CHAPTER 17: IGNITION

If I could heal myself
Where would I begin?
I really wish I had a shoulder
I'd try and climb from this hole I'm in
This is easy
This is easier

Locked in all alone here
Fate is in my fingertips
There isn't anyone that can hold me here
Do you think this is courage?
Does this make me brave?
It's just a consequence of the easiest choice that I've made

This is easy
this is easier for me
Than to pretend that this will ever get easier for me

            ~Fingertips, Tapping the Vein
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Faith swayed her hips in time with the music, arms poised above her head, occasionally running a hand through her hair. It always got her blood pumping, dancing in a crowd like this, feeling the music thump and thrum through and around her, letting it inside her like a living thing to possess and guide her. It was the closest she ever got to giving up control. She looked up at the guy she'd been dancing with most of the night through half-lidded eyes, glorying in the slow, delicious seduction of him. He was like putty in her hands, waiting to be shaped, and she could smell the sweat and excitement rolling off of him in waves. He was young, and hot, and she wanted him so badly she could hardly wait.

Straddling one of his legs, she rotated her hips as she danced up, bumping his hip with her pelvis and grabbing his waist. He locked an arm around her waist and they gyrated together, grinding, Faith smiling at him provocatively. When he ran his hand down over the curve of her ass, she reached back and grabbed his hand, spinning out of his grip and leading him from the dance floor.

It was hard to believe that Angel was gone, even harder to believe it had only been a day since he'd left. She'd been left with a feeling of trepidation, of solitude and emptiness. Like an itch she couldn't quite reach, it twitched annoyingly, sending sparks of pain through the void in her heart, and by the end of the day she'd been as frustrated and maddened as a dog chasing its own tail. Once night had fallen she'd begun, and nearly succeeded in, convincing herself that none of that mattered at all. She was just wound up, tense, and it really wasn't any wonder. After all, she hadn't hit a decent party in at least a year. Deciding that it was high time, she'd donned the skimpy black dress and headed to the Bronze.

She'd hit the dance floor in a frenzy, and as if sensing her need, the men had started circling like sharks. She'd given each of them a turn to dance with her, teasing and taunting them all, until at last she'd narrowed down her selection to the dark-haired, pretty college boy.

She pulled him out into the back alley and pushed him against the wall, kissing him hard. He tasted like whiskey sours and smelled like cigarette smoke, and she reveled in the taste and scent of him, running her hands all over his body. She wanted him, needed him so badly that it was like a fever, and reaching down, she deftly unfastened his jeans, not wasting any time on foreplay or protocol.

Surprised, he drew away, breaking the kiss. "What…?"

"Shut up," she ordered, and pressed her mouth to his again, cutting off whatever he was about to say.

There was a brief moment of fumbling with the condom, and then she lifted the short skirt of her dress, pulling the thin cover of her panties aside. With one arm around his shoulders, she pulled herself up on to him, hissing with pleasure as she felt him enter her, sinking slowly down his length. If he had been hesitant a moment before, he moaned and grabbed her eagerly around the waist, then, and she wrapped her legs tight around him, using them for leverage, sliding up and down around and against him as her hips undulated wildly. She grabbed him by the shoulders and took him hard and fast, so hot and quick it was almost brutal, and she came almost as soon as she finished the second stroke, biting down on his shoulder to stifle her cry, nails digging into the flesh of his back through his shirt and leaving dark crescent-shaped bruises. A few moments later, he stiffened and moaned with his own release, his arms tightening around her.

When it was over, she let him slide from her and pushed away from him, landing on her feet. As if they'd done nothing more than complete some kind of business deal, she straightened the hem of her dress, ran a hand through her hair as if to tidy it, and gave him a dazzling smile. "Thanks," she said with a wink. "I needed that."

"You mean… that's it?" he asked, seeming dumb-founded. Poor little pretty-boy brain probably couldn't handle being used and then dumped inside ten minutes, she thought.

"What do you want? A ring?" She raised her brows, both in question and in challenge, and when he simply stood there, she smiled a final time and then walked off down the alley.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

She got a few blocks away before the ramifications began to set in.

Slut. Whore. The accusations fired to life loudly in her mind, and she tried shoving them to the background, tuning out their voices as she'd done for the last seven years, ever since the first time she'd had sex. But they didn't go as easily now, those black, malignant whispers shot through with the vibrant red of self-hatred. Like claws they raked the surface of her brain, tiny lines of fiery pain leaving their mark on her. She shook them off, soothing the resulting scratches with the balm of power and satisfaction, and trampled clumsily over her guilt in the process.

She felt empty inside, a hollow kind of ache edged with poisonous thorns that stabbed and bruised and tore at her soul, making it swell with poison and pain until it was mad with rage and too large for her to hold. For a moment, the college boy had filled that void within her, had made her forget that it existed… and then, when he was gone, it had grown even larger. Every time she tried to fill the emptiness in her heart, it only grew bigger, more consuming. The more she fed her anger, the hungrier it became. Right now it was a trapped animal, but soon, she knew, it would break loose and take control of her.

Just like old times.

"That bloke's going to have quite the story to tell his mates tomorrow," came an appraising voice from behind her.

She spun, a cynical smile twisting her ruby-glossed lips, hands on her hips. "You were watching?" she asked, sounding both surprised and pleased. She sauntered up to him, running one finger down the buttons of his shirt. "Is that how you get off? Watching?" she asked, her voice a sultry whisper.

Spike fought the urge to back up a step, caught off-guard by her reaction as he was, and the expression on his face grew more serious, more intense, her touch stoking the fires that always burned inside of him. He had just watched her use that boy back there like a living toy and then toss him away, and it had been damned hot.

"What do you say, blondie?" she whispered, moving her mouth close to his, eyes heavy lidded. "You want a turn?"

He was damned tempted. The demon in him raged and paced and roared, rattling its cage, demanding to have this appetite, at least, fulfilled. But despite his sudden, overpowering need, despite the fact that he could smell the heat and sex on her, he hesitated. Something about this whole scenario didn't feel right. He'd expected to find her sullen and sulking in Angel's absence. He'd certainly never expected to find her coming at him with open arms and legs, seducing him with this sultry siren persona until he'd forgotten who he was or why he'd come. And then it hit him.

"Oh, I see," he said with that grand air of mock-discovery he possessed, and made a small, knowing noise deep in his throat. "You think if you shag everyone you meet hard enough you'll get Angel out of your head, don't you?" His face wore the sly look of someone discovering a nasty secret. "Well, count me out for the rebound train, luv."

He paused, seeming to think about that, then lunged forward, grabbing her around the waist. "Ah, who am I kidding?" He leaned to kiss her and she shoved him away so hard that he stumbled backward over several trashcans. Caught off guard, he shook his head and leapt to his feet indignantly, his face dark with sudden anger. "What the bloody hell?"

She grinned at him impudently, at once siren and Slayer, and tossed her long, dark hair over one shoulder. "I'm a tease, what can I say?"

He sputtered surprised laughter and shook his head. "Oh, you're a real piece of work, all right," he agreed, and the way he said it didn't sound very flattering. "Struck a nerve there, did I?"

"You wish." And the way she said it rendered his question a mere naughty request, taking the sting from it even as she retaliated.

"Right. My mistake. You're just fine." He put his hands in his pockets and looked her up and down again as if seeing her for the first time. "So tell me again why you're shagging witless college boys in back alleys and dumping them while the condom's still warm?"

"For fun," she shot back in a "why else?" tone of voice, giving him a shrug and a knife-edged grin.

He blinked and then smiled despite himself. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "back in my big bad days, I might have even liked you." He glanced heavenward from beneath raised brows as if debating that, then looked back at her, answering his own thought with a definitive,  "Hmm… No."

"Wouldn't you?" she asked, giving him an appraising look. She walked closer to him, hips swaying suggestively beneath the brief length of her skirt. "I bet you would," she said, placing one finger over his lips when he opened his mouth to retort. "Haven't you always wondered what it's like to fuck a Slayer, Spike? I bet there's nothing else like it on earth. Even better than killing them, I'd bet…" she blinked and then tilted her head sideways at him. "Unless you already know…?" she trailed off suggestively.

He shoved her hand away roughly, the impact of clattering trashcans still fresh in his mind, anger surfacing above his reluctantly increasing desire.

"You know, if I was still able—"

"But you're not," she cut him off with a dark smile. "Tell me, how's that identity-crisis coming along? Must suck, just sitting around on your ass, thinkin' about your glory days, curbing all those violent tendencies." She went on as if she were actually interested and concerned, her brows drawing together in mocking sympathy. "I mean, they have therapy for people like me. Rehabilitation. What do they have for guys like you? Support Groups for Neutered Vampires?"

His eyes darkened and his mouth tightened as if he were about to launch another nasty jibe. Then the anger gave way to annoyance and he heaved a surly sigh. "The sodding 'Bicuspid Café'. Sorry lot of them sitting around in a circle crying and hugging and planning bake sales." He made a disgusted face. "Bugger that."

She stared at him, surprised that he had actually answered, surprised by the answer itself, and then she burst into laughter, one hand holding back the pain of her bruised ribs. "Get out! Baking? No wonder you follow me around."

He glanced at her, suspicion edged with guilt, and wondered if she had any idea how much he'd been following her. He guessed she must, judging from the knowledge of events in her life he'd demonstrated. "Yeah," he said dryly, clearing his throat. "Listen, fun as all this is, it's not why I came."

"Sorry. I'm off-duty." And with that she turned and resumed her easy pace down the alley. She didn't get three feet before a vampire launched itself at her, snarling. Instinctively, she dropped back into a fighting stance and pistoned her leg up and outward. Spike watched in amusement as the vamp went flying and her tiny skirt ended up somewhere around her waist.

The vamp lumbered to its feet with a grin, singing tauntingly as it lunged for her again. "I see London, I see France, I see the Slayer's—"

Faith set her jaw and back-kicked it in the head again, making a half spin inside its reach and staking it. "No respect," she said disparagingly as it vaporized. Then she looked at Spike, shaking her head and pulling her skirt back down over her hips. "How did Buffy ever fight in these things without…"

She trailed off at Spike's look.

"Why do you think I picked so many fights with her?"

She chuckled and shook her head. "You are a sicko."

Strangely, it felt like a moment of camaraderie.

"I saw your little run in with the Scoobies last night," he ventured, throwing out the bait.

She stopped yanking on her skirt and turned on him, taking it hook, line and sinker. The cocky smile had fled her face and storm clouds gathered on her brow. "Yeah? So?"

"They were pretty shaken up, seeing you. Thought they might go off and do something stupid. So I followed them." He crossed the few steps between them at leisure, looking at her intently.

"And?"

"I think they're up to something."

"Well, sound the alarms and rally the troops!" she said with a roll of her eyes, turning to go. "That sounds terrifying."

"Whatever it is, it's got to do with you." He stepped up to her. "And I can't stop them," he added with a tap to his head.

She gave a forced laugh and turned back with an expression so confused and disgusted that it seemed manufactured. "Why would you want to?" she asked, as if what he'd said made no sense to her at all.

He considered her in quiet reproach for a moment, appearing to think that over, then looked away, nodding as if to himself. "Right. Good point," he said, as if he had just been celestially enlightened.

He turned and strode down the alley away from her.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

She tried not to think about what Spike had said as she made her way back toward what she was slowly beginning to think of as home, stopping at one of her stash places along the way to change her clothes. It had been Ms. H's suggestion that she take a few nights off, stick close to home, and give things some time to settle down. She couldn't resist a quick pass through the nearest of the graveyard's though, and made a sweep of them, finding them surprisingly, and disappointingly, undisturbed. As nice as it was to have a break, she had to admit it was already making her anxious. Too much damned time to think about things.

She had ignored Spike's attempts to draw her out, but she knew he was right. What had happened with Angel had left her with some fresh wounds, and she'd just as soon cover them under bandages and forget they existed. Trouble was, they weren't going quietly. A fight would be just the thing to help her get her mind off things and blow off some steam.

She hung around for a little while among the eerily carved angels and crosses, so used to them by now that she barely noticed them, keeping watch for anything out of the ordinary. Minutes dragged by, lengthening into half an hour, then an hour, and at last she abandoned the false alarms and sporadic hope, gave up, and went home.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

The circle of power was etched into the soft, grass-covered earth with care. Giving it a last once over, Willow nodded once, satisfied, and stepped inside. Kneeling down, she settled into position and unwrapped the cloth she'd folded up into a sack earlier. "Okay, I brought a little knife for everyone," she said, setting out a tiny pocketknife before each of them; Anya in the east position, Xander in the north, Tara in the west, herself in the south. She gave the small group a surreptitious glance and caught them looking at her questioningly.

"Hey, it's just a shallow cut," she said defensively. "Just enough blood to put in the bowl for an offering." She shifted nervously, wishing they'd stop looking at her like that, and nodded toward the copper bowl at the center of their circle. "The spell won't work without it."

Xander nodded tensely, Tara and Anya looked down again, and with a quiet sigh of relief, Willow turned her attention to setting out the rest of the spell components. A pinch of salt went into the bowl, then a dried leaf of sage, followed by a small piece of wormwood, a bit of myrrh, a touch of powdered Gnosh demon bone—that was key—and a few other ingredients, finishing with one of Buffy's baby teeth. Finding that had been a real coup; hair never worked nearly as well as tooth or bone or blood.

"Now, each of you, imitate what I'm about to do until the bowl comes back to me," she said anxiously, looking to each of them for agreement and understanding. When they gave it, Willow set the bowl before her on the ground and then picked up the knife, drawing it over the palm of her hand. Putting the knife down, she squeezed her wounded hand into a fist, watching the blood trickle out between her fingers, letting it drip into the bowl and spatter over the contents within. After a moment, she opened her hand and waved it over the bowl. "Commisceo," she said gravely, all traces of anxiety and excitement gone now. Lifting the copper bowl, she passed it to the east, toward Anya.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Faith had just reached the front walk of the house when she heard footsteps hurrying up behind her. She turned, dropping back into a fighting stance, ready for anything. Or so she thought.

Slowly, she came to a standing position, like someone in a dream. She'd never seen that particular expression on Spike's face. In fact, she wasn't sure she'd seen an expression like that on anyone's face, ever. She couldn't identify it, couldn't put a name to it. She wished she could. Maybe if she could put a name to it, it wouldn't seem so frightening.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice filled with trepidation.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Each of them did as she had done, and when the bowl made its way back to Willow, she replaced it at the center of their circle. "Join hands."

They did, wounded palms joining them each to the other, linking their lives and blood, and Willow threw back her head, closing her eyes, beginning the incantation.

"Hades, God of Death and the Underworld, Keeper of Dead Souls, hear our cry. With the blood of our lives, we beseech thee, with the heart of our soul we implore thee, with the power of magic we invoke thee; return to us the one who was lost!"

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

As if from very far away, Faith heard the door of the house open behind her.

"Faith? What's going on?" Beatrice's voice was sharp, clipped with authority and barely contained alarm.

It didn't occur to her to answer. Her world was the angular, white shape of Spike's face; paler than the moon, paler than death itself, and etched with dark lines that no mortal would ever possess. Her world was the span of a few heartbeats, no more, spread over the course of eternity, waiting for Spike's answer.

He licked his lips, a human gesture that seemed somehow wrong on him, frail and mortal, and she imagined she could hear his tongue sliding over the softly ridged flesh, so great was the silence between them. "It's Buffy," he said, his eyes hooded, veiled as if to protect those around him. "They're bringing her back."

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Willow felt a tingle begin at the base of her spine, snaking up through her body and then shooting out through her arms and hands, causing the others to gasp as it raced through their bodies, completing the circle, fusing them together like an electrical circuit, holding them in the thrall of the magic.

"We give the blood of our veins that she might be given life."

The tingling grew stronger in each of them, tiny, piercing needles against their nerves.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Speechless, Faith stood completely still. A cacophony of thoughts raced through her mind, so many that she could not pick out a single voice through the din. She blinked; her fingers twitched, and she remembered to breathe.

"Can—can they do that?" she asked, and the words were like ashes in her mouth, cold as the grave.

"They can. Though what state she'll come back in…"

His voice trailed off, and the words he left unspoken chilled her even more than the ones he had. She thought of her dreams; Buffy holding forth her bloody heart to Faith, begging her to take it; Buffy shedding her own beautiful face for that of a vampire and drinking deep from the well of Faith's soul; Buffy as a living corpse in the church beneath the ground. For an instant she was struck dumb by the remembered visions, frozen solid in fear by the implications. And then she seemed to snap awake, the import of what she knew finally clicking home, galvanizing her into action.

"We have to stop them."

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"We give the essence of our soul that she might be given life"

Faintly, from somewhere far away, Willow heard Tara moan in pain. The wind, a gentle almost unnoticeable breeze moments before, gusted suddenly, lifting her hair and standing it almost on end, errant strands whip lashing over her face.

Caught in the rapture of the spell, she grinned like a madwoman, crookedly and without guile. This was power, this was life, the magic coursing through her, filling her, like electricity, like a lover. This was what she wanted to feel every day, every moment of her life.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

They shared a look, and then Spike turned and took off, Faith following behind as fast as her legs could carry her.

Beatrice opened her mouth, started to say something, closed it again, shook her head. "I'll just… check my books…"

Neither of them heard her, their ears filled with the sound of rushing wind and pounding footsteps. She knew it, and it didn't matter. This was a very exciting turn of events, and there was much for her to do in a very short amount of time.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"Hades, God of Death and the Underworld, Keeper of Dead Souls, hear our cry!" Willow yelled into the wind. It answered in kind, dull roaring rising into an angry howl, as if Hades himself had been summoned to the spot against his wishes and voiced his fury, as if he would not give what they asked if he could keep it from them, and perhaps that was the truth, Willow thought, feeling a thrill rush through her. But all the conditions had been met. He would have to answer.

"Return to us the one who was lost!"

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Faith almost stopped running as they came down over the hill.

Below, in a clearing surrounded by trees, the Scoobies sat in circle, holding hands, and they were glowing. Outlined in a blue so brilliant it was almost white, the wind gusted and whipped, screaming fury all around them.

Somehow, above the roaring, she heard the command of a voice, infused with the power of one who knows her command will be answered.

"Return!"

Her dream flashed before her again, in the white room with Buffy's corpse, a voice thundering in her ears.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"Return!" Willow shouted, completely lost in the moment now. Around her, she was aware of the others, their bodies and souls connected to hers. She could sense their distress, and she knew they wouldn't last much longer. It didn't matter.

"Return!" she shouted the final time, her voice ringing out with a triumphant note.

She felt the power rise and crest in a shrieking gale, felt the presence of the one she invoked as it tipped its hand to grant her request. And then she felt something slam into her hard, the magic flaring once with blinding light and exploding, tearing her hands from Tara and Anya's, breaking the circle of power and throwing her to the ground.

And then, there was nothing except blackness.