Again, endless thanks and appreciation for Chase who
tirelessly drags me through rewrite after rewrite.
DARK TIDES
by Saj
Chapter 3
Karma"The myriad past, it enters us and disappears. Except that
within it somewhere, like diamonds, exist the fragments that
refuse to be consumed."
Denise Levertov
It was the dream of Kendra that had caused her to realize the depth of fatigue she felt and her longing for release.
Her blood drained from her body in a sensual flow whispering of freedom. The darkly velvet peace that came over her was a balm sweeter than the heaven she had been pulled from. His voice gently fell around her like a soft blanket, "Rest, love."
Kendra's vulnerability was her innocence. Hers was the struggle between her hunger for life, and her yearning for death. Spike seemed dangerous either way. She felt certain that if she kept going to him, that some essential aspect of herself would be lost, perhaps even willingly surrendered. She knew that Spike's love for her was as real and palpable as in the dream, but it was a soulless love. How could it ultimately result in anything other than death in one form or another?
And so she had decided.
"It's over…it's killing me. I'm sorry…William."
Each word tore a gaping hole in her, but she wouldn't show the pain of it. He must not see any opening, have any hope. As quiet and direct as a falling star the finality of her words registered in his eyes. Her heart clenched in a low scream as she walked away from him, while the moon showered icy light across the path taking her from the grounding fire of his touch.
Buffy stood where she had that night. The questioning hurt that had spread across his face was as clear to her as if he were standing in front of her now. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, and entered the shadowy crypt. Slowly, down one step, then another, crossing time and space.
The words tumbled through the air, like dice slowly spinning in a dream.
"It's over…it's killing me."
The crypt stood exposed before her, cold and dark, glittering here and there with pale moonlight.
The last time she had been here, she had been checking on Clem. The place had felt cozy and safe in a hobbit-like way. Which was way different than the Spike ambiance she had come to know. She had experienced a sort of predictable and not unsatisfying irritability here in those days--after she had stopped wanting to kill him. Then, overnight, the feelings of being in his crypt had erupted into a more complex mix-a swirling of passion, anger, desire, and fear. Sort of what she was feeling right now. Only she could add sadness to the list. A sadness as empty and memory-ridden as the abandoned crypt.
Buffy went over to the arched window that made the corner of the crypt seem as if it were part of a French chapel. She found the stash of matches and lit the central grouping of white candles.
A heavy tiredness came over her. She took off her backpack, walked to the sarcophagus and slowly lay down the length of it. It was like sinking into a rock, like resting in the strength and solidity that had been Spike. Bringing her forearm over her head, she stared up into the ceiling and watched the play of moonlight and shadows. It was here that she had come when she needed a safe place for Dawn. It was to him that she had turned when she needed to share her truths. Then it had changed. All sense of refuge was blown to bits with their first kiss. Time bent backwards, struggling to find its balance within a battering of passions.
"Tell me you love me?"
Spike looked at her with a steady soft gaze and answered, "You know I do."
His words weren't enough to dissolve the ache. "Tell me you want me."
He moved towards her with his eyes. "I always want you."
She pulled him to her as they moved to the sarcophagus. He gently set her body along the flat, cold surface, placing himself on top of her. They looked into each others' eyes, quietly, with an anticipatory knowing of the other's places and touches. She felt a sad ache as empty and as endless as her passion. She reached for him. He tenderly kissed her, stroked her, whispered to her, and brought himself into her as if trying to fill her with his love. Each of her cells seemed drenched in his. He held her while touching every tender and soft spot on her. Her wounded places softened around him, caressing him with a hungry yearning. She touched him with a tenderness that she had not allowed herself to feel before, as she bathed in the depth of his love and willingness to throw himself away for her. The transparency of his feelings, passing across his face like gentle clouds, almost broke her heart. She drank in the way he rested inside her after he came, as if he were basking in the forbidden sun.
"I have feelings for you, I do."
Since Spike had left, the layers of night had begun to slowly open their secrets to her. With his absence, she was suddenly thrown into a space that practically screamed what she had not allowed herself to know while caught in the intensity of her passion for him.
"But its not love."
Spike had known it was there, deeply buried, and had tried to rip it out of her. It was true. She had a timeless and primitive love hidden in her heart for him. It wasn't necessarily tender, sweet or kind.
"I could never trust you enough for it to be love."
Her love was primal and unknowable, dangerous, and as rich and thick as blood. It simply was. Like the sun, the moon, the stars. It existed in its own nature.
It had been that one time, when their bodies moved into each other gently and sweetly, that she had felt it.
She was shaking. She got up and walked over to where her backpack was and unzipping it, reached in and slowly pulled out, length by length, the black leather of Spike's duster. She lay back down on the sarcophagus shivering, and gathered the soft strength of the leather around her, tracing her fingers slowly in comforting patterns along the shoulder. It still carried Spike's energy, as her body kept sending out faint, familiar vibrations, as if trying to alert her to his closeness. She closed her eyes and vividly recalled the quiet lightning of recognition and arousal that had crackled between them.
He had been right. They had always danced. There had been sparkage between them the first time she saw him in the alley, when he had stepped out of the shadows clapping his hands in mock appreciation.
"Nice work, love."
It was a choreographed display, his body forming a casual jeer, taut in cautious readiness. His wily respect and appreciation for a Slayer was written across his face in the sneer of his smile.
"Who are you?" She asked.
A cold knowing spread through her chest as she took in his exquisite and cruel beauty. She had seen his face and that confident threatening look before. Without ever having fought him, she knew his moves and the feel of his fists brutally pounding her. She shrugged off the dream-like awareness, dismissing the alarm sounding from within it.
"You'll find out on Saturday."
What's Saturday?" she asked, confused.
And he answered, without skipping a beat, "The day I kill you."
Branches were scratching and scraping against the dead walls. Every now and then there was the sound of rain softly tapping against glass and marble. Buffy looked around and studied the hollow space. She knew how each object felt to her touch. It may have been from throwing it across the room, or landing her bare butt on top of it, but not much in Spike's crypt had escaped her contact.
She realized as she was inventorying Spike's crypt, that she had been softly rubbing the small charm she had attached to her chain necklace earlier in the evening. It was a small hand-carved goddess made out of a pale translucent jade.
It had been in Spike's duster. Buffy had come across the coat accidentally as she was looking for a pair of boots in the hall closet. Someone had thrown it into a heap on the floor, where it had remained unnoticed until that day.
She reached down to touch it, not recognizing it at first. As soon as her fingers stroked the soft leather, she knew. Slowly pulling it out of the closet, a mix of longing and fear pulsed through her. She held the coat gingerly, turning it in her hands, letting her emotions settle as she took in every part of it. As she ran her fingers over a portion of battered leather, she felt a small hard object. In a small inside pocket she discovered the charm. She placed it into the palm of her hand as if it were a precious jewel, absorbed in the beauty and mystery of it. She wondered how Spike had come across such a thing. As she traced her fingers along the relief of the miniature, she picked up a slight vibration. Centering herself, she focused on the nature of the energy, feeling it merge with her own as her consciousness began to blur and fade.
China. 1900. A temple. The smell of incense floating upon the winds of revolution. Chaos was as wild that starless night as the statute of Buddha was seamlessly still.
She was at the marketplace shopping for the teas her mother liked, when she turned and saw him smiling at her from the shadows. He had a wildness about him. Her senses began to send out a familiar hum. His strange blue eyes shouted at her, mocking her from across the crowded square. She heard them announce the certainty of her defeat. Yet, she knew she would run to meet him that night as if he were her lover.
After preparing her mother's favorite foods for the evening meal, she sought out her teacher, Wupshi. The wise one was quiet as she told her of the foreign vampire. Wupshi looked into her heart silently, the way she did when she had first approached her a few years earlier. Her teacher's dark eyes became moist and she bowed her head, honoring her. Tears slid down Shan-Ling's porcelain smooth, young face. Wupshi reached for her hands, and as she placed her hands in Wupshi's, she felt a peaceful strength course through her. Her teacher then began the ancient chant, and stood to light a row of small red candles. She motioned for her to enter into a state of meditation. As she sank into the well of inner silence, her teacher continued to chant and walk the sacred pattern around her. Her mind rose up to meet the eyes of her teacher when the shrine room had become quiet. Wupshi pressed into her hands a small package wrapped in purple silk. She knew what she was to do. They sat together for awhile, silent; then she left behind her fear and innocence as she took the narrow rocky path back to her home.
Once in her tiny room, Shan-Ling lit a candle at her altar and offered incense to Kwan Yin, the goddess of compassion. She bathed herself, gently expressing appreciation for the strong body that had served her so well. She stood bare with only the touch of the translucent charm, a hand-carved jade goddess, dangling against her throat upon a silver chain. Wupshi had given it to her as a gift after her first vampire kill, saying it would offer her protection and keep her heart open. She stroked it lightly and brought it up to her forehead briefly, whispering a prayer.
She asked that the Gods and Goddesses bless her body while she meditatively placed delicate dabs of jasmine oil at her throat and on her heart, and then carefully dressed. She chose the dark green brocade pants and shirt her mother had made for her. She tucked into her pocket the polished rosewood stake her teacher had given her on her 17th birthday. The handle was carved into an intricate rendering of two snakes writhing in sexual union, devouring one another. The point of the stake was razor sharp.
She went to a small drawer in her dresser, her fingers tracing the lines of the carved ivory knob, the face of a demon. She pulled open the drawer and took out a small hand-bound book. Taking it to her desk that was low to the floor, she sat on her knees and opened the book. She picked up a calligraphic brush and began to write.
After awhile she rose and went over to her shrine and knelt, touching her head gently to the floor, calling upon the spirit of the demon that would take her. She sang the song her teacher had taught her, the sacred chant that named her blood as his, his as hers. She carefully cut her wrist, letting her blood fall into a small turquoise bowl. She bandaged the cut, and then pulled out the packet Wupshi had handed to her. Bowing her head, she opened the cloth and shook the contents into the bowl, mixing it in with her blood. She continued to chant while adding sacred water to the mixture. She then slowly drank the potion that would entwine her destiny with his as perfectly and delicately as an intricate love knot. She prayed that as her life became his, that his heart would fold in upon itself under the weight of unerring karma--to unexpectedly flutter open, when called. Or, in the alternative, that the spell's passion would drive the monster as quickly as possible into the path of the next slayer's stake.
The last ritual she performed before leaving her room was to gently close her journal and place it in an embroidered silk carrier. As she left her house, she handed it to a female servant, giving her instructions in a soft precise voice.
Shan-Ling took down the sword she kept near the door, attached it to a ring on her belt and walked out into the night, not looking back.
She could feel his presence hidden in the shadows of the temple, waiting for her. He slowly stepped out of the darkness, circling her, his piercing eyes never leaving hers. "Now aren't you a sweet one, love. All dressed up for our date are you now?" He kept talking to her, softly, almost in a soothing tone, while a soft growl rumbled from his chest. His words fell like a net around her, foreign clumsy sounds meant to throw her off.
Their battle was fierce and passionate. For a second in time he was hers. The sea thundered in his eyes, fearless and defiant as she poised to stake him. Then the force of fate shook the temple, handing the win to him, assuring his dark path. He took her quickly, dripping with arrogant ignorance. The karmic contract was sealed as his fangs ripped into her neck, savagely claiming her blood as his.
As the vision ended, Buffy had heard a voice: "He has not been forgotten, nor lost. His name has been carved into the heart of beginnings, and has been called."
Buffy pulled the heavy duster up around her, leaving only her eyes uncovered. The wind outside had died down, leaving a thick quietness in the crypt. The candles had burned low, giving off wild jerking shadows and an occasional spitting fizzle as a flame died. She could see the face of the Chinese slayer as clear as a photograph, and feel the smooth innocence of her young skin. She understood that Shan-Ling had, in the end, surrendered herself as if offering to Spike a precious and awful gift.
As soon as she had oriented herself after the vision had ended, she had called Giles.
"Buffy, what is it? Are you okay?"
"Giles, I'm not sure. I'm okay, I guess. But I just had the most incredible experience. I told you that my dreams were changing, remember? And that I was dreaming of slayers?"
"Yes. Have you had another?" He sounded concerned and intrigued at the same time. "You must write these down, you know. Now tell me what happened in the dream, exactly."
Why did she feel like a participant in a study? Because, she was. Okay. "This wasn't a dream. It was more like a vision. It just happened. I found a charm in Spike's coat and was looking at it, when, whoosh, I was in China. I was the slayer that Spike killed. Giles, it was hers, the charm."
There was silence on the other end.
"Giles, did you hear me?"
"Yes. So you weren't dreaming. Has this happened before?"
"No. Never."
She described the vision in as much detail as she could. Just hearing Giles' voice calmed her. When she started to describe Shan-Ling writing in her book, she stopped mid-sentence.
"Giles, I was the Chinese slayer in the vision, but I was mostly me sort of watching her. I didn't clearly experience what she was actually thinking or writing. It felt like she was sending what she wrote to her teacher, who was sort of like a watcher. Do you think the Council library might have what she wrote?"
"That would be unlikely. Her teacher wasn't a Watcher. But there was a Watcher there during the Boxer Rebellion. The Council knew of the slayer but couldn't establish contact with her. Let me pull out the Watcher's notes and see what else we have. Now, go on. What happened next?"
Buffy described how she had performed the ritual and drank the potion of blood. As she described it, she recalled the feeling of power that had slowly coursed through her body as the magic had made its way through her.
Giles' voice pulled her out of her remembering. "Now this is very, very interesting. I've heard something about such a spell. The power of a slayer to enthrall a vampire, or some such thing. Fascinating. We thought it was a vampire myth. What was your feeling in the vision about what the spell was supposed to do, exactly?"
"I'm not sure I can put it into words. It seemed as if she was making him hers. As if he would be marked. It felt like a net was being thrown out that would pull him in towards future slayers. He would be drawn towards them with a passion that would confuse and seduce him. And that it was two-edged. Either way he was caught. That's as clear as I can be. You've heard of something like this?"
There was silence for a second. Then Giles said, "Possibly. The witch I mentioned that has been meeting with us--her name is, ah, Ralph--said something about a spell similar to this. I will have to check my notes. I don't think the Council has any information on this other than a short reference regarding early vampire clans' beliefs that slayers had the power to bewitch them, to put them into a state of thrall. What I remember doesn't quite sound like this. I'll do some research. Now, finish telling me about the vision."
Buffy described the battle between Spike and Shan-Ling. As she talked she thought about all the times she had fought Spike, yet this particular fight was both familiar and different. He looked strange in his dated clothes and with his hair so long and dark. His fighting was less skilled, but more passionate, if that was possible. He had a way about him in the vision she didn't recognize. It was a youthful wildness that was even more reckless and arrogant than she knew of him.
"And the voice said that he was called?"
"Yes. The voice said that he was not forgotten, that he was on a beginner's list or something, and was being called."
"Did the voice sound familiar?"
"It felt more than familiar. It was a part of me. An ancient part that knows what I am. What all slayers are."
Buffy stepped down from the sarcophagus and stretched. She took Spike's duster, walked over to the chair and curled up in it, twisting the coat around her creating a warm inner space like a dark womb.
After the vision of Shan-Ling, she had come back to herself, standing in the hallway, the talisman still in her hand and the duster crumpled at her feet. She had felt unfocused and disoriented, her body zinging with adrenaline. Her right hand had been clenched as if she still held the rosewood stake. It had taken her awhile to find her ground again and when she did she dropped the charm back in the little pocket and scooping up the leather coat, she had walked into the training room and dumped it in the back of a large weapons chest.
Whenever she had come to the huge chest after that to choose a weapon, she would find her gaze wandering to the clump of black leather. She had repeatedly felt compelled to stop and study it, as if waiting for it to talk to her in a secret language. There was something hidden in it she had been able to feel but not name, and it was important. It was about her.
Standing before the weapons chest, Buffy was about to reach for a sword when the black leather caught her eye. Her hand abandoned its goal and instead drifted to the coat and gently stroked it. Without thinking, she pulled it out of the chest and slowly, as if in a dream, put it on. It fell around her soft and heavy like a magical cloak. She stretched out her arms, closed her eyes and began to slowly turn, feeling the air gather within the dark folds, causing them to billow like huge wings. The scent of cigarettes, liquor, hair gel, blood and ashes all mingled together and clouded the air with the feel and taste of Spike. And something not Spike, not him at all. A hardly perceptible vibration registered, a slayer's energy. She quickly stopped turning and the coat wrapped itself around her like a cocoon for a minute before releasing itself to hang loosely, as if waiting for her next move.
Buffy walked to a spot in the room where the sun filtered in from the windows above, flickering into lacy patterns on the wood floor. Standing still, she concentrated on the slight tingling traveling through her nerves. She brought her hands in front of her, slightly apart and below her heart, and slowly began to move into the grace and flow of tai chi, aligning her senses with the rhythm of the soft slayer buzz entering her. The coat's weight gently and steadily pulled her towards the earth, while her slayer strength pushed upwards and took advantage of the duster's heaviness, transforming it into additional power. She slowly raised her right leg, slightly bent at the knee, and even more slowly stretched it out toward her right, lowering her foot to barely touch the floor as she turned with her left hand leading, like a bird coasting upon air currents, while the wings of the dark coat flowed with her like an enraptured shadow.
She moved from one position to another silently, slowly, over and over again, until the edges of her awareness began to fray and drift. Her mind became still and quiet, her body floating upwards, following the path of sparkling dust amidst the sunlight, dancing toward the clear blue sky like a mythical black bird. Dreamily floating higher and higher, she passed through one cloud after another, until she was far, far away, feeling perfectly and sweetly at peace.
Suddenly the harsh sounds of a city jerked her consciousness to attention. Buffy opened her eyes and saw that she was plummeting, tumbling faster and faster towards the earth. There was a second when all things went silent as time stopped, and she was staring into the ebony eyes of a young African-American woman whose long dark fingers were reaching for the duster, curling around a shoulder, pulling it on. As the dark leather embraced the woman, the world of speed and sound returned and Buffy fell into the woman's body and consciousness.
Nikki pulled her coat closer around her as she watched him step out of the concert hall into the alley with the rest of the crowd. She noted that his companion, Drusilla, was with him and shuddered. That woman had the power of black magic, and she planned to stay as far from her as possible. But him, that was another story. He was the one she was after. He had killed a slayer. She felt duty-bound to see that he didn't have the chance to claim another.
She studied him, how he moved, his probable weight, his height, any weapons he might be hiding. She casually scanned his body, noting the worn blue jeans hanging from his narrow hips, the black leather vest, his muscular bare arms, the short punk white-blond hair, and the multiple body piercings. His outfit didn't seem to hide much of anything. Especially his arrogance, which flashed about like a shiny switchblade. As she measured him for battle, she felt his attention turn her way. He had stopped and was casually and intently looking straight into her, and she looked directly back. His eyes were calm, clear and focused, his body still and centered. Then Drusilla noticed her, returning her cool gaze before turning to Spike to whisper in his ear, tugging at his arm. He didn't budge; not a muscle acquiesced. Their eye contact didn't waiver. Then he slowly smiled and nodded at her, and turned and disappeared with Drusilla into the crowd.
She had heard he was in New York and she had been single-mindedly on the hunt for him for days. But she hadn't been prepared for the hot chill that had run through her as their eyes met. That cool blueness that flickered with humor and passion had thrown her off. The sure determination with which she had pursued him had suffered an unexpected hit. A slight, but noticeable wariness and hesitation had taken hold. Feeling a little puzzled, then angry, she called to mind the rash of brutal deaths that had occurred since he and Drusilla had arrived. She especially remembered the small bloody body of a 10-year-old girl she had found in the woods. Spike was in her territory now, and his number was up.
Nikki quickly crossed the alley and followed the couple, merging with the concert crowd as it moved towards the subway station. He knew she was there. She could feel it. She kept the platinum of his hair in sight as she wove in and out of the crowd. She hung back as they approached the train platforms. Spike stopped and whispered into Drusilla's ear and gave her a slight shove towards a waiting train. She looked at him quickly, a frown on her face, and then boarded the train. What was this? Nikki pulled back further into the shadows, her right hand wrapped around a stake in her inside pocket.
Then, somehow he was right in front of her, his head tilted slightly forward, looking up at her through long dark lashes.
"Hello, love. Fancy meeting you here, now. It must be my lucky night, I haven't come across a slayer in awhile. And what is it you might be wanting from me, pet? A dance or two? Perhaps a quick shag?"
The crowd had disappeared. There was just dark dusty space between them, lit only by the occasional dim lantern and the smoldering end of the cigarette that dangled from his sensual and confident mouth. He was circling her like a cat closing in on its prey, his eyes not leaving hers, his muscles tensing in anticipation.
She was mesmerized by the fluidity of his slow circular stalking, a strange pull drawing her towards him. Could he have her in thrall? Nikki tightened her grip on the stake and decided he was far too dangerous to play with.
She began gliding to her left, moving in closer to him. "What's a shag? Whatever, I don't have the time." Nikki threw herself to the side, kicking out her leg at an angle that caught his left calf, knocking him backwards off his feet to the pavement. She was immediately astride him, her stake poised in her right hand, her left hand on his throat. As she was bringing the stake down with just the right amount of pressure to plunge it cleanly through his heart, he grabbed her right wrist with a free hand and smashed his other fist into her jaw. She would have been thrown into the wall behind her if he hadn't maintained his hold and jerked her to the ground, while rolling over on top of her. He straddled her while pinning both of her wrists against the dirty concrete, a grin on his face. He leaned down and whispered in a voice as silky as sex, "Shagging doesn't need to take but a minute, love, though it's a touch more satisfying if one can linger a bit. I'd be glad to demonstrate the moves."
As the words rolled into the air upon a ghostly cool wisp of warning, she felt him begin to slowly grind against her, his hardness pressing into her where it was impossible to ignore. She raised her hips slightly, preparing to bring her legs up to catch his head in a scissor hold, but instead found her hips moving against him, matching the rhythm he set, momentarily abandoning her battle tactics. Her heart was beating so fast and hard that they both could hear it pounding between them.
"Tempting as it is," she said in between short breaths while moving her hips in one last dangerously delicious grind against him, "I think I hear my mother calling." She quickly twisted her hip and brought her left leg up around his neck, pulling him to her side as she mounted him, pinning his upper arms with her knees and holding each of his wrists. "Besides, I generally prefer not to fuck a vamp before I kill him. Bad slayer etiquette."
They both knew they were in a stalled position, that she couldn't stake him while both of her hands were occupied holding him down. He was quietly laughing, his eyes sparking.
"Now tell me, pet, just when did slayers cultivate the art of good manners? In vampire circles it's thought of as only polite to shag a bloke before you turn him to ashes." He was quiet a minute, his muscles as relaxed as if he were getting a massage. "Well, actually, love, that's more of a personal fantasy." The heat radiating from their primary area of contact was crashing upon her in seductive waves. "So, Slayer, have you ever fucked a vampire?" He asked so low it was almost a whisper, flowing into the small space between them, causing her mind to melt into white noise.
They maintained intense eye contact while electric heat pulsated through them. She knew he could smell her arousal, if he was so insensitive as to not note the wetness coming through the crotch of her jeans. The attraction was primitive and familiar, as if it was exactly in her nature to fuck him and then kill him. It not only had its quirky appeal, but it seemed perfectly the right way to go about it. God, he did have her in thrall, she thought.
Increasing the strength of her hold, she leaned forward, her lips brushing against his, and said, "In your dreams."
Before he could respond, she leapt off him and sprinted across the station, racing up the stairs and into the city, the smug sound of his laughter following her.
Nikki got home as the sun was coming up. She unlocked the door to her studio apartment on the third floor of the old red brick building and cautiously stepped in, slowly looking around. She felt uneasy, as if he could be anywhere, any moment. She had killed hundreds of vamps, but she had never felt as terrified as she felt of Spike. She was as frightened of her desire for him as she was of his ability to kill her. Made her feel a little crazy.
She sighed and shrugged off the black leather coat, letting it drop on to the twin bed. Except for a Judy Chicago poster which hung over the bed, the mint green walls were bare, with only a few strips of peeling paint to catch the eye. Nikki heated some water, made a cup of instant coffee and went to a kitchen cupboard that had a faded photo of Angela Davis tacked to it. She pulled out a tin and a handful of biscuits, grabbed her coffee and went to the old-fashioned yellow kitchen table, sitting down in the only chair in the apartment. She slumped back into the wooden chair, mindlessly drank her coffee and finished the biscuits.
Exhausted, she went to the narrow bed and lay down, pulling her black leather coat over her. She stared blankly at the ceiling, watching a spider spinning its web in the crevice above her. Her body ached, each muscle still tense. Images of him played through her mind as she surrendered to sleep, and the last thing her consciousness conjured was the sound of his voice whispering to her, "I am yours, love, all yours."
It was early evening before she woke up. She got off the bed and went to the bathroom to run a hot shower and stepped in, letting the heat relax her tight muscles. Nikki ran a quick blast of cold water over her body, dried off with a rough towel, and got dressed in loose workout clothes. Returning to the living room, she lit a candle on the table and turned off all the lights.
Her athletic body slowly sank to the yellowed linoleum floor in a sleek controlled motion, like wax melting, moving into a cross-legged meditation pose in which she remained for a long time, unmoving. Then, like a sculpture coming to life, Nikki's disciplined form slowly stretched upward before bending forward, moving into a prostration, resting her forehead against the floor. Coming gracefully to her feet, she began to perform the movements of tai chi, every inch of her muscular body focused with a concentration so intense that the Slayer's life force rippled through the room as she flowed from one position into another, like a shadow disappearing in and out of the flickering candlelight.
It was 1:00 in the morning when Nikki changed into street clothes and prepared to leave. She did one last thing. Going to her dresser, she pulled out a small box from the top drawer. Opening it, she took out a silver ring and held it, rolling it gently between her fingers, before slipping it on her left ring finger. It was a slayer's ring and had been given to her by her Watcher. It had become her talisman, and she believed that it increased her strength and presence of mind, as if the previous slayer's powers became part of her. She wore it when she didn't feel totally confident in her strength, or when her enemy was especially dangerous.
She donned the black leather coat and went out the door.
As she walked down the steps towards the spot where she and Spike fought earlier, she felt his presence. She moved forward in the direction of his energy. One step at a time, carefully, slowly, her right hand holding a stake, ready. The warning vibration became more intense with each step.
"You're right on time, love. I like that in a slayer. You know, predictability." He stepped out of the dark so that he was partially lit by a nearby lantern. The angles and planes of his face were made all the more dramatic by the play of shadows on his luminous skin. He inhabited his body as if he had created it himself. He was lean and muscular and moved with the grace and power of a mythical creature.
Nikki kept walking towards him, her slayer senses screaming as she softly said, "Thinking of you got me hot." She took another step closer, and added, "To kill you."
Spike glided forward in a slow snaking movement, smiling at her, looking into her eyes, "Dreamt of you, pet. In it I couldn't decide whether to kill or shag you." His tone changed and his eyes became fierce, angry, then golden yellow as he morphed into game face. "Decided killing you would be a lot more satisfying."
The battle began in earnest, and they furiously fought each other until they found themselves face to face in an empty subway car on a moving train. He repeatedly punched her until she was on the floor of the car with his strong hands viciously wrapped like claws around her arms. He leaned down, now out of game face, and hissed into her ear, "Bitches, you're all bitches. Think you can torment me, drive me crazy. Haunt and jerk me around in my dreams. Well, pet, I'm not yours or any other slayer's trick vamp. That Chinese bint thinks she pulled one over on me. Well, when you see her, tell her I'd drink from her again if given the chance." His eyes were bulging with rage.
She kicked him off and rolled to her side, coming to her feet, stake ready. "You're one crazy out-of-your-mind vampire." She edged towards him. "I wouldn't worry about having any more dreams, if I were you." Nikki had the perfect opening to strike and moved in. Something in her pulled at her for a second, like a slight breeze whispering to her. She had feelings about him that she had never felt before, like he was someone she knew, a vampire set apart from others.
Spike kicked her as hard as he could and watched her fly across the passenger seats, taking his time as he closed in on her. His eyes glinted with yellow, and his tongue flicked in and out of his mouth like a wild animal savoring the seconds before a kill. "Thought you could trick me, did you? Seduce me with your magics. You almost had me in your thrall, bitch. But I get it now. And I'm not playing. I kill slayers, not fuck them."
He was almost upon her, waves of bloodlust rolling through the air, his hatred cutting into her as he ranted, his words like razor blades.
She knew this particular route and that they would be approaching a tunnel soon. That might be her chance. She backed up a few steps, then grabbed a pole in each hand and lifted herself so that she could kick him full force with both legs. He flew backwards and she was on top of him before he could regain his stance. She had him pinned on the floor as the train entered the tunnel, then without her grasping how, he was on top of her as they came out. She looked into his face. His eyes were wet with anguish and desperation, his face grim with determination. She felt a strange peace, colored with a gift of momentary clear knowing as she heard the peculiar crunching sounds her vertebrae made as Spike broke her neck.
In a daze, Buffy had found herself standing in the training room drenched in sunlight, draped in Spike's coat.
Buffy could still remember the rough strength of Spike's hands as he had claimed the coat of the dead slayer, and at the same time had slipped off her silver ring--all the while, his face riddled with emotion.
"Sorry, love," he said softly as he gazed down at Nikki, "But, you know--slayer, vampire. It's the way of things. No offense if I don't drink from you, pet. Slayer blood doesn't agree with me." He stood up and pulled the emergency cable. "Now be a good girl and stay out of my bloody dreams."
Buffy was curled up deep inside the blackness of the heavy coat, her breath warm. With a soft groan she emerged out from under her covering, feeling the crypt's cold air brush against her face as she let her head flop down on the back of the chair, gazing once more at the ceiling as she listened to the quiet pattering of rain as her thoughts struggled towards an understanding.
She had witnessed an important event unfold that was far away yet immediately within her and had been aware that she was going to experience another slayer's death at the hands of Spike. Yet she had felt detached and calm. It was as if her emotions had been left behind, like she had been thrown into Nikki's world for the sole purpose of observing. What was she looking for, any one thing? Or was the teaching revealed in the totality of the pieces? Or maybe the whole vision thing just a bizarre fluke brought on by some latent psychic sensitivity on her part?
Was there an invisible pattern of fated encounters at play, some primal force in its wisdom stringing these strange beads of karma together? Or was it all just the play of random events? And how did Spike come to find his way to her backyard? Well, front yard really.
"He has not been forgotten, nor lost. His name has been carved into the heart of beginnings, and has been called."
.
Well, how very special.
Needless to say, after the vision of Nikki's death, another call to Giles had followed.
Giles had gone over his notes about a "calling spell." He was convinced that the Chinese Slayer had followed the ancient practice, now forgotten, of casting such a spell. By drinking her blood, Spike had ingested ingredients that had the power to alter him biologically and mystically in such a way as to create a unique kinship with slayers, attracting him to them. If the Chinese slayer's spell found its mark, he would forever be bound to a slayer, pulled by the force of a yearning so strong as to either wrench his heart open, putting him into her service, or, if the spell fell short, he would be drawn into close enough proximity as to increase his odds of being staked.
The strange thing is that the spell had a reverse effect as well. Slayers would feel a connection to him and a compelling sense of recognition. In the time and place of the Chinese slayer, the spell was known and slayers would recognize him as "marked." They would have tried to rope him in a little closer with additional rituals. But Spike had left that part of the world where the spell was known and the net cast had remained dangerously loose.
As a result, Nikki hadn't been prepared for the intensity of the energy and attraction she felt towards him. It had caused her to be confused and to doubt her senses, leaving her vulnerable. Spike played with her, at first not seeming to care about killing her. He, in fact, had seemed more interested in seducing her.
"The first was all about business, but the second, she had a touch of your style--cunning, resourceful, oh, did I mention? Hot. I could have danced all night with that one."
But then something happened between the first encounter and the next. All flirtation and play were gone and replaced with a fierce, almost desperate need to kill her.
Buffy remembered the desperation she felt in Spike the night he tried to rape her. It was as if he couldn't stand the confusion and frustration any longer and he would rape her if it would release her love for him, or free him of his for her. It felt similar to the energy she picked up from him when he killed Nikki. Which was very different from his description of their battle to her at the Bronze. He had spoken as if he had reveled in the heat of their fight. But now she knew the truth. He had killed Nikki in a rage, raw with desperation.
Blushes of violet bruises were forming beneath his pale white skin, while the blue of his eyes laughed and played with her, his anger finding release in the familiar dance they were doing. "I wasn't planning on hurting you--much." he said with a smirk.
Her jaw jerked from the impact of his fist. He was holding back, toying with her. She sneered at him, "You haven't even come close to hurting me." His eyes crackled, daring her to come closer, closer to that beautiful mouth seductively ripping apart her denials, tearing away at her efforts to not want him.
"Afraid to give me the chance? You afraid I'm gonna…"
And her mouth lunged at his. He growled into her as he kissed her the way he hit her, hard-but not too hard. She threw him across the room. It was too late. Pushing him roughly against the wall, she lifted herself on to him waist-high, the strength of his arms holding her weight, while their mouths and hands tore at each other, ripping clothes out of the way. She took him into her as deeply as she could, and defiantly looked into the hot surprise of his eyes.
The hunger crashed through her and she was lost to it.
A flood of craving need pulsed through her every cell. Her fingers and mouth were all over him, pulling at him with a desperation that blackened her mind. His mouth was on hers, swallowing her moans, taking her in, letting her devour him, meeting her every thirst and hunger. "I'm yours, all of me, yours, love," he whispered.
The following morning when she awoke, she became sick to her stomach, nausea spinning up into her head, blurring her eyesight. What had she done? Spike looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary, an obnoxious smirk across his face, his nude body casually spread out before her like God's gift to slayers.
"You're gonna crave me, like I crave blood."
And she had. She had craved him like a drug. He had the power to bring her to life, to make the dullness burst open, to release her to fly up out of dark watery depths into the sun.
But getting the slayer buzz humming again was not without its cost. Her spirit had become twisted like a string of dirty laundry knocking about in the wind.
He stood leaning against the wall, a sad fatigue washing over him as he spoke with an edge to his voice, "So, you've come for a bit of cold comfort? The bed's a bit blown up, but then, that was never our… " He stopped. "So this is worse, then, is it, this is you telling me…"
Buffy stretched out in the chair, straightening her legs and letting her arms flop over the sides. She let out a deep sigh. The candles had burned out and the soft light of dawn was filtering in through the windows. A long night. She stood up and neatly draped the leather coat over the back of the green chair. Reaching behind her neck, Buffy undid the clasp of her necklace and removed the jade charm. She held it in the palm of her hand a minute and then gently dropped it into an exposed pocket of the duster.
Picking up her backpack, she took a look around the crypt as if trying to figure out something before she left. Something unsaid, unseen, unfelt. There was a missing puzzle piece here, and she would find it--another night.
As she headed out the door, for a second she thought that she heard his voice.
"So this is worse, then, is it, this is you telling me…"
She walked out the door and turned, looking into the still crypt, now partially lit by the gentle light of dawn. She could hear the echo of her words:
"It's over…it's killing me...I'm sorry, William."
Buffy dragged the heavy door shut and replaced the padlock. She headed home, thinking about Spike.
Okay, she could accept that she had a primal attraction towards him as a slayer to a vampire, and perhaps an even deeper connection rooted in the spell cast by Shan-Ling. Was that all there was? Was it just the effects of the spell that had caused her to believe that she harbored a primal and timeless love for him? What of his love for her? Was that just the spell calling him to her, the Slayer, making him think he loved her? Could she and Spike have been that manipulated? No more than puppets serving some ancient force?
There had to be more here, more than this.
It was a chilly morning, overcast with thick gray clouds. Birds were beginning their calls and songs. She walked quickly through tall, dew-laden grass, tears running down her face. At this moment being a slayer felt more like a curse than a sacred calling. Her feelings and desires perhaps not her own, but taking shape out of slayer karma and biology. If she and Spike had been caught in a web of cosmic manipulation, how could she possibly sort out who she really was and what she felt? And if the chemistry between her and Spike had been put into place by a slayer's spell, what power would it take to break it?
And, hey, most importantly, what the hell did the damned Chinese slayer think she was going to get from Spike? A sex slave for future slayers? Not likely. Well, alright, maybe not totally unlikely, but what kind of sick motivation was that?
Buffy unlocked her front door and went into the quiet house, quickly going up the stairs and into her bedroom. She'd sleep an hour or so, then get up with Dawn, have some coffee and begin another day of abnormal normality. She took off her backpack and began to undress. As she removed her sweater she stopped for a moment, pressing it against her face. It carried the smell of the coat, of Spike. She had spent the night recalling their violent and complex intimacy, reliving his murder of slayers, and breathing in the solid comfort she still felt in his crypt.
All the places within her where he had been were but fluttering echoes of memory. An ache at the base of her being burned colder, hungrier and angrier than she would have thought possible.
He had been her murderer, her enemy, her warrior, her confidant, her lover.
Who would he be when he returned? Who did she want him to be?
And, hey, just a little skeptical here, but what kind of name for a witch is Ralph?