Harnessing Sunlight

Part Seven, Figments

Buffy tosses Spike a gun and a knife, sheathing the knife into the belt at her waist and pocketing two boxes of bullets. Spike snags the remaining boxes, and he slaps the protein bar into her hand.

"Take this."

Strapping on her wrist computer, Buffy stares at the bar. "I'm not hungry."

"We don't have time to debate this, Buffy." She gives him a look. "Just in case."

He's right. "Okay."

Without another word, they escape their prison.

The world is shrouded in quiet shadows.

Buffy guides the blue light from her computer in front of them to illuminate their surroundings.

A long, empty hallway stretches before them.

Gripping the handle of her weapon, she and Spike exchange a silent nod and set off at a cautious lope. She is their sight to the front, and he has their back, checking to make certain they aren't being followed.

At each intersection that's free of demons, she makes the decision to keep moving along a straight path, and within seconds, they reach a door. She tries the handle.

The door opens.

Buffy glances at Spike, who cocks an eyebrow at her. He keeps a lookout as she cautiously pokes her head across the threshold.

The sound of rain thrusts past the thrum of the blood pounding in her ears. The tiny light doesn't penetrate far into the crisp downpour. How the hell are they supposed to make it out of the city in five minutes?

"We're screwed," she says more loudly than she intended. "I can't see a thing! There's no way we can make it out of a city this size in five minutes. Couldn't you have negotiated for a longer amount of time with Dru? And where are we anyway?"

"We're in the castle, pet," he replies, nudging her into the water. "Dru won't send anyone after us for five minutes. Just go. I can lead the way."

"Castle? They brought us to the castle?" she murmurs, blinking away the liquid splashing onto her eyelids. Her scalp prickles as water begins to coat her skin and drench her clothes.

She remembers the castle from her trip to Prague with Giles. The view had been spectacular. . . the sprawling city a radiant splash of color at the feet of the giant palace. Granted, some of the buildings were dark with age and the lingering vice grip of communism, but there had been some liveliness about it. Giles had called it a bit of living history. They hadn't had time for a tour, and there wasn't much she recalled from their drive by visit, but the castle and the village-esque neighborhood on the hill. . . she would never forget that. There had been so many people bustling about. . . tourists, workers, natives. . . and more restaurants and tucked-away gardens than she could count.

Now she isn't sure she wants to bear witness to the dead husk of the once vibrant old town around the castle. In some ways, she's almost grateful for the precipitation.

Spike caresses her shoulder as he slips past her into the darkness. He probably remembers so much more from his time here with Dru.

Should she trust him to lead her through this? She doesn't take long to question. She doesn't have much of a choice.

The water splashes in sheets over her legs as she runs behind him. The area around the castle appears abandoned as Dru promised.

Lightning flashes in dazzling electric streaks against the grey clouds, bathing the nearby buildings in white light. Buffy glimpses silhouettes of hulking figures in the shadows over the hill. Like giant statues, they stand armed and unmoving. . . demons and vampires watching the two foreigners and waiting for precious seconds to tick past. Thunder booms like warning drums signaling an upcoming battle.

She resists the urge to aim her gun and fire.

Must save ammunition.

Everything goes black again for several heartbeats, and all she can hear over the rain are the sound of her boots echoing in time with Spike's and the steady in and out of her breathing.

They round a corner of the castle, and Spike stops short as a single shaft of lightning drives sharply into the ground at his feet. Unable to halt her forward momentum, she catches herself on Spike's chest and shrieks at the sharp crack of thunder. He grunts and bends inward in a stifled cry of pain.

She holds the computer's miniscule light up to his face, wiping away the rain from her eyes with the back of her gun-filled hand. "You okay?"

Touching the damaged side of his ribcage, she watches him close his sapphire eyes. He clenches his jaw as he packs away the hurt.

Then, he manages to nod his assent.

Lightning flashes again. . . this time directly behind them.

"What the hell?" she growls, scampering forward and holding onto Spike's arm. He moves with her but slower than he had been.

Another bolt streaks from the clouds two feet to their left. Then, another and another.

Buffy breaks into a trot and then a full on run, dodging the electricity and aiding her wounded partner.

Spike tries to speak. . . to tell her something, but no sound passes through his lips.

And before Buffy realizes where she's going, a hulking, black structure looms before them. The storm's light flashes off the soaring towers, and she gapes at the monstrosity.

She barely hears Spike's words close to her ear, "St. Vitus Cathedral, pet."

Thunder booms, and before she thinks about it, she races forward, tugs on the door, and enters the place of worship.

As the large door slides softly shut behind her, the air brushes over her wet skin in warm, dry drafts, and she leaves Spike's side, advancing into the main sanctuary. Her footsteps echo in the vast space.

Candles cast a red-orange glow throughout the bowels of the spacious place of refuge, tiny flames flickering in a rainbow of colors over the largest stained glass windows that Buffy's ever seen. . . not that she's been in many cathedrals and churches. The ceiling bows up in an arch that seems to reach almost to heaven, and the pews are lined up like dominos all the way to the altar. Jasmine and vanilla-scented incense fills her nose, and in her mind's eye, she's taken back to hours spent in the Magic Box with Giles, Willow, and Xander. For the first time on this mission, she feels safe, and the ever-present tension in her muscles dissipates.

"They wanted us here. We have to keep moving, love." Spike's low voice reaches her ears, and she feels his cool fingers on her forearm, but she ignores his words, switching off her computer light.

She spies a tiny figure hunched on the floor near the altar. "There's someone in here."

Spike follows her gaze, but his eyes detect no one. "Buffy. . . five minutes. . . less than. . ."

"It's a child, Spike. And did you see all those demons out there? There are too many to run past in five minutes. We can regroup here, and maybe help someone out," she says, not removing her eyes from the small quivering form. Her feet seem to be automatically moving her toward the front of the cathedral.

Spike's ribs feel as if they're on fire, but he hurries after Buffy anyway, using the pews as support. Persistent bint doesn't know what she's getting herself into.

When she reaches the child, she tucks her gun in her belt, squats, and places a hand on the child's blanket-covered shoulder blade. She's heard stories of humans trapped above ground and used by demons for food, torture. . . whatever other horrors her mind is good at imagining.

But this is the first time she's encountered a child.

"Hey," she whispers, her lips trying to form a smile of reassurance.

The child. . . a boy peers up at her with a hollow look in his huge brown eyes, his fair cheeks streaked with dirt and crusted blood, his light brown hair tousled. He stares at her as if he isn't sure if she's real. She strokes his back to slow his shaking.

"It's okay. I," she pauses, "we're not going to hurt you. Can you tell us what happened to you?"

Senses on hyper-alert, Spike hovers behind Buffy. Something's not right, and he isn't sure what it is.

The boy smiles then.

And then, the smile turns into a grin.

And the grin turns to laughter. . . a high-pitched, alien sound that grates against Buffy's eardrums.

She removes her hand from the form and falls back a little, barely catching herself. Spike grips her arm with both of his and hauls her to her feet as they both watch with growing horror.

The boy's teeth elongate first. Then, the rest of him shifts and contorts. . . arms and legs grow long and muscular. Fingers and bare toes are capped with dark red talons. His skin stretches taut over an angular, hard torso. Hair twists into a crown of tiny black thorn-like horns, and the worn blanket is incorporated and stretched into shredded black wings that flutter like morbid butterflies.

The candle flames glimmer and dance in time with the creature's motions, and the essence of jasmine and vanilla shifts to raw cinnamon, stinging Buffy's nostrils.

"What are you?" Buffy demands with more confidence that she has, planting her feet on solid ground and drawing the silver knife from her belt.

"Guesssss," it hisses, a forked tongue slipping between thin indigo lips, scarlet eyes glittering in amusement.

She toys with the tip of the knife, studying the blade thoughtfully. "Let's see. You're corporeal, so you're not the First." One corner of her mouth quirks, and she covers her fear with long unused humor. "And you're not red and don't have two giant horns, so you're not Satan. . . although I've never actually met Satan." She looks up at the ceiling. "And I would guess that Satan wouldn't exactly find being in a cathedral a pleasant experience."

The creature cackles and swings an arm, batting Buffy away like swatting a fly. She crashes into a nearby pew, breaking the bench and cracking her head and shoulder on the seat. "I wasssn't talking to you."

Grimacing at the pain in his chest, Spike whips up his gun and fires the weapon left-handed. Round after round enters the creature, and it only smiles wider.

"Bits of wood and metal don't kill me." It towers over Spike and runs a talon under his chin, tilting his head up. "You ssstill don't know who. . . what I am."

"No. I don't know." Spike leans back on the pew behind him and brings his legs up, slamming them into the creature's abdomen, sending it stumbling back. "And I don't like you touching me." He moves to stand in front of the still groggy Slayer, holstering his gun. "Why don't you try telling me who the hell you are? I never was much one for guessing games."

The creature paces in front of Spike, wings flapping. "I could kill you in a sssecond, vampire."

"And yet, you're gonna talk first." Spike unsheathes his knife, never removing his eyes from the creature.

"You lossst the final battle. . . you lossst the surface, but ssstill you persssissst."

Spike shrugs. "What can I say? I'm like a cockroach. . . only without the flying. I take a lickin' and keep on tickin'."

"We have been looking for you sssince that time. We need the anssswer to a quessstion." The creature stops, spreads its wings to their full span, and asks, "How did William the Bloody, a half-breed demon, sssurvive the final battle? No one ssshould have. The othersss of your team did not."

Buffy stirs at Spike's feet, turning her head to hear and pulling her legs up under her. Spike pretends to ignore her movement, drawing connections in his mind.

"Ohhhh. So, you're a member of. . ." Spike points his right index finger at the creature as if the action will elicit what he's trying to say, "the Senior Partners!"

The creature chuckles, and Spike is grateful that the sound doesn't erupt into full laughter. "Hardly. I am merely their represssentative. . . a ssshifter. . . here to oversssee a little portion of world for them. How wasss I to know that you, the one we have sssought would turn up in my sssector?"

With slow movements designed to go unnoticed by the shifter, Buffy pushes pat the excruciating pain in her head to take action in the shadowy background, stretching first one leg and then another. Her left shoulder aches, but she uses her right arm to pull her torso forward, aiming for a position behind the creature and within Spike's line of vision.

Spike narrows his eyes. "And Dru?"

The scent changes again. . . back to vanilla and jasmine, and in an instant, Drusilla stands before him, her arms floating where the creature's wings had been. Her eyes are dark with lust. "She is not here. Only me. And after the time we spent together, I think I know the answer to our question. It's quite obvious really."

As Buffy uses the shifter's transformation as a chance to get into position, Spike's impatience mounts, "And that is?"

The Drusilla-thing stands on her tiptoes and feather-walks into Spike's personal space. She gives him an impish smile. . . a smile that used to send him over the moon. She raises her finger, pokes him in the chest directly over his heart, and utters a single word, "Love."

TBC. . .