Chapter Eighteen

Spike sank his fist into the punching bag again and again. It gave beneath his hand, a little more each time. He liked the feeling.

Once he would have knocked the bag off its chains. But this was still good. He wasn’t the Rock, but he was in good shape. Not an ounce of fat on him.

And it was desire, not muscle, that made a great fighter. He knew that, always had. He hadn’t killed two Slayers because he was stronger than them; he’d killed them because he wanted it more. Being human didn’t change who he was; he was still Spike.

Tell yourself that, boy.

“I didn’t know anyone else was up.”

Spike’s shoulders stretched taut with recognition, and he continued striking the bag.

“Mind if I join you?” asked Wood, stepping into the gym. He pulled off his shirt and stretched, his powerful muscles flexing. It was a showy gesture, like a peacock fanning its tail to intimidate the other males. Well, thought Spike sourly, Wood had the bigger tail. Bully for him.

“Help yourself,” Spike shrugged. Of course, it had only been a couple of months ago—to Spike, at least—that Wood had tried to kill him.

And Buffy didn’t have an impending apocalypse to threaten him with now.

“So how do you like it—being human?” asked Wood, watching Spike closely. Like a cat with a mouse. “Must be hard to adjust.”

“How do you like being human?” Spike snapped.

Wood dropped all pretense of stretching. “What do you mean?”

“I like it fine—you’re the one who’s got a problem with it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I mean,” said Spike sharply, “that you took me to your fortress of solitude, put on your special equipment, and tried like hell to be Superman. You were doing your damnedest not to be human.”

Wood stared at him in astonishment. “In case you’ve forgotten, you were a vampire. I needed—”

“What? Poor little you couldn’t push a stake through my chest? I’ve seen girls half your size and half your age dust vamps,” mocked Spike.

“They were Slayers!” spat Wood.

“They were Scoobies. No extra strength, no special stamina. They were determined, that was it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” denied Wood, eyes burning.

As Wood’s eyes smoked, Spike’s grew colder. “You know, mate? I think I do.”

Wood’s mouthed thinned into a tight line. “Think you know everything,” he scoffed. “Think you know—” he broke off, shaking his head in disgust. He didn’t bother to look back at Spike as he stalked from the room.

Spike sighed, slumping his shoulders. Holding yourself as tall as possible took energy. “I don’t know anything, mate,” he whispered. “Not a damn thing.”

~*~*~*~

She was alone when she woke up. Which was odd—Spike usually wrapped himself around her like an octopus. A hard, lean, muscular octopus, holding her so tightly it was like he was trying to burrow under her skin.

But not this morning.

Well, it probably wasn’t important. He’d gone to bed early, so it made sense that he was already up. And he hadn’t slept well—she’d woken up a couple of times and he was twitching and muttering under his breath. Poor baby.

And now, it was time to go make sure nobody killed him.

Buffy hadn’t taken more than two steps into the kitchen in search of Slayer fuel before Cordelia nudged her way in behind her, looking disgustingly well-groomed. God, didn’t she do anything besides fix her makeup?

“Hey. Sleep well?”

Buffy blinked, still mostly asleep. “Okay, I gu—”

“Good. Say, is Xander insane?”

It took Buffy a moment to realize what Cordelia had said. “What?”

“Xander. Is he nuts? Because we were talking last night, and I’m kind of thinking he is.”

“He is not insane!” Buffy said defensively. “He’s just—wait. Are we talking about Xander or Spike?”

“Xander,” said Cordelia impatiently.

“Oh, okay. Xander’s not insane—he’s the sanest person here.”

Cordelia didn’t look impressed. “Is that actually saying much?”

Buffy ground her teeth. She’d always had a limited amount of patience for Cordelia, what with only being human, and this was just not the time. Okay, it was never the time, but that was beside the point. “What are you talking about?”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. Buffy had always had a problem with issues that didn’t revolve around her. “Last night we were talking, and he started screaming at the wall.”

“Screaming at the wall?” Buffy repeated.

“Yes. Telling it to stop bothering him. And then he realized I was staring at him and pretended he was just drunk, because apparently drunk is better than crazy. Which, admittedly, it probably is, since—”

“He was drinking?”

“Yeah, and he—”

“Again?”

Cordy paused. “So he gets drunk regularly?”

Buffy hesitated. Xander didn’t drink that much, not really. But sometimes….

She didn’t blame him. It wasn’t like he didn’t have reason to. What had gone right for him, ever? At least Buffy had been with Spike in his last minutes, looked into his eyes, told him she loved him. For Xander, the last he’d seen of Anya was her disappearing around a corner with Andrew. All he had left was Andrew’s highly sketchy description of Anya giving her life to save his, which Buffy wasn’t sure she believed. Andrew was so romantic he might say that just to make Xander feel better.

“Well?”

“Huh?”

“Xander! Drunk!”

“Right, Xander. Look, don’t you ever drink a little too much?”

“Not so much that I yell at walls,” Cordy shot back.

“It’s been a bad week—”

“As far as I can tell, it’s like every other week around you guys,” Cordelia pointed out very reasonably.

“Xander. Is. Not. Crazy,” gritted Buffy in frustration.

Cordy relented. It was possible she was wrong. Admittedly it didn’t happen often, but … it had been years. She really didn’t know these people at all. “Well, he was pretty drunk,” she admitted. And she’d probably appeared crazy herself once or twice when she was having visions. And then again when she was trying to destroy the world.

But there was something to that, both of those. They weren’t natural.

Maybe this wasn’t either.

~*~*~*~

Dawn sat bolt upright in her chair, paying complete attention to the teacher lecturing at the front of the room—at least that’s what it looked like, she told herself. She kept her eyes glued to Ms. Conti and made several scribbles that to anyone else looked like she was taking notes, instead of doodling randomly in an effort not to go bonkers waiting.

Finally she felt it. Her bag, on the floor, shivered against her ankle. The signal! Dawn’s hand shot into the air. “Ms. Conti? May I go to the office? I feel kind of sick.” As soon as she spoke, she felt several kids leaning away from her. Wusses. As if a cold were something to be frightened of.

Her teacher frowned and fussed a little, but let her go. Dawn had known she would.

“Stage one complete,” murmured Dawn as she ducked into the girls’ room and pulled out her phone. “It won’t be so easy to get us red shirts now.”

~*~*~*~

They were really going to do it, thought Andrew, feeling sick as he pressed the off button on the phone.

At first they’d been planning a general protection spell, because something more intense would require him to drink deeply of forbidden magicks. But the tragic snuffing of Kennedy’s life showed him just how mistaken he’d been in thinking he could avoid the dark side. To protect themselves, he and Dawn would have to immerse themselves in the stuff of nightmares.

So this morning he’d taken a trip downtown and bought the required goods—stronger than what he’d bought before—and today they’d take fate into their own hands.

“Cross your fingers, Dawn,” Andrew mumbled, putting the receiver down.

“Dawn?” Andrew jumped at the sound of Buffy’s voice as if she’d poked him with a cattle prod. “Dawn called?”

Andrew tried to suppress a flood of panic. God, he couldn’t lie to Buffy! She was a Slayer, they were like human lie detectors or something! It’s for the greater good, he lectured himself. Think how depressed she’d be if he or Dawn died. Be strong! “Umm, yeah, she’s, uh, a little under the weather, so she’s coming home.”

“She is? Wait, when did she phone? I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

“I picked it up just when it started to ring,” Andrew babbled. “I was going to call Last Ditch Records, you know, the place across from—”

“Why didn’t she call Xander, so he could pick her up?”

“She forgot his number?”

Buffy stared at him.

“I mean, uh, her phone was acting goofy and she couldn’t access her phone book ... yeah, that! So she asked me to call him,” Andrew said with relief. That sounded pretty plausible, didn’t it?

Buffy could feel her muscles tensing, kind of like before a battle. Was Dawn being sick a coincidence, or something worse? It seemed like too many things were happening, and Buffy had no control over them. And she wasn’t sure her Slayer sense was working—she’d thought Kennedy was the danger, not in danger. Buffy hadn’t had an inkling about that

And whatever it was, it was good enough to take down a well-trained Slayer at the peak of her abilities.

~*~*~*~

“And you’re sure it’s nothing major?”

“No, mom,” sighed Dawn, rolling her eyes. “I just felt kind of vomity.”

Buffy relaxed a little. It seemed normal enough, and Dawn did have a delicate stomach sometimes—usually after she’d eaten something unfit for human consumption. Mom always used to—“Emetrol! You should take Emetrol!”

Dawn’s jaw dropped. “I’m not that sick!” she exclaimed. Emetrol! Gah, she’d rather barf than swallow a spoonful of the stuff.

“You said you were nauseous,” challenged Buffy. God knew it wouldn’t be the first time Dawn had faked sick to get out of school, but she’d learn pretty quickly that Buffy wasn’t that easy to fool—she’d invented faking sick. She really should have gotten a patent on it.

“Nauseous, not near death!”

“Hey, hey,” Xander interrupted soothingly. “I’m sure Dawn’ll feel better after she lies down for a while. Right?”

“Yes!” agreed Dawn gratefully. “A nap! And, uh, bland food!”

“Milk toast,” said Spike, nodding sagely—like he was somebody’s grandfather. Traitor! And he used to tell her stories about killing people!

“What toast?”

“Milk toast, buttered toast in a bowl of warm milk. Nothing better when you’re feeling poorly.”

God, she really was starting to feel sick now. “I was thinking bland as in no Mexican,” she said hopefully.

“We’ll see,” Buffy said, and pointed to the staircase.

Dawn drooped showily. She could play sick for a day; nobody would notice if she wasn’t in bed for a few minutes. This was more important than going to school or eating food that had actual flavor, dammit. And if she had to, she’d take the Emetrol. She’d shut her eyes and try not to smell it, and swallow it before she could taste it. Because if she tasted it, she really would throw up. “Yes, ma’am,” she said meekly, trudging up the stairs.

Andrew was waiting for her on the upstairs landing. His face was grim.

Dawn knew how he felt. “Showtime.”

~*~*~*~

A light breeze drifted through the back yard, and Dawn shivered. This was exciting.

And kind of scary.

“Umm … can you hold out your hand?” suggested Andrew.

Dawn squinted at him. “Why?”

“The offering requires the blood of a virgin,” he whispered, looking behind him nervously.

She didn’t know why he was whispering; there was no one else in the yard “And you need me for that?” she asked skeptically.

Andrew blushed. “Umm … yes! Of course I do! Ha ha, that was very droll, you silly girl.”

Dawn sighed. “Fine. You don’t need much, right?”

“Just a couple of drops,” Andrew assured her. As if he’d ever take too much blood from Dawn! She was like the big sister he’d always wanted. Er … little sister.

He poked her finger with a needle and carefully sprinkled the blood into the rough-hewn stone vessel, which had cost a lot of money. You’d think it was encrusted with diamonds or something. It was really too bad he wasn’t into the dark magic anymore—with the money he was getting for developing video games, he’d be able to afford some really neat stuff, and wouldn’t have to do any skulking around to see if there were any good herbs growing in the park, like before.

He sprinkled some powdered tiksa horn over the blood and made a sign, then dropped in chopped elves-bane and chanted in Pictish while stirring the mixture in a serpentine pattern. Finally it looked right—almost gluey. That’s what the spell had said. So any moment now—

The bowl exploded, thick pieces of ancient stone flying across the lawn. The protection demon Andrew had summoned stood before him, motionless. Awaiting his command.

God, he was big.

Andrew ignored Dawn’s nervous gasp beside him, and forced himself to continue. “I have consecrated this spell with the blood of the innocent, and charge you to protect us from the forces of evil,” he told the creature firmly.

The monster seemed strangely unaffected by Andrew’s instruction. It merely stood there, bluish skin moist and shiny, its lanky limbs looking awkward and pasted-together.

Andrew decided to try again, a little louder. “I charge you to—”

Then the creature’s arm slashed down, and Dawn began to scream.