Title: Passions of Demons
Author: Elizabeth Grace
Dated: March 2007
Environ:Passions of Demons is set at the very beginning of Buffy the Vampire Slayer's fifth season and Angel's second. The Prologue takes place during Buffy's season premiere, "Buffy vs. Dracula," immediately following the scene where Riley visited Spike to pump him for information on Dracula. The story then diverges from Buffy canon at the end of the episode,before Dawn appears.
Categories: English / 51,910 words / Adventure; Angst; Drama; Horror; Suspense
Rating: "M" This story is intended for mature audiences age 16 and over. It contains scenes of violence and explicit sexuality and includes some coarse language.
Disclaimer:Passions of Demons is written by a fan, for fans, for the sole purpose of enjoyment. It is not intended to infringe upon copyrights held by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Warner Brothers, UPN, 20th Century Fox, "Buffy vs. Dracula" author Marti Noxon, or any other licensed holders of copyrights to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel. There is also a teensy little homage to BBC's East Enders; again, no copyright infringement is intended.
Distribution: I'd be honored if fellow fans create links on their sites to this story or share it with even more fans via distribution lists. I would ask only that you give credit (or blame, as the case may be) to the author. A little advance warning of your intentions would also be nice.
Feedback: Definitely welcome, whether good, bad, or indifferent. "That which does not kill me will only make me stronger."
Acknowledgements: Thanks must go to Nancy and Ed and everyone in our old Buffy and Angel chat group. I would never have written this if they hadn't egged me on.
Author's Preface: Passions of Demons started out as a dare. To be blunt, I hadn't enjoyed Buffy's fourth season. I couldn't understand why all of the strong characters I had fallen in love with were floundering; I had an especially difficult time accepting Willow's sexual about-face, (not because a major character was coming out of the closet, but because I felt cheated that the audience hadn't been privy to so much as a single moment of reflection or doubt about her changing sexual identity); and lastly, I'd also taken an extreme dislike to the entire Initiative plot, with its premise that all soldiers are apparently idiots. As a former Air Force officer, that just didn't sit well with me at all. I tuned in to the fifth season hoping to see the tight, original, highly character-driven stories of the first three seasons that had so thoroughly hooked me. When Buffy spiked Dracula in less than an hour, I was inordinately disappointed at the waste of what should have been one of the Slayer's most powerful foes. And when Dawn appeared out of thin air and the shallow, shrillGlory turned out to be the season's big villain, I'd had enough--and said so in no uncertain terms to the Buffy/Angel chat group I was involved with. First they dared me to come up with "something better." When I thought I might have, they encouraged me to write it.
Prologue
The rage boiled over and he leapt, transformed, twisting in the air to seize the crossbow. He landed, pivoted, fired, and the bolt shot home.
Harmlessly. In the door swinging slowly shut. Spike snarled, and shattered the crossbow across the sepulcher.
Pretty boy whoreson, standing there so smugly. Spike clenched his fists and stalked restlessly across the crypt, the taste of ashes rising in his throat. He wouldn't soon forget the humiliation of letting that useless bastard face William the Bloody down. Two minutes. Two. That's all that pathetic piece of human flesh would last against him. Once this fucking chip was out of his head, Riley's would be the first blood he tasted. Spike swore it.
New moon. His favorite night of the month. His blood pounded, the night calling to him, and his lips stretched in a vicious grin. Spike grabbed his long leather coat, shrugging into it on the way out of the crypt. Darkness enveloped him, caressing his skin, singing in his ears, shadowing his vision. Exciting him and consuming him until he ached with the need for release. Spike ran, hard and fast, stalking the deepest pools of blackness, searching.
He needed to hunt. He needed to feed. The scent of human flesh and blood was intoxicating and he followed it boldly, licking his lips. Hot, rich, savory blood, filling his mouth, gushing down his throat, dripping across his chin. Bringing strength and power and freedom. His hands itched to clutch the struggling body, crushed and broken and helpless beneath him, going limp in his hands as he drank and drank and drank.
Riley. It would be Riley first, begging for mercy, gasping and--
Spike bit his lip, distracting himself with his own pain, his own blood. Damn the Initiative to the depths of Hell. He couldn't even think of the violence he wanted to do to that son of a bitch without pain, spiraling through his head and stealing his strength and his will.
And his will was to kill. Tonight. Over and over, until he was sated and soaked in blood. He was William the Bloody! He'd fed on two Slayers, hunted and terrorized as his pleasure demanded--whole families--entire towns--bloody fucking continents. Tonight, he would kill! With a burst of demon-born strength he sprang to the rooftop, pacing unseen beneath the low, dark skies. He raised his face to the wind and inhaled, sifting the scents of the night, searching…
There. He smelled fear, there. Exhilaration coursed through his veins and he sprinted and jumped and climbed and finally he was there, the fight unfolding in the alley below.
Spike threw his head back and soundlessly laughed. How perfect. A college boy, against three Irriss demons. The idiot was right to be petrified.
It was over in seconds. The demons fell to the corpse, feeding, and Spike's gut tightened. Flesh tore, and he clenched his fists and imagined Riley's lifeless body, ripped and shredded. Pressure built in his head, warning him, but blood fountained, the scent filling his nostrils, and he remembered--savoring the hot, harsh tang of blood--human blood--it would be Riley's blood first in his mouth. He braced for it, but searing pain lanced through his skull and spasmed his limbs and Spike howled his fury and his agony and leapt.
He landed on the first Irriss, snarling triumphantly as the crack of the demon's broken back ricocheted through his own body. The anguished pulsing in his head vanished, but Spike whirled and seized and defiantly pictured Riley's neck in his hands. Viciously he twisted, lips stretched in a feral grin to feel and hear the snap of death beneath his hands. Riley's death. He would destroy that fucking soldier boy with pain the likes of which he'd nev--
Blazing, burning--pain!--exploding in his head, his eyes, his chest--but rage and madness rose with it and arced and sizzled together and he hurled the body the length of the alley.
"I am William the Bloody!" he shouted, circling, crouching, daring the third and final demon to close with him.
"I will hunt--" A savage kick to the knee as the Irriss charged.
"And feed--" Spike ground the word out, fighting through the red, throbbing fusion of agony and anger hazing his vision and sucking the breath from him. The Irriss feinted right and Spike reached, grabbed, twisted--
"And kill as I please!" With a brutal wrench he broke the demon's arm. The Irriss howled and lunged furiously. Spike backpedaled, grappling for a hold to take the demon down, but everything was slick with human gore and blood and he slipped and fell, hard, beneath the demon's weight, his head smackingthe--
Flames--sizzling--searing--erupting in his head, his eyes, surging the length of his body and Spike screamed, seizing, arching so violently that the demon's pressing weight disappeared. Abruptly Spike's vision cleared. He had one frozen, breathless moment of clarity and then the Irriss was on him again, teeth bared.
Spike grabbed the demon to him and heaved them both upward, twisting in the air to thrust the demon against the wall, shattering the skull, the ribs, the hips. With a wet, gurgling sigh the demon sank to the ground.
Spike stepped dizzily back, breathing hard, luxuriating in the sights and sounds of death.
"Oh my God."
Just a horrified whisper, but Spike spun, taking in the dark figure, trembling, backing away to the street, reeking of alcohol and human flesh and mortal fear and the bloodlust and the hunger rose hazy in his mind and red in his vision and hot in his mouth and he sprang and struck, sinking his fangs into the strong, warm neck.
Blood. Hot, delicious blood. So long, so long, so fucking sweet after all this--
Spike tore away and staggered back, dropping the gasping, twitching man, and stared in stunned disbelief.
A human. He'dbitten a human.
Without a shred of pain.
Spike turned sharply, eyes searching for the spot where he'd fallen, reaching blindly to the back of his head. Touching the wound hurt and he hissed in anger--but it wasn't the pain he'd grown to expect from the chip.
Warmth trickled down his chin. Cautiously he touched his fingers to his face and brought his hand up. Blood. There was blood on his hand. Steaming in the cool autumn air, nearly black beneath the new moon. Fresh... human... blood.
He was free…
"No…" A pathetic whimper, as his prey--his prey--tried to crawl away.
Spike growled and grinned fiercely and yanked the man back into his grasp. No sense letting all that lovely blood go to waste. Swiftly, defiantly, painlessly he pierced the man's flesh a second time and drank.Blood spurted fresh and hot and salty in his mouth, rushed down his throat and into his aching, empty belly. A large man, but he was dead and dry far too soon and Spike wanted more.
Riley. He wanted Riley. He wanted them all. More, he wanted every one of them to suffer the same helplessness he'd been forced to endure. For as long as he let them live.
But what if Vlad got to them first?
Eyes narrowed, Spike thought back over what little Riley had told him. They were right to be worried, if Dracula was actually in Sunnydale. But--targeting Buffy? That wasn't Vlad's style. He was powerful, yes, but also cunning and deceitful and very, very cagey. He hadn't lasted nearly 600 years as a vampire by actively seeking out Slayers. If he was here, it wasn't for Buffy. Perhaps something to do with the Hellmouth…
But did it really matter? Vlad would take whatever he'd come for, and if Buffy and Team Scooby were stupid enough to get in his way--as Spike was not--Vlad would be his ruthless Impaler self and that would certainly keep the Slayer busy... busy enough not to notice that a vampire who could come and go in all their homes had finally escaped their control. Which meant he'd best dispose of the evidence of tonight's little development. He had plans to make, careful plans, plans that would see the Slayer and her friends on their knees before him, bleeding and begging and dying. Couldn't give his secret away before he was ready, now could he?
Lazily Spike leaned down to lick the last of the blood from his victim's neck. With an easy shrug he tossed the corpse with the others. Asnick of his lighter, and the funeral pyre smoldered and flickered and finally reached high toward the moonless sky.
He inhaled, deeply--the first full, free breath he'd taken in months. The scent of blood filled the air, mingling with the crisp, acrid tang of burning flesh.
"I am William the Bloody," Spike whispered, flames dancing in his dark, dark eyes as he watched. "You will regret the day you let me live, Slayer."
Spike stepped slowly back, merging once more with the darkness.
Chapter One
A secluded estate in Eastern Europe
Just past midnight, one week later
Brow furrowed, Vlad III Dracula caressed the letter in his long, slender fingers. Pathetic. The powers and protections he'd given Mikhail should have kept him in the game longer than a meager two days--although they would have provided precious little surety against such appalling mistakes. Mikhail had announced himself too soon, moved too openly, and given his powers of seduction far too much credit. Vlad's lip curled contemptuously back. Had Mikhail been trying to impress him? Or had he merely come to believe the part he played?
Immaterial, Vlad decided. Only the swiftness of Mikhail's death had been unexpected, not the results. The Slayer had proven herself to be of a brighter, stronger mettle than many of her predecessors, as he'd been informed. But not so strong that she hadn't been tempted, and not so clever that she hadn't seen through the mask Mikhail had worn. She actually believed she'd killed Dracula. Foolish child. This would be all too simple.
As for his grand niece… How infuriating. She couldn't even lie well. Six hundred years of mortal descendants, reduced to this. Vlad flung her letter to the fire, staring at the indolent flames as they rose up to lick at the paper. The letter blackened, curled, and burned. No more letters, my dear. And no more excuses. Now you will learn the price for your failure.
Vlad turned from the fire to pace the long, sumptuously appointed chamber. Six hundred years. If only he'd learned of the amulet sooner. Too many nights had passed since all of Wallachia had trembled in deepest, darkest fear of his very displeasure. But no longer. Fierce anticipation filled his chest and stretched his lips to a feral grin. Soon. He would terrorize and torture and feast as he had not in centuries, would bathe in steaming blood. The slaughter would be glorious.
Dracula triggered the transformation and held it back, at that jagged edge of pleasure pain, reveled in the rushing expansion of his senses--the lush caress of silk against his body, the curling heat of the fire, the crisp night air and velvet darkness and the mournful cries of his wolves--
Yes, they felt his presence, howling now with joy and primal invitation, and he let the transformation take him and leapt to the balcony doors, his true face revealed to the full, shining moon as he pushed the glass doors open and stalked to the balcony's edge. The cries became harsh, frenzied, and Dracula laughed, a low, growling rumble deep in his chest.
Go, my children, he crooned. Hunt, fill your bellies, and drink of the night.
They spun about, jaws snapping, powerful hind legs bunching and leaping, and shot off into the forest. Dracula followed their hunt, across miles of rough terrain, until finally he heard what he sought.
The carriage. The pack circled, hungrily considering the horses, but Dracula turned them easily aside and left them, drawing his senses slowly back to his body.
Excellent. Luka had returned, and they could proceed to Sunnydale. And she… she had sensed him. He concentrated on her, his awareness of her growing as the carriage drew closer to the estate. Anticipation consumed her, her thoughts chaos itself, yet underneath lay cunning and ferocity and deepest, darkest malevolence. An extraordinary creation.
Vlad released his demon face and returned to the fire, sinking into a tall, leather chair, and waited while the carriage drew up out front, while his servants scurried to carry out his orders. Efficient as ever, Luka entered and silently bowed only minutes later, and with a welcoming wave Vlad acknowledged his steward.
"My prince." Luka bowed again and finally approached.
Vlad raised an eyebrow.
"She knew, my prince," Luka reported, a keen edge to his quiet words. "When I found her in Austria, she was already on her way to you. She is as we were told--she knew."
Vlad hissed in angry surprize. How much of his plans might she have revealed? "Exactly what did she know?"
"I heard your call."
Drusilla.
Vlad stiffened, and Luka spun about at the childlike voice. "You do not enter the Count's presence unannounced," he said sternly.
"He knew I was coming," Drusilla murmured huskily, sauntering into his private cabinet, a sultry smile shaping her blood red lips, and Vlad felt something within him stir at the quicksilver change in her. "Didn't you, sweet prince?"
"Drusilla," Luka began, voice heavy with disapproval, but Vlad stood and laid a calming hand on the stiff back.
"Let be, Luka," he instructed. "The bonds of protocol are not for one such as
she--are they, Drusilla?"
"Bonds?" she repeated, the voice gone young and immature again, but the eyes… Ah, the eyes told a far different story. "I prefer chains," she said slyly. "Chains hurt."
Drusilla brushed past Luka, and Vlad signaled his steward with a quick glance to allow her bold approach. She circled him, her eyes everywhere, boring into him with uncanny, uncomfortable intensity.
"Hell's fury," she whispered, "wishes and kisses," spinning around in front of him like a playful child. But her dark, unfathomable eyes flashed and Vlad caught her as she moved, a perfect moment of demonic grace and speed, tightening his hands on her waist as she molded herself against him.
"You're going to have a party," she giggled mischievously, staring up at him from beneath coyly lowered lashes. "I like parties."
"You see a great deal," Vlad acknowledged coolly.
Drusilla flushed with pleasure. "I saw you, under the moon, running with them." Her voice dropped, the change swift as lightning again, and now she licked her lips, rubbing sinuously against him. "Hunting," she purred. "They're feeding now."
Vlad stared, arousal and excitement sparking in him. The wolves were feeding, snapping and snarling over a deer carcass, flesh tearing, blood soaking the ground--and she'd realized it first. Extraordinary, indeed. "Bring us two, Luka," Vlad ordered softly. "The young couple."
"The hikers?" Luka clarified.
Vlad nodded, and with a swift bow his steward was gone.
"Mmm," Drusilla arched back against his hands. "Dinner."
"A feast." Vlad bent, licking at the long, white neck, and abruptly lifted her. She gasped, her hands tightening on his shoulders and her legs winding round his waist as he carried her to the desk and set her on the cool wood.
He slid his hands up, pulling her back into him, gliding his fingers across the smooth, cold skin until they circled her throat. "Drusilla," he murmured, thumbs massaging the hollows at the base of her neck, "did you tell anyone where you were going--and why?"
"The party is a secret," she laughed, twisting into his hold as if she daredhim to break her neck.
"Yes," he exulted, "a secret." At last. His plans were set, the final piece now lustfully writhing in his hands, and no one knew she was with him. It was time! Vlad ripped her dress open and took her mouth, pressing her down to the desk, raking her breasts with cruel fingers, biting at her lips until he tasted blood. She was fiercely demanding beneath him, yanking his head down and arching until he sucked hard at her breast.
"Fear," she moaned, fingers fisting in his hair. "I smell fear."
"Dinner," he reminded her. "Chain them," Vlad ordered, not looking up as the man and woman were dragged into the room. "Drusilla likes chains." He bit at her breast again and heard his pants tear as the heavy iron chains clanked and the woman sobbed, felt mortal fear swell sweet and brittle to fill the room as Drusilla roughly stroked him.
"Luka," he growled, grabbing Drusilla's wrists in a brutal grip and pinning her to the desk. "We leave in two hours."
She went still, waiting, watching him hungrily with those wicked, cunning eyes, while Luka left and the man started begging.
"You will do as I say," Vlad rasped, piercing the depths of Drusilla's shadowed gaze and watching the mad, intricate twisting of her mind until he saw that electrifying moment of submission. He took her then, with savage, frenzied thrusts, driving into her until human terror crested and biting demonic hunger exploded into hot, exultant release.
Oh, yes… He would forge a new hell. His rule would be merciless, his power absolute. How they would cower at his very name! How he would savor the carnage…
Evening in Sunnydale
Three days later
"Dracula," Xander snapped, pulling up in front of the Summers home. "Great. Just what I need." He threw the car in park and ran his hand raggedly through his hair. He could just go home. Claim he wasn't feeling well… he had to be at work early… he had to clean the damned bathroom. Anything to get out of an entire night of Dracula movies.
Xander closed his eyes and sat back, the car still running. Come on, Harris. How many could there be?
Bad question. If there were fifty Dracula movies in existence, Willow would be her usual, thorough, Research Girl self and have forty-eight of them in there, with the other two on the way.
Okay--look on the bright side. Was there a bright side? Wait--hadn't Jeri Ryan been in that last one? Success! A babe-o-licious bright side after all. And Dracula alwaysgot staked or something--didn't he?
Yeah, but he'd bet his last dollar there was always a Renfield. And he probably ate bugs in every single stinking flick.
He should just go home.
Rap rap rap.
Xander stiffened, head whipping around and eyes flying open. Anya smiled at him from the other side of the passenger window.
"Hi, honey," she cooed, waving. "Did you get me something?"
Xander stared blankly. "What?"
"Did you get me something?" she repeated loudly. "Those little rubber things you always insist we--"
"Anya!" Xander shut off the ignition and scurried out of the car. "Must you announce to Buffy's entire neighborhood that we ran out of condoms?!"
Oh, hell. He'd shouted that, hadn't he. Yep. Sure had. Xander slouched against the door and banged his head on the roof. "Just shoot me now," he muttered.
"Don't worry," Riley said, and Xander turned to see him trotting across the street from where he'd parked. "I think I'm the only one who heard the news," he grinned, clapping Xander on the back.
Xander managed to smile back. Wonderful. He felt so much better. But Anya was frowning at him. And her arms were crossed.
Riley's glance swiveled between them. "Are you guys going in?"
"In a minute," Xander nodded. He followed Riley around the car and grimaced at the sympathetic glance Riley shot him as he headed up the walk. Yeah, how about Angry Ex-Demon Girlfriends for a thousand, Alex.
"I'm sorry, Anya," Xander began. "I promise I'll--"
"You didn't go to the drug place, did you?" she interrupted sharply.
He dredged up every last bit of patience in him. "The pharmacy," he corrected. "And no, I didn't have the time to--"
"Who is she?" Anya snapped, and Xander stared at the tears welling in her eyes.
Helplessly he shook his head. "Who is who?"
Anya wiped furiously at her tears. "I know I haven't been human long, but I've been around the street."
"Around the block." Shit. He winced. "Sorry--"
"Stop correcting me!" she wailed. "Just tell me who she is! You're gone when I wake up, I never see you after work anymore, you're always too tired for sex, and all those bruises--what does she do for you, Xander? When have I ever--"
Xander pulled her gently to him and brushed his lips over hers. "Stop," he said softly, and kissed her again, long and slow and deep. She trembled against him, and then she clung, and he wanted to kick himself for doing this to her.
"Xander," Anya whispered brokenly, pulling back to stare up at him, "I swear I'll do whatever--"
"I said stop." He cradled her face in his hands. "There is no one else. I'm sorry I gave you any reason at all to think that."
"That's what men always say."
He would have laughed, if she hadn't been standing so devastated in his arms. "You've got to stop thinking of everything in terms of sex and betrayal, Anya--you're nota revenge demon anymore."
"No," she admitted hoarsely, "I'm your girlfriend."
"You'reAnya, and you just happen to have Thoughtless Boyfriend here who got a little wrapped up…" He sighed, and smoothed his hands down her arms. Damn it, he wasn't ready to spill these particular beans yet. But another tear rolled down her cheek and prodded the truth from him. "Anya, I've been going to the gym."
She blinked. "The gym?"
"You saw," he bitterly reminded her. "You heard. Spineless Dracula 'Yes, Master' Man, eating bugs and getting pummeled as usual."
"You don't usually eat bugs," she said solemnly.
"True," he snorted, "but I do usually get the crap beaten out of me. It only took Riley one punch that time."
"But that wasn't your fault!" she insisted. "Dracula was the most powerful vampire ever."
"And Buffy needed all of five minutes to take him out."
"Buffy's the Slayer! And you're--"
He raised an eyebrow.
"And you're not," she finally finished. "You're Xander, and you love me, and that's all I need. You're hurting yourself--do you have to do this?"
"The bruises are from the sparring. They'll go away. And yeah--I do have to do this. I've got to be stronger, Anya. I'm tired of always being the Red Shirt. I've just been lucky so far, that the monster of the week hasn't killed me before the opening credits."
She reached up to rub at his shoulders, her gaze boring solemnly into his. "It doesn't matter what color shirt you're wearing. You're already strong, Xander. And brave, too. And I miss you."
But not strong or brave enough. He was not going to be used like that again. Ever.
"I am sorry, Anya, but I need to do this. You'll see. Trust me, okay? Listen--why don't we take off, hit the 24-hour WalMart for happy little rubber guys, and just go home?"
A small smile finally lifted the corners of Anya's mouth. "Happybig rubber--"
"Hi, Guys!" Willow pulled her hand from Tara's--because the other hand gripped a Blockbuster bag that had to have at least six or eight DVD's in it--and waved as they walked over from their car. "Ready for a Dracula fest?"
"No, thanks. We're going to have sex," Anya cheerfully announced. "Xander's been at the--"
"Anya, honey," Xander interrupted, his stomach tightening. He made himself smile. "They don't--that--I was at… the store! Yes--the store! And I forgot popcorn. Can't have a Dracula fest without popcorn, right?"
Anya's smile faltered. Willow exchanged a puzzled glance with Tara, who gently jiggled a second Blockbuster bag. "We've got popcorn," Tara said. "Are you okay, Xander?"
"He's fine, thank Avarra," Anya sighed. "The bruises will--"
"Ran into a door," he laughed frantically, pulling Anya with him as he darted up the walk. "At the store. Anya, sweetheart, let's go see if we can help Buffy with anything, okay?"
Anya stumbled after him, while Willow and Tara stared open-mouthed from the curb. "Xander--" Anya stammered.
"Not a word about the gym," he whispered fiercely. "That's just what I need, Riley stopping by with Fighting Hints for the Clueless."
"But--"
"And will you please stop talking about our sex life?" He stabbed at the doorbell. "Contrary to what apparently passes for demonic conversation, sex is not the only thing people talk about."
Anya paled, Willow and Tara caught up, Buffy opened the door, and Xander wished with all his heart he'd driven away when he'd had the chance.
"Hi," he waved weakly at Buffy. "Willow's got movies, Tara's got popcorn, and I don't think I'm ever going to get this foot out of my mouth."
"Terminal size eleven, huh?" Buffy grinned. "Relax. The taste of leather eventually goes away--especially if you eat popcorn."
Xander looked at Anya, who was staring at the ground. "How much popcorn do we have?" he said softly.
"Come on," Willow pushed gently from behind. "I vote we watch the 1931 Bela Lugosi 'Dracula' first. It's a classic."
Xander sighed and followed Anya into the house. Could the movie matter any less now? He was so in the doghouse.
"Geez, Will," Buffy laughed, "how many Dracula movies did you get?"
"Just seven," Willow shrugged. "Four serious scary, two funny, and one foreign."
"Ew--subtitles," Buffy shuddered. "I veto foreign!"
"Well, actually, it doesn't say if it's been subtitled or dubbed," Tara clarified.
"And that's 'Nosferatu,'" Willow complained. "We can't have a Dracula fest without 'Nosferatu'!"
They piled into the living room and Xander ignored the debate and dropped tiredly onto the floor. No big surprize, Anya wedging herself onto the sofa, where Willow cuddled with Tara. He rubbed at his eyes and stared up at his girlfriend.
She looked… fragile. And alone. Sitting there staring at her hands, idly spinning the bracelet he'd gotten her around her wrist. A simple gift, not expensive. A last-minute thought, really, but she treated it like diamonds from a king. Maybe he should do the flower thing to apologize. Or more jewelry. Real stuff this time. Except by then she'd have already forgiven him--or more accurately, already slipped into totally denying he'd ever insulted her in the first place. Why the hell didn't she ever stick up for herself? Made fighting damned difficult.
"… or we could just go chronologically," Willow suggested. "Except for 'Nosferatu,' even though it's from 1922, since we're watching that one last."
Buffy heaved a theatrical sigh of relief. "I'll be safely patrolling by then…"
Over a thousand years as a revenge demon, but she never stuck up for herself. Not with him, anyway. Some guys would give up an arm to have a girl that obliging. But… not even twoyears as a human. He really needed to cut her some slack. Stop correcting her like he always did. Anya would settle into humanity eventually. It's not like she ever meantto embarrass him. And Buffy and Willow knew where she was coming from. Anya glanced up as Riley entered with a monstrous bowl of popcorn. The light shifted on her face, darkening her eyes and lending mystery to her soft, delicate features. She really was beautiful. Had he told her that lately?
"… uh, move over, Xander," Riley said, sliding down to the floor, and obediently Xander shifted aside.
Sprawled across the chair, Buffy reached for a handful of popcorn. "Give it up, Will. We need some comedy first."
"But the Bela Lugosi 'Dracula' has comedy!" Willow protested.
Riley snorted. "That would be completely unintentional--because we're watching the movie eighty years later. We're used to much more sophisticated special effects and an entirely different style of filmmaking. 'Dracula' was meant to be quite serious."
"What he said," Buffy grinned. "So is it 'Love at First Bite' or 'Dead and Loving It'? Mel Brooks and Leslie Nielsen, or George Hamilton…"
Xander started on the popcorn. He'd need to eat the entire bowl himself before he got this taste out of his mouth. How long before Anya stopped ignoring him? Would she finally get angry with him? Make him work a little for the forgiveness she lavished on him? Maybe if he brought her breakfast in… Damn. He was due at the gym at seven o'clock in the morning. Either he woke her up well before she preferred, or she woke up alone again.
Shit. Why was this so complicated? Work, work out, have a girlfriend, fight vampires and demons…
Okay. Make that work at his lame job, try to get in shape so he didn't get beat up so often, try to teach an ex-demon how to be a nineteen-year-old California girl, and get out of the way while Buffy and Riley fought vampires and demons.
A sniveling sound went right down his spine. Outstanding. They'd picked "Love at First Bite." Arte Johnson brought sniveling to a new level. He wished he could laugh at it. Wished he could shrug the whole thing off as easily as everyone else seemed to. It didn't help, that he wasn't sure where his relationship with Anya was going. Hell, where his life was going. But all he could really see in his future was hours of Draculas and Renfields followed by a long night of making Anya see why she deserved to be angry with him, then coaxing her out of it. At least he was making progress at the gym.
Xander grabbed more popcorn. Maybe he could work in an extra session, after work. Anya would understand. Eventually.
Giles' home
The next afternoon
Buffy trudged up the walk to Giles' place and wondered for the hundredth time what was wrong with her.
Riley was great. Mom was busy and social and not hovering. Giles was a Watcher on a mission. Willow and Tara, Xander and Anya. Everyone was cozy, not bleeding or broken, and they'd spent a long, lazy summer together.
Fall term had just descended, but she'd lightened the course load and had nothing to worry about there. Knowing she'd already dealt with freshman orientation, old boyfriend issues, the Demon Roommate From Hell, the Psychotic Professor From Hell, the Harebrained Military Operation From Hell, the Reanimated Piecemeal Monster From Hell, the "other" Slayer, andcalculus took a huge weight off her.
Drusilla was playing house with some demon on another continent, and Spike was so far past being an issue that even he didn't bother her any more. She'd spiked Dracula, thank you very much, which had to be one helluva Slayer Milestone. Giles was even optimistic--cautious, but still optimistic--about dealing with the Council again.
So what the hell was wrong with her? Why was she walking around with this itch under her skin that things had been too quiet for too long and were going to bust apart like some foul-smelling, puss-faced, exploding demon?
Was this her "dark side," rearing its dark and hairy head? Or was she just looking for trouble?
Buffy knocked once and pushed the door open. Give her a good, open fight any day over all this worrying and waiting. Maybe Giles had found something. "Giles?"
The teapot started whistling as she entered, and Giles wandered down the hall from his library, nose buried in an old, bound manuscript he carried.
"Hey," Buffy said. "Water's ready."
"Oh hello, Buffy. I didn't hear you come in. How did the Dracula marathon go?"
Buffy dropped onto Giles' sofa and wearily propped her feet up on his coffee table. "You should've come, Giles. Enough Dracula in one night to make you really appreciate bad Transylvanian accents."
"Actually…" Drifting in from the kitchen with his tea, Giles didn't look up from the manuscript. "Dracula was a prince of Wallachia, which was a province of Romania."
"Not in the movies--he's always from Transylvania." Buffy shrugged. "I think--they started to run together after the third movie."
Giles sat, setting his tea on the table and carefully turning over a page of notes. "I've always preferred Frankenstein myself."
"Well, you do get that whole 'mad scientist with the really cool lab' angle. But everybody knows the reanimated piecemeal monster thing would never work--right?"
Giles finally glanced up, mouth curved in a wry grin. "Right. Whatcould I have been thinking?"
"Just don't tell Willow--please," Buffy smiled back. "She'll start collecting Frankenstein flicks. Considering my line of work, one monster movie fest a year is enough."
"Too scary?" Giles teased, gently flipping another page.
"Too Hollywood phony," Buffy snorted. "I don't hear any soundtrack playing when something's about to leap out at me from the bushes. I don't get the great wardrobe, I don't get the makeup and hair guys--not even a stunt double. I--"
"Here it is," Giles leaned forward. "I thought it was De la Chasse."
Buffy craned for a better view of the faded pages and the neat handwriting that covered them. "What's with the old diary? Any steamy bits?"
"It's a Watcherdiary," Giles said dryly, "from 1632. And so far it offers only the third reference in my entire library of any 'dark' aspects of the Slayer's powers."
"Really?" Buffy dropped her feet back to the floor and shifted closer. "Spill, Giles. I can't read this stuff. What does this guy have to say?"
"Yes, well, seventeenth century French isn't my forté either, unfortunately. But if I'm right, Jean-Pierre De la Chasse--that's the Watcher--uses the words 'dark' and 'base' to describe the Slayer's strength. And here… the visions of Lysette--that's Lysette d'Orleans, the Slayer--were apparently a torment to her, 'dark premonitions of innumerable deaths.'"
Giles fell silent, reading, brow furrowed in concentration as he translated. Buffy waited. And waited.
"Well?" she finally prompted. "That's it?"
"I'm afraid so," he murmured. "De la Chasse was of noble birth, so his writings are very…"
"Useless?" Buffy supplied.
Giles cleared his throat. "Philosophical. There's very little practical application or historical fact in his journals."
Buffy sighed. "But facts are what we need. Have you reached the Council yet?"
"Well, no," Giles sighed, carefully closing the manuscript and setting it aside. "I've spoken with an old friend in London, who has an extensive library and often assists the Council with their research. He's agreed to speak to others close to the Council and feel out their mood for us. If--"
"Theirmood?" Buffy surged to her feet. "I don't care what their mood is, any more than I care about their rules and their stupid tests. They exist to help the Slayer slay. Period. End of story. Case closed. They can be pissed with me for the next thousand years, as long as they help me learn more about my powers and then get out of the way while I use them."
"Buffy, you know it's not that simple with the Council."
"But it should be." Buffy paced restlessly. "Giles, I killed Dracula. Doesn't that get me a 'pass go and collect two hundred dollars' card with them? Do we have to play these games now, when so much--"
Buffy faltered. She'd almost said, "when so much was at stake." But--what was at stake? And why? How?
"Buffy?" Giles stared up at her. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't know," she growled in frustration, dropping back down to the sofa, her sudden energy gone. "It's like the audience is screaming at the screen for the heroine to turn around and see the bad guy before he grabs her, but I've turned around a hundred times since I dusted Dracula and I can't see a thing."
"It could be nothing," Giles mused, "but your instincts have never cried wolf before. Have you been dreaming?"
Buffy shrugged. "I think so, but I can't remember any of them since those creepy seduction scenes starring Dracula and me."
Giles took a long sip of his tea, considering. "I can put out some feelers, do some research to see if we're approaching any demonic anniversaries or convergences. But without more to go on, you'll simply have to keep your eyes open."
"Wide open," Buffy sighed. "Giles, I'd feel a lot better if we could pry some nice, juicy facts out of the Council. I mean it--now is not the time for them to hold out on me."
"All right, Buffy," Giles softly replied. "I'll ask Charles to approach the Council for us directly and arrange a meeting. But don't expect too much from them--and don't become obsessed about this 'dark side' to your abilities. That information came from Dracula, after all, and can't be trusted. I can't even verify what he told you, and my library covers quite a bit of ground. I'm not sure what more the Council will be able to tell you."
Buffy rubbed tiredly at her eyes. "Maybe we should just go. Walk into the Council, get their attention, and start pushing buttons until we get some answers."
"A frontal assault? On the Council?" Giles raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I can't remember when thateverworked with them. They're notoriously rigid."
"Then maybe it's time we loosened them up a bit."
"One step at a time," Giles cautioned. "Let's see how far Charles gets, before we--" The phone rang, and Giles stood. "--book any plane tickets. All right?"
Silently Buffy nodded, while Giles answered the phone. She didn't really want to go before the Council when she had this little to go on anyway. Except the itch under her skin was only getting worse. Soon she might not have much of a choice--and then, neither would they.
Giles disappeared down the hall again, talking softly on the phone, and Buffy slipped quietly out. He'd let her know when he had something real. In the meantime, there was College Life: that last box of school supplies to pick up from home and take to her dorm room. And then maybe a nap. Or she'd never survive patrolling tonight and that nine o'clock lecture in the morning.
She was just curling up with her favorite blanket and pillow when the phone rang. Sighing, Buffy reached for the phone. Maybe it was Giles with good news and she could stop worrying the world was going to end--again.
"Hey, Gorgeous," Riley said, and Buffy relaxed back onto her pillow.
"Hey, yourself," she smiled. "Why aren't you here napping with me?"
Riley groaned. "Sounds perfect. Except for this little thing with the Dean."
"Sorry--I forgot," Buffy yawned. "I don't think I'll ever get all this Greek stuff."
She could almost hearRiley's frown. "Buffy, half the fraternity disappeared, the other half needed hospitalization, and the house needed thirty thousand dollars of renovations when the Initiative was shut down. You have to admit, we're a little beyond the normal concerns of Greek life."
"But I thought the Dean bought into that whole 'philosophical differences' story you spun about why the others were gone--and Uncle Sam pitched in that nice, big, anonymous donation."
"Yeah, well, we're still high on the Dean's 'list.' I've got to present our plans for recruitment this year. He's really following our rebuilding process closely."
"Mmm." Buffy closed her eyes, snuggling deeper into the pillow. "Go be Greek then, Mister Fraternity President. I'll just have to dream about you."
"You can have me in the flesh tonight," he offered. "I'll even make you dinner."
"'Kay," Buffy mumbled. "Gotta patrol, too."
"I've got it covered. You want pasta or chicken?"
Pasta.
"Buffy?"
Pasta--that dish with the noodles and cheese and "… those little sausages."
"What? Did you say sausages? Hey--you still awake over there?"
Rap rap rap.
Buffy sat straight up. "I said pasta," she blurted loudly.
The door opened, and Willow poked her head in. "Hey, Buffy. You ordering take-out?"
Buffy waved Willow in. "No, Will, I'm talking to Riley. Sorry for zoning out on you there. We're okay for tonight, then?"
"Sure, Buffy," Riley said gently. "Call me when you wake up, and I'll come get you. Sweet dreams."
"Thanks," she yawned, and fumbled with the receiver until Willow reset it in the cradle for her. Buffy dropped back down to her nice, warm pillow. "What's up?"
"Nothing," Willow smiled brightly, shrugging. "Really. Just stopping by to see if you're all unpacked. Can't I just be stopping by? No emergencies, no Research Girl reports, no deceptively simple spells run amok. Just me and you, hanging out--"
"Willow," Buffy interrupted. "You're pacing. I'm napping. Do I need to not be napping? Please tell me I don't need to not be napping."
Willow stopped mid-stride. "Oh--napping! Right. You've got that early lecture tomorrow, don't you." She started backing toward the door. "We'll hang out later, okay? See ya."
With a cheerful wave and a slightly brittle smile Willow slipped out. Buffy closed her eyes and pulled her blanket back up. Later. She'd find out what had Willow all babbling and pacing later. Somewhere in between patrol and sleep and Riley and sleep… and checking back with Giles… and sleep…
"Hey, Gorgeous," Riley purred, pulling her back against his bare chest. Strong arms came around her and Buffy relaxed, letting her head fall back to his shoulder.
"Hey, yourself," she sighed, arching into the soft, warm lips brushing gently along her neck. Riley's hands roamed to her hips, molding her more closely to him, and slid under her shirt. Buffy moaned, twisting against his maddening fingers--skimming along her ribs, circling her breasts--the heat of his touch lost to the cool, night air as he pulled her shirt up. Buffy raised her arms, turning as Riley lazily tossed her shirt aside, and pressed herself into his heat.
"Yes," she crooned, stroking her fingers through his hair as he licked at her neck, shivering when he sucked at her ear, his breath hot and harsh, shivering harder when he pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw. "Riley…"
His hand fisted in her hair--and he yanked her head back, hard. Buffy gasped, clinging to Riley's shoulders, staring up into his dark, fathomless eyes. He grinned fiercely and pulled her hips into his and bent her back over the desk, grinding into her and taking her mouth with a savagery that sent a furious excitement sizzling through her. Need enflamed her and she bit at his hard, devouring lips.
He laughed, a sound of triumph and sheer power, and pulled her back to her feet. He twisted them around and before she could find her balance he back-handed her. She landed hard, sprawled across rough, uneven ground, blood harsh and tangy in her mouth, and he was on her, pinning her hands high and thrusting into her with brutal, pounding strength.
"More," she begged, writhing frantically as he rode her, hard, into the ground. Could she ever get enough of him--of this? "Please--more."
Again he laughed, cruelly, and wordlessly now she pleaded with the dark, looming figure. He thrust harder, faster, sending sparks skittering under her skin, and she threw her head back and keened. Moonlight shifted across his features as he raised his head, lips curled in a bloody, vicious grin, eyes glittering with savage pleasure, and she stared at--
Not Riley. Not Riley?! But--she knew him. Knew his dark, wicked beauty-- Knew his wanting her, reveled in it, in his brutal taking of her--in his menacing power and magnificent strength--
Desperate hunger spiraled jaggedly through her as he lowered his head, blocking out the moonlight, licking into her mouth and sucking the breath from her. She couldn't move, couldn't think, could only feel as he held her down and thrust into her once more--twice--and she shuddered and screamed as wild, fiery release exploded--
Buffy bolted upright and threw herself from the bed and the suffocating weight of her blanket, stumbling over something and flying into the wall. Shaking, gasping, she sank to the floor and blinked in the darkness.
Just a dream. Dear God--just a dream. What the HELL?!?
The phone rang, harsh and shrill, and Buffy grabbed at it. "What?" she snapped.
A moment of hesitant silence.
"Buffy?"Riley.
She closed her eyes and made herself take a deep, steadying breath. Just a dream.
"Buffy--what's wrong?" Urgently now.
"Nothing," she heard herself say. "Nothing's wrong. Riley, I've got to do--something else. Tonight. With Willow."
"Buffy," he said again, sternly this time. "What's wrong?"
We had really rough sex and you slapped me around and then it wasn't you and--
And I loved every minute of it.
She shuddered. "Riley, I promise, nothing is wrong," Buffy insisted. "I just--I'll see you later, all right? Patrol. The usual time."
She hung up, hating that she'd hurt Riley, hating more that she couldn't get past the churning in her stomach just hearing his voice had stirred up.
Buffy stood and grabbed a towel and headed for the shower. She could feel him--taste him--Riley--that man--
Just a dream.