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A/N: Many, many thanks for the kind words from those who have commented on the story thus far. It is very much appreciated.

Didn’t mean to leave you hanging from that cliff for so long. My profuse apologies. Now let’s see…where were we? Oh, yeah. Buffy was in big trouble, and Spike…well, that would be telling, wouldn't it?

So without further ado, on with the show…


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Part Seven

Cold. Hard. Hurting. A smell, sickly sweet. Stone scraping on stone. Can’t move. Can’t see. What? What’s happening? Where…

Buffy fought her way up out of a pit of darkness so thick it threatened to smother her. She could feel something encircling her wrists and ankles. Cold iron. Shackles? She forced her arms to move but they were sluggish, managing only the slightest tug at whatever restrained her. Still, it was enough to confirm that her arms were chained. The same must be true for her legs, then, which she couldn’t yet move.

She was lying on something hard, like the stone coffin-thing in Spike’s crypt. Or…the alter slab in the obelisk exhibit?

Buffy opened her eyes to shadows dancing on the ceiling high above her. Turning her head, she traced the source of the flickering patterns to a pair of burning torches positioned on either side of the slab. She shifted again, shackles clinking against stone. Frowning, she tried to concentrate. Where had the chains come from? They weren’t on the alter earlier in the evening; she was sure of it. She couldn’t tell how they were secured, but maybe she could…

A movement off to one side caught her eye. As she raised her head to get a better look, confusion rapidly gave way to stone-cold clarity. Kneeling on the floor a few feet away was what looked like a man, his face obscured by his bowed head. He seemed unaware of her, his attention focused on the symbols he was painstakingly drawing on the museum floor. She could see enough to guess that the symbols, whatever they were, formed a large circle around the alter slab on which she lay. Her eyes returned to the stranger just as he put the finishing touch on his work and rose, his gaze instantly locking with hers.

He smiled, but the warmth failed to reach his eyes, which were dark and cold. “And she wakes at last! I was beginning to believe you would sleep the night away, which would, I suppose, make it easier for you but infinitely less interesting for me.”

Buffy was immediately struck by how colorless he seemed. His features were handsome enough, but bland, and his voice was smooth yet flavorless, like vanilla ice cream without the vanilla. His gray suit was equally nondescript. In fact, the only noteworthy thing about him was his hair, blacker than night and pulled back into a tight pony tail that fell to his waist. It was only when he sighed and moved toward her that his subtle threat finally registered.

Reaching her side, he paused to consider her. “Actually, I’m not being entirely truthful. You were only unconscious for a short time. I was barely able to attend to a few details and complete my preparations here. It must be that fabled Slayer healing ability.”

Buffy started to retort, but her first word came out as a hoarse croak. She stopped, coughing harshly, then swallowed and tried again. This time with more success, though her voice was still a bit raspy. “How did you do it?” she demanded. “A spell?”

“Do what?” He regarded her with a quizzical stare. “This?” Suddenly, the man was gone and the Not-Spike stood before her, his shirt, vest, and jacket miraculously intact. He cocked his head. “Hardly need any mojo to do what comes naturally, Slayer, now do I?”

“Where’s Spike?” The words were ground out through clenched teeth. It was too bad she couldn’t slay with a look. He would be so dead now.

He smirked at her, all blue eyes and cheekbones and sensuous lips. “The wanker was in the way. Now he’s not. Got rid of him all permanent-like. I expect you’ll be happy enough about it, seein’ as how you weren’t too keen on the way you were reacting to him.” Staring at her through hooded eyes, he did that little Spike thing with his tongue. Even though Buffy knew it wasn’t really him, it still sent a shiver through her traitorous body.

“Or I guess I should say, reacting to me,” he drawled, a lascivious grin appearing on his face. “Either way, he’s gone. You’re well rid of him.”

And just like that, the shiver died, replaced with a sick feeling deep in the pit of her stomach.

He cocked his head again as his gaze sharpened. “What? Not happy about that? Huh. Is that what they call a…what is it, now…love/hate relationship? Never run into one of those before. Must be a real bitch.”

Buffy clenched her fists, fighting back the urge to smash his face in. She’d save that for later, when she was free of the chains. “What are you?” she demanded, even as she sent out a silent call for help to Willow. There was no response.

He leaned in close, lips almost touching her ear. “Haven’t you sussed it out yet, love?” he whispered. “I’m whatever you want.” Grinning, he pulled back, and suddenly it was Angel looking at her.

“Or don’t want,” he added, as he morphed into vamp face. Running his eyes over her body, he smiled broadly, fangs flashing in the light cast by the flickering torches. “Well, look at you. All trussed up and nowhere to go. Just the way I like ’em.”

No, not Angel…Angelus. Buffy stared at him coldly. “Am I supposed to be impressed? You can’t even do your own dirty work. You have to hide behind other faces, other lives. How pathetic is that? What do you expect to accomplish here tonight, anyway?”

Buffy was in a bad position, and she knew it. But she also knew that pretty much every evil creature she’d ever met had one fatal flaw – a giant ego. If she could stall him long enough, get him boasting about his grand scheme, then it could buy her some much-needed time. Willow’s mental link might not be working, but sooner or later, when they didn’t hear the expected commotion, she and Giles were bound to come investigate. And maybe it would give her the distraction she needed to get the upper hand.

She couldn’t let herself think about who wouldn’t be showing up.

The Not-Angelus laughed and shook his head. “Poor Slayer. Hate to tell you this, Buff, but your friends won’t be riding to the rescue. They’re a little busy right now.”

Buffy froze, eyes widening a fraction before she caught herself. She kept her face carefully expressionless. “What did you do?”

He shrugged. “Simple holding spell to keep them in place, with a little dampening spell thrown in for added flavor. I’m afraid your calls can’t penetrate that field. What a shame. At any rate, it’ll take them a while to break through. Too long to do you any good.”

Still alive, at least. Unlike…

Then, the true import of what he’d said sank in. Buffy spoke again, her voice flat. “You can read my mind.”

“Not exactly.” He shrugged. “Feelings, mostly. Though I gotta say, you don’t give me much to work with, Slayer. Still…impressions, ideas, desires…they all come together to draw a pretty clear picture. For instance, it’s not hard to figure out what you want to do to this one.” He gestured at his present form, wincing in mock pain. “Ouch.”

Then, as he leaned in close to her ear again, his voice took on a lilting note. “And I sure as hell know what you wanted to do with the other one. Such a naughty slayer,” he chided, smirking even as he shook his head. “Shame you’ll never get the chance now.”

The pain was almost palpable this time, punching through her carefully erected defenses.

He laughed out loud, and the Not-Spike was back. “Now that’s a bloody riot, that is! You care a lot more than you want to let on, even to yourself. Can we say, ‘mixed signals’ here? No wonder the poor sod was in such a muddle there at the end. Don’t think I’ve ever run into anyone so hard to get a fix on. You were the only thing in his head.” He shrugged. “Oh, well. Least he’s out of his misery now. And don’t worry,” he added, voice dripping with phony solicitude. “It was quick…if not entirely painless.”

Buffy’s fist lashed out like a lightning bolt, but she wasn’t fast enough. He danced out of range, laughing, as her arm was stopped short by the chain.

“Hang on, now! That isn’t very nice! Bloke might get the idea you didn’t like him. Course, you were singin’ a different tune in the closet, weren’t you?” He leered at her for a moment then sobered abruptly. Heaving a heavy sigh, he glanced around. “Bugger it. As much fun as this has been, we’re wastin’ time. I’ve got rituals to perform and worlds to rule. And you, my sweet Slayer, are going to make it all possible.”

“Only thing I’ll make possible is your death,” she promised grimly. “The painful and humiliating kind.”

Quirking an eyebrow, he smirked. “You know, that might worry me a little more if you weren’t trussed up there like a fish tangled in a net. A very pretty fish, give you that. But, all that aside…let’s get on with it, shall we?”

He moved to her weapons bag, which she only now realized was sitting on the floor a few feet away, and stooped to rummage around inside. Seconds later he rose and turned, holding up a wicked-looking dagger for her to see.

Buffy didn’t recognize it. He must have dropped it in there while she was still unconscious. Great. She should be grateful he wasn’t planning to kill her with one of her own weapons. Talk about humiliating.

“Ceremonial dagger,” the Not-Spike explained, running a finger lovingly along one edge of the blade. “It’s needed for the blood-letting. Couldn’t perform the ritual without it.” He stopped then, eyeing her expectantly.

Buffy snorted. “Oh, wait. Is this the part where I’m supposed to get all weepy and trembly and beg you not to hurt me? ’Cause gotta tell you…so not happening. Why don’t you just drop all the melodrama and tell me why you’re doing this? We both know you’re dying to brag. And another thing, do you even have a name, or should I just call you Mr. Insecure? It really is sad you have to hide behind someone else’s face. But I guess it sucks to be you, huh?”

He frowned, and Buffy could see the smooth, self-satisfied façade crack a bit for the first time. “Name’s Ardun. And you’re not showin’ the proper respect, woman. Don’t you realize how monumental this is? I’ve been preparing for decades, waitin’ for all the pieces to fall into place. And you’re the last.”

“Me? Why? Because I’m a slayer?”

“No…because you’re the slayer,” he corrected. “The one who was prophesized.”

Great. She should have known. Prophecy girl again. How special.

The Not-Spike morphed into the man Buffy had seen earlier, what she assumed was his true form, and when he spoke again it was with the air of one quoting a holy scripture. “‘She who dies yet lives, she who bears the mark of three vampires…’”

Trailing off, he smiled coldly. “Well, it’s somewhat fancier than that and there’s considerably more to it, but you get the idea. You are the one, Miss Summers. Blood straight from your heart, taken on the alter of the Ag-rith-h’lal Oo-jah’ri-m’shik during a sacrificial ritual performed on the eve of Denrothe – a sacred day for the Ancient Ones. It will grant me unlimited power, just as I told dear Rupert on the phone.”

At her look, he nodded. “Your Watcher thought he was talking to his old friend, but he was quite mistaken. It was merely a ruse to lure you here at the appointed time and place. Obviously successful. And you have very obligingly arranged to have a truck waiting to transport the obelisk for me.”

He pursed his lips as he gazed at her thoughtfully. “It’s quite a challenge, assuming the form of a slayer. It’s my first time. Of course, I’ll be forced to break the news of Spike’s death to the others. Tragically killed in a battle with the demon, who was in turn slain by me. They’ll never know the truth until it’s too late. Everyone will be dead, the obelisk will be mine, and I shall rule this world and every variation of it across an infinite number of universes. My power will be supreme.”

Buffy gazed back at him, unimpressed. “You’re kidding. All this, and the best you can come up with is ruling the world? There’s absolutely nothing original about you, is there? You couldn’t go for something useful, like being able to eat all the triple chocolate caramel ice cream you want without gaining weight? Or maybe something strange but creative, like a world without scissors? Since someone seems a little phobic,” she added, glancing pointedly at his hair.

She caught a flicker of something in his eyes and thought she might have struck a nerve. But then he smiled again and raised the dagger. “Speaking of sharp, pointed things, we really should get on with this. As delightful as our chat has been, there’s a rather small window of opportunity and I would be very disappointed to miss it. I’m sure you understand.”

Moving to a spot at the foot of the slab, he began to chant in a strange tongue that Buffy had never heard before. At least she didn’t think she had. All these demon languages sounded alike to her. What she did know was that she had run out of time. She had to find a way out of this now.

With all her might, she strained against the chain binding her right arm, but nothing happened. She tried again, rested a moment, then a third time. Still nothing. Whatever Ardun had used to secure the shackles, whether a spell or Super Glue, it was more than a match for slayer strength. But she had to keep trying.

Seemingly oblivious to her struggles, her soon-to-be executioner raised the ceremonial dagger and used it to make a shallow slash above his left wrist. Still chanting, he extended his arm over her, letting the blood drip slowly onto one bare foot, then the other. It was only then Buffy realized that her boots had been removed.

Gliding to the head of the slab, Ardun captured her fisted hands, methodically smearing his blood on the back of each one. As he disappeared from sight behind her head, the chant grew louder. Suddenly his arm appeared, hovering above her. She continued to thrash about, searching for hidden reserves of strength, until a drop of blood landed squarely in the center of her forehead and the chant came to an abrupt halt.

Buffy froze, breathing heavily, then craned her neck to glare up at him. His eyes were closed and his arms were raised high above his head, the dagger gripped firmly in both hands. The blade’s tip was pointed downward, poised to begin the powerful arc that would send it plunging into her heart.


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TBC in Part 8


A/N: Oops. Another cliffhanger. Darn!





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