I don't own True Blood or Buffy the Vampire Slayer all characters are own by Joss Whedon/Alan Ball.

People are Strange, When You're a Stranger

Chapter One

Spike

Damn Slayer, with her damn bouncy shampoo-commercial hair! Damnthat bloody awful twitch of a smirk on her plump, luscious lips that just screams 'kiss me!' Fuck! Why do I even want her?

The frustrated thought makes me pull some poor bugger's headstone right out of the ground. With one great swish of my duster, I lob the gravestone into the warm, southern California air. It shatters against the ground with a satisfying crunch, dissolving into tiny bits of overpriced gravel. A smile pulls at my lips, momentarily grounding me. Then the bloody Slayer's words swirl in my head once again. 'You're beneath me, Spike.'

Another thrown headstone does nothing to pacify me, so my Doc Martens volley the remains of the granite slab across the rest of Shady Palms Cemetery. Fucking Cecily breaking my bloody heart would be the one part of my story that Slayer sodding listens to. Of course Miss Stick-Up-Her-Arse doesn't read between the lines! Doesn't see that I'm trying to help her. It's just 'you're beneath me' crap! Tears begin to burn my eyes again as my feet trudge through the rows of the dead of Sunnyhell.

No more sodding tears! Time for action. I hang a left towards my crypt, fury propelling me forward. Images of a dead Slayer, bloodied and on the ground, dance in my head to the tune of my laughter. I'm not some bloody ponce anymore; Dru saved me from that. I'm not gonna let some sodding child turn me back in to William the Bloody-Awful Poet!

Every stray rustle of wind in Shady Palms Cemetery seems to dance with the laughter of people long dead. My jaw tics at the all-too-familiar sound. God, I need to kill something! No, not something, someone. The Slayer is in my head again, only this time she's dressed like Cecily on the night I was born. Oh, she's so bloody beautiful with golden hair piled on top of her head in an elaborate French bun while her musical laughter makes me so bloody small... smaller than I've ever been in my entire life. Swirling rage blisters and pops in my head, blocking out all my surroundings. I am essentially walking back home blind. No, blind is the wrong word, clueless might be better.

I think that I must've brassed someone off up there, because this plan, like all my plans in Sunny-Sodding-Hell, turns straight to shit. Before my hand can even rest on the iron knob of the crypt door, I'm drowning in blackness from the charge of an electric cattle prod while a bag is draped over my head. Three fucking master vampires jump me from behind faster than my rattled and dulled senses can register. Why the hell not, that's my sodding unlife in a nutshell.

The only thing I know about my captors are that they're not from around here, and they don't feel like family. They don't have that strong Aurelian vibe. Bugger, should've listened to Darla more when she was tellin' me 'bout the sodding vampire bloodlines. There's something about them that feels... different somehow, like an older bloodline, but fast, much faster than me or my kin.

Wind spirals past us, making me dizzy as the three vampires lug my half-conscious arse across town. The smell of piss and beer, then the sounds of muffled pop-ish, punk music slams me over the head when we finally slow down. Oh bollocks, I'm back at the Bronze. Time to escape. I catch one of the faceless lackeys hard in the nose with my elbow, but neither even breaks their stride despite the mix of cartilage and bone snapping from my poor attempt at escape. I have to say, if I weren't the intended target, I would be impressed by the efficiency.

They push me through an open doorway and down a flight of steps. My captors still haven't taken the sodding bag off my head, but they do release my arms and legs, so I rip it off myself to meet my captors.

Bloody hell, there's only three of them? There are two men here as muscle, and some 1980's football mom. Well, I use the term "man" loosely to describe the pre-teen boy beside the biker bloke. God, the Slayer must have mucked up my head more than I thought if I let three vampires between 100 and 200 get the better of me like that! And when I get a good look, I can see they're obviously those Lilithan vampires, all too pretty, but with no real muscle. Not the sort you typically see around Sunnyhell, 'cept that ponce Dracula. Damn, I'm off my game tonight! It's a fucking embarrassment. Better start saving face and escape.

Coolly, I look around the boiler room under The Bronze for an exit before I attack. It would seem that my only means of escape is back up the stairs, but first I must pass my three captors. Oh, and just look, they've turned the place into a bloody makeshift torture chamber, complete with a waterboarding station that I imagine has holy water in it. Who the hell did I piss off from the Lilithans, anyway?

I don't really have the time to think on the subject; I need to act, so I let my demon out to play, snarling into my game face as my captors surround me. This is just what I needed to get my mind off the Slayer.

I start the conflict with some witty banter. "Okay, so, which one of you candy-arses thought it was a brilliant idea to abduct me? 'Cause I want to kill them first." It's not one of my best jeers, but I'm still reeling from the slayer's rejection, not to mention the cattle prod, and I want to fight.

The football mom answers me. "Don't try it, William. I don't feel like risking a broken nail to beat you down to size." Her voice has that southern twang in it that reminds me of New Orleans during Carnivale in the 20s. She's not dressed for combat, with her disco-ball sequined high heels and Barbie-barf dress. If it weren't so sodding tacky, it would be something the Slayer might wear on patrol, minus the heels. Those sparkly hooker heels look more like something from Harm's closet.

I pull off a leer that normally makes girls all squishy for me. "So, you then. Well, that's a shame." I let my eyes rake over her curves, biting my lip. "Much rather shag you silly than kill you."

She lifts her nose at me with disgust. "Pity I got to kill you instead."

'

Nope, can't take it anymore. Bloody women! I lash out without thinking, striking out with a wild right hook. She's lacking all California mannerisms, but she's still blonde enough that I can pretend she's the Slayer when I kill her. Lilithans might be faster, but Aurelians have brute strength on our side. When one of my punches or kicks connect with her, I can hear a wonderful chime of snapping bone under my fist. A few well-placed punches and I'll have her down for the count. Sadly, she dodges well enough to keep my head spinning.

Despite the silly bint's dancing dodge, I score enough hits to slow her down, and in just a minute or two, Football Mom is pinned to the ground beneath me. I've even got a stake over her heart, liberated from the handle of a push broom and ready to go. However, in my eagerness to attack, I've forgotten about the two other lackeys. Dammit! The muscle and the boy jump me again! How in the bloody hell do I keep letting them do that? The muscle of the group grabs me from behind, and I toss him off easily, though not without losing my stake in the scrum. There's a clear path to the stairs, but I am stopped by that scrawny preadolescent bugger, who suddenly feels much older than his fair and youthful face would suggest. I leap over him, but quicker than I'd have thought him able, he grabs my ankle and tosses me to the ground.

Nursing a few more bruises to my ego, I mutter, "Well, that's not right!" as I smoothly get back to my feet. I backhand him hard across the face and send him flying to the back wall. He's quick, I'll give him that, and recovers in time to rush me just as Muscles and Mom have gotten back to their feet. They attack all at once and I am brought to my knees.

Mommy-Bloody-Dearest rips off my duster and puts it on over that tacky-arse dress. I snarl at her. "I'm gonna say this once. Take. Off. My. Duster. Cunt." This night really fucking sucks. I'm gonna kill this bitch!

The cunt circles me like a cat with a mouse. "You know, it's not my normal style, but I think I like it," she purrs. I love it when they get cocky. It makes killing them all the more fun.

Then the cunt kicks me in the sodding ribs for good measure before her lackeys strap me down to a table with thick silver chains. Not that silver makes a bit of difference to me, but the Lilithans' hands blister from the contact. Not much for strategy, this gang. A loud creak from the staircase in the corner pulls my focus to the arrival of the man in charge. The bloke is Scandinavian and has that touch of ancientness about him that screams power. I know him instantly; the cool-drink-of-water eyes paired with a shit-eating grin gives him away.

Bloody Hell! Eric-Fucking-Northman. As in "sired by I-am-the-angel-of-fuckin-death, Godric" Eric Northman. Typically I don't bother with knowing the backstories of other vampires unless they directly affect me, but as a rule I like to keep up with the ones that have managed to make it to a thousand. Gotta know who not to cross and all that rot. And let's face it, Eric Northman is on that do-not-cross list. I'm screwed.

Well Dru, I'll see you in hell.

Bleeding wonderful. Who could dear ol' Eric have on his arm? Yes, there you are, Harm. At least for the first time in your unlife you have your bloody gob shut. Oddly enough, seeing Harmony on the arm of that Viking oaf gives me an extra shot of courage. If I'm gonna die, I'm not gonna go out like a sodding whipped dog, not with my most regrettable choice of bedwarmers staring at me the whole time. Nope. I gotta at least try to escape. First, I need a plan. God, this pillock is as large as the statue of the Farnese Hercules I saw that time in Naples! I wonder if he's got the same teeny willy. Poor Harm.

Eric addresses me coolly. "Mr. Pratt, have you been mistreating my progeny, Pam?" He gestures to the swollen, smirking face of the cunt who's still wearing my sodding duster.

I look around for a second, comically pretending to search for someone else. "Who, me?" I smirk. "Of course I did! But she started it. What civilized pack of vampires jumps a bloke on his way home from a night of drinking?" My tone is annoyed and belligerent, which I like a damn sight better than "helpless and terrified."

In response, Eric gropes Harmony suggestively, even going as far as to stick his large hands down her low-rider jeans. It's a bad attempt to bring my demon's possessive nature to the forefront so that I'll do somethin stupid. It's not going to work.

'Got the wrong bird for that, Northman,' I chuckle to myself. Now, if he had Dru or Buffy, hell, my demon would be snarling and ripping through these bloody chains. No, wait, I don't give a toss about the slayer. For all I care, the bloody frost giant could be grinding his pelvis into the Slayer's perfectly bitable arse while his large marble hands cup her... Bollocks! I can't stop the low vibrating growl that is busily climbing from my chest at my own traitorous train of thought. A devilish grin pulls at the corner of Eric's lips as he gets the entirely wrong idea.

Slowly and seductively, Eric's mouth slides and nibbles down Harmony's neck, even as his eyes stay locked on mine. "Do you know who I am?" Harmony makes a little noise, that gasping mewl that's so much more interesting than any words she's ever spoken, as the scent of her arousal wafts from between her legs.

Okay, maybe it screws with my manly pride that another man can get the bird I've been shagging wet so fast. Distracted by the scent, I've missed the bloody question. "Uh?" I reply.

Eric smirks, looking like I just did what he wanted. Which is fair, much as I hate to admit it. "I said, do you know who I am?"

I play dumb. His ego is huge, maybe if I wound it, he'll do something he'll regret. "Sorry mate, got no idea. Ya' must not be as infamous as you think."

He narrows those icicle eyes at me, and I suddenly feel cold for the first time since being turned. A low growls rumbles from his chest. "We're both too old to play games, Mr. Pratt."

I heave a dramatic sigh and make a great production of trying to place his face with a name. I can feel Eric's temper, well, spiking the more I pussy-foot around. The delivery of this next line is important, so I deadpan. "Oh yeah, you're that melodramatic, 'angel-of-death' bugger's pantywaist of a Progeny, right? Eric Something-or-Other?" I beam at him, looking as though I expect to be rewarded for my recollection.

My crude description is enough to throw the Viking off his target. In a whirl of motion, Harmony is tossed into Pam's surprised arms and I've been wrenched from the table, chains still holding me hostage. His voice is a low hiss. "You overplayed your hand, boy."

It's at this point I begin to see the error in my plan. Pissing off a vampire ten times your age is bloody stupid. Fuck, he's fuming. Well, he can't be any worse than Angelus... Eric dunks my head into the trough of holy water.

I kick and flail against my chains with frantic violence as smoke billows from the trough and the water begins eating through my skin. A scream wants to come tumbling out, but if I swallow any of the water, I could dust. My fledgling years have prepared me well for this treatment, though.. I can push past the pain, up to a point.

Before I can dissolve completely, Eric pulls me out. I suck air through my ruined trachea with a noise like a wet bellows, then burst out laughing. The manic sound bounces off pipes and walls, scaring Muscles and the boy. They back away from the scene, but don't leave the area. Chunks of my skin are still peeling and dripping from my face, making the cool air from the ceiling vents burn like another holy bath.

I curl my tongue lewdly behind my teeth while my laughter dies, replacing it with the most arrogant leer I can manage without having any lips to speak of. "Oh baby, do it again, it tickles." I rasp through my healing injuries. Bloody hell, I sound every one of my 126 years right now. "Sorry mate, you're gonna have to kick up a notch."

I wear my cocky smirk like a second armor, concealing the agony of the burns. It's all bravado, and Eric knows it. I can see it in his icy eyes. "Watch your tongue, boy. You have assaulted my progeny, and insulted both myself and my maker. You're fortunate that my respect for your considerable skills in battle keeps you from the true death. But it doesn't save you completely from punishment. So, I'll give you a choice. Do I kill your latest lover, or your Slayer?"

I freeze for a moment, going still inside my own head like a rabbit when the hawk flies above. Why did he say Slayer? Out of all the people he could have said, why did he name Buffy? What does he know about she and I? I can see Harmony smirking now, standing a little straighter in Pam's arms. Bloody hell, she thinks that I'm going to get us both out of this alive, despite her little porn-show act with Eric. And maybe I could, if I wanted to, if I were willing to throw Buffy to the wolves to do so. Slayer's strong, she can handle herself, or so she always claims. After all, aren't I beneath her? Eric would be doing me a sodding favor if he did kill the bitch!

Still, I can't bring myself to tell him to kill her. Instead I deflect, my voice a little stronger as my larynx begins to mend. "You could certainly try to kill the slayer, would be no skin off my back if you did. But I got to tell you, plenty of would-be badarses come to Sunnydale, and most of them wind up with mysteriously Slayer-shaped causes of death."

Bugger, that did not come off nearly as indifferent as I'd intended. It sounded a lot closer to admiration, perverse though it might be. Bloody hell, could I sound like more of a ponce? Eric is looking at me oddly, and I suspect I couldn't have been more obvious in my affections if I'd come out and said 'Please Mr. Northman, I love the soddin' Slayer. Leave her out of whatever this is!'

I make my voice colder, and put a snarl in my voice to match the sneer on my lips as I say, "So go ahead then, kill the bitch if you can. Just make sure I get a seat."

Eric bites his lower lip in a boyish expression of pretending to think it over. I can see the wheels in his head turning as he dissects my challenge. Finally he pulls me close and purrs into my ear. "You don't think that I could kill one little girl? How hard could it be, with her already injured?"

Shit, again. How didn't I know he was watching us? How long has he been here? When this is done, I am going to have a serious, probably very violent discussion with Willy about keeping information from me. Just because I can't hurt him doesn't keep his bar safe.

Eric's voice rumbles against my neck, all thick and seductively predatory, painting a picture of his plans for my slayer. "All I would need to do is go to her house and glamour her mother into inviting me in. Perhaps I wouldn't even need to glamour her. After all, I've always been good with women. I normally don't eat older women, but Mrs. Summers is quite handsome for her age, so I might be willing to make an exception."

My demon growls, and my eyes flash amber. But Eric goes on, turning his attentions to my Nibblet. "Then there's the sweet little sister. I find virgins especially compelling, so innocent and guileless, so frightened. Perhaps I'll make her beg for it. I bet I can make her scream; I can always make the virgins scream my name." Words sit uselessly in the back of my throat. I need to keep my demon in check as it tries to claw its way through my chest like the worm in that Alien movie. Eric feels the struggle and pushes harder, his voice like honey. "And then finally, our sweet slayer comes home from her romp with Mr. Iowa."

A boyish smile lights his whole face, one that could make the most chaste girl drop her panties. "It must chafe that after spending the night with you, she goes to that handsome soldier boy for some warmer comfort. Does it bother you that she seems to prefer men so much larger than you? If I chose to, I could glamour her before she has a chance to react. Probably before she realizes she's in danger. I doubt she has much practice in killing my kind."

Eric makes an exaggerated moue of thoughtfulness. "Tell me, Mr. Pratt, are the rumors true about Slayer's blood? I hear it's a potent aphrodisiac. She's certainly fuckable either way. And she does seem to have a yen for vampires, despite truly deplorable taste. I bet I can get between those dimpled knees without glamoring her. She won't even beg me to stop. Is she nice and tight?"

He licks his lips, his eyes boring into mine. "I imagine she's tight... all those Chosen One muscles, in the most interesting places. And staying power like a bad pop song. Fuck, I won't even need to be gentle with her. I wonder how long I could make her last? Weeks, I imagine. But don't worry, I'll make sure you get your front row seat. I'll bring her down here so you can watch me fuck her and drink from her until I get bored. Then I'll kill her." He purrs into my ear like a lover. "That's all right with you, isn't it? Kill the Slayer, save your twit of a lover?"

It's a head game. He's trying to get my goat, see what's really important to me. Reacting would show weakness. I know this, but the demon inside me doesn't give a good goddamn. It's too riled up with images of Niblet and Joyce broken and bloodied by the lumbering Frost Git, to say nothing of its startlingly possessive frothing about Buffy. And by the time Eric is finished with his twisted little bedtime story, the rest of me has come around to the demon's side of things.

"No!" I shout through fangs. "They're off limits!" Wildly I kick both my feet out, sending him flying backwards. Northman drops me with a thump. I attempt to wriggle from the fastened chains and manage to get one leg free while Muscles and the boy are still scratching their balls. I head for the unblocked exit, but suddenly Northman is on me again, ungodly fast, smashing me against the concrete wall. At least I'm not defenseless anymore. I swing my leg in a roundhouse kick, hoping to slash him with the silver chain still dangling from it. It connects with a sizzle and a hiss from Northman, driving him back, giving me a moment to regroup and let my sanity catch up with my rage.

"Who in the bloody hell keeps the one of the few things that can kill them on hand?" I taunt as I fall back, finally freeing my arms from their bonds. A bit glib, perhaps, but what the hell? It's time for some fun.

I wrap the silver chains around my knuckles, game-faced and all but hissing as I prepare for a fight. Eric laughs as he watches me, which my demon doesn't appreciate at all. I lunge for him, and then it's all over and I'm on my knees before I fucking know what happened. Fucking Lilithans and that sodding super speed! Not satisfied with superhuman strength, speed and agility, not them! Have to be all with the faster-than-the-speed-of-sound bollocks! I resolutely shove the demon back into its place and try to start planning again, promising it mayhem later.

Northman grins down at me while Muscles holds me in place. I could break free if I wanted to. Muscles isn't that strong, and he's got the brain of a ball-busted steer, but timing is everything. I haven't got many chances left, and I don't want to make my move before I have a clear way out. I'll give anything to wipe that smug look from that gits face, I think, even as I make my own expression as blank as possible.

"You are brave, Mr. Pratt," Eric allows. If I were human, my neck would have a crick from looking up at him. "It would be admirable, if you weren't such a cliche. A small threat to the woman you clearly want to get your fangs into, and here's William the Bloody, ready to fight to the death to save her day. Does she even realize the hold she has on you?"

I thrash and snarl, demon's not easy to pacify right now. "Leave the Slayer and her family out of this."

He chuckles. "You're hardly in a position to bargain, Pratt. I could order Rosco over there to pour gasoline on you so Charlie could roast marshmallows and there's not a goddamn thing you could do about it." Rosco, who turns out to be the boy, looks like he is desperate for a chance to do just that, and is obviously disappointed when Eric continues. "But I will give you this. I have no intention of going after the Slayer's family. Family is personal, and this is strictly business. For too long the Hellmouth has run wild, and it's putting the future of vampires at risk. If we want to be able to live among the humans, we can't have feral vampires like your lot massacring them by the houseful when you get hungry, or starting apocalypses when you're feeling bored. This place needs to be brought to heel, and I'm going to do that with or without you and your Slayer."

The taste of foreboding is on my tongue. He's not the Big Bad here. He's here on behalf of someone higher up the food chain, and his presence here so soon after ol' Drac's visit isn't coincidence. His speechifying makes me more certain. "Despite what happened here tonight, I don't want you dead. You could be a valuable asset, but I will not tolerate insolence among my subordinates. This one time, your slate is wiped clean." He looks at Pam and nods. Pam makes one quick motion, and Harmony vanishes into dust.

Fuck.