Chapter 9 – Blown Away
He felt a little like Dorothy, riding the skies on a tornado. The winds swirled about him, disorienting him. The noise droned around and through him—maddening, like a thousand random voices: crying, whispering, sighing.
He'd lost track of how long he'd been hurtling through the air, blowing through clouds, mountains, airplanes and anything else that came in his path. The sensation of passing through solid matter was strange and unsettling to him and further highlighted the question: What was he?
Was he a ghost? And if so—was he dead?
No. He couldn't be dead. He refused to be.
Spike thought of Buffy. The Slayer was probably all torn up worrying about him. She and Angel would probably be working on a location spell by now.
Bloody Angel.
The sodding poof had better keep his paws off Buffy. Spike had seen the soulful longing in the vampire's eyes, the tentative hand reaching for hers.
He trusted Buffy, but the thought of her and Angel thrown together—the tragic, former lovers. She: grieving and vulnerable; he: supportive and selfless.
It just about made him sick.
If only she could see him—hear him. He had to get through to her. But how? She hadn't been able to hear him when he was standing right next to her, yelling in her ear. How could he get through to her now?
Oh how he wished he could talk to her. Hell, talk to anyone for the matter.
Was there anyone out there that could hear him?
* * *
Buffy glanced around the lobby of the old hotel that was now the home of Angel Investigations. The room was imposing with twenty-foot ceilings, ornate architectural details and a polished stone floor. Angel ushered her on toward his office, but Buffy lingered by the reception desk, running her fingers over the smooth marble. She was reminded of the mansion the vampire had once inhabited back in Sunnydale.
"This place," she remarked with a slight smile as she turned to Angel, "is definitely you."
"You think?" Angel asked, raising an eyebrow.
Buffy nodded. "Definitely has that mausoleum feel." She noticed the hurt expression that crossed his face. "But I like it," she quickly added.
"Well, the rent's reasonable and it can house a fair amount of people," Angel explained. "There's a room upstairs you can use…"
"That'd be great," Buffy replied. "But first," she absently stroked the leather coat that was slung over her arm, "we'd better do the location spell."
"Right." Angel led the Slayer to his office and offered her a seat. He then shuffled around the room, first looking for a spell book and then the appropriate items required to perform a location spell.
After Angel had gathered all that he needed, he sat at his desk and hunched over the well-worn volume. Buffy looked at him skeptically.
"Aren't you going to get someone else to do the spell?" she asked. "Maybe someone who knows how to do magic?"
Angel shook his head. "Everyone's either asleep or out. I've done location spells before. There's no need to—"
"But, if it doesn't work, you'll get someone else to do it, right?"
"Of course, but I really don't think that'll be necessary."
* * *
Loren sat in front of the world atlas and shook his head. "Well, it looks like we're all out of powder." He glanced down at the discarded maps of L.A., California and the U.S. lying on the floor and shrugged. "And we've just about tried every location spell I know—well the only one I know, but we've tried it like seven different ways and nada, zippo, zilch." Sighing, the green-skinned demon turned to Angel then Buffy. "I don't think this Spike person is out there."
* * *
The wind had finally begun to subside. Spike could feel himself descending, slowly at first, then faster and faster until… He'd landed. But where?
Spike looked around. It was still night; moonlight illuminated the gravestones surrounding him. Overgrown by weeds, only the top halves could be seen: some cracked, others tilted at odd angles.
Spike noticed a statue several yards away. Beneath the full moon, it appeared almost white—glowing and pure. An angel, with outstretched wings, bowed head, and hands placed together in front of her in prayer.
Spike looked up at the angel's face; eyes closed, expression serene, it beckoned him. He walked over to the statue and held his hand out towards it, as if to touch it. But he hesitated, knowing he couldn't. His fingers would only pass through it.
He curled his hand into a fist and drew it back, dropping his arm to his side.
So, he thought bitterly, was this to be his final place of unrest? His haunt?
He supposed it was appropriate. Spooks usually haunted graveyards, didn't they? Perhaps it wasn't so bad. He could make some ghost friends to hang out with—like Casper and such, eh? But how did spirits pass the time? They couldn't exactly drink beer, munch on blooming onions and play kitten poker, could they?
What did they do?
Did they use their imaginations? Eat pretend blooming onions while drinking pretend beer, playing pretend kitten poker with pretend kittens and pretend cards. He supposed he should just make the best—
Oh bloody hell!
Who was he kidding? He wasn't a purple dinosaur.
And besides, one couldn't pretend Buffy. Not really.
He closed his eyes. He could picture her golden hair, her warm brown eyes, her smooth white skin. He could picture her smile and hear her laugh…
But it wasn't enough. Not nearly. Not for him.
He missed her, and it hurt—not knowing if he'd ever see her again. Ever be with her. Touch her.
Sighing, he stuck his hands in his pockets and began to wander the graveyard as he supposed spooks typically did. He felt alone. If only there were someone here he could talk to…
And then he heard it.
The soft tinkling of laughter. Delicate, like a silver spoon lightly tickling the edges of a crystal glass. A humming followed, soft and tuneless.
And it was getting louder. Coming closer.
A moment later, he saw her. Walking with a slight spring in her step, like a little girl coming home from ballet class, practicing a tondue here or a pirouette there. She laughed again, then turned suddenly toward him and stared straight at him.
Her half glazed eyes focused on the space he occupied as if she saw him. He caught his breath. Could she? Did she? See him?
She took a tentative step towards him and smiled as if she'd run into an old friend.
"I see you," she sang, pointing a slim finger in his direction. "You're like a mountain mist, but you're there—lingering in the air, you are." She walked right up to him and waved her arms in the space he occupied, frowning. "My hands go right through you…but I sense you. You're here, aren't you?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't—from shock.
"You're here aren't you, my Spike?"
