Chapter 17:

Buffy woke groggily, her head congested and heavy against the passenger window. She had no idea how long she'd been asleep. She didn't turn to him, but she could feel Spike watching her.

"All right, luv?" he asked, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.

The sky was still black as tar, the road vacant. She couldn't see much other than the dark blur of passing trees and whatever stretch of highway was illuminated by the DeSoto's headlights. "Where are we?"

"Almost there."

She didn't ask for clarification. Even if he would actually tell her, she wasn't sure she was ready to know. And she certainly wasn't ready to be there.

"Can we stop for a while? I could use a break."

Spike looked like he wanted to refuse. "Anywhere in particular?"

"I don't care. Wherever. I won't try anything. I just need…" I need more time. She faced him then, hoping he'd see the desperation in her eyes. "Please."

"A few more hours won't hurt," he relented. "They'll be waiting for us all the same."

"They?" she asked, suspecting he was referencing something only real to him.

"Feds. Cops. An' Peaches." He stated this calmly, inconsequentially. "They'll have figured it out by now, or they're bigger idiots than I thought."

"What? How—"

"C'mon, Doctor. You know where this has to end." he said, "You've known it all the time."

Buffy felt like she'd been dropped in ice water. The shock of realization soon gave way to fear. "Spike, no."

"It's the only option, lamb." He reached for her hand, brought her palm to his lips. "You've always wanted to see where it began."


New York

"—he should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. If you have any information concerning William Beverley, please contact your local FBI office."

Willow Rosenberg lay in bed on her stomach, attentively watching the news report. "Tara!" she called. "That's him! That's the guy!"

Tara Maclay walked in from the kitchen, carrying two mugs of green tea. She looked at the television, then Willow, offering her partner a cup. "Who 'him'? That's Bill O'Reilly." Tara grimaced, "Sweetie, why are you even watching Fox News?"

"No, not that. The segment ended." Willow sat up on the bedspread to accept the mug, but immediately placed it on the nightstand in favor of grabbing her laptop to begin a search. "I was just flipping channels, and I saw a report on that 'Spike' guy. Did you know he killed six people?"

"The escapee? The one they've been looking for?"

"Yep," Willow said, sounding far less worried than Tara suddenly felt. "And they said he used to live here. Like, here, here. Our unit." This fact came from the federal agents staked out in unmarked cars surrounding the apartment complex.

Tara sank down to the bed. "But they never said what he was a fugitive from."

"I guess they didn't want us to panic. They only told us at all because they think he's coming here; they want us to be alert."

"Well…I'm plenty alert now. Why didn't the landlord disclose this when we rented the place?"

"He wasn't required to. Legally," Willow said, scrolling through an article. "Man, this guy. What he did to his victims. It's so—" She shuddered dramatically. "Yeesh."

"I don't want to know," Tara waved her hand in the air to dismiss the visual. "I think we should leave," she said, gripping her tea mug although she had yet to take a drink.

Willow closed her laptop, put it aside, and ran her fingers through Tara's hair. "They advised against it, remember?"

Tara huffed incredulously. "So, we just wait around like bait?"


"They're not bait," Riley said, glancing at the man sitting beside him in the car. "Whatever he's planning has nothing to do with them."

Angel shook his head. "Still seems unnecessarily risky. What's the point of keeping them there?"

"We can't be sure what Beverly knows, but we're not taking chances. Anything out of the ordinary could tip him off. And that definitely includes fleeing residents."

Riley's nerves were shot. This was day two of surveillance. He'd pulled quite a few strings to be involved in the operation, and even more to include the victim's husband. "We'll collar him before he even gets in the building."

Angel crossed his arms across his chest. "I can't wait to have her back."

"You will," Riley said, attempting to sound more certain than he felt. "This will all be over soon." One way or another.


The Hotel Chelsea was scheduled to close for renovations within the month. From the look of the lobby alone, Buffy figured it would be a much-needed makeover, but she'd been listening to Spike bitch about it since the moment they'd received their room key.

"Greedy bastards," he was saying when she tuned back in, "This damn city has no sense of history."

"Why did you bring me here?" Buffy asked, following him up the stairs. "Is this your idea of a joke? Because it's not fucking funny."

"Relax. I'd never be that obvious. Any road, room 100 is long gone," he said. "I just like the place." He unlocked and opened the door to room 317, stepping aside to allow her to enter. "I am a writer, after all."

The room was small and shabby, but surprisingly clean, which was all Buffy could hope for. She rolled her eyes as she passed him. "Yeah, that's the reason," she said, "Because you'd never intentionally fuck with my head or anything."

Spike snagged her wrist, applying only enough pressure to convey seriousness. "You requested this time-out. You don't want to be here, I'd just as soon finish the game."

Buffy bristled at the threat. For a moment her glare rivaled Medusa's, then she exhaled, "No. It's fine. I'm…" There was no way in hell she was going to apologize, "tired," she ended lamely.

Spike nodded, releasing her. "Right, then. Have a kip." He dropped their bags to one side of the doorway. "An' lock up behind me. All kind of undesirables 'round here."

"Where are you going?"

"Find a drink, have a smoke," he said, turning to leave. "Don't need to rest."

It was hard to say if he meant right now, or in general. She had never actually witnessed him sleep. "Wait." She touched the sleeve of his coat, tugged lightly on the cuff. "Stay."

"What's that?" He looked at her hand on his leather, quirking an eyebrow.

"Stay with me." Buffy took a step farther into the room and drew him with her. "I want you to."

"You're a moody little thing," Spike replied, closing the door. He advanced, slowly backing her up until she hit a wall. He leaned into her; his words kissed her lips. "What else do you want?"

She wanted to stop time. She wanted to forget what he was, what he'd done. She wanted to have him without guilt. She wanted to feel without thinking.

"Undress," she directed, surprised to hear herself say it, and so confidently.

She watched intently as Spike shed his clothing like a snake sheds skin. Fluidly, effortlessly, not a trace of awkwardness or insecurity. Their first fuck had been frenzied, feral; she hadn't had a chance to really look at him. She examined him now, his slender but well-muscled body, the perfect depiction of the word 'sinewy'. Buffy reached out, her fingertips drifting along his stomach, tracing the definition of his abs. She watched his cock rise, then lifted her gaze to his face— smug expression and bedroom eyes.

How could something capable of such evil be so beautiful?

Spike placed his hands on her dress, sliding the cherry-decorated fabric up her thighs. She wore nothing underneath.

"Been waiting for me, have you?" His eyes flicked between the pattern and her nakedness. "Now who's being obvious?" he asked with a leer.

She felt her face redden. "Shut up, Spike," she said, raising her arms so he could remove the dress.

"As you wish, sweetheart," Spike dropped to his knees in front of her. "I'll put my mouth to better use."

That he did. Somehow, she'd always known he'd be good at this. She'd thought about it plenty during their four-year foreplay, back when his voice alone had been like a tongue on her clit.

Buffy came six times before dragging Spike up by his hair. Limbs shaking, she leaned against him, gasping, "I can't—"

"Not done yet, luv," he said, grabbing her ass, lifting her easily. "Just wrap those pretty legs around me."

His first thrust made her toes curl, made her grunt with the force of it, the feeling of being full up. She crossed her ankles behind his back and kissed him hungrily, relishing the taste of herself on his tongue.

The moment she pulled away to catch her breath, Spike took hold of her jaw and forced her head to one side. His lips left hot trails down her neck; she could feel the points of his fangs scrape her skin lightly. Her thighs squeezed either side of his waist, her hips rolled to meet every thrust. She was acutely aware of her pulse, how quickly it was rising in anticipation tinged with alarm.

"Tell me what you want," he said against her throat, the words reverberating under her skin.

"Spike," she said thickly, arching her back, opening herself to let him in deeper. "Fuck. Fuck."

"Tell. Me."

She dug her nails into his flesh until she smelled copper. "Do it," she said, "Now."

His bite drove her against the wall; an orgasm ripped through her like shrapnel. The pull at her neck and the pulse of her cunt were connected, creating a closed circuit, an ouroboros eating its own tail.