the nearest slice of wood. There was a piece of furniture which hosted a strange looking vase with a shade topping its head and another device of modernity that she couldn’t identify at all. The legs of the stand were wooden. The lack of alarm on the faces of those around her—alongside the absence of snarling—lent her pause.

“Angel!” Willow said, relief pouring into her voice. “Oh thank God. Can you…can you keep Buffy from killing Cordelia? I need to get to Giles.”

“Why is Buffy trying to kill Cordelia?” the vampire replied, more than perplexed. “Does this have anything to do with the chaos outside?”

Elizabeth turned around slowly, her eyes confirming what her heart already knew. The vampire was not her William. He was nothing like her William. His voice was roughened with an American accent. His frame large and bulky compared to the wiry strength her William possessed. His hair was oddly resistant to gravity. His eyes were chocolate brown, not blue. And while he looked at her with a sense of affection and longing, there was nothing recognizable about him.

William was still out there.

“God, I hope.” The redhead shook her head heavily and turned to face the wall. “Just…keep everything together.”

The vampire’s eyes flickered to the man standing attentive at the window. “Why does Xander have a gun?”

“Hey,” the musket-wielding man barked indignantly. “That’s Private Harris to you.”

“Angel…I don’t…” Willow trailed off helplessly, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t know what’s going on. All I know is I was a ghost for Halloween, and now I’m a ghost. Xander was some military guy…and now…”

“And Buffy…”

“She dressed up for you.”

Elizabeth’s nose wrinkled. “I did?”

“She thinks you’re a vampire,” Cordelia said by way of explanation, rolling her eyes.

“I am a vampire.”

The girl’s face went comically blank. “Say what?”

“I’m going to find Giles,” Willow repeated. “He can…well, he can make sense of this. I hope.” She pointed at Angel. “You. Keep Cordelia and Buffy from killing each other. Or…rather, keep Buffy from killing Cordelia. A-and you.” She whirled around, aiming her point at Xander. “Don’t shoot at any demons. Scare them, sure. But that’s still a little kid in there.”

“In there?” he repeated incredulously. “Whatever you say, lady.”

“Just…don’t shoot them, ‘kay? We don’t know who’s a demon and who’s not.”

“They all look like demons to me.”

“And I look—erm—I feel like a ghost, but I’m not! I’m gonna get this fixed.” Willow turned back to Angel and implored him with a look. “Please…make sure everything stays reasonably…sane here?”

“Uhhh…”

“I’m not staying here!” Elizabeth announced. Her outburst was aimed at Willow, but the girl had vanished through the nearest wall, evidently overeager to get out of the house. Frustrated, she turned to the vampire and Cordelia, neither of whom thought she was in her right head, judging by the looks on their faces. “I’m not staying here.”

Angel reached for her, which, as he rapidly learned, was a mistake. She seized his arm and tossed him over her head, his thunderous body making the walls tremble with the impact of his crash.

Cordelia blinked. “Whoa.”

“Holy cow,” Xander said shortly, his eyes wide. “She’s like…a fourth your size, man.”

“I’m going to find William,” Elizabeth said resolutely. “And none of you can stop me.”

Angel stared up at her as though she’d started speaking in a foreign tongue. “William?”

“I’m leaving now.”

“We’re not stopping you,” Cordelia agreed, her hands coming up. “Observe the not-stopping-you of us.”

Xander nodded his accord but didn’t say anything. Angel just looked at her.

Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath, encouraged.

William was out there. She didn’t know where. She didn’t know how she was going to find him. She just knew he was out there.

And if she knew him, he was probably worried out of his mind over her.

It was time to find him and absolve those fears and concerns. They would be together now. Forever.

They would have the forever Kenneth had stolen from them.

If nothing else, they would have forever.

 

There was nothing in the stars or in his sire’s cryptic warning which could have prepared him for this. This wondrous, delightful madness dancing across the Hellmouth’s gates. Demons lurked around every corner. Attacking pedestrians, messing with traffic lights, leaping in front of moving vehicles; it was chaos at its best, and he’d never witnessed anything so bloody amusing.

It was as though every classic horror tale had suddenly spurned life. Everywhere he glanced, he met a demon’s eyes. Species of demon he’d never before encountered; demons he’d never heard of; demons he’d only seen described in pages of mythology. Demons which only lived in the minds of writers and the squeamish religious sort. A parade of demons.

He absolutely loved it.

Spike wasn’t a fool. He knew there was a mystical explanation, and that his time in the devil’s playground most likely ran regrettably short. He also had brains enough about him to piece together the likelihood that the Slayer was a victim of this madness, and hence weak as Drusilla had suggested. Whatever had affected all the little tykes and their residual desecration of everything Halloween was supposed to represent had affected her as well. And all he had to do was find her.

Before Angel the walking party-pooper interrupted and set about raining on his parade.

Spike wasn’t about to toss away a golden opportunity like this. He’d hunt her down and snap her neck. He’d spice his liquor with her blood and make a trophy of her body. He’d been merciful with slayers in the past—with Buffy, any semblance of his favorable side would be nonexistent.

In order to obliterate her from his dreams, he needed to obliterate her.

Perhaps then he’d win back his nights.

Or perhaps he’d be haunted by her face forever.

Spike shuddered and snarled, causing the army of miniature demons behind him to murmur speculatively in a range of tongues he couldn’t identify. The sodding Slayer best not even consider wheedling her way further into his psyche than she was already. He truly didn’t fancy beating himself over the skull with a blunt object until his memory of her was nothing more than a shadow. The way he figured it, he’d have to send his brain through a bloody shredder before Buffy’s face faded to ambiguity. And there were too many instances of his existence that he didn’t want to forfeit for the sake of banishing one troublesome blonde.

It was ridiculous how deeply one chit could affect him. One chit whom he’d only twice encountered in the flesh. He’d seen her dance and he’d felt her hot little body pressed intimately against his in a span of forty-eight hours. Every glance he’d stolen of her since the disastrous mess he’d made of St. Vigeous had been at a woeful distance.

Spike had already reconciled he wasn’t one for master plans. He had a bloody hard time of staying away so necessary events could unfold. What he truly wanted was to storm up to her, provoke her into a fight, and rip her beautiful head off her shoulders. He didn’t want to be patient. He wanted this to end. Now.

He wanted to get her up close. He wanted to get his hands on that annoyingly perfect skin of hers.

He wanted…

To fuck her into the bloody ground.

Spike snarled again and turned a sharp corner down an unfamiliar alleyway. And without warning—without anything at all—her scent filled his nostrils. Her potent, intoxicating scent. The musk of slayer, undeniable in its richness. The flavor of Buffy Summers. Undeniably Buffy Summers.

Something significant shifted inside him. His cock took immediate notice as well.

And then he saw her. A fucking vision if there ever was one. She moved down the dark passageway with nothing but confidence at her side. Her hair was long brown: a true visage of his night angel prior to barreling down the Welcome to Sunnyhell sign and initiating himself in a world he was in no way prepared to face. Her eyes were large and bright; she was lost, but unafraid. She moved like royalty. And she was looking for something.

He knew the moment she sensed him. He saw the shudder of realization grip her shoulders, heard the gasp that claimed the night air, watched as she raised her head and met his eyes. The mini-monsters behind him cackled and cooed with delight, and while his brain told him to relish this moment as the last she’d ever enjoy, something carnal stirred within his loins and his demon howled for recognition. All at once, he felt thoroughly paralyzed. Felt trapped in an odd moment of pure déjà vu; his mind scrambled to catch up with the fading memory of something long forgotten, but it was too fast for him to catch. Somehow in the shadow of an instant everything had changed.

He needed to kill her quickly before he talked himself out of it. Before the angel of his dreams turned into something of his nightmares.

And being a vampire, he knew how particularly horrific nightmares could be.

“William,” she breathed, her eyes shining with tears.

Everything inside him collapsed.

This was her. There was no hiding from it. There was no denying it. There was no talking himself into sanity when he’d lost whatever he had left.

Buffy hadn’t simply become his night angel. She was his night angel.

And somehow, she had been all along.

“My God,” he said, holding up a hand to prevent the eager demons behind him from storming forward. “Bleeding hell…”

And then she burst into tears. Hard, body-consuming tears. Tears which could only be shed in the light of one’s greatest loss or one’s greatest triumph. She lurched over, holding her stomach as her whole being collapsed in sobs. And before he could stop himself, Spike rushed forward, a twist of fear and concern seizing his insides, shielded with an overpowering veil of confusion. The whispers in his brain commanding him to snap her neck faded to the hysterical screaming which suddenly demanded her safety. He didn’t understand it, and he was moving too fast to allow second-guessing.

He didn’t even have time to shake off his bumpies, or realize that Buffy had identified him even through the eyes of his demon. Before he could even consider blinking back to the part of him which wasn’t stark-raving mad, Buffy choked a heartbreaking sob and lunged into his arms. Then she captured his face between her warm, warrior’s hands and touched her tear-stained lips to his.

Some inner dam broke; reason shot far out the proverbial window. The salt of her tears collided with his taste-buds, meshing everything he knew and everything yet-to-be-decided in a colorful frenzy of meaningless shapes. All he knew at that moment was that somehow redemption, purity, and light had manifested in the Slayer’s kiss, and he found himself aching for something he’d never thought to touch. Never thought to desire. The part of him screaming in protest was swiftly defeated by the man yearning for the visage of perfection which haunted his dreams.

The warmth of her tongue invaded his mouth. Her tears doused his cheeks and her kiss set his body aflame. He was touching the sun, her taste consuming every nerve in his body. She ripped him apart and pieced him together; she caressed him like a lover, holding him to her as she explored every crevice of his mouth. As she touched him as no other woman had ever touched him. Her hands didn’t abandon his face—didn’t dip between them to rub his denim-clad erection. Didn’t do anything but hold him to her as she bathed him in sunlight.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed against his mouth when their lips parted. “Will, I’m so sorry.”

Spike blinked, bewildered.

“I had to do it. I had to. I had to find a way to bring you back. I couldn’t…God, I couldn’t…”

He stared at her broken face, the fragmented pieces of his mind clawing for some sense of understanding. None was forthcoming. Instead, all he had was an armful of weeping slayer—one who called him by his Christian name. A slayer whispering soft, tender kisses across his face, uncaring of the demon ridges or the yellow slant of his vampire eyes. She even kissed his fang when his jaw refused to snap upward.

“I’m so sorry,” she whimpered again, her small, perfect breasts pressed fully against his chest. “Will…oh Will…”

Spike’s eyes wandered covetously over her face before focusing on her round, perfect mouth again. He was painfully aware of the monsters behind him, as was he of her feminine softness, encased in a warrior’s firm physique. She was burning him up through layers of fabric, and if he got any harder he was going to burst through his zipper.

He needed to get her somewhere secluded. Away from prying eyes.

Not that he cared a lick if the Slayer showed the world her goodies. The fact that she was currently looking at him as though he’d descended from the heavens was an entirely different matter. She was under some wonky spell, and if he wasn’t careful she would entangle him in her web.

He tossed a hurried glance over his shoulder. “Go,” he barked, wrapping an arm around the Slayer’s middle and ushering her quickly through the nearest doorway he spotted.

He found himself inside what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse and without the faintest clue how to proceed. His mind was rapidly deteriorating—what had seemed so important just a few minutes ago had muddied into something beyond his understanding. Intellectually, Spike knew it’d be simple to off her now. Trap her gorgeous little head between his hands and give it a good twist until she was nothing more than a lifeless heap at his feet. It’d be easy—beyond easy. She’d be nothing more than a footnote in history. A name with an asterisk beside it in some old Watcher’s dusty volume.

But he couldn’t. God, he couldn’t. Bugger if he knew why, but he was powerless against it. Powerless against her.

She was weaving a spell around him—fogging his senses and dragging him into the murky place where dreams attempted to overpower reality.

And God help him but he was letting her.

“Hush now,” he murmured, his voice resonating with tenderness he’d never used with anyone other than his sire. He placed her atop a crate, his hands sliding up her body, barely skimming her breasts, and cupping her face as she’d cupped his outside. “Look at me. Slayer…”

“I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

Her face began to crumble again, her tear-filled eyes taking in his face. “You changed your hair,” she said, running her fingers through his platinum locks.

“Did I?”

“It’s…bright.”

“’S a look I picked up in the seventies, love.” His hands slid down the length of her, careful not to cross any boundaries, if there were boundaries to cross. “Fancy it?”

Buffy shook her head and glanced down again, her body going rigid under his hands as she battled another incursion of tears. “I…I…”

“Slayer…” He watched her dissolve again, feeling more helpless than he had in the whole of his existence. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to shake her and wrap her in his arms. He wanted to beat her to death and kiss her blindly. He wanted so many things and none of them made sense. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

The world was swirling around him.

“I…I did…”

“Yeah?”

“A spell. I did a spell.” She glanced up again, her face a shield of contrition. “I did a spell. I summoned a demon.”

He blinked, a blur of rage coming over him. “You what?”

Well, at least that much made sense. Barmy bint had cast some sodding spell over him. Over the both of them. And as was typical, the spell went wonky.

The spell went wonky. Perhaps it was the reason his night angel suddenly wore her face. Perhaps it was the reason he suddenly couldn’t stomach the idea of ripping out her throat. Perhaps it was the reason he wanted to hold her to his chest and whisper that everything would be all right.

Bitch.

“I had to! I couldn’t…” Buffy’s voice failed her, her soft lips quivering as tears consumed her once more. “You were gone. I watched you leave me. And I tried, Will. I tried to…I didn’t know what to do. They tried to kill me a-and…”

Spike’s heart softened before he could help himself. He blamed it on the spell. “Who, pet?” he asked gently. “Who tried to kill you?”

“The…they thought I was a witch.” She paused and searched his eyes. “Do you remember that?”

It wasn’t the fact that she was completely off her tree that bothered him; it was the fact that he wanted to tell her yes. He wanted to reassure her of anything which demanded reassurance.

He hated this.

“Kitten, I don’—”

“I did it. I summoned him,” she continued. He could practically see her mind racing. “It was easy. It was so easy. I found one of Kenneth’s books. The sort he never let me near, you know?”

“Buffy…”

The sound of her name brought everything to a still. She glanced up at him with wide eyes, swallowing him whole into an abyss he’d never before ventured.

To keep himself grounded, Spike tried not to focus on how wonderful her name felt on his tongue. Saying it in his head was problematic enough—giving it life in the real world, calling her something beyond Slayer hardened her in his head. It humanized her, and while such was never a problem for him—as a vampire—something about her name made his nerves tingle and his body sing. Humanizing her was a dangerous move.

“Are you real?” she asked him softly, her soft breaths doing things to his skin that he’d never known a breath could do. “Please tell me you’re real.”

This was something he knew. He was real. He was as real as anything.

He just didn’t know what sort of real she needed him to be.

And why the bloody hell does it matter?

“I’m real,” he heard himself murmuring, his eyes falling shut as her hands took to exploring his face again. He’d fallen back into his human guise without realizing it, and fuck if her touch didn’t feel wonderful. “’m real, Buffy.”

“Then can we…can you just kiss me?” Her mouth brushed his. “Please? The rest—”

He smashed his lips to hers without allowing himself time to think. He didn’t want to think anymore. He just wanted to touch her. At the moment, nothing seemed more important. Her thighs parted and he fell between them as though magnetized, the warm heat of her pussy doing more to set his skin aflame than any amount of sunlight could ever accomplish. The taste of her had him thoroughly drunk. His mind raced around in circles before collapsing completely. There was nothing but the feel of her. Nothing but the way her mouth moved against his, the way she held onto him as though trying to anchor herself. As though her existence in this world depended completely on how tightly he held her.

“Buffy,” he moaned, sucking her tongue between his teeth. He wanted to draw her blood but didn’t dare. That would shove him across a threshold he wasn’t prepared to cross. “God…”

“Please,” she whimpered again, her teeth ripping at his lips. “Please…”

“What do you need, baby?” Spike heard himself asking. He was losing himself further down the rabbit hole and bugger if he cared. He released her just long enough to hike her skirt up her legs and bunch the fabric around her waist. “Need me to touch you?”

Buffy sobbed and nodded hard, thrusting herself against his hand. “It’s been so long.”

“Lifetimes,” he found himself agreeing, not without a dose of irony.

“Please…”

Spike inhaled sharply, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. It’d been a long while since he undressed a woman in Victorian clothing—not that she was wearing Victorian clothing. No, the dress she sported was something before even his time. But he didn’t care. Whatever it was, it had her believing he was something other than what he was. A man beyond his reckoning. Beyond anything that anyone had ever believed him to be. Not even Drusilla had looked at him the way the Slayer was looking at him. He was falling too quickly to grab hold of anything but her, and with reality distorting around him, he couldn’t bring himself to give an honest damn.

“Please!” Buffy gasped again. “Will, please…”

He wheedled through what felt like yards of fabric, his body rejoicing when he finally touched skin. Christ, she was so hot. She was so bloody hot, and one touch was going to do rot to satisfy him. He ran his fingers over the soft curls of her mound, the heady aroma of her desire tickling his tongue and making every inch of him hunger for a taste. He wanted to experience everything. He wanted to feel her wet, warm pussy clench around his cock. He wanted to tease her sweet little clit and thrust his tongue deep inside her body. He wanted her to drench him—drown him in her sweet ambrosia and mark him as no woman had ever bothered to mark him.

He wanted to ruin her for all men. He wanted anyone who ever looked at her to know she was claimed.

Buffy jerked against him with desperation he’d never before encountered. He’d never seen a woman so starved for him, and fuck if it wasn’t brilliant. “William!” she cried. “Please! Don’t tease me!”

“I live to tease, pet,” Spike replied coyly, flicking a brow.

“It’s been too long. I need you!”

“Want me inside you, sweetness?” He ran his index finger between her pussy lips, dipping as far into her sweet liquid warmth as he could without forfeiting his title as a tease. “Fuck, but you’re wet.”

“Oh my…ohhh…”

“This for me, kitten? All this juicy—”

“William!”

He’d never heard his name screamed that way before. He’d never known how bloody hot it could be. He’d never even considered it.

A bloke could get used to this in a big way.

Spike grinned as his thumb slipped over her clit, the symphonic moan which tore through her lips hardening every vessel in his body with lust.

He had to have her. He had to have her now.

Which naturally made the arrival of her chums one bloody inconvenience.

 

A/N: My thanks as always to my wonderful betas for their ideas, encouragement, corrections, and support. I’d be lost without you.

And to my readers…the response you’ve given this fic has completely blown me away. Thank you so much. I only hope not to disappoint.

I’m leaving for NYC this weekend, but I should have another chapter up before I go. I’ll be gone Friday-Monday, and while I doubt I’ll get a whole lot of writing accomplished, I hope to manage at least some.

THANK YOU!!!

Buffy was aware of several things all at once.

The first was the fact that cool, musty air was caressing her bare legs. The second was that Spike was perched attentively between said bare legs, his fingers seated deep within her pussy, his thumb poised over her clit. The third was that every nerve in her body was on fire in ways her body had never before been on fire. The fourth was the stark awareness that she was on intimate display, and her friends were crowded around the entryway, staring at her in numb shock.

Spike released a trembling breath against her, meeting her eyes in a swarm of furious confusion. He held her gaze, not speaking, not even reacting to the hurried shouts which exploded behind him. He just stared at her, lost, his fingers curled inside her, her wetness spilling over his hand. For endless seconds there was nothing but his eyes. The ocean of loss and bewilderment combating with outrage. As though he didn’t know whether he wanted to kill her or love her, and the toss between the two was driving him as crazy as it was driving her.

That wasn’t it, though. That was hardly it.

Beyond the shadows clouding her mind, one constant shone with brightness which couldn’t be denied.

She remembered. She remembered everything. Everything. It was so clear—so present in her mind that she had to remind herself to breathe. A backward history beginning before her birth. One which ended in a pool of blood on her first Watcher’s cabin floor—her true first Watcher. There was death and then renaissance. She’d been nothing but a memory, and now she lived again.

She was the Slayer still.

And she’d found him. The reason she was here at all. The reason for everything.

The man she loved. Truly. He looked the same yet so different. His eyes sparked with a need for recognition, and he looked at her as though he knew her. As though he knew her beyond the capacity of what this world offered. But Buffy knew Spike—knew William—well enough to recognize what he couldn’t.

In an instant she knew what she couldn’t have known before. Spike didn’t remember.

He didn’t remember but he still knew her. Somehow, he still knew her.

The spaces of her mind quickly compacted as the rest of her shot back to the immediacy of the present. She didn’t know how she’d come to the life she was currently living or why she hadn’t remembered anything of the life she’d once led until now. Nor did she know how Spike had barreled into town without so much as a smile and a nod and seemingly even less recollection than herself. She knew everything and nothing at all.

She didn’t have time to consider the sudden surge of love that consumed her entirely. Nor did she have the will to question it.

Her vision was suddenly clear—clear and cloudy all at once.

William—William or Spike, or whatever he was called these days—was the reason she was here. And whether or not he remembered her, whether or not he knew why, he was the same. He was the exact same man she’d left behind. The same man who had died in her arms, begging her not to cry for him. The same man she’d bargained with the devil to follow into oblivion.

And in a blinding flash of light, she loved him. Buffy and Elizabeth collided and she loved him.

“’m gonna pull out now, love,” Spike murmured with tenderness that made her heart sing. “Don’ move.”

Buffy sucked in a breath and nodded awkwardly, her hands gripping his forearms as he deftly slipped his fingers out of her pussy. They winced together at the wet suctioning sound which smacked the air as her body fought to keep him locked with her. Spike trembled hard, his breath crashing against her lower lip as his eyes searched hers for answers she didn’t have.

He recognized that her memory had returned—that she knew she was Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer. He knew the girl whom had been here just minutes before was gone. Well…not gone. Not in any way which would make sense to him. Elizabeth wasn’t gone, she was just reborn. She and Buffy were one: their histories, their memories, their everything. She remembered who she was without a doubt. No matter that the wig atop her head was askew; tears were no longer scaling down her cheeks. She knew herself.

And she knew him. She knew him completely.

He just didn’t know it.

His mouth neared her ear, and she found herself inexplicably lost. “Whaddya say you don’ stake a bloke for thinkin’ you’re the most gorgeous creature he’s ever seen?” Spike murmured softly, his voice so low she could barely make out words from the unneeded breaths he took. “’Sides, pet, you came on to me.”

Buffy nodded blindly and watched in astonishment as he raised his fingers to his mouth and licked her juices off each glistening digit.

“Decent yourself up,” he murmured, nodding to her state of undress. “I’ll buy you a few seconds, savvy?”

There wasn’t an inch of her not trembling. She nodded again hurriedly, her hands immediately turning to her exposed pelvis. She tugged her panties up her thighs and straightened the fabric with a noisy shuffle.

All eyes were on her—most marked with disgust. She was too shaken to care.

She was a woman without a time.

Spike cast her one more meaningful glance before turning around, remaining purposefully situated between her thighs.

“’Lo all,” he said awkwardly. “Don’ s’pose the lot of you have ever heard of knocking?”

“Spike,” Angel growled, nostrils flaring. “Get away from her.”

Spike’s hands came up in some mock semblance of surrender. He tossed a wary look over his shoulder to size up the state of Buffy’s recovery, then turned back to those congregated at the entrance. “Some wonky night, yeah?”

The other vampire didn’t seem to be in the mood for small-talk. “What the hell are you playing at?”

“Jus’ makin’ conversation.”

“A-and you’re sure he’s William?” Xander asked, his eyes shooting nervously to Angel. “The one she—”

“He’s the only William I know,” Angel all but snarled.

Spike shrugged easily and felt around his breast-pocket for his cigarettes. “Only one worth knowin’, mate.”

“Why isn’t he ripping her throat out?” Cordelia demanded. “Isn’t anyone else wondering why he’s not ripping her throat out?”

“I don’t care,” Angel retorted, stepping forward, his eyes blazing yellow. “You touched her—”

“She was beggin’ for it.”

“Why you—”

The next thing anyone knew, the elder vampire had snarled something unintelligible and was marching forward, murder in his eyes. He might have been successful had Buffy not jerked herself out of her stupor and leapt to her feet. She moved like lightning—putting herself between Spike and her kinda-boyfriend, her arms outstretched.

“Stop it,” she said shortly. “Angel—”

Angel froze more out of astonishment than by command. “What?”

“What?” Cordelia and Xander echoed.

An excellent question to anyone who didn’t know she was Elizabeth Travers, love of William the Bloody.

Namely, an excellent question to anyone who wasn’t her.

Buffy swallowed hard, her mind racing. She knew she should think of a witty, if not intelligent response, but all she could summon was a weak, “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

The excuse was more than feeble, but she had nothing else. Instead she found herself in the awkward position of being on the receiving-end of Angel’s dubious glare. He stared at her as though he’d never seen her before—as though her face had just contorted into something hideous beyond all recognition.

“Are you high?” Cordelia demanded, gesturing emphatically. “He just had his hand in the cookie jar—and I mean that literally.”

“Yes, thank you, Cordy,” Xander said, “you again prove you are nothing if not valuable for useless commentary.”

“Oh bite me so hard.”

“Shouldn’t say that in the company of vamps, pet,” Spike piped up. “Jus’ an’ observation.”

“Shut up,” Angel growled, turning his gaze again to Buffy. “Look…I don’t know what you thought. You’re confused—”

“You got that right,” Buffy agreed as she took a step forward, forcing him to step back. “But now’s not the time.”

The vampire’s eyes widened incredulously. “How is this not the time?”

“Just…stop.”

“You’re gonna let him run?” Xander squealed.

She met her friend’s eyes but didn’t comment. There was nothing to say that would appease them. No words to offer clarity—nothing that would make sense. God, it barely made sense to her. Reality had torn around them and the ground beneath her feet was cracking apart. Her memories raced alongside reason. Everything existed in duality.

Angel couldn’t know that. Nor could Xander or Cordelia. None of them could know what she barely understood.

None of them could know what Spike didn’t.

And even if she tried to explain, they wouldn’t believe her.

She met Spike’s confused eyes and knew immediately that despite his lacking memory—despite everything—he was in her corner. Perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not in five minutes, but he was now. He was more lost than she could ever be. He didn’t know that he existed solely due to a deal she’d brokered with the devil nearly three centuries ago. He didn’t know anything beyond whatever ties had brought them together tonight.

She yearned for his arms but reason kept her grounded.

This was a different life and the rules had changed.

Everything had changed.

Buffy had no grasp on how much time actually passed in those endless seconds. She was lost in a sea of stormy blue and she didn’t care if she was ever found. Spike had to leave before the power of her word ran dry and Angel took it upon himself to end her love’s life, and while she wanted more than anything to leave at his side, there were truths yet to be revealed.

Spike inhaled sharply and nodded. “See you around, Slayer.”

Then he turned and walked out. And she let him.

With nothing certain, with everything changed, she had to let him go.

It was the only way she’d ever be allowed to keep him.

The world had gone bonkers when he wasn’t looking.

Spike stormed out of the warehouse, a swarm of unidentifiable emotions darkening his every step and haunting his every thought. His hands still tingled from the feel of her skin. His mouth was an explosion of her flavor, the rich taste of her which he’d so foolishly licked off his fingers. He hadn’t the slightest idea what had just happened—what he’d allowed to happen.

What he’d done with the warmth of a slayer beneath him.

What he’d done…

A growl tickled his throat, his hands gripping either side of his face as he rounded the nearest corner. He’d betrayed everything. He’d betrayed his oath to Drusilla—the one he’d given her without her ever demanding it. The promise he’d made to not emulate the great sod who had broken his sire’s heart.

He wasn’t the sort of bloke to add notches to his bedpost. Dru was the only woman he’d ever wanted. From the second she discovered him sniveling in the alleyway, he’d had nothing more to demand from life.

He’d never desired anyone else.

No one save his night angel.

But that was the bitch, wasn’t it? His night angel wasn’t supposed to exist. His night angel was supposed to only live in his mind and never leak into reality. His night angel wasn’t supposed to break through his dreams and take over his life. His night angel was supposed to remain confined to the subconscious in which she’d been born. She wasn’t meant for this.

She wasn’t supposed to be a sodding slayer.

What the hell was wrong with him?

The cigarette he’d wedged between his lips remained unlit until he was near the factory’s main entrance. He struck a match along the doorway and inhaled a lungful of nicotine. It wasn’t much comfort but it was comfort enough.

He didn’t want to face Dru.

He didn’t want her to know what he’d done tonight. What he’d come so close to doing.

He didn’t want her to know how desperately he’d wanted another woman, no matter how often she wordlessly reminded him how much she wanted other men.

This wasn’t him. None of this was him. If he’d been any incarnation of himself, the bloody Slayer would be rotting and he’d be free of whatever spell she’d placed over him. The one which made him think he knew her beyond the call of her blood. The one which made him think she, in some twisted form, belonged to him.

More than anything, he wanted to regret what he’d done. What he’d failed to do. He wanted to regret something beyond the simple knowledge that he should.

It was easy knowing what he should feel.

Feeling it was a different matter altogether.

William, she’d called him. William.

She’d known him. Whatever spell she’d cast or whatever spell she’d deluded herself into thinking she’d cast had propelled her into some parallel universe in which she believed they were something to each other. In which she believed he was hers. She’d clung to him, begged his forgiveness, baptized him in the downpour of her tears and begged him to shag her delectable little body. She’d wanted him in every way a woman ever wanted a man.

The Buffy he’d encountered tonight had been all Slayer. From the second he saw her in the alleyway to the haunting look she’d given him before his departure. She was the Slayer. She had been all along.

But somehow she’d been two different people.

Two people who were conversely the same.

Bugger, he had a headache.

Spike sighed, propping himself against the factory’s outer wall.

He didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want the night to end like this.

He didn’t want the night to end at all. What he wanted—what he truly wanted if he was honest with himself—was to hunt down the chit and demand what the fuck had happened between them tonight.

Demand how she’d known him without knowing him at all.

Demand how she had the balls to muck up his life.

Demand how she could leave him like this. Confused and frustrated. Lost and somehow found. Loathing her and wanting her. Hard and in need of her soft body, and whatever comfort she was prepared to give him.

His cock craved her pussy and his fangs yearned for her throat. But not for the kill.

Christ, how buggered was that?

How could she leave him like this?

And how in fuck’s sake had he let her?

New England, 1700

It was the darkest time of night. No moon. No stars. No warm glow of a lantern from a nearby cottage. Not even the wind offered companionship. Grass blades whistled against her bare ankles with every step, the stake in her hand growing heavier as minutes inched by. The vampire Kenneth had predicted would rise tonight wasn’t being entirely cooperative; calculations had timed his rising at approximately seven minutes past eleven.

It was now approaching one in the morning and the grave had yet to stir.

Kenneth’s predictions were typically off the mark. He was constantly piecing together mathematic formulae, determined to find a way to pinpoint a vampire’s rising to the second. It never worked, of course. Not many of his ideas ever did.

Thus Elizabeth had wasted most of her evening. She was more than used to this, of course. These wasted evenings.

Not that she had much waiting for her at home.

Elizabeth fought a yawn, stuffing the stake between the small of her back and the hem of her trousers. She propped herself up against the nearest tree, her eyes taking in the still graveyard with nothing more than bored acknowledgment. The part of her that had once regarded cemeteries as sacred ground had died the night of her first slaying. She used to think them hauntingly beautiful—a place resonating with spirits beyond the imaginings of the physical. A world grounded in flesh and reasoning instead of the mysteries of realms beyond theirs.

The romantic in her had died long ago.

It was a graveyard. One of many. A demonic playground—the birthplace of those she hunted. No more. No less.

Elizabeth sighed and glanced up to the starless sky.

It really was the darkest time of night.

It was also her favorite time of night. She loved it when it grew dark; even more so when it became so still she could hear things like grass blades caressing her skin. Silence and darkness might rightly terrify any other human within proximity, especially in a village as superstitious as hers. But Elizabeth wasn’t afraid. Not anymore.

Not that the townspeople were incorrect in their fears. Just foolish in the so-called preventive measures issued against said fears.

Elizabeth loved this time of night because it made her job easy. Oh so easy.

When there was darkness, it was easy to detect movement. She had yet to encounter a demon whose eyes didn’t glow in some fashion. When it was absolutely dark—when the air in front of her face was colored with blackness—she was at her best. She was at her safest. If something came after her, she’d know exactly where to look.

Silence contributed in the same way. If all was quiet, noise would betray anything lurking in the night. Noise would give her the advantage, no matter how indiscernible it was to human ears.

Oh yes. Elizabeth loved this time of night.

She didn’t, however, love being bored.

“I see the moon,” she recited under her breath, her eyes fixed on the black space where the moon would be were it not shrouded in clouds. “The moon sees me.”

“Moon can’t see anythin’, pet. This is what we call a starless night.”

Elizabeth fought an eye-roll and crossed her arms, turning fully to face the owner of the voice. The chill she once felt at its sound was absent, as it had been for weeks now. There was only so much a person could shudder before boredom set in. After all they’d been through—the numerous times they’d tried to kill each other, the numerous times they’d come close—she felt she knew him well. As it was, she was fortunate if he wasn’t around every corner she turned. He stalked the night—stalked her—at times beat her within an inch of her life and left her to heal before returning to do it over again. It was a mutual thing, of course. They hadn’t the healthiest relationship but it was one she’d strangely come to depend upon.

Her weekly nocturnal visits from William the Bloody.

“What are you doing here, Will?” she asked, heaving a long sigh. “Can you not see I’m otherwise engaged?”

“Oh right,” he retorted with a huff, taking a step forward as a leer stretched his lips. “Watchin’ the grass grow an’ waiting for one of my newest relatives to show an’ ugly head. Your life looks right entertainin’.”

“Go away.”

“Sorry, love. No can do.” He grinned, hooking his thumbs through the waistband of his trousers, his brows flickering upward devilishly. “I came here for a reason.”

“To annoy me?” she ventured.

“To kill you.”

Elizabeth couldn’t resist it this time; she rolled her eyes. “How many times have we had this conversation?” she asked.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he replied, shaking his head with a condescending tsk. “No need to get testy.”

“Forgive me for recalling the fact that we’ve done this before.”

“Yes, an’ I think you took our relationship for granted.” William’s grin widened as the bones in his face shifted, his fangs descending and his eyes burning a deep ember that had shivers racing down her back. “Always told you I wanted to do me a slayer.”

“Will—”

“An’ while I feel our…arrangement has been mutually beneficial, this dance has run its course, darling.” He took a step forward. “You’re brilliant an’ beautiful. An’ after tonight, you’ll make a lovely footnote in one of your watcher’s dusty ole books.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard, her bravado vanishing. Her tough exterior betrayed her—the child inside was terrified. There were nights when she bested William, yes, but he was an old demon. An ancient, as Kenneth would say. A vampire whose legend was only preceded by his reputation.

A vampire who had, for whatever reason, made her his number one priority.

A vampire whose company had been oddly appreciated, despite the violent terms of their relationship.

“You taught me a lot, love,” William said, nodding to her respectfully. “Never saw a chit with moves like yours. A body like yours. You’re enough to make a fella want what he can never have.”

The words lent her pause. Elizabeth blinked and glanced up. “What he can nev—”

Her voice was severed by the biting smack of William’s fist smashing into her jaw. The ground swept up from under her and the next thing she knew, she was on her back, her eyes blinking numbly at the starless sky. She barely had time to gasp—to blink—to do anything but register the dull pain spreading across her skin before he was on her, tossing her back to her feet if only to knock her down again. This time she managed to fall onto all fours—perched awkwardly with her open palms supporting her, her cut-off trousers sliding up her legs and introducing her knees to the cold forest floor. William came at her again, his foot slamming up into her gut, knocking what little wind she had in her out again and sending her body spiraling through the air before she collapsed once more.

“Unh…”

“Oh come on, Slayer!” William snarled, the toe of his heavy boot sinking into her ribs with wrath that knew no bounds. “Don’ tell me you’re not even gonna fight!”

Elizabeth sucked in a breath so deep her insides ached, rolling over quickly to avoid another angry kick. She fought to her feet just in time to catch his swinging leg with her hands, clamping down her grip and bringing her own leg around in a roundhouse kick which had him soaring through the air in a flash of thunder.

The move made every part of her hurt. He’d taken her by surprise.

William had taken her by surprise.

“Why now?” she screamed, lashing with furious fists at his advancing form, each of her punches wasted on the dead night air around them. She was blinded with pain and outrage—too much to take note of her surroundings, or even calculate how close he truly was to her. “Why now, Will?”

“I’ve told you—”

His calm voice only strengthened the fire in her blood. “We were—”

“What? Getting along?” He managed to evade her swings and smash another punch into her cheek, forcing her to the ground again. “We’re not meant to get along, pet. Me vampire. You slayer. That’s how this thing works.”

Elizabeth recovered quickly this time, tossing her hair out of her face as her swollen eyes met the demonic glow of his gaze. Her face was wet—she had the horrible notion it was from tears rather than blood. Blood she could understand—could defend. Blood was expected. Blood was justified.

Tears were deadlier than blood. Tears meant something else altogether.

“I thought—” she began weakly, but her voice died without argument.

“You thought what? That I was enjoyin’ this? That I look forward to seein’ your annoying li’l face every night? That fightin’ with you makes me…” William trailed off, his eyes softening as he took her in, running his gaze down the length of her body. Something unprecedented flashed across his face—something she didn’t know, had never seen before. It made her feel, of all things, self-aware and feminine.

Standing under a starless sky, bleeding and likely sporting more than one broken bone, and looking at her attacker as though only then realizing he was a man.

“Nearly two hundred years,” he breathed, shaking his head. “’ve never felt this way.”

Elizabeth shivered, a confused frown wrinkling her brow. “What way?”

A few seconds of endless silence settled between them. She didn’t even know if he’d heard her.

“Not right,” William continued, shaking his head, his balance stumbling as he advanced upon her. She found herself walking back, but it didn’t register until her back collided with a tree. And William was still there—his eyes glued to the dip in her shirt where her small breasts made themselves known. Her nipples were hard and poking intently through the fabric, and seeing as Elizabeth had yet to come across undergarments with enough freedom to allow for the sort of acrobatics she was required to perform nightly in her vocation, she wore nothing beneath her clothing for the purpose of protection.

“Elizabeth.” Her name was a prayer on his lips. He had her stunned into immobility, her body rigid with anticipation, tight with the need to lash out or shove him away—do anything to get away from him. Drive a stake through his chest, even if her heart started racing in a manner which was most curious at the thought.

“This isn’t right,” William murmured, his chest now rubbing her breasts, his eyes fixated on her lower lip. There was something hard pressed against her stomach. Something she’d never felt before—never been close enough to him to feel before. At least, not close like this. Not close in the capacity of a sudden lack of swinging fists and veiled threats.

She didn’t know what it was. It seemed unnatural.

And in the meantime, he kept talking. “Should jus’ off you,” he said. “Be done with it. No more sodding dreams. No more wanking off to the scent of…Christ…”

“Will?”

A sliver of moonlight peeled through the curtain of clouds, hitting the length of his ivory fangs with such intensity that she was at once struck with the notion of kismet. Perhaps this was the way it was meant to happen. Perhaps fate had decided to intervene once and for all. Perhaps fighting it would only make it worse.

“Elizabeth…”

Then he was close. Sweet Lord, he was so close. She felt a cool draft against her throat, his hands sliding up her body until he was holding her by the arms. Something soft, wet and wonderful laved at the pulse-point of her neck, and it seemed for a moment that he was content just to hold her there. His body in intimate contact with hers, the foreign hardness pressed against her, rotating and sending a blaze so intense throughout her body she was at once certain that this was how he meant her to die.

“William—”

Pleasure-laced-pain ripped through her insides as his fangs sliced into her skin, and Elizabeth cried out in a confused mixture of horror and euphoria. Her cells burst and her blood burned, her body roaring toward a screaming inferno. And before she knew what was happening, William whimpered against her bloodied skin and his fangs receded. The movements of his mouth softened inexplicably, and suddenly there was nothing but the gentle caress of his lips across her flesh, the rhythmic thrusts of his hips against her increasingly-pliant body, and the way his grip on her loosened into something resembling tenderness.

“Oh God,” he murmured, his hands sliding up her arms and over the sides of her neck until he was cupping her cheeks, his eyes leveled with hers. “Elizabeth…”

As a slayer, she’d been raised with limited purpose. To hunt. To kill. To protect. To die. There was nothing in her upbringing reserved for romance or the want of human contact. Kenneth had flatly refused to discuss the closeness men and women enjoyed with each other behind closed doors, and while her imagination was rather inventive, most areas of human relation remained a mystery to her.

She’d witnessed those around her find happiness. She’d attended weddings, occasionally stumbled across lovers stealing kisses, and pined for a connection of her own.

At the very least, she wanted to experience a kiss. If only a kiss. One kiss before she died.

How strange that a vampire would be the one to fulfill her desire.

His lips were cool but not cold, and they brushed against hers with such tenderness she could have sworn he was afraid to do anything lest he break her. His thumbs caressed her cheeks, the lower half of his body moving against hers in a way which seemed sinful. The skin between her thighs was wet and what she privately referred to as her naughty place was positively burning. He seemed to be grinding against her with fixed intent, the movements of his mouth melting her resistance and driving her into insanity.

“Open up for me,” he whispered, his tongue tracing the crack of her lips. “I need to taste you.”

Elizabeth gasped and the next thing she knew, his tongue was inside her mouth. He licked every corner of her insides, his hands sliding down her throat again until he had a breast captured in each palm, his thumbs brushing the hard pebbles her nipples had somehow become.

“Oh my God…” she gasped, throwing her head back and hitting the tree hard enough to hurt. She barely felt it. “What…what are you…?”

“No one’s ever touched you like this, have they?” William replied, his eyes growing wide as his left hand dropped to the hem of her shirt and slipped beneath the fabric. He looked, for all the world, like he yearned for her. She’d never seen anyone look at her like that—like she was something precious, something desirable. Like she was a woman. “God, of course they haven’t…”

“Like what?”

William’s eyes darkened and he growled softly, dropping another kiss across her lips. “I want you.”

“You…you what?”

“I want you, Slayer. I shouldn’t. God knows I shouldn’t.” He glanced away quickly as though he feared betraying himself, his jaw clenching. “I’ve wanted you…I’ve wanted you so bloody long. Since the firs’ time I saw you, I think.”

Elizabeth blinked, her heart thundering. “I don’t understand,” she said hoarsely. “What does it mean to…to want me?”

There was a long pause. William’s attention remained glued to a spot on the tree, or something behind her where her eyes could not follow. At last he glanced up again, and the storm in his gaze stole the breath from her lungs.

“Gimme your hand,” he said quietly.

The request surprised her. He didn’t seize her wrist, rather waited until she placed it in his care. Then with methodical slowness, he guided her hand southward until she was cupping the hardness she’d felt against her a few minutes before. At first contact a short, passionate breath broke through his lips and he stole another kiss from hers before he could help himself.

Elizabeth didn’t mind. The taste of him was addictive.

“This is what it means to want you, pet,” he murmured, eyes shining. “I want you. I want to be your first. No…no, I wanna be your…” He shook his head. “I want things I shouldn’t. From you. With you. I’ve been alive so bloody long, Elizabeth. So bloody long. An’ everything’s been the same till you. Till you showed up an’ all went to…”

“You want—”

“Inside you. I want inside you.” The hand still curled around her breast gave her fleshy globe a tender squeeze. “I want inside that tight li’l quim of yours. I want you squeezing me until I can’t remember I don’ need breath to live. I want to mark you.” William held her eyes a minute longer, then dropped a kiss across the healing mark on her throat. The hand clamped around her wrist released her abruptly, his attention suddenly focused on stripping her trousers down her legs.

The warmth of his body disappeared the next second. Elizabeth’s eyes flew open and a gasp clawed at her throat. He was on his knees before her, his eyes on the skin he’d revealed, particularly the forbidden part of her which she’d never considered overly remarkable.

She had no use for undergarments when on the hunt. Not for binding her breasts and not for her bottoms. Thus she was completely naked to him from the waist down. Her blushing flesh exposed to his overly hungry gaze, the wetness between her thighs intensifying and the ache within her belly exploding into all out need.

“I…I don’t…”

William raised a trembling finger to her skin. “You really don’ know about any of this…do you?”

“Any of…oh Lord.”

His finger brushed the soft wetness at the opening of her vagina, rubbing that part in her body with such tenderness she swore she was going to melt. And then he was pushing upward until that small part of him was inside her, exploring flesh no one before him had ever before touched. Elizabeth feared her legs would buckle but she somehow managed to maintain balance, even when he leaned inward, parting her private-lips and favoring her skin with a long, sultry lick.

“Oh…oh…”

“This part of you is gorgeous, pet. You know that, right?”

She barely heard him, but she trusted the words were lovely.

His other hand, still warm from the heat of her breast, gently grazed her dark curls. “More than gorgeous, even, you’re…delicious.” William’s eyes traveled up the length of her torso until their gazes locked. Somehow the buttons of her dress-shirt had become undone, so she was completely open to him. No trousers, no undergarments—just her breasts peeking out through the lapels of her hunting-attire, her legs spread and a hungry vampire perched between them.

“You know what this is, darling?”

A long, hoarse cry ripped through her throat as his fingers slipped over something in her body she’d never known existed, euphoria exploding through her veins. “Oh my God.”

“This juicy li’l pearl is what we call a clitoris.” His lips encircled her, giving her a good, hard suck. “Mmm. Do you know—”

“Oh my…”

“You like that?”

“I…I don’t know…I feel…so…”

“Hot?”

“Yes!”

He grinned and licked her again. “You taste divine, love,” he purred. “Bloody divine. I could eat you like this for hours.”

Elizabeth shuddered with something that definitely wasn’t revulsion. “E-eat?”

“Sweetheart, this—” William sucked her clitoris hard again, eliciting another husky moan. “—is the only eating I wanna do. An’ that’s the problem, right?” He rubbed his face against her with a growl. “It’s always been the problem.”

“I don’t—”

“I need to be inside you.” He licked his lips, sliding two more fingers inside her body, massaging the flesh he discovered, sharing her moan when he felt the wetness she gave him. “Like this.”

“Oh.” She licked her lips and thrust her hips forward, forcing his fingers deeper within her. “Okay.”

William trembled and flashed a half-grin. “But with my cock.”

“Your…your what?”

There was a long pause in which she thought she’d said something wrong. In which she thought he’d remove his heavenly touch from her body and walk away from her forever. Instead, when he glanced up again, there was nothing but awe in his eyes. Awe and adoration, and a thousand things she’d never thought she’d touch.

“You’re so pure,” he whispered. “How can you be so…fiery…an’ so bloody pure?”

“I…I don’t…”

William grinned and laved her clitoris with a long, parting lick before rising slowly to his feet. “I know,” he replied. “You don’t understand.” He studied her for a long minute, then slowly turned his hands to his own trousers. “I don’ wanna alarm you.”

“Alarm me?”

“’S gonna spring out at you.”

A beat. “What is?”

“Li’l boys an’ li’l girls aren’t built the same, love. Surely you know that.”

Elizabeth nodded at once. This she very much did know. She’d helped several of the villagers through childbirth—enough to not be surprised. Well, not too surprised. She wasn’t prepared for the size of his—as he put it—cock, nor was she prepared for the way it indeed sprang out at her.

“Ohh.”

William grinned and wrapped a hand around himself. “I want to be inside you,” he repeated, the fullness of his intent hitting her hard.

“That won’t fit inside me.”

“Oh, yes it will.”

He was against her again before she could react, his lips consuming hers in another burning kiss. Her legs fell further apart without prompt, his cock sliding up her abdomen until the hard length of him was resting against her belly. “I wanna make love to you, sweetness,” he murmured between kisses, his fingers slipping between their bodies to caress her clitoris. “Please let me in.”

The world spun madly around her, the touch of his fingers against her throbbing flesh had everything melting into shapeless colors. Elizabeth nodded hard before she could stop herself—before what she was consenting could truly hit her—and found herself lost in another kiss before she could pause for breath. The way he whimpered against her lips had her reconfiguring what little knowledge she held about the universe. There was no way an evil creature could feel like this—taste like this. There was no way an evil creature could make her body cry out with pleasure with something as simple as a touch. There was no way an evil creature could get this close to her without dusting.

William was an evil creature. She knew he was.

What did that make her, then, if she could let an evil creature touch her this way?

I don’t care. I don’t care at all.

And the startling thing was…it was the truth.

“Hike your legs around my waist,” William murmured, his tongue laving the mark he’d given her. She was quick to obey—quick to do whatever he asked of her, and he rewarded her speed with a quick, playful pinch of her clitoris. “That’s my girl.”

At some point, the ridges of his demon had receded and he was a man again. She honestly didn’t know when that had happened—or how she hadn’t noticed it sooner. The gaze meeting hers was a deep, royal blue, filled with such rich emotion that it became difficult to breathe. She hadn’t thought she could see anything in this darkness, but God was she wrong. She saw him clearly. So clearly. She could see nothing else. And the second her legs were off the ground, the second her balance was placed in his care, she knew she’d crossed some invisible boundary.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, drenching his length with her wetness. He had a hand between them, navigating his cock so that the silky tip caressed her swollen clitoris once, twice, and again before slipping down her slit until he was poised at her entrance. “Figure I’ve never told you how beautiful you are before.”

“Uhhh…”

“This is gonna hurt a bit.” He licked her throat and purred. “’ll be slow, okay? You tell me if you need me any slower.”

Words had no meaning anymore, but she found herself nodding anyway. And