Party Favours
by Alixtii

"It's a ritual sacrifice, with pie."

—Anya, in "Pangs"

.Somewhere in Africa—June 1917

"It is time for you to meet our master," the priestess informed them.

"Oh, good!" exclaimed Dru. "A party."

Spike and Dru followed her as she led them to the center of the temple, a large domed building. All of the priestesses were assembled, young girls in their white robe. Spike didn't think even one of them was older than 26. (So what happens to them when they get that age? he wondered mildly.) His bloodlust was back in full swing: just look at all those warm necks.

"We gather to give ourselves up to the Master," announced the high priestess. "Nothing must come between us and him." And with that, each of the priestesses untied her robe and let it slip off her body. The entire assemblage stood there naked.

Dru looked at Spike smiled. He smiled back, wondering what she was thinking. She had an inventive imagination, and the lust for blood knew no gender. Well, mostly.

The priestesses began to circumambulate the room, partially hidden by the impressive colonnade. They began to chant in a demonic language Spike did not recognize. (Aside from English, Fyarl, French, some Latin, and the family of Yzarku languages, Spike was a relatively poor linguist, after all.)

"Do you know what they are saying, love?" Sometimes Dru's psi powers could make a relatively useful translation tool, if he could then translate her translation.

"They all calling out to their master, Spike. Giving themselves up to him and calling for him to fill them. Their minds, their bodies, their souls, all his to do with as he likes."

"He's got a sweet deal here," Spike acknowledged as he watched as the naked priestesses' chant grew more and more emphatic. Then, suddenly, one priestess suddenly spasmed, and for a moment Spike thought she was going to go into an epileptic fit. Then, suddenly, lightning ripped through her body, her golden tresses turned a jet black, and her green eyes lit up with a red fire.

"Oh, goody," said Drusilla. "Our demon friend has come to play." Strong gale-force winds blew within the domed room, no doubt there as a side-effect of the demon's summoning. "Such lovely colors," Dru added.

Presumably she could see the interdimensional nexus which had opened.

"I am here," announced Yr-a'k-tr. The voice which resounded from the priestess' mouth was deeper than Spike assumed her normal voice was, and it echoed. Yr-a'k-tr looked down appreciatively at the naked body of his conduit, and a grin appeared on the priestess' face, as he slid his hands (her hands?) over the curves of her (his) body. "Worship me, my priestesses, my children, my slaves."

The priestesses responded in the demonic language, but Spike didn't need Drusilla to tell him that they were worshipping the demon. "You," Yr- a'k-tr said, pointing to a young girl of about eighteen. "What is your name, priestess?"

"Courtney," she answered.

"Are you prepared to worship me, Courtney?"

"Yes, m-master," Courtney stuttered.

"Your body, your mind, your soul, all of these you surrender to me?"

"Y-yes."

Yr-a't-kr smiled. "Good." He traced the contours of her chin with his finger, then thrust his hand onto her breast. Suddenly a nexus of energy appeared around his hand, sucking the life out of Courtney.

"Wow," said Spike. "That must be a rush."

His comment must have attracted the demon's attention, because Yr-a't- kr suddenly seemed to notice his and Drusilla's presence. "Vampire," he said, and took a step towards the pair. Spike moved slightly, putting himself between the possessed priestess and Drusilla.

"We appreciate your hospitality," Spike said. He was never good at sucking up to powerful demons, but he knew that it was important to try.

"You haven't seen anything yet," the demon said, a smile on the his vessel's face, as he slid a hand down the side of a nearby priestess. "You're mate is . . . lovely. Perhaps you would like to join in . . . the festivities?"

"Ooh," cooed Drusilla. "A trade."

"Now, wait, Mr. high-and-mighty demon," Spike interjected. "None of that energy-sucking stuff."

"Of course not. The traditional method will be much more enjoyable. Come on, vampire, look at my priestesses. I know you desire them. Join in with us."

"Come on, love," said Drusilla. "All's fair once the socks come off."

Spike eyed up the tasty tidbits of priestesses. "Very well, love," he said. "As long as you're game."

And the orgy continued.

Somewhere in Africa—December 2003

"I've gone over the pictograms over and over again," announced Catelyn. "And I keep coming to the same conclusion: if we are going to close the conduit, we are going to have to get it to manifest first."

"You mean, summon the demon?" asked Riley.

Catelyn nodded. "We have to let it posess one of us."

"You have to be kidding," said Sam. "It's too dangerous."

"I wish I was, Sam. But it's the only way if we are to close the conduit. One of us is going to have to let it take us over—you or me, Sam, because it has to be a female. We'll have to strip off our clothes, to make sure that nothing will interfere with the summoning—"

"I'll do it," Sam volunteered. There was no way she was letting Catelyn take her clothes off in front of her husband.

Catelyn looked at her quizzically, as if she was wondering how Sam could worry about a little thing like nudity when they had a temporally- transcendent demon to deal with. All she did was nod, however. "It'll be best if I have my faculties free, to deal with the demon once he is summoned."

Sam ignored the insinuation of her expediency, and stepped into the center of the dome. "What do I have to do?" she asked.

"Take off your clothes," said Catelyn, "and then read this." She handed Sam a piece of paper with a few lines of unintelligible gibberish on it, with translations to the right. "Pronounce it like it's German."

Sam nodded and stripped out of her jumpsuit, unclasped her bra and threw it to the temple floor, then stepped out of her underpants. "Good show, Sam," said Riley, a smile on his face. She glowered at him.

"A'k- trala kar," she read. My body is yours.

"A'k-trala syn." My mind is yours.

"A'k-trala thyk." My soul is yours.

"Halors tylor fim." Empty me, master.

"Synthyk a'k-trala kar." Fill me with your glory.

"A'k-tral or." My self is yours.

As she read the words, Sam used a meditation technique she had learned in Mongolia to cleanse her mind of all thought, focusing only on two things: the sounds of the words as she spoke them, and her own navel. As she repeated the chant, she could feel herself slowly pulling herself out of her own body; after all, what was it but a shell, a construct of bone and flesh to house her consciousness. And, at last, she was completely cut off from the mindless skin which still stood there, chanting mechanically and staring at its abdomen, and Yr-a'k-tr took over.

Somewhere in Romania...

"Buffy, you need to get some sleep. It's been almost three days now."

Buffy shook her head. "I can't afford to," she said. "I need to protect you."

"You won't be able to protect anyone if you fall asleep in the middle of a fight. I'll have the crossbow, and the stake, and the machete, and the fire if need be. And I promise to wake you the moment something happens....if something happens. Which it won't. Cross my heart and hope to die." She crossed her heart, but refrained from the hoping to die part. That was her sister's territory.

Buffy looked at her. She's going to give in, Dawn realized with relief. She really does look terrible. Super Slayer stamina can only go so far.

"Okay," Buffy said, at last. "Let's set up camp."

It took them about an hour for them to get a nice fire going, then Buffy rolled out her bedroll and was asleep within minutes. Dawn held onto her machete, alert to every movement in the forest, just waiting for the mad vampire or some other danger to appear.

Los Angeles, California

The parking garage was dark, but secluded. "We should be able to talk freely now," Andrew said.

"Should?" asked Faith. "I don't like the sound of that."

Andrew opened his hand to reveal a small red orb resting in his palm. "Silentio," he said, and it glowed, then disappeared. "That's just in case Wolfram and Hart's eyes and ears extend even further than we think." The Watcher-in-Training strode over to the balcony of the parking garage, looked up at the towering law firm. "Look at it," he said. "A bastion of evil in a sea of vulnerability."

Bastion? Where did he come up with stuff? "Look," said Faith. "Angel isn't evil. Whatever he is doing, I am sure he is doing it for a good reason. I have no clue what that good reason could possibly be, but that's why he is doing what he is doing. I think."

"Ah, yes," said Andrew in his voice of mock-wisdom—probably a bad Obi- Wan Kenobi impression or something. "I had forgotten you had a connexion with Angel. The rogue Slayer and the vampire with a soul, both searching for redemption in a world that—"

Faith sighed. "Give it up, Wells, before I break you in half."

That shut up Andrew. Sometimes a bad girl reputation is useful, Faith mused.

"There is one thing I need to tell you," hazarded Andrew guardedly, ready to stop at the first sign of Faith turning him to pieces. "But you have to promise not to let Buffy know."

Somewhere in Romania...

Dawn stood next to her sleeping sister, a torch in one hand and a crossbow in the other, vigilant. Drusilla could strike at any moment, after all.

What was that? Dawn heard something move, in a bush. She raised her torch and tried to make out if she could see what it was. Then she heard another noise, behind her, and she gave only a quick glance behind to see if she could see what it was. When she looked back, however, Drusilla stood in front of her, surrounded by a pack of wolves.

Dawn was about to cry out when Drusilla clamped a hand over her mouth, her nails digging into the girls' cheeks, drawing blood. "Hush, little baby," whispered the vampire. "Mummy's going to buy you a mockingbird."