Title: "The Nightmare Fighters"
Author: Alchemy
Rating: R
Archive: Knock yourself out. Just give me a head's up where it's going so I can show off. *g*
Category: Romance/Supernatural. (Basically, if you hate historical romance novels, this story's going to give you the heaves. Sorry.)
Spoilers: As long as you're familiar with the Buffyverse, you should do fine.
Author's note: This is an Elseworlds fic (alternate universe for non-comic-book fans) set in the 1800s. It's sort of like a screwed-up romance novel -- hey, I've always wanted to write a trashy romance novel, and now I'm going to. So, same characters as "Angel" and "Buffy," they're just all born and raised in Regency England -- and yes, I know that's basically William before he got fangy, but just shut it and play along, 'kay?
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Joss Whedon (the rat bastard) and Mutant Enemy. Damn him! Damn him and his black, black heart! ... Um, sorry 'bout that. Funky "Buffy"-related Tourette's. It happens.
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The Nightmare Fighters
by Alchemy
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Prologue
London, 1822
Tonight, he would get his first glimpse of the next Slayer.
The warm blue glow of moonlight settled on the buildings around him as he moved deeper into the shadows and watched the front door of Almack's. He knew she was to arrive here shortly, having been tipped off by Lady Jersey. A smart and capable woman and one of the Patronesses of Almack's who still liked him, Lady Sarah Jersey would tell you everything you needed to know about anyone as long as you went about it the right way.
He had her name. He had a physical description of her. And he had his charm to work with. Before long, there wasn't a part of the next Slayer's life that Lady Jersey wouldn't tell him about, although he was fairly certain most of it was mere rumor or speculation.
Almack's was busy tonight, which certainly didn't surprise him. The first Wednesday of the Season brought nearly everyone to the club for the opening ball, and Lady Jersey had assured him that she would be there. In all honesty, he should be there, as well.
But his return to London society could wait. First, he had to see her.
His keen eyesight cut through the darkness of night and searched for a mass of golden hair and a distinctive set of hazel eyes. He'd heard what she looked like -- her heavenly appearance was talked about among his kind with a wink and a nudge. But he had no idea just how breathtaking she was until the crowds almost visibly parted and the repeated whisper of her name carried in the breeze.
Elizabeth Summers had arrived, apparently.
And, dear God, was she lovely.
A heart that hadn't beat in more than a hundred years sprang to life, or at least it felt that way. His demon practically purred at the sight of her, her small slip of a body weaving through the crowd with her beaming mother at her side as chaperone.
The rumors simply didn't do her justice. Time slowed as she headed up the steps, greeting the women she passed, taking in the cool night air before entering the assembly rooms. He could barely contain himself from rushing forward, sweeping her off her feet, and taking her so far away from all this rubbish, it would be but a rather bothersome memory.
Then, just like that, she vanished into the depths of Almack's, and he was left only with her face etched into his mind.
Dear God, he hadn't fallen in love with the chit at first sight like some lovesick boy, had he? Because that would be rather awkward and all, what with his coming to London specifically to kill her.
Shaking his head, he slipped out of the shadows, straightened his cravat, and headed for home. Well, he certainly couldn't kill her now. But tomorrow was another day, wasn't it?
First, darkness. Then, the dreams.
The play of shadows and candlelight across rumpled bedsheets. A male form, pale even with the golden light dancing over his skin. An inviting smile, a gentle caress, a tempting kiss. All followed by seductive touches and a rush of warmth that flooded her small body. Then, darkness again.
It was usually after that wonderful, romantic interlude that her dreams would turn fearsome and violent. From the darkness would come a specter, handsome but hidden in the shadows and unrecognizable. A hand would reach out to her and pull her close.
She only saw the glint of the knife when it was too late to do anything about it.
The pain that came after felt so real, so tangible, that she had gotten used to waking up curled in a ball and wrapped up in her arms liked a frightened child. She'd whimper or cry out without even meaning to, and her mother would come running to check on her daughter, scared for whatever demons haunted her in her dreams.
No, she had thought to herself. Not a demon. Just a man. A man with a secret behind his smile.
Tonight when she woke up from the dream, her skin slick with sweat, it was no different. The feelings that accompanied the dream rode roughshod over her, and this time, at least, she managed to keep quiet and snuggle back down into her bed. Her fingers trembled as she tugged the sheets back over her body, and she tensed as soon as she noticed.
Her sheet was torn. And not in large, shredded slashes or fine, neat slices, but subtle, small half-moons that had pierced the upper edge of the sheet in a pair of groupings.
Good Lord, she hadn't --
No, she couldn't possibly have --
Oh, dear.
Glancing down suspiciously at her delicate hands, she shook her head in silent denial and lie back to try and slip into something ... anything that wasn't a fitful, erotic nightmare.