Sunnydale Side Up - St. Louis Side Down

by
Lisa Y. Drexel

Chapter One   Chapter Two   Chapter Three   Chapter Four   Chapter Five
Chapter Six   Chapter Seven   Chapter Eight

Chapter One

~~~1~~~

For being nearly 200 years old, I was and still am a bloody fool. I let her go. I didn’t follow. I just watched as the love of my demon and souled-vampire life pack her bags, with tears staining her red, swollen face—her psyche screaming in pain as the reality of leaving me sunk into her soul. I could feel her mourning not only me, but the one before—whom she never gave a proper good-bye to in her heart.

Now, she could cry for the loss of both of us.

Oh bloody wonderful for her.

I’m sure she’s just thrilled at the prospect. But then, I wouldn’t know, because I haven’t dared tweaked our link, for fear that just feeling her would send me running back to her and leaving the other one that’s here behind to her fate.

I’m a coward.

I can still see her face as she stepped to the front door, the cab honking its horn—feeling as if I just stepped into a ill-fated romance movie as I clung to her desperately, finally forgoing whatever pride I’ve had by crying in her arms.

She was biting her lips, studying me, almost as if she was memorizing everything about me. I found myself smiling through my tears, thinking to myself how much this young woman has changed me—made me so much more than I was before. Hell, I even could laugh and cry at the same time.

A feat worth godhood.

She chuckled softly, cupping my face with her warm hands, tears rolling down her face, and tiptoed to kiss me. Her lips, warm and soft, caressed mine as she used our link for the last time, Be happy. Go to her or I’ll bloody stake you myself!

And she laughed.

And I laughed as well as I yanked her into my arms, holding her tightly against me, memorizing the beat of her heart and that wonderful scent of coconuts and almonds, that was all hers, as my fangs gently scraped her neck and I was able to take one last sip of her delicious blood—unique as her.

So long, Michelle. Be good and keep that bloody head of yours...I love you.

The cab driver honked again and I felt Mike growl softly in my chest.

"I gotta go." Her dark gray eyes met mine. "I love you."

Then she quickly disentangled herself from me and carefully slipped out the door into the afternoon light—leaving me in the darkness—more alone than I ever had been in 200 years.

The bloody bitch.

And I couldn’t even hate her.

Everything she did, she did out of love.

The fucking bitch.

~~2~~

For three straight days, I did nothing other than drink. I didn’t leave. I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t bother with the door and my various visitors. Oh, I could tell who they were by their heartbeats or lack thereof.

First came Willow.

Had it only been two days before that I saved her from those fledgling demon-vamps in the park? It seemed like centuries ago.

Her heart was beating somewhat faster than normal, but it always seemed to do that in my presence. She may intellectually and emotionally trust me, but instinctually, she knew she was still a human and a possible food source. But I still recognized it.

I didn’t bothering answering.

There was nothing she could say to me to make me feel better. And I knew that’s why she had come to see me. Of all the Sunnydale clan, Willow was the one Mike was closest to. Although the hacker didn’t know of her pre-immortal status, it still didn’t dissuade Mike from feeling responsible for the girl. That, plus the fact that Mike really liked Willow and thought the girl was a wonderful person sure didn’t hurt their relationship.

I was sure that Willow knew of Mike’s departure.

After the hacker, came my sire.

He was nuts if he thought I’d ever let him inside my home.

Even souled, I still hated the asshole, just on pure principle.

I let him knock.

Then the phone rang.

In a drunken fit, I threw it across the living room, barely missing that horrid, huge picture window Mike had insisted on keeping in front room, despite my aversion to sunlight. It cost a bloody fortune to install those blasted remote controlled blinds.

Instead, I made a nice hole in the wall, where later, I would enlarge it with my foot in a fit of drunken anger.

Then I ran out of blood wine.

For three days I had been without Mike’s elixir and that awful bloodlust that Vachon had so accurately described that last night he had been in Sunnydale, arose with a veracity that frankly, scared the hell out of me.

It was then I realized that there were drawbacks to my existence now compared to then. As a demon-vamp, I could go easily a week without blood. Hell, for years after Prague, Dru barely consumed two bloody pints a week. Sure, she was weak. But she never went mad with want. Her eyes never turned blood red with hunger.

I finally broke out of my self-imposed asylum and called Vachon.

I had never been so relieved in my life to find out that Mike, even in her present emotional state, had enough sense to make Wolf’s Bane her first stop once she arrived in St. Louis. According to the Spaniard, she died of blood loss that first night—just to guarantee that I had enough of her blood in a few days—to save me from hunting once again.

As soon as he told me that the shipment was due to arrive later that night, I hung up, growling in relief.

Luckily for the delivery boy he was a vampire.

Or he would’ve been my first live meal in almost a year.

The Slayer would’ve been pissed.

And unfortunately, so would’ve I.

With that thought, I got drunk again.

This one last for nearly a week.

And yet during this whole time, it didn’t once occur to me to follow her back to St. Louis. Somewhere inside, I had accepted that my home was in Sunnydale and that my life was with the Slayer and her friends.

At least for now.

~~3~~

It was the Slayer that finally broke through my drunken prison walls.

Literally.

I nearly killed her before I realized who it was.

Instead, I railed on her for breaking down my front door, all the while cursing humans and their ability to enter anywhere uninvited.

She quickly pointed out, as she straddled my chest with a steak poised above my heart, that I didn’t need an invitation anymore either and to just shut the fuck up.

"You’re pathetic!"

"Fuck you! Who the hell are you to tell me that? Where the hell were you this summer after you sent Angel to Hell, eh? The way I bloody see it," I grabbed the stake and yanked it out of her hand, "at least I didn’t fucking run away!"

I stood up, dumping her back on her butt.

It would’ve been grand exit line if I hadn’t fallen back against the wall in a drunken stupor.

She started giggling.

And before I realized it, I was chuckling softly.

"Are we having a moment?" she asked as she stood up, rubbing her behind.

I shrugged as a smirk curled the corner of my mouth. I finally nodded. "Yeah, I guess we are."

As she looked around the living room, I could see her mentally counting the empty wine bottles that littered the once pristine room. Clean, because believe it or not, I like it that way. Mike sure as hell wasn’t a good housekeeper. Sometimes I swore I spent more time cleaning up after her than making love to her.

And this was a well known and much laughed about fact about us. The ultimate Odd Couple of Immortal Beings.

Buffy sighed as she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. I heard cabinet doors being flung open and slamming shut. The suspense was killing me.

"What the hell are you looking for?"

"Trash bags."

I frowned. "Under the sink. Why?"

She pulled out the box and walked past me back into the living room.

"Why do you think?"

She tore a black bag out of the box and began picking up the empty bottles and carefully placing them into it. "Does he want these back? Or do you recycle?"

Shaking my head, as if that would somehow sober me up, I frowned. "What?"

She pursed her lips as she stood impatiently in front of me, leaning on one leg. She held the bottle up and read the label. "Does LaCroix want these bottles back? Or is there some sort of vampire recycling center you take these to in LA? What? I’m sure you don’t throw them away—not with this label."

It finally got through my cloudy brain what she was talking about. "He picks the empties up when he delivers the next shipment." I picked up a bottle, and sniffed it. Mike’s essence flowed through my senses. My fangs dropped and eyes yellowed in response. "Here!" I tossed the bottle at Buffy and hurried to the kitchen for another bottle. I searched through the dozen or so bottles and found one of the few that had no wine in it. Yanking the cork out with my teeth, I drank deeply, feeling the bloodlust dwindle.

I didn’t realize she followed me until closed the refrigerator door to see her standing behind it.

"Are you okay?"

I started chuckling at the sheer stupidity of the question. What the hell did she think? "No."

She leaned against the wall, watching me. "That bloodlust—is it because you’re drinking so much or is it because you don’t have Mike’s blood?"

I shut my eyes, hoping to hide from her perceptiveness.

It didn’t work.

"Both." I opened them and watched her as her forehead crinkled in thought.

"It’s stronger now, isn’t it?"

I nodded.

"How much stronger?"

I shut my eyes again, feeling it rise once again. "A lot stronger. I guess it’s the price one pays for his soul."

I felt the air stir as she walked around me towards the sink. I heard her open a couple of drawers, then stop. Curious, I finally I had to see what she was up to.

Once again, my slayer shocked the hell out of me.

In her hand, she held a pearing knife, touching the tip as if to test its sharpness. She finally looked up at me, her green eyes suddenly darker and more serious than I ever seen them before.

"When the Master ‘killed’ me, something changed with me. If you and Dru came while he still lived, you probably would’ve beaten me. I don’t know what changed or how it happened, but I became stronger—even more of a Slayer than I was before. "

"Where are you going with this?" I asked, feeling the Beast rise to a new, more insistent level. I grabbed the bottle of blood and drank half of it within a minute. She just watched me, silent and non-judgmental.

It suddenly occurred to me that I knew exactly where she was going with this and I didn’t like it one bit.

"Get out. Don’t even think about it. Don’t pass go, don’t collect a hundred dollars—just get the fuck out of here before I do something that neither of us would like."

She flinched—obviously surprised at the harshness of my words and the meaning behind them. I cared and she didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

Well, neither did I.

Finally she nodded, placing the knife back down on the counter behind her and left the room. "Buffy!"

I heard her stop. Suddenly incredibly sober, I gave her a small smile. "Thanks though."

"Option’s still there, Spike. If it’ll keep you from enjoying all those ‘happy meals with legs’ out there, then it’s worth it. And if my blood is anything like an Immortal’s, then it can only help you. Why not? I’ll just stop donating to Red Cross."

I shook my head; wanting nothing more than to take her up on the offer, but knowing that her death would be imminent if I did.

At least for now. I was too high strung.

And she had no idea of how powerful her blood was to me now—even more than it was before when I was just a mere demon-vamp.

Blood was blood back then.

Now blood was like a banquet—each person was unique and delicious—and it made a glorious meal for us Souled-Ones. Therein lied the problem. That was why there were Enforcer’s and demands for conforming Souled-One’s actions. The bloodlust, that was merely a tinkle in a demon-vamp’s need for evil and darkness, was all-consuming in us.

And with Mike’s absence, I was finally experiencing what drove many a vampire crazy with need.

Oh, hell.

I suddenly realized she was waiting for me to speak. "I’ll keep you in mind, alright?"

Feeling satisfied, she nodded. She reached the front door, hand on the knob and turned back to me. "Can you help me patrol tomorrow? Angel’s gone to LA for a couple of weeks, and it’s been pretty busy. With Faith gone, I need the help."

I chuckled softly. "I think I can be sober enough for you. What time?"

"How about I meet you here, since it’s on the way, about 5:30. Will you be up?"

I nodded yes. "I’m usually awake by mid-afternoon."

"Cool, then I’ll see ya tomorrow."

"Till tomorrow, Buffy."

I saw her grin as she disappeared out the door.

I smiled to myself as I began to clean up the house.

Chapter Two

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Hell is a place much like St. Louis"
Seen on a bumper sticker on an 1980 rusty Honda Civic in St. Louis on a hot August day
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~1~~

At first I thought I was going to be all right.

I really did.

I wasn’t breaking down or anything. I was just doing what had to be done. Once I left Sunnydale, the tears dried, and a will that I had almost forgotten in the past few years, re-asserted itself—enabling me to make it to the airplane dry-eyed.

Then, once I landed in St. Louis, still amazingly dry-eyed—three actual hours later, but five hours because I was traveling east, I leased a Nissan Pathfinder and drove straight to Wolf’s Bane.

Everything was fine and dandy until I died.

And then, it was like whatever hold I had on my emotions—disappeared—just poof! I woke up in LaCroix’s quarter’s with Natalie Knight, LaCroix youngest childe and the city’s coroner, sitting next to me, watching the whole Immortal process with mute fascination that only a scientist of the 20th century could possess.

I barely managed to mumble a thank you, before scrambling out of the nightclub like I had a pack of demon-vamps on my tail. Not five minutes later, I screeched the tires and skidded to a stop in front of my flat.

Up until that evening, Vachon had been staying there and paying half the rent and the utilities, while I forked over the other half.

It’s weird how I knew somehow I was going to need that place again.

Yawning, I reached over and grabbed my duffel bag and purse and trudged up the steps that led to my apartment. Before I had a chance to stick the key into the lock, Vachon opened it, grinning, as he stepped back and let me in.

"Is there more in the car?"

I nodded as I threw him the keys and dropped my purse and bag on the floor. I stumbled to the kitchen and got myself a huge glass of ice water.

By the time he returned, I was sitting at the kitchen table, sprawled out on the wooden chair smoking a cigarette.

"I didn’t know you smoked."

"I didn’t. This is my first pack since I was eighteen." I picked up the red and white box and studied the label. Marlboro. Spike’s brand.

God, I’m pathetic.

"You miss him?"

I chuckled without humor. "Understatement."

He disappeared behind me and I heard the refrigerator door open and the sound of cork popping out. Seconds later, I heard him punching numbers into the microwave and starting it. Two minutes later he was sitting in front of me, drinking blood out of one of my mugs—a Hallmark mug at that—with Sylvia plastered on it, bemoaning about friendship, and the chuckles started slipping out.

"What?"

At the sound of his voice—filled with irritation and indignance, I lost it. Suddenly everything—the whole crazy last couple of days came crashing down on me and all I could do is laugh. From the Three Stooges of demons that had decided that Slayer blood was their link to remaining earthbound for all time—to me telling Spike that he loved Buffy—to dying at Wolf’s Bane, just to ensure that the second lover I’ve left in as many years didn’t go on a bloodlust hunt—to finally sitting in my kitchen with a five-hundred year old vampire drinking microwaved-heated blood out of a fucking cartoon-drawn Hallmark coffee mug.

Life was just too fucking weird.

And every time I looked up at him, he just looked more pissed. And I couldn’t help it—I laughed harder. It wasn’t until I found myself on the floor with a very pissed off vampire suckling on my neck, did I realize that maybe I pushed him a bit too far.

Not even a minute later, he stood up, looking thoroughly embarrassed as he grabbed my arm and pulled me and my chair upright.

"Sorry. At least now I know what the hell was so fucking funny! Damn Mike, you’ve got the weirdest sense of humor!"

I watched him as he calmly lifted the mug up to his lips as if he was sipping on a hot cup of coffee. So normal looking.

Was this going to be my life? Either surrounded by vampires or 5000 year-old-Immortals where normal was this instead of getting up every morning at 6:30am to be at work by 8:00am?

What a wonderful day.

"I know. It’ll probably cost me my head one day."

"So you died tonight?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I told her to do it that way. I was holding up then and I have no idea what it’s going to be like tomorrow. I already feel that black wave of depression—just waiting to pounce on me and drown the life right out of me."

He snorted. "Are you sure it’s not here already?"

I rolled my eyes.

I looked around the kitchen and noticed that nothing had changed. He left everything as it had been when Spike and I lived here.

Maybe I should just get a new place.

"Did you find a place to stay?"

He nodded. "Wolf’s Bane. LaCroix’s got my old rooms still open." It was his turn to roll his eyes. "I actually think the General wants me there. If you would’ve told me four years ago this was going to happen, I would’ve called you crazy."

I shrugged. "He trusts you."

"Yeah, pretty weird."

I yawned, my eyes watering as my body screamed exhaustion. Finally the last couple of days of no sleep were getting to me. Maybe, if I was real lucky, I could sleep this depression away.

God, that sounded good.

He stood up and I turned, watching him go to the sink and rinse out the mug. He turned around and faced me. "You’re tired. You haven’t slept more than six hours in two days. Get to bed."

I chuckled. "Damn vampires. Give ‘em a bit of your blood and suddenly they know when you had your last orgasm."

"This morning, Mike. Go to bed."

I stood up shakily and turned to him. "Yes Mommy," and gave him my cheekiest grin.

I left, but not before I heard him mumbling about human women and being on the rag.

Before I shut my bedroom door, I stuck my head out, facing the kitchen. "Well, fuck you, too!"

~~2~~

For three months following my father’s murder and Morden’s disappearance, I began having nightmares. It was before Adam and I had consummated our relationship. We were still riding that weird fence that we had built that shakily stood in between the mentor and/or lover side. I knew I loved him. And I knew that at least the Adam part of Methos loved me.

Me and him just weren’t sure about the rest of his self.

The nightmares slowly disappeared by the time he dumped me off at the convent. And the night he had picked me up from there, we made love for the first time.

I hadn’t had a nightmare since.

That is, until my first night back in St. Louis.

After I shut the door on Vachon, I stripped, dropping my clothes as I made my way to bed and sunk down into bed, I felt my chest tighten and those absent tears finally reappeared. As I hugged my pillow, sobbing into its softness; I finally slipped off into an uneasy sleep.

My nightmare returned.

I screamed as I shot up in bed. My heart was racing as I flipped over onto my back and turned on the beside lamp.

My whole body was soaked with set, my hair stuck to my neck and back, tickling my skin. Gathering it in one hand, I reached over to the nightstand and picked up a hair scrunchie and stopped, staring at the clock in exhaustion.

It was only 4:00am. I’d had a whole three hours of sleep.

Groaning, I tied my hair back and fell back on my pillows.

There would be no more sleeping that night.

~~3~~

The next two weeks were not much better.

Actually, if I were really honest with myself, they were much worse.

The nightmares seemed to come no matter what time it was, leaving me drained and exhausted. So, after the third day, I called a local liquor store that delivered and ordered a case of Jack Daniel’s.

Fuck the beer.

I wanted oblivion.

And so there went my life. I drank. I cried. I ate when I remembered to. And I dreamt.

It wasn’t until Vachon broke into my apartment to find me zoning out in the middle of the living room floor surrounded by trash-built walls, did I realize how far I had fallen—

—into my prison.

The walls were made out of empty pizza cartons, take-out containers of all sorts, empty Jack Daniel bottles and empty packs of Marlboro and over-filled ashtrays.

He literally had to wade through the trash to reach me. Without speaking, he lifted me up and flung me over his shoulder, muttering something about caring too much and carried me to the bathroom. Once there, he set me down on top of the commode in the bathroom.

From there, he stripped me and dumped me into the tub filled with hot water.

"Clean up," he snapped, disgust lacing his voice as he disappeared out through the door.

It wasn’t until he was gone, did it occur to me to protest. But by then, the hot, steamy water was just the balm I needed for my soul.

Once again, I cried, but this time they were tears of cleansing.

~~4~~

A half hour later, clad in my dark purple terry-cloth bathrobe and slippers, I leaned against my bedroom door, trying to work up the courage to go out and face Vachon.

I didn’t want to.

I was so embarrassed.

How did it get this bad?

I hadn’t been this depressed since I was mortal—right after I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. And even then, I didn’t hide in trash prison of my own making.

"Shit," I whispered as I opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

The first thing I noticed as I was walking by the living room was that he cleaned up the trash and once again my furniture was in its rightful place. I had everything pushed against the walls, leaving the center in theory, open for my work-outs.

The work-outs that I never did.

I took another deep breath and started walking towards the kitchen. As I stepped into the room, my eyes met Vachon’s and I blushed. I slipped into the chair across from him and played with the place mat. Anything not to look at him.

The coffee maker sputtered loudly, signaling that it was finished and I watched Vachon stand up from the kitchen table and walk over to it.

After pouring me a cup of coffee and grabbing a bottle of Wolf’s Bane House special out of the refrigerator, he came back and sat across from me, sliding the mug across the wooden table.

"When’s the last time you ate?"

I sat back with my eyes closed, thinking. When was it? This morning? Or last night? I opened my eyes and shrugged. "I don’t remember."

I heard him growl and my head shot back up in time to see his eyes flash gold in annoyance. "Do you want to lose your head? Is this place blessed or have you invented a new religion to make it holy ground?"

I flinched. "I wasn’t thinking."

"Obviously. About you or anyone else. You just sat here for two weeks and wallowed."

My head snapped up and I glared at him. "Give me a fucking break! What’s two weeks in an immortal lifetime?"

He nodded as he sipped his bloodwine. "Yeah, you’re right Mike. It would be fine if other people weren’t depending on you or loved you. You’re not answering your phone. You’re not answering the door. You had no idea that another headhunter was in town looking for you and I had to scare him away before he could get you.

"No idea at all. Because you were depressed. Remember Spike? Guess what? He’s out of your blood and scared to death that he’s going to drain the first live body that comes in his range. He’s never had to deal with this before. Demon-vamps don’t have this bloodlust like we do."

I felt my stomach drop. How could’ve I forgotten? I winced, feeling my face redden in embarrassment.

"Shit, I forgot. Alright, I get dressed and we’ll go down to Wolf’s Bane tonight, okay?"

He nodded. "But first we’re going to get something to eat. It’s still early, how about Italian? You love Italian."

I grinned sheepishly. "Talayna’s okay? Will the garlic be too much?"

"Just bring your portable toothbrush and toothpaste and we’ll be fine."

I stood up and took one last sip of my coffee. Vachon stood up and walked over to me. He lifted his hand and pressed it gently against my face. I shivered, immediately thinking of Spike and his cool hands. Vachon’s sighed. "We’re going to talk about this. You need to get this out of your system. You need a friend and it’s your lucky day, because here I am."

I pressed my warm hand on top of his cool one and smiled back at him. "You’ve got yourself a deal."

~~~~~~~~~~~
The cemetery—The Hellmouth’s single’s only club
~~~~~~~~~~~

The following night

As I leaned against the headstone, smoking a cigarette, I asked myself for the hundredth time that day, why I was there. Every time I tried to nudge the thought of a relationship with the blond lioness in front of me, my whole being screamed in terror—fear of getting hurt once again—of being left, once again—knowing that she was going to die and relatively soon in comparison to my immortal life...

All of it combined left my insides in knots.

Not a nice way to feel—especially for someone who, less than a year before, was a soulless demon.

Shaking my head, I watched the slayer hop up on top of a headstone and began swinging her legs back and forth. It hit me then, how contrary she was. Such an old soul with such a young heart. At that very moment, she reminded me a young child sitting on a chair much too high for such a small body. I smiled at the thought, wondering how she would react if I told her what I was thinking.

Then I heard her clear her throat. I glanced upwards—our eyes meeting—and I just knew she was getting ready to say something I didn’t want to hear.

"You still miss her, don’t you?" Buffy asked me quietly as she twirled her stake in the air.

I chuckled softly, thinking of how right I was, as I felt that all-to-familiar stab in my heart that came every time I thought of Mike. What could I say to her? Would she understand that my feelings for Mike had nothing to do with my feelings for her? And why should it matter? It’s not as if the Slayer and I were somehow magically a couple just because Mike left. There were hoops to jump through; trust to be established; feelings to be confirmed.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, not answering her.

It was easier that way. I didn’t have to choose between being angry or amused. Just ignore the question, and it may go away. Besides, I had no idea what to say.

"Spike?"

I lifted my head and opened my eyes. "What?"

"Do you still miss her?"

I heard myself growl as I flicked my cigarette. "I heard you the first time."

"And?"

For a moment, I said nothing—shocked that she wouldn’t let it go. I wanted to yell, scream on the top of my vampiric lungs that, of course I bloody miss her—you idiot! She was in my bleeding' head for over six months! I clamped down on that impetuous part of myself and found myself nearly sighing. Everyday, I’m becoming more and more like my worst nightmare—Brood-Boy—a.k.a. Angelus.

I lit another cigarette instead and watched Buffy as she jumped off the headstone and begin to pace in front of me.

My slayer was becoming impatient as she cleared her throat pointedly—stopping in mid-step, obviously waiting for a response.

Almost immediately, I felt my fangs drop and knew that my eyes were the yellow of a hunter. "What do you think, Buffy? That somehow once I sobered up, that aching hole in my soul that once was Mike would magically heal itself? Why in the hell do you think I was hitting the bottle in the first place?"

She was on the move once again, pacing in front of me. "Well you don’t have to get nasty about it," she stopped and stared at her hands, twisting them. "I just thought you might want to talk about it," she whispered so softly that only another vampire could hear her.

I almost sighed. "I’m sorry. I’m still a bit ragged at the edges, pet. A two-week drunken binge will do that to you."

She nodded and gave me a small smile. It soon disappeared as I watched her lean against the headstone. "Then why don’t you call her then? Or go back to St. Louis. Anyone—"

I had to grin. She never gives up.

"Anxious to get rid of me, pet?"

Her mouth snapped shut as her eyes widened as she started to shake her head in denial. Unfortunately for me, she caught herself. That would’ve been ammunition nearly worth the torture she was putting me through.

In its stead, she rolled her eyes at me. "It’s just that you’re in such a foul mood—"

"I can’t." I paused, watching her freeze with a puzzled look on her face. "I can’t go back to her," I added softly, praying to those lousy gods that she would just bloody drop it.

Of course, she didn’t.

"Why not?"

I heard myself groan as I leaned back—resting my head on the stone behind me—desperately trying to compose myself.

And then I did it. I finally sighed.

Maybe that’s it, I thought to myself. Maybe Brood-boy wasn’t the master of sighs until after he became involved with Slayer.

Oh bloody wonderful. What the hell am I getting myself into?

Once again, the Beast rose as I silently cursed my lack of control. It was never this hard with Mike, I thought to myself, as I felt the bloodlust rise with my anger. But then you never got this pissed off at Mike, either, the wise part of myself whispered in my mind. "Drop it, Slayer," I said, using that dangerous, don’t-mess-with-me-tone, I had perfected as a master demon-vamp. "You might not like the answer."

It had the desired effect.

Her eyes met mine and for a brief second, I swore I saw tears, then her expression hardened as she whipped around and began circling the perimeter, in her lioness-mode, protecting her pups.

Which in a sense she was. If you considered Sunnydale her litter.

And what a beautiful lioness she was. Her blond hair, free and unencumbered, flounced with every step she made. Her body—so unlike Mike’s—was lean, muscular and yet, at the same time, very feminine—like Mike’s. She was wearing one of those Lycra tee-shirts that clung to her breasts as if it were a bra itself and unfortunately, for any male in her vicinity, only came to her midriff—leaving her tan stomach open to our lusting gaze. Not to mention that wisp of a skirt she was wearing. Gods, was she trying to kill me?

Ashamed, I closed my eyes and pictured Mike standing naked in front of me, her breasts—full and pert and her nipples hard and rose colored, her wide hips, long legs and small waist—her softness, so different from my lean, hard body. Sometimes, when we would make love, I felt like I sinking into her femininity, as her soft limbs wrapped tightly about me—enveloping me. Shifting uncomfortably, I found myself grinning at my body’s reaction to my memory. A part of me wanted to yell at Mike and say, ‘see, I still want you—I love you…’

But even before I finished that thought, I knew that it didn’t matter. Mike never doubted my love for her. She just knew I loved someone else in addition to her. And that someone being a very short-lived Slayer guaranteed that Mike would remain out of reach until Buffy died—regardless if I did something about it or not. In Mike’s mind, the point was mute. I could nearly die of blue ball syndrome and she would still stay away until Buffy died.

Then I heard the slayer sigh.

It was a sigh of helplessness and longing. Of anger and frustration. It was the same sigh I made inwardly for months while sitting in that blasted wheelchair watching Angelus paw all over Dru while I was secretly falling for the Slayer—the young woman that was unknowingly fighting my battles with my sire as well as her own.

I flicked my cigarette and stood up, and nearly flew in front of her. Standing there, seeing her bowed head and hearing her sniffles—knowing that I was the cause of those tears, finally broke through that childish temper tantrum that I had been throwing for nearly two weeks. I reached over and caressed her wet face, my hand stopping on her chin. Slowly, I lifted her face as my head dipped down and somewhere in the middle, our lips met.

At first, the kiss was tentative and gentle—all the things that first kisses are between two people who are already in love—but have yet to consummate those feelings. As I nibbled on her bottom lip, a tiny sigh escaped her lips, this one of arousal, as she reached up to touch my face.

Her hand was hot and I heard myself groan as I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her small body tight against mine. Her heat called to me—it was unlike anything I had ever felt before. I thought I was accustomed to humans—after nine months with Mike, but Buffy was different.

She was blazing with life and heat. Her heartbeat nearly drowned out all the other sounds around us—enticing me—calling me…

Her mouth opened and her tongue met mine in a lover’s dance. I didn’t even feel my fangs drop until she purposely knicked her tongue on one and her powerful Slayer’s blood tantalized my senses.

The smell of vanilla and spring flowers surrounded me and I heard a loud growl and somewhere in my mind, I realized it was mine.

Somehow I managed to pull away from her. My arms still wrapped tightly around her; I looked down to see flushed face watching mine with a huge smile gracing her lips.

Inwardly, I took inventory and when I realized I didn’t want to drain her, I sighed out loud once again.

Buffy was right.

Her blood was strong enough to keep the bloodlust at bay.

Ah hell, I had no more excuses.

~~2~~

We kissed once more. This time I crushed my lips to hers, opening my mouth—almost as if I was trying to take her inside of me. She responded in kind and then it hit me—she felt the same about me. I may’ve known that before, but this was the first time I felt it.

She really loved me.

I gently broke the kiss, watching Buffy take deep breaths and found myself smiling. Puts a whole new meaning on the saying, ‘he left her breathless,’ I joked to myself.

And then it hit me; I instantly felt a pang of pain, knowing that Mike would’ve loved that joke. Guilt surged through me and I found myself dropping my arms from her waist and groaning.

"Bloody hell—as if my life isn’t complicated enough," I muttered as I began to pace this time. Anger at myself, at Buffy and Mike all rose with such a veracity, I suddenly wanted to hunt for the first time since the demon had left me. "Damnit Buffy, talk to me." I stopped, closing my eyes against the anger. How can I do this? To Mike? To her? Or myself. "I never thought I would suffer from too much love," I whispered, more to myself than to Buffy.

"Don’t do this to yourself, Spike."

My eyes shot open and met hers. Seriousness and love seemed to radiate out from them. "Talk to me, pet." I asked her once again.

She bit down on her bottom lip as a myriad of emotions crossed her face. Everything from surprise, to lust, arousal, want, need and even caring, until she seemed to finally settle on being resigned.

It was almost as if she plunged a stake in my heart.

Resigned to what? Loving me? Of me loving her back? What was she thinking?

I didn’t have to wait long to get my answer.

"What do you want me to say, Spike? That I’ve wanted you to do this for a while now?" She spat out, her body suddenly tense and rigid. "Or that although I hate to see you so sad, that I’m kinda glad that Mike’s gone? Or that I’m a stupid, selfish bitch for falling for another vampire—as if the first relationship wasn’t disastrous enough? Is that enough for you? And what about you? Any great quips of wisdom getting ready to fly out of that mouth of yours? Hmm?" Angrily, she threw the stake and it hit a tree, impaling it. "Well?"

I stood there—glancing from the tree to her and arched an eyebrow. "You weren’t thinking of me when you did that, pet, were you?"

She threw her arms up in exasperation as a smile slowly appeared on her lips. "You are so—so infuriating!" She yelled out as she marched over to the tree and tugged on the stake, yanking it out of the poor tree. "So, Spike, what’s the deal?"

I chuckled softly as I plopped back down on the ground and pulled my legs up to rest my arms on my knees. "Great thoughts, Buffy?" I shook my head. "I’ve spent the past two weeks drowning out any and all thoughts and you expect this brain to function?"

Her face fell.

"What do you want to know, luv? That I enjoyed the kiss?"

"It’d be a start."

I nodded in agreement. "Yes, it would be." I paused for a moment as I watched her trying not to look anxious. "Hell yes, I enjoyed it! I’ve been dying to kiss you like that—to hold you in my bloody arms for over a year now! Surprised?"

Her mouth dropped open in shock as a beautiful shade of pink covered her skin.

"Well, so was I." I laughed, hearing that familiar touch of mania in my voice that had been an almost constant since the night before Mike left. "I was happy with Mike. I love her. She’s a part of me. She made me who I am today. My feelings about her haven’t changed since I had fallen in love with her. So, you can imagine my surprise, when out of the fucking blue, she tells me that quote: ‘You’re in love with Buffy. I have to go.’"

Staring up at the sky and avoiding the slayer’s eye, I lit a cigarette. "Here’s the kicker. Apparently, she’s known this for six months. She stumbled upon it while I was drinking from her. I had buried those feelings for you—because I was demon—because I had no bloody soul—because of Dru—because I was in a bloody wheelchair...because I’m known as the Slayer of the Slayers.

"She keeps this tidbit a secret until you almost died two weeks ago. The guilt came crashing down on her and she couldn’t stay silent—because by then, she knew you felt the same about me.

"Good ole Mike.

"So here I am, in love with two women and I fucking hate it! So, is that enough ‘honesty’ for you, Slayer? Because, if it’s not, I’m sure I could dump a whole bunch more shit on you. All you gotta do is ask."

For nearly five minutes, neither of us said anything. I sat there, staring up into the dark sky, not even noticing the few stars I could actually see, as I smoked. She, on the other hand, turned her back from me, digging her toe into the dirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her turn and looked back down and saw that she had been crying. Another piece of my heart cracked.

She squatted down in front of me and reached for my hand. As we touched, she spoke. "I’m sorry."

I brushed the tears off her cheek and snorted. "Ain’t your fault, luv. It’s those bloody gods that watch over immortal beings fault. The same ones I’ve been cursing since I found myself in a wheelchair."

She grinned. "I wonder whose my patron god? He hasn’t been doing too hot of job either."

Chapter Four

~~~~~~~
The Potholes of Life
~~~~~~~

~~1~~

The following day

It was the phone that woke me up. I opened my blurry eyes and glanced at the clock and saw that it was ten am and groaned. Last night had been a late evening as well as an emotional draining one. Vachon and I had a great time at first. We started out at Talayna’s for a good ole St. Louis Italian meal for me. I had already decided that I would postpone my bi-monthly blood draining until the next day, so I could eat all the garlic I wanted.

Which I did.

I must confess I missed the Hill, a neighborhood in St. Louis, where decades before a huge influx of Italian immigrants had settled and opened their restaurants. Their influence on St. Louis’ cuisine is felt everywhere, from St. Louis Style pizza with provel cheese to toasted ravioli. Nobody makes good white sauce rich with parmesan cheese and garlic, butter, cream and all those other fattening goodies that I lusted after when I was still mortal, like those immigrants and their decedents.

So obviously, the opportunity to pig was just too much.

And it helped that I hadn’t had a decent meal since I left Sunnydale.

So, while I chowed down on pasta con pesci, a Caesar salad, cheese garlic bread and spumoni, Vachon nursed a glass of red wine, sitting as far away from me across the table as possible without it looking obvious. We talked, laughed—and plain joked around until I was finished eating.

Once stuffed to the gills, I hurried to the bathroom with my purse in tow and proceeded to brush my teeth and use mouthwash. I even did it twice and popped a couple of breath mints afterwards, so I wouldn’t clear out Wolf’s Bane, much less Vachon.

Then we went to Wolf’s Bane.

I shouldn’t really blame Nick and Natalie. It’s not their fault that their present case is getting all the media attention that it was or that the pressure to find the perp who was raping and murdering women was escalating daily.

And they couldn’t know about me.

Because I rarely talked about it. It’s not like Immortals can go to a psychologist or shrink and say, ‘Hey Doc, you see I have this problem with trusting men because, it’s like this: one raped and stabbed me multiple times and I died. But, physically, I’m all better now.’

Since Sean Burns death, Immortals have no where to go but to each other. And I never could talk about this with Adam. Even before I found out he was one of the Horsemen, I just didn’t feel comfortable with it. And afterwards, I didn’t want to add to the guilt he was already carrying. Which incidentally, was why I was going back to school to become a psychologist in the first place. There was a great huge hole left after Sean’s death and maybe, if I was lucky, I could help fill it.

Anyway, I stayed silent and tried to work it out on my own. And, considering I fell in love with Adam and had a physical relationship with him as well as with Spike, I thought it was a dead issue.

That is, until we were talking to Nick and Natalie.

I even prostrated myself at LaCroix’s feet, groveling for my old job back. I knew he would say yes, but I also knew he wanted me to beg. So I did. I have no pride in that area of my life, besides if makes a 2000-year-old vampire happy to see a 33-year old Immortal woman beg, then who am I to deny him?

No big thing.

After leaving LaCroix’s office, I went searching for Vachon and found him sitting in a back booth with Nick and Natalie. After procuring a large glass of OJ for myself, I went and joined them. Imagine my surprise to hear them talking about a serial murderer running loose in the streets of St. Louis.

It was especially eerie when I heard his M.O.

All the woman that had died—five so far, fit my description.

Late twenties, early thirties, long, blond hair, dark gray eyes and light complexion.

They all were single and lived by themselves. No physical signs of forced entry into their homes. Each one was stabbed multiple times with a hunting knife and each one, like me, was raped.

And as I sat there, feeling my the sweat break out on my forehead, and my hands beginning to shake, I couldn’t help but think that Spike was right—those blasted gods that watch over Immortal beings had me on their shit list.

I so did not want to deal with this now.

And the worst thing about it, was I thought he had been caught. After me, the murders stopped. I chuckled to myself. And here I thought my tip saved lives...

No, this was not a pleasant memory.

I didn’t say anything until Nick mentioned the murders from three years ago. And then suddenly I couldn’t stop myself. He was looking over at Vachon and I and telling us that the present M.O. matched two murders nearly three years before.

That’s when I broke my silence. "Three," I whispered.

"What? That’s what I said. Three years ago." The blond detective asked me, leaning over the table.

"Three murders. Three people. Three women," I said, playing with a cardboard coaster sporting the Busch beer logo. "I thought my tip got him caught—because it stopped at me."

Vachon grabbed my hand, stopping my nervous fiddling. "Mike, what are you talking about?"

Suddenly it hit me—they didn’t know.

"That was my First Death. It was two and half years ago. He was dressed as an UPS guy. He had a box with my name on it and everything. When I signing that clipboard thing, he kicked the door open, causing me to fall back on to my bookcase. I managed to get up and was reaching for my lamp to hit him with it, when he knocked me out.

"I woke up on my bed, naked with him sucking—," I stopped, shuddering at the memory. All of a sudden, it all flashed back in my mind. Me, opening the door, thinking it was Adam only to discover it was an UPS guy with a package for me. I remember glancing at the clock and thinking to myself that it was really late for a delivery—well past six PM. But I let it go and began signing the board and suddenly I pushed back—my head hit the bookcase. I turned, scared to death and pissed off that I was never going to meet Adam, and I reached for a lamp, but he had knocked me out before I could lift it.

When I woke up, I was naked on the bed. And so was he. I remember shivering despite the heat. My mind was so foggy from the hit on my head, but he was so pale and cold. God, he was so cold. It felt like an icicle slicing into me as slid his penis in and out of me.

And then I saw the knife.

And before I could scream, he stabbed me in my chest. And then again. And again. And then I died.

I shook my head, realizing I had finally done that Immortal thing of reliving the past and looked up to see the three vampires watching me intently. I took a deep breath and sighed. They weren’t going to like this, but I had to ask. I looked over at Natalie. "Any missing blood?"

"Why?" Nick asked. "Do you think it was one of us?"

I shook my head. "I don’t think so—it was early evening—about 6:30, maybe 7:00 PM. But, my apartment was dark, because I didn’t want any peeping toms to get their jollies. And Spike used travel and stay awake during the day—so maybe that doesn’t matter. I don’t know. " I bit my lip, staring at Vachon. "Maybe it’s a demon-vamp. That would explain the lack of bite marks, the cold body, the dead eyes."

I turned back to Nick. "Demon-vamps don’t have some of the restrictions you do. Spike used to travel in a car during the day with his windows spray painted black. And I know demon-vamps get off on murder and death—they don’t need the blood like you guys do. They don’t have a bloodlust like you guys do—they have an evil-lust—for lack of a better word. In that need for evil, blood is included for both sustenance and because it’s fun—but, unless they’re out hunting to feed, they don't need blood like you guys do."

"We couldn’t account for at least a pint of blood at each murder," Natalie pursed her lips in thought. "But these women were raped. That isn’t possible with us."

Vachon shook his head. "With us. Not with them. They have more control. They can drink from a human without killing them. They can have sex with humans without draining them."

Nick groaned to himself. "This puts a whole new light on it. If it is one of them, he’s not breaking the Code so we can’t call the Enforcers. And I would rather keep the Slayer where she’s at."

"So would I," I added softly, not quite ready to deal with Buffy or Spike yet. "How ‘bout I help? If anything, it’ll mess with his mind—if he saw me alive. He’s the only ‘normal’ out there that knows that I died."

Nick sipped his bloodwine and glanced up at Natalie. Mike could see something pass between them and then Nick nodded as he turned his eyes back to me. "We’ll get back to you about that. One thing, where did you live then?"

"Dogtown. Right on the cusp of Maplewood. It’s was the city’s jurisdiction though."

"Fits the profile," muttered Natalie as she stood up.

Nick followed, leaving Vachon and I alone.

It was then he asked me about my First Death.

So, I told him over a pack of Marlboro’s for me and a bottle of LaCroix’s house special for him.

Like I said, it was an emotionally draining evening. Too many bad memories and past loves remembered.

Shaking my head, I grabbed the receiver and groaned a hello.

"Mike? It’s Joe."

I yawned again as I sat up in bed and reached for a cigarette. "Hi Joe. What’s up?" I lit it, making a face at the taste. Oh great, a cigarette hangover, I mentally groaned.

He chuckled. "Did I wake you? I thought it was late enough..."

"Don’t worry about it. I’m still on a vampire schedule."

"Are you alright? I just feel bad, with your father not here anymore and the Old Man gone. Someone has to worry about you."

I shut my eyes against the pain. "I’m hanging in there. I wish things could’ve been different, but," I shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.

He sighed. "I wish you hadn’t left Sunnydale. It’s safer there."

"I didn’t have a choice, Joe. She deserves happiness. And he was the one that could do that for her. Consider it my gift to the Fight Against Evil."

"As long as it doesn’t cost you your head," he muttered and instantly my radar went up. Something was up. This wasn’t an Uncle-Joe-checking-up-on-his-surrogate-niece phone call. No, this was more of a subtle, but obvious watch-your-ass-Mike phone call.

"What up, Joe?"

I heard him swallow and take a deep breath. "I’m reinstating you as a part-time researcher. You need to check your bulletins. And your mail."

My heart began pounding. Someone was after me. "Has there been any reports of vampire attacks on Immortals here?" I asked, remembering the Immortal that Vachon drained a few nights before.

"Yes," he answered carefully. "But apparently the Immortal had never had a run-in with a vampire and his encounter spooked him. The last I heard, he was in Houston."

Oh just wonderful, I thought. A different head-hunter.

"Well, darling, I got to go. Mac’s coming over to the bar and helping me paint."

"Paint? But Joe, you just repainted Le Blues Bar six months ago."

Joe laughed. "I forgot to tell you? Man, I’m sorry. Hon, we’re back in Seacouver. We have been for a week."

"That means I can visit you without having to update my passport. I’m glad. It’s kinda lonely in the States without you and Mac."

"Thanks Darling. You take care, okay?"

"Yeah, I will. And thanks. I’ll drop you a line and fill you in."

"Sounds good. Bye Mike."

"Bye Joe," I said and slowly hung the phone up. "Great," I said out loud in the empty bedroom. "When it rains, it pours."

I pulled myself out of bed and headed for the kitchen to make some coffee and start my day.

Chapter Five

~~~~~~~~
Did you see that bright blue light?
~~~~~~~~

Sunnydale, CA

Spike’s house

One month later

As I listened to her breathing, gentled by sleep, I tightened my hold on her small and warm body and reveled in her softness. After hours of making love, Buffy finally slipped into a deep slumber; her head resting on my chest, her arms draped over my cool body and, I must admit, it felt bloody wonderful. For the first time since Mike had left, I felt as if that hole that she left in my heart and soul could actually be filled by this young woman in my arms.

And it shocked me.

Because, despite my feelings for Buffy and hers for me, I really couldn’t see feeling this way with anyone other than Mike. And ironically, I only felt a tinge of guilt for being this happy. This was what Mike wanted and, ironically I knew, that if I hadn’t pursued the Slayer, Mike would’ve staked me herself for causing her as much pain as I well knew she was feeling.

I had my sources.

Willow, although reluctantly, would fill me in when I cornered her. Nervously, she would stutter Mike’s whereabouts and how she was doing—which only confirmed what I already knew in my soul. Although the link was nearly dead—it wasn’t totally. Once I pulled myself out of the bottle, I realized that even across all those miles, we were feeding each other our emotions. It was a good thing that Buffy and Vachon literally dragged both our perspective asses out of our funks, or Mike and I would be wallowing in the affects of a mental circle fuck for an eternity. I would feel bad—she would pick up on it and add it to her already bad feelings and then I would pick up on double-depression—which only added to my double-depression....

See a pattern?

But this link thing is so new to everyone. Vachon said that he had never experienced a tie as strong as mine was with Mike—even with his own children. Outright telepathy wasn’t known in any of the circles we traveled in, so Mike and I were left winging it.

Although Richie Ryan did tell me one thing of interest that might explain why we are so connected. We were talking about how anyone would know if Methos lost his head since he had basically disappeared, and Richie said that Mac would know. He then went on to tell me about how a couple years ago, his mentor, Duncan MacLeod and Methos, were fighting two other Immortals and both Mac and Methos beheaded their opponents at the same time. The result was a totally unheard of phenomena: a double-Quickening. According to what Richie could drag out of the reluctant Scot, not only did the two Immortals share their opponents Quickenings—but they also shared one another’s. Now, apparently, MacLeod can now ‘read’ Methos’ signature as well as Methos reading Mac’s. Also, they felt when the other took a head. The effects were totally dependent on the distance between the two—the closer one was to the other—the stronger the effect.

If I were thinking metaphysically, I would say they shared the Immortal equivalent of one another’s soul. Using that theory with Mike and I, her Quickening not only gave me my soul, but it also gave me a bit of hers.

Which, in my roundabout way, leads me back to Buffy. After discovering that her blood tamed the bloodlust in me, she insisted that I feed from her. Although just the mere suggestion gave me raging hard on that I had a bitch of time getting down, I was still a bit reluctant. After all, didn’t I just go through this? And what about Buffy? Or Mike? Would Buffy mind sharing my heart with someone else, even though she wasn’t physically there? So I asked her.

Her reaction stunned me. It just reminded me all over again, how old her soul was. She rolled her eyes at me and chuckled. "Your point?"

I stood there, feeling my spine straighten as I scowled at her. "I just thought it might bother you that you would still feel her. It would be a reminder that I love someone else as well!" I lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in her face, watching her face redden.

Boy, I just love being a shit.

"Like I could forget it anyway!" Her fingers deftly yanked the cigarette out of my mouth and she dropped it on the grass, stomping it.

"Hey!" I snapped as I watched my only cigarette experience the wrath of one brassed-off Slayer. "That was my last one!"

She closed her eyes and groaned. "Quit then." She looked up and met my eyes, her demeanor suddenly completely serious. "I wouldn’t be here—with you—discussing this—if it wasn’t for her." She moved to stand in front of me, lifting her hands to my cheeks. Her warmth filled me with a longing so deep, I wondered if it would ever be sated. "All that matters to me is that I love you and that you love me. Who else we love isn’t a factor as long we don’t bring them into our bed."

That was it.

She won that one. Before she could even manage a squeal, I had her in arms, crushing my lips to hers, holding her tight enough that if she were human, she may’ve broken and told her with my mouth and tongue, and my hardness that pressed against her sex, how much I loved her and wanted her.

Needless to say, not much more slaying was done that night. We ran through Sunnydale to my house like a couple of horny teenagers, which in her case she is, and by the time I had shut the door, she had already kicked off her shoes and was pulling off her socks. Not even letting her finish, I picked her up and threw her over my shoulder and carried her to the bedroom.

We made love the rest of the night into the day. Each time was wonderful. And when I drank from her, it was intense. Although instinctively I knew that whatever Buffy and I shared wouldn’t go as deep as the link between Mike and I, it was still mind-blowing. Our minds did mesh and for a short while, we were one. So now a piece of Mike is in Buffy.

I wonder if Mike is getting anything out of this?

Only on the Hellmouth.

I looked back down at my sleeping Slayer and smiled. I even said a small prayer to those gods that I had been cursing for over a year now.

They finally allowed me some peace.

As I felt dawn approach, I drifted into sleep, surrounded by the Slayer’s scent and essence, and reveled in the feeling.

Bloody hell, I really do love her.

~~~2~~~

Of course, it had to be a dream. I mean, what else could it be? I never felt anything like this before in my life—and that’s all 200 years worth. Pain, as acute and agonizing as any torture I’d ever suffered, combined with a pleasure—that ran so deep into my soul that I screamed for release. And the images that ran through my head of people and places that I’ve never been to and ever met. And yet, I felt a familiar presence somewhere close. Vachon. I could feel him, off the side, watching over me. Worrying.

It was then I realized I was somehow Mike or I was in her—just like that time I followed the link into her cell and watched Morden tell her and vicariously, me, why he wanted her dead. I felt her soul crying out as another bolt of pleasure-pain stabbed into her body. A thought drifted into her/my mind—so this is what a Quickening feels like...

The pain and pleasure began to lessen and Mike opened her eyes. I realized then, we had been floating in the air—the power of the Quickening so strong that it lifted her body up so it could pound itself into her.

To the side, I glimpsed at a young man’s headless body and felt Mike’s sorrow at how her life had taken another turn into a world she wasn’t quite ready to deal with.

Her/my last thought was Welcome to the Game...

And then it stopped.

~~~3~~~

I don’t know how long I laid there in bed—stiff and still—when Buffy’s frantic voice finally pulled me out of my stupor.

"Buffy, he should be okay," I heard the Watcher’s voice say quietly.

"Giles, he’s been out for over an hour—he’s a vampire for gods sake—where’s that famous healing?"

I felt her body lift up from the bed and I concentrated on moving my mouth.

"...okay."

"What?" I heard her yell. The bed moved again. I could feel her presence—smell the vanilla. It filled my body.

I licked my lips.

"He moved, Giles!"

"Pet, I’m okay." I whispered, this time managing nearly a complete. "Hungry."

"Oh dear, I guess he would be with all he’s gone through," Giles muttered. "The refrigerator, Buffy?"

"Uh yeah, grab a bottle that say’s Spike’s Special on it. It’s one of the ones that has Mike’s blood in it." I felt her warm hand caress my face. "God, you had me so worried. I was sleeping with my head on your chest and suddenly, I was thrown across the room. You wouldn’t believe the fireworks! Luckily, they pretty well stayed with you and whatever was touching you. You were glowing, Spike. Blue light covered your whole body!"

I couldn’t help it. I grinned, quietly chuckling. I tried opening my eyes again and found this time they could focus. The first thing I saw a rumpled slayer clad in a pair of her work-out sweats, anxiously leaning over me. Her face was red and puffy. She had been crying.

"Sorry."

She leaned down and kissed me gently on the lips. "Nothing to be sorry about. We knew that this could happen. Before you ask, I called Wolf’s Bane and found out that Mike and Vachon left St. Louis about a month ago. Apparently a headhunter was after her and Vachon literally whisked her away to give her a chance to shape up." Buffy’s eyes dropped as she fiddled with the bedspread. "Apparently she wasn’t any better shape than you were those first couple of weeks. And the headhunter didn’t give her a chance to get her act together."

Giles walked in with an opened wine bottle in one hand and a wine glass in the other. He handed them to Buffy.

"Well—a—yes—about a month ago, I warned Mike about an Immortal," he said quietly, but caught my look of disbelief. "We owe her. It was the least I could do."

I smiled back at him, grinning, thinking of how Mike managed to obtain such deep loyalty from people, without even trying on her part.

The watcher continued. "I called Joe Dawson tonight and informed him of—of—this," he waved his hand at me, "and then asked him if he knew who it was that Mike faced last night. All Dawson knew it was that it wasn’t the one I knew about, because he was still in St. Louis, while Mike and Vachon were in Toronto," Giles said as he removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Who’s the one that you knew about?" I asked, somewhat surprised that I had the use of my voice again. Gotta love vampiric healing abilities, I thought absently as I glanced over at Buffy and saw a pensive look on her face. What the hell was going on here?

The Englishman shifted restlessly on his feet as he slipped his glasses back on. "Well—um—his name is Abdullah Mughal—"

"That Arab bastard that shot at us?"

Giles swallowed nervously and nodded.

"Oh great. No wonder Vachon took her out of the country."

Giles nodded in agreement, but I could tell there was something more bothering him.

"What else, Watcher?" I asked after I took the bottle from Buffy’s hands and drank straight from it.

Giles glanced at Buffy and she nodded to him. "I’ll do it," she said softly and then turned back to me. "It seems that Mike’s first killer—the one that—"

"Bloody hell, why didn’t I think of that!" I interrupted, suddenly realizing I knew exactly what they were trying to tell me. Obviously I got more from that Quickening than a vicarious lightening strike. "She thinks it’s a bloody vampire that did her in! And he’s at it again?"

Buffy frowned. "How did you know that?"

I chuckled at the smidgen of jealously that laced her voice. "Don’t worry, Pet. I haven’t talked to her in over six weeks. This is from the Quickening," I growled, allowing my annoyance to surface. Not that I didn’t mind knowing everything about Mike, it’s just that the timing sure as hell sucked. "Hell, for all we know, the next I drink from you, you’ll know all Mike’s secrets as well. It’ll be a group mind-fuck. Come one—come all!"

I heard the manic tone in my voice, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was all too fucking incestuous for me. As the volume of the static in my head lessened, I began to remember a lot of little new tidbits of information about her that I somehow gleaned from the Quickening. Details that I sure as hell didn’t want to know now—especially since I wasn’t involved in her life at the present and had no plans to be in the near future. One particular fact kept jumping out at him, egging on that notorious jealous streak that I’ve always battled—demon or not—was why in the hell has Vachon drank from her? I didn’t feel any sexual intimacy between the two, but gods, I heard what it was like after a Quickening. For all I knew, about now those two would be rutting like a couple of dogs during mating season.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Just when I thought I had a handle on all this, and knew where my heart was going to be for the next few years, this intimacy had to be re-ignited. "Bloody hell. Giles, what in Satan’s name can do to prevent this from happening again?"

I saw a flash of insecurity cross Buffy’s face and I winced. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "Don’t worry, Buffy. We’ll get through this."

She nodded, blinking back some fresh tears. "Well, LaCroix said that if you’re willing fly back to St. Louis later tonight, he can walk you through some mind exercises to help you learn how to block the link. Or at least, if given some sort of warning, you could build a barrier of sorts for the coming onslaught. He also said that Mike and Vachon were planning to stay in Toronto for a few more days, so you shouldn’t worry about seeing them."

I nodded slowly, thinking that this was the best solution I had heard yet. I looked up at the Watcher and noticed that he had calmed down a bit. "So Giles, do you think this is the best option?"

"Well—ah—unfortunately, it—it seems to be our only one. Believe me, when you and Mike first told us what had happened, I searched every Watcher’s Journal I had and found nothing that gave us any clue as to what to expect." He began cleaning his glasses again. "And when you and Buffy became involved, I began researching the Immortal Chronicles, but unfortunately Watcher’s of Immortals usually don’t have any personal contact with their assignment..."

I took another sip from the bottle and nodded. "Sounds like I’m going to St. Louis. Can Buffy come with me?"

Buffy grinned at her Watcher, her eyes begging him to say yes. He gave the couple a small smile and nodded yes. "Well, I actually, as far as I’m concerned, yes. Faith is still here for a couple more weeks. And so is Angel. No prophecies. We should be fine. But, what about your mother, Buffy?"

She shrugged. "She’s in New York for a buying trip. I’ll call her and let her know." Buffy grinned at me. "She trusts Spike. I’m sure she’ll say yes."

I snickered quietly, remembering how I had somehow charmed her mother while I was still a demon-vamp and now that I had a soul, she had been totally won over.

I couldn’t help but think that the ironies ran abound in my unlife.

I felt my eyelids dropping and my body was finally succumbing to the exhaustion that I’d been fighting since I woke up. I reached over to my nightstand and opened the drawer and pulled out my wallet. Grabbing my credit card, I handed it to Buffy. "Be a love, darling and make the reservations—after you call your mother. I think it’s time for this Quickening-filled vampire to get some much earned shut-eye." I gave her a quick kiss and fell back onto the bed, my eyes closed before I hit the pillow.

I didn’t even hear them leave.

Chapter Six

~~~~~
As if I had a choice!
~~~~~

Three days later
Toronto, Canada

I never even got a chance to pack. One minute, Vachon and I were walking back from this dojo where he put me through two hours of the most bloodiest, cruelest and grueling swordplay I'd ever had to endure in my short Immortal life, when I felt the presence of an Immortal, and the next moment we were in the air.

At first, I thought he was whisking me away to some church or other Holy ground. He rarely took me flying, but being an ole pro at being a vamp's passenger after six months with Spike, I just leaned into his embrace, and enjoyed what I had thought would be a short ride.

It wasn't until I noticed the arch was under us, not over us, that maybe a short ride wasn't what he had in mind.

I turned my head, our faces nearly touching in the cool wind and cleared my throat.

He smiled down at me. "Yes?" he asked, whispering in my ear. A cool shiver caressed my spine. Damn vampires, I thought to myself. Too damn sexy for anyone's good.

I decided to return the favor and dropped my voice down to a deep sensual whisper and leaned as close as I dared. "Where are we going?"

And then he did something I was totally unprepared for. He kissed me. A soft, sensuous kiss that barely touched my lips and then his mouth moved upwards, licking and nipping into he reached my ear. A cool tongue slipped inside and almost instantly my whole body became liquid. I am sure I would've fallen the 500 feet necessary to reach the ground if he hadn't had such a tight hold around my waist.

The son-of-bitch.

"Chicago."

I'm not sure what threw me the hardest: our destination or the kiss that followed. But, if that had been his plan, it worked, because for the next hour and half, I was literally like putty in his hands. I couldn't have protested if I had wanted to.

Asshole men.

And they say women are manipulative!

Ha! They never had deal with Methos or Vachon!

~~2~~

It was the cold that finally yanked me out my stupor. Icy winds, that only an hour before, I welcomed because they seemed to chill my boiling blood, were now trying to eat my skin away. He must've noticed my discomfort, because suddenly I was no longer facing the wind, but him. Immediately, I stuffed my hands under his coat, searching for that elusive warmth that is irritatingly absent in vampires and ducked my head under his, instinctively longing for skin and was pleasantly surprised to find that his body temperature was at least higher than the air outside and sighed in relief.

I knew we were getting closer to our destination, if the urban sprawl was any indication and with that thought, I felt the anger begin to creep its way into my consciousness once again.

Fuming, I realized he must've somehow whammied me into submission. I thought I was resistor. I was led to believe that all Immortals were resistors, but obviously Vachon had a couple of tricks up his sleeve, because he managed to tame my anger and silence me.

Had I mentioned how much I wanted to take his head for this?

Groaning inwardly, I thought of that nice little speech I had made to Spike right before I left Sunnydale—the one about independence and leaning on myself and how I needed to take care of myself and not allow the men in my life to do it for me—and realized I forgotten to consider one significant point: it was all moot if these said men didn't follow the program.

I bit my bottom lip and sighed. Once again, I was being taken care and to be honest, I hated it. Sure, I was smart enough to know that I had a tiny Cinderella inside of me that was dying to allow every man I came into contact with take over my life. But real life had taught me different.

Real life said nobody stays. Everyone leaves eventually. And when that happens, the only person you can count on is yourself. Reality also taught me that life is a bitch and you better learn how to be the Queen of Bitca's if you're going to keep one step ahead of its plan.

In my case, that meant, no matter how or how many men were going to come to my rescue in my long, Immortal life, there'll be a time, when I will really need it, and there'll be no rescuing. So, I'd better take my hero lessons now and quit playing at being the damsel in distress.

Unfortunately for Vachon, he was going to experience one of my first real vocal attempts at taking control of me.

Ten minutes after I had finally figured out how and in the most bloodiest detail, to dig him a new asshole, we landed on some obscure, warehouse roof.

He gently released me and I stumbled backwards into a wall glaring at him. "Since when did Chicago become a leisurely flight home?"

His brown eyes met mine and I swore I saw some lingering amusement flashing back at me. It just pissed me off more.

He blinked a couple of times. And I growled at him, mentally thinking Spike would be proud of that growl, as I pushed myself off the wall and stomped over to him—ignoring the wobbling of my knees and the pins and needles of my blood recirculating. "Vachon, what the hell is this about and who the fuck do you think you are?"

He didn't even flinch.

Asshole.

Instead, he dug out a set of keys and opened the roof door. He then turned to face me and shrugged.

I felt my blood pressure sky rocket. I know my face must've been bright red. At least my vision was. Everything was tinted in this red sheen of anger. God, at that moment, I wished I was a vampire so I could knock that smug curl of his lips right off his face.

I moved in even closer. We were now nose to nose.

"Tell me! Not even a word or warning or discussion. Or how about that new, 20th century concept of allowing women to take control of their own lives or is that something your 500-year-old senile brain is just too brittle to consider? Tell me! That could've been Mac or Richie...even Adam and you just assume it's a headhunter—"

"Mac and Richie are in Seacouver."

"—and interfere! Remember the rules, Vachon? No fuck—" It suddenly sunk in what he had just said. "What?" My anger dimmed a bit, replaced with curiosity.

"Mac and Richie are in Seacouver and Adam hasn't been seen in almost a year. But, Abdullah Mughal was spotted tonight in St. Louis. I lay my money on Mughal."

I processed what he said and bit my lip nervously.

"Stop that!" He snapped at me.

Just to be spiteful, I made sure to bite a bit harder and was happy to taste my blood on my lips. Fuck you, I mentally chanted as I licked my lips.

His eyes flashed and his arm darted out, grabbing me and yanking me towards him.

My heart raced dizzily I felt his hand grip the back of my head and pull me towards his mouth. Again, our lips met, and I sighed softly as his tongue darted out, lapping up the blood. Once my lip was clean, his fangs sunk into my tongue and he fed, sending my hormones into a tailspin. After nearly a minute, he pulled away and sighed heavily.

"Never taunt a hungry vampire, Mike." He threw the door open and walked through it, flicking on a light switch and then beckoned me to follow him.

Stunned, I stumbled inside and fell back against the door, closing it. Ignoring my arousal and the thousands of implications that could be gleaned from that, I forced my mind to go back to our conversation. Even though I know that he meant well by taking me away from the situation, I still hated the idea that he made this decision without any discussion with me. Granted, it was to save my head. But still, it's what I was—am. Immortal. That's what we do. Fight.

I took a deep breath and finally felt better. "So?"

He leaned back against wall, across the hallway from me and sighed. This was going to be bad, I thought to myself.

"So, contingency plan one was started."

Instantly all the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rose, quickly followed by the angry flush the sped across my skin. "Who's fucking contingency?" I growled out. "Yours? LaCroix's? Surely not Mac's or Richie's—they know—they understand—"

He sighed again. "MacLeod's."

This time it was me doing the blinking, but in disbelief. "What?" I sputtered, as my mind desperately tried wrapping itself around this newest bit of info. "Mac's?"

He met my eyes and nodded once, then pushed himself off the wall. "Coming? I'm hungry, as you well know," he added glancing back at me and smirking when he noticed my embarrassment. "It takes a lot to fly both of us up here and I need to eat now."

I nodded silently, still battling all those conflicting emotions running rabid around my heart and mind. The kiss. The flight. The kiss again. The implications. Why? Mac? Thousands of those fragmented thoughts were spilling out and I was having a damn hard time dealing with them.

It was so much easier when I was just pissed, I thought to myself as I followed him to a freight elevator and watched him push a lighted button sporting the number two on it.

As for Vachon, well he seemed to be having some problems dealing with all this as well. His eyes were now a constant yellow and his fangs had descended nearly ten minutes before. I knew he was pissed at me, but I wondered if it was something else as well.

Minutes later, we were standing in front of a huge metal door with a key code lock at the side. He pushed in a random set of numbers and a loud click followed, eerily echoing through out the hallway.

He pushed the door open and walked inside, and instantly lights flashed on; the setting a low dim.

Confused, I shook my head and followed him inside, instantly searching for a light switch near the doorway. Although I didn't see him flick them on—he could've pulled one of the crafty vamp moves and I missed it.

"It's pressurized," he said pulling off his coat and flinging down onto a nearby chair. I glanced around the room and for a warehouse, it was quite an attractive place. A black leather couch, black rug, the walls painted white. Modern. Sheik. For a moment I couldn't tell if this was a vampire's home or Immortals', but when I noticed the lack of windows, I knew: vampires.

Since I had already been inside LaCroix home in St. Louis, I knew his decorating tastes. LaCroix was a lot homier—for lack of a better word. This warehouse screamed Nick.

"Nick's?" I asked as I took off my own coat and set it on top of Vachon'.

He nodded and turned towards the kitchen, which was really just an area cordoned off by a long counter and stools that stood on the outside, serving as the kitchen table. I watched him as he pulled out a bottle of bloodwine and yanked the cork out with his teeth. Spitting it in the sink, he drank it down in one tip of the bottle. He pulled out two more bottles and set them on the counter. After opening the second bottle, his eyes fell on me.

"We'll stay here until dusk tomorrow. I'm not sure we'll make it—it depends on the weather and how much blood we can carry—but we'll try for Toronto tomorrow. The vampire way.

"No trails. No records. No indications of where you've gone. At Toronto, we'll stay at another of Nick's places. Like this, it's a converted warehouse, and on the second floor, what hasn't been turned to living quarters is a nice area—like a garage—but with no windows—where you can train. That's where we'll practice. Everything. If you can learn how to fight me and manage to at least keep up—you'll have no problems with Immortals. And then, when you're ready, we can go back to St. Louis and all those fucking headhunters can come if they want. And I'll stay out of it. So will everyone else. You're not ready yet. Until then, we stay here."

Hearing the plan and actually under different circumstances, would've loved it, I felt all my anger slip away—replaced with this odd sense embarrassment mixed in with loss. I was embarrassed at my asinine actions that evening and felt a well spring of grief pour through me as I watched my life once again slip out of my hands...Gods, I hated it.

I slid down wall of cabinets as I felt my eyes fill with unwanted tears. How did this happen? I asked myself.

"When did I lose so much control over my life, Javier? When did it become everyone else's—not just mine to have or to lose?"

I looked up at him and saw flicker of compassion in his eyes, but they instantly hardened when he answered. "When you let yourself go for two weeks, knowing full god damn well that every headhunter on Earth was after Adam and by proxy, you. You did this to yourself, Mike. Not us. We—LaCroix, Mac, Nick and I just love you enough to help you until you can help yourself once again. So, get used to it." He popped the cork on the third bottle and deep drink from it. His glance never wavered from mine. "I've lost too many people I care about in the last couple of years to just sit back and let you get killed!" By the time he finished, his eyes were once again yellow and he lifted the bottle to his lips, finishing it off. He gathered the empty bottles and threw them in the trash, under the sink. "There's food in the refrigerator. I suggest you get something to eat and go to bed. I myself, am going to put as much distance between us as possible for the next couple of hours, or you may find yourself drained like those bottles I just pitched."

With that, he walked passed me and turned left, disappearing from sight.

"Son-of-a-bitch," I whispered into the empty room.

Then the tears came.

~~3~~

After the tears stopped flowing and my chest no longer felt as if an elephant had been using it as a rest stop, I pulled myself up and stumbled over to the sink. Not caring about proprieties, I turned the cold water on and proceeded to position my mouth under the spout, and drank.

The cool water felt wonderful as it glided down my parched throat and began to re-hydrate my body.

Once finished, I turned the water off and leaned against the sink, replaying what Vachon said in my mind. Shaking my head, I realized how familiar his 'get your shit together speech' had been to the one Adam had given me nearly three years ago at Mac's dojo. The words were different, but the intent was the same.

And that was what was bothering me: why? Where was that laid-back, devil-may-care Javier Vachon that I had heard so much about?

Well, he sure as hell wasn't with me—and to be honest, hadn't been since I'd known him. Sure, I had seen him slide into that I-don't-care mood so easily, that it must've been his second skin for years. But no, for the most part, the Vachon I knew was quiet, introspective, moody and liked to brood.

And he stayed away from the women.

According to Natalie, that was another characteristic of the post-Divia Vachon. He, apparently, had been quite the lady's man before the attack by LaCroix's daughter. And he loved to hunt. Enjoyed being a vampire. Had none of the moral qualms about it that Nick had. Or that I would probably have if I had ever been turned.

And now, it seemed that what was once enjoyment, now was complacency.

Sighing, I headed out the kitchen to the chair where my coat was and pulled out my nearly empty pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, I found myself back in the kitchen, once again leaning against the sink, as I went over the last couple of days in my mind.

Although it seemed an eternity, it was only three nights ago that Vachon dug me out of my living and pulled me out of my funk. I frowned, suddenly remembering when he tackled me in the kitchen and bit my lip in frustration.

Fleeting thoughts filled my head as I remembered what little I gleaned from his drinking. I nearly choked; hacking up a lung-full of smoke, as a specific thought of his became clear...

Must protect...my childe...must protect... repeating over and over again—almost like a mantra.

My childe.

How the hell did I get to be his childe?

"Shit!" I muttered, dropping the cigarette in the sink. The hell with this! If he drains me—fine, he drains me. I'll survive. I've gotta know.

I stomped out of the kitchen, turning left and stumbled through the darkened hallway in search for the errant vampire.

Even before I could ask where the pressure-sensitive lights were, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and shapes began to form around me. Running my hand lightly across the wall, I stopped when I felt a doorway. I looked down and saw what I hoped was the doorknob and grasped it.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped inside the moonlit room.

Vachon was standing in front of the window, clad only in a pair of faded Levi's, doing that not-moving thing that vamps are famous for, as he stared out into the Chicago night. As I watched him, I realized for the first time consciously, that he was really very good looking. Grinning inwardly, I remembered Willow bemoaning the fact that all the vampires she knew personally were just too good looking for her own good. We had decided then it had to be because, if you had to choose someone to spend an eternity with you, would you chose someone ugly?

As I studied the vampire, taking note of how the shadows and light danced upon his bare skin, seemingly contouring his well-developed back and shoulder muscles, I realized he just seemed to back up our theory.

If his back looked that good, I could easily imagine his chest would be just as fine—as well as other parts.

Sighing out loud, I shook my head, trying to reign in all those crazy thoughts, inwardly cursing the vampire in question for starting all this personal dialogue about sex. If he hadn't kissed me twice tonight, I wouldn't be thinking of how it would feel to make love to him.

Forcing those thoughts onto the back burner, I lifted my eyes and smiled as I saw his hair. Long, and wavy—sporting that unkempt look that nearly begged every female near him to either run their fingers through it with complete sexual abandonment or have an equally strong desire to create order where there was none.

Me, I fell into the first category. Granted, most of the men I fell in love with preferred the clean cut, less mess look, but that didn't deter the fact that they had a rebel heart. And Vachon just wore his rebellious nature in a bit more obvious place.

But he was still a non-conformist. Just as Spike and Methos were.

Just as Mac and Nick Knight weren't.

Suddenly, he voice broke the silence.

"I wondered how long it would take you," he said softly, his voice taking on a definite strained lilt to it. "I knew once you got over your hissy fit, you'd start asking yourself why. Why is he doing this? If I'm so important to LaCroix, then why didn't the General just send me off to one of his 100 or so households spread through out the world...why is Vachon so insistent on doing this himself? Why does he even care about what happens to one very young Immortal woman, when there are all these beautiful women, mortal and not, just clamoring to be the first to bed him...or bed me, as I should say."

I stood there for a moment, so caught up in the spell he seemed to have woven around me. I shook my head as if to clear my clouded mind and then nodded slowly. "You're right," I whispered, watching his shoulders tense. "It doesn't make any sense. It'd be nice to believe it was because of my dazzling personality, but unfortunately, I know better."

I heard a small chuckle. "Sometimes Mike, you remind of Tracy. That would be something she would say. And then other times, like earlier this week when I found you in your apartment, I would say to myself, not Tracy, Urs. Urs loved being depressed and sometimes, I think you do too."

I tried not to flinch on that observation, knowing he hit too close to home, and concentrated on the two women he mention instead.

Urs and Tracy.

I knew who Tracy was. She had been Nick's partner in Toronto and had died of multiple gunshot wounds the same night that Natalie was brought across. I also remembered from that conversation, that Natalie mentioned that Tracy and Vachon were friends.

Obviously, from what I could see, they were more than just friends.

And Urs. I believe she was one of those vampires that had died the same night Vachon had been so severely wounded. But that was all I knew of her.

"Tracy?"

He turned to face me, his eyes yellow in pain and nodded. "She was Nick's partner in Toronto." His eyes shut quickly, but not before I caught a glimpse of something I hadn't expected: bloodtears. A moment later, he opened them again and deep, dark brown eyes stared back at me. "That little fit you threw," he grinned, obviously noticing my indignation, "was a la Tracy all the way."

I rolled my eyes in response and moved over to the bed, flopping down long ways and turned on my side, facing him. No matter how flippant I had just been, I wanted him to know I was there for him. Even through all my anger earlier, I knew I owed a lot to this 'man' and the least I could do was listen. "Tell me about her, Vachon. And Urs, too," I urged him. He had done so much for me and until tonight, I'd been so self-absorbed and so awe-struck by the powerful Methos and LaCroix, it had never occurred to me that Vachon had been doing this for his own reasons. What glimpses I had of his heart and mind were, with the exception of that slip the other night, always guarded and censored. Somehow, even though we had been sorta room mates—he'd seen me naked and knew my heart, he always managed to keep his heart and soul hidden. And now, I had a chance to not only redeem myself in my eyes but also maybe ease the burden of the one whose been desperately trying to do the same for me for the past two weeks.

I wanted to know and I needed to help.

Looking up, I watched him as he glided across the room and sat down beside me. He lifted his hand and caught a few strands of my hair in his fingers. Holding it, almost reverently, he inhaled deeply as his eyes closed and a sad smile crossed his lips.

"Even when I was mortal, I felt drawn to beautiful, blond women. As a vampire, I know it was their light and their essence or innocence that seemed to call out to me...so I guess, it shouldn't have surprised me that I could've fallen so hard, so fast for one mortal girl named Tracy Vetter." He shut his eyes against the memory and mumbled something in Spanish. Smirking, he glanced over at me and shrugged. "She was everything I wasn't."

~~4~~

It was well past dawn by the time both of our immortal bodies gave out.

In the hours that passed, Vachon told me of his life, death, unlife, and finally of his time in Toronto. It was in Toronto where he had lost nearly everything except himself. First, the Inca, his blood brother—whom he fled from for five hundred years—desperately trying to avoid the responsibility fighting evil that their sire bestowed upon them in exchange for eternal life. Nearly six months later, a deadly plague hit the vampire community—killing many of them, including Vachon's best friend and oldest childe, Screed. A carouche with class, that loved Vegas and understood Vachon better than the Spaniard did himself.

Not even two months later, LaCroix biological daughter and ironically, sire, showed up, seeking revenge against her father for his attempt at destroying her. Her vision of his destruction was to kill off everyone that he cared about. She got Urs, Vachon and at least a dozen others before Nick and LaCroix were able to destroy her—this time for good.

And Vachon, in a fit of bloodfever, threw himself upon a stake that Tracy was holding, and nearly killed himself. Tracy, believing he was dead, did the only thing she knew she could for him and that was bury him at the lake in a grave next to Screed's. Luckily, for Vachon, Tracy pulled out the stake, enabling him to heal himself—albeit slowly.

Six months after Tracy laid Vachon to rest, he pulled himself out of the grave, alive. Somehow, the madness that ate at his mind and heart before was gone. But it was quickly replaced by the knowledge that not only was his last childe, Urs, indeed dead, but so was Tracy.

And everyone else he knew was gone.

Toronto's vampire community had left for nicer to the night's children.

After nearly two months of healing, Vachon contacted the one vampire that could help him: Aristotle as was surprised to find that LaCroix had left him a message and a one-way plane ticket to St. Louis. Grateful, Vachon took the flight and ended up rebuilding what little life he had left at Wolf's Bane as LaCroix's right hand man—or vampire.

But it wasn't until nearly a year and a half later, did Vachon finally find some sort of purpose in his life. Even though he wasn't the broken vampire he had been, the emptiness of his existence still haunted him continuously. No children to look after. No mortals to feel responsible for. All those things he had cursed that last year in Toronto, he missed with all his heart in St. Louis.

It all changed for Vachon when LaCroix asked him to keep an eye out on a blond Immortal woman, young by their standards, who somehow reminded him of both Urs and Tracy simultaneously. She touched a part of his heart he thought had died in Toronto and found himself instantly wanting to do more for her than LaCroix had asked. Without too much thought, he found himself mentally adopting her—placing her in the spot that once held three people and with growing determination, decided he was going to do right by her, like he hadn't with Tracy, Urs and Screed. He was going to be there for her and care for her...

Care for me. Be there for me.

By the time he had finished talking, I was curled up on his lap, desperately trying to ease the pain I heard in his voice as he gently played with my hair. It was there, that I finally understood the commitment and love he had for me—to do what Methos couldn't—to stay.

That's how I fell asleep. In his arms, feeling safe as a child would with a parent, as his voice called me to slumber.

~~5~~

If I had to use one word to describe the following month it would have to be: death. And the next one, following closely behind it would be: pain.

And believe me, it was all mine.

I don't know how many times I died that month; I lost count after a hundred. But with each death, I learned something very important—my mortality was very real. I think before that, somewhere inside me, I had allowed it to become something of a fairy tale, told to Immortals so that would become good little participants in this crazy game of survival.

Each time I died, Vachon proved to me that someone, even him, could strip my life right out from underneath me. With that realization, I found my will to live grow even stronger.

I don't think I actually was suicidal as much as self-deluded. And who could blame me? Since my First Death, I had all these powerful, immortal beings around me, protecting me, keeping me safe from harm, so I didn't need to take my mortality seriously. Everyone else was doing that for me.

Even though Methos tried to make the idea of my death a reality, he did other things to guarantee that I wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of being an Immortal. If he really had wanted me to independent and self-assured, then he would've allowed me the freedom to stumble once I left him to go back to St. Louis.

But he didn't. Instead, he asked LaCroix to watch over me. And you can't tell me he didn't know what that would entail. LaCroix, not only being an ancient in his own standing, was a Roman General who has taken his duties seriously and with great forethought. If that meant sticking vampires on me, following my every move at night, and mortal private detectives to pick up the job during the day, he would do so. One thing you can say about LaCroix is that he is thorough and meticulous. Hell, he was part of the people that built roads all over the world 2000 years before asphalt was invented. You can't tell me Methos didn't know what he was doing.

So, for the past three years I had been getting mixed messages. 'Take care of yourself, Mike. Learn to fight, Mike. Choose life, Mike. In the end, there can be only one, Mike. Oh, and by the way, LaCroix here, a vampire—2000 years old, is going to keep an eye out on you while you're in St. Louis. You see, I don't really want to leave the safety of your existence in your own hands. If I can't be there—someone else will be.'

Damn manipulative if you ask me. Well, for a month Vachon had methodically been re-educating me on the facts of life. And in a way, who else better to do so? For 500 years, he played and avoided feeling responsible to other people. What could be seen as a character flaw in most people, was seen as a plus when it came to training his children. He had to teach them how to survive and live without his interference, because he didn't have the personal fortitude to do so himself. So, whatever else could be said about Screed, the carouche, Urs, and Bourbon, apparently they knew how to deal with life on their own. They had to—because Vachon would disappear—sometimes decades at a time—and they would be left alone.

I knew once we landed in Chicago, that I was in for a painful month. Fighting a vampire is a foolish thing to do—even under the best of circumstances, which were mine incidentally. Not only do they have all those supernatural traits; they're vicious creatures. And I'm not. But I also knew that he was right. I knew if I could at least learn how to hold my own with him, then I would have a better chance at fighting an Immortal.

All in all, the training side of our extended vacation was a success. The other side—well, let's put it this way: what other side?

After that night in Chicago, Vachon pulled away from me. Even though I had a feeling it was going to happen, nonetheless when it did, I felt like the Slayer herself had kicked me in the gut. And I know what I'm talking about. Who do you think I trained with for those six months I lived in Sunnydale? Yep, Buffy. And Faith. Out of all three of us, I have to say I came out looking the worst. Every time.

So, what could've been a pleasant adventure, flying from Chicago to Toronto, ended up being an uncomfortable and decidingly unpleasant experience. All the playfulness and intimacy of the previous day, had disappeared into one syllable sentences and a coldness that rivaled the temperature of his body. I knew why he was doing it, but that didn't make any easier to deal with. I have a problem with dealing with distant people. It's always brought out the worst of my insecurities and self-doubt.

And in some weird way, I believe he was punishing me for provoking him into divulging more than he was comfortable with. Especially in the manner in which he did. Vampires are strange creatures. Because of the intimacy of sharing blood and all that goes with it—they hate talking about those same things. It's almost as if they're saying, 'you know my soul, isn't that enough for you? You want my heart with it?'

Of course us normal people are flabbergasted at the whole situation. In my mind, such a strong intimacy should provoke more intimacy. Hell, it did with Spike and I. But in this case, Spike was like all the rest of us normals when it came to blood sharing and he responded like I did. 'Wow, she knows all this and still thinks I'm okay. What the hell do I have to lose?'

But vampires like Vachon are a different matter. For five hundred years, every time he drank from someone, vampire or mortal, he shared a bit of himself to that person. Five hundred years is a long time to be that open. And he, like most vampires like him, start placing more of an importance on the verbal openness than on the mental—because it's what they do the least of.

So, even though intellectually I could understand why he was doing it, emotionally I felt abandoned all over again. And unfortunately, I responded as such.

Not a banner moment in my life.

Yes, I acted like a spoiled child. I did everything from provoking him into arguments, pushing whatever buttons I had found in his nearly impenetrable armor he wore, to finally, our fourteenth day in Canada, walking around the apartment naked just to see if I could get a rise from him.

It didn't work.

Matter-of-fact, it backfired. Instead, he just turned on his heel and flew out the skylight and didn't return until the next evening. Without saying more than two words, he indicated that we needed to train and proceeded to kick the living shit of me. I spent more time on the floor either recovering from some fatal blow or broken limb than I did fighting him. After my three hours of torture was over, I apologized and told him I wouldn't bother him again and when he was ready to talk, that I would be there waiting. Then I left him alone in the training area and scrambled to the bathroom and proceeded to take a two-hour long bath and do some serious healing.

I have to say that once rules were made and lines were drawn, the next two weeks flew by in relative peace. When we weren't training, I was surfing the web on the laptop we picked up once we got to Toronto or watching cable or even sitting outside on top of the roof, enjoying what little daytime I usually saw. Each day, I would examine myself in the mirror and towards the end, even I could see a marked difference in my body tone. I was stronger and healthier than I ever had been before—even in Seacouver where Mac and Methos worked me to the bone. I ate healthier and quit smoking again. But for some odd reason, I couldn't pitch the cigarettes. Every time I held the pack, I would get a warm feeling reminiscent of Spike's mental love messages and realized that at least for awhile, those cigarettes were going to be my security blanket.

So, like many things in my life, I should've been expected that the one night I decided to leave and go to the grocery story without Vachon, that I run into an Immortal.

And all I wanted was some coffee. I felt like I owed myself a treat. A month of living the life of a yogi was beginning to feel tedious and all I could think about was how good a mocha latte would taste right about then. I did everything, from jogging the perimeter of the warehouse, to my kata, to meditating, desperately trying to push the craving out of my mind. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw a mug filled with that wonderful elixir.

Finally, I gave in to my urges and wrote a quick note to Vachon and left it on the refrigerator, telling him I was going to walk to the grocery store. It was one of those huge, 24-hour supermarkets about a mile from Nick's, that I could by both the coffee and the expresso maker—which I was going to need.

Although it was almost April, it was still chilly enough that I could wear my long coat to hide my sword, and not look out of place. As I walked to the store, my good mood only got better. In a way, I felt like a high school kid who snuck out at night and was doing something illicit. Which in a sense, I was. It had been an unwritten rule that I was to go nowhere without Vachon's company because he didn't want me to run into any Immortals before I was ready. But after a month of having a monosyllabic vampire as my only company, I admit, I was going stir crazy.

Once I reached the grocery store, I headed straight to the coffee aisle and picked up the best coffee they had and some Hershey's chocolate. Then I headed over to where the appliances were and was relieved to see an expresso machine standing there—all ready for me to buy. I was on my way to the check out lane, when I remembered we were out of milk and inwardly cursed. With my arms full, I jogged back to the dairy section and stopped dead when I felt the buzz.

"Shit," I muttered, as my eyes scanned the dairy section. Over by the butter, stood a guy, who looked not much older than eighteen, watching me. He was maybe six feet tall, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in jeans and a pullover sweater, with a long coat, like mine, hanging on him. His Quickening was somewhat reminded me of Richie's, which meant to me, that this guy was young, but had taken some heads in his short Immortal life. "Great," I said as I walked towards him.

We met halfway. With his hand held out, he began. "My name is Mark Handlan." Although he wasn't smiling, I sensed no malice in him so I shifted the items into one arm and shook his hand.

"Mike Evans. Please to meet you Mark. Uh, I'm not looking for any trouble...I just wanted some coffee—"

"I'm sorry," he interrupted, his blue eyes actually reflecting his sorrow. "But that's what we do."

"We don't have to!" I snapped, barely able to keep my voice down. "We can live and grow stronger to fight another day. Just because we're Immortals, doesn't mean we don't have free will," I whispered back at him, as I moved the coffee and chocolate to one hand. I tried the pounding of my heart and my anger as it surged through my body. I whipped around, and stalked over to the milk and grabbed a half gallon of two percent with my free fingers and without glancing back, hurried out of sight towards the check out lanes.

A coward? Maybe. But why would anyone want to kill anyone else? No matter my race, I never could comprehend that. I knew that if I had no choice, I would fight. But not until I did everything in my power to avoid it.

I managed to check out and leave the grocery story without seeing or feeling his presence again. I was about a block away from the store when I heard some gravel shift behind me. I whipped around, my heart in my throat and nearly sighed out loud when I saw Vachon standing there, glaring at me.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. "I just wanted some coffee," I snapped as I handed him a bag to carry. "How was I suppose to know that I'd run into an Immortal in the dairy section of all things!"

"You did?"

I nodded, nervously chewing on my bottom lip. "Yeah, and he wanted to fight. He didn't seem like a bad guy, just determined."

"Do you think you can take him?"

Closing my eyes, I pictured him standing in front of me with his sword out. Nervously, I nodded once my eyes opened. "But, hopefully, it won't come to that."

"Hopefully."

~~6~~

Once I finished making my mocha latte, I cajoled Vachon into coming up on top of the roof with me. Although he was still quiet, in the last few days he seemed to be making a concerted effort to be more sociable.

"Why didn't you wait for me?" he asked as he sat down on the blanket beside me.

I shrugged, giving him a small smile. "I wanted a mocha latte," I said, repeating what I had said earlier. "And, in a way, it was kinda fun. Sneaking out like a high schooler after curfew." I placed the cup down beside me and leaned back on my hands, searching the sky for the few stars visible in the Toronto night. Suddenly, I felt a cool finger lightly caress my cheek. I turned to face him, surprised to see his face so close to mine.

"You will be the death of me, mi nina," he whispered just before his lips touched mine in a chaste kiss. He then wrapped his arm around me, pulling me onto his lap, his hands around my waist. I closed my eyes and found myself lulled into a wonderful feeling of security hoping that it would never ended.

~~7~~

I remember once asking Adam, Mac and Richie about how they felt when they took their first heads. It was during my first month of training, so I was still filled with questions and this one just kept nagging at me. What was it like to kill? Since I couldn't ask that outright, I chose the next best possible route: their first Quickenings.

We were at Joe's bar, the five us (Joe included) sitting snugly at a four top, drinking while listening to Adam pontificate (he was in the mood to share) about life during Roman times when I suddenly blurted out, "What did it feel like?"

Adam frowned at me for interrupting him and finished off his beer. "What does what feel like, Mike?'

I remember pursing my lips, trying to somehow formulate the question in my drink-laden brain. "What does you're first match feel like? Not the Quickening—but the fight itself." I watched all four of their expressions, knowing that each of them, Joe included had taken a life at one time or another. My eyes finally landed on Richie's face. Suddenly, I had to know what it felt like to him. He was like me. Killing had to be as foreign to him as it was to me. "What did it feel like, Richie?"

I had to know. It was the day after the blow-out between me and Adam, and even though all three of them had proven their point that day: I had to learn to fight to live. I still wasn't comfortable with it. I can remember during training that day, I kept chanting to myself, almost as if it were my own personal mantra: 'I can accept this. I can kill,' over and over again in my head. But, it scared me. More than dying itself. Hell, in my mind, I already did that. My First Death, at the time, I believed was the final one. So death I could face, but killing? I had to know.

Of course this was all before I met Spike and vampires, so I hadn't ended anything's life other than a stray mosquito that wandered into my path. After dusting a few vampires, I couldn't still claim that type of innocence. Each one of those demon-vamps was a potential Spike just waiting for an Immortal's blood to give them a soul and change them.

But looking back at that night at Joe's, while I stood on the rooftop of Nick's home, sword out, facing Mark Handlan, I couldn't help but flash back on what Richie said he remembered when fighting Mako—his first Immortal.

"I was scared. So scared that I thought I was going to piss in my pants. I swear my sword was wavering in the air, because I couldn't keep my arm from shaking from fright. But then, suddenly I had an epiphany."

"What was it?" I had asked and then sipped my beer.

He stared out over across the bar, his eyes distance and said, "That in a way, I was already on borrowed time. That the Richie Ryan that I liked to think of as me, had already died that same night with Tessa. And that this Immortality was just an extension—a gift. A gift I valued and wanted with every breath I took, but a gift nonetheless. So, as long as I fought as hard as I could and was the best swordsman I knew how to be, the rest of it was inconsequential. After all, it was just borrowed time."

And he was right. It was a gift. My life for the past three years was just a gift. A gift that I would die for, but a gift nonetheless.

Chapter Seven

~~~~~~~~~~
Only on the Hellmouth!
~~~~~~~~~~~

Six Months Later
Sunnydale, CA

The trip to St. Louis was actually uneventful and, dare I say, even boring.

Thank the gods.

I had alternating nightmares of Mike and Vachon returning a day early to find Buffy and I naked on Mike's futon—making love or that the serial killer would strike again, forcing Buffy's slayer instincts to the forefront right smack in the middle of Wolf's Bane and her ending up staking patrons indiscriminately.

I know that sounds like a shitty thing to say, but hell, after being alive for over 200 years and experiencing this Slayer's propensity for slayage, (and flashing back to a certain church's organ), I have to say that at least my fears, all though exaggerated, were well founded.

Neither scenario happened. Buffy behaved herself, Mike and Vachon remained in Toronto and I got to learn several mental blocking techniques and tricks from the General.

There was one thing that stayed with me from that trip, though. Even LaCroix was at a loss on how to shut the link down totally—without doing something that would permanently hurt me or Mike. Or worse yet, destroy the link totally. And I didn't want that. No matter how intrusive it was to mine and Buffy's life now, I had an eternity to consider—and I didn't want to spend it without the touch of Mike's mind in my mine.

Too bloody lonely.

So, after two days, we flew back home so Buffy wouldn't miss any school and finally, our lives began to settle down.

A couple days after that, Mike had called. She and Vachon had come back to St. Louis and when she saw the note we had left at her flat, she had come up with a plan. It was then we decided, that if at all possible, she would page me 911 and her cell phone number as a way to give me some warning when she was challenged again.

So, I bought a bloody pager, welcomed myself to the 21st century and went on with my life.

By the end of that first week, we discovered that even a five-minute warning was enough to protect myself and anyone who happened to be near me during a Quickening, when Mike had finally met up with Abdullah Mughal and took the asshole's head.

Unfortunately for both Mike and I, after those first two challenges, many more followed. Morden did a fine a job ensuring that not only Methos had a bulls-eye painted on him, but her as well. That meant that Buffy and I actually became old pro's in dealing with my version of Quickenings—neither of us daring to voice the fear of what would happen if she lost a challenge.

Luckily, we never had to find out.

The months flew by after that. For the first time in three years, there had been no end-of-the-world prophecies in the spring time or master vamps aiming to take over the Hellmouth. Obviously, word got around that Sunnyhell was not only protected by the Slayer and her merry Slayerettes, but also by one souled demon-vamp and one tough Souled-One.

As Xander said one night at the Bronze, it would take someone with very large gonads to stir up trouble here.

Unfortunately, it didn't set my mind at ease. Buffy still went out nightly, slaying vamps and fighting various demons that found the Hellmouth's essence appealing. We had a lamia come and visit. She wanted to raise her dead lover (of a 1000 years) right through the Hellmouth. That was the gang's graduation present.

A month later, a couple of dark mage's came through town and one ended up being a necromancer. He raised a bunch of poor blokes that everyone would've preferred to stay dead.

But like the well-oiled machine that Buffy and company were, they took care of both of those problems with ease.

Let me rephrase that: well, almost with ease.

Brood-boy did get a stake in his gut by one of the mages. Willow had a fit and called upon some powerful magical forces to put both those blokes down.

No one, not even the Watcher or the blond witch, Amy, knew how powerful Willow really was until that moment. I'm sure, once she becomes Immortal, she'll be sought after just because of the magical properties of her Quickening.

If my 'sire' had his way, it wouldn't happen any time soon. Angel watches her like a hawk—daring anything to even think of ending her mortal life. It's ironic in a way. Here are two 200-plus-year-old vampires, both in love with mortal women who are constantly in life-threatening situations, and we're doing everything in our power to defy the odds and keep them alive for just a bit longer.

But unlike Willow, Buffy doesn't have a return ticket. Once she dies, she dies. That's it. Mortal life is so short to begin with—much less a Slayer's life. It drives me batty to watch her leave every night to do her 'sacred' duty. I find myself hoping—actually even praying--that she'll come back to me that night al right. More often than not, I end up following her, which in turn brasses her off to no end. We get into more fights over my fear of her death than anything else.

It's hard for her to understand where I'm coming from. Long ago, she accepted her short life—that's a slayer's destiny. She knows she already outlived the mean age of slayers. And she knows that every night she once again defies the odds when she returns home alive. But I bloody well haven't accepted it. And she can't understand that—especially since prior to my new 'self', I was known as the Slayer's Slayer. But that was the demon. It also was impersonal. I wasn't in love with either of those girls I killed and I sure as hell didn't care how old they were. And now, the two other women who held my heart, like Buffy, are both immortal. Even though they could eventually die—they didn't have a pre-set death sentence hanging over them.

If it wasn't her worse fear, I would bring her across in heartbeat. But she doesn't want to give up the sun or have to kill to live, and now that I'm a Souled-One, I can understand that as well.

Although I don't wallow in my guilt, it's there. Sometimes, when I'm out, I'll see something that will remind me of a life I took in those 200 years and for a moment, the guilt and pain crashes down on me, but I usually manage to shrug it off. I haven't taken a mortal life in over a year. That's at least 400 lives that have been spared my demon. I also know that the demon was what did all that killing. But I finally understand Angelus' guilt. When you carry around the demon's memories and you can see in your mind's eye you committing those atrocities, it's hard at the best of times, to separate yourself from its actions.

And even though I have my soul, that doesn't mean the lust to kill has disappeared. On the contrary, the bloodlust is so much more poignant now than it ever was before. I can see how Souled-One's fall into the trap of mortals just being a food source. It's easier that way to live with yourself. But unlike Souled-One's that have always been that way, I can see the difference. As a demon, my lust was for chaos, death and pain. My purpose was to create as much havoc in this realm, to make it easier for hell's realm to break through. Now, I'm just plain hungry. And I'll be damned if I'll do anything to help some heavy-ass demon take over this realm.

I like it here. I plan to stay.

So, all in all, I understand where Buffy is coming from. But that doesn't make it any easier for me deal with. I know what makes her a successful slayer is not only her strength and talent, but also she has more to fight for than most Slayers. She kept her friends. She's still with her family. It brings that fight against evil back home. It's what makes her the strongest one—but also the most vulnerable.

Which was proven the last time she was hurt.

Two werewolves put her into the hospital.

It was the second night of the full moon—when the beasts are their most powerful and she didn't want to kill them. After getting to know Oz, I understand, but still, werewolves are not something to mess with. And she was the lucky recipient of a severe concussion for her trouble.

She was just fortunate she wasn't bit.

It was during that third night, while she was staying at her mother's recuperating, while I was patrolling, that I ran into probably the last person I expected on this earth.

It was late, near midnight and the Hellmouth was still in its quiet, if not uneasy state. Although I'm no longer a demon, after 200 years of being one, I still can feel its aura and its touch. It's like a thin cloud of mist that hangs onto everything it touches—trying to taint whatever is in its path.

As I hopped over the fence of the cemetery, that saying 'a calm before the storm' flittered through my mind and I groaned out loud. I hated when I started feeling all macabre and expecting the worse at every turn. But then I heard the distinct sound of clashing swords and cursed.

Sometimes I hate it when I'm right.

Swords. Holy Ground. Immortals.

Not a good combination on the best of days, and on the Hellmouth it could be the end of Sunnydale.

As I ran vampiric speed to the source of the sound, I heard someone yell loudly. "Bloody hell, this is Holy Ground, you fool. Do you want another Mount Vesuvius on your conscience?"

Well, at least one of the combatants has some sense, I thought to myself as I stopped behind the mausoleum, peeking over the side.

Once I saw the two Immortals, I instantly recognized one of them.

Methos.

Although I never had met him, I had seen pictures as well as the image of him in Mike's mind. Even though I was at least twenty-five feet from the pair, I could tell the Old Man was a bit tired and run-down. I guess a year on the run would do that to anyone—even, to my knowledge, the oldest being alive on earth.

And Kahn. The first thing I flashed on when I heard his name later, was that character from Star Trek and the second Trek movie. And even though this gent was definitely not as refined as Ricardo Monteblan or as good looking, he was bigger. Much bigger.

This was not good.

"I will take your head, Methos. Holy Ground or not—"

And I had to save the bloke—because if they managed to see the fight through its obvious end, not only would he die, but all of Sunnydale would be in danger as well.

Just fucking great.

Another clash of the swords signaled that they had started fighting again. I heard Methos curse in some ancient tongue and then slip into English. "Kahn! We are on the Hellmouth! Listen to me, man. A Quickening is not what this place needs!"

The six and half foot ox grinned at Methos as he swung his sword at him. Luckily for all, the Old Man managed to block it. I don't know how—Kahn at least had a hundred pounds on him and every bit appeared to be muscle.

I sighed; inwardly hating how easily I had gotten in the habit of doing so, and stepped out from behind the building. I lit a cigarette and stepped out of the shadows, close enough to the pair so that they could see me and my vampiric state, but far enough away that neither of their swords could come near my neck.

Casually, I leaned against a nearby tree and smiled at both Immortals. "It seems to me gentleman, that we have a problem here," I said, taking another drag off the cigarette. "Back in my demon days, I would've said, 'go for it—take a head! The more mayhem the better! And on the Hellmouth? Hell on Earth. I'd be home. But now—"

"But now, you die, blood-sucker," Kahn snarled as he whipped out a stake and in a flash threw it at me. I caught it in my free hand and shook my head.

"Now, now. Do we need any weapons for this?" I asked, tossing the stake aside. Then I felt it: my sire. Angelus was standing on the other side of the duo.

Kahn pulled out a cross. "I know all about you creatures," he spat, looking quite righteous and pure.

I chuckled softly as I heard Angelus step out into the moonlight. "Oh, you might know about us—but can you kill us and take his head?" He asked nodding at Methos.

The unlucky Immortal fumed. "You can't interfere! It's against the Rules!"

I laughed loudly this time. What a fool! "So now you start spouting off about the Rules of the Game. A pick and choose kinda thing, eh? But it doesn't work that way," I said, shaking my head. "I think you need a reminder. Remember the one that says no fighting on Holy Ground? And here, in lovely Sunnyhell, California, that means not here or the fourteen other cemeteries, forty plus churches, synods and of course, the Indian Burial ground in Baker's Woods."

"It's more like fifty, Spike. You forgot about the Mormon temple, the two Jehovah Witnesses temples and the two circles where the Wiccans perform their rites," Angelus added, as he edged closer to Kahn.

I snuck a glance at Methos and caught a small smirk cross his face. I nodded once, tossed my cigarette aside and in a blink of an eye, I was standing right in front of Kahn. He lifted his sword, but I flew upwards, avoiding it, and dropped down on top of him, knocking him to down. He tried waving the cross in my face, but Angelus knocked it out of his hand, causing Kahn to hiss in pain. At the same time, I squeezed the hand holding the sword until I heard bones break and the sword fall.

Grinning, I stood up with the beaten Immortal in my grasp. His fear flooded my senses. His Immortal blood sung to me, drawing me closer to his neck. It had been over six months since I had fed from Mike; drinking her fermented blood paled to the hot, rich essence of his.

I growled in hunger as my fangs dropped once again. Glaring at Angelus, I silently dared him to say anything. A look of fascination and horror crossed his face, but his silence was all I wanted. Knowing that at least I would get a meal before the fight with my sire, I sunk my teeth into the mewling Immortal's neck and drank the elixir from the gods.

Five minutes later, the Immortal was dead and I was feeling great. "Damn, that was good!" I said as I started to wipe my mouth. I was stopped by Angelus' fist.

"Spike! You son-of-bitch! I knew it!" he yelled, spitting at my feet as I stumbled backwards from the impact. "You fucking haven't changed a bit!"

"Feel better now, Daddy?" I asked him, grinning at his discomfort. "You know as well I do, he isn't really dead. Bloody hell, I haven't killed anyone in over a year. I just couldn't pass up an Immortal. Taste too damn good. Besides, we had to kill him anyway—it takes longer for Immortals to recover from blood loss than a broken neck."

I turned from the brood-boy and looked over at Methos. The world's oldest living Immortal was casually leaning against a headstone, watching our altercation with a sardonic grin on his face. At that moment—without any other interaction with the man, I knew why Mike had fallen in love with him.

I strode up to him, hating the fact that I already liked the asshole and lit a cigarette. "Methos."

His eyebrow lifted as he straightened and tucked his sword under his raincoat. "And you must be Spike."

I nodded yes. "And the Brood-boy over there is Angel."

"Spike," Angelus growled as he walked over to us. "One of these days..."

I rolled my eyes at Angelus and sent a cloud of smoke his way. "Come on, Peaches, is that the way to treat your childe?" I teased him, still feeling a bit raw about his instant condemnation of me. I then directed my attention to the Immortal, pointedly ignoring bloody twit that's been the bane of my existence for the last 200 years and grinned. "So mate, you got a place to stay?"

~~2~~

"Beer?" Joyce Summers asked me for the second time.

I nodded, grinning. "It isn't for me, Joyce. It's for him." I pointed at Methos, who was leaning against the kitchen entryway, smirking.

"And this is?" she asked, her hand grasping the handle of the refrigerator.

I chuckled softly. "One of Mike's strays."

"One of Mike's what?" Methos asked, his head cocked. "I'd say, it was the other way around."

Joyce frowned, studying both of us, when suddenly her eyes widened. "Is he like Mike?"

I nodded, watching her yank the door open and bend down, pulling out a six-pack of bottled Heineken.

"You're just lucky that Rupert left these," she said as she handed me the beer.

"Rupert? Joyce, are you drinking with the Watcher again? Tsk tsk," I said waving a finger in front of her face, grinning at the blush that quickly covered her body. "Why don't you just get it over with and marry the bloke?"

She smacked me playfully on the arm. "Spike, what I do in my own free time is none of your business," she said seriously, only her eyes were twinkling. She leaned against the kitchen counter. "Besides, I hardly think you're one to talk."

If a vampire could blush, I would've. Getting teased by the slayer's mother was just another example of how crazy my life had become in the last year. Instead of responding, I turned to Methos, handing him the beer. "I'll be right back, mate. I'm going to check on Buffy and call Giles."

I was nearly at the top of the stairs when I heard Joyce begin her 'mother' interrogation of the Old Man. I chuckled softly. The bloke was so old, he probably didn't even remember his mother and suddenly 5000 years later he was going to receive the same treatment that everyone, with the exception of Giles, got once they walked through the Summer's front door. Good or evil may rule the world, but mothers never change, I thought to myself.

Then it hit me—Buffy's scent. The familiar aromas of vanilla and wild spring flowers called to me and I felt my fangs itch and my mouth water in response. Another reminder that no matter how much the inside of me had changed, my existence was still one of a predator.

I opened the door and peeked through the crack and was happy to see Buffy watching for me. Grinning, I stepped inside and walked over to her bed. "'Allo luv." I bent down and kissed her gently on the lips.

"Took you long enough," she whispered against my lips.

I reached for her hand as I sat down next to her. "Sorry pet, I was a bit busy stopping the Hellmouth from blowing."

She reached up and placed her hand on my cheek. "I know. Angel called and filled me in. Don't worry, he called Giles too."

"Bloody asshole," I murmured, thinking back about our disagreement in the cemetery. "Did he also tell you about me draining that Immortal bloke?"

She brought her other hand up, cupping my face as she nodded. "And I told him to shove it too. He was calling from Willow's—you should've heard her tear into him. Don't worry. Between Willow and I—we'll get through Angel's thick skull that you've changed." She grinned as her hands slipped down to my duster's lapels and pulled me down on top of her.

"Slayer—"

"Shhh. Just kiss me and remind me why I love you so much."

I chuckled softly and captured her lips for a second. I pulled just a fraction of an inch away. "I think I can do that for ya, pet," I whispered and once again our mouths met, this time in a passion-filled frenzy that if she hadn't been bed-ridden or we weren't at her mother's, would've easily led to a night of love-making.

Too soon for my liking, she pulled away, breathless, with a huge smile across her face. "Thanks," she said, dropping her arms around my back, hugging me tightly. "You better go. Angel was wondering if he could bring Willow over to your house, so that Methos could email Mike—or if she's available, chat."

I growled, shutting my eyes against the idea. "I don't want that wanker in my bloody home. Once invited—always invited!"

"I can revoke the invitation, hon. How do you think we kept Angelus out of Willow's and my house for so long?"

"You'll do that for me?"

She nodded, smiling. "As soon as Methos leaves."

~~3~~

It wasn't until three hours later, when Willow and Angelus left, that I finally allowed myself the luxury of relaxation. Even with all the changes that both my sire and I have gone through in the past two years, I've had over a hundred and fifty years of anger, hate and shame under my belt when it comes to him and I'll be damned if I'll just let it go just because we both not only have our souls now, but happen to know the same people. I really couldn't stand that self-righteous pillock that was just in my home and I still hated the unsouled Angelus with a passion that nearly rivaled my love for both Buffy and Mike. No matter how many parallels there were between my life and Angel's, I couldn't just forget how he systematically destroyed nearly everything that I held dear less than two years ago. And, probably because I have known him the longest, I had the misfortune of seeing more similarities in Angelus and Angel than differences. Both were creatures of extreme: one nearly pious in his martyrdom and the other just as cruel in his love of evil and mayhem. Both were obsessively loyal to a fault in what they believed was their 'side' and neither of them could deal with life's real obstacles—the ever-present shades of gray that is the only real truth in immortal existence.

It would be long time before I could actually deal with Angelus with anything other than animosity and I couldn't help but be anxious for the day when Methos left and Buffy could perform the uninvite spell. After that, it would be a cold day in Hell before I let that bastard in my home again.

Sighing softly, I locked the front door and picked up the remote by the door, and closed the blinds against the coming day. I finally turned around and nearly jumped at the sight of my guest sprawled out on the couch, watching me intently.

"You really hate him, don't you?"

I chuckled humorously. "That obvious, eh?"

The dark-haired Immortal nodded. "I would have to say yes to that," he said and then finished off the last of his beer.

I flopped down in a chair and brought my feet up on top of the coffee table. After lighting a cigarette, I stared at the now-covered pictured window and took an unneeded breath. "I just don't trust the bloke," I said softly. "And he's annoying as all Hell. Too bloody judgmental for my liking. Always has been." I turned and grabbed my wine glass, sipping the cool, fermented bloodwine.

I miss Mike, I thought to myself. I looked over at Methos. "So, how is she?"

He shrugged. "Happy to hear from me. Relieved that I'm okay and she hates the idea that I'm here with you." He frowned and leaned forward. "She wouldn't tell me what happened with you two—except that she was the one that left."

I nodded, hearing the unasked question, 'how could she leave you too?' "She wouldn't. Probably too embarrassed."

"So, what did happen?"

I felt a flicker of irritation run through me and for a second, I didn't want to answer him. So much of my baggage came with that response: my own emotional failings, lack of personal insight, the fact that I loved two women equally and for nearly a year, hadn't a clue. And Mike. Just when she needed someone to stand by her, be with her and love her, she was alone—facing battles that no young Immortal should have to face.

The only thing that didn't suck about the whole bleeding ordeal was the Slayer. For every obstacle and pain that I went through since Mike had left, Buffy had been there—to reassure and accept me—to love me—despite the link and my love for Mike.

And Mike was right. Buffy deserved happiness. More than anyone else I knew. Repeatedly the young woman saved the world and until I was there—mostly it was at a high personal cost to herself.

"Well?" he asked, bringing me out of my thoughts.

Was I just brooding? I asked himself, frowning. Gods, I hope not... I shook my head and turned to him. "She left me about six months ago, mate. Got all bloody noble on me and decided it was time to let me in on the fact that not only was I also in love with the Slayer, but the Slayer was in love with me."

His eyes widened and nodded his head once, signaling that I should continue.

I rolled my eyes and fell back into my chair. "She gleaned that wonderful fact from the link—during an especially intense love-making session. Apparently I shared something that I had no idea I even felt." Suddenly restless, I shot up out of my chair and began pacing in front in him. "It wasn't until Buffy came real close to dying that Mike finally couldn't take it anymore. By this time, she knew of Buffy's feelings as well and felt that it wouldn't be fair to the Slayer if she remained with me—despite knowing that both Buffy and I were in love with each other. And since Slayer's rarely live past their mid-twenties and Mike was Immortal—it seemed like the only thing that Mike could do and still feel good about herself."

"She's so damn fair—it's excruciatingly painful at times."

I stopped mid-step and grinned at him. "Bloody hell, Old Man, you hit the nail on the coffin. Six months ago, I was still in shock. All I knew is what I felt."

"And that was?"

I laughed outright. "That I wished to Hell I still had my demon so I had the balls to keep them both—even if that did mean locking them up!'

The Immortal shook his head as smile curled his lips. "I don't know if I can handle the imagery, Spike. I saw a picture of Buffy while we were there," he paused, chuckling. He shook his head again. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't reformed either. It would've been a bloody good time, man."

"That it would. This pesky soul comes out in the worst of times," I said, still grinning. "Oh well, I fight the good fight now. It wouldn't do my reputation any good for me to slip back into my old habits—not to mention the thought of Mr. Pointy staking my heart."

"Mr. Pointy?"

"Buffy's favorite stake. It was the other slayer's—the one before Faith—lucky stake. The poor fool had such an empty life—she named the bastard." I stretched my long legs and turned to him. "So, Old Man, are you going to tell me what the hell you've been doing for the past year or am I going to have to torture it out of you?"

The Immortal's left eyebrow shot up as his eyes twinkled in amusement. "Afraid of Mike?"

"Damn right! I know her temper and from what I've gathered, she's gotten pretty handy with a sword!" I reached over for my wineglass and noticed it was empty. Sighing I stood up and grabbed the Immortal's empty beer bottle and went into the kitchen. After pulling out another bottle of bloodwine, I opened the cabinet above the refrigerator and reached for the unopened bottle of Jack Daniel's that Mike had left. With both items in hand, I returned to the living room and placed the bottle of bourbon in front of Methos.

"Mike's?"

"Yeah. She likes to drink when she's stressed—"

"—It calms her nerves," the Immortal finished softly. He looked up at me strangely and sighed. "Bloody hell, Spike, she really loves you," he muttered as his head dropped and he began to stare at the bottle. "All this time—I knew it, but I didn't really feel it."

"She loves you too, mate. And just as much."

The Immortal's head shot up and once again our eyes met. "Both of us?"

I nodded, feeling somewhat foolish reassuring him—my future competition, but I couldn't help it. I knew how much she cared for him and that her love had somewhat insinuated itself in me. Not that I loved the bastard, but that I respected him and her feelings. I shook my head at the craziness and cleared my throat. "But she knows you, too. She knows that you're not ready to commit and Mike can't handle not being the only one."

Methos' hazel eyes stared back at me, understanding flooding them. "That's why she left Sunnydale, isn't it? Even though she knew Immortal's tended to stay clear of the Hellmouth—that she would be safer here—because she couldn't handle watching you and Buffy together."

I nodded, ignoring the stabbing pain that I always felt when I thought of Mike with a pack of headhunters after her.

He chuckled without amusement. "What a tangled web, my man."

I couldn't help but agree with him.

~~4~~

A day after Methos left, Buffy performed the uninvite spell, making my home demon-vamp proof. I couldn't help but feel a bit relieved with knowledge that once again my home was just that: my home. No Angelus to barge in and take over. No taunts or recriminations. Just the peace that came from the security of knowing my own was indeed my castle.

Willow dropped by later that same night to pump me for info on Methos: where he had been and how he was doing—really. I knew she was doing it for Mike, but I couldn't help but feel as if I was betraying the Old Man's confidence, so I spilled what I knew with great reluctance. I told her almost everything—except where he was going to get his newest identity.

It was that first night, while he was telling me his tale of dodge and run that he had been doing for the past year, that it hit me: somehow Morden knew his aliases.

Mike and I already knew that Morden was the one that let it out that Adam Pierson and Methos were one in the same in the Immortal Community. And we also knew, from his own admittance that he was from the future. What if somehow Morden got a hold of one of Methos' chronicles?

Once I voiced this thought out loud, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

I offered to call Aristotle, the vampire who created new identities for the Souled-Ones, and see if he would be willing to set something up for Methos.

The Old Man agreed. After the call was placed and a flight to New York City was booked, a cool chill caressed my spine, causing me to shiver. It was quickly replaced by a sense of calmness.

"Did you feel that, mate?"

The Immortal nodded slowly, sporting a strange mixture of disbelief and awe on his face. "I did."

Whether it was our preternatural senses or a sign from the gods, I realized then we just did something that I thought until then, was impossible: we changed fate and it felt as if fate approved.

Now maybe whatever Morden was using to pursue both Mike and Methos was now invalid. We can always hope.

Hey, those gods may like us afterall.

Chapter Eight

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"And just when you thought you knew the score..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Six Months Later – mid-September of 1999
St. Louis, MO

Sighing, I closed my psych book and glanced outside the window. It was night—with only the full moon to lighten my view. But no matter, the night was calling me, as it had been since I had become involved with those who live in the darkness. Although I may be a 'day' creature by nature, my soul has found peace with the moon and her children. A peace that I never had in the light.

Peering out, I glanced up at its fullness and not for the first time wished I could fly. Tonight would be a wonderful night to wallow in its hot humid air—warming my blood and bones.

But I couldn't and never would be able to on my own. Sometimes, I wondered if it was a cruel joke the gods played on me—dangling the possibility of flight under my nose and then taking it away just as fast.

I groaned, shaking my head. Maudlin much, Mike? I asked myself, hearing Buffy's voice in my mind instead of my own.

I was, but I couldn't help it.

I talked to Methos tonight.

I didn't actually hear his voice—but I had my imagination for that. Of all the fucked-up luck, he turned up in Sunnydale, with a headhunter on his tail, to see me.

And he got Spike instead.

I don't know who I'm more pissed off at: Methos for not checking into his sources before showing up in Sunnydale looking for me or Spike just for still being there, while I fight off the Old Man's leftovers here in St. Louis. I really want to hate him for that; he gets to spend time with Methos—hear that sensual, flippant voice, watch as his body sinks into the furniture in that way that's only his—perfected after 5000 years. Look him straight in those beautiful hazel eyes while they twinkle with his own sardonic sense of humor.

I growled out loud. "Why am I doing this to myself?" I asked out loud as I stood and began pacing across the room. "I should be happy at least one of us got to see him. And to be honest, it probably wouldn't have been the best thing if I was there."

I stopped and suddenly chuckled as the image of my two loves sharing the same room with me—all the while trying not to piss me off, but still somehow managing to strut their stuff, like two cocks in a chicken house.

The visual imagery was almost enough to send me into a fit of giggles.

Almost.

I took a deep breath and fell back into bed, trying to calm my racing heart. It wasn't until Willow had called me earlier and told me of Methos' appearance in Sunnydale, that I realized how worried I secretly had been.

It's almost an oxymoron to say that headhunters are dangerous—but they are—especially when pursuing a prize as beneficial as a 5000-year-old Quickening. I know, because I've been getting the backwash.

In the last six months I've been challenged nearly a dozen times and I've only gotten out of one duel. It's finally starting to die down a bit. I think word's gotten out that I'm not nearly as easy of a target than first assumed. For that, I have to thank Vachon.

But Methos—he's got the stronger, more disciplined Immortals after him. The only one that I've faced that was older than a century was Abdullah Mughal—the Arab.

He was 600 years old and I still can't believe I won that one. I nearly didn't. I was bleeding all over the place—had at least two mortal wounds and was seconds from losing my head when Fate stepped in. It had to be fate—or some weird quantum physics thing—because any other explanation is just too far out for me. There he was—standing over me with his sword in hand getting ready to swing downwards. And me, I could barely hold mine in my hand. I was already doing my mental good-byes—desperately hoping that Spike would get my message—when a pigeon, who's nest was in the window sill of the warehouse we were in—flew out—low enough that when he (the pigeon) answered nature's call, that his waste products landed in a splurt in Mughal's face—covering his eyes.

I managed not to laugh until I took the bastard's head. As the Quickening slammed into me, I was cackling like an old hen—internally mocking Mughal as his personality punched into me. After the Quickening, I fell over dead.

Vachon took me home, but not until he dropped some food scraps off in the nest. As a blessing and thanks for a job well done.

Apparently I died with a grin on my face.

I'm sure the Watcher's were having a field day with that one. I know they were. I remember reading the forums where everyone would share strange Immortal tales. I have no doubt—considering that I used to be a Watcher myself—that I made quite a few top ten lists that month.

Mike Evans—saved by the dastardly dumping pigeon—may his shit forever protect her!

I can only pray that pigeons watch over Adam as well.

I turned over onto my stomach and looked outside again. I couldn't ignore it any longer. I sat up and slipped on a pair of canvas shoes, grabbed my cigarettes, lighter and a glass of OJ and went out the back door.

I started smoking again—but I force myself to go outside and do it and I have to admit, it does limit the amount of cigarettes I inhale daily. I hate that I couldn't stay away from them, but unfortunately it was a lost cause once we returned from Toronto.

All it took was coming home, to my apartment and smelling the remnants of Spike's cigarettes and the note that he left on the kitchen table, and before I had finished reading the damn thing, I lit one of those stale cigarettes I had been carrying around for over a month, and smoked the whole damn thing.

Vachon just squeezed my shoulder in sympathy and went back outside to unload the rental car. I tried not crying. For Vachon's sake. But it was so hard. To know that Spike and Buffy made love on my futon was enough to send me into a month-long funk.

It might've even happened if Vachon had left me alone that night. But he didn't. Instead, he held me tightly in his arms and kissed away my tears.

Once again he saved me from myself.

So, instead of sucking the pit of despair, I smoke. A pretty fair trade off as far as I'm concerned. It could be worse—I could be dead. Sometimes I think Vachon's right—that I like to be depressed. But I can't seem to help it here, in St. Louis. The city's always had a negative effect on me. If I didn't know better, I would think it was another Hellmouth. I always seem to lose all my healthy habits here—leaving me an emotional and physical wreck.

Well, not the physical. At least not anymore.

Both Vachon and LaCroix saw to my training. Between their nagging and prodding and my self-righteous anger every time I got challenged, I've managed to keep up with my training.

But yet, something was—is—still missing. I started college less than a month ago. I'm still waiting tables at Wolf's Bane and taking an occasional research job from Joe (strictly non-Watcher or Immortal related though). Just keeping busy—trying to rebuild my life, yet it's not enough.

It's an emptiness, that sometimes is so far out of reach, that only a tendril or two will touch my heart and mind and other times, it fills me with such a longing that it's all that I can do to get up in the morning.

The only thing I can contribute it to is the dreams. Those horrible nightmares that are constantly plaguing me. In them, I'm always running—pregnant—and I'm always terrified. Most of the time, I'm alone in them. Alone and battling the world to protect my child.

Other times, Spike, or Methos or Vachon are there. Sometimes all three of them; other times just one or two of them. I never see them in the dreams, but I know they're nearby and I'm running to them—desperately in need of their protection.

Cassandra's in them a lot as well. Why? I'm not sure. Maybe it's because of her gift of Sight and Voice or it could be that she represents all that's magical and mystical in my mind.

Whatever the case, nothing but a bottle of Jack or a good, nearly deadly lovemaking session puts a stop to them. I guess I'm glad that Vachon and I finally consummated this bizarre, nearly incestuous relationship or I'd be an alcoholic or even worse, crazy by now.

Lighting my cigarette, I leaned against the porch railing and finally allowed my thoughts to rest upon the enigma of my life: Vachon.

Father? Lover? Protector?

All three since my first Quickening in Toronto. Sometimes, when I'm in a real bitchy mood, I wonder if I'll ever sleep with a mortal again. I know that's not fair—to any of them—it's just so fucking weird.

And, as much as I would like to push Vachon and my relationship to the 'feels good—just sex' category—that's actually the furthest from the truth.

I'm just not in love with him.

It was pretty predictable how it happened. We'd been walking that fine line between sexual intimacy and just plain intimacy since I'd returned to St. Louis six weeks before. In a way, we were kinda playing a form of sexual dodge ball—we were bound to get hit—eventually.

And of course, it started with the Quickening.

Handlan found me the day after we met in the grocery story. It was barely dusk when I felt his presence as he drove by the warehouse. He must've been looking for me because he just pulled a UI and parked right out in the front. Once I was up on the roof, Vachon sent the elevator back down for him.

And then we waited.

The duel was neither long nor bloody. Obviously, we had both underestimated my sword skills. He, using my actions the previous night as a compass and me, because I had been getting my ass kicked daily by Vachon.

The fight ended nearly as soon as it begun.

And then there was the Quickening.

Maybe if I had had the ability to read thoughts, feelings and experiences of other Immortals—like vampires can when they share blood—I might've been prepared for it.

But I can't and I wasn't.

And, on top of it all, no one ever told me that Spike would be there as well.

Looking back, I think that's what nearly tore me apart. After six weeks of having a part of my soul cut out—to have it filled for only a few moments—to have him inside of me, just as he had been for those nine months we were together, left me nearly broken.

Not only was I reliving Handlan's Quickening and the hundred or so individual Quickenings that resided in his, I was also thousands of miles away—across the continent, laying in my bed in Sunnydale—with a naked and fulfilled Buffy in the same room.

I was seeing, feeling and experiencing Spike and Buffy's first time as well as seeing Handlan, by the luck of the draw take the head of a 300-year old headhunter.

It ripped me open.

And Vachon, with 500 years of 'living' under his belt, was there to bring me back to myself.

I vaguely remember him gently lifting my despondent body in his arms—all the while murmuring Spanish endearments as he kissed my tears away. I clutched his cool body like a drowning woman; fearing if he let go of me, I'd lose myself.

I felt us glide across the warehouse roof until we reached the skylight. Then there was drop downwards—causing my heart to leap in my chest—much like it does when riding a roller coaster. Then we were moving upwards again...

...and suddenly he was laying me down on my bed.

"Don't go," I whispered, my voice still raw from screaming.

"Shhh, Querida," he said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Still holding his shirt, I felt my whole body crackle with fire. Pictures of Buffy and Spike naked and entwined—his lean, strong body slowly moving into hers...

Her cries.

His moans.

I couldn't stop crying.

"Make love to me," I asked, my voice shaking with pain and neediness. Anything to push Spike out of my mind—to make me—me. "Please."

"Querida, are you sure?"

I closed my eyes against my burning tears and nodded. "I need me. Help me find me, Vachon." I turned my head, baring my neck to him—silently asking him to drink from me; to see and feel what I had been experiencing.

His cool tongue lapped at my neck, teasing my pulse point.

A delicious chill slithered down my spine. "Please..."

And then I felt his fangs sink into my skin and he drank.

My body, instantly recognizing the 'ritual', reacted accordingly. A wave of pleasure crashed down on top of me, causing small whimpers to escape my mouth.

Needing more, I arched my back, pressing my breasts against his hard chest, forcing my neck to go even closer to his mouth.

As my head began to feel light from the blood loss—a powerful orgasm ripped through me.

Not even realizing I was speaking out loud, I kept whispering to him: "More...take it...more...please."

And he did.

Before I died that night, I climaxed five more times. The last thing I remembered was whispering a thanks and then slipping off into the dark nothingness that all Immortals visit when they die.

When I revived, hours later, the first thing I saw was Vachon's deep soulful brown eyes watching me.

I tried speaking, but nothing came out.

"Here," he said as he sat me up, holding me tightly against his bare chest. It was then I noticed that I was naked as well. For some odd reason, I found myself turned on when I realized he stripped me when I was dead. Biting my bottom lip, I watched him reach over and grab a tall glass of orange Joyce and hold it to my lips. "Drink."

As the lip of the glass touched my mouth, I sighed against its coolness. My lips tightened and I drank, with him still holding the glass. Once I was finished, he set the glass back down as I leaned back against his chest, enjoying his cold body.

"How are you doing?"

I shook my head, not surprised at the tears that sprung out from my eyes. I was better, but still disjointed.

His arms tightened around my waist and I turned my head towards him and sighed. "Thank you." My breath caressed the crook of his neck.

He stiffened and I felt him harden underneath me. A shot of pleasure surged down my body, first to my breasts and finally stopping at my sex. I opened my legs and felt his cock slip in between them.

One hand moved upwards, lightly teasing my skin until it reached my breast. His fingers pinched my nipple and I gasped in response.

His cool tongue lathed the side of my neck and I shivered when I felt his lips touch my skin. It made me need him even more. "Are you sure?"

I bit my lip in frustration. "Of all the times to be gallant, Vachon! Of course, I'm sure!"

His chest rumbled in laughter as one of his hands skimmed my stomach and stopped at my sex. A cool finger slipped inside. I moaned again.

"Just checking, Nina," he whispered against my neck.

Then suddenly I was on my back—against the bed and he was on top of me—watching me with the yellow eyes of hunger.

I lifted my hand and laid it gently against his cheek and smiled.

That was all the permission he needed.

Grinning at the memory, I flicked my cigarette and leaned back against my hands, feeling a warm flush cover my body. Vachon was a wonderful lover—even though I had a feeling that first time he wasn't necessarily making love to me as much as another blond mortal whom he'd never had a chance to show her how much he loved her.

That was okay, though. Even now, six months later, I realize that I make love to my Spanish Constiquador for all the wrong reasons. Mostly just to lose myself enough that when I come back, I'm still in one piece.

I sighed again and glanced through the screen door to check the clock. Two fifteen am. Vachon was late.

Grabbing my stuff, I stood up and yawned. Oh well, he's got a key, I thought to myself as I headed back inside and locked the door behind me.

I was going to bed.

~~2~~

It was a busy night at Wolf's Bane. The club was brimming over with mortals and immortals alike—all somehow managing to squeeze in together without anyone becoming dinner. Sometimes it blew me away how much willpower vampires had. Although I never experienced a bloodlust myself, my relationships with Vachon and Spike gave me an insight to a vampire's personal battle in order to function even on the outer rim of society. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearing midnight.

Three more hours, I thought to myself. I was exhausted. Another horrible dream pulled me out of my sleep the night before and I had no Vachon to hold me when I awoke. So, I ended up drinking, which in turn gave me a massive hangover when I finally dragged my butt out of bed this afternoon. I missed class and now all I wanted was to crawl underneath my covers with the air conditioning unit on full blast, a half a bottle of Excedrin PM in my system and sleep for twelve hours.

If I didn't get a full night's sleep soon, something was going to break. And I was afraid that it might be me.

"Mike! Drinks are up!"

I jumped at the sound of my name and turned around and saw Stephen frowning at me. "Where the hell are you, gal?"

I shook my head and grinned ruefully. "Obviously not here." I pulled out the matching ticket and placed it and the three drinks on the tray. Glancing at the table number, I groaned inwardly. I hated that there were three of us on tonight. And of course, I had the screwy station—all over the place because I could serve vampire and human alike. Preparing myself, as if I were Moses parting the Red Sea, I began my journey through the crowded dance floor, all the while cursing LaCroix for not designing this place better.

Twenty minutes later, sweat running down my face and wetting my clothes, I staggered back to the bar, and stood next to Anna, the vampire server.

Her nose turned up as she watched me wipe my face with a cocktail napkin and frowned. "How do you Immortals live with it?" she asked, her voice still retaining an eastern European accent.

I chuckled quietly as I handed Stephen my tickets. "Handle what?"

She made a face. "Bodily functions," she spit out.

I couldn't help it—I laughed out loud. "It's all I know," I said shrugging. "Besides, it also has its benefits: chocolate, Mocha Latte, Tutte Mare, banana splits—sunlight—which I don't happen to see much of anymore. All in all, it's a pretty good trade-off."

She shook her head. "I don't know how you do it. Everything about you fascinates me. You're so human—and yet, you're not—"

I always hate feeling Immortals. Especially after the last six months. Not a one was a friend or acquaintance—just some prick after my head. So, when that familiar sensation flooded my senses, I nearly lost my dinner. I so was not in the mood for another duel. It had only been two weeks since my last Quickening and as far as I was concerned it could be another two hundred years before I had to deal with that again.

Quickening rushes just weren't my thing.

Focusing on the it, I realized that it was much stronger and older than the others that I had encountered lately—and then it hit me: it was familiar.

I staggered backwards, not realizing that Anna caught me until I felt her vampiric grip on my arm. "Michelle—who is it? One of you?"

I nodded, swallowing in an attempt to wet my dry mouth. "Yeah, and old too," I whispered as I watched the entrance in anticipation all the while mentally chanting that this one wasn't here for a fight...

Luckily we didn't have to wait too long. The door opened and in walked Cassandra.

"Jesus Christ," I whispered as I walked the ancient Immortal walk through the crowd towards me.

I felt so silly—like I was suddenly greeting an icon or a goddess. I'm sure that Cassandra was worshipped as one some time or another. She's so beautiful and regal. But then she's had 3000 years to learn how to carry herself too. Maybe in another hundred years or so, I'll quit tripping over my own feet too.

I grinned despite myself and relaxed enough that by the time she reached me, I had my hand out, ready to shake hers.

"Cassandra—what a surprise."

She smirked in reply. "I'm sure. But don't worry, Mike, I'm not here for your head."

A sigh of relief escaped my lips. "Good, I've had a bit too much activity in that area as of late." I turned to Anna. "Anna, this is Cassandra. Cassandra, Anna." I glanced back at the Immortal. "Would you like a drink?"

She shook her hand and reached for my hand. I nearly flinched at its warmness; I was so used to vampires and their cool skin. She smiled at my reaction. "It's been a while since you've been with your own kind," she whispered as she turned over my palm and stared at it, one finger tracing the lines in my skin. After nearly a minute, she looked back up, her blues eyes holding mine. "What I would really like is if we could talk—about your dreams and your gift of being able to read Quickenings."

I flinched at the mention of my dreams. "How did you know?"

She smiled, shrugging. "My gift, Mike," she answered tiredly. "So, when are you off?"

I looked over at Anna. "Do you mind?"

She clasped my arm and shrugged. "Go ahead, Mike. You're sweating too much for me. Bodily functions." Her nose crinkled in disgust.

Chuckling, I turned back to Cassandra. "I'll be just a minute. Let me check out—it should take only a moment."

~~3~~

It was much later before either of us turned in for the day. I liked her a lot more this time than the last. Before, when we had first met, she was angry, bitter and defiant. She felt betrayed—as if the foundation of everything she believed in had been rattled. And in a way, it had been. Methos, her tormentor, murderer, rapist and owner was still alive and worst of all, good friends with Duncan MacLeod—an Immortal that she had protected as a child, nurtured as new Immortal and had as a lover on and off for years. MacLeod, whom she believed was the best of Immortals, claimed Death as his friend.

I knew even then, why she was so angry. I was still dealing with my first death at the hands of a rapist and murderer. And I was and still am angry with him. At least with me, my tormentor didn't hold my body as well as my heart and soul hostage. The same couldn't be said for Cassandra. I think the worst thing that Methos did to her was allowing enough gentleness in his treatment of her, that she could fall in love with him. It made his betrayal all the more poignant and painful.

But now, nearly three years later, she was the epitome of calmness and serenity. Even though she had been experiencing the same nightmares as I for nearly as long as I had—because of her experience and wisdom, she had a much better handle on it.

We talked about them. Her dreams always had us two standing by a portal or window, looking out at the stars, while we talked. She said that she didn't remember what she told me in them, but she remember the gist: all is not as it seems—good and evil aren't as easy to define—be wary of your choice of allies.

"It's a prophecy, Mike," she said as she took a sip from her tea. "It's been centuries since I've had prophetic dreams, but it's not something you can forget."

Lighting a cigarette, I leaned back in the chair and found myself looking out the kitchen window—out into the night. The moon, still full, was barely visible because of the light in the room, but I still felt its call. "Why? Why me?"

"I don't have an answer for you. No one ever knows why they're chosen. It just happens."

I snickered, thinking of Buffy and what she told me when she had found out she was the Slayer. 'I fought it. I ignored it. And finally humored it—still not putting my whole self into it—until I had no choice: my friends were going to die unless I did something.' She glanced up at me and shrugged. "And then, I ran again. It followed me. The vampires and demons followed me. Wherever I went, they were there—I was like honey to bees, only I poisoned them instead of nourishing them. Sometimes, you just don't have a choice.'

"Fate? Is that it?" I asked. "Karma? Or do Immortals have karma? When we lose our heads, do we go back into the great soul pool of all humankind or is there a special one for Immortals and as long as pre-Immortal children are born, we have the possibility of going through this bullshit all over again?" I stood up and began pacing, despite my exhaustion. "Ever since my father was murdered, these dreams have haunted me. Especially, if I'm not in a content place in my life. For that one year with Methos—when we were together—I had no dreams. I didn't start having them again until I came back here from Sunnydale—alone, miserable and heartbroken.

"Is it love that keeps them away?"

"I don't know. It's different with everyone. I can help you—find that place inside where you can center yourself. I don't know if the dreams will stop—but at least they won't wreak as much havoc as they have on your life."

I stepped over to the table and tapped my cigarette. "And my ability to read Quickenings? Do you think that's because of this prophecy?"

She nodded. "I do. It makes sense that you would have an extra ability to help you survive the coming event. It also helps survive until the prophecy happens."

I thought about those stars I dreamt of and the corridors I ran down. Every dream had a futuristic feel to them. That coupled with what Morden had told me, made me think they were related. "It's not for a long time, Cassandra. We haven't had a manned space flight past Earth's orbit in over 20 years. I saw stars and systems that didn't look familiar."

"We have time, then."

I flopped back down in my chair. "Yeah, I guess we do."

Another thing I had to relearn as an Immortal—time meant something totally different to someone who was Immortal. I used to think a long time was a year. Now I think in decades. Soon it will be in centuries.

God, I hate this shit.

At least I'm not alone—I got another mentor out of this. Maybe this time, I'll learn something that I want to learn. Something positive and uplifting. It would be really nice to know that when I eventually did lose my head, my Quickening would give some poor fool something other than honed in killing skills. Maybe I could give a little love with it. Ya think?

The End...

But never really over....

Would you like to read the next story in the series, Choices of the Heart?

If you have any comments or like what you've read, drop me a line!

©1999 Lisa Y. Drexel