Chapter 11

This time when she dreamt, she knew who she was immediately.

Spread with thick, pendulous black clouds, the sky above her head was the colour of fresh arterial blood. Smoke hung in the air like an acrid veil, the unmistakable smell of charring flesh and hair and all around her the dark shapes of people stood or knelt or lay on the ground, eyes glittering, pale, drawn faces turned towards her. Always turned towards her. Asking her to help them. Praying for her to deliver them. This world was one she knew only too well. In this world, she was The Slayer.

It felt so real. Smelt so real. Everything was hard and sharp and raw-edged and charged with emotion. Distant fire had turned the horizon a vivid orange and, reaching a hand to her head, she was horrified to find her scalp a mess of short, alien tufts. Her hair had been cut down almost to the roots.

"Mama!"

From somewhere out of sight, a child's voice crying out brought a feeling of rising panic and, pain suddenly forgotten, she turned wildly from side to side. The voice drew something from her, a nameless wild fear. Her child, it was her own child calling out to her. Where was her son? Opening her mouth, a name tumbled out of her.

"Kand'aulo?"

Hands reached for her but she threw them off, pushing the crowds aside. Across a courtyard painted with dancing fire-shadows stood the figure of a horned creature, its arms outstretched, and at its feet a small dark-eyed shape struggled, pinned on his back, his arms held to his sides.

"Mama! Help me!"

One thought now, thrashing like a crazed animal in her chest; not him, please no, not him, take one of the others but still her words stuck, lodged like stones, her gaze resting on the two that held him. Their upturned faces were full of sadness, full of angry despair. She knew these people. They were her friends. Her neighbours. Their children had already been given. Hers was the last.

Clutching at her throat with her hand, she saw his eyes widen, black and shining with fear in his small heart-shaped face. He knew what she knew now.

"Mama, no..."

"I'm sorry..."

The words slipped out in a whisper and she dropped to her knees, covering her ears with her hands. She could hear his struggles, the sound of his sandaled feet as the dug into the dirt, his screams of terror. The low, deep roar of the fire as it was banked to an inferno.

"No...don't! Mama please...I don't want to die! Please, don't let me die!"

I'm so sorry.

"No!"

The child's final ear-splitting scream woke her and suddenly she was alone in the darkness, arms still wrapped tightly around her head, her whole body balled into a rigid fist. Jesus. Confusing, semi-prophetic visions were one thing, but child sacrifices? To creepy bull-headed demons? Whatever happened to dreams about being naked in front of class? Or her dad telling her she was fat? Forcing herself to breathe more deeply, she opened her eyes. Dark and cool, the vaulted high ceiling above her was almost lost in dim shadow and the only light coming into the room seemed to be from a window far over to her left. Pale, silver-blue moonlight. Was it nighttime then? When had nighttime come? And where the hell was she anyway?

Lifting her head, she winced as her skin peeled painfully from the surface it had been resting on. Leather. What the hell had possessed her to go to sleep in a leather chair? She grimaced as the memory slowly came back to her, rolling her head to one side. Across the room, Spike lay with his back to her on the bed, one pale hand resting on his shoulder. Oh yeah. That was it. Things had been going fine, they talked for a while, had even seemed to be getting somewhere and then he'd suggested maybe it 'wasn't such a good idea if they shared a bed'. She'd agreed with him of course, acted like nothing could have been further from her mind, but then for some dumb reason she'd decided to bed down in a freaking armchair rather than share a cot with Dawn downstairs.

The blanket she'd wrapped round herself had gotten twisted round her thighs, cutting off the blood in her legs and, slowly unfolding, she hissed softly as the sensation returned to them. Rubbed at the welts behind her knees where her jeans had cut in.

"Spike?"

Her whisper sounded ridiculously loud, but there was no reaction. Getting up and padding over to the side of his bed, she put a hand out to wake him before hesitating. His face was so serious, brows drawn together in dark angles above shadowed eyelids, his mouth a straight firm line. As she watched, the frown deepened, eyes moving to view some silent inner-drama. Was he dreaming of her? Arguing with her even in his sleep? His lips twitched, the faintest of smiles and, smiling with him, she sat down on the corner of the mattress.

How was it she had managed to put all this from her mind? Every memory of his body, his perfect cool smell, she had cut out of herself; a big jagged hole in the fabric of Buffy. Last year, when she'd finally accepted he was gone, it seemed the only way she could hope to move on. The only way she knew how. And then Carlo had come to fill the hole and, even though she knew he could never hope to fit, she had let him try. She had even worried about it, worried that she might be leading him on, and that thought had only made her try harder, convincing herself as well as him that she was ready for love again.

Turning over in his sleep, Spike snorted softly, drawing a hand across his stomach. His face was just inches from her hand now and, unable to stop herself, she lowered her head onto the pillow beside him, brought her legs up so she was lying full length beside him. The curls at the base of his neck were darker than they had been before, the length a little messier, but that was the only difference. The curve of his neck was the same, the same angled muscles in his shoulders, the same hollow at the base of his throat that fluttered as he slept. Nothing had changed on the outside at all. It was only on the inside that he was different.

Carlo had taken his love for her. That much seemed obvious now and, although the exactly how was still a mystery, she thought she was beginning to understand the why. Ever since she'd found out Spike was still alive, the knowledge that he might eventually return to her had been like a tiny fire in her belly. Sure, she'd tried to ignore it at first, tell herself that it made no difference to her new life, but late at night it had woken her from her sleep, heart pounding with the expectation of what could still be. Finding out Spike was still alive was like finding out Santa Claus really existed and the life she had made for herself, the man she had filled it with, had lost all colour almost overnight.

The Immortal needed her heart, a Slayer's heart, and although she'd really wanted to believe that was some kind of creepy symbolism, Marie-Helen's story had seemed to suggest otherwise. He needed the heart of a Slayer who cared for him, and her ex-lover's reappearance on the scene couldn't have come at a worse time. At the haulage yard she had been convinced that he had come there to kill Spike, but now she wondered if taking the vampire's feelings for her had been the plan all along. She'd turned to Carlo once before when her heart had been broken, so why not a second time?

Downstairs in the hallway, a clock chimed softly five times and, taking a last long look at Spike's sleeping face, she drew herself up into a sitting position and pulled a hand backwards through her tangled hair. All the parts of the puzzle were there, she just needed someone way smarter than she was to put them together. And preferably sometime before she ended up in a sewer with her chest torn open.

oooooooooo

"Giles, it's me. Did I wake you?"

A soft sigh and the faint rustle of bed sheets gave her her answer and she grimaced, glancing at the clock on her desktop. Four-forty. Did that mean it was five-forty in England or three-forty? She could never remember which way the hour went.

"Buffy, it's a quarter to four in the morning. This had better be urgent."

"Sorry. And it is. I mean, I think it is. I may have found something out about Carlo."

"The Immortal?"

"The Immortal. Right."

She thought she could hear him reaching for his glasses, as if having them on improved his hearing or something. The thought almost made her smile, until she remembered what she was about to tell him.

"You know that letter you sent me along with his file..."

"You mean you actually read it?"

"Eventually. Anyway, you mentioned something about him being involved with other Slayers before."

There was a momentary pause on the other end of the line and then the faint click of a switch being turned on. Knowing the layout of his room, she guessed it was the bedside light. She could imagine his expression perfectly; curious, possibly frowning a little. Wondering why, after all his dire warnings, she was finally bothering to ask a few questions.

"There have been rumours. Not a lot of evidence to support them, granted..." He cleared his throat and she could feel him trying to hold back from asking the question. "Why? Have you discovered something to the contrary?"

"You know I haven't."

Her little office room at the Institute was cloaked in darkness, but in the glass doors of the bookcase opposite she could see her own pale reflection.

"I think he killed Marie Lumiere." Saying it out loud at last felt strangely final and she paused, waiting for a reaction. On the other end of the line though, there was only silence. "Did you know that he was seeing her? When she disappeared, I mean?"

"If I'd known for certain, do you honestly believe I wouldn't have told you?"

"But you thought he might have been. You sent me her picture."

"A suspicion and a fact are very different things."

"Giles..."

"Buffy," a deep sigh, "Can you honestly tell me that if I'd presented you with the facts as I know them, that you wouldn't have dismissed them entirely?"

It was hard to put herself back into that person, but grudgingly she had to admit he was probably right. She had been pretty much head-over-heels during those first few weeks.

"I don't know. Maybe I would have…"

"You would have done exactly as you pleased. Just as you always do." Although spoken forcefully, Giles' words were tempered with affection. "I knew from the first time you spoke about him that it was pointless trying to convince you. I had to hope you'd find out for yourself the sort of creature he truly is."

"And if I hadn't?"

"I knew you would. Eventually."

God. How was it he still had so much faith in her? Despite herself, Buffy laughed and after a second she heard him do the same, a low, wry sound that made her suddenly feel homesick. Made her long to have him next door or across town, somewhere she could get to easily when she needed him. Closing her eyes, she tried to pretend that he was.

"Giles. I need you to find out something for me. Only I'm not sure how you're going to do it."

"Let me worry about that."

His warm, fatherly tone made it that much harder to ask the question she had to next.

"I need to know how many Slayers have been killed by having their hearts torn out."

"Their..."

The word echoed back at her faintly and she frowned as she realised how bad that had to sound.

"Hearts, yeah. Torn out. By demons or...things unknown."

"...Alright." The slight unsteadiness in his voice was partially masked by the sounds of his search for pen and paper. Clearing his throat again, he tired to assume an air of professional calm, "Within what time frame exactly?"

"I'm not sure. How far do the Council's records go back?"

"What's left of them...not far. But I have other sources. My own library of journals, and Phillip Robson still has a fairly extensive..."

"Just let me know when you've found something."

"It may take a day or so." There was another long pause and she waited patiently for the words she knew had to come. "Buffy, if you're in trouble at all..."

"It's ok." She couldn't help noticing how much surer of herself she sounded than she felt. "I can handle it."

"I suppose it's pointless asking you to be careful?"

"Totally." Her voice softened, "But I'll try."

Dropping the receiver back into its cradle, she stared at it silently for a while, her head resting in her hands. Was it wrong that she'd secretly wanted to accept his help? Something about a fight to the death with Carlo filled with foreboding. He knew her weaknesses intimately as well as her strengths and, if his motives really were as dark as she thought they were, she was at a distinct disadvantage.

oooooooooo

"I mean, all I really know about him is that he's over 700 years old, and has a serious problem with strong women."

"Serious problem."

The Institute's kitchen was a fairly big room, originally intended for a much larger household than just the two or three students that didn't live permanently at the communal house in Barberini. Even so Buffy couldn't help noticing that Dawn's breakfast preparations had managed to dirty pretty much every available surface in it. Having transferred a piece of hot, maple-syrup-covered heaven to her mouth though, she had to admit that any amount of mess was probably worth it. Seeing Dawn awake and mobile before ten was a rarity in itself, but dressed and making pancakes at six a.m had to be a first.

"Good?"

"Mmfgud."

"I whipped in a little honey and cinnamon with the buttermilk." Grinning widely, her sister dropped another spoonful of batter onto the skillet. "I think I'll make them my signature dish. Maybe whip up a batch for the others when we start training again. Fist food." Turning on her sharply, she narrowed her eyes. "That is going to be soon, right?"

"Soon, I promise."

"'Cause they're all going crazy with boredom you know? Rosa's even started knitting."

"They can train without me."

"'Buffy, you know they look up to you. And besides, we're going to need back-up if this thing goes down. You know that right?"

"'Goes down'? What are we, 'Goodfellas'?"

"We're an army, remember? One for all and all that...merda." She flipped the last of the cakes and turned off the stove. "No more going it alone, ok?"

"Yes, Mom."

Sliding the two last cakes off onto her plate, Dawn took a place opposite her at the table.

"So Giles is going to call back?"

"He said tomorrow."

"What d'you think he'll find?"

"I'm not sure." Folding another cake in half, Buffy frowned, "Nothing I hope. I just have this feeling, you know? That Marie-Helen wasn't the first. And that doctor at the hospital? The yellow one? He said 'the others'. What else could that mean?"

"But...why?"

"Why what?"

"Why does he need hearts? And why did he pretend to like you for so long if all he wanted to do was rip your guts out?"

With her mouth full of pancake, all Buffy could do was shrug. Dawn poured herself a glass of milk. Downing it in one, she threw back her hair with a shake of her head.

"And why does it have to be a Slayer's heart anyway? What's wrong with just regular hearts?"

"Slayer's blood's special, that's why."

Spike's voice coming from the doorway started her almost out of her skin. Dropping her knife onto her plate with a clatter, she stared at him open-mouthed. In the cool morning light his skin was milk-white and his hair and torso wet with perspiration.

"Oh my g...! How the hell...how are you... walking ?"

"Got a theory about that."

Leaning heavily against the doorframe, his body was shaking. He stared down at his legs and frowned deeply.

"Just put my feet on the floor to see how it felt and..." he shook his head, "Doesn't make any bloody sense. I should have been laid up for weeks."

Edging forward, he steadied himself on the edge of the stove before drawing upright. The sight of the muscle in his forearm pulled Buffy's eyes to it like magnet. Standing out from the flesh, it looked like corded iron.

"Last time I was crippled it was a month before I was right. Weeks after that before I could trust my legs. This time...a few days. There's no other way I can explain it."

"What are you talking about?"

Spike's head went down, his expression unreadable and, unable to just sit and watch any longer, Buffy moved toward him. As her hand touched his shoulder he flinched away as if burned.

"Don't!"

He almost shouted, such horror and anger in his voice and, starting backwards, she felt her heart lurch. Why was he so angry with her? His eyes radiated pain, every angle of his body so rigid with it he was almost trembling.

"Just...don't touch me alright?" He was breathing deeply now, trying to regain his control. "What you were saying before. He wants your heart because it's special. A Slayer's heart pumps a Slayer's blood. Stands to reason it would have the same power."

Still shaken by his outburst, Buffy had to concentrate on his words before she could begin to understand them.

"He needs it to... heal himself ?"

"Heal whatever's wrong with him, yeah. Needs it to carry on living."

Out in the hallway the phone started to ring and the sound was like a pressure valve on their emotions. Two rings, three, four and then Dawn started to move, her face wary and apologetic as she passed between them. Stepping through the door, she glanced back at them before disappearing.

"I better...get that. It could be Giles."

Spike's face was turned away from her now. Staring down at his legs, he mashed down his fist on the counter top.

"Spike, what is it?"

"He needed me out of the way."

He half laughed, but the sound was empty and hollow. A moment passed before he looked up at her again.

"Knew he couldn't kill me. That wouldn't work. Took how I felt about you, but he knew he had to have me gone didn't he? Knew the sooner I was out of your life, the sooner you'd go back with him. Sooner he could get on with making you his."

"So...what? He healed you? Is that what you're saying?"

Incredulous, Buffy stepped towards him again but he moved backwards.

"That blood he fed me, in the ambulance, at the hospital. That blood they fucking bathed me in..." He closed his eyes at that, his jaw clenching. "That's what did this to me. That's how I can walk already."

She'd been there for almost a minute when Dawn's still, silent figure in the doorway finally drew her attention. Her sister's face was a drift of snow, pale and crystalline, but it was her hands that Buffy noticed first. Half-open as if something had been torn out of them and hanging limply at her sides. She started speaking.

"They're all dead." Her voice was tiny and soft, the voice of a troubled eight year old. "The girls. Andrew called at the house on his way here to borrow...Rosa's spell book and the police were there. They're all dead. Everyone."