The Blood Is the Life
by Nan Dibble

Chapter 3: Hit and Run



Because it was to be a “hit-and-run” patrol, dropping briefly into three neighborhoods where the highest count of vamps had been found the previous time, Buffy had the bright idea of using the SUV for more hit, less run. She was both pleased and vexed by her ingenuity. Pleased because, although beneficial for slimming, toning, endurance, and wind, a three mile jog just to reach the target area constituted at least 98% of the time as compared with the glittering seconds of slayage. The SUV cut the traveling time down to nearly nothing.

Conspicuously laden with swords, crossbows, battle axes, and so on, she found public transportation not really an option. It was still possible to be suspiciously odd, even in Sunnydale.

She’d never used a vehicle for routine slayage transport pre-First, but (a) she hadn’t carried, then, a mental map of the prime nest sites (from a vamp point of view) that would be claimed by some new pack as soon as they were left vacant by one she’d eliminated, allowing her to target patrols where she was pretty certain there’d be repeat business rather than just wander around at random on the chance of encountering nasties and (b) she’d been too young to drive. Now she wasn’t, and she’d thought of the new idea all by herself. Neat!

A quicker patrol with a good kill count meant more of the night left, with a clear conscience, for the other activities she had planned.

Her annoyance was because she hadn’t thought of it sooner. She’d felt a definite “Duh” moment when she realized she’d set aside the SUV key bundle to open the weapons chest at least four or five times, since too many SIT bodies to fit in anything short of a bus was no longer a factor, before the penny dropped and she’d stared at the keys as the obvious dawned on her.

She figured foregoing public bragging over her SUV epiphany meant she didn’t have to admit to the Duh, so it all pretty much evened out, insight-wise.

Reaching the first location, a neighborhood bounded on three sides by cemeteries--in Sunnydale, realtors called that “green space” and regarded it as a plus--the five of them (Amanda couldn’t make the patrol, pleading excessive homework) went directly from the SUV, conveniently parked, to the target nest site, a crumbling mausoleum.

No joy: empty.

Strolling back toward Buffy, Spike commented philosophically, “Everybody out to lunch, looks like.” He gave the surrounding headstones and monuments a quick, experienced once-over. “Check this one again some midnight, then, when the tossers are home.” He lifted his head, eyes shut, concentrating on what the air told him. “Been here, though: three or four, anyways. Haven’t laid claim to it--just squatting. Fledges, most likely. Probably get rousted by some of Manny’s pack. They’re consolidating.”

Buffy called briskly, “Everybody back on the bus,” and started away before Spike could present any further details of Sunnydale vamp politics she supposed were useful but didn’t want to hear.

Anytime he spoke of other vamps by name, it bothered her. For the charged seconds of an encounter, Buffy thought of her opponents as Blue Check Shirt Ugly or Ms. Ex-Trailer Trash or simply The Big One on the Left--minimal and nearly impersonal identifications that lasted only long enough for the dust to settle and another checkmark on her mental tally. Spike waded in with identical glee and precision whether he faced some anonymous fledge or “that Raymond, used to clerk at the SuperQuick,” or Albert, a sometime poker acquaintance.

Buffy didn’t want to know; Spike didn’t care.

En route to the second target, Spike leaned from the seat behind to close a hand on Buffy’s shoulder, pointing with the other: “Look, love.”

About a block away, a house was burning.

“We’re not the fire department.”

“No, pet, they been doin’ it that way, and explaining will take-- Stop, just stop, all right?” he directed harshly, and had pushed past Kim and was out the door and running before Buffy had more than touched the brake.

No choice, then. Buffy slammed the brake down, screeching the SUV to a halt in the general vicinity of the curb. The three SITs piled out, trailing Spike. By the time Buffy caught up, Spike and the SITs were engaged with at least six vamps in front of the burning house--the vamps whirling and dodging, the SITs in formation and methodical: Kim and Rona flanking defensively while the lead, Kennedy, engaged and dispatched. Kennedy’s opponent fell, undusted: she’d used her taser. The trio split, engaging singly. Off to the left, Spike was brawling unarmed with two vamps, Fatso and Ms. Forbes (a vague resemblance to Buffy’s kindergarten teacher).

The well-tended yard also had three drained corpses in nightclothes and a bleeding woman in pink babydolls crawling toward the burning house.

Fatso was trying to occupy Spike while Ms. Forbes came at him from behind. Spike dropped into a sweep kick that dumped Ms. Forbes. Buffy staked Fatso as he bent, intending to hammer clasped hands onto Spike’s neck but exploding into dust before the blow could connect.

Saying curtly, “Bint’s yours,” Spike took off toward the crawling woman, now nearly within reach of the flames.

Buffy and Ms. Forbes regarded one another--Buffy in a wide-legged stance, the game-faced, frizzy-haired vamp crouched, for a fatal second undecided between fight and flight, flicking a glance back at the street. They jerked into motion simultaneously, and Buffy’s stake was faster than the vamp’s lunge.

When Buffy whirled to check the fight’s progress, Kim had just dusted the sprawled vamp Kennedy had tasered, Kennedy and Rona had teamed up on the final vamp, and Spike was spinning around in place heedlessly close to the flames, yelling, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” and waving both arms in the air. The woman must have gotten past him.

As Rona staked the vamp, Buffy heard the first distant siren. The three SITs looked to Spike: barely holding himself in place. Wanting, in each twitch and aborted lean toward the front door where the woman must have disappeared, to take on the fire--beat it down. The opening puffed a lifting tongue of incandescence as though the house were panting. Then the large front window blew out--nowhere near Spike, but enough to make him force himself decisively away. As he came striding back toward Buffy, she saw three deep gouges slanted across his face from eyebrow to lip, blood dripping off his chin.

Passing, he bit out, “Child of some sort left inside. She went after it. Wouldn’t stop, so I belted her. Still wouldn’t stop, silly great cow.”

The siren was closer and another, wailing on a different tone, had joined it. Overtaking Spike, Buffy got the SUV open on the right, then clambered through to the driver’s side. As Kennedy yanked the door shut, everyone inside and accounted for, Buffy pulled away at a sedate 15 mph, barely touching the pedal and turning the next corner before she risked switching on the headlights.

In the back, Spike had pressed to his face a wet towel Kim had fixed up from the first-aid chest that usually lived in the basement (another good reason to take the SUV) and muttering words--harpy; Niobe; fucking troll--in furious blurts: still wound up about the woman.

Rona helpfully piped up, “Hag,” and Kim offered, “Moroness. Slutbag.”

Spike growled, “Shut your holes. I get to say that. You don’t.”

“Well, geez, sorry, Spike,” Kim rejoined. “Didn’t know I needed a license.”

“Now you do,” Spike snarled back. “So shut the hell up.”

The sound of anger crackling so close, in familiar voices, made Buffy frown and pull her shoulders tight, concentrating all the while on the road and checking the mirrors for any following lights. But she didn’t think of intervening any more than she’d thought beyond a second of seizing Spike and pitching him away from the much-too-close fire while he fretted on the edges and tried to make it come out and fight.

Some things, she left completely to him. Not Slayer concerns. That was one of the things that made it a partnership. Buffy had learned to delegate.

******

Within five minutes Spike had discarded the towel and was holding forth on this new tactic. “Hunting’s been harder. So some older nests, packs, been doin’ this. Scout out a house with its neighbors empty, torch it, drive the prey out.”

Buffy commented, “Vamp version of a cook-out.” Despite the flippancy, this new tactic troubled her and she was casting around in her mind for ways to counter it.

She stopped for a red light.

Kneeling in the front passenger seat to talk behind, Kennedy theorized, “Fledges wouldn’t have the patience.”

“Too much planning, collecting materials,” Rona commented. “Not just Grrr and bite. Spike, are fledges ‘fraid of fire?”

“Too fucking dumb. Good half of ‘em burn, their first sunrise. ‘Less they’re waited for, fetched in safe. Demon doesn’t know this world enough, right off, to fear fire.”

As the light turned green, Buffy turned her head to inquire, “Then what’s your excuse? Think closing the Hellmouth made you immune? Or did it just lower your insanely careless/reckless threshold? To maybe China?” The fact she hadn’t yanked him away didn’t mean she wasn’t gonna let him hear about it. She could smell the burnt hair: eau de singed vampire.

“That was light,” Spike responded after a moment. “This was fire. Entirely different thing, pet.”

“That’s still two burns in two days, Spike. I better not see a pattern here. Does the phrase ‘Playing with fire’ strike any kind of a chord?”

“’M fine. Entirely fine. Hundred percent. If you’re gonna go all nancified about every little scratch, I’m not the one who has a problem here.”

“Better not be,” Buffy responded. “I don’t have any spares.”

“You better not,” Spike riposted, and she could practically hear the eyebrow raise.

Then she felt him: leaning forward between the two front bucket seats, at her right shoulder. Not, this time, to point out a fire: seeing where they were, where Buffy had brought them.

Maybe a whole minute’s silence, while Buffy pulled up at the west margin of Restfield Cemetary.

“That’s fine, pet. You can just drop me here, then.”

Buffy doused the lights and turned off the key.

“Slayer,” he said. “We need to have a word.”

As Buffy opened her door, Spike told the SITs to stay put and climbed out the other side. He had a cigarette lit by the time he joined her on the sidewalk that ran parallel to the wall. Scuffing his boots. Moving slow. Braced. Glancing at her and then away. Trying to be non-confrontational.

The scratches were completely gone. Burnt hair smell remained.

“S’not where you said we were going,” Spike mentioned, all flat and diffident.

“Thought we’d surprise you,” Buffy responded, presenting a smile. Got no smile back. Only another quick glance.

“Not a good surprise, love. Can’t bring the children into this. Can’t even bring you into it.”

“I don’t consider myself ‘brought.’ My idea. I call the patrols. I name the targets.”

“So you do. Except this time. Not with me along, anyway. Don’t think you’ve entirely considered the implications. Ramifications.” Cigarette tilted in a corner of his mouth, he pushed hands spread-fingered through his hair. “Claimed this patch, I did. By now Michael will have been to at least sixteen bars and specially Willy’s complaining of how I done him, pitched him out, when he’d given me no cause. And that I formally claimed it doesn’t just apply to Mike, now. It means no vamp sets foot on it without I say so, or they answer to me. And now I got to enforce it. Not the children. And most specially not the Slayer. The Slayer enforcing a vamp claim, a vamp territory. You don’t want that, love. Then you’d be playing by vamp rules, and the next time some sire that fancies himself a master pours gas in a bottle, it might come through Bit’s window. Or Red’s. Or yours. Ours. It would be a declaration of war.”

“What’s this been, the past seven years: kickball?” Buffy demanded heatedly.

“Fledges got no rules. Don’t know nothing. But for all but idiots, there are rules of engagement. The First didn’t try to take out Potentials with a high-powered rifle. Didn’t jigger the brakes on your van. Didn’t set a great huge bomb by Casa Summers just past where Red’s protections hold. No poison gas. A matter of balance. There’s been rules, limits, even if you’ve never noticed.”

Carefully, dangerously, Buffy inquired, “Did you just call me an idiot?”

“Didn’t notice, pet. Have you earned it?” A direct look went with that, followed by a tight, unamused smirk. Then Spike made himself look away, disengage, and paced a few steps: not away and back, just side to side. He continued, “Slayers don’t go out armed with bloody automatic weapons or flamethrowers.”

“Missile launcher,” said Buffy. “The Judge.”

“Once. Not your regular arsenal. Don’t interrupt me, my dove, when I’m educating you. Basically, you versus vamps and what-all, it’s always been hand to hand with the occasional blunt instrument or blade and maybe the odd spell--same as all the Slayers before you. But against the Turok-han, and the Bringers, and the First, Michael and me, we came real close to breaking that balance. Big threat, bad odds, and I wasn’t about to get those children killed if a taser, or an incendiary grenade, would keep them from it and give ‘em a fighting chance. Never been a fight like that on a broad front between humans and vamps, with a Slayer leading it. Don’t want one now. First’s shut out, so we put the toys back in the boxes and forget we ever played with ‘em.

“This isn’t just one more boneyard you sweep whenever you please. If I’m alongside, it’s a claimed vamp territory. If we clear out the nests side by side, every master in town trying to carve some piece of real estate for his pack is gonna assume the only way he can get back to business as usual is over your dead body. So if you do this, I’m not with you. I back off.”

“Then back off,” said Buffy. “Do you expect me to stand by while you try to take out two whole nests on your own? Maybe ten, a dozen to one?”

“Wouldn’t be that bad,” Spike argued. “Not a pitched battle. Whittle ‘em down. Take out one or two whenever I get the chance. A little at a time. Make ‘em want to move, relocate. Find someplace else. Town’s wide open: lots of other places they could be. Raise the stakes just high enough to make it not worth their while to stay. Not enough to make ‘em desperate.”

“Magnificent Seven strategy.”

Spike paused in his pacing and looked around. “Near enough, yeah, though Kurosawa’s better. Hell of a fight, worth the subtitles. Just leave it with me, love. I’ll see to it.”

“And when you come the second time and it’s an ambush?” Buffy challenged.

“Just have to be cautious, is all.”

“Cognitive dissonance,” Buffy responded, adopting one of Willow’s phrases. “Does not compute, you and cautious. Who are you kidding? Because it’s not me!”

He pitched the last of the cigarette and faced her with folded arms, taking a stance. “All right, take it from the other side. If you do this alone, just you and the SITs, everything I’ve done for the last six months, since I got back, is wasted, gone. In terms of winning back what I lost in this town when the soldier boys shoved that chunk of fucking plastic in my head. Since I turned traitor, the way the cousins, vamps, look at it. Doing my own. Siding with you and the Scoobies and then the Potentials. Lately I’ve earned back some respect. I took a few minions, made ‘em submit, made ‘em come and go to my word. Was somewhat less fucking insane some of the time. Less of an embarrassment all ‘round. Proved I can fight my way through anybody or anything that comes against me and come out the other side. And all on my own--without running to the Slayer to bail me out, though we’re a widely known item. You show you don’t need me no more, just waltz into a claimed territory that’s mine and wipe out whatever you find, then you might as well stake me yourself because I won’t last a week. Won’t nobody respect me if you don’t. Don’t pay heed to anything I say. Don’t even bloody listen. I do this. Alone.”

Buffy blurted, “I’m not gonna play vamp politics and power games!”

His response was a long, expressionless look. “Love, if we’re together, you have no choice. Though I don’t claim it, you pay it no notice, and I’m long past enforcing it, I’m Master Bloody Vampire of Sunnydale. Successor to that git The Master, ol’ Fruit Bat himself. Because there’s nobody else, an’ nobody’s taken it from me. Cousins got long memories, love--those that survive. To the cousins, that’s who I am and what I am. And that’s not something you can afford to ignore.” Finally breaking his stare, he twisted his face and head away as though his neck hurt…or, she realized, like shaking off game face. Trying, she could see, not to lose his temper or force the issue beyond hope of agreement or compromise. That was never easy for him, she knew. Not his natural inclination. He was trying to be patient with her, this hundred-and-twenty-some year-old vampire, and she absolutely hated it.

“Do one thing,” Spike requested, occupying himself with the process of lighting another cigarette. “Wait till Giles gets back. He knows somewhat about vamps, how they behave, how they look at things. Not much, but some. Put this to Giles first. Do some other graveyard tonight. Let this alone for now.”

Frowning, Buffy thought for a moment. “Do you swear not to slip out some night and just go ahead as planned?”

His smile wouldn’t have fooled a five-year-old. “Know me too well, love. Sure, I’ll give you my word on that. Till after we’ve talked with Giles. Good enough?”

“Good enough,” Buffy decided grudgingly. Then she opened her arms.

Maybe it wasn’t the most graceful or coordinated hug today, but it was the one she had and she was keeping it. And nobody cracked any ribs.

Walking toward the driver’s side of the SUV, she remarked without turning, “Love fighting you. And hate fighting you. Makes my fillings all lock up.”

“Got something at stake, now.”

“New rule: no vamp quippage. Exclusively my deparment.”

“Whatever you say, Slayer.”

**********

Spike waited until Buffy’s breathing had slowed and her pulse dropped to a sleeping cadence. And a little beyond that because he liked to watch her sleep, all soft, relaxed, and peaceful. Warm, too, and smelling so fine. Didn’t get up first thing and wash the scent of their little shagfest off herself because she knew he liked it in the after time. Liked to smell her that way, and himself on her, their scents inextricably blended. Not always the quickest on the uptake, his girl, and pig-stubborn sometimes but kind and thoughtful about the un-her stuff she’d got her mind around. Best she could, she took him into account and accepted how he was even when it made no sense to her.

One of the uncountable things he loved her for.

After a few more minutes’ peaceful contemplation, he slid out of what he thought of as her “virgin bed”--really no room for two unless one pretty much on top of the other, and that had its nice aspects, too, but terrible for sleeping: have to see about relocating the monster brass bed from Casa Spike if he was to stay here long-term--and tugged the sheet and light blanket back up over her shoulder without touching or disturbing her.

He dressed quickly and pulled a wide-toothed comb through his hair until it felt as it should. Finishing with his boots, he scooped money and keys from a small bowl on the dresser. Cigarettes and lighter, all set. Then he paused, balefully regarding the cellphone assigned to him: on the dresser-top beside its charger. Already carrying too much junk around: since when did a vamp have to bother with keys, cash money? Well, be fair here, he admonished himself: Before I gave the motorbike away, that had a key. And since when is it a virtue to be skint? Get over yourself, you berk. He shrugged and collected the cellphone, set it to receive, and poked it in a pocket.

He didn’t have to account to anyone for his comings and goings. But of a certainty Buffy would wake sometime during the night and find herself alone. She’d suspect he’d broken his promise and was off clearing Restfield. And Spike hadn’t the least clue what the hell she might do then.

To head off that nightmare scenario, he located his notebook on the corner of the vanity, pulled out a page, and wrote, Gone to Willy’s. Back by dawn. No, I didn’t, and shame on you for even thinking it. Yes, taking the cell. Good vampire here. Now go back to sleep, you idiot. Love, S.

Whipped, he thought. You’re so bloody whipped.

Finding no tape, he propped the note against the vanity mirror, where he was certain she’d see it.

That was all right, then.

He halted a minute outside Dawn’s door, checking that her heartbeat was OK and everything as it should be, then silently down the stairs and outside. Stretching as he reached the street, enjoying the night and opening his senses as wide as he could in every direction as though starting a hunt. Well, might do that too if the opportunity popped up. Hadn’t altogether made up his mind about that for the long term, but short term, sure--wouldn’t say no to that. He was a goddam vampire after all, for crap sake, not some half-assed human wannabe ashamed of his fangs, like Angel, Boo bloody hoo, I’m an eeeeevil vampire. Spike expected his unapologetic vampirism to be taken into account by others, just as Buffy expected her friends to walk wide and respect that she was the Slayer. Shouldn’t be so hard to understand, should it?

Settling into his distance pace, he let himself blank into motion, letting the doing, the being, be all. Felt real good to let it all go. Of course, as much as he had on his mind, it all came creeping back.

Missed his motorbike. Running was fine, he could run all night and not tire, but wasn’t the speed to it, was it? If that arrangement worked out as Kennedy wanted, he’d come into some dosh. Maybe buy him a new bike, a real bike--not a piddling little Yamaha, though she’d run smooth enough and needed no more than suspension work. Big Harley--one of the few things the Yanks had done right. Red, maybe--screaming scarlet. Noisy as hell if you tuned it that way. Built-in sound system, play any media through tiny headphones. Long saddle, leather not vinyl, good room at pillion for Bit or Buffy or both if they squeezed tight. That’d be a treat.

He flashed to game face, thinking about it. The run clicked up a notch, and his senses reached further outward.

Far out, a building was burning. Spike’s eyes flicked to the spark and away. Not on Scooby duty at the moment. Therefore the fire was nothing to him, none of his concern.

Near Willy’s, he slowed and strolled the last couple hundred yards, noting the vehicles present in front. Particularly the Yamaha bike poised neatly on its kickstand like an obedient pony.

Spike made an entrance, a deliberate bounce to his step. He went straight to the bar without pausing to acknowledge known faces, pleased to hear the pitch and volume of conversations change, not attending enough to catch any of the words. Time was, he could silence a whole room just by looking around, but had no interest in that now anyway. He kept his attention close and perked up but all peaceable. Not hunting a fight, particularly.

He slapped down enough bills and pointed, saying, “Double. Neat.” Reaching for the indicated bottle of Jim Beam, the vamp bartender--Huey, one of Spike’s minions for awhile--commented, “Got courting Sh’narth wyrms coming through.”

“Yeah, done one, couple days back,” Spike responded, while Huey placed a glass and poured. “Pity about their being so big. Otherwise I’d be inclined to let ‘em alone, if they didn’t do such damage. Can’t have that.”

Changing topic, Huey remarked, “Still got decent odds.” He nodded in the direction of the chalk board high on the wall at the far end of the room. “But could be better. Lot of refusals bringing it down.”

Approaching with a tray of scummed-up glass beer mugs, Willy said, “Spike,” and Spike greeted him in turn--not cordial, not anything. Human Willy knew he had no friends here and generally knew to the millimeter how far he could push before a customer snapped back at him. He’d survived, running a demon bar in Sunnydale, longer than Spike had been in town. If you could sometimes smell fear off him, it was a side effect of sweating, a human thing, and only to be expected.

Willy and Spike were cooler toward each other than when Spike had been in Huey’s place, combination bartender and bouncer. More precisely, since Spike had been annoyed by Willy’s niggling rules and popped him a good one, and Willy had retaliated the next day by firing him.

Savoring the burn of his first big swallow, Spike responded to Huey’s last comment. “Got other things to see to. Odds against come down, all the better.”

Having set the tray on the bar, Willy was still there, hanging about. Spike gave him an inquiring look, very cool and aloof.

“Might be able to set something up for Saturday,” Willy said. “Got an offer.” Willy turned his head to indicate and, no surprise, there was Mike at a table near the window, all by his own lone self. Not letting on he knew Spike was there. Spike included him in the range of a casual scan, showing no reaction.

“Might. If I’m not busy. Let you know.” Spike took another swallow of his drink. “That reminds me. That Michael, he’s all pissed off. Might have made more of it than it was, blowing off about it. I got no interest in holding a territory, what with the Slayer an’ all. Just threw him out, warned him off: he’d got on my last nerve. But that’s not to be construed as a formal claim. Should anybody wonder, you might pass that along…. I’d be obliged.”

The three of them traded looks.

“Might be I’d know somebody interested,” Willy allowed, and Huey said the same thing with a glance without having to put words to it.

Spike added, “You know me, I like a fight well enough. But not everybody goin’ to the mattresses, so to say, over some dumb misunderstanding. Always feel like you been played when that happens. Nobody likes bein’ played.”

That Spike had mentioned the matter twice made his request emphatic--a demand for active rather than passive gossip mongering.

Willy nodded to show he’d gotten that. Huey--a lean, bony vamp with a creased face in his human aspect, hair long, dirty, and carelessly tied back with twine--only smiled, not needing to be human-obvious.

Finishing his drink, Spike told Willy, “I’ll let you know about the challenge fight.” Again, the repeat meant Spike would actually do it, not just say it and then blow it off. Nearly as good as a yes. That would let Willy get started spreading the word and adjusting the betting and the odds, considering Mike didn’t even have a place on the board yet, without committing Spike to anything. Better that way, from Spike’s point of view: never knew what might come up.

Setting the glass down, Spike went back outside and soon fell into an easy jog. Liquor wasn’t actually warm but felt so going down and awhile after. Next best thing to blood. Moving felt good.

There were four more bars to leave word at before he’d feel he’d defused the situation as much as he could. Might not need Giles to get into it after all, which would be better. He was already more beholden to the Watcher for past favors than he liked.

**********

Leaving the third bar and starting toward the fourth, Spike did an automatic assay of the night, all the complex signals, confirming he didn’t yet have to worry about getting back to Casa Summers before sunrise unless he let himself get distracted. After several large drinks he was coasting nicely now, everything loose and comfortable. Not actively hunting but aware, in the emptiness of the early-morning streets, of everything that moved. Humans in cars too much trouble, even though half the people didn’t bother locking their doors as they drove. He blinked and watched the occasional passing car placidly. Then his head came around sharp and he went to investigate what had caught his attention. Drunk passed out in an alley behind some boxes. Head cocked, Spike considered, but this was far too easy to be passed up.

He sat back on his heels by the man, analyzing the smells. Had eaten fairly well not long ago. No taint of illness. Relatively clean clothes. Hands and fingernails clean. Only maybe a day unshaven. “Well, mate, are you with us here?”

Nothing. Too easy.

Spike went to game face and leaned in.

The living blood hit the back of his throat like a hammerblow. He was rapt with the heat and the taste and the hot immediacy of it. After three brilliant gulps he shut himself off, shuddering because his demon wanted more, wanted it all, and fought being forced away. But he didn’t give it leave and held himself still until it withdrew and subsided. Then he licked the punctures shut, setting a hand against the wall as the additional alcohol hit his system.

Soul was about as appalled as the demon had been avid. Spike pointed out to it that not only had he not killed the bloke, he hadn’t even patted him down and stolen whatever money was on him. Hadn’t done the tosser even as much harm as the liquor would, eventually, and the soul should shut the hell up about it. Settle and leave off pushing the punishing wrench of nausea and unease that mostly followed his feeding now. Except with the Slayer. Soul got all blissed out on that too, didn’t even bother trying to make him feel bad about it anymore, for which Spike was intensely thankful. First and only sign he’d had that the soul was in the least reasonable and might be expected to come around, given time, to the plain fact that he was a vampire and not apt to change.

There was a shrill electronic noise, close, and it took him a minute to remember the bloody cellphone. Dragging it out of his pocket, he sat back against the wall next to the drunk and got the phone to his ear. “Yes, pet.”

“You pig,” said Buffy’s voice.

“Yes, pet.” He giggled.

“And you’re drunk!”

“Yes, pet.” He leaned against the drunk and giggled harder. “Was there maybe a point, love? Or did you just want to talk dirty for a bit.”

In the fuming silence from the other end, he was imagining her face coloring up, all hot and rosy like it did. He loved watching that.

“Get home, all right?” Her voice had finally softened, gentled.

“Be plenty of time for a nice, slow shag and then a shower before you have to leave.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Go back to sleep now and I promise to wake you up real nice when I get in.”

“Yeah. Mmmm. ‘Night, then.”

“’Night, love.”

He carefully pushed tiny buttons to terminate the current call and put the phone back in receive mode, then returned it to his pocket. Concentrating to get a cigarette lit, he reflected that the cell didn’t actually take up that much space. Hardly more than the cigarette pack. Weighed next to nothing. Stupid little play-toy might not be as much nuisance as he’d thought, toting around. He might reconsider.

**********

He’d been hearing the bike for awhile now. Nowhere close. Just around someplace in the middle distance, clearer or fainter according to the angles and surfaces of the buildings between.

He’d made the final stop, at the Wander Bar, and decided against another drink although it wasn’t polite to go in and spend nothing and still expect Frodo Fourfingers to serve as an information drop and relay. Spike had left a five on the bar just for the sake of manners. Didn’t need anything else to drink tonight. All full up and content.

Although the Wander Bar wasn’t officially a demon-friendly establishment, if a patron thoughtlessly went a little bumpy in the forehead or their eye-color skewed toward yellow, nobody screeched or fainted or ran yammering to 911. Do it too often and you could get yourself banned, and fledges weren’t welcome for obvious reasons, but a mature vamp with halfway decent control and manners and bills to bring to the regularly scheduled poker game would have no problem. Unless he won, of course. Then he’d better watch his back.

Reaching the string of fast-food places and convenience stores that separated Sunnydale’s downtown from the residential areas, Spike stuck his hands in his pockets, wondering if he should have brought a taser. But no: he was gonna cut back on that, lest the cousins set about acquiring comparable armament, and that would be a right mess. No good getting used to that. Have to go back to what he knew. He stopped at the next realtor’s sign he saw, broke it, and had two serviceable stakes tucked handy inside his shirt when the noise of the bike came again and didn’t fade.

Mike throttled down, pacing him slow.

“Headed home?”

“Ahuh.”

“C’mon, then.”

Spike stood and thought a minute. Mike stopped the bike, waiting. No way Mike was gonna stake him from in front. Nor do much of anything, actually. Vulnerability was all the other way: to Mike, from behind. So no reason why not.

Spike mounted pillion. As the bike started rolling, still slow, Spike steadied himself with a hand on Mike’s back. Then his body caught up with the motion and he no longer needed the contact.

“There was no need to do me like that,” Mike said without turning.

Engine made some noise, but they were both vamps and could hear fine past that.

Finally Spike said, “You’re a knife at her throat, Michael. T’isn’t up to me, it’s hers to say, but I can’t look aside anymore, like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t know.”

“Never done her no least harm!” Mike protested.

“What’s harm to you is not the same as what’s harm to her. You tell me you don’t have her in your mind when you’re feeding. You tell me you don’t have somewhat of hers you nicked for a posy. For the smell.”

“Ain’t hurt her,” insisted Mike stubbornly. “And she ain’t yours, Spike. Not that way. You got no cause and no right to warn me off, tell me No.”

“You got no least notion of what she is. Or what you want. Just that you do. This is fine, Michael. You let me down here.”

Mike stopped, and Spike stepped down. They faced each other.

Mike said, “I’ll go through you if I have to.”

“Might try,” Spike responded, all peaceable. Mike was a good lad and Spike wished no harm to him. “Till I’m sure your notion of safe, and hers, and mine all come together someplace close, you’ll have to. Don’t think that’s gonna happen, Michael. I’ve talked it out with her, some. She’s not lunch. She’s not yours for the eating no matter how sweet she smells. When you next see her, and I know you will, you listen to her. Listen hard. You take her or even try, you won’t have to worry anymore about the sunrise.”

Mike was silent awhile. Then he asked, “That thing Saturday. You gonna do it?”

“Considering it. Inclined to it. Don’t mind giving you your shot, if that would make you easier in your mind. But don’t make me go around cleaning up after you again. You’re warned off, and that stands. But there’s no use to you making trouble, saying I’ve laid claim to the whole of a prime site. That’s a nuisance, and could blow up past anything you figured or intended. Already had trouble on that account between me and the Slayer. You think I’m past the line, being protective of Dawn, you don’t want to see me if you get harm aimed at the Slayer. Whether you meant to or not. You be angry with me all you like. We’ll settle it. Leave the Slayer clear or you’ll push me where I don’t want to go, with you.”

“See you Saturday, then,” said Mike, and pulled away.