"Nice place," said Anya, critically, looking around. Xander and Buffy were already investigating the wrecked display case which had up until recently held the Eye of Ahriman, and ignoring her. "This must have cost a lot of money."
"Yeah," said Buffy shortly. "They didn't skimp on the security, either. This is high-class stuff." She held up a chunk of glass which glittered oddly in the half-light from the streetlamps outside. "There's a metal web in here which triggers an alarm if it's broken anywhere. I have to wonder how come the cops didn't show when whoever did this was doing it."
"Maybe they were busy," said Xander, dryly. "You know, all-you-can-eat donut buffet down at Country Kitchen. What kind of guy has an evil demon amulet sitting in his damn living room, anyway?"
"The kind who also apparently dabbles in the occult." Buffy had kicked aside the edge of the Oriental rug covering the floor, revealing a chalked circle complete with incomprehensible and probably evil runes. "Who did Giles say owned this place?"
"He didn't." Anya picked up an engraved goblet, eyeing it covetously. "He just said the landlord guy and the one who lives here are out of town."
"Oh-kay," Xander said. "So we have a crazy evil mystic guy who collects demon amulets who mysteriously leaves town just before someone breaks in and steals one of them. Why am I not surprised?"
"Hellmouth," said Buffy, dryly. "Right. Anya, does this circle mean anything to you?"
The ex-demon put down the goblet regretfully and examined the circle. "Oh, this is ridiculous. Anyone who knows anything about summoning rituals knows that the sigil Odegra goes before the sigil Akhar. And this is really sloppy chalkwork too. I'd be really surprised if he managed to raise anything at all with this junk."
Buffy caught hold of the wandering edges of her patience. "What summoning ritual is it?" she asked. "Summoning who?"
"Oh, just Dagon. Under-Duke of the Seventh Circle. Really boring guy, and forget him buying you a drink—the guy's a total miser. He's supposed to bring you power, kind of like Mephistopheles, only he always has really teeny clauses in his contracts and the guys who summon him always end up having three extra heads or being buried head-down in lava for eternity. He's a jerk."
Xander stared at her. "You know him?"
"I kinda dated him. A long time ago." Anya gave him an unconvincing grin. "Are we gonna stay here all night, or what?"
"No," said Buffy, decisively. "Giles needs to know about this. Now."
**
Harmony was enjoying herself. She'd liberated a TV from somewhere and was watching Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey make fools of themselves; she had a secret crush on Nick, and every time Jessica did something particularly ridiculous, she'd yell at the screen. Her lair had undergone some changes since she'd kicked Spike out; all the pictures of him had come down from the walls, all the roses tacked to the edges of the bed were gone, and she'd redone the bed itself in pink ruffles with flowers printed on them, which Spike had expressly forbidden her to do. He was such a jerk. Why did he have to treat her like she was stupid? All she'd wanted was for him to love her and call her Pookie-Bear. Was that so much to ask?
Harmony grinned to herself, clutching a stuffed teddy bear. Spike would be sorry he'd treated her so badly. He'd be sorry. And she would laugh.
**
He was running down a long and freezing alley, his breath catching like knives in his chest; there was something behind him, something beautiful and poisonous that would not let him go....the poems he had struggled over for so long had been torn to shreds and scattered about half a mile back, where he'd first started running from whatever was chasing him. The furious embarrassment and misery of the dinner-party had faded from his mind, replaced with terror.
He knew, from the pain in his chest, that he couldn't keep running much longer; soon there would be blood, and it felt like there would be a lot of it, this time. His attacks had been getting worse recently, despite all the doctors could do. He knew what would happen, because he had seen it happen to his mother and to his sisters, and part of him was almost glad; it was a thoroughly appropriate way to die, for a poet.
But I'm not a bloody poet, am I.
He risked a glance behind and promptly tripped over something in the alley, landing hard on his side; the shock drove the breath from his body, and as he struggled to get it back, he began to cough. Damn, he thought, this is going to be bad...it wasn't the genteel cough he could get away with in polite society, but great tearing choking spasms which curled him into a knot. The blood was warm and coppery in his mouth; he knew that whatever was chasing him wasn't far away now, and there was no way he could escape; he was going to die, and he was going to die hard...
Spike jerked bolt upright, choking. The dream was so vivid it took him almost a minute to realize where he was, and what he was; he wiped at his mouth, and his hand came away bloody. It was almost black in the half-light of his crypt.
"What the hell...?" he said, out loud. "I'm a fucking vampire. This isn't happening."
He slid off the tomb, staring at the blood smearing the back of his hand. The pain in his chest was worse now, a low ache that felt like iron bands tightening around his ribs. He wondered vaguely if he'd gotten stabbed and didn't remember it, and shrugged off his coat, pulling his T-shirt over his head to reveal alabaster skin devoid of any sort of wound. It was hot in the crypt now, bloody hot, and he was sweating.
Blood would help. It always helped. He staggered over to the fridge and found a pint bag, sinking his teeth into the plastic and swallowing painfully. He wasn't hungry at all, but he figured it'd be better to get something inside him.
Spike flopped down in his ratty armchair, still sucking on the bag, and turned on the telly with an outstretched toe. He had no idea what time it was, and cursed loudly when he was told he'd missed both back-to-back episodes of Passions. The news was next, and he crumpled up the blood bag and flung it at the screen in frustration, fishing for his Marlboros. "Sodding news," he said, out loud. "Who gives a toss about California governor elections?"
On the screen, a thoroughly made-up brunette was shuffling papers. "And in other news, a burglary at the home of Mr. Elias Sykes occurred last night, apparently while Mr. Sykes was out of town. Only one object was apparently stolen, an antique necklace known as the Eye of Ahriman..."
Spike choked on his cigarette and began to cough. The newsreader was continuing to prattle about weather conditions and the new roadways tax; he couldn't hear her, could barely see as his eyes teared up and the spasms bent him over. The coughing was desperate, painful; the crypt began to grey out in front of his eyes as he struggled to get control of himself, burying his face in the crook of his elbow to muffle the cough. When at last it began to ease, he stared at the scarlet splashes down his arm with mounting horror.
When the room stopped swaying around him, he staggered out of the chair, hands pressing his chest, and turned off the telly. The Eye of Ahriman. What the fuck was some stupid human doing with the Eye? It should've been locked in a spell-sealed vault thirty feet under the flagstones of Westminster sodding Cathedral, not sitting about in some berk's living room like a coffee-table book.
He had to warn the Slayer. Whoever'd stolen the Eye wasn't interested in art history; something big was going down. Shivering—the temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees in the crypt—Spike struggled into his shirt and wrapped the coat around himself, trying to ignore the pain in his chest. He didn't need to breathe; why was he coughing, and why the hell was he coughing blood?
Never mind that, he told himself firmly. Got to warn Buffy. Got to let them know.
He opened the door of the crypt and slipped out into the night.
**
"You're sure?" Giles asked. "Dagon?"
"Hello, ex-demon here," Anya said, sounding miffed. "I know what I saw."
"Yes, of course, I'm sorry." The Watcher put down his cup of tea and started to pace. "Any sign of recent activity in the circle? Any burn marks or stains?"
"Nope," Buffy told him. "Looked pretty old. And Anya said they'd messed up some of the scribbly things anyway, so they probably couldn't have raised a demon."
"Not to be Mr. Negative or anything," Xander added, "but what if they did raise a demon but they messed up, so they couldn't control it?"
The others turned to glare at him. He shrugged, subsiding. "I'm just saying, is all."
"Yes, well," Giles said. "The Eye will no doubt make itself known shortly. Any out-of-the-ordinary demonic activity tonight, Buffy?"
"All quiet on the evil front. I dusted a vamp near the cemetery, but that's it."
"Interesting," Giles started to say, but was interrupted by a banging on the door. He frowned. "Who the blazes...?"
Buffy picked up a stake and pushed past him, hurrying to the door. She unlocked all three of the locks and cracked the door open wide enough to reveal Spike standing in the rain, swaying alarmingly, with a trickle of blood tracing its way down from the corner of his mouth.
"Let me in," he gasped. "I have to warn you—" He lost the sentence in a fit of coughing, reaching out for the wall to steady himself. "Please."
"Spike," said Buffy, "what the hell is wrong with you?"
"Don't...know...oh, bugger..." He began to cough again, and Buffy's eyes widened as he wiped more blood from his mouth. Slowly she stood aside, just as his knees buckled and he fell forward into the Magic Box, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.
There was silence for a moment. The others had risen and were standing in the doorway to the back room, staring. "Well," said Xander. "That was gross."
His voice broke whatever spell they were under, and Giles hurried forward to help Buffy carry the unconscious vampire to one of the couches in the back. Spike's normal pallor had turned into an interesting shade of grey, and his sharp cheekbones stood out like spars. He was drenched and shivering.
"Giles?" asked Buffy quietly. "What's going on?"
"I haven't the foggiest," said the Watcher, frowning. "I've never seen a vampire in this condition." He folded his arms, thoughtfully. Buffy knelt down beside the couch and put a hand on Spike's forehead; behind them, Xander and Anya exchanged a knowing glance. The Slayer looked up.
"He's on fire. This makes no sense, Giles. He's obviously sick, but I mean...he's a vampire. They don't get sick."
"Um," said Xander. "Remember Drusilla? And then Angel with that poisony thi...oh right, bad subject. No talking about Angel."
Buffy sighed, shaking her head. Giles tapped his fingers on the table. "Call Willow, Xander. Get her and Tara here. I want to do some tests."
Xander nodded and went up front to call the witches. Anya joined him. Buffy ignored them both, staring at the fallen Spike, an unreadable expression on her face. He was lying utterly still, looking not unlike an alabaster statue wearing wet black leather, and for some reason she couldn't take her eyes off him.
"He said he had to warn me," she said, not looking up. "What would he be warning me about?"
"I don't know," said Giles, distractedly, flipping through a book. "This is insane, Buffy. It looks as if he's having pulmonary hemorrhages, but I can't think of anything that would do that to a vampire. It looks like...well, it looks like TB, but that's ridiculous."
"What do we do?"
"Well, there's not much we can do. I suppose we'd better get him warm...help me off with his coat and get some blankets, would you?" Giles flicked a concerned glance at her. She was very pale, her face expressionless, but he noticed the hand which still held the stake was shaking a very little. "Buffy?"
She started. "Sorry. Blankets. On it."
Giles, left alone with Spike, sighed. Since Angel's departure, things regarding vampires had been reasonably straightforward. Vampires bad. But Spike had been helpful, albeit grudgingly, several times in the past few months, and the chip in his head did prevent him from doing anything particularly harmful to humans, so he was a sort of grey area. Giles didn't like the way Buffy had been looking at him. Things were complicated enough as it was; she didn't need this making life more difficult.