Chapter 12

It was noon before the last of the cops left. Armande, the only one of the Institute's Watchers who Buffy knew reasonably well, fielded most of the questions. His face unshaven and eyes bleary from lack of sleep he stood, arms folded, in the centre of the main reception area repeating the standard cover story that they always used in times of crisis. The Institute was an exclusive training school for 'problem kids'. Yes, there were only fifteen students, all girls, they had only been open for a year. No, none of the girls' families lived in Rome, and no, no one had felt that a group of teenage girls were at risk alone in a house with only an elderly chaperone. Never turning his head to look toward Buffy, he patiently explained how the girls' tutor had been on an extended vacation for the last fortnight and that, as a result, the students had not been missed. No one had noticed their absence.

There were some questions in Italian - rapid fire - which Buffy couldn't catch, but from Dawn's horrified expression, she guessed that the details of their deaths were being discussed. Stumbling over her words, her sister started to translate for her, but after the first few sentences she had to ask her to stop. 'Throats slit open' were three words she would have preferred to live her whole life without ever hearing again.

"Mio dio. What kind of...creature could do this?"

Armande covered his face with his hands and, standing stiffly behind him, arms wrapped tight around her body, Buffy had felt a great weight settle on her chest. No one had asked her anything. There were no female Poliziotti and the hard-faced Roma detective had given her only the most cursory of interviews. Where had she been three nights ago when the murders had taken place? Had she known the girls well? Were there boyfriends? Male callers? Anyone who visited the Institute who might have meant the girls harm? When tears had started to her eyes the detective had closed his notebook and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"My apologies, Signorina, but we are very anxious to find the...animal who did this terrible thing."

After they had left, Armande had stood silently for a while, his back turned toward her. He had been one of the first members of the Council assigned to the Institute in Rome and, unlike many of his colleagues, had developed a close relationship with many of the girls. Although she barely knew him, Buffy remembered that he had always seemed especially fond of Elina. A tiny Romanian girl from a poor background, she'd had no family to speak of and Armande - who had lost a daughter to divorce - had seemed to take her under his wing.

Little Elina. So strange to think of her dead now. All of them. Caterina. Rosa. Gina. Little blonde Sophie. Big-voiced, redhead Annette. Mutinous Jan. All her girls. All dead. All fifteen neatly, cleanly, slit open and strung from the rafters of their bedrooms like butchered swine.

"You know who did this?"

Armande's voice was soft, steady and calm. Turning his body slightly towards her, he raised his eyebrows and, when she didn't immediately answer started to repeat the question.

"Do you know who..."

"No."

The distance between them was less than five metres, but she felt it widen impossibly. He knew about her involvement with The Immortal and had been one of the only people she knew in Rome who had warned her against him: "He is not what he seems, that much I know." She had told him to mind his own damn business and he had backed off. Shaken his head silently. He hadn't spoken to her much since then and now she could feel that the faint disapproval and suspicion that she had always sensed from the others coming from him. His eyes, already distant, clouded over like a winter sky, and after a second he glanced at his watch.

"I have to go", he said, and, with nothing but a brief glance in Dawn's direction, he left, slamming the front door behind him with a sound that resonated through the whole building.

Closing her eyes, Buffy took a deep breath and held it. The house was silent again now, only the ticking of the huge hall clock and the faint sound of water running upstairs. Her heart felt immense. Painful and clenched in her chest like a fist, its beat was like a slow, rhythmic pounding and, listening to the sound, she felt herself start to shake. Deep, uncontrollable tremors that shook her whole frame.

"Buffy."

Her sister's hand touched her side and, opening her eyes, she saw Dawn's face mirroring her own, huge-eyed and pale.

"It wasn't your fault."

Lifting her head, she looked toward the staircase. Spike had disappeared when the cops had arrived. The knowledge that he was the reason - if not the direct cause - for so many deaths was agonising for him and, equally as horrified, Buffy had felt neither the strength nor the ability to offer him comfort. Carlo had killed her friends to save Spike and, if he was right, it was all because of her. She had allowed a monster to believe that she could care for him, and it had cost fifteen innocent girls their lives.

"I'd better go get Andrew. He should be here with us."

She was aware of Dawn moving around her, fetching her purse, pulling on a coat, but it wasn't until she touched a hand to her arm again that she registered what her sister had said. Nodding, she tried to focus.

"Ok. Yeah. Probably a good idea." She reached a hand to her face, one touch. "Just get him and come straight back here ok. No going back to his place or ours."

"No stops. I promise. I'll be back in an hour."

After she left, Buffy walked to the downstairs bathroom and threw up. Retching painfully, long after her stomach was empty, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and forced herself to take deep breaths. The little room was silent, save for the rushing of water in the pipes from upstairs, and for a long while she knelt on the floor hugging herself in an effort to control the tremors in her body. The reality of what had happened was still circling her, like a vulture trying to find someplace to land, but for now she had to try and push it to the back of her mind.

Carlo was a thousand times more dangerous than she had ever imagined. He had killed fifteen Slayers, butchered them and taken their blood. The image of their naked bodies hanging single file through the centre of their dorm room was as vivid as if Buffy had seen it herself, but she shook it off. Tried to focus on the questions instead: if Carlo truly needed to take a Slayer's heart in order to live, to stay remain 'The Immortal', why hadn't he killed her already? And why had he killed fifteen of them almost as an aside? Why was it so important that the Slayer cared for him first?

Wiping her hands on the legs of her jeans, she got to her feet and walked over the sink to wash her face. The water was icy cold and she gulped it, trying to rinse the taste from her mouth. Giles would know soon. The Council's grapevine was still strong despite their depleted numbers, and when he did he would probably blame her. The girls were had been her responsibility and she had failed them all. She had told him that she was fine, that she could cope, that she could 'handle Carlo'. God, she hadn't even gotten round to telling him that Spike was back yet, and what did that little oversight say about their supposedly close relationship, she wondered.

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Spike? Are you in there?"

Standing outside the shower-room, Buffy bent her head to the door and listened. The sound of water running had continued unabated for the last hour and having finally gone in search of the vampire, she had tracked the source of the noise to one of the upstairs bathrooms. The solid wood door muffled any noises from inside, and leaning into it, she raised her voice.

"Spike?"

There was no answer and, trying the handle, she hesitated when she found it was unlocked. Through the narrow gap she'd opened a soft cloud of steam billowed out into the hallway, wreathing around her like mist. The sound of the shower was much louder now and, keeping her eyes averted, she stepped a little way into the room.

"Hey. Are you in here?"

A soft thud from behind the shower curtain brought her head round with a snap. Taking a step forward, she cleared her throat.

"Spike?"

Another soft thud, slightly louder than the last, brought her hand out to grasp the edge of the curtain. Pulling it back slightly, she started to speak,

"Hey...are you all r..."

Standing directly beneath the stream of scalding water, Spike's palms were laid flat against the tiles, his eyes closed. Blood was running freely from a deep cut on his forehead and, as she watched, it painted a thin red stripe down his cheek and along his chin. Reaching out his right hand slowly, he gripped the edge of the shower curtain with whitened knuckles and abruptly pulled it closed.

"Leave me alone."

His voice was impassive. Frozen in place, Buffy stared at the wet plastic sheet separating them. It was white, almost opaque, but the outline of Spike's body was still visible through it. The long curve of his back flexed, his head came back a fraction and then - the soft thud again. Knowing what made the sound now was unbearable.

"Please. Spike, stop it."

The words came out in a low whisper and, steadying herself, she stared at the wall he had created between them. He felt responsible for the girls' deaths in a way she couldn't even begin to imagine. Willingly or not, he had taken their lives. He had drunk their blood and it had made him whole again.

"It wasn't your fault. You can't blame yourself."

The next thud seemed louder. Gripping the edge of the sink, Buffy felt her jaw start to ache. The tension in her body was almost painful, the muscles pulled tight between her shoulder-blades.

"They died before I even found you, you know? He killed them before he found us at the stockyard. He had to have."

Even as she said it, she wondered at that. Carlo had come straight to them, with gallons of lifesaving Slayer's blood all ready for a rescue mission. He had known. Even before she had. He had known that Spike was dying and that blood from the Slayers would ensure his speedy recovery. And he had known because he had come to him in his dreams. Climbed into his head somehow, pinpointed his mind alone in that black nightmare of a box, and stolen inside. And when he'd left, he had taken something with him.

"You were right. I think he wanted to make sure it was over between us. And he wanted you to tell me to my face, so I could move on. With him. Feeding you their blood was just the quickest way to achieve that."

She drew a deep breath and held it. Spike was motionless, his head still resting where it had struck, but after a moment he drew it back and stood up straight.

"I said to leave me alone."

"I can't."

"Why the hell not?"

A deep-throated growl she almost felt in her bones reverberated around the room. Ripping back the curtain, the vampire threw himself towards her, scarlet blood from his wound coating his ridged face. His hands closed over her upper arms like talons, the fingers pressing deep into her flesh, but although the monster was terrible, a strange, deep calm came over her at the sight of him. A single, sudden realisation. Even wearing the face of a monster, he was still beautiful to her. The muscles in his neck elongated, straining back for the power that he would put into his bite and, reaching up, she laid a hand against them. Soft palm and small fingers curved around and, breathing out at last, she leaned into his grip and laid her head against him.

Spike felt frozen. His arms locked in position, feet still pushed forward as he stood motionless, her body small and slight against his. Sliding her arms slowly around his waist, Buffy lifted her face and looked directly into his eyes. Clear blue now, they looked back at her in disbelief.

"Because I'm in love with you."

And nothing changed. There was no sound or movement and, she couldn't help but think ironically, no great swell of orchestral music either. Her hands, spread wide on the small of his back, slid down to his hips and, leaning in again slowly, she kissed him. His lips felt the same, soft and cool at first and then warming under her own and, even though the kiss had been perfectly calculated, she still wasn't prepared for the emotions that enveloped her. Blood rushed to her temples, down to her knees, a heat building in her that left her breathless. Her lips on his, his skin under her hands. For so long she'd only remembered this in dreams, waking up with his smell fading from her, the memory of his weight on her, the feel of his body curved against her. And now he was real again. Alive as he had ever been and returning her kisses with a growing intensity.

"Buffy..."

The sound of his voice speaking her name sent a deep shiver through her. Spike's fingers were tangling in her hair, pulling her harder against him, his belly pressed against her own and she could feel her skin humming. Every inch of her was alive with sensation and longing for his touch. Reaching for one of his hands, she cupped it to her breast, pulled open the buttons of her shirt to slide it inside. His palm moulded to her, his thumb skating her stiffening nipple, and, unable to help herself, she moaned softly into his mouth.

"Oh...god..."

She could feel herself losing control. For the first time in forever, her emotions were overwhelming her, driving every rational thought from her head. That they were all in danger, that a formidable enemy had to be defeated, that people were dying, none of it mattered. All there was, was here and now. Spike's big, cool hand splayed over her breast and the feel of his hardening cock pressing against her.

"No...stop."

The words rose like a sob, choking out of him, and, as they did, he stumbled backwards against the shower curtain. The contrast of the vivid red blood that covered the left side of his face made his eyes burn like blue flame.

"This is..." He moved further back, reaching around behind him with blind hands. "We shouldn't do this. This is wrong. This is all wrong.".

His fingers closed on a towel and, wrapping himself with in it, he shot a look at her. It took a moment or two for her to realise that her blouse was still hanging open. The print of his hand was still there on her breast, the mark of his fingers, and, suddenly self-conscious, she fastened it.

"Look. Buffy. It's not you. It's me..."

He was looking down at the floor now, frowning, and it felt like cold water was rising up inside her. It's not you, it's me. Hadn't she said the same thing to him once? Excusing herself for, what was it? Beating him to a pulp in that alley? It's not you, it's me, Spike. I'm sorry, but I can never love you. His face as she'd said those words, it was something she'd almost forgotten. So much had changed since then. So many other conversations. But now she got it. She understood at last. How it felt to offer someone your heart, wanting them with everything you were, and to have it rejected. Her lip trembled, hot tears spilling from her eyes without warning. Oh god, and she'd let him make love to her while he'd felt like this.

"It's ok." She managed to fumble out the words somehow, although her voice didn't sound like her own. "It's...you're right. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

His face was still turned away, pained, and she wanted to run now. Somewhere where she wouldn't have to look at him not wanting her. Turning her back on him, she opened the door.

"When Dawn gets back, I'll decide where it goes from here, okay?"

"Right." He sounded subdued, a little ashamed even. "You got it all figured out then? We just going to go in all guns blazing and see just how immortal he really is?"

She had the retort all ready, something about maybe axes rather than guns and seeing if he could still live forever without a head, but it just died on her tongue when as she realised what Spike had just said. Turning to face him again, she held her breath for a moment. He was standing at the sink now, a balled-up washcloth in his hands and, as she watched, slowly began cleaning the blood from his face.

"We? I don't..." she hesitated as he slid his eyes sideways to look at her, "I mean...do you feel strong enough?"

"Bastard healed me, didn't he? Well, he's going to regret that for starters. Besides, when have you known me to back away from a fight?"

"Never?"

"Never."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips and briefly echoing it, he turned his attention back to the the sink. After a beat, she stepped out into the corridor and closed the door.

oooooooooooooooooooo

Looking around at the four of them seated around the low table in her study, Buffy couldn't help but wonder at the skewed familiarity of the scene. Her head buried in a book, Dawn was frowning deeply and making notes in the margins with a pencil, whilst Andrew sat at her feet with the laptop on his knees. At the table, Spike had laid out the contents of the Council's file on Carlo and was busy reading through the profile that Giles had prepared for her so many months before. If she changed their hair colours and blurred her eyes a little, she could almost believe she was looking at an old-fashioned Scooby meeting.

Raising his head from the screen, Andrew smiled crookedly at her. His face was even paler than usual, still processing the shock of losing so many close friends, but he was really trying. Working hard at being the valuable Scooby member he'd always wanted to be to them.

"There's a theory coming together on the Slayers' forum that you might be interested in."

"What?"

"Someone in Belize thinks Wolfram & Hart are actually being controlled by President Bush; 'he is now one of only two surviving members of The Black Thorn circle' " Narrowing his eyes, he looked over at Spike, "What's The Black Thorn circle?"

Ignoring him, Spike pulled a picture out from the pile and studied it intently. After a moment, he looked up.

"You didn't see this before?"

He slid it over to Buffy and she nodded. It was the 50s shot; sharp-suited and slick-haired Carlo was the centre of attention. Crowds of people in a smoky nightclub thronged around him and a dark-haired lovely hung on his arm, mouth wide and laughing. The scene was flash-lit, everyone's teeth white and gleaming.

"Yeah. I'm guessing that was his gangster-chic period."

"Not that...that." Stabbing a finger to the wall behind Carlo, he pointed at the shadows created by the flash-bulb. "Notice anything unusual?"

Following his line of sight, her eyes widened. The Immortal's companion cast a perfect silhouette, as did the taller man on his right, but, in between them, what should have been the shadow of a man was something else. A bulging neck rose from low-set shoulders and, from either side of his head something branched out, confused shapes mixed with the lines of light-fittings and drapes.

"Are those...?"

"Horns?"

Studying it for a moment longer, Buffy dropped the picture back on the table. "It could just be the lighting."

"Could be." Spike eyed her warily, "Could also mean the mysteriously immortal Immortal isn't exactly what he appears to be. Which would seem to follow, don't you think?"

Andrew cleared his throat.

"Uh...in some ancient religions they believed that if a person was posessed by a spirit or demon, their shadow was the one thing that would show their true nature."

"Well, we know he isn't human right?" Dawn closed her book, marking her place with a finger. "But supposedly he was, I mean that's what everyone says, although no one seems to know exactly when he...stopped being."

"Sometime around seven hundred years ago I guess." Andrew shrugged, "At least that's the 'popular theory'."

"And what's the unpopular one?"

"That he's way older and just covers it up well."

Spreading the photographs out again, Buffy found the earliest. Taken in the early 1900s, Carlo didn't look any different from the first day she'd met him. His eyes were perfectly clear and dark, a slight smile on his face. If she'd been asked to guess, she'd have put him at 30, maybe 35 at the most.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would he cover it up?" Looking from one face to another, she finally settled on Spike's. "I thought demons liked people knowing their age? Isn't it like...a status thing?"

"Usually, yeah." Rubbing a hand through his hair, the vampire frowned. "Most of the young 'uns tack on a hundred years or so, makes them feel like tough guys, you know?" He shook his head, "But, no, I never heard of one saying he was younger than he was."

"So why would he?"

Dawn pursed her lips, "To cover something up? Who or what he really is, maybe?"

The silence settled over them all like a heavy blanket and when finally the phone started to ring, it took Buffy a moment or two to realise what the sound was. Walking over to her desk, she picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Buffy!" Giles' voice filled the earpiece, full of barely controlled anxiety, "Are you all right? I've just had a call from Armande Giannattasio. He said that something had happened, that the girls had all been in some kind of accident?"

"Not an accident, Giles. They were murdered."

"Murdered? My god...by who? By w...?"

The sentence hung unfinished between them and, bowing her head, Buffy twisted the cord tightly through her fingers. He had to hate her now. His warnings had been clear right from the start, but she had chosen to ignore them, to ignore him, and now fifteen innocent girls were dead as a result.

"The Immortal." He answered for her, the words hollow-sounding and far away. Clearing his throat, he drew a deep ragged breath. "For their hearts?"

"No. Seems like mine is the only one he wants."

"He's isolating you, Buffy. He's chosen you." The tone of his voice changed suddenly. "Are Dawn and Andrew there?"

"Yes."

"Then put me on speaker, please."

She did as she was told. Moving the phone to the table between them, she dropped back into her seat and hugged her knees.

"Dawn? Andrew? Are you both alright?"

His voice sounded so clear, as if he was there with them and, leaning forward, Dawn answered him.

"We're both fine." Glancing at Buffy, she smiled weakly, "Just a bit shaken up is all."

"All right then. I want you all to listen to me."

A rustle of papers at the other end, and she could almost hear him pulling himself together. Giles was always so good at this part, pushing the emotions to the side, dealing with the problem in front of them. For so long she'd misunderstood, angry and resentful that he seemed able to just switch off, but now she envied him.

"I did as you asked, Buffy. Records are pretty fragmented on the subject of Slayer's deaths, as we've said before, but I managed to find at least three other cases in which Slayers were found with their hearts removed. The last was during the late 1600s. A Slayer in Spain, who had become estranged from the Council, was found...'eviscerated - her heart cleanly removed'. Witnesses interviewed at the time reported that she was often in the company of a man known locally as 'El Viejo' - The Old One."

There was a pause before he continued.

"The next is a little more vague I'm afraid. In 1390 a Slayer in Russia is said to have been canonised, after the peasant who found her slain body was cured of his blindness. There's not a great deal of information on the means of her death, but after a detailed study of her preserved remains by a colleague of mine in the mid 80s, it was surmised that her heart had been torn from her chest by hand."

Russia, over six hundred years ago. Shaking her head, Buffy tried to imagine what it must be like to have lived for so long. For Carlo to have killed with impunity for so long, he had to be a creature of incredible cunning.

"Could she have been the first, Giles?"

"That was my first thought too, but you said not to limit ourselves so any particular timeframe, so I kept looking. I cross-referenced all the legends and folk-tales we have on The Immortal with our database of information on the history of the Slayers and came back with one more match." He paused again, clearing his throat as if he knew what he was about to tell them seemed unbelievable. "In the late 1800s, an Oxford scholar attached to the Council of Watchers presented a hypothesis that The Immortal was in fact the living embodiment of a powerful demon, worshipped as a god by the people of ancient Carthage. His paper was widely ridiculed at the time, as he presented no real evidence to support his theory, and he was later committed to a mental institution when he attested that the The Immortal had somehow 'invaded his mind'."

Shooting a look at Spike, Buffy raised her eyebrows. "Is that possible do you think?"

"That he possesses the power to enter minds? Certainly. Telepathic demons are rare, but their abilities have been demonstrated even over great distances."

"Actually, I meant the part about the demon. Could Carlo really be this...thing from Carthage?"

"Mol'ech."

Leaning forward in interest, Andrew nodded his head in recognition.

"Mol'ech was pretty much super-evil. Big on the ol' child sacrifices. Real popular with the Phoenicians. Had them barbecuing their first born like it was going out of fashion. Then things went kinds sour during that whole Carthage thing and people stopped believing he could deliver."

Giles' voice continued, "The match I found was part of an original legend of the Slayers. Many of the ancient stories were part of the oral tradition, so were never given a great deal of credence by the Council, but this one had survived in a number of different languages with little variation."

"During the final days of the third Punic War, a Slayer known as Similce was amongst the last of the Cartheginians to submit to the Roman invasion. Organising a small army and manufacturing their own weapons, she defended a stronghold within the city for almost five days, praying to the God Mo'lech that they would be delivered. As Andrew rightly says, it was the custom of the time that children be sacrificed in return for the Gods' favours, and Similce was so convinced of her vocation that she offered her own son's life in return for their victory."

A flash of red-gold flame and a small, dark-eyed face pleading with her. Familiar dark eyes. Wide and black and looking straight into her soul.

Mama please...I don't want to die! Please, don't let me die!"

"But when the Roman forces finally broke through their defences, they found her dead. Rather than be sacrificed, her own child had torn out his Mother's heart."

The air felt thick and suffocating. Holding her head in hands, Buffy struggled to control the images that flooded through her: fire and children screaming and a feeling of total loss, that she had failed someone. And something else. A vague sense of recognition. Something strangely familiar about that small figure framed by the dancing flames.

"It was Carlo. He was her son."

"That was my assumption too. Although it seems quite incredible. If he truly is the son of Similce, that would make his age..."

From his seat opposite, Spike was staring at her, his eyes wide with incredulous disbelief. She knew he'd already worked it out as well, but, as she finished Giles' sentence, his expression was still every bit as horrified as hers was.

"...that would make his age well over two thousand years old."