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Chapter 7:

"I know they usually have wooden handles, but are vampires really that allergic to brooms?" the Slayer asked.

Spike had to agree. The nest in the abandoned house was an incredible mess. The quintet they had dusted must have been the laziest vampires in existence. The floors were littered with junk that no one had ever picked up.

Still, it had running water and even electricity. Spike had even found a couple beers in the fridge. Also, since the vampires had never bothered to clean out the stuff belonging to the original human inhabitants, there was a small amount of canned food the Slayer could eat.

When they had first discovered the food, the Slayer had immediately started opening cans to find what she could, and would, eat. Evidently, she hadn't found the chips and ice cream he'd bought her very filling.

She was convinced that there were no other vampires about, so she had gone about making her supper while he'd done the last of the exploring.

Upstairs there were two bedrooms. Spike decided that the Slayer would be staying in the one that had pink wallpaper and unicorns. At least the vampires had drawn fangs in blood on the unicorns. Still, he couldn't believe that they'd been so lazy, they hadn't eventually painted over the pink.

The house had one final amenity. In the basement someone had installed some heavy chains, and the smell told Spike that the vampires had often kept victims there.

The place didn't have sewer access, but for once Spike was glad of that. It meant they didn't have to worry about the Master finding them and sending minions to attack them during the day.

He returned to find her eating what looked like beans in the dining room. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the door frame separating the kitchen and the dining room.

There was silence for a bit as she ate and he smoked. He was relieved that she no longer demanded noise at all times.

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly. For the first time it occurred to him, not just that she had a name, but that he didn't know it.

"Buffy," she mumbled with a mouthful of beans.

"What was that?"

She swallowed. "Buffy."

"No, really."

"That's my name."

"Buffy. . . the vampire. . . slayer?" He managed to choke out over his laughter. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and stomped it out, afraid that he might set himself on fire as he began to double over with laughter.

"What's wrong with my name, SPIKE?!"

"Doesn't exactly strike fear into the hearts of demons."

"My mother gave me that name," she insisted angrily.

However, her anger was completely lost on Spike.

"Oh, is that so? Was your mother sadistic or just daft?"

He heard her chair crash to the floor. Before he knew what had happened, he found himself knocked through the door into the island in the kitchen, blood streaming down from his nose.

"My mother loved me!" she shouted over and over like some sort of mantra.

"Bloody hell!" he yelled, dodging out of the way of her fist just in time.

For a moment, Spike was worried. After all he'd watched her stake four vampires earlier that night without breaking a sweat. After staking the first one outside, she'd rushed indoors and staked another before he was even through the door. She'd taken out two more, while he'd only gotten one of them.

During that fight she had been a well trained warrior. Every move carefully chosen. But now she was fighting with blind rage. Her swings were wild, if powerful. She was more like a small child throwing a tantrum than a skilled fighter. The fact that she was still yelling about her mother also reinforced the notion that she wasn't currently playing with a full deck.

He was easily able to dodge or block her blows. Taking a moment to consider the situation, Spike grabbed a frying pan that was hanging from a hook above the island and slammed it against her face with all his strength.

It was enough to stun her for a second, long enough for him to curl his fingers around her throat, lift her off her feet, slam her against the wall, and silence her ranting. Blood began to trickle down the side of her face, where he had cut her with the frying pan.

Her fingers clawed at his hand, as he squeezed her throat. Her nails drew blood. She tried to kick him, but she couldn't get the leverage to put any strength behind her kicks.

Her struggles became weaker but there was no fear. He could neither smell it on her, nor see it in her eyes. She fought because it was what she was trained to do, because it wasn't in her nature not to, but there was also acceptance in her eyes and a look of peace.

Her struggles became weaker and her heartbeat, which had been frantic, began to slow down. He measured the thumping of her heart and released her just before she passed into unconsciousness.

She fell to the ground coughing violently as her body sought to draw in the air that it had been denied. He didn't give her time to recover however. Instead, he grabbed her by the wrist and began to drag her roughly toward the basement door.

As he stopped to kick the door in she managed to scramble to her feet, but she was still in no shape to offer more than a token struggle as he pulled her down into the darkness.

She managed to keep her feet as he forced her down the stairs, though she bumped him more than once. Then he spun her around, so her back was against the wall. She hadn't been down here yet, and since he hadn't turned on the lights she could see nothing, all the while his golden eyes allowing him to see just fine.

Before she knew what was going on, he snapped one of the manacles around her wrist. When she felt the cool metal encircle her wrist and heard the clasp, she began to struggle against the bonds.

Even so, he could see and she couldn't. It was no trouble to maneuver the other shackle around her free wrist. He backed away from her, intending to leave her there to cool down.

As soon as he moved away she screamed, "No! Don't leave me."

She was sobbing and her voice sounded scratchy and ragged. The air was suddenly perfumed with the aroma of her terror. The scent mingled with that of her blood and called to him. He turned back to her and stroked the side of her face. When he touched her, she calmed a little, although her heart was still pounding in her chest.

"Please?" she begged. "Don't leave me here. I'll be good. I'll be good. I'll be good," she repeated over and over.

"Shhh," he whispered in her ear and she quieted immediately.

Then, he tilted his head to lick the blood from her face. Her sweet blood was flavored with fear. He moaned as he tasted it, sandwiching her body between the wall and his. He was hard with the combined elixirs of blood and terror and he pressed his erection into her stomach.

To his surprise she didn't pull away from his tongue, his body, or his cock. Instead, she seemed to lean into him and relax a little. He realized then it was the loneliness she feared. She couldn't see him, and unless he spoke, she couldn't hear him. But if she could feel him, she wasn't alone, and she didn't have to be scared.

"I could do anything I want to you. Kill you, torture you, fuck you. Does that scare you, kitten?" he asked in a seductive voice.

"No," her voice was still harsh from the tears and being choked.

He licked away the salty tears that had run down her face when she thought he was going to leave.

"But if I leave you. . ."

"Noooo," she moaned.

"Hush," he ordered, and once again, she obeyed immediately. "You're lucky, you know? That it's me, not my grand-sire. He would have left you alone. Except he wouldn't have really left. He'd stand, just out of reach, where you couldn't see or hear him. But so close that he could feel your breathing. You know what he'd do then?"

She shook her head.

"He'd jerk off to your fear. Get off on your going mad."

He hadn't really been planning the words, they'd just come. But they brought an odd thought to his mind. For the first time, he wondered what Drusilla had been like before Angelus had made her mad. He loved her madness, had never questioned it. But now, he wondered if his Dark Princess had been like this frightened girl at one time.

He wasn't Angelus however, and he had no interest in seeing how far he could push the Slayer's sanity before it snapped.

"Will you behave if I let you go?" he asked.

"Yes. I'll do anything," she promised desperately.

He chuckled and his hand reached up to stroke her nipple through the fabric of her clothing. "I may just take you up on that."

He was delighted with the feel of her breast in his hand. It was strange to think that any part of the Slayer could be so soft and yielding.

To his surprise she didn't pull away, or make a sound of disgust. But her nipple hardened beneath his thumb.

"Does this bother you?" he asked.

"It's. . . strange," she said with no hint of shame or embarrassment.

Confused by her answer, he pulled back from her and undid the manacles. Then he put his arm around her waist and guided her up the stairs.





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