It didn't make any kind of sense. None whatsoever. But if there was one thing Buffy's overly long career as a Slayer had taught her, it was to always trust her instincts. Slamming the little car up into third gear, she put her foot down hard on the accelerator and swore as it slowly began to pick up speed. Now if only she'd got around to remembering that sooner, instead of trying to convince herself that her dream about Spike had just been a twisted metaphor. Didn't her Slayer dreams always mean something? Hadn't they always served her well? So just exactly when was it she'd started believing what someone told her over what she felt in her gut?
The sound of the car's engine reached fever pitch and, wrestling it into forth, she drove the gear stick home with a resounding crunch. Outside the windows the streets were almost deserted, glorious columns and architraves etched in sodium streetlight, but for once she was completely oblivious to their beauty. Slammed the car down a gear again and almost span the tail out as she hung a hard right, heading north-west and out of the city. Goddamn European piece of crap, had she ever even tried pushing it over thirty before?
Giles had said no survivors. A reliable source. Gone and no trace to be found of either of them. Not a trace, not even ashes to mark where they'd fallen. He'd told her and she'd believed him, even though every part of her had wanted to deny it. Had wanted to cross a whole ocean just to stand there and see with her own eyes the place where they'd died; a dirty, rain- slick alley in the backstreets of old Hollywood.
"From what I understand, he didn't expect any of them to survive."
The fight had taken place two whole weeks ago, her dream; seven days afterwards and yet she hadn't even questioned it. Hadn't wondered why, if she were simply being informed of Spike's death, notification was a whole week late in arriving. Cursing softly, she gripped the steering wheel. What the hell was wrong with her lately? Relaxing and learning to enjoy life was one thing, but losing her instinct for danger was quite another. The Slayer must always be on her guard, remember dumbass? Alert to all her senses. Reacting instantly and without question. Not sitting around feeling sorry for herself whilst one of her best friends slowly bled to death locked inside a goddamned storage container. Glancing down to check the map spread out on the passenger seat beside her, she grimaced as she saw how far she still had to go, jammed her foot down into the car's floor. Maybe Xander had been right. Maybe city living was dulling her wits.
It seemed like hours passed before the signs started to offer her any hope. Sixty kilometers became 58, 55, 50 and for a while it seemed like she was barely moving at all, like the highway was deliberately trying to fuck with her head. Ten, twenty minutes with nothing more than a glimpse of the sea to let her know she was still heading in the right direction. Then at last she saw lights, far distant and way off to the west, but unmistakably port lights - orange and yellow against the midnight blue of the sky - and the sight alone sent her foot down to the floor again. Her whole body hunching forward over the steering column. A sign blurred passed at speed and, barely glancing at it, she held her breath, let the car's desperate vibration carry up through her body and into her bones. Let him be alright. Please God, just let him be alright.
The why of it all, that part she hadn't even begun to answer yet. Spike might still be alive – that was all she needed to know for now. The how and the wherefore didn't factor, although okay, maybe that was because she didn't want it to. That Angel could be partly responsible for what was happening, that he'd somehow also survived but not thought to let her know, that was something she was locking down tight for now, keeping wrapped cold and hard at the back of her mind. But it was bothering her. A lot. Partly because, right now, she couldn't think of anything on earth that might have persuaded him to do such a thing. But mostly, mostly because of something Giles had once read her from a old Watcher diary. Packaging up and shipping her dying ex-lover to her, like he was so much imported meat, felt disturbingly like something Angelus might come up with.
These, and other more disturbing thoughts, were still drifting through her head when she finally brought the car to a halt outside the shipping yard. Killing the lights, Buffy reached under the seat and drew out the flashlight she kept there and then, after a moment's thought, grabbed a blanket from the back seat. Underneath was a simple first aid kit and she weighed it lightly in her hand before dropping it back down. She had to be realistic. If Spike's injuries were as severe as she imagined, bandages and blankets wouldn't be what he was needed. Her eyes went to the back seat again and, with a grunt, she flipped back the cushion to reveal a small stash of weapons. Selected a short, razor-sharp hunting knife and tucked it into her waistband. The face that stared back at her from the rear-view mirror was a deathly shade of white and looking into her own eyes she swallowed. Promised herself something silently;
I swear to God, if I can save you this time - I'm not letting you go again until you believe me.
Outside the street was empty and, breaking into a short run, Buffy easily scaled the fence surrounding the yard and dropped down on the other side. The wire wasn't alarmed, although a sign in Italian accompanied by a picture of some fearsome looking dogs gave her pause for thought, and palming her flashlight she padded softly forward, her senses keyed to every sound.
It was only after twenty minutes of walking that she began to understand how large the place was. Row upon row of massive steel containers were stacked four, sometimes five high, hundreds to a line. Most of them were numbered, but there were many that weren't or were so rusted up that the number was indiscernible, and staring at them in the semi-darkness she felt despair rising up like cold water inside her. Somewhere in this maze Spike was slowly dying, and the thought that that might still happen when she was within shouting distance of him was almost unbearable.
Climbing up onto the top of the nearest stack, she took a long look around. Ten rows branched off to her left, another twenty to her right. Turning around, she counted another twenty rows behind her. Even if she walked all night she wouldn't have time to check every one of them and, by the faint pink light in the eastern sky, she didn't have that long. Not if she was going to find him by sunrise.
Her throat constricted, one hand tightening on the hilt of the knife in her waistband. God, why hadn't she listened to Dawn when she'd begged her to take her along? Why did she always have to try and do these things alone. She wasn't the Chosen One anymore, she was part of a team: The Slayers plural, and that was supposed to mean something. That she had help when she needed it, someone she could always call when she needed a hand.
"He said anytime we needed a hand, I should just call him."
Andrew. She should have called Andrew. He cared about Spike at least, knew him well enough to be taken into his confidence. She should have trusted him enough to bring him along. Trusted him, like Spike had.
"He gave me his number. I'm not supposed to give it to anyone else, but if you want it..."
Spike had trusted him not to tell her he was alive, to keep his secrets.
Spike was working with Angel.
Spike had his own apartment in L.A..
Spike was still in love with her.
"Are you sure? You could just...maybe send him a text message or something?"
Spike had a mobile phone.
Unzipping her pocket, Buffy took out her own phone and stared down at the display. The number she had, the number she'd tried first that night, had an L.A. prefix and was only two digits different from the one she had for Angel. An office number.
"I'm not supposed to give it to anyone else, but if you want it..."
Andrew's name was number six on her speed dial and, although she knew he was definitely home that night, it took an age for him to answer.
"Hel....I mean, si?"
"Did Spike ever give you a mobile number?"
Her words came out so fast that she wasn't sure for a minute that he'd understood what she'd said. At the other end of the line she could hear the sheets rustling back as he sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
"Hey Buffy. Woah, que pasa so...darned early? What's the big?"
"Spike. Last month when you told me to call him, you said you had another number for him? That he'd given you for emergencies. Were you making it up?"
A long pause and more rustling on the other end. The sound of an alarm clock being lifted and checked.
"Spike? I...no. I wasn't making it up I..." his voice cracked, yawning, "God, what time is it?"
"Andrew you goddamn idiot, answer me!!! Did Spike ever give you any other number besides the one you gave me?"
The sound was faint. So faint that, if she hadn't been straining for it, she wouldn't have heard a thing. At the very edge of her hearing. Like a cricket - faint high-pitched whirring like an insect's wings - and, turning, she pinpointed its source, started to run.
Please God let the battery hold out. Please.
Two rows down and she had to stop and hit redial when his voicemail kicked in. Waited with her gut tied up in knots for the ringing to start again, and then she was scrambling up on top of another row, twisting her head frantically from side to side. The sound was being reflected, distorted by all the hollow metal, and for a moment she panicked when it seemed to be coming from three directions at once. Forced herself to close her eyes, her heart to slow down, her breathing to regulate. Tuned every single other thing out except the high, regular, metallic sound and the soft thunder of the blood in her veins.
There.
Dropping down to the ground, Buffy landed heavily on all fours and jerked her chin up just in time to hear the sound abruptly stop. This time though, she was certain and, laying a hand on the metal crate in front of her, she drew in a slow deliberate breath. The box was around forty feet long and made of thick, heavily painted steel, but she could still smell it. The scent of decaying blood was thick and pervasive despite the crate's airtight seams and as she dropped to her knees to examine the heavy lock her stomach convulsed. Thanked God that she hadn't brought Dawn after all. There were some things even the sister of the Slayer shouldn't ever have to experience.
Even though the bolts were rusty it took all her strength to pull them loose, the iron rending with an ear-splitting groan that must have been heard for miles, but she past caring by now. Wrenched the door open so hard she almost took it off its hinges.
"Spike? Can you hear me?"
The interior was pitch black and, stepping inside, her sneakered feet stuck to the surface like a freshly tarred road. The dim morning light from outside wasn't enough to see more than a few feet, but when she closed the door and turned on the flashlight she immediately wished she hadn't. The stark beam illuminated the semi-dried blood caked in a two foot wide trail across the floor, turning it jet black, and Buffy recoiled as she realised that there were human hand prints in it. As if someone had been dragged or had dragged themselves from the container's entrance to the rear.
The beam of her flashlight bounced off stacks of wooden boxes. Thirty or forty empty packing crates reached almost to the ceiling, forming a makeshift wall towards the back and moving towards them she saw a faint glow in the darkness like a tiny beacon. The phone, the one she'd been calling, was lying half wedged between the broken slats of one. The blue signal light blinking silently.
::You Have 3 Missed Calls::
"Spike? Are you in here?"
There was dirt and blood everywhere, dust. What if the dust were him? What if she had been too late.
"Spike?!!!"
And then there was white. Something white. Hurling the boxes to one side Buffy shone the light into the darkness where it illuminated spiralling black flakes of rust. Thick blood-encrusted floor and black rags and in amongst them, half in and out of a splintered crate - a limb. Glowing in the darkness like a piece of broken statue.
It took her a second to move. Spike's arm was so still and white that for a moment she thought it might have been severed, that it was all that was left, but then she was tearing at the box surrounding him, kneeling down to find his legs and chest and face with her hands. His t-shirt felt like it was welded to his body, thick dried patches of blood forming scabs where the material had been slashed, and shining the flashlight sideways over his body she gave a low moan. Jesus, he was a mess. Far worse than with Glory. The wounds on his chest were so deep she could see the glint of his ribs through them and the right side of his face was completely shattered, the skin along his cheekbone blackened and split.
"Can you hear me?"
Pressing one of his eyelids back gently, Buffy laid a hand underneath his skull and cradled it. His pupil was enormous, fixed and black like a doll's, and the sight of it made her tremble inside. His eyes were like her Mom's had been the day she'd found her on the sofa. Empty. Like something had just gone from inside.
"Spike, it's me. Buffy. You have to wake up."
Her voice sounded so unlike her own, tiny and frightened. Trailing out to the side, his arm lolled uselessly, trails of dried blood making criss- cross patterns on the white skin and, reaching for it, she took his hand, threaded her fingers through his. His skin was translucent; every inch of him livid with thin bright blue veins as if he were fading layer by layer into himself and, fascinated, Buffy traced the lines with her fingertips. Was this what happened when a vampire was starved of blood? Did he just slowly disappear? Was there a point when the flesh became so weak that the demon could no longer feed and became trapped; a mind imprisoned inside a useless corpse. The thought was horrifying and, pulling Spike's head around to rest on her knees, she reached for the knife in her belt and unsheathed it. Ran the razor-sharp edge along the flesh of her left hand.
His mouth wouldn't open. Crouching over his head she grasped his jaw and tried to pull it down but it felt like iron, the flesh stiff and leather- hard. Blood was leaking from her and making a fist she held it against his lips, cursed in frustration when it ran uselessly over his lips and down the side of his face.
"Drink it!!"
She'd thought the demon would wake even if the man wouldn't. That the smell of her blood would force it to the surface, work his muscles, but there was nothing. His stone-pale arms lay uselessly by his sides and, dragging on his shoulders, Buffy pulled him back into a half-sitting position against her, tried again. Pushed his lips open with her hand and pressed the wound into him.
"Drink it. Please. Drink it."
His body felt like ice against hers, the bones of his skeleton digging into her like dry branches, and she shifted desperately, laying her cheek against his skull. Dully, she realised that her other hand had found his again, her fingers reflexively clasping and unclasping as if she were trying to knead life into them, warm them like a cold child's. He was so still and nightmare memories sprang to life in her again, the rigid plastic feel of her skin as she'd tried to wake her, limp and empty inside. Her face as blank and lifeless as the sky. No. No. Not like this. Not again. Not him as well. Her throat closed and she choked, pressing her lips into damp hair.
"Just...please...."
Something moved against her wrist and her eyes sprang open, staring. The side of his face nearest her was clear - the skin unmarked – and, as she watched, his eyelashes shivered. Trembled open as if he was half asleep.
"...don't...bu..."
It was barely a sound in his throat but she heard it, dragged him up further against her and clenched her fist harder, sent the blood jumping out and over his tongue. A second more and she saw his lips move, cracked and dry, and then his throat, swallowing. She gasped for breath and realised only then that she had been holding it.
"Drink it Spike. It'll make you stronger."
Her voice sounded far more certain than she felt, and she saw his eye open a fraction. Trying to focus on her face.
"Bu..."
"Don't try to talk. Just..."
Something about the eye was wrong. There was no relief there, just emptiness. His lips against the palm of her hand were weak still but they were closing, his teeth coming together in a bite with no strength. Minutely, his head moved, turning to the right.
"Don't....bu..."
Blood from her hand was trickling down her wrist and, as she watched, it ran down to her elbow, dropped with a tiny soft sound onto the floor. Little round circles. Spots of black. His chin moved, hitching up like he was trying to raise his head, look her in the face, but he was too weak. Opened one eye instead, fixed her with a single black pupil. His mouth twitched and red leaked from the corner, spilled out and down his jaw.
"Don't...bother...."
And then light blinded her.
A sound like thunder roared overhead and, throwing herself forward without thinking, she scrambled for the knife. Everything was bright, white and painful, but it was the smell of burning flesh that finally made her realise, made her jump to cover Spike's body with her own. Above their heads the roof was open, wide and yawning to the dawn sky, and silhouetted in the opening was a figure. Completely familiar to her and entirely terrible. Because of what she'd seen. Because she knew who he was, because she knew what came next. Stepping down into a square illuminated by a shaft of fatal sunlight.
"So here you are..."
Smiling at her Carlo reached with his hand, pale fingers extended, eyes dancing deep black hollows in his perfect face.
"I've been looking for you everywhere."