Chapter 11

Damsel in Dat Dress

It the movies, this is the bit where the woman gasps in rapturous pleasure, the subtext obvious for all. But being bitten by a vampire is nothing like in the movies. Not at all.

My brain is on overdrive at this moment, and everything slows down to a deadly crawl. I am a spectator inside to my own destruction, watching in a detached way before the pain draws me back in.

His fangs are needle sharp at first, then widen like blades, after which they fatten out greatly- not so much slicing but tearing open the flesh.

Then, the pressure kicks in as the lips anchor and form a seal. You feel a burning behind the wound, and a sudden dropping sensation through your body as the pressure shifts. I feel woozy straight away, my muscles losing tension so even if my body wasn't lashed down, I doubt I would be able to put up much of a fight.

Spike's hand rips my head to the side sharply as he adjusts, and the agony renews as his fangs scrape around inside the wounds. I am screaming, not out of fear, I am way beyond that, it is a primal, reflexive thing, pulling itself up from the pit of my lungs.

I know I am greying out as the sucking and slurping sound starts to chop out, the pain coming in staccato.

A loud metal bang and white hot pain in my wrists and ankles stirs me… makes my eardrums whistle and kicks my heart up a notch. The chair I am on has tipped back and Spike is gone.

I hear fists connecting with flesh, and voices yelling, and a crash of ceramic and splintering wood. The thud of many feet against floorboards. More fighting and the roar of vampires echoing around me. So many voices and chaos and pain.

Fighting hurts. A vamp broke my arm once right where I stood, yunno? Fighting is hard and exhausting and I am glad right now it isn't me. I don't have to fight for once. Or anymore. Which is good. Because I am so tired. So, damn… tired. But it's okay. It's fine. Not long to go now and the pain will stop. Not long to go and…

Hmmm.

I bet Buffy stakes me right in the heart.

Third times the charm.


In my dream, everything is noir lighting and harsh diagonals. There is no color in my office, even the blinking neon sign from across the street is devoid of color. In my mirror my skin is grey, with darker grey of my stubble. I adjust my tie and run my fingers along the rim of my fedora to set it just right.

Chicago is a tough city, and in these mean streets image is everything. A detective has to look sharp, tough, smooth, in control.

"Doors unlocked." I say to the broad outside. "You can come on in or stay there thinking about knocking a while longer. Makes no difference to me, lady."

I uncork the rotgut in my top draw and pour two glasses.

"Little presumptive of you Mr. Harris." She says behind me. "How did you know I even drink?" You can tell a lot from a voice, and hers? Well, it's darker and smokier than that opium den on fifth, and I am talking during the insurance fire that raised it to the ground. Boston born, she knew how to play tough, play the game. This dame knows what her voice she can do to a man, and man, is it doing it to me right now.

I down the first scotch, then the second.

"Oh, did you want one too?".

I take a seat and take an eyeful. And what an eyeful. Her clothes are expensive but her perfume cheap. Her eyes are framed in dark kohl, or maybe just all scorched from how smouldering her gaze is. Her eyes are the richest brown you can show in shades of grey. A wicked lady with sharp nails and a sharper mind. A lady killer. She is all dangerous curves, and I am used to driving fast. "You wanna cut to the chase"?

"Got me a problem." She purrs "Heard all over town that you're the best man for the job. Maybe I heard wrong. You don't look nothin' but a liquored up two bit gumshoe to me."

"I didn't go to detective academy for six years to forget the first rule of detectives, lady. You never take appearances at first face value on the surface. Or, something like that." I stand and make my way over to her. She sets her jaw and fixes me with her most seductive look. "What's the job? Revenge? Murder? Kidnapping? Arson? Lost puppy? Giant Snakes?"

"Yes." She says, sauntering toward me like nobody dared saunter before. She had it all, and wanted more.

"Gotta be more specific." I say.

Her lips are close to mine, luscious and trembling like... temptation flavoured jelly. (Okay, I admit that one was a stretch).

"What I want, Mr. Harris, is her to take this out." Her eyes flick down. I follow them all the way down to where they are taking me with a few brief stops for sightseeing.

The murderer had driven the blade deep into her gut. The thick trickle of blood that runs down her leg looks jet black on this film stock, and it is crawling slowly back up towards the point of penetration. Not long to go now.

"Please." She says, a tear trailing up her cheek. "Please Xander. Please… it hurts. It hurts so much."

"I'll take the case, lady." I say, and the saxophone music swells.

"Well alright then." She says with a sneer and flicks her head back, her eyes sparkling. "Give us a kiss."


I feel hot lips on mine, soft like Buffy's, but fuller and firmer and familiar and… and… Buffy? Oh, I want to die all over again.

The strong breath is hard and long and surprises me. My lungs inflate against my own instinct and I gag. I am rolled onto my side as I splutter and cough violently.

"About frikking time." The voice says. She isn't Buffy. I feel my hand lifted and pressed to my neck.

"Keep pushin' on this." The girl says in a weak, dry voice. "Hold it tight like it's holding ya life in, because it is. I'm gonna go call the paramedics."

My saviour is kneeling over me in the candlelight. She wears a long bright red fluffy sweater coat and dark green pants, her grey shirt has a floral pattern but is flecked with blood and ash. Her dark brown hair hangs in long, limp, greasy locks about her pallid face. Her eyes are bruised and pink, and her lips are bloodless.

"You look as bad as I feel." I say. Her lips form an uncertain lopsided smile and she lets out a single, tired huff of a laugh.

"Backatcha hot stuff." She grins.

She stands slow and pained, and staggers to keep her balance. A wipe of her mouth on her sleeve and she is looking around for an exit. I know that look.

I know her.

I...

I realise it was Faith Lehane a second after she is gone.