DEAD RINGER
Chapter 1:
ENCROACHMENT
The ginger-haired girl in the window seat faced away from him, leaning into the light and focusing on the embroidery in her lap with a frown. “Oh!” She’d pricked her finger, and now sucked the tip in frustration—she’d always hated needlework. As she examined a new drop of blood welling on her fingertip, he approached slowly, silently—careful to keep to the shadowy corners. Closer, closer, until—
“I’ve got you now, little one— your blood shall be mine!”
She screamed, startled—and promptly clouted him on the head with a cushion. He quickly recovered, grabbing her about the waist and flinging her negligible weight over his shoulder.
“Your struggles will come to naught—surrender your blood to me!”
She swatted at him again. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, put me down!” she squealed.
“What on earth is…?” A middle-aged woman strode into the drawing room, only to suppress a smile beneath a minimally convincing mask of disapproval. “Honestly William, one would hardly believe you’ve just passed your twentieth year, the way you continue to torment your sister!”
Sheepishly, he dropped Sarah to the floor. Sarah, for her part, looked quite self-satisfied, until—
“And *you* young lady—or so you purport to be. When will you learn not to indulge his antics?”
Aunt Kate shook her head, but her eyes were soft, and softer still, as she faded, along with the sound of Sarah’s laughter…
Stone. Cobwebs. Crypt.
*SIGH*
Another of those damn dreams. Time was, he barely remembered his dreams at all—and when he did, they were drenched in blood, brutality, sex—a few of his favorite things. Or at least they *had* been, until… Until when, exactly? When had things begun to change? He couldn’t recall, exactly, but it must’ve been after the cursed implant. Surely he hadn’t been thinking of this nonsense before he’d been defanged. In his glory days, it had been all chaos, madness…all Dru, and nothing else had mattered. Or had it? If he were completely honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he’d been plagued by these dreams—nightmares, really—for quite a bit longer than a few years. More like a few decades…half a score, to be exact. The difference was that before, he could push them right back to wherever they came from. Bury them deep. He had had “better” things to think about, bigger distractions to keep him from acknowledging or remembering that other time, that other place. That other life. But now it was different—because of the chip. *He* was different, whether he liked it or not. Living in limbo between the darkness and the light…fitting in nowhere, and with no one. Now, the memories—the kind that would have warmed a mortal soul—had freer rein than ever before. And they chilled him colder than he already was. Because they pushed him further into *her* world. And he didn’t belong in that neighborhood. He’d tried to move in, not long ago, but she—and the rest of them—had made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t welcome. Doors slammed shut. Locks thrown home. Get the hell out, Spike—and don’t come back.
He was so damned angry. But more than that, and so very much worse—he was hurt. If only. If only he could get this damn chip out and go back to what he should—needed—to be. If only he could get them all in a room and give them what they deserved…pay them back for the humiliation, for everything. If only he could, he’d make them sorry. Wouldn’t he? There should be no question, but there was.
*Bloody hell. What do I do now?*
He had to figure out how to rid himself of the recollections tainting his waking and sleeping hours. They could only do him damage—make him weaker than he already was. What if they changed his outlook permanently? So that even if he regained his power, he *couldn’t* go back to his old ways?
*Oh yeah, that’d be brilliant, just brilliant.*
He needed help. Someone to show him how to cope with the dreams, understand them, even. If he knew *why* he was having them, maybe he could get rid of them. A mesmerist, perhaps? No, they called them “hypnotists” now, didn’t they? Or a psychiatrist…
*OK mate, now you’ve gone beyond the limit. You’ve really lost the plot. You can’t be thinking of seeing a head-shrinker. This is SO wrong. They don’t have vampire shrinks around here, anyway. Maybe in LA, but The Poof P.I.’d stake you in a heartbeat…haven’t got the cash, anyway.*
No funds, no friends. Even his enemies considered him a joke. He was a sorry excuse for…anything. He’d have to work this one out on his own. Look into the past to pack it away where it belonged. Maybe then he could find a way to accept his unlife for what it now was. And a way to finally leave this town for good.
The sun was just about down. He drank a snack and headed out into the night.
********
Buffy followed the sound of the screams. She was desperate—because she knew that voice—and couldn’t seem to gain any ground. She’d been in the attic when she’d heard, and immediately raced down the stairs, but the staircase—and everywhere else, it seemed—was shrouded in a suffocating mist, obscuring her view and muffling her hearing. No matter how many steps she took, she couldn’t seem to reach the bottom. She had to keep going. Dawn was in trouble. Buffy was so disoriented, she knew she’d never find her weapons, or anything else, for that matter. She’d have to fight the thing with her bare hands. Whatever it was…wherever the hell it was.
The living room. That’s where the screams had emanated from—and where she suddenly found herself.
“Well, here you are at last, Buffster. Dawnie and I’ve been waiting forever. What took you so long, anyway?”
Red dress. Stiletto heels. Grating voice. Glory. Clutching Dawn by a fistful of her silky dark hair.
Buffy launched herself at her enemy, and immediately realized that the battle was lost. Glory was too strong. Buffy felt her body slam against wall, floor, ceiling. And she was powerless to do anything about it. Where were her friends? They had to know she needed them. And then she heard the other voices.
“Buffy, we’re here…just hang on…we’re doing a spell.” *Willow?*
“Will, where are you?”
“Don’t worry Buffy—I’ve got your back!”
“Xander!” She could hear him, yet saw nothing but mist.
And he didn’t have her back. Glory did—with the fireplace poker. Buffy felt it lodge between her shoulder blades. This was getting worse and worse.
Another voice: “Buffy, my research indicates that to defeat Glory, you should…and then…. It’s the only way to destroy her.…”
“But Giles, I can’t hear you! What did you say? What should I do? I need you guys! Where are you?!”
Then silence. Even Dawn’s screaming had stopped.
Buffy lay on her back, bleeding, broken, and helpless. It was over. She’d failed. Through the fog, she saw Glory approaching. Her hands and arms were stained red—with Buffy’s blood, and God knew whom else’s. She smiled as she looked down at Buffy, and as the hellgoddess reached locked her hand around her throat in a death grip, Buffy saw a figure approach behind her. A dark figure with unnaturally light hair.
*What’s *he* doing here? Stupid question—he’s here to watch you die, of course…*
*GASP*
Shadows. Sheets. Bedroom.
Another nightmare, and quite a doozy at that. Buffy grabbed her journal from the bedside table and scribbled down as much as she remembered before it could fade away. Just in case it was prophetic.
*Dreaming of your own death. Way to go, Buff—morbid much?*
Okay, so maybe taking a two-hour afternoon nap after a jelly-donut binge wasn’t so good for the ol’ Slayer subconscious. Well, not much else was good for her these days, either. Having a sister who was really a blob of energy sought after by a hellgod—bad. Having a vampire “in love” with her—disturbing. And having lost her mother less than two months ago…no words or thoughts could express it. Her friends had been great, and Giles was a rock. Still, it was all Buffy could do to hold herself together for Dawn, or anyone else. She was training hard, and the gang was studying even harder to find a way to stop Glory—any weakness they could prey upon. Every day, Buffy gave herself a pep talk: “You’re the Slayer…you can do this…Scoobies will help…blah, blah blah….” But it was getting harder and harder to convince herself that she—or any of them—were going to come out of this alive.
And his words kept haunting her…
“Every Slayer has a death wish…”
*Not me. A little depression doesn’t equal “death wish.” Does it?*
Buffy went into the bathroom, splashed some cold water on her face. He didn’t know what he was talking about. He was just messing with her mind…trying to wig her out with his Slayer-slaying tales…
*He doesn’t know me. Killing two slayers doesn’t make him an expert. We’re all different*
“I’m different.”
But how different was she, really…and how strong? Her friends said all the “right” things…the supportive things. But only one person had been brutally honest with her recently. And even though every other word he said was a lie, she knew her enemy was telling the truth about what he’d seen in each Slayer he’d confronted—including her.
Buffy leaned against the bathroom wall, massaging her temples. Thinking about all this stuff was bringing on a tension headache. The Spike issue was a particular source of worry. Not because she thought he’d try to make any more amorous overtures, but because she realized now just how badly she—all of them, really—had handled that situation. It was right to tell him that any “relationship” between them was impossible. And it was certainly right to de-invite him from the house. But *how* they had done it? Oh, so monumentally wrong. It was like everyone had fed off of her freaked-out vibes—and dealt with Spike way more harshly than necessary. It should have been handled with more finesse—Giles himself had sheepishly admitted this—and a great deal less emotion. Because, where before they had an uneasy ally with a misguided sense of loyalty, now what they had was a humiliated, hurt (if that were possible), incredibly pissed-off vampire who knew too much. She couldn’t try to fix it by being nice to him—it was too late for that; he’d never buy it. And she had no way of knowing whether he’d try get back at her by ratting Dawn out to Glory.
If today’s nightmare *was* a message of some sort, it seemed to indicate that Spike would be there when things got dire…and probably in a not-so-nice capacity. Even if he had no intention of giving Dawn away at the moment, it wasn’t worth the potential risks. Buffy had a sudden surge of resolution. She’d known it would come to this from the moment they’d met. For the longest time, she’d relished the thought of the battle. How satisfying it would be to stake that vamp right out of her hair. But over the past couple of years, she’d gotten used to having him around. Not enjoying, but accepting his presence on a certain level. It wouldn’t have been fair to dust him when he couldn’t fight back. But the time for “fairness” was over. He had a way to fight back, now. The information on Dawn was the most powerful weapon he’d ever had against Buffy. So she had to make him gone. One less threat to deal with. Anyway, it was her job, and she’d do it this time, just as easily as hundreds of times before. Yeah, right. She needed another pep talk… from someone other than herself. She’d drop by the Magic Box and see Giles. But first, she had another stop to make.