Demons and Lovers
by Alixtii

"We can love quite well. If not wisely."

—Drusilla, in "Crush"

Sunnydale, California—September 1997

"A soul! Do you believe that, Dru? A sodding soul!" Offing the Annointed One had put Spike in a fairly good mood, but after a few hours that had run out.

"A soul," agreed Drusilla. "A soul, a spirit, the essence of what he once was and had left behind, now come back to haunt him. Pixies which whisper lies in his head, that he is a bad boy and should resist the hunger, that he should no longer be that which he is—a hunter, an artist, our Daddy. A dirty, filthy soul."

"You knew about this?"

"Yeahh." She draws the word out as if she is in love with the sound of her own voice.

"Well, why didn't I get the bloody memo? When did this happen?" It couldn't be true, could it? Angel had taught him to hunt, to—he had been the epitome of evil. The monster with the face of an angel. And now...?

"In Romania," Drusilla answered. "It was the gypsies. They wanted vengeance, for it to burn in him like a hot poker against the flesh, sweet pain that would make the flowers cry out with envy. Punishment, for eternity. They cry out with anger, all of them, living for vengeance as we live for blood, all except for the one girl who tutors the children in noughts and yeses. She has other concerns."

"They sound like pleasant folk," observed Spike. "Wait. Didn't we attack a caravan of gypsies when we were in Romania? Darla's idea, if I remember correctly."

Drusilla nodded. "She wanted the evil gypsies to take the disgusting soul back, to return to us the Daddy that we knew. But they would not, could not, and so we ate their children." Her voice grew wistful, nostalgic.

"But, ducks, Angel couldn't have gotten his soul in Romania. Remember? We saw him in China just after that, during the Boxer Rebellion. And in New York in the 30's. And I saw him on a submarine—of all places—in the 50's."

"He pretended, Spike, Gonzago's murder enacted for you to see. He tried not to listen to the pixies who whispered lies, but to the truth, to the blood which called out with its siren song, so like a young girl's cries as her naked flesh is torn from her bone. But the pixies were too loud, Spike. They tormented him, as the gypsies had set them on to him to do, like the Erinyes, the Furies, avenging spirit which allow him no rest for the murder of the most beloved daughter of their tribe. Like mousetraps."

Spike shivered. "You make me almost feel sorry for the bastard."

"He needs it now, Spike. He has fallen in love with the pain, wants it, craves it, delights in it like a whip against his backside. He cannot live without it; it is an addiction even stronger than his thirst for blood, for the hunt. He does not fear losing it, because he does not know he can. Not yet."

Spike knew what Drusilla wanted as she spoke so longingly of the pain, of the inflicting. He himself was aroused by the passion of the words, of the force of her lust. But she was too weak, he knew, too fragile. He had to be gentle.

Los Angeles, California—December 2003

"Vampire," came a voice from the shadows, deep but feminine. Sultry, even.

Spike looked up, let the enhanced night vision of his vampire eyes penetrate the darkness. "Slayer," he responded.

Faith stepped out of the shadows. "Strange thing meeting you here," she said. "Last time I saw you, you were a big hole out Sunnydale way."

"It's a long story."

"I'm listening."

"I came back. Short story, actually. Soul and all, if that's what you're worried about, although the body only showed up fairly recently."

"I'm sure B' would love to hear that you're alive. Or undead, at least."

Spike looked pained. "And then what? No, it's better the way it is, Faith. Let her mourn for me."

"She's going to find out sooner or later," said Faith. "You know that, right? And when she does, she's going to be world of mad."

"I can handle Buffy when it comes to that," Spike answered. "Sooner or later, yes. But not today."

Faith put up her hands. "It's your funeral, man. Or I guess you already had one. Two, even. We had a sort of memorial service after Sunnydale. Not just you—it was for Anya, the potentials, everyone who bought the farm when you closed the Hellmouth."

Spike nodded. "They deserve to be remembered," he agreed.

Somewhere in Romania...

"Be in me," Drusilla said, gazing into Dawn's eyes. "See with your heart."

"Amanda?" Dawn asked, confused. "I thought you died, in Sunnydale."

Amanda laughed. "It takes more than that to kill a Slayer," she said.

"We thought we lost you, we really did. That's why we didn't bring you with us."

Amanda nodded. "I know," she said. "But I'm here now, and that's all that matters. I'll never leave you guys, Dawn."

Dawn smiled, knowing that what Amanda said was true. "We were looking for..." Dawn trailed off, uncomfortable. "It can't be you."

"Shh," said Amanda. "It is. Don't fight it. Isn't it better this way?"

Yes, Dawn realized. It was much better. Her friend was alive. Isn't this how she always dreamed it would be? "We need to get out of here," she said. "She'll be back soon. I don't even know when she went away—"

"She?" asked Amanda.

Dawn opened her mouth to explain, then closed it, unable to remember what it was she was about to say.

"Look around you," said Amanda. "We're all alone. All alone to do whatever we want." She smiled and leant down and kissed Dawn, her tongue softly caressing the inside of Dawn's mouth. Dawn kissed back, enjoying having Amanda there with her, finally. "I missed you," Amanda said when their lips finally left each other again.

The kiss finished, Dawn looked at Amanda again, a half-formed thought insisting to be given attention. "But this isn't the way it, that is, we never, I wanted us to, but—" Dawn protested, unable to form her thought, articulate what it was that she wanted to say.

"This is the way it's supposed to be, Dawn. You know that, you feel that. Why do you keep resisting? Didn't you miss me?"

Yes, thought Dawn as she unbuttoned the buttons of Amanda's blouse, I missed you. This is the way it is supposed to be.

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

"Wow," said Willow. "My Goddess."

Kennedy looked up from the book she was reading. "What is it?" she asked as she jumped off their bed and stood behind Willow, peering over the witch's shoulder.

"E-BAY" proclaimed the website Willow was visiting. And, in smaller type, "Orb of Thesula," And in smaller still, "Current bid: $13,294,768.50."

"That's, erm, quite a sum," admitted Kennedy. "Do they know what that is?"

Willow shrugged. "Either that or somebody in cyberspace is willing to pay an awful lot for a paperweight. With the 'net the way it is, you never can know. The thing is, back in Sunnydale, you could just walk into the Magic Box and purchase one. It wouldn't be cheap, but it would be less than a years tuition to UC Sunnydale. Perhaps the Hellmouth was good for something after all."

"I thought you said you got a scholarship."

"I did. That's not the point. The point is, there's been an increased demand for spirit vaults for the rituals of the undead lately. Somebody's been buying them all up, driving the prices way up. And I mean way. As in paying for the tuition of the entire freshman class."

"A warlock?"

"Or a demonic capitalist. Who knows?"

Somewhere in Africa...

The demon Yr-a't-kr, sheathed in the naked form of Samantha Finn, looks around at the ruins of what once was his temple. Time has not been good to it; the edifice has fallen into disrepair and is not only dirty, but in several places the walls have actually caved in. Yr-a't-kr, existing as he does outside time, is not used to the entropic effects of time striking in such a dramatic way, but he is grateful that it serves as a marker of when he has been summoned to.

"Who dares disturb my temple?" Yr-a't-kr asks in a booming voice that his vessel's voice cords would not never have been capable of on their own. He looks down, takes in the body of the vessel. It is older than his priestesses would have been, but it is not unattractive.

He looks around. Did the vessel summon him on her own? No—he sees a man and a woman. "Distract her while I try to close the conduit!" the woman says. She is young, and he wishes for a moment she had been the vessel. What is, is, however, and this way he will be able to feel her body in his hands in a way which would not be possible if he had been inhabiting it.

The man comes at him with a sword. Yr-a't-kr laughs at his foolishness, thinking to harm the great demon Yr-a't-kr with a mere sword! With demon speed and skill, Yr-a't-kr dodges the sword, moving so fast that the bone and flesh of the human vessel cry out in protest. The man swings again, and the demon dodges it just as easily, stepping in towards him and then delivering a backhand to the jaw. The demon's enhanced strength sends the man flying into the colonnade, breaking a column.

The woman is chanting. Yr-a't-kr recognizes the language; it is a demon language, the one his own worshippers used when they wished to call him forth. The fabric of space and time answers to the language, warped by the power of its words, giving in to the force of the invocation. She seeks to sever his link between worlds, to trap him here, in a single place and time. He exists outside of time and space, but this human wishes to change that.

"Let the door between worlds be closed" she chants in that arcane language. "Let the link be severed and the demon—" She breaks off from the chant as Yr-a't-kr grabs her by the chin and begins to drain the life out of her.