Title: Many Roads
Author: Lily Ann
contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com
Many Roads
by Lily Ann
Chapter 5: In a Yellow Wood
The right road turned out to be very long.
By the time Buffy found Idle Lane, where the author supposedly lived, with his unwanted cats, she was windblown and exhausted, ravenously hungry and chilled to the point where she could hear her teeth clacking together. Other parts of the world might have been enjoying Indian summer, but not East Sussex. Buffy's thin blouse offered little protection against the constant, blustering wind that was a fixture of the harsh countryside, an achingly wild terrain, thick, tangled, and dusted with dwarf grass. Mad with heather, bramble and honeysuckle. Short, stubborn plants that clung tenaciously to the hillsides, lest they be carried off by a good, strong gale. There were few mountains, but ample hills and valleys. From the high points, she could see straight to the English Channel, across scattered patches of farmland and treetops that went on forever. She recognized ash, birch and maple. The slender blue-green needles of a Juniper. Broom and oak. Wild Cherry.
Twice, she lost her way. Had to backtrack what felt like miles, through a blaze of green and russet and tangerine, shades of early autumn. The English, it seemed, didn't bother with road signs unless they pointed the way to big, fancy houses, polo, or ale. Her delicate sandals, meanwhile, were no match for the foliage. Tugging free of a gorse bush, she managed to break a buckle, and had to limp along, carrying the broken shoe. The other quickly raised a blister on her heel. Buffy gritted her teeth and soldiered on, though her task seemed impossible. The forest formed an impenetrable wall on either side of a road stitched with deer crossings and bridle ways. She couldn't see two feet into the growth, much less what lay beyond it. Mailboxes emblazoned with numbers would have helped immeasurably, but "the post," as Faith called it, didn't deliver that far beyond town.
She might not have found the place at all had she not, literally, stumbled across it.
Slogging along, slapping at hungry mosquitos and, out of sheer boredom, beating the bushes with her shoe, Buffy let out a startled shriek when an outraged ball of fur erupted from the undergrowth. A cat, striped and bristling, that darted between her feet, bawling, before fleeing across the street and up a hidden drive that she would have mistaken for a hiking path. It was little more than a gravel ribbon, unmarked, winding east from the main road, under a canopy of low-slung branches. Nor was it suited to bare feet, Buffy quickly learned, when she followed the cat's fading cries. Forced to walk on the soft shoulder to avoid sharp, grey stones, she still had to pick her way over crab apples, acorns, and bristly pine cones. The trees were also dropping a round, black fruit, not quite the size of a grape, that squished unpleasantly between her toes.
They don't call this Idle Lane for nothing. Buffy grimaced. Somebody's not into maintenance. Perhaps he's elderly. The thought hadn't occurred to her before. It made sense, though. An eccentric professor type, living off the land. She just hoped he wasn't deaf. Or senile. She had enough voices of her own to deal with. For the moment, though, they were quiet. All that existed was the whisper of butterfly wings and the warning call of a thrush, leaves fluttering down and thick sporghum moss underfoot. Her heart fluttering like fine silk as she approached the final bend in the road.
*****************************************************************************
The house, when it came into view, was a pleasant surprise.
She'd been expecting something modest, very minimal and very male. One or two rooms, with very few amenities. Instead, it was a tidy brown clapboard affair, small, but not overly so, with a pitched roof trimmed in white. Plants climbed over the porch railing, twirled round the eaves, and scaled the support beams, a mini assault of greenery that managed not to look slovenly despite its free reign. Even the porch swing hung on ivy-laden chains.
Buffy liked it immediately.
A child of apartment buildings, she'd never seen a place quite like it. Almost a fairytale cottage, except for some gargoyle lawn ornaments, scattered here and there, that gave off more of a Brothers Grimm vibe. And the wild rose bushes that sported waxy, purple buds instead of the usual red or yellow. Very Barnabas Collins, Buffy thought, amused. She scanned the property for signs of life, running her eyes over the lawn, with its border of trees, until they came to rest on a small garage, tucked to the left of the house. There was no car, but something was parked there, nonetheless. Large, sleek, and black. Indulgent, in such a rural setting. Somebody's passion, gleaming in the sun.
Buffy drifted closer, her mind grasping at the dangling threads of memory.
She'd hadn't ever ridden on a motorcycle, been ferried through darkened streets by a boy she loved, and had other girls green with envy. Felt the night rushing through her hair and a large hand cup her knee. And yet...it was there, in her sense memory. A moment in time, when the world whittled down to a motoring engine and a man. Her spirit that was crying for leaving.
It smelled like oil and new pennies. Buffy stood there for a long time, just looking. Finally, reached a tentative hand out and touched the warm leather seat. Closed her eyes and imagined she was drawing back a curtain to look out on a world already passing into twilight.
They're going to get drunk. She'll let him provide the booze and the broad shoulder to cry on. He's good for that, at least. Filling her up with false cheer, hope she doesn't have. Acting weak to make her strong. It won't end well, this danse macabre. But, for the moment, there's only her, a motorcycle, and a man, as false as he is. Not a man at all, really, but a piece of night, fleeting and troubled. A lot like the machine they ride on. Lean, powerful, always ready for a breakdown. Deadly. A killer, oh yes. Every time she touches him, the nameless victims of a century cry out...
"Spike." She said it out loud. Like a key sliding into a lock, she had a name to go with that pale, porcelain face she'd drawn in bold charcoal. Laughing, leering. Loving life and letting it go. More. I want more. Just as quickly as it had lifted, though, the curtain slid closed, shielding her from remembering, and her heart cried out. Those are mine. Those are not mine. She was me, but I am not her.
Overwhelmed, Buffy turned away from the motorcycle, rushed forward blindly, and collided with a wall. Or, more precisely, what she thought was a wall, until it let out a colorful stream of swear words.
Not wall. Person. Man. Oh shit.
Buffy's nose connected squarely with his chin, and the haze behind her eyelids became a strobing light show. She thought she might faint, and was actually looking forward to it, in a horrified way. But, just as her knees turned to water, hands reached out and grasped her elbows. Buffy could feel them, pinching, a little angry. Instinctively, she jerked away, knocking them both off balance.
"Bloody fuck!"
Buffy somewhat dazedly, concurred as he went sprawling backward, carrying her with him. On the gravel, it had to hurt. And did, as evidenced by the even more intense cursing that went off like Fourth of July fireworks.
"...arse over tits on the fucking driveway...trying to help...gone all to cock..."
She herself wasn't all that uncomfortable, except for the brain-numbing nose injury. Having landed on his chest with a thwump, all she really wanted to do was close her eyes and go to sleep. She'd wake up to discover it was all a nightmare. She'd be insano Buffy again, stylin' in her straitjacket. And accept the gift with gratitude.
But, as usual, nothing went her way. Buffy's vision began to clear. Slowly, at first, then with more speed, until daylight broke through, harsh and bright and real. She surfaced with a groan, to find herself stretched on top a complete stranger, her aching nose pressed into the soft cotton of his shirt, inches away from a nipple.
Was it possible, she wondered, to die of mortification?
He didn't seem embarrassed, just pissed off. And really, really wanting to get up, if she caught his drift correctly.
"Quit fannying about and have off!"
"Um...sure. Sorry." Buffy's knee slipped as she attempted to right herself, and the man underneath her bellowed.
"Hey, watch it there! Sensitive area!"
Okay, that's it. Throwing delicacy to the winds, Buffy braced both hands on his pectorals. Pushed herself up. And froze.
The face peering up into hers was achingly familiar, a chiaroscuro sketch from her notebook and her soul. The same heartbreaking angles, framing oddly delicate features. The same soft, cruel mouth and laser blue eyes. Those were his lean boy hips, trapped under hers. His body, slender as a blade of spring grass. But for the fading summer tan, he could have stepped straight off her canvas and into the world.
He was waiting for her to move, sky eyes expectant. All Buffy could do was stare. "Spike," she finally managed. "You're Spike."
He shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah. What of it?"
She opened and closed her mouth. Tried again. "Why...why do they call you that?"
He raised a dark eyebrow toward the pile of frostbitten hair rioting all over his head. He'd been exerting himself, and it was damp with sweat. Looked sort of...mowed, actually. "I haven't the foggiest, love. What say you hutch up now? Not that 'm not havin' a bangin' time down here with the ants."
She gathered herself and scrambled away, never taking her off him. Spike climbed to his feet, rubbing at his chin where they'd collided.
Buffy bit her lip. "I'm sorry I hit you and knocked you down and sat on you." A bit of female subterfuge couldn't hurt, she reasoned, looking up at him through her lashes.
And watched, fascinated, as a subtle change crept over her new acquaintance. Some of the annoyance leeched away, heralded by the softening of that strong jaw and a flirtatious curl of his lip. "S'alright, pet. Was a clanger, that's all. Right enjoyable one, too." He eyed Buffy's shoulder, where her blouse had slipped down in the chaos.
Caught off guard by the abrupt skid into innuendo, Buffy yanked the fabric back up. 'That's not what you said two minutes ago when I was supposedly fannying about." She couldn't help flirting back a little.
"Had your little knee in my nadgers, then," he practically purred, and a shiver chased up the pearls of Buffy's spine. "Why don't we introduce ourselves proper?" He stuck out his hand. "William Hunt."
"Buffy Summers." Hesitantly grasping his fingers, she found herself reluctant to let go. Again, there was that flash of memory, the curtain parting just a sliver. I have been here before. Standing in the light with him, touching hands. Was it hello, then, or goodbye? Blinking back a sudden, forlorn tear, she tightened her grip.
He was staring at her curiously. "How'd you know my name?"
Buffy shrugged helplessly. This is it. Don't blow it. "I...just did." Oh, that's intelligent.
Spike's eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring along the sudden tilt of his head. Another shift in mood, Buffy noted dizzily. He was nothing if not mercurial. "You run out of petrol or some such?"
Easy, Buff. Dangerous curve. "Gas, you mean? Uh, no. I sort of walked." Crap. Wipe out.
Spike goggled at her. 'From town?" He laughed abruptly. Clapped his hands together. "I get it. You're one of those exercise freaks. Type of girl that runs a marathon, cooks a steak dinner, gives birth and writes a novel in one night."
Buffy shook her head. "That sounds really, um, sweaty. But, no. I walked for...a variety of other reasons. Lack of a car, mainly." She took a deep breath. "I came here to talk to you. Not expecting you to be you. But you are. You, I mean." Spike started to back away, clearly alarmed by her babbling, and Buffy hastened to finish. "It's about your books."
Spike looked mildly interested, in spite of himself. Preened a little. "Yeah? A fan are you?"
"No, not really." The automatic response brought a dark scowl to Spike's face, and Buffy hurried to cover. "Except in the way that I am, of course."
He looked at her like she'd just sprouted a third arm out of her forehead. "Are you blotto?"
"No, I'm Buffy. I said that, already. Remember?"
"I mean are you drunk, pet. Balsed up. An alkie."
"No!"
"Just plain barking mad, then?"
'Again with the no!" Buffy rubbed her throbbing forehead. 'Listen, I didn't mean for it to go like this. Its not like I woke up one morning and thought, 'Gee, I think I'll go to England, walk three miles, lose all my money, scare this guy's cat and then attack him.'"
"You scared my cat?"
God, he was infuriating. "Could you just shut up for, like, 2.5 seconds?"
Spike crossed his arms. 'Now, I can't even talk, that's how it is? You're all over the shop, sweet pea."
Buffy exploded. 'We're not even in a shop! And...and don't call me sweet pea!"
"Whatever. You're a barmy bint,, either way." He shrugged and glanced at his watch. "Say you're peace, then, but make it snappy. Passions is on in ten."
"Thank you," Buffy muttered grudgingly. "I guess I should start at the beginning..."
TBC