Chapter three

The clear sound of a whip slapping skin echoed throughout the vast chamber followed by ghastly, inhuman screams. Drusilla paced in front of the chained prisoner and his Turok-Han torturer. Her delicate features were twisted in anger.

"You, stupid lamb, you tried to break up our pretty little family. Spread some magic dust on the Slayer, helped her hide, helped her win."

"No, no, no!" The boy screamed, his eyes flashing wide with terror.

"I would never help the Slayer; it was for you, always for you." Drusilla examined the boy, before clicking her tongue. The Turok-Han drew back the whip once more and dealt the boy a debilitating blow to the chest. Air wheezed in and out of his mouth, for a moment, channeling Buffy's spirit who was now stuck in London over a hundred years ago. Drusilla grinned maliciously.

"Tell mummy all about it." Smoothly, she slid into her Darla guise and moved closer to the boy, nose sniffing at the blood oozing from his chest. The blood was tinged with the sweet scent of bone-shattering terror. Darla/The First yearned for just a taste, just a dribble of the blood.

"I, I found this spell book, in Sumerian, I think and they had something about transporting someone's essence somewhere else or sometime else." A slow grin began to crease Darla's face.

"So, you haven't hidden her, you've gotten rid of her?" The boy nodded frantically.

"Yes, yes, she's gone she won't come back." Darla grinned evilly.

"That's what they said the last time." Turning to the Turok-Han, she snapped her fingers.

"Keep up the good work; use any methods necessary for extracting more information." The boy's eyes were flashing with fear again.

"No, wait, I'll tell you what you need to know, you don't have to keep torturing me." Darla's grin widened even bigger.

"Oh, I don't need to, but I want to."

Buffy sat at the table across from Spike, with Anne to her left. The two Carletons kept up a steady hum of conversation, while Buffy reflected on her situation. She was stuck, she knew that much, she didn't know how she got here, so she couldn't know how to get back. She mentally ran down her list of enemies but quickly conceded defeat. There wasn't a demon out there that didn't want her dead. Well, other than Angel and Spike and they weren't exactly demons. Buffy shook her head, she was getting off track. Anne's sweet musical voice burst into Buffy's thoughts.

"Sorry?"

"William and I were just discussing an upcoming trip down to the local museums and were wondering if what you thought on the matter"

"Oh, um." Buffy was flustered, though nowhere near as disconcerted as Spike had been in the library earlier.

"Honestly, I haven't had the time to visit any of the museums in the area, so I really don't know if I would be a proper judge on the matter." Anne looked pleased though and turned to face her son.

"Do you see, William? Miss Anne has never been to the museums, we can't let her live her life without paying a visit to them, we would be depriving the poor girl" Anne's voice was gently wheedling but Spike seemed all but impervious to it.

"But Mother, the doctor said any un-needed exercise would only aggravate your condition."

"So, I'll take the wheelchair" Shock blared suddenly across Spike's face,

"But you hate the chair" Anne cocked her head to one side and spooned some soup into her mouth.

"But I'm beginning to love Miss Anne and we cannot let an opportunity like this pass her by." Spike exhaled softly, making up his mind.

"Very well, but only if you promise to use the chair" Anne raised her hand in a solemn vow.

"I promise." Buffy couldn't help smiling and looked down into her soup to hide her grin. When she lifted her eyes slightly, Spike was looking at her, intently, like he was trying to see into her soul, she kept her vision low, so that he wouldn't look away. Spike had always made her feel warm, protected, well, at least when he wasn't trying to kill her. That's why she had used him; she had taken his feelings for her and manipulated them to make herself feel better. She tried to contain the flush that spread across her cheeks, so that he wouldn't misinterpret it as embarrassment at his gaze. Self-consciously, Buffy checked her outfit to make sure she looked presentable. Anne had assigned a maid to help Buffy and the woman had done a wonderful job. Buffy had switched the brown traveling clothes for a deep wine colored evening dress. The train trailed out behind her in a large fan and the neckline was trimmed in delicate lace. Buffy was coming to the conclusion that Victorian clothing suited her and despite the corsets and multitude of fabric, she was beginning to enjoy the clothes. When she finally looked up at Spike, he was staring at his mother with such deep respect and love that Buffy realized that this wasn't Spike, the evil blood-sucking fiend turned demon fighter, turned ensouled champion she was dealing with, it was William, the kind-hearted, meek English poet who had probably never left his mother's side for more than a few days. She could see how Spike would want to forget about that part of his past but honestly, at this point, Buffy wasn't sure which she liked better.