Chapter 10

Feeling safe was something that Buffy rarely experienced now, and hadn't for a very long time. Safety was a feeling that went with home and family, with friends and with people you trusted, safety was in numbers and these days, she was so often alone.

She kept Dawn safe, she'd fought for that. For her sister to know that she would always be there for her, that a home would always be waiting somewhere, that had been her priority for over a year now. She tried never to be careless or reckless with her own life any more, she tried to guard her own safety for Dawn's sake, to make sure her sister would never have to go through that again. The responsibility had brought her a strength and a sureness in herself she'd never realised she lacked until they moved here, away from all the people who she'd relied on for so long. Stepping aside as The Slayer and sharing her power with the others had been the beginning of a new life for her, but it wasn't until the move to Rome that Buffy had finally felt like an adult. And real safety, the kind that blankets and warms and protects and absolves you of any blame, that was something it seemed adults didn't get to have.

Spike had made her feel safe and, more than with anyone else, she had allowed herself to lean on him. From the very first he had been her equal in strength and skill; their fights leaving her breathless and shaken and, with the gift of hindsight, she could now see why. There had been a balance there. Grudgingly admitted at first, and then later revelled in. Fighting Spike was like fighting her shadow-self, frustrating and exhilarating in equal measures. He blocked her, she parried him, he attacked, she defended. In retrospect the evolution of that relationship - from feet and fists to mouths and hands and bodies - seemed almost inevitable now, like growing up. Spike had been her first lover as an adult; the first man she had loved as a woman rather than a girl, and the memory of that love and trust was something that she treasured now, a little fire she used to warm herself when the job of being a grown-up got too hard. The memory of the last time she had felt truly safe.

The journey from the car through the house's rear courtyard, up the many stairs and into the Institute's makeshift sleeping quarters, had taken every last ounce of strength Spike had and, although he had allowed both of them to support him most of the way, it was clear that the effort had been too much for him. His skin, already cold and pale at the best of times, had taken on a translucent quality that seemed to alarm all three of them equally and, after only a few more expletives about 'mithering bloody women', he'd passed out on the bed they'd made up for him like an exhausted child.

"Do you think he's going to be ok?"

"I think so. We need to find out what happened though."

The sight of Dawn's hand going out to him, tenderly tucking the coverlet around his shoulders, brought a lump to her throat.

"Well he's safe now."

"Yeah."

In silence, they both watched him for a minute; perfect dark lashes fluttering in his sleep, his head was thrown back, arched against the pillow, one hand splayed half open.

"You want I should go get Andrew, fill him in on what's been happening? He doesn't know anything yet."

Shaking her head, Buffy started to object before thinking better of it. Andrew might be a idiot but he was pretty great at figuring out the magical stuff. Not as good as Willow of course, but that was one phone call she was hoping she wouldn't have to make.

"OK, but don't bring him back here. Spike needs peace and quiet for a while."

"'kay."

After she'd gone, Buffy had just watched him for a while, half wanting him to wake and half grateful he didn't. When he'd rolled over on his side, she'd briefly thought about climbing into the bed beside him and just...curving her body around his. The idea made her feel almost dizzy with need and, uncomfortable with the feeling, she went over to sit in the armchair instead. Getting him to come with them had been hard enough, messing with his head now that she finally had him alone again was probably not the best way to start mending fences.

Restless, she looked around for something to read and picked up a Vogue one of the girls had left before realising that it was written in Spanish. The Institute shelves were full of the same kinds of books that Giles had spent years forcefeeding her, making the likelihood of finding light reading material pretty low but, optimistically, she skimmed the spines in the nearest bookshelf for something that might help pass the time.

'Paevin's Compendium of Shape-Shifters' sounded way more interesting than it actually was, she knew that for a fact, lots of facts and science and not nearly enough anecdotal weirdness. The same went for 'The Source Book of Demon Dimensions' and that old party favourite 'Incubi, Succubi, Mara and Night Hags' and, pushing them to the back of the shelf, she picked up a couple of the smaller Watcher journals instead.

Although they were both in English, the first one she opened was written in such insanely purple prose she gave up with disgust after just two pages. Gah, was that how Giles had written about her? Composing essays about every little detail of her training? Luckily the second one was written in a far easier to read style, ironic as the author was obviously not a native English speaker. His name, Louis de Fronsac,was faded with age but still just visible on the leather cover, and settling herself back into the leather armchair, Buffy started to read.

"January 6th, 1901:

Have set my Slayer a number of tasks to accomplish this week, with luck it will improve her concentration and focus her energies more effectively. She has a supremely strong will sometimes I think perhaps she does not respect me as much as she would an older man but her heart is good. She is passionate and believes in the work strongly, although I fear that - despite her maturity - her 'enthousiasme' will always overrule her 'logique'.

Yesterday she almost bested me with the rapier again, her skill with it has become quite considerable in just the short time we have been together. I think soon I may have to concede that she has surpassed me and find her a more worthy tutor although, for the time being at least, I would prefer her to remain by my side. I could not say it to M. Piper when he visited last year, but my charge becomes more dear to me now with every passing week. I am so very proud of my Marie-Helen."

Marie-Helen. The sight of her name struck a deep silent note within her and, checking the date, she weighed the small book in her hand for a moment before skimming forward through the pages. Tucked into the centre was a portrait photograph. It was a slightly different pose, but it was the same girl from the etching Giles had sent her.

"June 17th, 1901

After our ride this morning, Mslle Lumiere told me a little more today of the circumstances surrounding her birth and how she came to be orphaned. When she spoke of her Mother's death to cholera, she was moved to tears and at once took my hand to steady herself. Her small hand, so dwarfed by my own, stirred emotions that, I confess, were not those of a guardian. I excused myself and walked for a long time in the gardens to gather my thoughts.

I had never thought to experience such a thing. The duty of a Watcher is a sacred one and his regard for his Slayer is to be without question. I comfort myself only with the knowledge that Marie is not a child, although I am bound to treat her as such.

June 20th, 1901

Marie came to my room this evening, hours after I had seen her to her own bed. She was in a state of undress, hair and clothing dishevelled and - when I asked her reasons for her appearance - became distressed. It seemed that a dream of portent had horrified her and rekindled memories of her childhood. She clung to me and I could not refuse to comfort her, although all my senses railed against it.

For M.Piper to assign her to me as my first commission I now believe was a test and a most distasteful one. Marie is not a girl and I am not long a man. I think perhaps he means me to disgrace myself somehow and bring shame to my family, but I will not submit.

However, I fear that Marie has begun to share my feelings. She is a proud, solitary young woman with many hidden scars, but under my care she has finally begun to blossom. To bring a smile to her lips is a joyous thing and her rare laugh is like music. Sundays have become particularly dear to us, as I know we both eagerly anticipate our necessary proximity when seated in church. When we take our leave, her hand on my arm sends a shiver through me and brings a blush to her cheeks that is indescribably lovely.

That I might someday be permitted to act on these emotions is my dearest wish, whilst also my deepest fear."

Wow. A Watcher in love with his Slayer. The idea was pretty squicky, but the reality - at least this one - was actually kind of romantic. This Louis was obviously pretty young and Wesley hadn't seemed that much older than them when he'd been sent to relieve Giles. Of course she hadn't ever thought about him that way, but Cordy certainly hadn't bothered about the age-gap too much. The memory almost brought a smile until she remembered that they were both gone now.

"August 17th, 1901:

An invitation arrived at the house from the Count and Contesse de Mont-Claire today addressed solely to 'Mademoiselle Lumiere'. I was most displeased, which seemed to amuse Marie greatly. She is a great admirer of the Count's legendary skill with a bow, although I suspect that her motives for inveigling herself are less prosaic. I have heard that the couple socialise a great deal and have a reputation for lavish parties and improper behaviour. Paris appears to be awakening a side of Marie that I had hoped was dormant.

Il doit être prévu. A Slayer called at so late an age was always certain to have difficulty adjusting to the idea of solitude and I fear that my continued inability to return her affections is finally pushing her away.

August 20th, 1901:

Marie returned very late from the party last night; flushed and bright-eyed. When I questioned her, she related a lengthy account of an encounter with a female Mara and, when further pressed, showed me several red marks on her throat. Her demeanor was distinctly odd, almost defiant, and I did not believe her story. Claudette, who I sent along as chaperon, allowed that Marie had been long from her sight during the latter part of the evening and that a number of eligible gentlemen had expressed interest in her.

After further enquiries I was able to ascertain that Marie was alone for a time in the gardens with an acquaintance of the Count's, a M. Coeur-Foncé. The fellow is apparently a man of some means and well thought of in many circles, but I am unable to rest until I know that he was not responsible for Marie's appearance. I have sent to London for details of his family and dealings and, if necessary, will confront him myself with my suspicions.

I am forced to ask myself though, if my concern is entirely unselfish. A Slayer may not marry or bear children, that much is clear, but am I wrong to deny Marie-Helen any happiness? My blood boils when I think of a man touching her, but she is a passionate and emotional young woman and I am unable to watch over her every moment of the day. I want only to protect her, but in doing so am I also preventing her from the experiences of life? Is my love for her merely a pretty cage that I wish to imprison her in? I must meditate on this further before confronting Marie again, if only to allow time for my own feelings to be hidden. Perhaps a love affair would be good for her, as long as the gentleman is worthy.

August 21st

A telegram arrived from M. Piper at first light this morning. It is worse than I might ever have feared. Marie-Helen has become consort to that most vile and devious of animals; The Immortal."

Finally seeing it in black and white, it didn't shock her at all. Rereading the lines again, Buffy studied the tiny portrait of the other Slayer and wondered at Carlo's attraction to her. 'Passionate and emotional' de Fronsac had said. A lonely, orphaned young woman desperate for affection and starved of life and, closing her eyes briefly, she frowned. Marie-Helen was an lot like herself really.

Further on there were large gaps in the dates and, in the later entries, de Fronsac's handwriting became erratic and scratchy. Skimming over them, Buffy's eyes picked out phrases; 'Marie missing for days', 'I am at a loss' before they finally settled on the words she had unconsciously been searching for.

"October 19th

Woke from a most dark and unsettling dream. The details fade, but I now feel strangely relieved of my anxieties regarding Marie."

A gap in the entry and a slight shift in hand-writing showed it had been completed later that day;

"She has been gone for almost 5 days now. This morning I called again at The Immortal's house only to be met by a manservant who informed me that 'Monsieur - il est parti'. He could not say where, but I assume back to Roma permanently. When I telephoned M. Piper in London to inform him of Marie's disappearance, he was furious. I have lost my commission and my Slayer. I asked him to advise the Council in Italy to be on the lookout for Marie-Helen, that she may still be in the company of The Immortal."

There was a brutally short final entry;

"October 25th

There is word today that a Slayer was called in Alsace. I am to return to Marseilles by the afternoon train."

The rest of the book was blank; sheet after sheet of smooth cream-coloured paper that perfectly reflected a life unlived and, closing it, Buffy dropped back in her seat. A new Slayer called could only mean one thing. Marie had been killed, presumably by Carlo, although there was no way of knowing that for certain. Turning the girl's picture over, she studied the writing on the back.

"Pour mon ami et professeur, vous m'avez donné le monde et je vous remercie"

Her name and the date underneath, were inscribed in a looping decorative swirl.

"Marie-Helen Lumiere July 1901"

Saying it out loud in the silent room felt strange and, glancing up uneasily, she saw that Spike was awake. Lying on his side in bed, he'd drawn the sheet up around his chest and was watching her; his eyes a deep, calm blue.

"Hey."

Laying the journal down, she walked over to him. At close quarters his skin looked a lot better, more like the healthy deep cream that she remembered and, perching on the edge of the mattress, she smiled.

"You look better. You had us both worried for a while back there."

"I'm fine." He shrugged, although not as coldly as before, she noticed. His gaze went past her to the floor and then to the door. "Dawn gone home?"

"No, she's around. I told her to stay out of your way though. I figured maybe we could do with some privacy."

It was a tiny slip, but as soon as the words were out she felt her cheeks flush with heat.

"I meant you. I mean I thought you could do with some quiet after..."

"S'ok..." Rolling back against his pillow, Spike closed his eyes. "I know what you meant."

Rain tapped softly on the window pane and Buffy turned her head to look outside. Heavy gray clouds were crowding the sky, turning the light in the room to a livid silver and she realised that a real thunderstorm was coming. It was pretty unusual for June, but not unheard of. When they'd first come to the city, they'd both been so unused to rain they hadn't even owned waterproof shoes. Then one day, whilst admiring the view from the Spanish Steps, the skies had opened and they'd both been treated to a downpour of what felt like Biblical proportions.

"So you catching up on your studies then? Rupert'll be pleasantly surprised."

Spike's eyes were open again and fixed on her. He nodded his head towards the chair where she had been sitting and, grateful for a topic of conversation, she fetched the book to show him. After studying the name on the cover, he scanned through the diary. Some of the entries held his interest for a moment and after reading a few, he shook his head smiling, before handing it back to her.

"Watcher had a way with words I'll give him that. Never met him, but I hear he went on to better things. Don at Oxford. Quite the authority on dark magicks. Red might have learned a thing or two from him."

"You knew him?"

"Like I said, never met the bloke, but knew his name. Just like I knew hers." Picking up the photograph he tucked it back amongst the pages. "Marie-Helen Lumiere. 19 when she was called, or so they say. Dead after less than a year."

She couldn't think why it had never occurred to her that Spike would have known. 1901 was his golden age; not that long after he had been sired by Drusilla and adopted by Angel and Darla. Not long after he'd killed his first Slayer and, as the realisation hit, she instinctively shrank back from him.

"Oh my God. Was she going to be next for you?"

Spike's expression clouded and he drew out the photograph again, turned it over to look at the woman on the other side.

"Supposed to be," he said softly and then dropped it back onto the sheet. His mouth hardened. "I was on a mission remember? Trouble was, in those days, travel took a mite longer and your lot have a habit of dying young."

"So she was dead before you got to Paris?"

Frowning, he nodded slightly; "Some other beastie got to her before I could. Made a right mess of her as well. I almost felt sorry for the little twig."

"A...mess? You saw her?"

Outside the storm had begun in earnest, rain pouring down in grey sheets and silent lightning suddenly illuminated his face. A deep roll of thunder sounded just seconds after.

"Yeah. I paid some creep to take me to her, had to see it with my own eyes after coming half way round the bloody world." He pursed his lips, remembering. "She was down in the sewers. Just thrown down in the dark like a little broken dolly. Whole chest was ripped out, ribs all broken up and sticking out like fucking teeth or something, but on her face she had this pretty little smile, like she was out walking in the sun." He frowned deeply, studying the backs of his fingernails. "Everyone and his dog had been to have a look at her of course, but no one had touched her. No one had taken her away. Reckon maybe they were all as freaked as I was by it."

Buffy realised that her hands were shaking and she squeezed them between her knees.

"You...I mean, did you find out what had killed her?"

He shook his head again and slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position,

"Nope. And I didn't stick around to find out either; whatever it was, it was big and fucking angry. Knew there'd be a new girl called soon enough anyway and..." He stopped - the words catching in his throat - and shot her a sideways look. "Sorry. That was a shitty thing to say."

She shrugged, "It was true."

"Yeah." His lips twitched in a smile, "Not any more though eh?"

"No. Not any more."

Slayers weren't called any more. They were just...born. Slayers like Marie-Helen, warriors who lived alone without family or love, were a thing of the past. She had changed all that.

But still, there was horror. Still there was death waiting for them all, its wide black jaws ready to spring shut, crushing bone and sinew. A Slayer had been murdered, her heart torn out and her body thrown away like garbage, like so many others before her. So many dead before their time. Was Marie the only one Carlo had done this to, or were there others? A long line of girls whose deaths no one had ever cared enough about to connect to each other?

Lost in her thoughts, she barely noticed how cold she had become until Spike's hand descended gently on her shoulder. Pulling the blanket from the bed, he draped it around her, the palm on her back hesitating for a moment before coming to rest there.

"You're shivering," he said.