Chapter Three
Buffy sprinted through the village paths, her heart pounding in rhythm with the frantic screams echoing around her. Gripping her wooden stake tightly in her right hand, she felt a familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. As she reached the heart of the village, she swiveled her head, trying to pinpoint the source of the cries filling the air. The sounds grew increasingly desperate, guiding her toward the clothing market. She quickened her pace, fueled by the urgency of the moment, each footfall echoing against the cobblestone streets.
As she rounded a corner, the noises intensified. Just as she was about to rush forward, she skidded to a halt, her instincts flaring. There, tucked in the shadows of an alleyway, was a vampire looming over a frightened villager.
Buffy quickly took a few steps back, strategically positioning herself behind a large barrel. The rough wood pressed against her palms as she crouched low, peering out with narrowed eyes. Her breath steadied as she focused on the back of the vampire, who had his fangs sunk into the neck of a young girl.
Nearby, two figures lay sprawled on the ground—whether they were unconscious or dead, she couldn't tell from her concealed vantage point behind a hay barrel. Gathering her resolve, she inhaled deeply, feeling adrenaline pulse through her veins, and launched herself from her hiding spot.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you that eating late at night gives you heartburn?" she quipped, her wooden stake glinting in the moonlight as she raised it high above her head.
The vampire paused mid-action, abruptly dropping the girl and leaving her in a heap on the ground. Buffy heard a low, mocking chuckle that sent chills coursing down her spine—familiar and unsettling. The hairs on the back of her neck bristled in recognition.
"Good thing I don't have a heart," he retorted, his voice dripping with a mix of amusement and predatory menace.
As he slowly turned to face her, Buffy felt an icy jolt of shock. This was no ordinary vampire. His appearance was different: his once platinum white hair had transformed into a tousled shade of dirty blond, falling in disheveled strands across his forehead. He wore a pair of worn jeans tucked into scuffed boots, paired with suspenders and a beige button-up shirt that hung loosely on his frame. Buffy instantly recognized him, even with his features twisted into his vamp face.
The vampire was Spike, and anything related to him had only ever brought her pain and trouble.
"Dinner doesn't usually find me," he purred, his voice a smooth, velvety whisper as he stepped closer, his gaze roving over her from head to toe with predatory hunger. "Not that I'm complaining, of course."
Buffy instinctively took a step back, her instincts setting off alarm bells in her mind. Coming to this dark corner of the city had been a monumental mistake—a reckless and foolish error. She should have heeded Marius's warning and stayed safely wrapped in her blankets. Her heart raced violently within her chest, each thudding beat echoing in her ears like a war drum, drowning out everything else. She opened her mouth to protest but found herself at a loss for words, closing it repeatedly like a fish gasping for air. She felt utterly dumbstruck, frozen in the moment. Of all the countless vampires that roamed the night and all the places she could have ended up, it was her terrible luck that fate had brought her here, face-to-face with him—the absolute bane of her existence—a vampire who should have been dust the moment he set foot back in Sunnydale.
"See a ghost?" he chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he cornered Buffy against the cold, hard wall behind her.
At that moment, a wave of clarity washed over her, like icy water splashing against her skin, jolting her from her daze.
"No," she snapped, trying to regain her composure. "Just a dumbass."
She instinctively threw a quick jab at his face, attempting to defend herself, but to her utter disbelief, it had no effect. His expression remained unchanged as if her blow had been nothing more than a gentle breeze. She glanced down at her throbbing hand, realizing she felt the impact far more than he did.
Buffy's heart raced as she felt a shiver creep up her spine. Her mind drifted back to earlier when she had broken the board with her palm, recalling the pain it had caused her and the immense soreness she had felt afterward. She didn't feel as weak as she had when she fought Kralik; she simply felt diminished. The time portal had clearly taken a greater toll on her body than she had anticipated. Confusion didn't adequately describe how she felt at that moment. Was there a word for being extremely confused? One of those big words that Giles always used, maybe?
The absence of her usual strength left her with one priority: survival. It pushed her to summon every ounce of determination within her to keep breathing, even if it meant playing dirty. When she was in survival mode, the usual rules didn't apply.
Spike grinned, his smirk widening to reveal sharp, pointed teeth. "Looks like the little kitten has claws, after all. But if you want to live, luv, you'll need to come up with something better than that."
"You're right," she admitted, her voice steady despite the turmoil swirling within her. Gathering every bit of strength she had, she kicked him in a place no man liked to be kicked.
He let out a frustrated groan, his hands instinctively reaching for his groin. Seizing the fleeting gap that had formed between them, she turned and sprinted back toward the cottage. The cool wind whipped past her ears, blending with the drumbeat of her heart as she pushed onward. The cottage loomed in the distance, a beacon of safety that fueled her resolve—just a little further, and she would be free from the danger.
But in an instant, the world beneath her shifted. Suddenly, she was slammed to the ground by a powerful force colliding with her from behind. The breath was knocked out of her as she gasped, momentarily stunned. Instinctively, she recognized that familiar, cooling sensation settling on the nape of her neck—the unmistakable sign that Spike had caught up to her. It was an itch she had come to associate only with him. Spike always sent a special tingle down the nape of her neck. Angel did, too, of course, but his tingle was different. While most vampires had a typical, goosebump-inducing presence, Spike's tingle was uniquely distinct; it felt like a cool, wintry breath against her skin.
His grip on her arms tightened as he shifted her body and turned her around to face him. A low growl emanated from deep within his chest. His lips curled into a predatory grin that revealed sharp, white teeth. His golden eyes, alive with an unreadable intensity, bore into hers. As tears threatened to spill over, she confronted the dreaded realization that this moment could signify the end—her last glimpse of the world and all she held dear: her mother, Giles, and her friends.
"I must admit," he said, his voice a mix of amusement and menace, "you put up more of a fight than the others." The words dripped with sinister charm, his gaze never wavering. "Pity it just wasn't enough."
He lowered his head, and Buffy, driven by instinct and years of training, headbutted him. Though the impact likely caused her more discomfort than it did him, the sharpness of her pain was something she could set aside for the moment. As he released one of her hands to clutch his throbbing head, she quickly scanned the area and noticed a weathered wooden cross just to her right, deeply etched into someone's front yard. It was only inches away, and she tried to inch closer to grab it.
Spike recovered quickly. "You bloody bitch," he snarled.
In a swift, predatory motion, he leaned in closer, his fangs glinting in the dim light as he angled himself toward the sensitive skin of her neck. But Buffy was faster. Her fingers, steely and resolute, had already found the familiar shape of the cross nestled in the lawn. She grabbed it and shoved the end of the cross into his open mouth.
With a ferocious roar of anguish, he lunged backward and Buffy sprang into action, kicking him away and racing toward the cottage ahead. Gaining speed, she dashed to her window and flung it open with urgency, her heart pounding. Just as she was about to climb inside, a chilling grip latched onto her ankle. Startled, she gasped and twisted around, her eyes wide with fear.
Spike was there, his pale face twisted with determination as he yanked at her leg, trying to pull her back into the night's shadows. Buffy hastily drew her stake and aimed the pointy tip at his hand. He yelped in shock and released his grip, his eyes widening in surprise. Seizing the opportunity, Buffy scrambled the rest of the way into her room, heart racing, and stood up to face the window one last time.
Spike remained outside, a dark figure silhouetted against the moonlit sky, his piercing gaze fixed on her in frustration. She swiftly shut the window, the sound of it clicking shut echoing in her ears, and then pulled the curtain closed tightly, blocking out his presence.
Buffy darted over to her bed, clambering onto it and pressing her back against the wall. Drawing her knees to her chest, she rested her forehead against them, letting out slow, measured breaths in an effort to calm the chaos within her. The silence of her room contrasted sharply with the turmoil outside, and as she focused on her breathing, she fought to steady her racing heart, the sense of danger still coursing through her veins.
Spike had never truly instilled fear in her before—not during their first encounter in the dimly lit alleyway behind the Bronze, nor when he had nearly taken her life on Halloween night. But now, a gnawing terror gripped her heart, cold and unyielding. In the past, she'd managed to hold her own against him, but now, feeling weak and defenseless, she was consumed by panic.Oh God,what was she going to do?
She curled up into herself, burying her face in her knees as silent tears streamed down her cheeks. The room's silence felt like a heavy shroud until it was pierced by an unsettling sound—a soft, deliberate tap at her window. After four years of Slaying, it wasn't easy to spook her, but when she heard a voice, she couldn't help but jump in shock.
"Fee," came the haunting whisper.
Tap.
"Fi."
Tap.
"Foe," it continued, each syllable dripping with an eerie playfulness.
Tap.
"Fum."
Tap.
"I smell the blood of a nice, ripe—"
Tap.
"Girl," he finished, the final word hanging in the air, thick with menace and delight.
Her heart raced, thudding against her ribcage. She could feel him lurking just beyond the glass, a specter of fear reveling in her defenselessness. Buffy sat frozen in place as a wave of déjà vu washed over her. She realized he had uttered those words to her before, which was wigsome all on its own. Memories flooded back like a tide, pulling her into the past—a chilling recollection of the night of St. Vigeous when he had said the exact same thing. If it hadn't been for her mother bursting in at the right moment… Sheshuddered to think of what could have happened.
Time seemed to stretch as she waited in the heavy silence, acutely aware of every creak of the floorboards and the soft rustling in the shadows. She had no idea how long he lingered, but the tingling sensation at the back of her neck eventually faded, signaling that he had finally left.
Eventually, the weariness of the night had finally weighed down her limbs like lead and a dull ache pulsed in her temples. She felt completely drained. Exhaustion enveloped her, and she quickly fell into a deep sleep.
The following morning, Buffy stood outside the cottage, the crisp air filled with the scent of autumn leaves and damp earth. A set of knives lay flat on the wooden bench beside her, their sharp edges glinting in the sunlight that peeked through the clouds. With determination etched across her face, she picked up each knife one by one, channeling her frustration into her throws. She aimed at the sturdy oak tree directly in front of her. Her aim was nearly perfect; each knife struck the center of her chosen target—bullseye after bullseye—but her throws lacked the force they once had. Instead of embedding themselves in the tree, the blades merely thudded against the wood before bouncing harmlessly to the ground, causing her frustration to grow.
Unlike before becoming the Slayer or when Giles had poisoned her, she wasn't completely weak. But compared to her strength before that strange entity flung her back in time, she felt like a mere shadow of her former self. Fate had a twisted sense of humor, sending her here in this time period withhim. The constant annoyance of Spike—always returning like an irritating ping pong ball, no matter where or when she found herself—was a mockery she could hardly bear. He was always around with that stupid smirk she so desperately wanted to slap off his face.
Buffy recalled the last time she saw him, at that college party on campus, with Harmony of all people, as they exchanged barbed insults about the partners at their sides. Buffy scowled at the memory. Spike had the worst taste in women she had ever seen. Drusilla was an absolute nutcase and Harmony… Buffy shook her head. The thought of Harmony and Spike together was a nauseating image that made her roll her eyes—just a world of ew.
Shaking off the thought, Buffy focused her energy again as she grabbed the final knife from the bench with renewed determination. She hurled it at the tree, and hope surged in her chest for a fleeting moment when the blade finally embedded itself in the wood. But just as quickly, that hope evaporated when the knife wiggled free, falling helplessly to the ground with a pitiful thud.
"Stupid knives," she muttered under her breath, collecting them from the ground. She walked back into the cottage to wash them and prepare something to eat. Marius had left her a note before she woke, mentioning business in town—business she could only assume was connected to the grim events that had unfolded the night before.
As she ate, her thoughts raced and then slowly turned darker. If Spike was here, it was almost certain that Drusilla was also. An even more troubling thought struck her: what about Darla? And if Angel was here too—was his soul intact? The prospect of facing all four of them in their prime sent a shiver down her spine. She knew that even with her Slayer strength, she would stand no chance against them together. Marius mentioned that only three vampires were raiding the village—it was probable that Angel must have already gained his soul and left the group.
The blonde female vampire—the one responsible for his daughter's death—must be Darla. But where had she and Drusilla been during the chaos of the previous night? Questions whirled in her mind, each more pressing than the last as she continued eating, the weight of her predicament hanging heavily over her.
As the days passed and the weather grew colder, Buffy found herself no closer to finding a way home than when she first arrived. Day after day, she visited the village, hoping to learn new information, only to return to the cottage each evening filled with disappointment.
To her relief, she hadn't seen or heard of any attacks since the night she and Spike fought, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he showed his insufferable face again. Marius had kindly offered her a place to stay at the cottage until spring, promising to help her reunite with her fake cousins in Switzerland when the weather improved. But she didn't want to spend the next six months waiting out the cold just to find a way back home. She needed to get home—like yesterday.
Every day, she woke up, went to the tree, and threw knives, hoping they would stick, only to feel disappointed when they didn't. She ate, slept, and let countless thoughts race through her mind about how to return home. Some of those ideas were so outlandish that they made her chuckle at their absurdity. One day, an unusual thought crossed her mind: what if she approached Spike for a truce in exchange for helping her return to her own time? Surprisingly, that notion lingered longer than the others.
Spike was an awful, disgusting, vile creature—there was no denying that.But, and it was a bigbut, he was also more selfish than any of the above. If she could find something to offer him in exchange for his help, maybe the idea wouldn't be so far-fetched after all. The real question was: what could she offer him?
She couldn't very well reveal his future; that could ruin everything and create a domino effect, potentially erasing her own future. So, that option was out. If not that, then what? Would he honor his end of the bargain even if she could think of something enticing enough for him to agree to a truce? Buffy huffed and leaned against her bed, folding her arms as she chewed on her bottom lip. There was no denying that Spike was… well, Spike. But deep down, she had to admit that he seemed to be a vamp of his word—sort of.
She didn't want to dwell on that realization because it was something that Spike possessed that no other vampire did—not even Angel. It was part of why she had made that truce with him the night he sought her out regarding Angelus and why she had invited him into her home. If any other vampire had come offering the same thing, they would've been dust in the wind. But because it was Spike, for some inexplicable reason she didn't want to analyze too deeply, she knew she could trust him—well, trust him as much as one could trust a mortal enemy.
Even though he had left her to die at Angelus' hands once he had Drusilla. Buffy rolled her eyes at the memory. Though Spike had fulfilled his end of the bargain, she had hoped he'd at leasttryto help her fight Angelus. But that was just Spike; he would find any excuse to sidestep a bargain if it wasn't set in stone. She would have to be more specific and choose her words carefully if any of this was going to work. Not only that, but she needed to be discreet if she did offer him a truce. If Drusilla and Darla were around and found out about the agreement, it would mean a world of bad for Buffy.
She grabbed a pencil and paper and listed her options. There weren't many—just three that she thought sounded enticing enough.
Option one was to share snippets of his future, but she worried about the potential impact on her own future. She needed to be careful about revealing anything significant, and even if she did present that option, would he even believe her? He might think she was lying, which made option one seem the least likely of the three.
Option two was somewhat similar to option one but approached from a different angle. She could tell him about the Gem of Amara in exchange for help. It sounded foolish, but she didn't have much else to offer—she was grasping at straws. Spike would also be interested in that information. She could always lie and claim it was hidden somewhere far away like Africa, but lying to Spike wasn't a safe bet. He had a knack for seeing through her, and one wrong move—one hint of deception—and he could kill her.
Then there was option three. Her heart raced as she considered it repeatedly. That option seemed the most likely to intrigue him enough to accept her offer, and it could kill two birds with one stone: keeping the villager's safe while also addressing her own needs to get back home. She could live with that if that's what she had to sacrifice to keep people alive. And as appealing as the idea of dusting him was, she knew it would create a ripple effect and destroy the future. So, for now, he, Drusilla, and Darla were off-limits.
Her mind raced with thoughts of how foolish it was even to contemplate it. Giles would surely be disappointed in her if he ever found out. But Giles wasn't here; it was just Buffy, alone with no help and no way back home. She didn't want to spend the next several months—possibly longer—in an era without electricity or shopping malls. The idea of never seeing her mom, friends, or Giles again weighed heavily on her.
After glancing at her options, she crossed out one and two. She knew she had no choice; she was desperate. She missed her family and friends, and she longed for home. Finally, she looked down and circled option three, recognizing it as her best, if not the craziest choice: Slayer blood.