A Serendipitous Beginning
by
Lisa Y. Drexel
Chapter Eleven
~~~~~~~~~
And there goes that plan...
~~~~~~~~~
Two nights before Buffy's funeral
Even as Angelus could feel himself doing it, he was powerless to stop it. A part of himself raged against it—mentally slamming his fists against his thoughts—anything to stop where they were taking him.
He was brooding.
Actually brooding.
God damn soul has tainted everything! he thought to himself as he began to pace the room he had been staying in for the past day.
How did this happen?
He was not the wimp that had possession of his body for so long as he, the demon, was forced to watch travesty that his soul bestowed on him. Using the demon—its strength and reputation—its characteristics—to fight the good fight.
It was sickening.
And yet, here he was doing exactly what his souled counterpart did for nearly a hundred years: brood in a dark dank room—ignoring the pleasures that being a vampire could give him.
This is what he feared the last time—that somehow his soul's goodness had tainted his demon. By forcing his demon to participate, however unintentionally, with all those sickening acts of goodness, that his demon had been corrupted by his soul.
And in retrospect, the last time he had been in control, his actions were far from beneficial in regards to living long, healthy unlife. Not even Angelus could deny that attempting to suck the world into Hell wasn't an intelligent thing to do. If he had only just killed the slayer bitch when he had the chance, none of this would've been an issue now. With the Buffy dead, everything else would've fallen into place.
One, Spike wouldn't have betrayed him..
Well, maybe not, Angelus silently admitted. He did torment his childe nearly as much as he did the slayer. By toying with Spike for as long and harsh as Angelus had that spring all those years ago, the elder vampire pretty much guaranteed Spike's defection. And after that, everything else that happened was happenstance. It was like a row of dominos—knock one down, and the rest soon followed.
If Dru hadn't deserted Spike in Oklahoma, then Spike wouldn't have gone searching for the nearest group of Souled-Ones, which was in St. Louis. And if Spike hadn't been in St. Louis during that time, he wouldn't have met Mike Evans—the blond Immortal that stole his childe's heart and loyalty. And if Spike hadn't met Mike, he wouldn't have drunk from her—discovering the magic elixir that was Immortal's blood—eventually changing his childe from a demon-vamp into a Souled One himself.
And Willow—most likely she would be dead by now.
Or would she be? Would Angelus have known what an Immortal was if he hadn't had to deal with Spike, Mike and the rest of those Immortals for the past six years?
Growling under his breath, he flopped down in the chair by the window and nearly laughed out loud at where his thoughts were taking him.
He was doing it again—brooding.
What was he going to do? If Morden's plan didn't work, Angelus was screwed. He knew, even if he never spoke of it out loud, that there was no way he could stay away from Willow. She either had to die, or he would die...
No more Angelus...just Angel with a soul, and all those wonderful little benefits that came with being a Souled-One.
Angelus could feel her, even now, miles away from her—her being tugging at his demon—the need and want to be with her—taste that delicious, endless supply of blood...What was it that his childe said? Something about the blood of an Immortal being so rich and so alive that Spike knew that after that first sip, that if he could drink from her for the rest of his unlife, he'd never hunt again.
And with Morden around, Angelus was tempted just to tackle the fucker down and drink from him—to find out for himself what the hell the big deal was.
But, if the vampire found himself bound to Morden until the end of time, he would just throw in the towel. One, the fucker didn't even belong in this time. What would happen to Angelus if Morden left? Or for that fact, what would happen to Morden? That's the only reason why Dru hadn't fed from her lover...in her madness she somehow understood the ramifications towards her that feeding from her Immortal would bring her. How she managed to not give in to that urge that was nearly driving Angelus into madness, he didn't know.
"But whatever it is, she should bottle it and sell it. She could make a mint," he muttered to himself as he felt his senses begin to stir. Seconds later, his bedroom door opened and in walked Drusilla, with Morden right behind her.
Giggling, she twirled around, her hands out wide as she stared up into the ceiling. "My Angel," she whispered, stopping to look over at him.
Angelus couldn't help but smile back at her. She was so beautiful—his creation. More than any childe he brought across, he made Drusilla what she was...forged her madness in the blood of her family and friends...
"Dru," he whispered as he stood up and walked over to her. After placing his hands on her shoulders, stilling her, he met her mesmerizing stare with his own. "You have any good news for me?"
Grinning slyly, she leaned over and pecked him daintily on the lips before turning around in his arms to face Morden. "My pet has found a spell...an Immortal spell...it will make all those awful Immortals speak to the stars—listening to the whispers inside of them...making them weak so we can play..."
Angelus' eyebrow arched as he met Morden's eyes, noting the smug smirk that was curling his lips. "Meaning?" Angelus asked.
"It's a Quickening spell...you do understand what a Quickening is, don't you?"
Angelus rolled his eyes impatiently. "It's like Immortal's souls—but with power."
"That's a simplification, but apt nonetheless. When an Immortal beheads another, he absorbs all the power that his opponent has. The memories, personalities—good or bad—are incorporated into the victor's Quickening," Morden explained as he gently pulled out of Dru's arms. He began walking around the room, studying the décor with little interest as he appeared to be gathering his thoughts. "Most Immortals have no problem assimilating these personalities into themselves. Usually their opponents have already suppressed whatever tendencies that were inside of him that were not their own, so the winner only has to tackle one Quickening. This spell fragments the Quickening—making all those personalities more viable—more real. It should pretty much drive a person mad. Easily. And fortunately for us, my sources have told me that Duncan MacLeod has come here to help everyone else out. MacLeod is the only living survivor of a Dark Quickening."
"Dark Quickening...it sounds familiar, but what is it?"
Dru suddenly turned on her heel and faced Angelus, laughing. "All that darkness inside of them—curls up and strikes! Like a snake and bites...snap...snap...snap...and takes over—bringing death and blood wherever he goes..."
"Really?" Angelus asked, finding himself grinning. "So, if we do this spell, we'll have four Immortals running around—crazy—with an evil MacLeod in the mix?"
"Two, maybe three Immortals crazy. Mike, Ryan and MacLeod have all taken heads, so their Quickenings are filled with other voices. Willow, on the other hand, will be impervious to the spell, because she's still clean—so to speak."
"What about Ryan? How many heads has he taken?"
"Not nearly as many as MacLeod—of course—because the kid is young. But he has defeated some older Immortals—which means he's got a pretty powerful Quickening for someone as young as he is."
"And Evans? What about her?"
"She's the unknown in the equation. She's been pretty busy the last six years, but she's mostly fought the younger crowd. She's only killed one Immortal that was worth anything...Mughal. He was over 600 years old and a headhunter. She also has that link to both of the vampires—Spike and the Spaniard—they may be able to help her keep it together. And finally, she may not be strong in the same sense as Ryan and MacLeod, but there's something different about her. Her ability to read Quickenings gives her an edge that most of us don't have."
Angelus nodded slowly. "Well, it's a start. And if we can get rid of some the do-gooders, we can get on with the plan."
"I agree."
"So, we can we get started?"
"By the time the funeral happens, everything will be in its place. I've finally managed to procure a few spellcasters to help us out and they should be here within a day or so."
"Good, I can't wait to see the fireworks."
"It'll be so pretty, my Angel," Dru whispered sensually.
"Yeah, it sure will, Dru."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The night of Buffy's funeral
Richie wasn't sure how long he had laid there in bed, before sleep finally claimed him. Although he wouldn't dare speak of it, he was more than a bit nervous about Willow. As strong as she was mentally and magically, she had very little physical strength to work with.
And after three days, his fears hadn't lessened.
If anything, they had only gotten worse.
How could someone so small and petite survive in the Game? he asked himself for the thousandth time. From where Richie stood, it seemed nearly impossible. No matter how quick or agile Willow was, it didn't give her the edge she needed to win a duel. The streetfighter in Richie was tempted to teach her how to win, no matter what the consequences. If he taught her to use whatever advantages she already possessed, Willow might have a chance to live through the next century. But if he didn't, Richie doubted if she would survive her first year outside the protective shield the Hellmouth provided.
A part of him wanted to believe that he was being a bit dramatic about the situation, but deep down inside, Richie knew different.
And so did Vachon. He caught the pained look on Vachon's face as the vampire watched the youngest Immortal struggle with her sword. Even if Willow spent eight hours a day just working on her upper-body strength, Richie doubted if it would do any good in the long run. There was only so much she could work with...if she didn't have the strong physique necessary to win, she wouldn't win—no matter how many prayers all them whispered.
So, Richie's choices were limited.
He could teach her how to win, or he could teach her how to fight.
If he did the latter, she would most likely meet her death in less than a decade. If he did former, Richie may just lose whatever respect he had managed to garner from Mac after nearly fifteen years of struggle.
Gods, Richie missed the Old Man. Methos would know what to do, how to do it, and would have no moral compunctions about Richie teaching Willow more unsavory methods to guarantee her survival. There would be no condemnations uttered underneath his breath—no pained silences achingly reminding the two of a time before when they were close. Just a type of acceptance—and maybe even pride—in knowing that Richie had done everything he could possibly to do to guarantee the survival of his student.
And Willow deserved to live.
She had a life—she was in love with someone whom she could live with for centuries—someone who was as immortal as she was. And the good that she could do...
When Richie thought of all her accomplishments in the just the few short years she had been mortal, it blew him away. This young woman had already been so entrenched in a battle for the good of all—that Richie innately knew that the Powers would shudder at the loss if she were to die.
The thought of letting this jewel die nearly tore at Richie's heart...he couldn't...and yet, what kind of person would he be helping to mould if he taught Willow how to cheat? Would she become the very same type of person that she had been battling against all these years? Would she lose that goodness that seemed so innate in her soul that you could see it with every act she performed, every time she took a head?
Groaning softly, he rolled over on his stomach and hugged his pillow. God, he hoped not. But what difference did it make if she was going to die in the next few years? Everything would be lost anyway.
Great. A moral quandary, he thought to himself, shuddering uncontrollably. He was so far over his head in this, Richie wondered why he hadn't drowned yet. This was a debate better made for Immortals ten times his age—not him, who had yet to celebrate his 32nd birthday. Granted, he had been Immortal for nearly thirteen years; had seen more than most Immortals well into their second century of life; and had taken far too many heads for such a young one—but still, Richie Ryan knew his limitations. He was a 32-year-old struggling young Immortal who had bit off more than he could chew.
Maybe Vachon could help, he thought to himself and then nearly snorted out loud at how outlandish that thought would have been if Richie hadn't been in the situation he was: asking a vampire to help teach an Immortal how to survive...
"One for the history books," he whispered to himself as he turned his head and stared out across the room, watching Mac sleep restlessly on his own bed.
Finally closing his eyes, Richie let out a huge yawn, feeling every bit of his age as the exhaustion of the past three days claimed him.
It was hard to believe that less than a week ago he had been sitting at Joe's with Mike and Vachon—arguing about whether Jim Morrison was a vampire or not, and just plain enjoying himself with his two friends. It had been three days since he and Mac had arrived in Sunnydale—and other than slipping off to sleep for a mere few hours every night, Richie had barely any downtime to call his own. Be it worrying or training Willow—arguing with Mac about the right way to train her—protecting the human members of the Sunnydale crowd—patrolling Sunnydale with either Spike or Vachon, Richie had been on the go constantly, and his exhaustion proved it.
And that wasn't even including the emotional stress that he, and everyone else, had been under for the past few days. Between worrying about Mike, Spike, Willow, Angelus, Morden and Dru, and finally mourning Buffy's passing, it was just too much.
Just too much , he silently repeated, flashing back to the events that occurred earlier that night...seeing the clump of dirt as it hit the slayer's coffin...hearing Spike's soft growl of denial...Mike's normally open face, closed off and strained...Willow's constrained sobs...Giles' silent shaking...
Just too much...
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Quickenings were strange things, Willow decided as she ran the sharp edge of the knife across the taut skin of her forearm. Hissing softly, she watched as a thin line of blood well up through the split skin only to be followed a minute later by flickering blue lightening—weaving in and out of the wound...healing it.
Noting the tingling that accompanied the lightning, she leaned over, grabbed her pen with her uninjured hand and began scribbling her observations down.
After nearly five minutes, she looked up from her notebook and saw that her wound had healed.
Amazing, she thought to herself. "Still human, and yet I heal better than a vampire," she said softly as she picked up the warm washcloth she had procured from Spike's bathroom not a half an hour earlier for just this, and wiped her arm clean of blood.
She did not need to wave any bleeding appendages about while staying in the same home that also housed two vampires.
It just wasn't a healthy thing to do.
"As if slicing your arm open would point to a happy, sane kinda person, Rosenberg," she muttered, dropping her pen and notebook and letting her body fall backwards until she hit the carpeted floor underneath her. Blinking her eyes, she stared up at the ceiling, noting with the same odd detachment she had been feeling since everyone had returned from Buffy's funeral, that Spike really should hire a maid—there were enough dustbunny's residing in the corners of the room to make her cringe—and Willow was not a neat person.
And with Mike here now, Spike's house could only get worse. The odd couple of the immortal sect were back together and that could only spell disaster for Spike's anal tendencies.
Grinning to herself, Willow found her thoughts slipping back to the past—when Mike and Spike were still together and had just moved into the very same house Willow was in now. Mike had been so excited—still reeling over the fact that the Immortal woman was in a steady enough relationship that the idea of buying a house together wasn't outrageous—much less being enough in love to make that kind of commitment.
Spike, of course, took it all in stride. He wasn't new to long-term relationships, having spent over a hundred years with Drusilla, and was intrigued at the prospect of actually buying a home as opposed to 'acquiring' one as he had done for most of his immortal life. Mike would only roll her eyes at the vampire after muttering something about 'blood money' and vampires.
How did Mike do it? Did it ever bother the Immortal woman that she was in love with a vampire that was once known as one of the most deadliest vampires to roam the earth? Did she ever stay up at night, pondering the roles of souls and demons in a vampire's being? Did she ever question her own goodness in light of her love of a vampire?
Willow knew she did. And she was in love with Angel's soul who just happened to be residing in a body animated by a demon known to all of the preternatural world as Angelus, childe of Darla...grandchilde of the Master...
A familiar pang twisted her heart as her eyes watered.
Goddess, she missed him. It had been three days since Angel had lost his soul again, and a part of Willow was ready to just give up.
She wasn't cut out for immortality with a capital I. Her body ached, her mind was constantly distracted by Angelus' ongoing presence in her soul...
And she was afraid.
Afraid that she would never be strong enough to wield a sword like Richie, Mac or Mike. That she would never be able to take care of herself—be independent enough to survive in this dangerous world that had been cruelly thrust upon her—and finally that by the quirks of fate, that she would end up living whatever life she had left alone...with no Angel to hold her and tell her that he loved her...no Angel to encourage her to fight...
Just alone.
Groaning to herself at the depressing turn of her thoughts, Willow forced herself to sit up and continue her research. This was something that she could control—her education. And, she had to admit, it intrigued her—this new existence of hers.
It was fascinating enough to Willow that it just may be impetus enough for her to fight to survive the next few weeks. As a magic practitioner as well as possessing a scientific mind, the existence of Quickenings appealed to both sides of her mind. It was like having a soul that was magnified tenfold—which in turn meant that its powers were that much stronger as well. Psychically and psychologically.
She picked up the notebook and turned the page, reading what she had written earlier...
"The only detectable thing that's changed since my First Death is the overt possession I have now of a Quickening. Amy says that she can see the Quickening in my aura—encircling my old aura with a blue-white sphere that was so bright it nearly blinded her. I then tested myself, and was surprised to find that spellcasting came a bit easier—as if the presence of the Quickening broke through the last of my magical barriers. Instead of having to reach that trance-state that I have spent the last seven years working at, this time it came easy—almost as if I were born a witch like Amy was, instead of having to work at it as I have done for all these years. Of course, I was just floating a pencil this time...who knows what will happen if I try something more difficult.
"I've also meditated a few times—searching inside of me for that change, much like the methods Buffy used to do when using all her slayer senses. I can see the Quickening in my mind's eye—pulsating with life—almost an entity in itself. Is this what it's like when you have a demon? Is this why I still have a connection to Angel even though his soul is gone? Could it be that my then latent Quickening linked itself to Angel's demon much like Mike's did with Spike's?
"That would make sense, in some weird, warped way. It would explain why I'm drawn to Angel/Angelus...why I can feel his presence—his emotions—even though my love, Angel, is gone. How this happened, I don't know. Maybe when I performed the restoration spell on him, the magics involved detected my Quickening and linked us...knowing that this link would bind him to me for lifetimes.
"Another thing I noticed when I meditated. In my altered state, I took a walk around the house in search of the other Immortals staying here. Unfortunately, I ran into Mac first and nearly ran back into the safety of my room. Not only could I see his aura—so intertwined with his Quickening that I couldn't discern the two—but the colors and emotions flying out from him almost overwhelmed me. Good, evil, happy, sad, distraught, content...all of them...with such an intensity, I couldn't help but wonder how he has survived all these years.
"But then I found Mike and Spike, sitting in the living room, watching DS9 reruns. They were laying lengthwise on the couch—he holding her in his arms—his hands clasped around her stomach—her head resting on his shoulder—their auras were nearly indistinguishable from each other—melding in and out of one another with each breathe Mike took. As I stood there, staring at the two, I tried separating them with my mind—and found it was nearly impossible. Both of them carried an incredible darkness—reminiscent of Angel's own aura—interspersed with a whole multitude of different colors and shades in a swirl of madness that I could only coin as the Quickening—with an equal amount of light that, like Mac, shone very brightly.
"I scurried out of the room in search of Richie...his aura had to be easier to read. He didn't have the years that the Scot did or the bond with another that Mike and Mac possessed, so maybe he would be the best test subject.
"I found him in the kitchen drinking a beer with Vachon, who was sipping his ever present glass of bloodwine.
"A side-note – Souled-Ones...
"Now, Souled-Ones—like Vachon and now Spike—they're different. Especially Souled-Ones that never were demon-vamps, such as Vachon. For over 500 years, Vachon has been a member of the Undead Club, but he always had his soul. Any 'evil' that Vachon has done since he was turned, rests on his soul, not the demon—as in the case of Spike and Angel. So, in turn, in some ways, Vachon's aura is much darker than Angel's or Spike's. Although before Vachon was brought across, he was a good man from what I gathered...he wasn't a killer or rapist. Just a soldier who followed orders.
"But comparing his aura to Spike's—I could see that although Vachon had some ways to go in order to cleanse his aura—it wasn't nearly as dark as Spike's. As a human, Spike was a killer, Vachon wasn't. But as a Souled-One, Spike lived a much more pious lifestyle than the Spaniard had. Spike, having been 'evil' so-to-speak, had yet to take a human life once he had changed from being a demon-vamp to a Souled-One. Vachon, on the other hand, couldn't say the same. In the big picture of things, I know that most of those lives that Vachon took once he was brought across were for survival purposes only—but there were times when he too, played with his food. Those instances were the black marks on his aura.
"End of side-note...
"I turned my attention to Richie and let out a huge sigh of relief; I had found what I was looking for.
"With Richie, I could discern his soul from his Quickening. They were separate, but connected. His soul for the most part reminded me of Xander's. He obviously made some bad choices in his human life, but for the most part lived a good, as in an non-evil-way, life. His Quickening carried that brightness that Amy saw in mine. Although it wasn't as thick as Amy described mine to be, it did surround him—like mine does with me. The next layer—still his Quickening, but not, was that same crazy mix of colors that I saw in Mike and Mac—not nearly as manic, but it was still there. Those must be representative of the Quickenings Richie has so far acquired since becoming Immortal. And then there was his soul-aura...
"Before either of them could say anything, I left the room and returned to my bedroom to find myself staring at myself in the mirror. My brightness was much wider—purer than Richie's—but, I still possessed a bit of those colors as well...could that be my link to Angel considering I haven't taken any heads?"
Closing the notebook, Willow stood up and began gathering her supplies for another meditation session. After lighting the incense and candles, drawing her circle with sand, she sat down in the middle and began.
She needed to understand, somehow knowing that this was the answer she was looking for...
~~~~~~~~~~~~
As Spike ran his fingers through Mike's hair, he looked up at the other vampire and sighed. "Just spit it out, mate. I can see you've got something on your mind."
Vachon sighed as he stared out the picture window into the darkness. "I'm worried about Willow. And so is Richie."
Ignoring the stab of panic that clenched his undead heart, Spike waited for Vachon to continue. "Go on."
The Spaniard sighed again—this time more loudly. "She's too weak—physically—to play by the rules. Richie knows it, MacLeod ignores it—and worst of all, Willow knows it as well."
"So, we break them," Spike said with a casualness that he didn't feel. "Isn't that what Buffy did for all those years? Break the rules?"
"It's different for Immortals," Vachon said, turning around to face Spike. "They have all these stupid rules—this code of honor that they all abide by—"
"Bullshit!" Spike interrupted. "That first bloke that Mike faced—that shot me? What was his name, Mughal?"
"Yeah, Mughal. But he wasn't planning on challenging her that night when he shot you guys. He was going to use her as bait. It's a whole different story when they actually duel. One on one, no guns or extraneous weaponry...no Holy Ground...no interference..." Vachon's fangs dropped as his eyes flashed yellow. "They might as well be knights for all the supposed honor they carry. If Willow doesn't play by the rules, there's a possibility that she'll be hunted by other Immortals for doing just that.
"And yet, if she doesn't go that extra length, it doesn't make a damn bit of difference—'cause she'll be dead within a decade of her leaving Sunnydale."
Before Spike could comment, he felt Mike's body tense. His arm tightened around her as she lifted her head up from his chest, and stretched her body languidly against his. After yawning, she turned her head to look at Vachon. "Have you talked to either of them, Jav?"
He shook his head slowly.
"I think you need to talk to Richie first. If I know him, he's already got an alternative plan up his sleeve and is just thinking of a way of pulling it off underneath Mac's interested nose."
Snorted derisively, Vachon could only shake his head. "Honor is all well and good when you're over six feet tall and have the upper body strength of a mule." His eyes changed back to brown as a pained expression crossed his face. "I remember what it's like to be smaller than most of my opponents. I learned every dirty trick I could to make sure that I would survive. That's why I loved being a vampire for so long. As long as I stayed away from those older than I, I never had to worry about anyone being stronger than I was. My strength lay in the age of my sire and myself, and nothing else."
"I hear ya," Spike said softly, instantly flashing back to those first few days he spent as a newly turned fledgling. Although Angelus was always stronger than he, Spike still reveled in the power he could wield over all those same mortals that had terrorized him as a human. William may've been a murderer and thief, but there had always been someone who was bigger and stronger than him. He lived most of his adult mortal life fighting to stay alive—against those same men.
The memory of their blood still warmed his undead heart—even with a soul.
Spike wasn't sure how long it was going to take for him to feel the guilt that he should be feeling for taking their lives. Most likely, that regret wouldn't be felt for decades to come.
Shaking his head ruefully, Spike couldn't deny the guilt he felt for not feeling guilty over that and had to just shrug it off as one of those weird ironic moments of his life.
He felt the mental caress of Mike's as she tried soothing him, and he gently kissed her neck in response. Only she would try to comfort him for feeling bad over not feeling bad, he thought to himself as he observed Vachon nearly gliding across the room to one of chairs that sat next to the couch.
After Vachon poured himself another glass of bloodwine, the Spaniard leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "I hope you're right, Mike, because I like Willow. She deserves to live a full life—outside the Hellmouth's protection."
Yawning, Mike nodded her head and turned around in Spike's embrace. "He will take care of her. I'm sure, right now, he's channeling his own mental version of Methos—trying to figure out what the Old Man would do in Richie's shoes. Even if he has to risk Mac's disapproval, he'll do what's right for Willow. Richie got his own personal code of honor—a lot more palatable than Mac's is—that's why I thought he would be such a good teacher for Willow—which won't let him let her down," she finished with a whisper.
Spike glanced down and wasn't surprised to see her eyes closed once again. He could feel her exhaustion ringing in his mind and it was all he could do not flinch in guilt over it. It was his fault, and yet he couldn't help but resent her 'human' nature as well. He needed her to be awake...it kept him sane.
If he had it his way, she would stay up for the next 48-hours—hell, make it a week, he thought ruefully--anything to keep the pain away. But obviously it wasn't going to happen. No matter how hard Spike tried keeping Mike involved in the conversation, she kept falling back to sleep. Soon, the bond would be lessened and Spike would finally have to deal with the awful realities he witnessed earlier that evening—mainly Buffy's funeral and the get-together that followed.
"Spike? Are you alright?" Vachon asked, startling the other vampire.
"She's falling asleep again," Spike whispered, gently pushing her hair off her face. "The link's hold weakens when she's asleep."
"Ah."
"Yeah, ah." Groaning to himself, Spike slipped out from underneath her sleeping body and turned her over on her back. She didn't stir until he lifted her up from the couch and began carrying her across the room.
"Spike?" she whispered, half asleep.
"Time to go to bed, love," he whispered. "I'm going to tuck you in."
She nodded, her eyes still closed as she burrowed her face even further into his neck. Before he left the room, he turned around and met Vachon's humor-filled gaze. "I'll be right back, mate," Spike told the other vampire before turning back around and heading for their bedroom.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Looking back, Mac shouldn't have been surprised that it had been Kronos that first broke through the mental bindings he had placed around the Quickenings. He was, after all, the leader of the Four Horsemen...the Immortal that possessed more presence and mental fortitude than almost anyone else that MacLeod had encountered in his 400 years.
That, plus he had the help of his 'brother', Caspian, and with the aid of the link with Methos brought about with the Double Quickening, Silas as well.
The only one missing from the little party in MacLeod's head was the Old Man himself, which in itself was not necessarily a good thing. Mac could've used some of the ancient Immortal's dry wit and wisdom about right now.
But in its stead, Mac found himself basically alone, fighting against the various voices inside his mind. After Kronos, Caspian and Silas, came Kalas, Grayson and hordes of others that MacLeod had fought through out the years—even the ghostly whispers of Ariham haunted his mind...
Koltec urging him to finally kill Richie—like he was destined to...
Kronos taunting MacLeod with thoughts of death, murder and yes, even world domination...
Caspian's lustful entries...about Mike, Willow...hell, even Richie...
Every place he ran, they followed with half-spoken promises of pleasure and power...if only he would just give in and let them have a voice...if only MacLeod would listen.
The Scot had no idea how long he fought against them, time and time again, taking their heads, when he finally lost. All it took was a wrong step, and suddenly he was the one wounded and he was the one on his knees with the sword held above his head. He looked up—needing to know whom it was going to be—that finally bested him in his mind when they couldn't in life...
And he wasn't surprised...
Kronos' scarred face sneered down at him...
The sword swung...
And that was all Duncan MacLeod remembered before he disappeared into the mist that was his mind—that he was no longer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mike bit her bottom lip, stifling her third sigh in as many minutes, and closed her eyes—inwardly praying that sleep would come soon. She wasn't sure what it was that had woken her up—the soft murmuring of Spike's dreams or the quiet, but unsettled feel that seemed to blanket the house. Whatever it was, it was abrupt enough to rip Mike from a deep sleep into complete wakefulness.
And now, a half an hour later, she had yet to fall back to sleep.
Safely embraced in Spike's arms, she could hear the whispers of his dreams as they dribbled into her consciousness. Dozens of pictures of the blond slayer flashed through his mind into Mike's. In each one, her beautiful face was softened even more by his unconsciousness—a testament to the love he had for Buffy. Even in the one scene that broke his heart—her death—an almost ethereal light was encompassing the blond slayer as she sat propped up against the wall—her neck at an awkward angle...And then Mike would feel the sharp stab of his agony as it seared its way through his body into hers...Spike's silent screams at the gods for letting his lover die such a senseless way...
It took almost all of Mike's strength not to physically flinch at her mate's horror. Over and over again, Spike dreamt the same thing—his mind swirling in a whirlpool of madness—nearly dragging Mike down with him. And each time his mind would hit the replay button, Mike felt another bit of her self-respect dribble away.
How could anyone expect her to sleep in this house... Buffy's house, her mind silently supplied...in Buffy's bed—with Buffy's love of her short life?
It was impossible.
Mike couldn't help but feel like an interloper in her home...a house that she had bought... took two weeks to find just the right one, she thought to herself, feeling her mind begin babble. Remember how excited you were when you found it? The picture window—so impractical for the home of a vampire—called to you...remember how you pleaded, cajoled and finally ended up just plain begging Spike to trust you? 'We'll order those metal blinds,' you said. 'The same ones that we ordered for the apartment. It'll be perfect,' you added seconds before you felt Spike's heart give in as he growled out a 'yes.'
And six months later, Mike went to St. Louis—leaving the house, all the furniture that her and Spike spent another week choosing...most of her belongings that Mike had shipped from that storage bin in St. Louis that held not only her things, but her father's as well...
Left it all behind so he could start a life with Buffy...
And now, the slayer was dead.
And Mike was back—laying in her bed Buffy and Spike's bed! —remembering the harsh sound of the clump of dirt as it hit the coffin hours earlier haunting her thoughts with the finality of it all... no more Buffy...
—attempting to slip right back into the life the Immortal left six years before.
It wasn't right.
And even as Mike thought that, she intellectually understood why things had to be done the way they had. Spike needed Mike—for the stability that the link provided—so that Spike could keep it together long enough to help capture Angelus...make sure Willow was in good hands...hold everyone together...because, if he didn't, Spike himself would lose it...and quite possibly and unknowingly hurt everyone else he cared about in the process.
But does that mean you have to sleep with him? that annoying little voice inside of her piped up. Does that give you a right to be held in his arms—to have him make sweet passionate love to you...Does that give you a right to take what's mine?
Mike's eyes snapped open as her heart took off—fear sliding its way under her skin when she recognized the mental voice... Buffy?
Silence.
Never before had Mike felt such disquiet after a Quickening. But was it even a Quickening? The logical part of Mike wanted to scream out in denial for even comparing the two, and yet she couldn't seem to think of it—that essence of Buffy that had slammed into Mike in the bathroom of Joe's Place three nights before—killing her in the process—as anything else.
Richie swore he felt it, and even went as far as describing it as a mini-Quickening...
But then Vachon insisted that he felt, for those few precious seconds, a vampiric presence.
Mike's gut was telling her that it was both. That somehow because of the amount of blood sharing that had gone on between Buffy and Spike, Spike had managed to pass on a bit of his new essence to Buffy. The same essence that made Spike a Souled-One instead of a demon-vamp. And after six years, that bit of Quickening-vampire mixture became her own—imprinted with her consciousness...
That it became Buffy—just as the Quickening that Mike possessed was hers. That somehow, that bit of self of Spike's—which was, in reality, a mixture of Mike and Spike—that he had passed on had somehow become Buffy's.
And when Buffy had died, it returned home—to Mike. Why it didn't go back to Spike, Mike had no idea. It might've helped the vampire adjust better—if he could feel a bit of Buffy's essence inside of him.
But nope, that wasn't the case. As luck would have it, it came back to the mothership—where Buffy was going to haunt Mike until the end of time.
Shaking her head, she realized that wasn't correct either. Something's not right here, she thought to herself. It hadn't always been like this, she reminded herself, remembering how when it had first happened, Mike could feel Buffy's presence even more distinctly than at the present, and yet never felt the type of animosity that she was presently experiencing.
"Something's happened," the young Immortal whispered as she slid out from under Spike's arms and off the bed.
She needed to get out of here...away from him and Buffy's ghost...Away from the guilt and mind-numbing fear that she was going to lose him... can't lose Spike...my love...my heart...my soul...can't...can't...can't... and find herself again.
That decided, Mike pulled her nightgown on over her naked body, grabbed her robe and cigarettes, and quickly left the bedroom—heading to the one person who had held her hand for all those years that she had been alone...the one person who was an expert on helping Mike find herself...Vachon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Querida, what's wrong?" the dark-haired vampire asked as he affectionately tucked a lock of her hair behind an ear. "You're shivering," he observed, sitting up in bed as he noted her pale, drawn face. He flipped on the dim light—filling the room with a nice, warm glow—and nearly growled at how awful his nina looked in the light.
She was terrified.
What in the hell did that asshole do to her? he asked himself as he pulled the young Immortal into his arms. Mike buried her face in the crook of his neck, sobbing softly—her body shaking with fear and something else...
Taking a deep, unneeded breath, he extended his senses to Mike—using the link that had developed after six years of making love and feeding from the Immortal—and was almost instantly bombarded by a myriad of images—Buffy, Spike, Drusilla...ghost...a whispered threat...
And guilt...such guilt haunted his nina...guilt that she was alive while Buffy—a warrior—a champion of the Light had died... might be my fault...prophecy...my fault...
Stunned, Vachon pulled out of her thoughts and silently groaned. Only Mike, he thought to himself. Only she would blame herself for something that was so far beyond her control, it was outrageous to think otherwise... "Michelle, one doesn't control prophecy. You know that," he whispered against her hot, wet cheek. "It's the will of God or whomever calls the shots."
Sighing heavily, she shook her head no as her hands clutched his bare chest in desperation. "No, Vachon. Don't you see? She could still be alive—up there in his bed—if it weren't for me. I killed her and took her place—four nights ago she slept on the same bed as I am now...four nights ago, she made love to him—told him that she would always love him—four nights ago, Spike felt as if everything in his life—other than a little bit of missing me—had finally fallen into place," she paused for a moment, sat up and pulled out a cigarette. After lighting it, she turned around, clutching her legs close to her chest as she rocked her herself. Softly, she began to speak again: "He and Angel finally repaired their relationship—they didn't go back to being lovers or...or that sire-childe thing that they had going—but they did become friends...very good friends. Best friends," she added, blowing out a mouthful of smoke.
"And now it's gone. All of it. Because of me. And don't tell me I'm nuts, I've been there, with Wesley and Giles for two days searching for something to explain what happened." She snorted without humor.
"Mike, she was the slayer. Who's to say that she and Spike would have even gotten together if you hadn't come into the picture. Remember, you're the one that told him how he felt about her."
"But—"
"No," Vachon said, shaking his head. "I'm not letting you take the blame for this. You know, as well as I do, that she wouldn't have let herself be with him if he hadn't gotten his soul...and you are the reason he has a soul."
Shaking her head in denial, Mike shot up off the couch and began pacing in front the couch. "But she died because of this fucking prophecy! That's the only reason and I don't know how I'm going to tell Giles that. It's going to break everyone's heart. Willow had to die, so she could become Immortal. Angel had to lose his soul so he could become a Souled-One. I'll betcha it was Dru that came up with this plan to somehow snare Angel—and the Powers used that situation to make everything else happened that needed to happen."
"Even if that's so, nina, why are you taking the blame?" Vachon asked, schooling his face to keep it on Mike even as he felt Spike presence at the top of the stairs.
Mike clenched her jaw and stared off to the side. Vachon saw her body shake and once again felt a wave of fear fill the room. "Because I heard her—inside of me—accusing me of stealing her life."
Vachon began shaking his head even as his mind kept telling him that there was something more to this...something else in her mind...
"No, no, nina, no! You gotta quit this!" Growling, he pulled her stiff body into his arms and called out over his shoulder. "Spike! Get your butt down here!"
Just as he heard the steps creek with the other vampire's movements, everything went to hell.