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Awards for The Writing on the Wall
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Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
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Author's Note: I first got the idea for this story a year ago while watching the first few episodes of Season 6. It grew from a short-fic to a series once I realized there was no way I could do it justice without focus and consideration. The outline grew as days went on, becoming more detailed and complicated, and I knew I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—start writing it until I had killed off at least one WIP. Earlier this year, I completed Tempesta di Amore, and would have started on this story immediately were it not for the fact that I had a seasonal_spuffy story to write—Southern Comfort—and then went months without a computer.
This story is incredibly important to me for reasons I can’t explain. My betas, ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
just_sue, elizabuffy, megan_peta, dusty273, therealmccoy1, and spikeslovebite have been absolutely wonderful over the past few weeks, and I can’t thank them enough. A special thank you to elizabuffy, who cheered this story on from its conception, egging me on every now and then, asking when she could expect the first chapter. She was there when the idea originated and gave me the courage not to let it slip. Likewise, just_sue has been amazing in her criticism and suggestions. I really don’t know how I managed without her as a beta as long as I did.
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He’d wondered often over the past four days where he would be now if he’d been the one who could read the stars. How it would be if he’d had the foresight to see what was ahead. If he’d known the decision she would make. Would such realization have guided his feet, quickened his wit; would he have fought harder, risked more, sacrificed all of himself to save Dawn if he’d known what Buffy would do to save the world?
He saw it so clearly. Every night. A thousand different ways. Things he could have done different. Things he could have done right. Things he could have done to save her.
To hold her to the ground rather than see her fall through the sky.
Spike had no answers.
Eventually, he supposed, the screaming around him would stop. He had not the luxury. Silence only made the rage grow louder—only furthered his descent into a place from which he might never emerge.
He hadn’t eaten since she jumped. Nothing could tempt him—not when he felt sick at the scent of blood. Not when the thought of living in a world where Buffy did not walk made his demon yearn for sunlight. The others didn’t understand. They couldn’t. Hunger wasn’t something he felt—it was just another pain, and when his entire being was consumed in agony, it became increasingly simple to ignore.
Yet even if his will to live had faded, he knew he could not bow out. Giving up was not an option—not when the journey had yet to begin. She might be gone but she was not out of reach, and he had to find her. He had to find her. He owed her so much, more than he could ever repay, and right now, the bare minimum he could offer was tracing her footsteps to find where she had fallen. He had to find her, and if he failed in that, he certainly wouldn’t fail in protecting what she’d left behind. The world she’d left would not collapse on his watch.
But that was beside the point, because Spike was going to get her back.
The pavement felt heavy under his boots, and the stars all but blinded him. He ran until his surroundings melted into a shapeless blur. He carried on up the familiar path to Revello Drive, his chest lacking the tightening he’d once experienced upon being so near the place where she lived. He passed the tree he’d made his home on many a night—nights with his eyes glued to her bedroom as his mind fabricated fantasy after fantasy with which to torment a yearning that would never be fulfilled. Spike’s throat tightened but he didn’t pause; he stomped up the steps and approached the front door. The door through which she’d invited him the last night. Where she’d looked at him like a man rather than a beast.
She wasn’t there to open the door for him tonight. She wasn’t anywhere.
She was gone.
Buffy was gone.
Spike inhaled sharply, his chest rattling, his heart screaming a nameless rage. He didn’t have to knock. He didn’t have to wait. They knew he was coming.
He’d been by every one of the last four nights. He’d been by every night since she jumped.
And he asked the same question every time he crossed the threshold.
“Have you found her yet?”
The demand tore from his throat before the door latched behind him. Giles and Willow glanced up from where they sat on the living room sofa, jointly poring over the ancient volumes of who-bloody-cared-what. Every second they spent reading was a second during which Buffy suffered. She was out there somewhere—lost, screaming, pounding on the gateways of some nameless hell, and her friends were reading about it.
Giles sighed tiredly, removing his glasses. “Spike—”
A growl tickled the vampire’s throat. He took a menacing step forward. “Have you found her?”
“Anya and Xander aren’t back yet,” Willow offered. “We’re waiting—”
“That’s bloody great, but the longer you wait—”
“We know what’s at stake, Spike,” Giles began, his voice exhausted. “We’re doing the best we can.”
They’d had this argument for four nights now: a continuous loop without conclusion. Spike understood why the old man was tired but did not sympathize. Buffy wasn’t resting. Her friends searched and prodded and ate good food and slept in comfortable beds. Buffy couldn’t. Buffy was gone. And her friends were waiting.
A maniacal giggle bubbled off the vampire’s lips. “The best? This is your best?”
“Need I remind you again that we do not answer to you?” the watcher said sternly. “And you are not the only one who cares about Buffy. We have been searching all bloody day. Tell me, Spike, what have you been doing?”
Spike snarled, closing another space between them. “Not sleeping, if that’s what you’re hinting at, Watcher,” he growled. “I haven’t slept since she jumped.”
The fire in the old man’s eyes faded a bit, but he didn’t back down. “I know,” he conceded. “None of us have.”
“Remember what we decided last night?” Willow piped up, her expression falling into a kind, sympathetic smile which did nothing to conceal her own fatigue. “Anya has a few contacts left. A big oogly eye thing, and some others, if that falls through. She had to hunt down an old demon friend of hers to get access, but when Xander called an hour ago, things were promising. We’re just waiting now.”
“Have you eaten?” Giles asked suddenly, reminding the vampire, if only for a second, of his father. “You look terrible.”
Strange how quickly long-dead human shame could seep into his veins. Spike’s eyes found the ground, anger receding. “No.”
“She wouldn’t want that.”
That was a matter of opinion, but the vampire didn’t feel like arguing over his diet. Instead, he turned to Willow, tension rolling off his shoulders. “Where’s Dawn?”
“She’s with Tara,” the redhead answered, rubbing her arms. “You’re not the only one with an eating disorder.”
“The Bit’s starving herself?”
Willow nodded somberly. “We didn’t know until we found her dinner dumped on the back porch. She’s been taking food up to her room and tossing it out the window.”
“Why?”
“Why aren’t you eating?” Giles countered, brows arching.
“Because I can’t,” Spike replied with a clenched jaw. “Every time I open a bag of blood, my stomach turns.”
Willow wiggled a bit. “Well,” she said. “It is a little ookie.”
The vampire sighed and looked away, his eyes falling on the stairs where she’d stood that last night. Just five nights ago. Her eyes warm but distant, face fortified with determination. Had she known then? Had she known what she was going to do? What she was going to sacrifice?
Had she known she would never climb those stairs again?
“I’m going to repair the bot,” Willow said suddenly, jerking Spike’s attention away from Buffy’s ghost. “We decided that after…you know… left. Some of her wires were fried, but—”
“What the sodding—”
Giles exhaled deeply. “Spike—”
“That thing is a bleeding abomination! It shouldn’t—”
“We agree then,” the watcher said, “but Willow made a good point. As far as the demon community is aware, Buffy is alive and well. They didn’t see her—”
“Disappear.” Spike looked away before his eyes misted. The pain in his chest expanded, creeping over his long-dead heart and nearly sending him to his knees. He didn’t know how he stood without shaking. His bones rattled and his muscles felt inches away from slipping off entirely.
It had been the single most devastating scene he’d ever witnessed. As a demon, he’d always understood devastation even if he didn’t feel remorse, and he saw it in the faces of countless figures coloring his past. Children he rendered orphans. Women he turned into widows. Mothers crying over their fallen sons, washing blood off their hands and crying out to a god who had long forgotten them. That had been devastation he saw but didn’t understand—devastation with which he didn’t sympathize. Couldn’t sympathize…until now. Until he saw Buffy jump. She jumped just as the world had threatened to rip itself apart. Just as dimensions collided with dimensions—as demons and dragons crashed and fought, ripping into each other through air-turned-static, becoming something through which true monsters could tear.
Buffy had jumped and the world had righted itself.
Only she hadn’t landed. Her body had fallen…fallen…
And she’d disappeared. She was simply gone.
Gone.
“Until we can find her,” Giles said softly, “the bot is our best shot at ensuring the Hellmouth remains under a slayer’s watch. Willow is going to repair the damage it sustained so it can retain some usefulness. It’s temporary, Spike…until we can get her back. Believe me, no one wants that, as you so accurately put it, abomination on a scrap heap as much as I. But we should utilize what we have until…until we recover Buffy.”
Spike glanced down with heavy eyes. Perhaps it was Giles’s uninhibited use of absolutes—the firm confidence that Buffy would be found, no matter the cost. No matter where she’d fallen. No matter what distances they had to travel in order to drag her back into this world. There was no room for ifs. Buffy would know this house again. She would sleep in her bed. She would fumble over cooking supplies in her kitchen. She would scream at Dawn when they were a hall’s length apart. It would happen. It would.
Giles sighed, sliding his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to warm up some blood,” he offered. “Buffy took to keeping some in the refrigerator.”
Spike’s head flew up. “What?”
“Toward the end,” Willow confirmed with a nod, her eyes shaded with sadness she somehow kept from her voice. “When Glory…she told me and Tara she was considering letting you back in, and she wanted to be prepared.”
“Your strength proved to be a major asset,” Giles agreed before he disappeared into the shadows, leaving the vampire to bask in revelation.
She’d wanted him back. Before she jumped. Her invitation hadn’t been random at all—it hadn’t been because the world was ending, or because it was more convenient to collect weapons with two pairs of hands rather than one. She’d wanted it. She’d trusted him enough. She’d trusted him.
It was too sweet to be true.
It nearly sent him to his knees.
A part of him had known, of course. He’d seen the change as well as anyone. After the Slayer and her merry band of super-chums risked hide and hair to recover him from the hellgod’s penthouse, he’d known something had changed. But not this. Never this. If anything, his time in chains had taught him something valuable. Something he hadn’t wanted to accept, but knew all the same. His own shining inadequacies. The knowledge that he wasn’t, and never could be, good enough. It was what had kept him from begging to be re-invited in five nights ago. He’d stood warily on the sidelines, watching her move through the house, waiting and hoping, but never truly believing. Never thinking Buffy wanted him back.
And now this. It wasn’t how he’d dreamt, of course, but it was what he wanted. The look in her eyes had never died. The gratitude. The warmth. The knowledge of change. She’d witnessed it firsthand. She’d brushed her lips against his bruised mouth after Glory had nearly ripped out his insides. She’d looked at him differently. She’d looked at him like a man.
She’d wanted him back inside her house. She’d trusted him.
The scent of pig’s blood warmed the air, and as it had the past few nights, his stomach rolled in disgust. The opposite of hunger, he supposed. Perhaps he was so famished that the thought of nourishment made him feel ill. He didn’t know. All he knew was the thought of food sickened him.
Especially when it was served in a mug by one of the men who hated him the most.
“You will undoubtedly play a pivotal role when we locate Buffy,” Giles said when he returned. “You, Willow, and Tara are the strongest…assets we have at our disposal.”
Spike’s brows perked, studying the mug’s contents as though the watcher had laced the blood with arsenic. Not that it would do any good, aside from give his aching stomach a good wallop. “Never figured you’d be one to admit it.”
“You care about Buffy.”
“I love Buffy.”
Willow pursed her lips. Giles’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t object. He didn’t need to object. Spike knew well the watcher’s views on vampires and what they could or couldn’t feel. The same garbage he’d passed onto his protégés until fairytales became the truth. While a few shining examples served as the exceptions to prove the rule, Angelus most notably, there weren’t many vampires Spike knew who lacked a side reserved for nature’s softer sensations.
And yet, despite everything, despite all Spike had sacrificed, despite what he’d lost, Giles remained adamant that his feelings for Buffy were nothing but infatuation at the root and, most nobly, respect. Love was too human to be felt by a vampire. Vampires, after all, didn’t know how to love.
Except vampires had been humans once, and Spike remembered well how love as a human felt.
It felt like this. Like this, only nowhere near as strong.
Ultimately, the battle over semantics fell to a draw. Giles sighed and glanced away. “You care about Buffy,” he said again. “And you’ve made it more than clear you’re willing to do whatever it takes to get her back.”
“Bloody right I am.”
“Then you will need your strength.” He shoved the mug-full of blood into the vampire’s hand. “Eat.”
Spike sighed, his eyes dropping to the crimson liquid swirling in the ceramic mug. Never had blood seemed less appealing.
For Buffy.
Another sigh, this one of conviction. “Right,” he said, flexing his shoulders. “Bottoms up.”
The mug’s rim barely brushed his bottom lip when the door flew open, Anya and Xander loudly stumbling in. They were gasping, their eyes bright and wild, hair tussled—a telltale sign of inter-dimension travel. While Spike, personally, hadn’t made a trip into a different realm in a lifetime or so, he well-remembered how disorienting the ride could be.
His dead heart leapt.
Giles turned. Willow bounded to her feet. “Anything?” the redhead demanded. “Did you find anything?”
“Oh we found something,” Xander agreed.
Spike stepped forward. “Where is she?”
“It’s bad,” the watcher said softly. His eyes bounced from the former demon to her companion, the conviction in his voice crippling. It was only then Spike noted the desperation in Xander’s eyes. The defeat crushing Anya’s shoulders. It was only then he understood.
Xander nodded. “It’s way bad.”
“We found Buffy,” Anya said. “In Hell.”
There had never been a more profound silence. Sound faded in favor of a high-pitched buzzing. Spike’s head grew light, his legs buckling, the mug in his hands toppling messily to the ground. He saw it shatter but didn’t hear a thing. His senses were assaulted with a thousand wild distractions, and the ground spun too quickly to gain balance.
Long drones slowly replaced the hum.
“That’s not possible,” Willow objected, her voice shrill. “That’s not possible!”
Spike reached for the frame supporting the junction of the living room and the entryway. His legs were about to fail him completely.
“It’s possible,” Anya replied. “She’s in Hell. One she made.”
“One she made?” Giles echoed. “Buffy wouldn’t do anything like—”
“She didn’t do it intentionally.”
Xander sighed, his head hanging, emotion racking his body. “It gets worse.”
“Way worse,” the former demon agreed. She waited for a second for her boyfriend to continue, and proceeded on her own when he did not. “The Eye told us…well, none of this is good. Humans don’t have the faculties to withstand Hell. Nothing living does. Often they make substitutions for things they can’t understand. Granted, not many humans have ever found themselves in Hell…or not Hell as Judeo-Christian tradition depicts. Humans don’t go to Hell—their souls do. Nothing human survives.”
Willow released a trembling sigh. “I don’t understand.”
“If it was only Buffy’s soul we were worried about, her body would have been left behind,” Anya explained somberly. “Since all of her vanished, we can only assume she didn’t die.”
“She’s alive.”
“In Hell,” Xander supplied, looking down quickly. The scent of tears hit the air, but Spike honestly didn’t know who’d shed them. After a few difficult seconds, the boy continued, “The Eye said…God…I can’t wrap my mind around this. Buffy in Hell. She’s the Chosen Warrior of the Powers…how can they allow it?”
The look on Giles’s face was damn near crushing. He had to fight to remain standing, moving only when Willow led him to the stairs so he might have a place to sit.
“And we don’t know how to get there,” Anya added. “Self-made hells don’t have entrance rituals. And even if they did, there’s no way to tell if it was Buffy we’d pull out.”
Willow looked up imploringly. “Anya, please—”
“She’s just telling you what we learned,” Xander snapped, a flash of anger blazing in his eyes. “Buffy…she’s alive, wherever she is. And she…God, we don’t know how long it’s been. We don’t know what she’s…she might be being tortured, like Angel. Or—”
“Or it could be worse.”
“So what do we do?”
Conversation halted. All eyes fell upon the vampire. Funny. Spike hadn’t realized he’d spoken until his voice faded. He glanced up slowly, not trusting his muscles to budge or his eyes to keep the tears clamoring for freedom at bay. It no longer mattered. These people had seen him cry rivers. Cry oceans. A few more tears were nothing.
Buffy in Hell.
A concept he couldn’t wrap his mind around. The words lost their meaning.
Oh God.
“We don’t have a lot of options,” Anya said, sighing.
“That’s nice,” Spike replied. “What do we do?”
Xander looked up slowly. “Look—”
“We don’t bloody well leave her there, do we? You heard what the bird said—Buffy’s alive. She’s alive in some…fuck all, you can’t seriously consider leaving her…do you gits have any idea what Hell is like?”
“Do you?” Giles asked. It wasn’t a glib question. When Spike met his eyes, the watcher’s palpable need for reassurance would have crushed him were he not already broken.
And for a second, for a brief second, Spike wanted to lie. It would be easy. He was a vampire; he’d made a career of lying. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it now, even when the truth was far crueler. “No,” he replied softly. “But…she’s alive, Rupert.”
“For how long?” Willow asked. “H-how can we be sure she won’t—”
“Living victims are difficult to come by,” Anya said, her tone indicative of one trying to comfort, though one glance around the room would have revealed a massive failure in tactic. “She won’t die anytime soon. Their rules are different than ours. Besides, as a slayer, she might be impervious to death by longevity.”
The redhead frowned. “What?”
“Well, there’s never been a slayer to live long enough for anyone to determine whether or not she experiences the human physiological aging process. Being a warrior to protect the world from immortal beings might make her immortal as well.” Anya shrugged. “When I was a vengeance demon, Halfrek and I had a bet with a coven of purist vampires to see how long we could cage a living slayer. Unfortunately, once we captured the Slayer, one of the purist vampires proved to be not-so-pure, and—”
Xander weakly held up a hand. “Anya?”
The former demon broke off with a small smile. Not apologetic so much as understanding.
“Fascinating, really,” Spike drawled. “But it doesn’ help. How do we get to Buffy?”
“Gaining entrance into a self-made Hell?” Anya sighed, her head rolling back. “No one’s done it before. The Eye said it’s practically impossible.”
The vampire nodded harshly. “Practically, but not entirely.”
“Entrance has to be earned by the guardians of the Hell she created.” Anya paused. “Every dimension has a guardian—most with really lax rules on how to hop in and out. But this one’s special. Buffy’s human. She’s alive. And she’s the Slayer. Earning access won’t be easy, and even then, if you’re able to reach her…”
Spike’s nostrils flared. “I’ll reach her.”
“Who says it’s you?” Xander demanded.
“Because it has to be.”
Of that the vampire was certain. It had to be him. These children couldn’t fathom Hell. Couldn’t begin to imagine the horrors lurking below their feet. If someone was to break from one world into the next, he was the best contender. The only bloody contender.
He was her Champion.
“We don’t know anything about these dimensions yet,” Giles said, fighting to his feet. “Beyond what Anya has said. We need to research before we rush to conclusions.”
Research. Bloody research. Research while Buffy suffered.
Spike’s demon growled, and he turned away before the chip could fire.
“We don’t have a choice,” the watcher implored. Not that he needed Spike’s approval, but there was something in his voice that begged it all the same. “We might only have the one chance, and we can’t bugger this up.”
A long pause. Spike glanced up and shivered.
If he closed his eyes he would hear her screams.
His mind was determined to torment.
“Right,” he said at last. “Right…let’s see what we can find.”
The words were without feeling. He said them to appease the others.
To make it easier when they realized he was their only hope at getting her back.
He saw her burning.
It wasn’t real. Even in the midst of a dream, he knew the difference between fantasy and reality. However, knowledge could not prevent the subconscious from twisting in agony. Buffy torn apart by fire. Buffy’s flame-licked arms reaching for rescue that wouldn’t come. Buffy’s tormented eyes pleading with him to find her. To pay penance for failing her at the Tower by finding her, no matter the cost.
She was ripped by fire. Burning. Burning. And he couldn’t reach her. He saw her, felt her, but couldn’t reach.
Couldn’t reach.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
It was the truth. Hell was the last place to seek a Champion. Buffy jumped to save the world, and this was the way the world repaid her. Sending her down to a blistering inferno the likes of which no one before had ever dreamt. It was a special hell. It was her hell. One of her design, her making, her worst nightmares spurred to new life. Did she know the images were fake? Did she see the false prophets for what they were? Was she waiting for him? For anyone? Did she trust them to find her before she lost herself?
Or were they already too late?
“Spike…you shouldn’t be here.”
Resistance fortified as he tried to pry his eyes open. It had been so long since he rested. However, when will overpowered desire, he found himself staring blearily at a bland, cream ceiling, surrounded by her scent. Her presence. Days old but not forgotten. And he remembered.
Her room. He’d come to her room. And apparently, he’d fallen asleep.
Spike sighed and glanced up. Giles crowded the doorway, his expression stern but non-accusatory. Rather, compassion and understanding beyond anything the vampire had ever received from the man poured from every facet, and in that instant, they understood each other.
“Sorry,” Spike murmured, throwing his legs over the side of her bed. “I din’t…I don’ remember what I needed, but I know I needed something.”
A wan smile stretched the watcher’s lips. “Apparently what you needed was a nap,” he said, indicating the hallway with a nod. “Right now, you’re needed downstairs.”
“Have you found anythin’?”
“Nothing that inspires much hope, but we are developing an understanding of what…entering this dimension will entail.” Giles exhaled a deep breath, his eyes heavy. “The more I learn, the more convinced I am that…there is only one chance, you see. If we’re to get her out, we can’t dally with semantics. For instance, I need to look upon your lack of a soul as a blessing rather than a burden.”
Spike frowned. “How’s that?”
“It might be what saves her.”
He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or shocked when Willow shoved a glass of blood under his nose the second his foot hit the bottom step. It wasn’t too long ago the witch had threatened to disinvite him from every corner of Sunnydale, detailing the many ways Buffy would kick his ass back to next Thursday if he didn’t let up on his obsession. Now she was smiling kindly, her expression sad but hopeful. And she had blood for him. Warm blood. Blood she’d poured because she cared.
“You’re eating,” she informed him.
“Am I?”
“I made it myself.”
Spike eyed the glass warily. “Smells like swine.”
“Well, I didn’t open a vein or anything, but I did make with the pouring and the microwave and stuff.” She shoved the glass against his chest. “Eat.”
A pause. His eyes bounced from the blood to her face and back again. God, nothing in the world could have prepared him for this. He’d had a family once. Angelus. Darla. Drusilla, yet they had never been kind. Well, except Dru when she could manage it, but the eldest in his family didn’t try to conceal their disdain for him and their disapproval at his inclusion in the clan.
He wasn’t accustomed to concern over his well-being. It was something he hadn’t experienced since the days when his heart pumped blood. Since his mother entertained his poetry. And now Willow, the best mate of the girl he loved, was looking at him with compassion and respect.
Respect from a human. Respect from one of Buffy’s best friends.
It wasn’t until recently Spike had found himself in the precarious position of not wanting to disappoint someone; Buffy, of course, for whom he would have done anything…though even that hadn’t been enough. Offering anything and everything hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t wanted to fail her. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint.
And now Willow, whom he hadn’t realized until this second that he liked. Liking Buffy—loving Buffy—had been revolutionary enough, but even though he understood it, even though he’d made peace with it, he hadn’t been prepared to extend his regard to her friends. There was Dawn and Joyce, both of whom he loved as his own family…but without their relationship to Buffy, they were just two people in a world of millions. He didn’t want to like Willow or anyone else. They were a means to an end. Means to saving Buffy.
God, it’d be so much easier if he could convince his twisted mind that was the truth.
Spike sighed heavily, eyes glued to the cup pressed against his chest. “Don’ know if I can,” he replied.
“You almost did earlier.”
“Yeah, an’ then I didn’t.”
“Well, you’re gonna try.” Willow smiled brightly, but the hard determination in her eyes screamed it wasn’t an option. “Go ahead.”
Spike looked at her a minute longer before raising the glass to his lips. And instead of the disgust he expected, he all but tripped over himself in relief. Warm and thick, coppery and delicious. Absolute perfection. His stomach growled and the demon purred, though not loud, and the pain riddling his bones solidified at last to distinguish something he hadn’t felt since the Tower. Hunger. He remembered hunger. It returned from nowhere—hunger empowered by determination. Perhaps it was the knowledge he needed strength. Perhaps it was starvation. He didn’t know—all he knew was one drop had him aching for more. The bones in his face shifted without warning, fangs clinking against the rim as his jaw opened wider, gulping thunderous mouthfuls. Never before had pig’s blood been so delicious. When all that was left was a red-caked glass, he found himself licking the insides. Eager, ravenous, desperate for more.
“Looks like someone wants seconds.”
He nodded eagerly and thrust the glass back into her hands. “Please.”
Willow made a face. “Eww. Not your waitress. Blood’s in the fridge.”
“Thought you were bein’ all hospitable.”
“I was. Don’t you remember me giving you the glass?” She smiled and turned toward the living room. “We have some stuff to go over.”
Spike nodded, dipping a finger inside the cup and running it along the bottom. “Blood can wait,” he replied somberly. “What’s going on?”
The answer came from Giles’s voice rather than Willow’s as the watcher materialized from behind. “We have been researching hell dimensions all day,” he said softly. “And while there are—”
“All day?” Spike frowned and whirled to face him. “How long did I sleep?”
His answer came with a grim smile. “You went upstairs last night.”
“A whole bloody day?”
“You needed it,” Willow interjected swiftly. “And Dawn insisted—”
“You let me sleep while Buffy’s—”
“You needed your rest,” Giles affirmed, his shoulders dropping. “The more we research, the more I’m convinced of it. There might be millions of hell dimensions, but they all say the same thing.”
Spike arched a brow. “An’ that’s worth letting me snooze?”
Their scents hit him before Xander’s voice tickled the air. He and Anya traipsed into the living room from the kitchen, joined at the hip as always. It wasn’t a huge surprise; a good apocalypse typically made people cling harder to those around them. The fact that the boy and his demon bride were already inseparable only made their codependency more apparent.
“I still say it’s a crap idea and we need to look harder.”
Giles sighed hard. “Xander…”
“This is the one shot we have at getting her back and we’re going to trust—”
“Yes, we’re going to trust Spike.”
The vampire blinked and turned again. “Oh. So the lot of you came to the conclusion that I was right after all, is that it?” He bulldozed the watcher with a hard look. “It has to be me.”
There was no hesitance—only recognition. “Yes.”
Xander waved a hand. “You still haven’t convinced me that we shouldn’t all saddle up and go in together. This is Buffy we’re talking about.”
“Yes, which is precisely why Spike must go alone.”
“It’s bogus.”
Anya heaved a deep breath and smiled apologetically. “I tried talking to him,” she said with uncharacteristic modesty.
A still beat settled over the room. And though irritated, Spike couldn’t find it within himself to begrudge Xander his prejudice. The boy cared about Buffy. He did. He was the proverbial big brother, and he didn’t want anyone going near his sister without his say so. The fact that Spike was Giles’s number one candidate sure didn’t sweeten matters, but even if he weren’t the obvious option, Xander would complain about anyone going after the Slayer if it meant he was left behind. He wanted to be the rescue. He wanted to make it happen himself.
It was understandable, but ultimately a waste of time. There were things larger than egos at play. “Boy doesn’t want me flyin’ solo,” Spike murmured. “Doesn’ sound like there’s much in the way of options.”
Xander met his eyes. “I just don’t think—”
“Right,” Giles said sharply. “You don’t. This is unlike anything you can imagine. It isn’t infiltrating the Initiative or blowing up a school building. This is Hell. Human rules do not apply. Rules—”
“Rules schmools—”
“Exactly the sort of thinking which proves you wouldn’t survive.”
Harris sighed. “You don’t know that—”
“Yes, we do.” The finality in Giles’s tone wasn’t overly severe, yet for whatever reason it didn’t earn another objection. There was a considerable pause before the watcher turned back to Spike, determination marking his face. “Dawn’s due home in a half hour. We would like to have something to tell her.”
“Tara’s picking her up,” Willow offered. “I kinda feel bad, making her be errand-runny girl, but she’s…” She trailed off and blinked, and again the scent of tears slammed into the air. It was commonplace now, and no one questioned her. “She’s…Dawn lost her sister and her mom in…and Tara, with her mom. She’s just feeling extra…maternal.”
Xander cleared his throat. “You’re not making her do anything she doesn’t want to, Will. She practically guards Dawn’s room at night.”
“Yeah, but she misses all the Scooby stuff.”
“Being there for Dawn is the best thing she can do right now,” Giles reasoned softly, though there was a darkness in his eyes Spike wagered only he could see. The part of the old man that had told Buffy repeatedly before they headed into the final battle that killing the girl was the only means of saving the world. The part which had screamed at her, begged her to see reason. To realize, no matter the memories, that Dawn was not her true sister. Buffy Summers had no sister. She never had. Not until a group of holy gits decided to change the rules.
Buffy had threatened to kill anyone who stood between her and Dawn. And she meant it.
Chip or no chip, that crusade had become Spike’s. And he couldn’t help but wonder if the watcher regretted his callousness.
Or perhaps he regretted his own failure at making Buffy understand.
It didn’t matter. Dawn was family to Buffy; therefore she was family to Spike. It was the way it was.
“Every text we’ve found on hell dimensions has stated the same thing,” Giles continued. “Human souls are entirely too fragile to withstand Hell. The very strongest go mad within a few seconds, and spend eternity attempting to piece together fragments of themselves in order to remember who they are. Buffy’s…situation is rather unique.”
“Because she’s still alive,” Anya offered. “In Hell.”
Spike’s heart twisted and his stomach gurgled. Perhaps eating had been a bad idea after all.
“Because she’s still alive,” the watcher agreed solemnly. He looked as ill as the vampire felt. “She…the state of her soul while encased in a human body…we don’t know what effect that will have. We know the impact it had on Angel, but he had a demon to rationalize what he saw and experienced. Buffy has…nothing.”
Spike’s jaw clenched. “An’ she’s still there. I don’ see why we’re standing around here chatting if you kids have decided I’m the one for the job.” He waved a hand. “All demon, no soul.”
Giles pursed his lips and nodded. “Precisely.”
“What about this business with Buffy making her own Hell,” Xander asked, fight gone from his voice. “I still…I mean, I know she’s there and she made it, but…I don’t get why.”
Willow nodded, motioning to the living room, where book after book lay spread across the floor, open to various pages and likely all depicting an interpretation of Hell. “Most Western ideals of Hell are similar in their influence of Christian mythology. In the instance where a living person is lost in Hell—or the equivalent—her mind might…I dunno, piece together what she thinks Hell would look like, making that version of Hell her Hell. Does that make sense?”
There was no immediate response; Harris looked ill. “Way too much.”
“So when I get there,” Spike said, “I see Buffy’s worst nightmares.”
“That’s just…that’s the best theory we can come up with.” The redhead sighed, looking, for an instant, very old. “The books don’t exactly have an appendix for the living who get sucked into dimensions. But with what Anya and Xander discovered yesterday… Buffy’s in a hell of her own making, and not just any old corner of Hell, willy-nilly. One of her own making would be her own fears come to life. So…yeah. She would…the best guess would be…that.”
A dark, powerful shudder seized the vampire by the shoulders.
Buffy lost in a sea of her darkest fears.
He had to get to her. He had to get to her now.
“How does Spike get in?” Xander asked, though it was very apparent he didn't want the answer.
“The Hellmouth,” Giles replied. His eyes were fixed on the vampire. “It's our best bet. And as we are attempting to enter…” He sighed. “It will be difficult earning access.”
Spike shrugged. Every nerve in his body twitched with the need to move. The need to run. The need to be anywhere but here. It was the Hellmouth, then. Fine. Didn't bloody matter to him so long as he didn't have to wait for permission before going in. Every second in this reality was God-knows-how-long for Buffy. If there was any chance at getting her back, it became more and more dismal by the second. “Brilliant,” he said shortly. “So let's get rollin'.”
“It won't be easy,” the watcher warned.
“To infiltrate Hell? You don't bloody say.”
A long sigh rolled off Giles's shoulders. “There will be trials,” he continued. “You could die trying to get there…and even after you reach her, there's no telling if she'll be…Buffy.”
“Or if you'll be able to get back out,” Willow added unhelpfully.
Spike shrugged again, undeterred. “Well, we won' know a sodding thing if we jus' stand around an' chat about it all day, now will we? You say you know how we're gonna get in, so let's stop blabbering an' get to the getting. Buffy can't afford to wait.”
“She also can't afford to have us make rash decisions,” Giles replied firmly. “We need to learn exactly what entering Hell entails. What to expect once you are out of reach. Decisions made on a whim can cost us what little hope we have. There is no way, of course, to know exactly what you will face, but learning as much as possible will weigh the scales in our favor.” Or so we hope. The words didn’t need to spoken to have their punch. One look at the watcher’s face spoke volumes. After a dramatic pause, Giles continued, “I know you want to get to her now. We all do. But we want to make sure we don't make any mistakes…this is a different world, Spike. The slightest move, the smallest slip of judgment can have ramifications the likes of which we have never considered. We love Buffy.” A pregnant pause. The watcher swallowed hard, his eyes heavy. “You love Buffy. With as much as we want her back, we need to make sure our fervor doesn't cost her an eternity.”
If there was anything that could be said to slow the fire in Spike's heart, this was it. No matter if he knew Giles didn't believe it—and he didn't. While the vampire might have earned the man's respect, the road to acceptance was a long one, and it took more than a day to move a mountain. It was in the watcher's eyes; the firm belief in a demon's inability to love, in Spike's inability to feel anything but infatuation. However, an allowance—even a small one—was worth so much more than its weight in gold. Giles might not believe Spike truly loved the Slayer, but he knew Spike believed it. He knew what was at stake.
Giles didn't want to lose his daughter. The Scoobies didn't want to lose their friend. Spike didn't want to lose the woman he loved.
The woman he was made to love.
And while Buffy's chums might not like him, they knew their cause was his. They knew.
“All right.” Spike sighed heavily. “We wait.” He hated the idea, but the wisdom behind it could not be denied. They needed time—they needed to learn as much as they could. It made him feel idle and useless, but it needed to be done. He needed to wait.
He needed to know what he was up against. He needed to know how to get to her without losing her first.
Even as seconds ticked by in Hell.
Seconds that could be days for her. Seconds that could cost them everything.
It was too important. This was too important. If Spike's impatience cost him Buffy, he would never forgive himself.
So he would wait.
They didn’t know what to tell Dawn.
It was Buffy’s fault in a way, though Spike would kill anyone who suggested it. The Scoobies were accustomed to coddling the girl. Pretending she was five rather than fifteen. Pretending her fragile mind couldn’t comprehend the horrors she’d been built to remember. Her memories might be fabricated, but that didn’t make them false. She remembered discovering her sister was the Slayer. She remembered Buffy’s three-month hiatus following Angel’s death. She remembered the way the sky turned black with ash after Sunnydale High was blown to the moon. She remembered the monstrosity of Adam’s demented creations. And she remembered every night she’d stumbled upon Buffy scrubbing blood and demon entrails out of her clothing. She knew the world in which she lived was a hybrid of the one she saw on television.
And she knew Buffy had dived into a thousand hells in order to save it.
But Dawn couldn’t know where Buffy was or what she was facing.
Spike didn’t agree with keeping mum, but he knew it was what Buffy would want. Buffy would hate it if Dawn knew she was suffering because of her sacrifice. If Dawn knew she was suffering at all.
Therefore, when the girl asked him why he was the only one who could go after Buffy, he didn’t know what to say.
“I mean,” Dawn continued, “I know why you’re going. You’re…you’re way strong and stuff. And you love her.”
Spike nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on a spot on the kitchen counter. He’d come in here to make himself a nice, warm glass of blood and had instead found himself cornered by the love of his life’s kid sis. Couldn’t ignore her. Couldn’t wish her away. Couldn’t tell her the truth. Could do nothing but listen and wait for the microwave to beep.
“I love her,” he said softly. There was nothing else to say.
“But Willow…she’s all mega-witchy. Wouldn’t…wouldn’t it be good to have that kind of power if Buffy’s in a dimension like…like the one we think she’s in?”
There was a pause as his mind raced, and given how little time he had to come up with an answer, Spike thought his explanation an especially good one. “Guess it figures to keep her here in case some other Big Bad decides to throw in while things are all calm-like.”
A thoughtful frown depressed her lips. “But this is Buffy we’re talking about. Isn’t getting her back the most important thing?” Dawn’s eyes shone with tears, and that, more than anything, made the vampire’s heart twist. He could stomach the Scoobies’ pain, even if it only served to remind him of the darkness surrounding him, but the girl had lost so much. The girl was the only tangible piece of Buffy he had left. And when she wept, he fell apart. More so when he couldn’t give her the answers she deserved.
“Isn’t it?” she demanded again.
Couldn’t speak the truth. Couldn’t tell a lie. There were no happy mediums for vampires possessing a conscience.
“I’ll get her back, Bit,” Spike offered weakly. It was all he could give. “I bloody well swear it.”
“But Willow—”
“Is needed here.”
“She’s needed wherever she can help Buffy,” Dawn countered. “She can’t help Buffy here.”
The vampire smiled without feeling. “Sure she can,” he replied. “Figure big sis wants another apocalypse to stop? We wanna make things easy for her when she gets back. Jus’ long enough to…we don’t know where she is.” That wasn’t entirely false, but false enough to make him hate himself for lying. God, things used to be so bloody simple. “It’s better this way, pidge. Believe me. No one wants Buffy back more than yours truly, present company excluded. This is the way to go.”
Dawn’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
A sigh. He moved to the microwave and removed the now-steaming glass of blood, his stomach gurgling and his fangs twitching. Since hunger was a tangible pain again, he’d been hell-bent on consuming as much blood as possible. “Many somethings.”
“Where is she, Spike?”
The question made his insides tremble. “Not here,” he replied. “An’ we’re gonna fix that.”
He had agreed to wait. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he understood the wisdom behind caution. The last thing he wanted was to jeopardize their chances of recovering her because of his impatience. So the Scoobies hunted and researched and came to conclusions, tossed their findings out the window, and started over. And he agreed to wait because it made everyone breathe easier to think he wouldn’t fly off the handle.
He’d agreed because it was the smart thing to do, even if his heart didn’t agree.
The demon on his shoulder whispered nasty temptations he’d grown rather apt at ignoring. He knew where the entrance was and how to get where he needed to go. The Hellmouth. He could go right now and no one would be any the wiser. It was what Giles had concluded…the Hellmouth. It was the way to gain access, and though simplistic, it made sense. After all, how better to get into Hell than walk in through the bloody front door?
“You actually eat today?” Spike asked, raising the glass of blood to his lips.
“Yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Dawn…”
“I ate! Believe me, after the Night o’ Lectures, I ate.” She crossed her arms and looked away, her nose wrinkling when he slurped his blood hungrily. “I didn’t eat much, but I didn’t barf it up, either, so everyone should be happy.”
“Won’ let you starve yourself, Bit.”
“I’m not starving myself!”
“Not after what she did. What she sacrificed.”
“She shouldn’t have—”
His nostrils flared. “Bloody right, she shouldn’t have,” he snarled. “But she did. She jumped, an’ there’s nothing we can do but get her back. But fuck if I’m gonna let her come back to a kid sis who doesn’ care enough to keep living after she sacrificed her life so you, Nibblet, could keep breathing.”
Dawn balked as though smacked. “She didn’t do it just for me—”
“You’re a dolt if you think that.”
“Spike—”
“She was gonna let the world burn for you. She was gonna let everythin’ go to make sure no one touched a hair on your precious head.” Spike broke off with a laugh, shaking his head hard. “You better pop off to bed.”
A still beat at that. The girl crossed her arms and arched a brow. “Since when did you become the boss of me?”
“Since now.”
“Hey—”
“I got about a hundred an’ thirty years on you, munchkin. Don’ make me prove it.” He gulped down the rest of his blood, set the glass in the sink, and turned around with an air of authority one couldn’t merely learn. “We got some rot to go over, an’ the like. An’ I’m not gonna let you squelch on your studies an’ give Buffy another thing to worry about when she gets back.”
It was easier to speak in absolutes. Easier to ignore the aching hole in his heart—the very real fear that he was playing to desire rather than certainty. He had to make it concrete in his head and heart before he proceeded; he couldn’t enter Hell thinking he might fail. If he did, Buffy would be lost forever.
And he wouldn’t allow that. Buffy wouldn’t be lost. Whatever happened to him didn’t matter, so long as she breathed Sunnyhell air once more.
Dawn sighed again; a dramatic sigh only performable by teenage girls. “Summer school should be illegal.”
Spike shrugged. “Preachin’ to the choir.”
“I was being hunted by a hellgod!”
“An’ now you’re not.”
The look on the girl’s face was so painfully Buffy, he had to look away. She was so much like her sister—the monks had made her so much like her sister. The way her eyes flashed, the way her mouth twitched, the way her shoulders wound tight when she was irritated or when she was about to employ the famous Summers’ pout. At times it made it difficult to remember he didn’t breathe. “Still,” she argued, gesturing emphatically, “allowances!”
His eyes remained steadfast on the ground. “It’s important to them, though, innit?”
“And to Buffy.”
A beat. He nodded. “An’ Buffy.”
Another sigh. Dawn shrugged and pushed herself away from the counter. “All right. To bed with me. Just…” She broke off, gaze fastened on the wall separating the kitchen from the living room. It was where the others had undoubtedly congregated. Where they were going over plans they would inevitably toss out in favor of something else. “Just,” the girl continued, “when they stop…let me know where you’re going.”
“Huss’at?”
“Let me know where you’re going.”
Spike shifted uneasily. “Not goin’ anywhere, pidge.”
“But when you get Buffy—”
“Not my call.”
Dawn’s eyes hardened into a glare. “Okay, what gives? You’re not supposed to be so responsible. It’s wigging me out.”
A soft, sad smile twitched his lips. “Things change.”
Things change. God, if that hadn’t been the motto of the past year.
Everything changed. Hating Buffy. Loving Buffy. Fighting Buffy. Fighting for Buffy. Finding Buffy. Losing Buffy. Watching Buffy jump.
Watching his world collapse as she tumbled to the ground.
Only she hadn’t died—she lived. And she was living in a world of her own nightmares.
Things change.
And he would sacrifice everything to change them back.
He’d stood under that window too many nights to count. Right under it, in the company of the tree Buffy had used so often as a teenager. He’d dreamt of being where he stood now with longing that made his heart sore. Save for the wrinkles on the bed where he’d passed out the night before, the room looked untouched from when Buffy lived there. A heap of dirty laundry piled on the floor. The closet door hung slightly ajar, her purse hanging loosely around the doorknob. She’d kicked off a pair of heels and left them resting beside the nightstand. Her beloved stuffed pig sat neglected atop her dresser. This room wasn’t dead; its owner was just missing. Buffy was missing.
Buffy was far from here.
Familiar pinpricks stung his eyes. God, his skin was raw from crying. He hadn’t thought he had any tears left to give. With a heavy sigh, he turned and forced his feet down the hallway. Dawn was asleep. The gentle cadence of her soft breaths reverberated through the walls with a peace he envied. The girl could find sleep when sleep abandoned him; even the few hours during which his body had known rest, his mind couldn’t escape its torment. Buffy haunted him around every turn, her eyes large and imploring, her mouth twisted in agony. Begging, crying, pleading, and waiting for him to find her.
The floorboards creaked nosily under his heavy boots. He was so accustomed to creeping around the Summers’ home. Hoping no one noticed him. Hoping Buffy didn’t realize he had a collection of photos and old, forgotten clothes stuffed in his duster. Every corner he turned came with the flicker of longing to run into her unimpressed face, complete with crossed arms and suspicious eyes. Her cute ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ attitude that did little more than turn him on.
It was no use. She wasn’t here.
She was out of reach until the Scoobies got off their asses.
Spike turned toward the family room, reaching into his coat pocket. “What’d I miss?” he asked, sliding a cigarette between his lips.
Willow and Tara looked up at the sound of his voice, and judging by their mutual expressions, neither of them was very happy. Xander and Anya had pulled in chairs from the dining room and didn’t look much better off. No surprises there. Another illuminating discussion which would ultimately get them nowhere.
“Willow wants to do something dumb,” Xander announced.
“Something she’s not going to do,” Tara agreed.
Anya rolled her eyes. “They’re exaggerating.”
“Imagine that,” the vampire drawled, lighting up. “What’s this barmy plan?”
Willow sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Well,” she said, reaching for a small, aged book on the coffee table. “I found this in Giles’s library. It sounded familiar so I grabbed it.”
Spike’s brows perked. “Knicking things from the watcher? Bravo, Red.”
The witch wiggled a bit at that, her cheeks flushing. “I didn’t steal it so much as I…took it without letting him know. He was on the phone with other Gileses and by the time I remembered I had it, I was here and he was sleeping so…I’ll let him know tomorrow?”
“You shouldn’t be smoking in here,” Xander said suddenly, waving at the cigarette.
“Shouldn’t be here at all,” the vampire retorted. “I oughta be halfway to the underworld by now, if you lot would stop talking an’ get to doing.”
“Doesn’t change the fact Buffy wouldn’t want you smoking in her house.”
Spike’s eyes darkened. “Dirty pool,” he replied, pinching the end of his fag. “I figure this book means somethin’, else you all wouldn’t look so bloody serious?”
“I did some cross-referencing when I got back,” Willow agreed, running her thumb along the cover. “It was familiar because six of the books on hell dimensions mention it specifically.”
“What is it?”
“The Tale of Brychantus and the Demon King.” Her nose wrinkled. “It’s in Sumerian.”
The vampire exhaled deeply. “Of course it is.”
Willow shook her head. “Not really a problem. Tara knew a spell that would instantly translate texts based on a random sampling of the original language and a sampling of the target language. Fifteen minutes and presto manifesto.”
“An’ it’s important?”
Anya huffed at that, crossing her arms. “You’ve never read The Tale of Brychantus and the Demon King? Now I feel old.”
Spike smirked in spite of himself. “Sorry, pet,” he replied. “You got about a millennium on me.”
“It was such a widely-read story back in the day,” she mused with a dramatic sigh.
“What is it?”
“Best I can tell,” Willow piped in, cracking the book open. “It’s a folktale.”
Xander blinked. “Demons have folktales?”
Anya met the vampire’s eyes again and they shared a small, private grin. There were times Spike wondered if the boy had a mechanism in his incredibly small brain that switched off the capacity for rational thought. If it wasn’t human, in his book, it had no artistry. No history. No traditions. No religion. If it wasn’t human, it simply didn’t function.
“All cultures have folktales, you pillock,” Spike drawled. “Doesn’ bloody matter how you grew up.”
“Guess I never thought of demons as a culture.”
“An’ it shows.”
Willow waved a hand. “Guys,” she interjected sharply. “Point? This is important.”
“No, it’s not,” Tara objected. “We don’t even know if it’s true.”
“I think it’s true,” Anya added unhelpfully, her brow furrowed in thought. “I think I remember it being true. It’s been eons since I even thought about The Tale of Brychantus and the Demon King. It fell to obscurity sometime after the Black Death.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “This is fascinating, really. But will someone please tell me what the bugger the sodding thing is an’ why the lot of you have your knickers in a twist?”
“It’s a cautionary tale to those who enter hell dimensions,” the redhead replied. “It’s kind of…the tortoise and the hare. There was a quest, or a sort of…I don’t know, Knights Templar for demonic relics sometime in 1200-800 BCE range. A bunch of artifacts were retrieved from a variety of dimensions, designed to make the world a demon playground once more…to overthrow the disease of humanity. Among these things, the most coveted was a…trinity of sorts. Fashioned in Hell and waiting for the strongest and cleverest to claim them.”
Light flashed in Anya’s eyes, her hand shooting up. “Oh!” she said eagerly. “I remember this! It was…a…a ring, a sword, and a crown.”
Willow nodded. “That’s right.”
“Later texts speculate the ring became known as the Gem of Amara,” Tara said softly, disapproval set staunchly in her eyes. “And the sword was eventually split in two. Modern scholars think it was what was used by the knight who originally stopped Acathla…and, Buffy…a few years ago.”
Spike blew out a deep breath.
“A thing from Hell stopped an apocalyptic demon from sucking the world into Hell.” Xander blinked stupidly. “Talk about irony.”
A long sigh rolled off the vampire’s shoulders. “Don’t you know anything?”
“It’s not the sword that matters, but how you use it,” Anya agreed.
Willow sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “The point of the story is that no matter how evil the demon, you won’t get anywhere in a hell dimension without something called the Rule of Three. The Demon King in the story was supposed to be…some mega apocalypse-happy demon, widely feared and regarded as the Napoleon of his time, only on a much larger scale. He entered Hell to grab the goods, intending to end the world, but he did it without first seeking the Rule of Three.”
Spike blinked. “Which is…?”
“We don’t know,” the redhead admitted. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
“And you won’t,” Anya predicted. “The Rule of Three, if memory serves, can’t be written down in any dimension save one. If you try, the writing disappears…even if you try to get fancy with the wording. Hell isn’t big on tourists who know how to dance around the booby-traps, ergo why it only exists in writing in one place.”
Willow nodded. “The Inferias.”
The former demon nodded. “That’s right.”
“And that’s the point of the story,” the redhead concluded. “The demon king didn’t bother to acquire the Rule of Three before he entered Hell, and even he, the baddest of the bad, was lost. He didn’t think he needed it to survive—he thought his reputation spoke for itself. But this other demon… In some translations it’s a vampire, in others it’s a different half-breed…very low on the totem pole. All we know is it was a considerably weaker demon called Brychantus who learned the lesson the demon king did not. He went first to the Inferias to acquire the Rule of Three, which enabled him to enter Hell and emerge the victor. The Rule of Three is incredibly important.”
“According to the folktale,” Tara added quickly. “We don’t know if it’s real.”
Anya rolled her eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s real. It’s not called the Inferias anymore, but the place is rather pleasant. D’Hoffryn let me set up a summer house there after I flayed a priest.” Her smile turned wistful, completely oblivious to the looks she garnered. “Granted, I’ve only been once, as it’s impossible to enter without any mystical powers and I only got a vacation every five hundred years, but I remember it with much fondness.” She nodded. “And I’ve been to the library where the Rule of Three is archived. I’ve seen it. Very pretty casing.”
“And you don’t remember it,” Xander muttered.
“Well, it was in the year 1569. Would you remember something that happened to you over four hundred years ago?”
Willow snickered loudly. “Please. I spent the weeks leading up to graduation re-teaching him everything he’d learned so he could pass finals.” A pause. “Well, that and assembling an army to take out the mayor.”
The boy sighed. “Thanks a lot for that, Will.”
“I’m here to help,” she agreed with a nod. She turned back to Spike with a shrug. “The entrance rite into the Inferias is rather simple. I’d be back in a jiffy.”
It wasn’t often that Tara raised her voice, but he’d seen it happen before. More over the last few days—more since Buffy jumped. The blonde witch wasn’t one for exuding negative energy but, especially in the aftermath of losing her mind only to have it popped right back, she’d been especially protective of her lover. “I don’t want you going,” she said firmly. “We don’t know anything about this dimension—”
“I just told you, it’s fine,” Anya interjected tersely. “It’s pretty much identical to this one.”
“Then why is it the rules for navigating Hell can only survive in this one dimension?”
The former demon shrugged. “I don’t know. And truthfully, it hasn’t been proven the Inferias is the only dimension…one of the ones discovered over the past few centuries might be able to house them.” She turned to Willow. “I don’t think they would have moved the tablet on which the rules were written. It should be in Thestle, which is the capital city, and likewise the only gateway in or out of the Inferias. The public library is on the west side of town, and you should prepare to wait for a few hours. Unless tourism has subsided in the last five hundred years, the line to see the Rule of Three typically stretches to the city limits.”
“I’ll go,” Spike volunteered. He kept his voice tempered, but the prospect of actually getting out and moving—accomplishing a stepping stone to getting to Buffy—was too tempting for words. Every cell in his body itched to move, itched to do something that would make him feel like they were actually moving toward recovering the Slayer from her self-made Hell. He appreciated everything the Scoobies had done as well as their caution, even if the impatient man inside couldn’t abide it. He needed to be moving in order to feel useful, and if acquiring this Rule of Three was all that stood between him and entering the Inferno, so be it. “If it’ll keep everyone here happy—”
“No,” Anya said firmly, rolling her eyes again. “Weren’t you listening? In order to access the Inferias, you have to possess mystical powers. The guardian of the dimension made the stipulation after Brychantus’s tale became wide-spread. It was pretty much the only thing one could do to monitor the traffic.”
“‘m a vampire.”
“That’s a state of being, not a power.” She waved to herself. “I was a demon and possessed powers along with that, which is what allowed me to gain entrance. Being a mystical creature is not good enough, especially when your kind is older than humankind. It has to be Willow.” She paused as though only then remembering there were two witches in the room. “Or Tara.”
“And I say me,” Willow insisted. “Buffy said it herself: I was the only one who could hurt Glory. If there is danger on the other side—”
“And there’s not,” Anya muttered.
“—I can handle it.” She turned to her girlfriend before the blonde could issue another objection. “I’ll be fine. I promise you.”
Tara glanced down, her eyes heavy with trepidation. “How do we know the folktale is true?” she asked softly. “Aside from Anya’s memory…which doesn’t help us, being that it took place before she was made a demon. It’s not catalogued as history, Willow. It’s a story. And you know as well as I that a lot of pieces of history come tagged with stories about how or why they’re important. How do we know—really know—this isn’t George Washington’s cherry tree?”
“We don’t,” Willow replied simply. “But there’s no harm in knowing the Rule of Three. And the text says so.” She glanced down and hastily thumbed through the worn pages. “‘The rules may be simple, but you’d be wise to listen/To not lose your way along the mission.’”
Xander frowned. “How’d it keep the rhyme with the translation?”
“Easy spell,” Anya explained. “A lot of texts were bewitched to do things like that. It ensures the story doesn’t lose its punch just because it’s in a different language.”
“There are oodles of those warnings,” Willow continued, flipping forward a few pages. “‘Be wary, traveler, or you will see/What happens when you ignore the Rule of Three.’ I, for one, don’t want to learn the hard way that this Rule of Three business is legitimate. Anya says getting in the Inferias is easy and it’s safe as houses. This can’t hurt anything.”
It took a few long seconds for the dissent in Tara’s eyes to waver, and when it did, a pang of empathy harbored in Spike’s chest twisted. The part of him that very much did not want to like anyone in this house aside from Buffy’s kid sis. He liked the white witch, sure, but he sure as fuck didn’t want to feel for her. Yet feel he did. Felt her hesitation and fear, felt her gut-consuming worry that she would lose Willow. Lose Willow as he had lost Buffy. Lose her light, as Spike had lost his.
But Tara was strong—much stronger than even her lover knew. Thus when she nodded, she did so with conviction. “Okay,” she agreed softly. “You’re right. It can’t hurt anything.”
Willow smiled and brushed a kiss across her girlfriend’s cheek. “It can’t.”
Anya nodded at that. “Plus, time moves much differently in the Inferias. She could be gone all of fifteen minutes in this dimension. It was one of the reasons D’Hoffryn chose it for my vacation spot. I had weeks off, but was only gone a day or two.”
“Yet you were only allowed one vacation every five hundred years,” Xander mused.
“I didn’t say my vocation was without flaws.”
“An’ in the meantime?” Spike ventured. “We, what? Keep researchin’?”
Tara worried a lip between her teeth. “Discuss Buffy’s fears,” she said. “I-I don’t know her as well as you guys, but…if you’re going to be entering a world where her worst fears run free, I’d think you’d want a list of things to expect.”
The thought made his insides chill. Buffy’s worst fears.
The things he’d see once he reached her.
The things she had to face day after day.
The things from which he would rescue her.
He would get her out. Before her nightmares destroyed her, he would get her out. Spike would repay the mistakes he’d made. He would make right what should never have happened at the Tower.
He could have saved her from jumping if he’d been faster. More clever. He hadn’t.
A trip through Hell was nothing in the face of the debt he owed. He would get her out.
He owed her the world, and he was going to give it to her.
The scents drifting through the house were heartbreaking in their normalcy. Lasagna, cheese bread, and chocolate chip cookies—home smells. Delicious smells. Spike hadn’t eaten solids in days; he hadn’t been certain he could until Tara plopped him down at the Summers’s dining table and presented him with a plate full of pasta, complimented with blood she’d poured into a wine glass.
“Din’t know you cooked, love,” Spike murmured, seizing his fork.
“Yeah, Tara,” Xander agreed as he took his seat across from the vampire. “This looks all kinds of scrumptious.”
The blonde offered a shy smile, pink tinting her cheeks. “I just thought…none of us have been eating well and we deserved at least one good meal before…” Her eyes met Spike’s briefly before darting away again. “Well, I don’t get to play in the kitchen often so I thought I’d try.”
“I made the cookies!” Anya announced loudly as she swung into the dining room, a large bowl of salad in tow.
Tara nodded. “Anya made the cookies.”
Dawn favored the former demon with an encouraging smile. “They smell delicious.”
Thankfully, Spike wasn’t one to give a fuck about good manners, thus he had no qualms about digging in. He was too starved and the food smelled too good to wait until everyone had a serving in front of them. “Where’s the watcher?” he asked, shoveling a forkful of cheese-drenched noodles into his mouth.
“I think he passed out on a pile of books,” Xander replied.
“He’s waiting for Willow,” Tara corrected him. She glanced down once more, as though afraid her concern for her lover would lead to true tragedy. While she had stopped campaigning against Willow’s traveling into the Inferias, she had almost reverted to the Tara of the old days. She would never be a great orator, but the last year had seen leaps and bounds in her confidence and openness. Leaps and bounds which had receded since Glory’s mind-rape, and even more so with Willow’s voyage into the unknown. It didn’t dominate her disposition but was notable; every mention of the absent redhead had Tara’s rapt attention.
“So,” Dawn said, picking at a slice of cheese bread. “You guys are putting together a list of Buffy’s worst fears.”
How quickly relatively quiet turned to stark silence. Xander froze in mid-chew. Tara’s eyes went wide and her skin paled. Anya looked up, expression awkward; a sort of bewilderment she often adopted when confronted with a situation her demon-to-human sensibilities didn’t know how to translate. There wasn’t much to translate beyond what was understood. Dawn wasn’t supposed to know anything. Not a blessed thing. Buffy’s whereabouts, the recovery efforts, or anything involving their so-called adult meetings following her jump.
For her part, Dawn remained unflappable. “Vents,” she confessed, shrugging. “If you guys wanted to hold a secret meeting, you shouldn’t have done it in a place where I learned how to eavesdrop when I was five.”
A storm cloud rose from the table, thick and pregnant and ready to spit shards of lightning at a whim. Spike sighed, a long, tired sigh that started with his shoulders and rolled to his toes. Dawn knew. Dawn knew where Buffy was. She had the right to know.
It wasn’t the way Buffy would want it. Of course it wasn’t. But the Bit had learned a thing or two from watching big sis, including a fine knowledge of how to dance around the rules to get what she wanted. What Dawn wanted, in this case, was answers.
Answers she deserved.
“Dawnie,” Tara began softly, as though raising her voice above a whisper would cause the girl to break into hysterics. It was a maternal instinct, no doubt, but Spike found it amusing nonetheless. “Are you okay?”
Dawn pursed her lips and nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah.”
“You heard what we were saying last night,” Xander prodded.
“About Buffy. In Hell.” She turned her eyes to the lasagna and nodded again, twirling her fork in a mix of cheese and sauce. “Yeah. I heard. And I get it…why you guys didn’t want to tell me. But…well, I kinda had it figured.”
“What?” Harris and Tara echoed in shock.
Anya shrugged. “It wasn’t too terribly difficult to piece together.”
Spike’s eyes just slanted, his head tilting. “You figured Buffy to be in Hell?” he said gently, trying to keep accusation from his tone and failing miserably from the look the Bit gave him in turn. “Why would you ever think that?”
Dawn swallowed hard. “Because…she jumped into…a bunch of dimensions. And disappeared. And Glory was a hellgod, so it seemed…hellgod, hell dimensions. Or am I over simplifying it?”
“Nope,” Xander said dryly, turning over a layer of noodles. “Just simplifying it enough.”
“I always thought she was a very clever child,” Anya added.
“Thanks,” Dawn replied, smiling awkwardly. She glanced down once more, and everyone followed her example. It was a strained, awkward silence. The sort that ought to be broken immediately, even if one has no idea how to proceed. And yet, Spike wasn’t certain whether the pressure in his chest was thick with relief or anxiety when the girl cleared her throat to speak again. Talk did little more than make him eager for action, even if some things needed to be said.
“So,” the girl continued, “you need to know Buffy’s worst fears.”
Another long silence. Ultimately, Xander cleared his throat and nodded. “We think the dimension she’s in is one she made, so yeah. What would be Hell…for Buffy? Her worst fears.”
“Buffy made a hell dimension?”
“Not on purpose,” Tara leapt in, her voice strained. “Willow…the theory we have is when she jumped, her mind concocted images of what Hell would be like, and that was the foundation for the dimension she fell into. Willow thinks it might be a part of Hell reserved for people who don’t die, since that doesn’t happen except for when people willingly enter a dimension like that and get lost. She thinks people who lose their way while navigating hell dimensions get trapped in a world where their worst fears ensnare them to the point where they can’t escape. But we’re getting her back, Dawnie. I promise.”
Spike said nothing—just stared at his plate. Suddenly he’d lost his appetite.
“We think our list is good,” Xander said. “We know she was afraid of becoming a vampire…at least she was four years ago.”
Tara licked her lips. “Willow told me Buffy was…after she went into her mind, there toward the end…” Her eyes settled on the girl again. “After Glory took you, Buffy kinda…blinked out.”
“Yeah,” Dawn said softly. “She told me.”
“She was trapped in a place where she kept killing you, because she thought it was her fault.” The blonde glanced down self-consciously. “I…I’d put that on a thing to expect. It nearly killed her when she…was here.”
A long sigh rolled off Spike’s lips, his heart heavy. He no longer had a quiet. Whenever silence settled in, his mind took him to a place where Buffy couldn’t escape her fate. Jump or sacrifice her sister. Jump or lose the world. Jump or become the thing she hated the most. A coward. A killer. A betrayer. Her sister’s Judas. She’d jumped to keep Dawn alive, thinking all along that a fraction of a second had been at the cost of the Nibblet’s life.
Buffy trapped in a hell where she had to jump over and over again.
God.
“She told me once she didn’t like roly polies,” Anya suggested, breaking the silence with a statement so ridiculous, Spike had to replay it several times to verify it was in English. The former demon merely furrowed her brow in thought before continuing, “Or green beans.”
The air fell silent with a series of exchanged glances.
“What?” she demanded, blinking.
Xander pursed his lips and reached across the table, covering her hand with his. “Thanks, Ahn.”
“That’s very helpful,” Tara agreed with a forced smile.
Dawn, for her part, seemed torn between laughter and tears. Her eyes were laden with emotion, the sort only true loss could induce. Her mouth tried to twist into a grin but gravity pulled it down again. The grief she exuded served as a black hole, dragging the table into a place where her pain belonged to everyone. Where everyone knew exactly how she suffered.
Spike knew, for he carried Dawn’s pain alongside his, and the burden was crushing.
“Yes,” the girl said, nodding. “Thank you, Anya.” She met Tara’s eyes and forced a grin. “I guess this would be the place to say Buffy was afraid of squirrels when she was little.”
A snicker bubbled off the vampire’s lips before he could help himself, his body lurching forward and his face falling into his waiting hands. And once he started he couldn’t stop. Something triggered. Something hard and primal. The image of Buffy, lost in a sea of nightmares. The thought of an adolescent Buffy scurrying away from neighborhood critters. The woman he knew versus the girl she’d once been. The girl who was now lost. Hard, body-consuming laughter rippled through his shoulders, pressing upon his chest and contorting until they emerged as harsh, raucous sobs. He didn’t know whether he was happy or sad, and for the minute, it didn’t matter.
It was only when he managed to wrangle in his emotions that he noticed the others had suffered the same reaction. Xander’s face was red with a mixture of laughter and tears. Tara was either crying or giggling into a napkin, leaving Dawn looking immensely pleased with herself.
“Thank God we were never attacked by mutant squirrels from outer space,” Xander mused, sniffing hard and wiping his eyes.
“Or the Jolly Green Giant,” Tara added with a grin.
“Fine,” Anya retorted, throwing up a hand. “Mock the retired demon.”
“We weren’t mocking you,” the blonde amended quickly. “Anya, it was just…it was funny. And we needed to laugh.”
Dawn nodded in earnest. “Thank you, Anya.”
There was an uncertain pause during which the former demon’s reaction teetered; ultimately, she seemed to decide it was easier being humble than indignant. Therefore, with a prompt nod and an ear-to-ear grin, she asserted, “Glad to help,” before taking a bite of pasta.
It took a few seconds for tempers to calm again to the more-familiar stillness, though when the residual chuckles died into awkward silence, the air grew thicker than before. Forks scratched along plates. Chairs squeaked and people shuffled. They were trapped in an uncomfortable place between formality and casualness, sobriety and levity, tears and laughter. Laughter was good—Spike wanted them to laugh. He did.
Especially when all he could do was replay the visions plaguing his already-tortured mind.
He wondered should he be condemned to a self-made hell—if his would resemble Buffy’s at all, for all his worst fears had transformed into her worst fears coming to life. Tormenting her. Pulling at her. Consuming her.
And he was sitting at her kitchen table. Eating pasta. Surrounded by her friends. Waiting for Willow. Waiting for the Rule of Three. Waiting for Buffy’s watcher’s permission before he entered Buffy’s Hell to make good on his promise.
His promise to Buffy. His promise to himself.
His promise to get her out.
And before he could help himself, before he even knew what he meant, the word, “Normal,” slipped off his lips.
Quiet settled again. He sat staring at his cooling lasagna, aware of the eyes which had again landed on him, but too far submerged in memories to care. How often had he picked away at Buffy’s defenses by remarking on her inability to be the thing she craved the most? A year and a half ago he’d attacked her in the sunlight after her first disastrous attempt at normality. That battle, like all in which they’d engaged, had been hers to win, but his triumph at spearing her insecurities had been a matter of immense pride. She wanted normal so badly. So bloody badly. She’d hunted for it in Parker’s dorm room, in Riley’s bed, in Ben’s baby blue eyes—Christ, she’d peeked around every corner she could to find something normal. A nice normal boy for a nice supernatural girl.
Because of Angel. Because Angel had told her what she should seek. What she should be.
How best to honor his blessed memory.
Spike’s jaw tightened and his eyes fell to his lap. Now was not the time for jealousy to stab his heart, but stab it did. All those blokes—all of them—got a piece of Buffy he’d never touched.
All of them had seen her smile.
“What was that?” Xander asked, leaning forward. “Spike?”
He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t want to voice his thoughts. It wasn’t until a warm hand covered his arm that he jolted back to himself.
Tara smiled, favoring him with an encouraging squeeze. “Did you think of something?”
It took another second for his mind to stop spinning. “Urr, right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Jus’…Buffy had a thing about normal.”
Xander’s brows perked. “A thing?”
“She wanted to be normal,” Spike retorted. “But she couldn’t, see. It’s why she jumped college boy’s bones after two bloody seconds.”
“Hey—”
Tara’s eyes went wide and she motioned to Dawn, who sighed heavily but covered her ears without complaint.
“An’ this entire last year with the soldier—”
“Don’t start in on Riley,” Xander contested hotly. “Just because you wanted to get into her pants—”
Spike’s eyes flashed. “Doesn’ sodding matter what I wanted, mate,” he snarled. “Buffy was built for more than normal. She’s the Slayer, for fuck’s sake. You think the girls before her got to settle down with a nice normal bloke, have the two-point-five kiddies with a picket fence an’ Sunday lunch with the family? Buffy wasn’t made for it. It’s why she went for Angel. For Dracula, for Chrissake. Why it failed so brilliantly with anyone else she tried to touch. An’ that sodding terrified her. She couldn’t have normal no matter what she tried because it was everythin’ she wasn’t. Believe me, I know.”
Xander nodded harshly, his gaze black with that old familiar hatred. It was almost welcome—a refreshing breath of normality in their suddenly upside-down world. There was no love lost between them, and once Buffy was recovered, their relationship would return to the comfortable, mutual loathing with which they were most accustomed. It was bracing in a way, knowing some things never changed. Some things remained reliable, and Xander’s animosity was certainly one them. And as tiresome as that was, Spike much preferred a world where he knew who his enemies were. While he’d never lose sleep over Xander Harris, he likewise knew the boy wouldn’t think twice about shoving a stake through his heart.
“And none of this has to do with the fact that you’re obsessed with Buffy?” Harris demanded.
Spike snorted and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck off.”
A small cry erupted from the head of the table, where Tara sat with wide eyes, shaking her head rapidly, silently begging him to end things before they grew out of hand. And for her, he might have—would have—had Xander not opened his mouth again.
“No. And this is exactly why I didn’t want it to be you.”
“You don’ say?”
“You really think—”
Nerves ebbed, Spike slammed his fist against the table hard enough for the wood to splinter and crack beneath the cloth, his eyes burning yellow and gums tingling as his fangs threatened to burst into his mouth. “No,” he snarled. “You selfish, ignorant git. There’s no one else, you hear? No one else who can even get to her…let alone get her back. You think I planned it this way? You think I want her lost in a sea of her own nightmares so I can prove how bloody worthy I am of her? You think this is about anythin’ other than getting her back? I’m doing this to repay my debt. Nothing else. I got her into this an’ I’ll sure as fuck get her out.” He broke away with a harsh shake of his head. “It’s my obsession, see. The woman I love is in Hell an’ I could’ve stopped it. You think that doesn’ kill me? You think I don’ replay that night over an’ over? It’s nearly driven me as loopy as Dru, seeing what I could’ve done. What I should’ve done. What I didn’t do. I see it all the time—it won’t bloody go away. If I’d only stopped Doc…” Spike’s eyes fell shut, every inch of him drawn tight and trembling with the strain of keeping control. “I get Buffy out, an’ that’s it. She can go back to punching me in the face every time she sees me. I don’t care. Fuck, I welcome it. At least she’ll be here. She’ll be where she belongs.”
Silence settled again. The vampire sighed, took a hard swig of blood, and nodded at Tara. “Sorry to ruin your nice set-up, pet.”
The witch smiled as best she could. “It’s okay.”
“You’re not the one who ruined it,” Anya muttered. When Xander looked at her askance, she heaved a deep breath and rolled her eyes. “Spike has done nothing but help since Buffy disappeared, and even when he’s the only hope at getting her back, you have reservations. Why? Because he’s a demon.”
Harris didn’t reply, just swallowed hard.
“He also happens to love her,” she continued. “He allowed Glory to rip him apart, and even Buffy agreed he loved her enough to die if that was what was needed.”
“He’s a vampire—”
“And I’m a demon.”
“Former,” Xander insisted. “You’re human now.”
“Yes, but I’m still a demon here.” She tapped her head. “I didn’t magically get a soul when my powers were stripped. I don’t regret what I did in the past. I did it because it was my job. It was who I was. Spike loves Buffy, just as surely as I love you, you penis. Furthermore, as he said, he’s the only one who has a chance of even getting there, so you better stop hating him and start being grateful he’s here at all, and that he does love her. If he didn’t, none of you would ever see her again. So back off and let the man eat.”
White noise filled the air. Spike slouched back in his chair, too stunned to speak, much less move. It had happened recently with Buffy. It had leaked to Willow and Giles. It had touched Tara and remained shining with Dawn. Now Anya. They all accepted him as he was. To have it spoken by one of them—by someone who understood—had his mind spinning wildly out of control, had sounds drowning into long drones of incomprehensible nonsense.
He remembered Buffy snapping at her friends before they piled into the Winnebago. Remembered the look on her face when she entrusted Dawn to his care in the days following his rescue from Glory’s penthouse. He remembered that, and though he’d known it as gratitude, he’d accepted it as something greater. He’d finally proven himself to her, and somehow, someway, she trusted him.
He’d changed without knowing it. The change in the beginning had been window-dressing. Something he called change to win over the Slayer’s heart, though knowing at the core he was the same vamp he’d always been. When the true transformation had taken route and shaped him into something else, he didn’t know. Obsession first, then love. He knew it was love that had reformed him. Changed him. He knew it. And at some point, the others had noticed. Her friends. The people he didn’t want to like. The people he needed to get to her. They might not call it love—and hell, they might—but they knew what Buffy was to him. They knew he cared.
They knew.
“Spike?”
Spike blinked and glanced up. Tara was standing next to him, cordless phone in hand. He hadn’t heard it ring.
“Willow?” he asked.
She nodded. “Back from the Inferias. She has the Rule of Three.”
He was on his feet in an instant, tossing back the last of his blood. “An’ Rupert?”
“You need to be at the Hellmouth in ten minutes.” Tara shivered. “It’s time.”
The last time he’d ventured into the ruins of the school, he’d learned the chip in his head didn’t prevent him from hurting demons. He’d tossed a bunch of ugly, smelly gits in the very hole into which he was about to crawl. He’d roared with triumph and exorcised weeks of repressed outrage, doing his best to ignore the googly eyes Buffy and Riley made at each other while secretly hoping she’d drop the wanker as they climbed toward freedom.
“The rules again,” Willow urged, handing him a bag of blood. ”Say them again.”
“Don’t accept what you’re offered,” Spike recited, tearing into the plastic without hesitation. His stomach was full but there was no guarantee of when he’d eat again, something he hadn’t considered until Giles presented him with more bagged blood than he typically consumed in a week and told him to gorge. He needed his strength, and he needed it to last. “Don’ make any promises. An’ the great grand-daddy…”
“Don’t forget your name,” she said sternly.
“Don’ forget your name.” He tore into the bag again, not pulling away until it was empty. “Ninny lot of rules, those.”
“They’re important,” Giles insisted. “The documents Willow found—”
Spike held up a hand. “I know.”
“—and the extra reading she did while there—”
“I was makin’ a joke to lighten the mood.” He shrugged off his duster. “Guess it din’t take.”
The fire died from the watcher’s eyes and was replaced with a worn smile. “Ah.”
The vampire glanced down, fingers caressing the weathered leather of his prized coat. He’d had a mind to give it to Dawn to look after, but on Tara’s insistence, the girl hadn’t come to say her goodbyes. He’d made the journey to Sunnydale High on his own, walking through the town where the Slayer didn’t live. Walking with the determination that when he saw the night sky again, it would be with Buffy at his side.
“Tell the Bit she can have this if I don’ make it back,” he said, thrusting the duster into Giles’s arms.
A pause. The unspoken implication hung in the air but remained unspoken. Buffy would be back, even if Spike was not. It was how they understood things. How they understood each other. All that mattered was getting her back.
If Hell demanded a replacement, it would have one.
“Thank you,” Willow said, wiping at her eyes. “I can’t…thank you.”
Spike smiled softly. “You cryin’, pidge?”
“No!” A few sniffles followed.
Giles stepped forward with a grim smile, patting the vampire awkwardly on the shoulder. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “I trust…this is…I…”
“Better to stop there before this gets weird.” The vampire heaved a sigh, kneeled forward and snagged the rope they had prepared to lower him into the Hellmouth. It seemed such an elementary way of doing it, but he wouldn’t complain. Let this one thing be simple. “All right, then. ’m off.”
They looked at him expectantly, waiting for more. Waiting for something he couldn’t give. Spike wasn’t one for goodbyes. He turned, heaved a sigh, and began his descent.
And then the world disappeared.
“Don’t accept what you’re offered,” Spike recited through gritted teeth, doing his best to ignore the grind of rope against his burning palms. The coarse fibers dug deep into blood-soaked flesh, but options were limited and he’d rather climb slowly into the mouth of Hell than fall into a mindless abyss when he had no idea what awaited him. He couldn’t see sod all at the moment; the glimmer of Willow’s flashlight had faded more than a half hour ago. He breathed in dust and dirt, occasionally reaching out to study the rocky walls that encompassed him, but otherwise waited for the nothingness to take shape.
Waited for his feet to touch ground.
“Don’t make any promises,” he hissed, turning his eyes downward again. No light of any kind. Bit of bad news for Christians. The lake of fire apparently didn’t exist.
Nope, there was nothing to Hell but musty air and cold, rocky cave walls. Bloody figured.
“Don’t forget your name.”
The most important rule. The one he was to remember beyond the others. Don’t forget your name. While rules one and two had severe consequences—the sort that might rightly cost him his journey should they be broken—forgetting his name would render him, and Buffy with him, lost forever.
Willow hadn’t understood the rules; she just accepted what she read, committed it to memory, and recited it over and over between Spike’s arrival at the school and his departure into the Hellmouth. The words had been repeated until his head throbbed—until he debated shoving a gag down the witch’s throat. But the rules were important and the vampire could certainly appreciate her concern.
Especially the third rule. The third rule was most important. The third rule which warned him against the impossible.
Forget his name and everything was lost.
It was so simple in its complexity. A lifetime or so had passed since he’d read up on the mythology behind titles—likely during one of Drusilla’s more colorful spells. She would roll dice and spill prophecies, and he’d gobble them up like a good boy and do all the digging he could to find the answers to her contorted riddles. He remembered a bit from what he’d read. A bit but not much—just the basics.
Names held power. That much was common knowledge among seers and mystics and the like. Some believed names served as an imprint of identity, and to be stripped one of one’s name was to be rendered a true blank slate. Of course, that didn’t figure with amnesia and trauma victims who lost all sense of self but still functioned in everyday life, but the semantics were difficult to figure for the untutored. It made sense that a rule of Hell, if he was thinking properly, would be to remember one’s name. If he lost his identity here he would never make it back. He wouldn’t know how.
Thankfully, his name wasn’t something Spike figured he’d lose any time soon. The other rules troubled him more. Don’t accept what you’re offered. Don’t make any promises.
No promises. No accepting what he was offered.
To whom would he promise anything?
Buffy.
Spike’s jaw clenched, his arms aching and his stomach twisting. Still no ground in sight.
Still nothing in sight.
A promise to Buffy. He’d already made thousands. He kept making them. It was his promise that brought him here. His promise drove him onward. He couldn’t think beyond tomorrow if it didn’t get him closer to Buffy.
“Don’t take what you’re offered,” Spike ground out, wincing when his leg caught on a jagged edge. “Don’t make any promises.”
A gale of cool air billowed upward.
“Thank bloody God,” he murmured, loosening his grip to slide further down the rope. Any more of the slow descent and his bloodied hands would wear themselves off. It wasn’t until his boots collided with a slab of rock that he allowed himself to breathe. Hard, raucous breaths commanded by a body that had no need of them.
“Journey of a thousand miles begins with a first step,” Spike recited with a tired sigh, wincing and kneeling forward, resting his raw, red palms against his knees. His chest heaved and his body ached, cool beads of perspiration dampening his forehead. He hadn’t even realized he had the mechanics for sweat until that moment.
Learn something new every day.
“Well then.” Spike shook his head, blinking hard and wiping particles of dust from his eyes. Then, inhaling deeply, he drew back, slid his hand into his pocket and withdrew his lighter. “Here goes sodding nothing.”
It took a few seconds for his weary, tired eyes to adjust to the whisper of light emanating from his Zippo. A glance around confirmed what he already knew: he was surrounded by a dark, hollow nothingness. Shadows stretched from every corner, reaching from the bowels of stone-carved alcoves and twisting down any number of pathways. It was cold, empty, and barren. A sort of isolation one couldn’t understand without experiencing it. He was far below the ground he knew—far below his world. Spike wasn’t one for panic, but there was no denying the icy fingers of claustrophobia as they grasped his heart and gave it a harsh, callous twist. For the first time—the real first time—it occurred to him there was no going back.
He wasn’t hot-poling; he was here to get Buffy. He was at the mouth of the place people spent lifetimes fearing, and arriving was only a sliver of what lay ahead.
The easiest part.
What waited for him when he saw her again was anyone’s guess—if the light at the end of the tunnel would manifest into something tangible. If the hellish forms of her worst nightmares hadn’t consumed her already.
If he wasn’t already too late.
A long sigh heaved through his aching body just as his eyes settled on a large plank of wood hanging from the rock ceiling, words carved in childish penmanship. He froze and expelled a deep breath.
“Bloody hell.”
Abandon hope all ye who enter here.
He blinked at it for a few seconds as though daring it to vanish. It didn’t. There were just some things not expected to be seen on entering Hell. Fabled or not. “Well,” he drawled at last, doing his best to ignore how his chest hurt when he spoke. “That’s original.”
A small, gurgling growl rumbled from behind. The vampire whirled around so quickly his light went out. He fumbled to strike it up again, and almost immediately wished he hadn’t. Dust and grime trembled off the cavern walls with every step the beast took. It towered a good twelve feet, composed of shadows and small, wandering insects that disappeared and reappeared under flaps of what couldn’t really be called skin. Long, coiled horns twisted from its scraggly, elongated skull, a yellowish puss oozing from the many pores on its mangled face. Its eyes were red and large, its mouth lined with three rows of razor-like teeth caked with a dark substance the vampire didn’t care to investigate. Scales matted its body from head-to-hoof. Rancid breath puffed through its snout, and when it reached a claw for Spike, his primary reaction was to duck and put as much space between himself and the creature as possible.
The last thing he expected was for the beast to open its jaw and speak intelligibly.
“Yeah,” it said in fluent English. “We had that put up right after The Divine Comedy came out. The guys downstairs were a little peeved they hadn’t thought of it first.”
Spike blinked again.
“I mean, you get to Hell and you expect something, right?” the beast continued, waving an arm demonstrably. “We had a few contenders, but Dante’s was definitely the winner. Plus, it has worldwide recognition. You knew what it was immediately, and you’re not exactly one I’d expect to spend a lot of time reading.” It chuckled and raised its claws. “Not that I’m judging.”
The vampire’s brow furrowed. His first instinct had faded the second the creature began speaking. Call him old fashioned, but if it was ugly’s intention to put the fear of God in him, a casual tone and even more casual demeanor went a long way in downsizing its credibility. “Fascinating, really,” he drawled. “An’ you are?”
The demon bowed back apologetically. “Oh!” it cried. “I’m sorry. How rude of me.” It extended a claw. “Name’s Larry.”
Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Larry?”
A shrug. “Short for something else, but I figure this’ll be easier to remember. And you’re William the Bloody.”
The name made him shudder. “I prefer Spike.”
“Of course you do,” Larry agreed with a steadfast nod, then laughed richly as though he’d said something highly entertaining. “Who wouldn’t? I mean, William the Bloody does have a certain ring to it, but then you’d have to live with all those grisly memories. The baggage, man, the baggage! Who’d want that?” He shook his head hard. “Ah, well. Spike’s rather catchy, isn’t it?”
An exasperated sigh rushed through the vampire’s body. “Do I look like I give a bloody fuck what you think? You’re the bloke, right? The one Harris’s bird told me about. You’re here—”
“To guard the gates to the Slayer’s Hell.” Larry nodded and shrugged. “Yup. That’s me. Your friendly neighborhood guardian. I actually got lifted from a job in filing to watch this gate. And seeing as it took me seventeen thousand years to move to upper management, I’m not too keen on what you’re here to do.”
“So you’re gonna try an’ stop me.”
“Well, I’m not going to make things easy for you. What self-respecting guardian would? These circumstances only happen once every few millennia. I can’t remember the last time we got a live one.” Larry drifted off in thought before his fire eyes brightened. “Oh! Back in the eighth century, right. This couple decided to raise a demon by actually going into Hell to pick one out. Like we were a pound or something. Isn’t that cute?”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Spare me.”
“Not in my nature.” The demon heaved a deep breath. “I don’t suppose there’s any talking you out of this?”
“Not a bloody chance.”
“Only one person has braved Hell and survived, and only because he was allowed leniency.”
“This that Brychantus chap? The one from the witch’s old wives’ tale?”
Larry blinked in surprise. “Brychantus and the Demon King is still in circulation?” He released a low whistle. “Wow. Did not see that one coming. We don’t get many champions who’ve actually done their homework.”
The vampire shrugged. “Can’t take the credit. Jus’ do what I’m told. An’ I’m no one’s champion.”
A pause. The demon’s brows perked. “Ah. And here I thought the entire reason you were taking on this escapade was to become the Slayer’s chosen warrior. You’re here serving as her champion, are you not? And please, don’t let my tone fool you. I might be cavalier, but rest assured I find this utterly hilarious.”
A shadow embraced Spike’s insides, darkening his eyes and sending a cool shudder through his veins. “Sod off,” he said softly.
“Well, it just doesn’t happen every day. A vampire in love with the Slayer?”
“Happened once in recent memory.”
Larry’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, come on. That doesn’t count. Give Angel a soul and he’s essentially a big brooding puppy who can’t go out in daylight. He wasn’t a vampire where it counted, now was he? But you. You. You have any idea how thick your file is?”
“I have a file?”
The demon went on as though Spike hadn’t spoken. “Killer of two slayers. Not one, but a solid two. Not many vamps can say that. It’s usually something much bigger…something much more impressive that does them in. You, my friend, killed two, and you enjoyed every ruby red minute.” Larry shook his head again. “And yet, for this one girl, you’re willing to throw away that glorious reputation. You sure she’s worth it?”
Resolution hardened in his heart. “I know it,” Spike replied stonily. “Let’s get started.”
“Whoa! Hold on, there.”
“I don’ have time to stand around an’ chat.”
Larry quirked his head. “Actually, you do. You have all the time in the world.”
“She’s waitin’—”
“And you still have to get there. So far you’ve earned nothing but the right to try the first trial.”
Spike’s eyes darkened and he sucked in his cheeks. “Right,” he said slowly. “So you gonna feed me some drivel about how this is all for rot an’ I’ll never see the light of day again?”
“You and daylight don’t mix very well, if memory serves.” Larry shrugged. “Anyhoo, the sun’s overrated. Look at me. Haven’t been anywhere near it in nine millennia and I’m doing okay.”
The vampire ran his eyes over the guardian’s slime-coated scales and shuddered. “Yeah, well, if you ever do decide to take the tour, I got one word for you: Maybelline.”
“You should take this seriously, though,” Larry warned, and Spike couldn’t help the ripple of frustration that tore through his body. The suggestion he could consider the journey through the underworld anything but serious was an insult to everything the vampire had ever aspired to be. The notion—the thought that this somehow wasn’t deathly urgent for him—that he needed to be told yet again what was at stake spat in the face of his love for Buffy, and he wouldn’t take that from a demon. Her friends. Her watcher. Fine. Bloody fine. But not a demon. Not this creature built of puss and fecal matter. All Spike had to do was summon the image of Buffy’s face and his every nerve tightened with desperation, and to whisper anything else was to wish the Slayer dead.
There was no greater sin.
“Don’t reckon you’ve ever loved a girl before, mate,” the vampire ground out, doing his damndest to keep his temper in check. “But getting Buffy back…there’s nothing more important to me than that.”
“And that’s, well…honestly, that’s really cute.”
Spike snarled. “You’re lookin’ to brass me off, aren’t you?”
“Not exactly difficult.” Larry puffed out a deep breath. “There are complicated legalities to get through. For instance, you’re only allowed this one chance. You get halfway through the first task and decide you need to go back into training before you take another crack at it? Sorry. No can do. This here’s a special hell and we’re not too big with the hand-outs. You have any idea how rare it is to capture a live one?”
Never mind the guardian himself had just said the same thing five minutes ago… Spike’s jaw grew tighter. If Larry wasn’t careful, he’d find himself with a fist punched through his crusty chest. “So I’ve been told,” the vampire growled. “Doesn’ bloody matter. I’m not leaving till I have Buffy. She goes or I don’t.”
“You say that now…”
“‘m guessin’ that file you gits have on me isn’t all that comprehensive. If it were, you’d know how bloody serious I am.”
Larry’s hands came up. “Whoa, whoa. I didn’t say you weren’t serious. I mean, Jesus, look at you. You’re wound up tighter than a drum and positively living on all that sickly rich love you have for your lost little slayer. I’m just saying, tunes start changing once the trials start. I might not have dealt with a vampire heartsick for a slayer before, but you do remember the story of Eurydice and Orpheus, right? And we all know how that one ended. The trials aren’t pretty. And all poor Orpheus needed to do was walk out of Hades’ domain without looking backward.” The demon tsked, shaking his head. “Poor, poor Eurydice. Her beloved teases her with freedom and life and betrayed her with a simple glance.”
The irritation surging in the vampire’s chest swelled further, seeping into his muscles and wringing him with the need to let loose. And Christ, the git was asking for it. Spike might not be a lot of things, but no one in any dimension could doubt his loyalty to the women he loved. For well over a century, he’d blindly followed Drusilla, lapping up whatever she deigned to give him while ignoring his own desire to touch something more, to reach for something greater than he was or ever could be. Something born of light. Something wholly unprecedented. And while he would have followed his black goddess to the end of the world, the path onto which she’d steered him had been his true redemption, rather than another in a long line of false faces. It was why he was here now. Why his chest ached with the absence of the one woman he’d truly loved—beyond infatuation or gratitude, beyond seeing her as an idol rather than as she was…for the first time in all his life, the wealth of what he felt was greater than language. Greater than song. Greater than his whole being. It wasn’t blind love, as it had been in the past—as it had been with Dru and Cecily and the girls upon whom he’d been sweet in his childhood. Buffy wasn’t faultless by any means. She was full of imperfection, and in his eyes, that was what made her perfect.
He could see her flaws. He’d made a study of them when they were enemies, and now, in love with her as he was, he knew her limitations intimately. And he loved her for them. They made her real—made her human. The way she acted on emotion rather than thought. The way her nose scrunched up when she realized a mistake. The way her eyes rolled when she was at her highest peak on her throne. She was brilliant if not intelligent, witty if not clever, and so full of flaws that he could see it made him realize why it had never truly been real before.
She wasn’t an ideal. Perhaps she’d been once, but not anymore. Even in death, while her memory was sacred, he wouldn’t flower it up. It wouldn’t do her justice. She was perfect because she wasn’t, and the hole she’d left in his heart was too vast to forfeit the mission.
With everything he had, he loved her. And if the scaled-monkey standing before him thought talk of torture and trial would scare him off, then the gits down here truly didn’t know who William the Bloody was.
Or what he was willing to endure.
What he was willing to sacrifice.
“Whatever you throw at me is sodding child’s play to what you’re doing to her,” Spike said firmly, eyes burning. “‘m not easily spooked.”
Larry shrugged as though it made little difference to him. “I figured you’d say as much. Just remember, you’re free to walk away whenever you like.”
“Not without her.”
“Some fortune’s fool you are, eh?”
Spike said nothing. His nostrils flared and his gaze sparked yellow, but he didn’t speak.
The guardian offered another shrug. “Well,” he said, taking a step back. “Your call, hotshot. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. First trial in an hour. Be prepared.”
Hard to imagine a four-hundred pound demon disappearing into thin air, but disappear he did. Faded against the shadows, leaving Spike alone in the belly of Hell’s outer circle.
The gateway that would lead him to her.
His eyes trailed down the darkened corridor. There was nothing. Nothing for miles, perhaps. He didn’t even know if he was looking in the right direction—if there was a direction in which to look. All he knew was one of these tunnels would get him to Buffy. One of these tunnels was the right path. The right way.
She was waiting for him, and all he had to do was pass a handful of tests before he saw her face again.
Spike licked his teeth and kicked at the dirt. I’m coming, Buffy.
It was a promise he couldn’t voice, but felt all the same. And no one—Larry or whoever else decided to play—would pry it from his lips. It remained, though, buried deep within him. Something with which he wouldn’t part.
He was so close even at this distance, and he could barely stand it.
It’s the fall that’s gonna kill you.
“Right,” Spike muttered. “Let’s get this party started.”
TBC