Chapter One

Author's Note: Please note that this story begins in Season Six (Episode Three - After Life) immediately after the events of Buffy's death and reincarnation.

In Sunnydale, the term 'normal day' is subjective. You come home and your mom says, "How was your day, sweetie?"

You give her the run-of-the-mill "Fine, mom. It was just like any other day."

"Well, how'd that math test go?"

"I thought I aced it, but Mr. Barney still asked me to come in during my lunch period."

"Well, honey... what are those marks on your neck?"

"Extra credit."

An average answer for a completely average day.

Spike was pleased to say it was a totally normal day, and not only a normal day, but a good day; the girl he loved was back in town, there was a fridge full of blood back at his crypt, and a new pack of cigarettes sat in his pocket. Not to mention, he was about to make a pretty penny playing some poker. Clem hosted these games every other Friday night with a buy in of $50 or 3 kittens. The games weren't huge, just a couple of Clem's friends and a quick way to make cash if you knew what you were doing, and that night, Spike felt pretty confident in himself.

Tonight's game was normal as well. Six familiar (if not gruesome) faces surrounded Spike at the table, accompanied by one who just didn't fit in with the rest. Assessing his new competition, Spike found that, while he looked like a human, this wasn't one, and he wasn't just some vampire either. Clad in an expensive Armani suit and even a bored look on his face, he looked like he had been confident in every move he had ever made, and he had one hell of a poker strategy. Spike forced himself to look away and focus on the game.

Okay, one 3, two 5's, one 8, and a jack. Fuck. Nothing. Mr. Unfamiliar took the lot without a second glance; you could even say he looked bored. The rest of that night followed that same basic pattern; he'd get himself set all right and proper, maybe even get a decent hand, and then he'd would find himself staring down at a better hand (usually attached to what's-his-face). Just when Spike was ready to take what was left of his chips (not to mention his pride) and go, he came across a flush. Perfect. Mr. Armani took a second, not looking up to see the smug on Spike's face, and then folded along with most of the others . The only player who kept his cards in hand was Nduger, a fiery goblin who stood no more than two feet off the ground. He usually kept a strong smirk and nothing else on his scabby, pink face, but now he sat stooped over his cards with squinted eyes and a frown. Nduger was so confident in his hand in the beginning that he went so far as to bet $200 and a kitten, but as both 'men' dropped their arms to reveal the card's faces, a raspy growl came from the bottom of his throat. The corners of Spike's mouth curled in delight as he scooped his winnings into his arms, a faint meow coming from somewhere in the pile. Nduger stood up quickly, his chair tumbling backwards behind him. He detached the ax that hung from the back of his belt and swung it into the table, sticking the dirty metal edge in the wood. Clem patted him on the back roughly, "It's okay, Ger, you'll get 'em next time." The goblin shrugged the hand off of his shoulder, climbing on top of the table to retrieve his ax and leaving without a word. He would be back at the next game; he always came back. Clem stood, shaking out the sagging flesh that hung from his bones, "Poor guy..."

Spike stashed the bundle of money away in his pocket, "Yeah, well, hopefully he's better at guarding a bridge."

"That's a troll," Mr. Armani laughed.

Spike raised an eyebrow, the flame of his lighter sitting just a few inches from his unlit cigarette. "Pardon?"

"Goblins don't guard bridges, trolls do." He paused, "Actually, that was one troll, and he really wasn't living up to his full potential."

"That so?" Spike said, losing interest.

The man approached him, offering a hand, "I'm Abel."

The handshake was careful, "Spike."

"Spike? As in railroad?"

He couldn't help but smile just a little at that; it really did the nonexistent soul good to come across a fan. "You've heard of me?"

"I've heard an anecdote or two, but I never thought I would come across you here."

It was just a normal sentence, but Spike could sense something... faulty in his tone; a pitch that sounded too genuine if not a little hostile. Before he could respond, Abel said his goodbyes and disappeared through the door. Spike finished off his beer before turning to Clem, "We inviting in any nancy boy on the street now, eh?"

Clem shrugged, leaning the folding chairs against the wall, "Abel is a good guy to have on your side; he's got a lot of connections."

"Connections?" Spike scoffed. "What in the bloody fuck does that even mean?"

"I know he doesn't look it, but he's powerful, and... and he's a really good guy when you're on his right side. I want to stay on his right side."

Spike stood for a moment, debating on what to say, but instead he grabbed his duster from the table and left without another word. However powerful he was, Spike didn't like him.

It didn't usually take long for Spike to arrive at his Crypt, but he took the long way around the graveyard. It wasn't very normal of him, but he wanted to enjoy the cool fresh air before daylight, indulging in a couple of cigarettes. By the time he arrived home, his fresh pack was diminished to a measly seven.

Approaching the door, he immediately knew that something was wrong; there was a new, but slightly familiar, scent accompanied by the sound of the telly within. Irritated, he turned around to the nearest tree and pulled off a piece of branch, wasting no time entering the crypt. Passions played on the TV and a head bobbed just above the back of his chair. "Oi," he barked. "Just what do you think you're doing in here?"

Abel rose from the chair, a pretentious smile pasted on his face. Spike rolled his eyes and tossed his stake to floor, "Come for another hand of poker, mate?"

"Well, Spike, I thought you might be able to do me a favor."

Spike huffed as he brushed past him, retrieving a jar of blood from the fridge. "A favor," he snorted. "Well, I can manage the laundry and the cooking, but I don't do windows."

Abel laughed, "I like you, Spike. You've got that attitude that you just don't come by now-a-days. Not only that, but you've got an interesting taste in the company you keep."

Spike raised an eyebrow, setting down the blood and crossing his arms over his chest.

"You've really impressed me, you know. A vampire who can befriend the slayer," he laughed again. "I mean, it's uh... not exactly common."

Spike straightened, his stomach dropping at the direction of conversation. "Look, mate, I'm getting bored here. If you could get to the point some time soon..."

Abel approached carefully, his hands clasped in front of him. "I was just wondering if you could give a message to the Slayer for me."