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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to Diabola and chicklet for beta work on this chapter.

In other news, you are now fully caught up on this story, and are going to have review plague me for updates ;)
Prodigal Chapter 7

"There you are, my naughty boy," a soft voice cooed to itself in the darkness. "I see you. Run off to play with the little angels, just as Miss Edith said you would. Time for Mummy to remind you that the sunlight isn't for dark hearted princes."

With a sharp snap of her fingertips, Drusilla lit the candles in the room. She'd broken free of the shackles Spike had locked around her limbs, by singing a mortal to her side, drawing the entranced youth to her and whispering promises of beauty and bliss even as her fangs pierced his willing neck. The blood had given her enough strength to snap the steel chains holding her to the bed, and she hummed to herself as she rose gracefully to pack the few treasured belongings she still possessed.

Miss Lucy had been a naughty girl, telling tales Drusilla refused to believe and as a punishment, would not be allowed to accompany her mistress on this journey.

The female vampire shook her head. It was hard to see since her Angel had gone, the clouds had floated low to the ground and become like fog, and the snippets which were clear made no sense. Closing her small suitcase, she swept out of the door. Her Spike had wandered off the path, and she was going to find him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spike woke with a smile on his face, his dreams made all the more vivid from his first real Slayer-induced orgasm the night before. His hand moved unbidden to cradle his hard member, beginning the familiar strokes he'd used so often before, only to wince and hiss when he encountered the small crescent welts Buffy's nails had left. He chuckled in spite of the discomfort. The girl had been a revelation!

'Baby's definitely turned to the dark side,' he smirked. What was it she'd called herself? Bethmara? He'd have to put his ear to the ground and find someone that could tell him what that meant. Not the name itself, he was familiar enough with the old languages to know it roughly translated to "House of Bitterness", but that didn't give him any ideas as to exactly what she'd become. He still hoped that Buffy, or Bethmara, would eventually tell him herself, but in the meantime the more information he had, the easier it would be to find some way of saving the girl from whatever she'd done to herself. And it might give him an advantage if it came to a fight.

Last night, when she'd thrown him clear across the alley, he'd learned that the girl didn't just have Slayer strength, she had full-on demon strength, something for which he'd not been prepared. She still triggered his vampiric instinct for "Slayer" though, and he'd been near enough of their kind to know. Her blood though... there was something that nagged at him. It had been as rich and heady as he'd come to expect from the Slayer line, and granted he'd taken but a sip, but the energy high he'd felt coursing through his body afterwards was unprecedented.

'Not to mention addictive,' the realisation crawled into his conscious mind, and Spike's eyes widened. If he had a pulse, it would be racing.

'Not smart, mate. Not smart at all.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bethmara surveyed the carnage around her, dispassionately noting the severed limbs and open ribcages of those she'd been summoned to destroy. The violence had been intoxicating as always, and the satisfaction of completing her task fulfilled her. She took a savage joy in her work and always had, but it was so much simpler to indulge herself now she wasn't bound by laws or morals. She had a gift for chaos and death, and she gave freely to any who asked, no longer troubled by pesky considerations of what was "right" or "fair".

The blood of her opponents sank slowly into her body, absorbed by her skin, and she ran clean hands through her hair as she tried to ignore the nagging doubts in her mind.

Since her transformation she'd achieved a measure of peace that had eluded her long before she was called as the Slayer, the self-recriminations and confusion of adolescence silenced the moment her soul had fled. She remembered how it used to be, however, the conflict and the din, the burden of responsibility she carried while trying to live up to the expectations of others. She'd felt lost and alone, and not even her friends or her Watcher could understand that the war she fought every night was not just about protecting the world from demonic threats. The Slayer stood facing the darkness with the light behind her, and with every sunset the temptations of the dark became more alluring.

'Maybe that's why no Slayer lives very long,' she reflected. There was only so long you could remember why you risked yourself for a world that didn't care. Only so long before the lure of the dark became too strong to ignore.

'Can't blame a girl for taking a better offer,' Bethmara grinned to herself. Especially if the fringe benefits included locking lips and other body parts with a certain blond vampire she knew. Even now a shiver rushed over her, her thighs tightening in sensory memory. The bite had healed instantly, of course, but it was as though phantom fangs ghosted along her skin even now. William the Bloody would be back for more, of that she was certain; and as for the rest, well, Gaharesh had assured her the memories of her human existence would fade in time.

Everything would be right with her life at last.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hello?" The female voice at the end of the line was breathless.

"Joyce? It's Spike," the vampire could practically see the woman's shoulders slumping.

"Oh, Spike. Hi. I'm sorry, I just thought...I'd hoped -"

"That it was Buffy. I know. Sorry to disappoint. Joyce... I've found her," Spike took a deep breath. Daft habit, but there were times when undead or not, he just had to brace himself.

"You found her? Where is she, Spike? Where's my baby?" Joyce's relief flooded down the phone and Spike cursed softly. There was no way he could tell her what was really going on without causing more heartache for Buffy's mother, a woman who'd shown him the first true affection he'd known in decades.

"Joyce..."

"What's wrong with her? Something's wrong, I can hear it in your voice," she interrupted, a new fear blossoming in her breast. She'd thought she wanted Buffy home no matter what, but she wasn't sure she wanted to learn whatever it was Spike hesitated to tell her.

"Joyce, have you got a number for what-his-name, her Watcher? I think there's some kinda spell on her, need to talk to him to check it out," Spike prayed the woman would take his half-truth and let it go, even as he fed more coins into the phone.

"Mr Giles? Hold on, I'll just find it for you." Moments later, Spike was swearing again as he hunted for the pen he was sure he'd put in his pocket. Scribbling down the number Buffy's mother read to him, he figured he owed it to both the Summers women to reassure her.

"Listen, Joyce. I told you I was gonna help, and I will. Slayer - I mean, Buffy's alright, she's not hurt, she's safe. It just might take a bit of time before she can come home. I'll call and let you know what's going on when I can."

"Spike, could you... would you ask her to call me? Please?" He heard the sorrow in the woman's voice and bowed his head.

"I'll ask. Can't promise anything though, alright? S'up to her. Goodbye, Joyce," he hung up before she could stammer any words of gratitude. He knew he hadn't earned them.

The next step was to call the number she'd given him. The vampire had exhausted the meagre resources he could sniff out in LA and he was still none the wiser, and if he was going to get the information he needed then it meant bringing in the Watcher. Now that was going to be an interesting conversation, and one which he felt he'd be better having with some liquid courage to smooth things along.

That was the excuse he made to himself as he headed to the Yard, at any rate.

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