Chapter Six

Spike's gaze moved from the vampire to Clem with deceptive slowness. If there was one thing he was certain of in life, it was that demons loved the smell of fear. Blood was the sustenance of a vampire, but fear was an indulgence, a stimulant of pleasure. He should know. He had gotten his rocks off on it for over a century. Spike wasn't afraid of being killed and fed upon, but he would be damned if he was going to let himself become some worthless bloodsucker's wet dream. He forced his eyes to remain insolent, his body slack, letting the group of demons know just how unworthy of his time he considered them.

Except Clem.

He met Clem's anxious eyes and his own hardened. "You did this. You told them."

Clem started to shake his head, beads of blood spattering from his shredded ear. "Spike, I didn't—"

"Did you think you could keep it a secret?" the young vampire asked sarcastically. "Did you think I couldn't see it in the way you fought, that I wouldn't notice the lack of game face? It was obvious! You reek of it…humanity."

Spike glanced at the vampire as though he were too insignificant to concern himself over. "Yet I still kicked your ass, didn't I?"

Another demon, one Spike recognized from his late-night kitten poker, stepped forward. "Still a smart ass, aren't you, Spike?" he sneered. "You killed our kind—even when you were one of us. We couldn't fight back then. You were too strong, too knowledgeable of what hurt…but not now. Now you are one of them. A gutless, mindless mass of flesh. You can't hurt us anymore."

Spike said, "Wanna bet?"

He swung his leg out in a lightening-fast roundhouse kick, his boot connecting neatly with the demon's jaw. There was a crack of bone—the demon flew backward against the wall of the crypt. He didn't get up.

"All right, mates," Spike said. He was panting—more from the stress of being here than the physical exertion of battle. "You blokes want to brawl you better line up…'cause I don't have all bloody night."

He spoke calmly, but all the while, his eyes were darting about the crypt, searching vainly for something that could be used as a weapon. Unfortunately, most of his furniture and belongings were blocked from him by the hoard of demons. The only thing within his reach was the bag of supplies from the Magic Box. He had dropped it during his brief skirmish with the demon, but it lay at his feet, the contents just spilling out of their brown paper wrapper.

He thought fast. There were too many of them. There was no way he could face them alone and win. He had to get away. Yet if he ran now he knew they would be on him in seconds, ripping him apart like a pack of wolves on a deer. He had to stall them—he had to get at least a few seconds gain on them. The only thing in the Magic Box bag was herbs, candles, and the Beginners Book of Spells. Not much in the way of weaponry, but he would have to make it do.

Keeping one eye on the group, he reached down and grabbed the book. His first aim was to get rid of that pesky vampire—the little bastard seemed to have gained quite a bit of self confidence since their last battle, being the leader of the group and all. Spike knew the vamp wasn't a cunning fighter, but he was the ringleader of this and he called the shots. Without him, the mob would be uncoordinated, useless. Taking out the vampire would give him the few moments he needed to get away. So he threw the book at the vampire's head, the corner of the heavy volume catching the vamp square in his right eye.

"Son of a bitch!" the vampire screamed, momentarily thrown by the pain. The force behind Spike's throw shocked him—a normal mortal would not have been able to hurt him so much.

Knowing he had just a matter of seconds before his enemy recovered, Spike pulled out his cigarette lighter, ignited it, and darted in. The tiny flame caught on the vampire's rather longish hair and licked upwards, setting the whole crew of demons shrieking with surprise and fear. Lucky for Spike he hadn't been mistaken in assuming they weren't a well-organized group. While they were carrying on over their sizzling leader, he managed to dash out the door and into the night.

Still, even despite the lack of order in the group, Spike did not have a very good head start. There were enough of them lacking in loyalty to their leader and heavy with hate of Spike to pursue him rather closely. He had just a nanosecond's lead at the very most; they were so close he could hear one of them breathing heavily just behind his ear. Several times, he felt a finger brush against his back. He grabbed at a low-hanging branch and pulled himself up by it, swinging outward from the limb like a trapeze artist to kick the two demons closest to him in the chest. They fell back and he jumped down, swerving sharply to the right to avoid a group of three more who were rapidly closing in. He had no idea where he was going—even if he made it to a private home, most of these demons were not bound by the constraints of needing a formal invitation to enter. He couldn't go to Buffy's and put them all in danger. He couldn't go to the Magic Box; it was closed by now. His only chance was to lose them.

More of them were coming. He could hear a dozen more feet pounding the hard-packed earth behind him. Someone grabbed at the back of his leather trench, almost pulling him down. He quickly shrugged out of the garment and continued running. He tried every trick he could think of to throw them off. He backtracked, jumped tombstones, and climbed the cemetery fence twice; yet despite all his efforts, he still could not lose them. He was simply too unaccustomed at being the prey to be adept at evasion. Until just a few weeks ago, the only thing he had to worry about eluding was direct sunlight and Buffy's wrath.

His motorcycle was hidden in the woods about a quarter of a mile south of the cemetery. If he could get to it—and with enough time to crank it before they were on him—he knew he would have a good chance of getting away. He was loath to try it—gaining enough ground to be able to fire up the bike was going to be damn near impossible, and the demons would have an advantage over him in the forest. They could track by scent as well as sight, while he would be running blindly, having no idea where they were. Yet he could see no other way out for him. He had to try to reach the motorcycle.

Without looking, he knew that the demon nearest to him was about to pounce. He could hear the change of gait, the strained breathing, that meant the demon was putting all his effort into one powerful leap—a leap that was meant to knock Spike to the ground. Spike didn't glance back over his shoulder; it would only slow him down. He relied on his keen ears and the survival instinct that was pulling his muscles so taught he could practically feel what was going on behind him. Just as the demon moved to pounce, Spike bent down. He did not stop running, did not in any way allow himself to break stride as he leaned low to the ground, so that the demon flew neatly over his head and into the dirt. Spike leapt over him.

He was almost there. The dense growth of trees was just ahead of him now, no further away than a hundred yards. He had to get the lead out. He had to get a better lead on them. A sudden rush of adrenaline provided him with the burst of speed he needed. He bounded out ahead of them, driving for the trees. Just a few more feet…

Suddenly something—a root or a fallen branch—caught his foot, throwing him down. Spike dropped face-first onto the ground, completely losing whatever small gain he had on them. He tried to get up, but the toe of his boot was wedged beneath a thick tree root, trapping him.

"Oh, bloody hell," he muttered, trying to wrench his foot free. He glanced up.

There was the briefest glimpse of the advancing throng…then they fell upon him.

And there was nothing at all.

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Hours later than she intended to, Willow was still poring over her dark arts books. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, exactly as she had been hours earlier when Spike had barged in. The house was nice and quiet and, even despite the temper tantrum Spike had thrown earlier, she felt at peace. She could read Spike like a book—she knew he wouldn't really cast a spell on Buffy. He was angry and, as was usual when he was angry, he was behaving foolishly. But she could feel that beneath all his hurt and resentment his intentions were good. He might have gone so far as to purchase the ingredients to the spell but he would never follow through on it. Willow wasn't worried about that at all.

She was, however, quite eager over what she had found in the third and last of her stolen books. It was the only book that listed the demon Spike had described having visited in Africa, and it was the only one that mentioned the kind of spell that had been used on Spike. The details, while not abundant, were still generous enough for her to figure out what had happened, what had gone wrong. She wasn't sure yet; she would need more research on the subject of vampires themselves to know for certain. But she was confident that she was on the right track. Finally.

She was about to reward herself for figuring this out with an ice cream break when it happened. A pain like she had never known ripped through her body. Her back arched and her neck lolled back as she screamed, first in agony, then with fear as well.

She was dying.

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Buffy had just stepped into the door when Dawn flew into the kitchen to meet her.

"Buffy, thank God you're home!" she gasped, grabbing her sister's arm.

Buffy felt a jolt of sudden fear. Dawn had not spoken voluntarily since their argument in the graveyard; for her to meet Buffy at the door so eagerly meant there was something seriously wrong.

"What is it?" she asked, grabbing Dawn's arm. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"I—I—it's Willow," Dawn stammered, fear threatening to tie her tongue completely. "S—she isn't…normal."

"What do you mean 'she isn't normal'?" Buffy asked. "What is wrong with her?"

"She—she's just lying on the floor, screaming. She's been that way for half an hour or more. She says they're killing her."

"Who is killing her?"

"She won't say." Dawn met Buffy's eyes with the first sign of sisterly solidarity in days. "She isn't making any sense at all, Buffy. I—I think she may have nutted up or something."

"Calm down," Buffy ordered as Dawn began to shiver. "You have to stay calm, Dawn. Go call Giles and give him the lowdown on what is going on. I'll go up and see to Willow."

Dawn nodded. "Giles, right. I'll call him right now." She reached for the phone.

Buffy left the room. She paused at the staircase in the foyer, yelling to Dawn, who was still in the kitchen. "Dawn?"

"Yeah?"

"Call Xander too. Tell him to hurry."

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Spike threw his head back and screamed.

He was lying in the dank warehouse that served as base for a dozen or more vampires. His wrists were bound by a dirty rope that was wound around an old radiator, pinning his arms behind his back. Most of the other demons had departed when he had been caught, satisfied that he was in good hands. The vampire that had attacked Dawn two nights before—and who Spike had set alight less than two hours ago—was standing over Spike.

The vampire—Nikolai—was holding a lit cigarette in his hand and smiling. "Still feel better than the rest of us?" he asked. He held the tip of his cigarette against Spike's shoulder. There was a sizzling sound, followed by the sickening odor of burning flesh.

"Motherfucker!" Spike's cry of pain was so loud the windows of the warehouse rattled. He jerked his arms and kicked his legs out, struggling to get away. All he got for his pains was a soft chuckle from his tormentor.

"See…those fools wanted to kill you," Nikolai confided, jerking his head to the group of vampires who stood some distance away, watching. "But I knew this would be much more fun. An apt punishment for a dog that turns on the pack, don't you think?" He pushed the cigarette in even harder, crushing it into the open burn on Spike's shoulder.

His face contorted with agony, Spike muttered something under his breath.

"What did you say?" Nikolai asked, leaning nearer to Spike's lips.

Spike spat into the vampire's yellow eye, causing him to curse and cry out in anger. "I said sod of."

Nikolai bared his fangs, hissing. "You think I don't know what you are doing?" he demanded. "You think if you piss me off then I'll haul off and kill you—but it won't happen that way." He smiled. "I'm going to have fun with you a little first."

Reaching behind him, Nikolai withdrew a weapon that had been hidden on the shelf at his back. A wire coat hanger that had been pulled out straight and then doubled over. Nikolai whipped the hanger just under Spike's chin, using it to push Spike's head up so Nikolai could look into his eyes. "Bad dogs have to get spankings," he said softly. "It's the only way to train them up right."

Spike closed his eyes. He didn't want to see what was coming.

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Willow wailed like a banshee, rolling around on the floor as one possessed. "Oh God," she panted. "No!"

"Willow, what is wrong?" Buffy asked desperately. "No what?"

"He—he's got a—a metal rod," she moaned. "No! Not again—no!" Her body jerked upward as if receiving a blow.

"Nonononononononononononononono!" she screamed.

Xander grabbed Willow's shoulders. "Will, stop it!" he told her. "No one has anything. No one is going to hurt you. Just stop it!" He shook her shoulders so hard her teeth rattled in her head. But she didn't stop screaming.

Giles, who had been standing quietly up until this point, strode forward and dragged Xander off Willow. "Don't be a fool," he said shortly. "That won't help. She isn't delusional."

"Oh no?" Xander asked sarcastically. He nodded to Willow, who was rocking back and forth, moaning. "You say that isn't delusional?"

"She's channeling."

The three of them—Xander, Buffy, and Dawn—all gaped at Giles in disbelief.

"Who is she channeling?" Dawn was the first to ask.

"Or what?" Xander added.

Giles shook his head slightly. "I don't know. She hasn't given any real clues." He knelt close to Willow's prostrate form. "Willow, who do you see? Who is telling you this?"

"No," she said, shaking her head emphatically. "Not telling…not telling or showing. I feel it. We are connected, he and I. He isn't here—only his pain." She groaned again. "Only his fear."

"Who is he?"

"…being punished for his transgressions." Willow spoke as though she had not heard Giles' question. "Only not a transgression…maybe a regression?"

"Willow, who is it?" Giles pressed. "Tell us so we can help him—and you."

Willow laughed. "Help him? He is the outcast, the loafer wolf in a forest of packs. He came to us for acceptance and was driven back. Do you see? And they wouldn't have him back…they know now. They know what he did. They know what he is."

"What is he, Willow?"

"A little bit of both."

Giles opened his mouth as though to ask another question, but before he could, Willow raised herself onto her knees, leaned her head over, and began gagging. "Can't breathe!" she gasped, coughing and retching. She clawed at her throat desperately. "I can't breathe!"

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He couldn't breathe.

Having grown tired of whipping him, Nikolai had pulled the lace out of Spike's own boot and used it as a garrote, wrapping it around his throat and holding it taut. Breathing was still an alien sensation to Spike and this…. He had never experience the desire to drink oxygen without the ability to do so; it was a terrifying feeling.

He thrashed and kicked, fighting his bonds as well as the abuse. His vision began to fog, the outer edges of his sight blackening.

I'm going to die, he thought. I'm going to die with her hating me.

But he didn't. Just as he began to slump into unconsciousness Nikolai removed the garrote. Spike gulped for air greedily. He was so relieved to feel oxygen in his lungs he barely noticed the stinging wound on his throat where the shoelace cut into him.

Nikolai watched Spike gasping air without emotion. "Drink up," he said. "Plenty more where that came from."

And Spike knew he didn't mean the oxygen.

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Willow swayed unsteadily on her knees, her hands at her throat. She was panting like a landed fish, but at least she was breathing.

Buffy watched her friend with growing alarm. Somewhere deep inside of her a thought, a fear, was beginning to take seed and grow. It swelled up in her stomach, climbing like a vine up her throat and out her mouth. "Willow…" she murmured, half afraid of her own question—but she was even more afraid not to ask it. "It's Spike, isn't it?"

The room seemed to grow very quiet. Everyone, even Willow, paused to look at Buffy in surprise.

Buffy shifted uncomfortably. "Y—you said it was someone who didn't fit in anywhere…Spike doesn't fit in. Is it him, Willow?"

Willow looked at her glassy-eyed. "Got it in one," she said.

Then she collapsed.

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End of Chapter Six