Chapter Thirty-Six

Xander was standing outside when the car pulled up. In all the years of their acquaintance, none had seen him so anxious. He looked to have worn his nails to a fine point from continual gnawing. "It's almost two in the goddamn morning! What happened?!"

"Buffy happened," Willow replied. She nearly knocked over with the impact of Dawn's swift evacuation. The girl didn't look to anyone; merely rushed into the house where she would presumably lock herself in her room for the rest of the week. "We were about to go home and…well, she was there."

"Oh." Anya stepped onto the portico, features fashioned with apprehension. "And Angel? And Spike? I suppose they're…doing something. Fighting her."

"Faith," Giles gasped, still trying to catch his breath. "Lord, I've never run so fast in my life."

"She'd been following us," the Witch said softly, a look of dumbstruck horror filling her eyes. "She had to have been. All night. Just waiting for a time to strike."

"Yeah," Xander agreed. "I'd say so. And Dawnie was just betting on it, wasn't she?"

The phone rang inside the house. No one paid attention for a long minute. When the person refused to take the hint, Anya rolled her eyes and retreated indoors.

"They won't kill her…they can't." Giles was staring at a crack in the driveway. "But…God, if something happens to one of them, I don't…William…I don't know what I'll do. What he'll do. He's going to feel…awful. He had the chance to—"

Willow shook her head, tears brimming her eyes. She had never cried so much in her life as she had this past month. "He did what he thought was right. That's all that matters. Buffy wasn't able to kill Angel when he went all…all bad before, either. It happens."

"This isn't like that," Xander noted hoarsely. "This isn't Angel. This is Buffy. This is…"

"I know that," she said. "I just don't know what the right thing is anymore."

A line crossed formerly against the Watcher's mouth. "None of us do. It's—"

"Wesley!" The impact of Anya's shriek was enough to have every dog in Sunnydale answering her aptly time exclamation. Then she was thundering through the house (something crashed that sounded remarkably like one of Joyce Summers's prized lamps, but no one thought to comment), panting for breath in the doorway.

"It's Wesley," she gasped needlessly. "He's on the plane. Says he's landing in a half hour."

*~*~*

It was not uncommon for all sorts of hell to be raised on the streets of Sunnydale long into the hours of night. The town wrote off such occurrences as others might drive-bys and muggings of the elderly. That wasn't to say the Hellmouth didn't receive its share of the norm, but for any such crime to transpire was reflected with more bewilderment than the occasional midget in a bikini who reportedly died after being attacked by a pack of angry demonic pygmies.

To a tourist, the streets would appear barren. A couple of kids entangled in some brawl, perhaps. Probably over money, drugs — likely both.

Then again, Sunnydale didn't get many tourists.

In the still of the night, in accordance with the laws of nature as they applied to the town, Porphyria crashed to the ground with a callous thump. She was on her feet in an instant, grinning maniacally and drawing the back of her wrist against her split lip.

"You've sharpened that punch," she observed.

Faith advanced, twirling a stake idly between her fingers. Her eyes were dead and menacing. There was simply nothing left. "I've sharpened a thing or two more. Wanna see?"

"Your wit obviously not being one of them." The vampire lunged, lashing viciously without any true intention of aim. They flipped to opposite sides of the street, uncharacteristically patient in motive. Porphyria smiled in cold scrutiny. "Where'd your cheerleaders run off to?"

"Dunno, don't care." Faith ran for her in a swift jump kick. The connection was blissful though brief. In the next instant, she found herself on the ground, jaw aching in stern result.

"Oh, is that so?" The crazed vampire leaned over her forebodingly, taking a handful of hair and forcing her head upward. "Then I suppose this is going to be all the more easy."

"Yeah, that avidity thing never left, did it?" Fiercely, the Slayer freed herself with a quick backward head bunt, rolling to her feet with alarming haste. She assumed her stance and flickered an eyebrow in assurance. "You're getting slow there, girl," she commented. "Had the perfect chance to snap my neck in two."

"But we're having so much fun." Porphyria broke for her, delivering a harsh kick to her midsection. Faith huffed with the impact of the blow and sailed directly into the office store behind her. Debris cracked and fell, but not enough to account any severe damage. Nothing beyond what the townspeople were used to. "I didn't think you'd want it over so soon."

"And you don't?" Faith climbed up. "Thought you wanted to play with the boys."

"What girl wouldn't?" the vampire retorted skeptically. "Hell, even Willow has the hots for Spike. It's disturbing, actually. But they're not here, hon — mmm…suspicious much? — and you are."

"Lucky me."

"I was really hoping you'd say that."

Things were going in accordance with their carefully planned arrangement. In honesty, Faith had no idea where William and Angel had disappeared to, but she was glad they had. She knew they were near, watching likely — her spider sense allotted that much recognition. It had been a while, of course, but that was not the sort of thing a slayer simply forgot. She had felt Buffy's proximity all night and had not spoken up. It was one of those tricks she learned during incarceration — the magic of patience. Of waiting for the hunter to come to you.

Of course, she hadn't listened all that well.

A roar pierced through the otherwise soundless night, and she knew that playtime was over.

Porphyria came for her in a mix of blows and low kicks. All hell unleashed, merciless and vindictive. It seemed she was everywhere at once, scratching chunks of skin through layers of black fabric. Flesh tore and nails dug, and Faith denied herself a cry of pain. The vampire kneed her viciously, then swung and kicked her back. Again, she found herself consigned against the pavement, the taste of blood filling her mouth.

And yet she was unmoved.

"Oh come on, Faith!" the demon bantered. "You asked for a fight. Give me one!"

A stake slid out of the slayer's sleeve. The other was lost somewhere down a drainage pipe. She wasn't even aware that had she released it until her hand fumbled for something to grasp. Wearily, she rose once more.

She wondered if Angel could see her.

Porphyria arched a brow. "Again with the stake? That's getting a little old."

"It's your death warrant, bitch."

"Oh. Real threatening." A smile cracked across her lips. "Everyone's doing the same number. I know they're not going to do squat. You big bad group of frauds!" In amusement, she turned around, willfully allowing Faith the time and opportunity to strike from behind. It was a chance taken, and once again she was kicked to the ground. "You're losing it, girl," the vampire informed her. "I think prison made you a little soft. In the old days, I'd be hurting at least a little. Emphasis on little."

Again, she raised the stake, surprisingly not deigning herself to attempt a legitimate comment. "I'll do it," Faith said warningly, the pinnacle of seriousness. "Believe me, I've wanted an excuse for a long fucking time. Don't try to give me one now."

"Hon, I am the excuse. If you don't know that, you never knew anything about being the Slayer." The stake was thrown with deadly accuracy in the vampire's direction — an easy block with the right maneuvers. Porphyria dropped to the ground and rolled toward her, on her feet again before she could react. "I can see why they brought me back from the dead, if you were the alternative."

Faith swung blindly and connected with a moment of brilliant victory. It wasn't about winning then; it was about retribution. The punch was powerful enough to knock the Buffy-creature off balance, but otherwise left her unmoved. Before she could rise to her feet, the Slayer charged, pinning her to the ground with a series of blows. Each clout did little to wave the tide in her favor, but it felt nice to seize control for one blessed second.

Then she sailed across the street once more when Porphyria kicked her off, climbing irately to a firm stand.

"Well," the vampire drawled, dusting herself off. "That was brash."

Faith pushed herself off the asphalt meekly, and found the wind knocked out of her the next minute. The vampire grasped her by the shirt collar and forced through the glass door of some nameless shop. Alarms sounded needlessly, filling the night with forlorn cries of impending foreshadow.

Porphyria grasped a piece of jagged glass and drew a deep gash into the Slayer's side. The scent of fresh blood engulfed the air — enticingly thick. She slurped hungrily, kicking the girl away with fluent simplicity. Then she was advancing; watching her opponent struggle against the deluges of injury and fatigue.

The power was unimaginable.

Sounds echoed in the distance. The cavalry was coming. Time ran short.

But there was no reason to rush this…

The vampire grasped her victim by the scruff of the neck, heaving her to her feet. Faith gasped in the first exhibition of pain. It was a delicious sound. Porphyria grinned tightly in self-constructed satisfaction before throwing her to the ground once more. That was fun — playtime with the rag doll. The poor girl wasn't even putting up a fight anymore.

How very disappointing.

This was the last. She grasped Faith by her injured side and dug her fingers into soft throes of broken flesh. Faith screamed her pain and attempted to writhe, but her efforts only tunneled the vampire's hand further inward. Porphyria withdrew in her own good time, licking her bloodstained skin clean and smacking in satisfaction.

"Mmm, mmm good."

She arched her foot at the back of the Slayer's neck and waited.

"I always knew you couldn't handle it."

Twist. Crunch. Stillness.

A war cry sounded through air, pained and infuriated. Alas, the endorsement ran a few seconds too late. Porphyria shrugged simply before Angel pinned her to the ground in lasting strain of all remaining patience.

She cackled against the pavement. "So sweet, really. So sad. You really oughta work on your timing, lover."

William appeared from behind with a terrific roar as he burst into game face. The elder vampire hoisted her to her feet and allowed him his reprisal. It was minimal, but enough. Glibly, Porphyria strained herself forward, kicking him to the other side of the street and grabbing Angel by the upper arm, flipping him over and forcing him to the ground.

"I'm beginning to think the three of you should have tried me at the same time," she said thoughtfully. "Too bad you under-estimated just how well I can fend. And now look what you've gone and done to poor Faith."

The elder growled, vamping uncontrollably. In a flash of blind outrage, he lunged in firm attack, knocking her backward with full affects of consequential sting. The Cockney was next — leaping forward and back-fisting her before she could climb to her feet.

It was a moment of well-timed proportion, but nothing more. Porphyria bounded to a stance again, the full of her demon coming out in blazing consequence. She roared and charged, ducking Angel's furious swing with a backward kick that rendered him immediately to the ground.

She turned her attention to William, eyes gleaming spitefully. There was nothing to reflect behind his gaze. Nothing but stern, unabated hatred. "Oh, don't be like that," she berated. "Just because I've joined your stupid 'Slayer of Slayers' club. I wasn't aware the membership was limited to one."

"I'll rip your bloody throat out."

"Oh. More death threats? I told Faith as much, but she didn't listen: those are getting really old." She licked her lips suggestively. "How a bit more show rather than the tell. I'm not much for men who are all talk and no action."

"You want action, bitch? 'Ere it comes."

Porphyria's eyes flickered. And he lunged.

It was a moment of delayed brilliance. A spark of sudden divinity that only occurs to those in the heart of decent battle. Her eyes lit up with enthusiasm, and with haste, she ducked and moved away, dropping with predatory instinct and tripping him with a quick swing of intuition. From behind, she heard Angel rustling to his feet, but that could not be allowed. Without taking her eyes away from the peroxide vampire, she moved backward and issued a powerful kick to the back of the elder's skull.

Then it was just the two of them.

Porphyria roared and ran for him, slashing claws at his throat, her other hand shooting between his legs. How he did it she would never know, but somehow William managed to grasp both wrists within a hair of contact, twisting her until she was on the ground, his kneecaps fitting grooves into her back. He reached to grasp her jaw, but she wrenched herself free with a sudden outburst of unprecedented power. Her hands enclosed around his arms and she flipped him over her head with cold harshness. Then he was cradled mockingly between her thighs, and she ran her hands through bleached locks of hair.

"After all this time," she cooed, "still a lover, not a fighter."

"Shootin' blindly, pet? Not losin' your ever-blessed confidence, are we?"

"Oh no, baby. I'm just getting started."

William tore out her reach viciously, pivoted and backhanded her, though there was little feeling behind it. Resolve was weakening, and she knew it. It was the worst form of power. The mocking hold one had over the other's affection, no matter how much of that spurned from hate.

In the next instant, she was on her feet as well, diving forward in a well-versed handstand, her ankles enclosing around his throat. She tossed him over once more with a joyous strain of authority. He grunted but made no sound of notable pain. With a dissatisfied rumble, she bent to her feet, turned and kicked him down again.

"I get the feeling you're not giving me your all, Spike," she hissed.

"Get bent." His voice lacked conviction.

"Oh, did I forget to mention how much you pissed me off the other day?" Porphyria circled him, arms folded pretentiously, jerking a sharp punt to his abdomen whenever he tried to sit up. "That entire crossbow stunt…what nerve! You know, you could have really done some damage, and then where would we be? You miss me the way I was, pet, and yet you came within a hair of losing your precious Buffy forever."

"I don' miss when I don' mean to." Again he tried to sit up. Again she made it impossible.

"And coming to Angel's rescue…talk about a shocker. I was about to do what you've always lacked the nerve to, anyway. He wasn't fun anymore. No playtime for Mr. Tall Dark And Boring. Or is that Brooding? I can never remember. I was gonna get rid of him for you, nice and quick." She leaned down, breathing a long, cold string of air into his ear. "There was a time you would have paid to see that."

William's obstinacy hardened. "Like I said, luv…tha's my job. Always 'as been. I 'ad this entire thing worked out with Dru from the very beginnin'. An' I tell yeah, 'f you 'ad wanted to kill bloody Peaches, you 'ad plenty of chances."

"Such stunning impracticality." Without warning, she reached and found the object of her previous intention, squeezing him tightly and eliciting a groan of both pain and pleasure. It was a wondrous feeling. "To think, Spike," she murmured thoughtfully. "I offered you everything."

"You said a few fancy words in a voice that doesn' belong to you." He coughed and attempted failingly to wan her away. "'Sides, 'f you go to such lows for the sake of Peaches, I wouldn't want to touch you with a…how's that song go? Thirty-nine an' a half foot pole? You're a bloody a two-buck whore. Better places for my two bucks."

Wrong thing to say when someone literally had you by the balls. Porphyria's fist clinched restrictively, her eyes flashing in a spark of fury. William couldn't hold it in; a long scream tore from his lips. It sounded through the empty streets with mocking regularity. There was no one to hear. All residents knew enough to stay indoors. Even the police wouldn't deign to show.

The alarm from the shop was still sounding in all its annoying shrillness. And still no one answered.

"And you," she hissed finally, her grip tightening once before she released him, "are the sorriest excuse of a vamp who didn't have it in him to please me. Only when I didn't want your filthy fucking hands on me would you give me half the good battle I was looking for. I'm sorry, how deaf are you? You can only scream, 'No please!' in so many languages." Once more she leaned down beside his ear, punctuating each last word with a sharpened breath of derisive emphasis. "You. Filthy. Rapist."

That was it. The pinnacle of all offense. William screamed and flipped over, the last remnants strength returning to worn muscles. In an affront of all enduring energy, he growled and attempted to leap forward, but was held in tight deference to the ground by the force of her leather-clad foot.

"I knew that would raise a response," she quipped. A stake was in her hand; a stake purloined from Faith's unmoving body. When…he didn't know. It no longer seemed to matter. The reminder of the Slayer's death propelled wafting miscellany scents of residual blood in his direction. He shuddered in spite himself, growled, and attempted to fight to his feet once more.

There would be no missing this time. Porphyria's eyes flashed meaningfully and she arched to meet him halfway, weapon vaulted for its target with expert marksmanship. His eyes widened in a sudden rush of realism, and in a hurry, he turned in the fruitless effort to battle his way to safety.

He was not quick enough…

Death is at your heels, baby…

…and yet the strike never came. Where there should have been a quick implosion of dusty vampiric bits, a loud gasp strained instead. A throaty cry for help, bred in any language. Under any regime — he would know that call and act just as naturally. The reaction was immediate; he didn't give himself time to reconsider. It was as natural as breathing was to humans, a motion etched in the very spirit of humanism. With surprisingly velocity, he turned and lurched forward, grasping her in his arms as the stake dropped anticlimactically to the ground. A flash of knowledge and understanding…then it was over.

She was panting heavily, clutching to him like the world would tear her away. No want of feeling coursed through him; he dared not exhibit an inkling of relief. And despite his better senses, he cradled her to him, calming her; aware at any minute the rage could burn again.

But he knew. He knew deep down it was not so.

The strength behind her grip wavered as realization set in. The authenticity of her surroundings. The body that cradled her with such protective fervor, despite the heat of battle only a few minutes before.

She spoke. Hesitant. Fearful. Tired.

"Sp…Wi…Will?"

It was the sweetest thing he had ever heard, and it filled every inch of his aching soul with more than liberation. There were no words to describe such blissful sensationalism. The world was void of poetry. Nothing touched the brink ecstasy. Nothing could hope to touch him ever again. His eyes watered, and he rocked her gently, unable to stop himself. "Shhhh, luv," he said disarmingly. "'S all right now. 'S all right."

Buffy shuddered and clutched him tightly, burying her face in the warmth of his shirt.

"'S over, my love. 'S all over now."

Then she burst into tears. There was nothing beyond that. The bittersweet taste of sorrow and penance that drown away the blood in her throat. She held onto him with aching desperation, craving the reassurance he could not offer.

And for the life of everything good and pure in the world, for the sobs wracking her body into a thousand tremors of painful resistance, she couldn't stop crying.