Part Four

After the haunt disappeared from the suite, Spike relaxed back against the couch cushions, listening to Buffy order their breakfast. They had time – not a lot, but they had it – and it was the first chance he’d had to relax since turning around and seeing the inhabited Buffy-looking haunt behind him. He was off duty, in a sense, at least for now. That’s when he remembered that he never got that shower he’d wanted.

While vampires aren’t subjected to sweating, which is one of the more beneficial attributes of his kind, they do get dirty, or – as Spike thought back on the bedtime romp he and Buffy had engaged in – down and dirty. He was one unclean fiend. In both body and mind. As the haunt was off eating her spectral Wheaties somewhere, gaining strength for the impending conflict, now would likely be the only time he would have a chance to neaten up a bit without running the risk of the deader-than-him bitch popping up to ruin what could be a very good time.

He waited until Buffy got off the phone, then said, “I’m gonna jump in the shower, pet. Care to join me?”

Turning around to look at him, Buffy was caught by his eyes and held motionless for a second, before breaking the gaze and roaming over his body with an appreciative stare. He really was beautiful. Predatory, almost feline, powerful, all kinetic energy and sensual delight. And he loved her with a passion that did more to control his demon than any government-stamped chip ever could.

Reality, however, had a tendency to intrude on the moment, a fact that had been driven home again and again to the Slayer. Grinning slightly to take the sting from what she knew he would take as a rejection, she shook her head slightly and told him, “Seeing as breakfast will be delivered in less than thirty minutes, and our ‘showers’ tend to be of the not short variety, I don’t think that’s the best idea. Not that the offer isn’t appealing. But, hey…shower away. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of your weekly cleaning ritual.”

Spike sputtered in mock surprise at the teasing insult, surging to his feet and blustering at the unabashed and superior expression on Buffy’s face. “Weekly? Weekly? Now you know for a fact that’s a bloody lie. Hell, you and I go for the wet and wigglies at least three times a week, pet. You also know damn well I shower every day.”

“Oh, I know you get wet every day. And I know you destroy the musical integrity of every singer whose songs you butcher when you get in there, as well. I have no actual proof that you use that new invention called soap.”

Lunging forward, Spike bent over and grabbed Buffy around the knees, ignoring her surprised protests. When he straightened, he had her tossed over his shoulder, struggling futilely against his strong grip. His chip didn’t activate, despite the jostling he gave her, mostly because he wasn’t trying to hurt her. There was no intent. Just like he could spar with her if he didn’t try to hit her.

“Spike,” the Slayer choked out from her upside down – and rather degrading – position, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Several long strides later, he set the surprised and mildly irritated girl down in the bathroom, not bothering to answer her. He just smirked at her flush-faced glare and yanked the short, satin robe she was wearing off her body. Grabbing her bare shoulders, he leaned down and attacked her mouth, forcing her lips open with his tongue, thrusting inside her warmth.

Her hands reached up and twisted in his hair as she returned his kiss, tugging just enough to hurt the smallest bit, hurting just enough to inflame his senses, fire his desire, telling him that she wasn’t upset. And she was willing to concede to his changing her plans of not showering with him. Seeing as she could easily kick his ass all the way back to Sunnydale if she was in any way truly angry with him, he knew she was warming up to the idea.

There were one or two other clues, too. Like the fact that Buffy was in no way a passive participant. In fact, she was quite active while divesting him of his clothes. She no more bothered with permission than he did. His tee shirt was stripped off before he even acknowledged he’d raised his head so she could yank it off of him. Similarly, she had his pants unbuttoned, stripping him naked, in just two of her heartbeats later.

One of them turned on the shower, one of them pulled the other into the tub, one of them yanked the shower curtain closed. Neither of them knew which one did any of it.

If there was desperation in their coupling, they didn’t mention it. If they came together with the water pounding down on their shoulders, their heads, their slick, naked bodies, with a little more fervor than the situation would have normally warranted, they let it. If neither one of them vocalized the fact that they both knew Spike’s underlying reason for being so adamant about Buffy joining him in his shower, they were okay with that.

They both knew, though, that it was fear. Fear that what was in the house would be coming again soon. Fear that they wouldn’t be able to deal with it as they did the baddies in their own town. Fear that Giles and Willow were a long way away yet. Spike’s fear, too, that if he let Buffy out of his sight, the haunt would sneak up on them again. And maybe next time, the haunt would do more than get in Buffy’s mind. Maybe next time, it would hurt her in ways that didn’t heal so quickly.

So the words went unspoken, that was okay. They both understood. And they tried not to let their mutual concern mar the experience for them. It was easy to do. For a little while it was very easy to do. But all good things must come to an end. Slayer’s and their vampire lovers knew that better than most.

For them, the good things came to a screeching halt just after Buffy stepped out of the shower. She turned to Spike and kissed him quickly before climbing, weak-kneed and tingly, out of the tub. Reaching out a hand to the towel she’d placed on the counter, the breath flew out of her lungs with a surprised hiss as she caught sight of the mirror over the sink.

Hours ago, Buffy had passed out when the haunt had forced her to see her bloody image, throat ravaged and pale as a ghost herself, in that very same mirror. Now, what she saw – though much less…colorful – was equally chilling for its simplicity.

Vaguely, as if separated from her body, she felt Spike’s hand close tightly around her upper arm. It was welcomed support. Turning her head, searching his face for just the barest flicker of time, she saw his expression, grim and foreboding, with just the slightest tinge of demon gold crackling in his eyes. His gaze was locked on the glassy surface.

Neither one of them knew quite what to make of what they saw.

The bathroom was warm, steamy from the shower, but wisps of cold fog danced across the surface of the now iced-over mirror. Thicker and whiter than the steam from the shower, it was unmistakable. Buffy and Spike watched silently as the coating of ice slowly melted, small chunks sliding down the slick surface, dropping with slushy splats on the counter. It was a uniquely surreal experience made more so by the message left by a haunting hand.

“Abomination.”

That was it. One word. One chilling, chilly word. Of course, it was enough.

The towel Buffy was going to use to dry off was still clutched in a tight-fisted grasp. Slowly, purposefully, she stepped up to the bathroom counter. With one last, disgusted glare, she swiped the offending word away, erasing it.

“Okay,” she said in a serious, all-Slayer voice, “This haunt is living in one really big glass house. It’s time we start throwing some stones.”

Turning to the soggy vampire behind her, she saw how pissed off he looked. Pissed off and resolved. Impressive in any vampire, but in Spike…well…he did pissed off and resolved especially well. It was second only to his sardonic sneer in the ‘effective Spike looks’ department. Only the Slayer would ever dare tangle with Spike when he looked like that, like he was about ready to break something. Like necks. Lots of them.

His jaw clenched and unclenched again and again as he tried to lock down his demon, tried to control the rolling fury that was surging through him. If he went with it, this bathroom would never look the same again…and Buffy would never forgive him. Besides, he was much more interested in destroying that…thing…that had the gall to come in here and threaten them, strip away that small bubble of peace that he had tried so hard to give Buffy.

It was malicious, evil, and pointless. She couldn’t be strong enough to attack yet, but instead of leaving them alone long enough to let them share some time together, she had to let them know she was still there. Watching and waiting. If it hadn’t been Buffy and him she was focusing her aggression on, he might have admired the tactic. As a card-carrying member of the evil undead, he could have admired the tactic.

As a man in love with the tiny woman in front of him, he was enraged that the haunt dared even try.

A small hand closed over his and he started slightly at the contact. He hadn’t noticed she’d moved. That hand, so tiny, yet stronger than anyone but him could ever understand…and not just in the slaying and defending the world against the forces of darkness…she was strong inside, where it counted most. Quite possibly the most intense force of nature on the planet. He got that. And the fact that he got that about her, that he understood her in ways that even her Watcher, her sister, and her Scoobies didn’t, made him feel pretty good about himself. It brought him back to her. It always would.

Entwining his fingers with hers, he pulled her hand up and kissed the knuckles that had done so much damage to him in the past. Unable to be suppressed for long, his natural tendency towards sarcasm came dripping out of him as he grinned down and focused on the last thing she said.

“Told you before, Slayer. You don’t have the stones.”

Buffy laughed, remembering that long-ago conversation and fell into her role. “Oh I’ve got the stones. I’ve got plenty of…stones.”

He always did that. That was his gift. One of his many gifts. No matter how intense things got, no matter how close to destruction her and hers came, Spike was there to provide the comic relief. He used his sarcasm and abrasive personality to relieve the tension in any situation. For a long time, she hated that about him, but that was before she understood that he wasn’t just being sarcastic and abrasive to be sarcastic and abrasive. Not that it hadn’t taken – what? Almost four years? – to recognize the pattern. Eventually, though, it sunk in.

Spike went all Spike-like when Buffy was closest to drowning in fear, closest to giving in to the terrors that were her day-to-day existence, closest to dancing that last dance of death. Closest to wanting it. Not to try to push her over the edge like she had thought for so long, but to keep her from it. A brassed off Slayer fought twice as hard. A brassed off Slayer never gave up. Fortunately for her, no one could brass her off as quickly or as effectively as Spike. That was something that, despite her feelings for him, had never changed. He’d have hated it if it had. So would she.

Now that the thick tension in the room was gone, and Spike had control over the demon in him again, she could give serious thought to what she just said.

“Well,” she conceded, “I don’t have the stones just yet…but I will. We’re going to get them. Both of us. Then we’re going to crash them into her. She won’t know what hit her.”

“Bloody right, she won’t,” he agreed.

“Spike,” her command face was on again, “go get dressed. Breakfast will be here any second. We eat, we research, we destroy. In that order.”

The twinkling amusement in his cobalt eyes had her dropping her gaze to her own naked and dripping appearance.

“And that wasn’t exactly commandery. Damn. Note to self: clothes first, command second. This is worse than my yummy sushi pajamas.” At his raised brow and mildly questioning look, she waved a dismissive hand at him. “Don’t ask. Long story. Long, unpleasant Buffy story.”

“Is there any other kind, pet?”

Sighing, knowing there was more truth to his taunt that she’d care to admit, she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him.

Considering that he was more interested in appreciating the new and exquisitely flattering view of her naked breasts that she just offered up to him, he was in no way concerned with her glare.

The knock on the door saved him from any Slayer retribution.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The morning sun was up, shining brightly down on the cheery yellow exterior of a quaint Bed & Breakfast in Three Rivers, California. But for all the perfection of that particular picture, a dark and sinister presence was residing in the house. Evil.

As a matter of fact, he was finishing his bacon and eggs breakfast with a blood chaser, hiding behind thick curtains, avoiding the sun and its deadly rays. And as evil as he was…well…he knew the love of a woman. While music may soothe the savage beast, Buffy, and only Buffy, could…not tame, certainly…redefine, maybe…the monster in the man. She certainly had done something, as he was sitting, wracking his brain for any information that might prove useful in destroying the entity that was threatening the Slayer’s existence instead of sitting back and watching with glee as it happened.

Funny how things change.

Unfortunately he had nothing. Over a century and a score of years, and he had absolutely nothing. Demons, yeah, he could help with that…he knew a lot of them, if not personally then by reputation. Haunts, though…well…vampires and haunts didn’t exactly have much use for each other in normal circumstances. They just didn’t belong in the same…social circles.

He had told Buffy everything he knew. One large, Spike-sized batch of nothing useful. It was as frustrating as hell. And where was the mighty cavalry? That crack team that foiled his every plan? Still at least three hours away, and that was if they were lucky and they had left within minutes of Spike’s call.

Wasn’t that just peachy?

Buffy emerged from the bedroom, dressed and ready to go, and leaned against the doorframe, studying the glum beast brooding over a cup of platelets. It was a good thing that there was none of the physical similarity to Angel as there had been with Riley, as this new morose attitude of the blonde fiend would make the two vampires too close in essence for Buffy’s comfort.

She loved, truly and fully loved both vampires, though in very different ways. That was enough of a similarity for her.

Taking a minute, perhaps selfishly, Buffy gave serious thought to the man sitting across the room. Why did she love him? How could she love him? He wasn’t Angel. He had no soul. He wasn’t good in the classic sense of the word. How could she forgive him for his evil ways? If it was just the chip…well…how shallow is that?

Would Buffy be able to love Spike if he got de-chipped? How could she trust him?

Answers, so hard to pin down when in reference to questions about her feelings for Riley, for Angel even, were remarkably simple in reference to Spike. What a pleasant surprise. And they had been getting easier and easier ever since her return from the great beyond.

Why she loved him was the easiest of all of them. Quite simply, because he was tails to her heads, the flip side of her coin. Her equal, her opposite, her completion. They were alike, so alike in so many tiny ways. Strong, brave, loyal…not normally adjectives associated with vampires, but true, nonetheless. And...oh yeah…there. Always there. When Spike believed in something, when he wanted something, he never gave up. Even though it was selfish at times. Most times. But that’s what love should be, shouldn’t it? A little selfish. Wanting to be with that one person, no matter the cost? That was selfish. Buffy had more than her share of selfless boyfriends. Angel, the epitome of ‘suffering for the greater good’ and Riley, as well. Both gone.

Spike stuck. He stood up, saw that Buffy was the one he loved, admitted it to himself, admitted it to her – oh…wall chains…tied up ex-ho looking on…let’s not go there – and then stuck around, suffered horrible treatment at her hands, her friends’ hands, Glory’s hands…lots of bad hands pushing him away, torturing him. But he stuck.

That wasn’t why she loved him…that question has already been answered…that’s how she can love him. She can love him because he was there to love. He accepted it, reveled in it, wanted it, would never give up on it. And neither would she.

As to the forgiving of his past. Well. ‘Fighting a Hell God? Impending death and torture for me? Where do I sign up?’ That’s essentially what he said with his actions against Glory. “Always knew I’d go down fightin’.” That’s what he actually had said, as he had shouldered an axe in her living room the night she died. Didn’t matter to him that he knew he probably wouldn’t make it. Or…it mattered…just not enough to prevent him from helping. Not enough to make him run for cover. That evil past of his was pretty blurry in comparison to that. And it had nothing at all to do with that chip in his head.

What about that chip? What if it came out, or stopped working? What then?

Well…see…that’s where Spike not being Angel was the most beneficial. The chip prevented him from hurting humans if he wanted to…Angel’s soul prevented him from wanting to. But she’d seen Angelus. Known Angelus. Hated Angelus. A virtually unstoppable, unspeakable horror. A demon of the worst magnitude. Evil, cold, ruthless…and a little insane. Two very different beings in one body, but a flip of a switch…a happiness clause…and they were interchangeable. Spike was just Spike. No Spikelus…or whatever.

Sure, he couldn’t feed on humans with the chip. But all that made him loveable, which gave her no choice but to fall for him after pushing him away for so long, would never change. Wouldn’t disappear one night. And she knew that even if he had that chip taken out, there was nothing he would ever do to threaten her love for him. So humans…and general evil directed at her and her friends, her family, were off limits. He had made a choice to ally himself with her loved ones; he loved Dawn.

And now that she thought about it, he’d given indications that he had some warm fuzzy feelings for Willow and Tara, too. Even Anya, who he’d always had a weird ‘you were a cool demon’ connection with. Not to mention his respect for Giles, which had grown by leaps and bounds since that night with Glory, according to Will. Something about being a band of brothers…but she didn’t quite get the reference.

As for Xander, well…it was doubtful that they would ever be best buds. Too much blood under the bridge for that, Buffy guessed, but they had reached an understanding. They taunted and goaded each other as often as possible, and then fought side by side when necessary, a decent team. It was a friendship of sorts, as long as they both played by the rules. No staking of the vampire, no eating of the human. It worked for them.

All of that worked for Buffy.

She pushed herself off the doorframe and walked over to him. It was important to her that he understand. That was why they’d come here…why she’d brought him here. So far, the events of the previous evening had prevented anything but the barest essentials. Telling him she loved him was all well and good, but it wasn’t all of it. Buffy knew it wasn’t all of it.

Sliding into a chair at the small table in the far corner of the room, where they’d eaten together before she went to get dressed, she looked at him. Despite the shadows in the room – shadows that kept him from going up like a roman candle – she could see his exhaustion. Her heart went out to him when his tired eyes found hers. In truth, he looked half dead. Oh. Wait. That’s not…well…you know. Anyway…he had slept hardly at all the night before, or the day and night before that. It was catching up to him; she could see it.

“You ready, pet?” Spike didn’t know why she was staring at him like that, but her eyes were normal, so it wasn’t the haunt. Okay, mate, he thought, what’s with the silent treatment? You do somethin’ you shouldn’t have…again? She was starting to make him a little nervous.

He’d known she was staring at him from across the room. He always knew when she was nearby, definitely if she was in the same room as him. It was a vampire/Slayer thing. Plus, he’d memorized the beat of her heart, in much the same way a person recognizes the sound of a particular voice on the phone. He would know her anywhere. What he didn’t know was what was going on in that head of hers.

Wanting to say something meaningful to get her message across, she took a deep breath and reached out to rest her hand over his large one. “You…dusty…not good.”

Great, Buffy. Good work. Not exactly waxing poetic there, are you? Geesh, you’re supposed to tell him how you feel…that wasn’t even close. What the hell is wrong with you?

“Don’t happen to fancy that myself, pet.” He didn’t know what prompted that less than stellar declaration of concern, but he enjoyed that faint blush that was flooding her face. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor in this case, he didn’t give in to the habit of a sarcastic rejoinder.

“I mean…well…” Tell him, damn it! Tell him what you feel. Don’t chicken out like you always do. “You’re important to me, Spike.” Oh, that’s good…having toilet paper in the house is important…you’re crashing and burning here, Buffy. “You’re family.” Better…much better. Hell, he’s looking at you like you just grew a second head. Try again. “A year ago you told me…I mean…you didn’t know it was me…you thought I was the robot…and, ya know, still icked out on that one…but…um…so not the point. Anyway…you told me…it…me…that you knew that losing Dawn would destroy me.” Taking a deep breath, burning hotly in embarrassment, she rushed through the next few words. “Losing you would destroy me.”

It’s eerie, the stillness of a vampire. No breath, no muscle movement, no heartbeat. Not even an eye twitch. When they wanted to, they could do a very convincing imitation of a statue. Spike was chiseled stone. Unmoving, not blinking, perfectly, utterly still. Spike was never still. It was giving her the wiggins. He didn’t even smile like he had when she told him she loved him. She thought she’d done something wrong, said something wrong, and her embarrassed confusion had her leaping to her feet, defensive and prickly.

“Don’t.”

One word. One deep, gravelly-voiced, accented word stopped her before she blurted out something she shouldn’t, before she turned and fled. Didn’t mean she could meet his eyes, though, so she stared hard at her feet.

Spike watched her; all he wanted to do for the rest of eternity was watch her. Look at her. Love her. Worship her. Defend her. Stand beside her. Protect her while she did the same for him. Fight with her. Fight beside her.

Love had just been redefined for him. Five words. It had changed everything for him. More than love. The meaning behind what she told him was as clear to him as glass and it was more than love. She loved her sister, loved Harris, Will, the rest. She loved him – told him she loved him. And it was great, hearing that last night. But this. This was more. She may not realize what she had just done, but she just pledged herself to him. She admitted something pure, raw, and it was the first time he’d even dreamed that she could possibly love him as much as he loved her. Love had been redefined and with the force of nature that was Buffy, all he could do was let it wash over him. Healing his heart in places he hadn’t even known were damaged.

His demon was silent.

“That night. When you died…when I saw you lyin’ there…gone…my world crumbled. I crumbled.” His voice, ragged and hoarse, scratched out of his throat with painful honesty. It was time she knew. He had to tell her. “I wanted to die. I would have welcomed the fires of hell…wouldn’t have been nothin’ compared to what I was feelin’.”

Buffy, transfixed by the horror she saw in his face, slid bonelessly back into her chair and watched, mouth slightly agape. She could see that he was reliving it – saw the memories of her death rake across his mind and heart, leaving scorching, burning furrows of agony.

“I blamed myself. Of course I blamed myself. Why the bloody hell wouldn’t I? I thought you would have, too. I failed. Shoulda known. Always failed when it came to you, dinn’t I? I wanted to greet the sun that mornin’. Nearly bloody did. It was my bleedin’ fault you died.”

Shaking her head in denial, she told him, “No, Spike. You didn’t – ”

“You were DEAD!” he shouted, interrupting her. “It was supposed to BE ME! Not you. NEVER YOU!”

Struggling not to lose it, Spike ran a hand through his hair until he had the composure to continue. Buffy was watching him intently and he wouldn’t stop until this was finally done, haunts and Slayers be damned.

“I’m not supposed to feel guilt, ya know. Remorse, either, when it comes to that. I felt both. I was drownin’ in it, burnin’ with it. The one thing…ONE thing that kept me from greetin’ the sun every mornin’ for the three months you were gone was my promise to you. Every day, every time that burnin’ ball dragged itself out of the east, I had to force myself not to meet it. Had to think ‘bout my promise. Even dead, you had the ultimate power over me. Bleedin’ ironic, if you ask me.

“Nothin’ was gonna hurt Dawn. Not on my watch. Nothin’. Little Bit was the one that bullied me into protectin’ the rest of that screwy Scooby club of yours. Why? She was you. YOU. To me, she was all I had left of you. I love her. Nothin’ will ever hurt her as long as I exist. Now, that goes for the rest of your motley crew, too. They didn’t trust me, ya know. Even after everythin’ I did. Only Nibblet.

“It was bad, Buffy. So bad when you were gone. We tried, but you weren’t there. You just don’t know. There are things…things that I’ll never tell anyone – not even you. Bad, evil things that came to town. That I fought. Alone. Things too horrible for the Scoobies to get near. I didn’t want to put them through that. I did things. Things I had to do to get rid of the nasties. If I’d had a soul, I would have sold it to keep them safe.

“Then you came back. That was almost worse. I don’t know if you can understand, but it was almost worse. It nearly destroyed me. With you back, they dinn’t need me anymore, and that need was the only thin’ keeping me not breathin’. I still had that guilt, that remorse, and that feelin’ I failed you. And with you back, I dinn’t have any way to make up for it anymore. But…then I saw it. I watched you – lovin’ you so much it was consumin’ me – not bein’ able to tell you, to show you – I watched you struggle with your bein’ back. That’s when I knew I could still help. You needed me – not that you’d ever admit it. That’s why I started patrollin’ with you every night. The more time I spent with you, tryin’ to keep you wantin’ to stay in this world, the more I wanted to stay in the world. Savin’ you was savin’ me.

“You did this to me. Made me like this. I was happy bein’ a demon. Until you I was happy. You ruined everythin’ and nothin’ will ever be the same for me again. And…see…I don’t want it to be. Never again. I love you more than I ever thought possible to love anythin’. I’m yours. And losin’ you again…well…I don’t think a promise would be able to keep me from greetin’ the sun next time, Buffy. Not like before. Not now that I know…that I know what I’d truly lose.”

He was across the room, with no earthly idea how he got there. He didn’t remember getting up out of his chair while he was talking, pacing the room. He hadn’t realized he had been stalking back and forth, the emotions in him running rampant; taking control of his body while his mind was locked down in the memories, the agonizing memories and truth.

Buffy was trembling. Shaking violently with the force of love she felt shimmering off of him in waves. She’d never heard Spike speak for that long at one time before, and his words…well…earth shattering comes to mind. It was like a homecoming. He was her home. Never had she given a thought to what he’d gone through when she died, and as for the rest…well…since she’d been back, she’d never talked about the time when she wasn’t. It had been too painful to think about. But Spike, well…that’s what Spike did. He was strong in ways that she could only envy. He felt things, deeply and honestly, and acted on them. He was man enough to admit them. God, she loved him.

Regaining her feet, standing on quivering legs, she stared at the tortured fiend in front of her. They stood that way, eye to eye, separated by the length of a room, and watched each other, waiting to see what the other would do, or say.

And then there was no longer a room between them. They came together. Threw themselves at each other, wrapping strong, warrior arms around the other. Not a hug, more than an embrace, it was possession. The spell had been cast, and they gave themselves to it.

But Buffy was human, for all her Slayerness, and she needed to breathe. Spike’s arms were making it just a touch difficult to do that.

“Spike,” she rasped out, not wanting to let go, but wanting to stay alive – for a very, very long time. “Slayer strength all well and good…need oxygen, though.”

Happy in ways he’d never been before, he laughed – an actual, honest laugh, and eased up just a bit. Not that he’d even consider letting her go right then, but he didn’t want her cold and blue…not good. “Bloody humans with all that breathin’ rot. Sad weakness if you ask me.”

Chuckling, liking the way he lightened the atmosphere with his natural – or…well, as natural as vampires can be – personality. “Yeah, I know. So weak, I’m a weakling. Poor, poor Slayer. All weak and able to kick your ass to hell and back. Pity me. I need to be pitied.”

“Oh, I see.” He drew back just enough to meet her dancing eyes with the tickling delight in his own. “Gonna go there now, are we, pet? Why don’t you – ”

Spike never got a chance to finish his suggestion. The scream that rent the air stopped him cold, wiped all trace of amusement off his face. Serious and battle-ready, his game face surged forward and he whirled, letting go of Buffy, who had matched his expression…sans ridges and fangs…and dropped into a fighting stance.

It was everywhere, the scream. A howl of ultimate fury, unrestrained and un-abating. Buffy and Spike slid into their fighting habit, stood back to back, circling around, watching each other’s blind side.

It was Spike that saw it first, saw her first, he was facing the window and he saw her materialize in front of it. The haunt had come.

“Buffy,” he called, “here.”

The Slayer spun from her spot behind Spike and watched as the haunt solidified ten feet from where the warriors stood.

The scream faded as the haunt became more and more visible. In short seconds, the figure of the woman, petite, wearing a long dress with a high collar, chestnut hair piled high in a bun at the top of her head, glared at them with righteous fury. Large, brown eyes flashed hateful fire and the scream was gone, replaced by a snarl of indignation.

Buffy, always one to take the initiative, surged forward, ready to engage the bitch that had ruined the best moment in her life.

Miranda didn’t let her get close enough to try anything. Holding up a hand, a wave of energy leapt from her palm and blasted into the Slayer, not knocking her back, but holding her still – as if she was a fly in a spider web. Struggling, trying to break free from the unknown energy, Buffy was caught. She couldn’t move.

Spike snarled low in his throat, eyes burning with a deadly intensity and he launched himself at the haunt. If he could break her concentration…

He didn’t get the chance. Miranda flicked him a dismissive glance and whirled, evil triumph in her malicious chuckle, and raised her hands to the curtains.

Unable to do anything but watch in growing horror, knowing Spike was too enraged to grasp just what the haunt was doing, Buffy tried to call out to him. To warn him.

The curtains were torn away from the windows before she got a word past her lips.

And Spike was howling…not in rage – but in pain.

Smoking, smoldering, he thought quickly, flipping the table next to him on its side, huddling down into the saving shadows. A rapid flow of curses escaped his lips as he tried to pat out the various parts of himself – his bare arms, especially, that were burning.

“Buffy!”

“I can’t move! I can’t – ”

The haunt disappeared in a blink and Buffy fell to the floor in a graceless heap. The energy wall slipped away as soon as the haunt had. With a roll she was up, running to the discarded curtains. She grabbed them both, rushed over to Spike, and wrapped them around him. Hiding him from the sun, from the light that was flooding the room with it’s glorious but deadly fire.

“How bad?” In her Slayer mode, the question was short and to the point.

“Bad enough.” He was assessing the damage, but under the cloaked covers it was hard to tell. “Bloody hell that hurts!”

“Bedroom. Now. Together.”

Protecting him as much as she could, holding the curtains in place, Buffy helped him into the soothing cover of darkness in the bedroom.

Once there, the curtains fell away and Spike stood up, shaking off his demon visage and checking out his arms. They were red, but no open sores, nothing oozing or bleeding. That was good. He was still smoking a bit, but all in all, the damage wasn’t too bad. Hurt like a mother, but that would pass. If I’d a had my duster on, he thought wryly, I wouldn’t be sportin’ this less than fashionable sunburn.

Buffy reached into his duffle and came out with two blood bags. She tossed them to him, told him to hold on, and jogged out to the other room to pick up the mug from where it had fallen when he’d turned over the table.

In the few seconds she’d been gone, he’d managed to down one bag on his own. Not exactly Miss Manners, she thought as she watched his re-emerged fangs puncture the second bag as she joined him again, but you gotta love a guy that can take care of himself.

“So,” she said, dangling the mug by a finger, “guess you won’t be needing this after all.”

The second bag fell, empty, to the floor, next to the first.

He pushed the fangs and forehead back and looked at her almost sheepishly. “Didn’t feel up to excercisin’ my table manners, what with havin’ to hide behind one and all.” The slightly guilty expression faded away, replaced by a business-like seriousness. “We’ve got a problem.”

Setting the mug down on the end table by the bed, Buffy shot him a dry smile. “Just one? Aren’t we the lucky ones? I’d have figured at least a dozen.”

“Good point. More than one. First, that bitch shouldn’t be able to do what she just did. Singeing me – yeah, materializin’ like that – yeah, but whatever that shit was she did to you…never heard o’ that before. Not to mention, that kind o’ energy…”

He let his voice trail off, not needing to finish the thought.

“We’re in real trouble here, pet. And there’s one other tasty bonus for us White Hats to deal with. I’m almost out o’ blood. Didn’t exactly pack for act of haunt.”

“And you call yourself a vampire. All manner of weapons, first aide kit, what you call clothes and you didn’t bring enough blood? Color me astounded.” She was teasing him, trying to mask her fear of the situation behind humor.

Even now the blood he drank sped up his healing, the angry red marks on his arms and face disappearing under her watchful gaze. She dropped the humor and spoke seriously. “We’ll just have to make sure she doesn’t get another chance to damage you.”

Stripping the bedspread off the bed in one swipe, Buffy went into the other room to cover the window. Once done, Spike joined her in the living area.

“Come on, Ken, we’ve got a haunt to research…and destroy.”

Spike rolled his eyes at the name. “Bloody hell. Call me Spike. This place inn’t exactly my idea of any kind of dream house right now.”

Seriously, with just a touch of darkness in her voice, she spoke over her shoulder as she yanked the door to the suite open. “Sure it is, Spike. It’s the dream house from hell.”

Following her out the door, he just shook his head and sighed.

Part Five

Trailing behind the Slayer as she stormed down the hallway on her way to the stairs, Spike avoided a few rays of sun pouring through a hall window by skirting around a potted tree and using his duster to shield his still-tender flesh. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of prancing around in a house graced with several large windows, providing more opportunities to ride down that crispy vamp highway to hell, but he certainly wasn’t going to stay in the room and wait like some prat. Not to mention he was more likely to stick a hot poker in his eye then let Buffy go toddling around in the house by herself.

Between the second and third floor, Buffy whirled around and pinned him with an intense stare.

“Say nothing. I need to charm…there may be cajoling. If you start in on your ‘I’m an annoying vampire that runs off at the mouth’ routine, we run the risk of getting tossed out of here. Unless you brought along any SPF three million sun block, not the way to go.”

Smirking at her all-business attitude, not offended in the least, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I feel compelled to mention, pet, when it comes to charm, well…you’re less than gifted in that area.”

Buffy felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth but she forced her face to remain impassive. “Spike, every time your lips move you prove my point.” He raised a brow and grinned knowingly. Rolling her eyes, she pointedly ignored his unspoken indication that she just proved his point. “Just…try not to be too…you.”

The sound of a door closing and people moving down the hallway of the floor below them prevented their conversation from degrading to the ‘I’m way cooler than you are’ stage. It didn’t stop Spike from leaning in towards Buffy and whispering, “If memory serves, that’s a different song than you were singin’ last night, luv.”

“Uh huh. Right. And was that before or after we were dealing with the psychotically deceased?”

Tingles danced down the flesh at her neck when she heard his husky laugh and an almost non-existent, “Both,” before he slid around her and continued his descent down the stairs.

Ida Heggan was standing almost exactly where they’d left her the night before, the only indication that she hadn’t been there all night was the change in her clothing. Though she did look equally professional in another trendy business suit, apparently the favored code of dress for the contemporary woman.

Buffy took a deep breath and pasted a large smile on her face, wrapping a hand around Spike’s not only to complete the happy couple image, but to be able to have some inconspicuous way of communicating – even if it was only the occasional hand squeeze. They had gotten to the point of knowing each other so well, working together so extensively, that the slightest pressure could transmit a myriad of messages. It wasn’t romantic; it was practical.

“Good morning, Mrs. Heggan,” Buffy chirped pleasantly as she pulled the rather reluctant Spike up to the reservation desk.

The middle-aged woman looked up from the paperwork spread around her and beamed at the attractive couple, her professionalism preventing her from commenting on the fact that the pair looked less rested this morning than they had last night, the slightly wicked sense of fun she kept hidden from all but her husband allowing her to make assumptions on what they would have been up to during the night hours that would have prevented sleep. “Good morning, dear. But please, call me Ida. Really. Formality is so formal. I hope you enjoyed your first night at Carr House.”

Buffy squeezed Spike’s hand, just in case he felt a sarcastic rejoinder coming on, and beamed back at the kind-hearted woman. “We did, thank you for asking.” Her efforts to keep Spike as silent as possible were for naught when Ida directed her attention to the vampire.

Ida addressed Spike with a happy twinkle in her eyes. “Good morning, Ken. Was the Dalton Suite satisfactory?”

He clenched his jaw at the offensive nomenclature, but decided it was just about time to show Buffy just how charming he could be. Not to mention he had the accent, and in his experience, his north London drawl easily swayed American woman – regardless of age.

Flashing a smirk filled with sexual heat and sardonic humor, he stepped forward and reached over the desk, clasping the woman’s hand in a gallant show of chivalry. Bringing it to his mouth, he kissed the back of it before straightening up and winking at her conspiratorially. “It was very impressive, mum. I, for one, was especially taken with that monster of a bed you have up there. Sunk right in, we did. Got a bit lost for a while, but the little woman here made sure we found our way out.” He caught Buffy’s warning glare out of the corner of his eye and decided there was no reason not to enjoy himself as much as the situation would allow. Draping a casual arm around her shoulders and giving her a squeeze, he chuckled at her embarrassed squirm.

Buffy was desperately wishing a hole would open up in the floor and swallow her, but this wasn’t Sunnydale, so Hellmouth activity of that sort couldn’t be counted on. What a shame. She was left with little choice but to grin and bear it, damning Spike to hell in the meantime and definitely making a mental note to torture him later. She just didn’t understand how he could think acting like a sex-fiend-type pig equated with being charming.

And for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why it always worked so damn well.

Ida, though, was proof that it did, because she tittered almost coyly at the vampire’s words. The Slayer tried to steer the conversation back to a safe and hopefully more informational path.

“Ken and I are very impressed with the whole house, Ida. It’s beautiful. Way old, too, I bet.”

Spike winced inwardly, shaking his mental head at Buffy’s blunt and less than subtle prompt for information. He caught the slight frown that clouded Ida’s face and he rushed in to smooth out the rough edges of Buffy’s words.

“Now, pet,” he said chidingly, in a similar tone Xander used when warning Anya whenever she’s being…well, Anya. “Historical is not the same as old and this house is definitely historical.”

Spike flashed an engaging smile to Ida, ignoring the sparks that flared in Buffy’s eyes at his purposefully condescending tone. “See, this house is what, one hundred and fifty years? In my country, that’s little more than a blip on the timeline, but here…” Spike paused; glad to see Ida was listening intently, the slight offense taken at Buffy’s words forgotten, “…well, here this house has to be one of the oldest in the surrounding area. Where else but in the States can you find something so old and so young at the same time? That’s one of the many great things about this country.”

Buffy had to struggle not to laugh out loud. What’s with all the ‘ode to America’ stuff? Not that she could argue it was working. There was also the amusement about the ‘so old and so young at the same time’ thing. From a vampire. From a vampire that looked to be in his late twenties, but was actually closer to his late one hundred and twenties. Ironic much?

Ida smiled, completely enchanted with Spike. “You know, we’re featured on California’s list of historical landmarks.”

“Impressive, mum. Not many can boast that honor, I wager.”

“Very true. And it’s more than just the age of the house, which is actually closer to one hundred and thirty years old, but because it’s in its original condition. There has been no structural renovation done, as is so often the case with houses as the passage of time takes its toll.”

Buffy was encouraged. It sounded like Ida was more than just casually informed on the house, so more in-depth information was well within the realm of possibility.

“Wow, Ida,” she said, trying to take back some small measure of control, not that she wasn’t duly impressed with Spike’s rather ingenuous ploy. “It sounds like you know a lot about the history of the Carr House.”

Ida chuckled merrily. “Oh, I should, dear. I am, after all, a Carr.”

Buffy and Spike exchanged a glance, sharing the thought that they just hit the mother load. That one quick look set the stage for the next round of information gathering – and Buffy slipped into the ‘dumber than she really is’ blonde routine.

Frowning prettily, as if trying to work out the logic, she questioned the older woman. “You’re a Carr? As in the Carr House? So…your not a Heggan?”

Reaching out and patting the young girl’s arm in a friendly gesture, Ida said, “I’m both, dear. Heggan is my married name, and in truth, Lockley is my maiden name, but my Great-grandmother was a Carr. I was raised in this house. After my parents died, my husband and I were left ownership. It seemed natural to make use of it. Lived in it until my husband and I decided to try our hand at inn keeping. Once the children moved out – I have three boys…all about your age – the house was too large for Fred and I. Fred is my husband, of course. Now we share a smaller cottage next door, though still on the Carr House grounds.”

Everything was going according to plan, better than the Slayer had even hoped. They had established a congenial rapport, information was flowing freely…if a little longwindedly…and Buffy was getting ready to ask another ‘I’m a little dim, could you clarify?’ question. Snags, though, have a tendency to pop up when least expected. Snags in the form of a family – father, mother, and small child of the sticky-faced, male, five-year-old variety – that came bundling and bungling down the stairs. Loud, laughing, playful, a couple in their early thirties held their son between them, carrying him as if he was doing some odd sort of impression of a dribbling, squealing airplane.

“Zachary!” Ida called to the giggling bundle of energy in his parents’ arms. “Look at you! You’re flying! Aren’t you the lucky one?”

It took all of three seconds. The contemporary businesswoman, chic and respectable, turned into a pseudo-grandmother, all earth-mother wisdom and ‘lives through the children’ exuberance. Buffy and Spike may as well have no longer been present, though they did get an introduction to Roxanne and Dylan Kaplan, visiting from Salt Lake City, Utah, with their already identified son, Zachary.

Now, just how well did you think that went over with the less than patient pair?

Dylan Kaplan, a walking advertisement for the self-made Internet-loving generation X’er, all Land’s End and Gucci, slapped Spike on the shoulder – once he’d set the wriggling mass of son down – in gregarious congeniality. Some kind of male bonding thing.

For the first time in longer than the vampire could remember, he was completely out of his depth and more interested in just munching on the whole lot of the noisy bunch than spending one more nanosecond in their company.

It was fortunate that a couple of parents with a precocious and hungry child had little time for pleasantries when the breakfast bells were tolling, because the three moved off to find some food after fifteen minutes of the mindless gab.

Which in Spike’s mind was about twenty minutes too late.

Especially as Ida’s next ten minutes were dedicated to informing Buffy and Spike all the known details of the Kaplan’s lives. By the time Ida had started to wind down and Buffy and Spike could finally get a word in, both of their patience levels had been stretched to the breaking point.

Without words, without even realizing they were doing it, the Slayer and the vampire leaned into each other, Spike wrapping his arms around Buffy and pulling her back against his chest. It was calming, and it saved both of them from going boom – but it was a near thing.

“So,” Ida had returned most of her attention to the paperwork in front of her, not that she thought the guests at the Carr House were distracting – but in her experience, paperwork knew no social necessities, “what do you two have planned for today?”

What a good question, Buffy thought. A little haunt bashing, a little making sure Spike and I don’t get dead, a little investigation into the mysterious spectral nasty. The usual. “No plans,” she said as she rested her head back against Spike’s chest. “We came here more for the resty time, less for the touristy time.”

Already lost to her work, Ida just nodded vaguely. “That’s good dear, I’m sure you’ll find your stay completely relaxing.”

Little late for any hope of that, Buffy thought, and the soft huff of derision she heard from Spike expressed his opinion quite plainly.

And the truth was, there just wasn’t time to ring around that rosy any more. Charming wasn’t cutting it. They needed information. Ida was the one that had it. No way she could live in the house as long as she had and not have it. Time for the Slayer to come out and play.

“Actually, Ida,” she started slowly. Spike heard the change in her tone of voice and tightened his grip on her in support of the ‘lets up it a notch’ plan. “There’s something about that relaxing thing I wanted to ask you about.”

Spike wasn’t the only one who caught the change in tone, and though she didn’t understand the reason behind it, it did pull Ida away from her ledgers. “Of course, dear. Anything I can help you with, I will. Ask away.”

“Who was Miranda?”

If Spike was surprised that the ‘up it a notch’ plan turned out to be more of a ‘lay it all out there’ plan, it was nothing compared to the reaction Ida Heggan had. She started as if she’d just touched a live wire, then paled considerably. Buffy stepped away from Spike and cocked her head at the obviously surprised woman, arms crossed and serious.

“I see we’re all on the same page. Good to know.”

Staring hard at Buffy, the innkeeper’s surprise turned quickly to offense. With her mouth set in a firm line – the first time the Slayer had seen her unsmiling – she motioned to the two of them to follow her and stepped from behind the desk. Briskly, efficiently, she crossed the hallway and disappeared into the room she’d come bustling out of the night before.

Spike and Buffy had little choice but to follow her.

It was a small office filled with filing cabinets and furniture, a desk, a lamp, a computer and computer desk…things like that. Ida was bent over the coffee machine, pouring herself a cup, her back to the door. When she turned with the mug in one shaking hand, she wasted no time cutting to the chase.

“Who do you work for?”

Frowning, a little thrown, Buffy glanced at Spike in confusion before saying anything. “I-I’m sorry?”

“Is it that ‘Scariest Places on Earth’ group? Did they send you here? I told you people that I wanted nothing to do with having this house turned into some kind of supernatural theme park. This is my home. My family home. And it’s my business. You’re money will be refunded for tonight’s stay. I want both of you to leave.”

Backpedaling quickly, trying to get control of the situation, Buffy was quick to reply. “Whoa. Wait. We’re not working for anybody, Mrs. Heggan. I promise you.”

“Really.” Ida was by no means swayed by Buffy’s attempt. “Then how do you know anything about Miranda?”

Buffy and Spike looked at each other for a long second before deciding to answer the question with the truth. More or less.

“We saw her, mum. Last night. Had a slight difference of opinion with her, so to speak.”

Glaring at them warily, sizing them up, Ida frowned. “If you’re suggesting that a woman who has been dead for over a century popped into your room and introduced herself, I think you’ve more than outstayed your welcome. Get out. Whoever you are, just leave.”

“Mrs. Heggan,” Buffy said, worried that things were getting totally messed up. “How would we know the name if we weren’t telling you the truth. Miranda is haunting this house. You have to trust us.”

Moving around the desk, setting her coffee cup down with enough force to slosh the liquid over the rim, Ida laid her hands on the tabletop and addressed both of them. “I don’t have to do anything of the sort, young lady, and let me tell you why. There are very few people who know Miranda’s story. I don’t care if you heard it and came here out of some morbid curiosity or were sent to research the house and her story for those dreadful television people. Either way, I want nothing to do with having you here.”

“Listen,” Buffy tried again, “I understand you’re skeptical, I do. But we are telling you the truth. And we can help you. We can get rid of her, I promise. But we need information from you first.”

Ida was indignant. She scoffed at the Slayer, “Help me get rid of her? You’re not serious. I don’t need your help and I have no desire to get rid of her. She’s my Great-great-aunt, for goodness sake. She’s family.”

Spike’s head reared back in surprise, a move closely matched by the Slayer’s. “You know,” he accused. “You know she’s here. In the house. You’ve always known.”

“Of course I know. I told you I’ve lived here most of my life. How could I not know?”

Sputtering, confused, Spike said, “So havin’ an evil nasty floatin’ around, terrifyin’ your visitors is what? The premium package? All’s right and proper because she’s family.”

“Excuse me,” Ida replied, the epitome of offended affront, “I will not have you referring to that poor woman in such a manner. She’s no more evil than you are.” Buffy shot Spike a look at that particular comment. A look that he pointedly ignored. “What’s more, she’s never terrified anyone. She exists in this house, yes, but she’s harmless. I don’t know where you got your information, Ken, but it is obviously flawed.”

Fed up, still agitated by everything that had been going on since he stepped into this nightmare of a house, furious, Spike stalked to the desk and spoke with deadly intensity through clenched teeth. “That’s it. I’m done playin’. First, the name’s Spike. Second, Buffy and I spent the better part of the evenin’ doin’ the bloody duck and cover from this thing – so don’t play that long-lost relative rot with us. Trust us or not, Auntie dearest has started a game she won’t get to finish.”

“Okay, enough.” Buffy turned to the vampire and laid a comforting hand on his arm. “This isn’t the way, Spike.” Glancing at the stricken expression on Ida’s face, she pushed him back a step and placed herself between him and the desk, right in front of the innkeeper. Speaking calmly, smoothly, she took control. “Ida, we don’t mean to trash your relative, but Spike’s right. Miranda is nowhere near harmless. She is dangerous – you have to trust us on this. I’m…” Buffy broke off, not sure how to explain without going into the ‘I’m the Vampire Slayer and I say so’ deal. Tact and discretion were needed.

“When I was fifteen, something happened to me. I was given a…calling…of sorts. This calling lets me see the world differently than most people. And I deal with things…things that other people can’t deal with. But because of that, those things – mostly not so nice things – have a way of finding me. Spike and I came here for a vacation away from that – but we’ve had that ‘nowhere to run, nowhere to hide’ lesson driven home. Really driven home.

“We’re not here to turn your house into the top draw on the Tour of Homes from Hell, and we don’t work for a television show. We came here for rest. We got Miranda instead.”

Falling silent, the only sound in the room was a low hum coming from the computer on the table. Buffy watched Ida for a reaction, waiting, hoping that what she said was enough to keep from getting tossed out on their collective ear. Finally, after what seemed like minutes, Ida sighed and sunk down into the leather chair behind her.

“She’s not evil. You’re wrong.”

Not exactly promising, but at least she wasn’t throwing them out…yet. Buffy walked around the desk and kneeled down next to Ida’s chair, looking up at her earnestly. “We need to know what you know, Ida. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we are wrong. But we need to know.”

Doubt and indecision marred Ida’s features, and for a long time she remained silent. Then, as if coming to an internal decision, she sighed deeply again and spoke. Her eyes were trained on her clasped hands lying on the table. “My grandmother would tell me about Miranda when I was a very little girl. Long before I knew she was still here. I remember thinking how romantic it was, but so sad. So tragic. I would pester her to hear it over and over, though I could have recited it verbatim.”

Ida met Buffy’s eyes and gave her a tentative smile. Spike leaned back against the doorframe, getting settled, impressed as hell with Buffy. Looked like she saved the day…again.

Leaning back against a filing cabinet, the Slayer got comfortable for what may be a long story. From across the room, she felt Spike staring at her and she met his gaze. Relief teased her mouth into a smile. His lone nod and wink were recognition of her accomplishment.

“Miranda was fifteen when she met Jacob Morgan. He was older, ten years older, but she fell in love with him and he with her. He was a good man, the son of a banker. The Morgans were one of the richest families in the area – mostly because of the business Jacob’s father William did during the California gold rush. Jacob himself was a simple man, a man of less exclusive tastes. Instead of going into banking and following his father’s dictates, he chose to become a minister. Once he’d been ordained, he chose Three Rivers to start his ministry. Miranda saw and fell in love with him at the church’s very first picnic.

The age difference was a problem for Jacob, though, and he tried to stay away from her. He didn’t think she was old enough to really know whom she loved, but Miranda was persistent. Finally, he couldn’t deny his love for her any longer. On her sixteenth birthday, Jacob asked her to marry him. I know that sounds young – but it was a different time, girls were women at sixteen. And true love, that kind of deep and abiding love, knows no age barrier. She said yes.”

Buffy could see the faraway look in Ida’s eyes as she told the story, and Buffy knew she was reliving fond memories of hearing the story from her grandmother when she was young.

“They were married for just over a year when Miranda gave birth to Nathan. Jacob was thrilled and so very, very happy. They both were. You can’t understand just how much that man loved his wife and son – it was a beautiful thing to see, according to my grandmother – as her mother, Miranda’s younger sister, told her. He would have moved mountains for them, died for them. There’s nothing he wouldn’t have done.

“When Nathan was eight, Jacob started building this house. He dedicated it to Miranda, named it the Carr House in her honor. But…” Ida frowned, lost in her memories. It was a story oft told at family gatherings, oft repeated between family members, but for Ida, it had never lost its power.

“Just days before they had planned to move into the Carr house, it happened. Jacob went to the church one morning to prepare a sermon for the next day’s service. He never came home. The next day his horse was found grazing by the road less than a mile from his house, scratched up and injured, but alive. They found Jacob’s body later that day, several yards from the road, just inside the nearby woods. It looked like an animal, probably a cougar that came down from the Rockies, had taken him.

“My grandmother told me that Miranda was never the same after they buried her husband. She moved into the Carr House with Nathan. There were too many memories for her in the house she’d shared with Jacob. It was too painful for her to stay there. She became withdrawn, staying in this house with only her son for company. There would be days – weeks that would go by without her family ever seeing her.

“It was a dark time for the whole town. In the year after Jacob’s death, several women and children were also taken – found days after they’d disappeared, all attacked by an animal, left just inside the woods. The town leaders were convinced they had a man-eater on the loose and put all of its admittedly limited resources into trying to find and destroy it. Nothing they did stopped the killing.”

Buffy was numb. Ida had been right; this was not a warm and fuzzy story. But it was worse for the Slayer, because Buffy had more than a sneaking suspicion about just what kind of creature was really responsible for the death of Jacob and the other people of the town. It was a predator, all right, but it wasn’t the four-legged kind. And she had a funny feeling that the story was going to get worse before it got better. If it ever got better.

“Nathan Morgan, Miranda’s son, was the twenty-third victim, almost exactly one year after his father’s death.”

Man, I hate it when I’m right, Buffy thought, a maelstrom of emotions churned painfully in her stomach. She didn’t need to look at Spike. There was no doubt in her mind that he was thinking exactly what she was thinking. A vampire had killed the townspeople.

“He’d stayed out late at a friend’s house – past dark, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to. He was always supposed to be in the house before the sun set. Miranda was extremely protective. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. Nathan was the only victim whose body was never found. His disappearance destroyed what was left of a once vibrant and happy woman.

“For a week they searched for Nathan, just about every man and boy over the age of ten that lived in Three Rivers searched for him. One morning, just before sunrise, my grandmother says, several members of the search team headed here to update Miranda on where they’d be looking that day. They found her on the front porch. Dead. The window in the living room had been broken in, and the same thing that killed her husband and son had apparently attacked her. Miranda was its last victim. They never found the animal that killed all those people and they never found Nathan. The killings stopped – they just…stopped.” Coming back to the present, the innkeeper studied the blonde couple in turn. “Those are the facts of Miranda’s story as I’ve been told, but the part that always struck me as the most poignant, is the legend.”

“Legend?” Buffy prompted, enthralled and aching for Miranda, despite herself. “What legend?”

“Well…its been said that when those five men from town crested the hill and saw the house, just warming up to greet the morning sun, that they saw Jacob Morgan standing on the porch, holding Miranda in his arms, facing east. They say they saw him sit down on the porch steps, never letting go of her. And they say, when the sun first bathed the house in all its glory, that he burst into flames and disappeared. When they got to the porch, all that was left was the body of Miranda, laid gently and with great care on the porches’ top step. Nothing but a pile of ashes next to her, around her, covering her. Perhaps the ashes of the husband that had been dead for just over a year, the husband that had loved his wife so much that upon her death, had left heaven to find her, to bring her home - for the final time.”

Spike was staring hard at Buffy, not liking the stricken expression on her face. He knew she was feeling sympathy for Miranda. He knew it. But he was a vampire. It was beyond his ability to feel sympathy for a woman dead over a century ago, a woman who had done what she had done to Buffy. To him. The haunt may have gotten the raw deal in life, but that didn’t mean Spike was going to stop trying to destroy her for what she’d done in death. He was just afraid that Buffy may no longer want to, might even try to stop him. Not that she could.

He wasn’t happy about it, though. Fear that the actions he knew he had to take would drive a rift – perhaps an unbridgeable rift – between him and the woman he loved had him grimacing and miserable. The haunt may have succeeded in doing something worse than killing him, and without even being here to do it. She may have just made him and the Slayer adversaries again.

And that royally pissed him off.

“Nice story,” he drawled sarcastically, “ ‘specially that legend part. It’s complete rot, but then, you know that.”

“What?” Ida was looking at him in confusion. She didn’t understand his demeanor, and looking at him, seeing a dangerous glint in his eyes, she felt a slight twinge of fear. Hostility was shimmering off him in waves; she could feel it. But she had no idea why he would be so hostile.

“Spike.” There was warning in Buffy’s voice and she frowned. She recognized that look, knew it spelled trouble. She needed to get him out of there, out of the office, before he did or said something that they would both regret.

“Oh, come on, mum. You have to know that last part’s a soddin’ fairy tale. Else we wouldn’t have the hauntin’ Auntie to deal with now, would we? Think ‘bout it. If hubby dropped down from the great beyond to take his chit home, she wouldn’t still be here.”

Speaking slowly, thinking about what Ken…Spike said, she conceded, “Well…no. I suppose you’re right about that.”

“Spike!” The warning became a demand, and Buffy got to her feet. She really didn’t like that look in his eyes, that look that told her he was about ready to put his fist through something.

He ignored her. Never took his eyes of Ida. Couldn’t look at Buffy’s face and see the disgust for his kind there. He wasn’t that strong. His heart was breaking and he just wasn’t strong enough. It was a familiar feeling.

“So why’s she still here, mum. Tell me. What’s that bint still doin’ here if her business was finished?”

The young man was across the room, but Ida felt pinned under the intensity in those feral blue eyes of his. Eyes that had been so clear earlier were now clouded with anger and…pain. None of it made any sense. Why would he have taken the story so personally? It just didn’t make any sense.

“I-I d-don’t know,” she stammered, “m-maybe she’s here because she never found her son.” As she thought about it, she became stronger in her convictions. “Miranda has appeared to several people – mostly family. She only appears in the south side of the house, in front of windows in any of the rooms she goes to. It’s like she’s standing, watching, staring out the window, a sorrowful expression on her face. Maybe she’s looking for her son. Waiting – still waiting – for him to come home from his friend’s house.”

Spike, enraged, pushed himself off the doorframe and stepped dangerously closer. Buffy was across the room in a heartbeat, not letting him go any further, shoving a Slayer-strength hand into his chest. She flipped her head around and flashed what she hoped would be a conciliatory smile at Ida. “Could you excuse us for a minute, Mrs. Heggan? I need to talk to Spike.”

She didn’t wait for the vague and surprised, “O-Of course.” Buffy yanked the mightily pissed off fiend out of the room before the damage became irreparable.

Dragging him across the hall, past the reservation desk, into the living room, she finally let go and whirled on him.

“What the hell is your problem?” she hissed, trying to keep her voice down low enough not to be overheard by everyone in the house. “Would you care to explain that rampage you were on in there?”

Sullen and aching, Spike didn’t meet her eyes. He turned away from her and paced off his excess energy. “Listen, Slayer,” he answered hotly, “I’m sure you’re all weepy and forgivin’ of that bitch and what she did to us now, but I’m still gettin’ rid of her. Let me save you from havin’ to do the ‘you’re a bad, bad man’ routine. I’m a monster; I know it. But I’m a monster that’s makin’ that bint pay for what she did to you. Don’t rightly care how bad she had it in life. Hate me, I’m used to that. Stake me, even. But get the hell out of this soddin’ house.”

Realization dawned, lightening Buffy’s expression and making her smile. He was scared. Spike was afraid that hearing Miranda’s story, how bad it was, would make her change her mind about taking the haunt down. And if she did, she’d be against Spike, enemies again, and he was terrified of that happening. He thought he’d lost her, that she wouldn’t love him anymore. That explained the defensive and prickly act in the other room. Geesh. Save me from insecure vampires, she thought, amused.

Still pacing, still not able to look at her without his heart breaking in two, Spike didn’t notice Buffy’s expression.

“Spike,” she said casually, “what part of ‘losing you would destroy me’ did you not understand?”

Stopping abruptly, his back to her, she watched as he swiveled his head around slowly, confusion and hope etched hauntingly on his face. His body followed his head and he faced her, looking into her love-filled face for the first time. It soothed him, chased away his temper. He loved Buffy so much, his chest hurt sometimes. Just looking at her made him happy. And he hadn’t lost her. He grinned at the knowledge that she loved him – still.

“Now, about Miranda – who we are so getting rid of. Sure, I feel bad about her life, but she’s dangerous. Besides, I still have that ‘whore’ score to settle with her. We are both thinking Jacob was a vampire, right?”

Long strides carried him back to her side and he dropped his mouth to her smiling lips. Her hands came up and wrapped themselves in his hair, pulling him down, deepening the kiss. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he lifted her off the ground a bit, hugging her strongly. When they finally broke apart, Buffy was panting and Spike’s eyes were gleaming again. With pleasure and relief.

“Spike.” Buffy frowned, thinking about what Ida had told them – about the legend. “Did you notice anything odd about Miranda’s story?”

Nuzzling her neck, he mumbled in her ear. “What do you mean, luv?”

“Well…Jacob gets turned. Got that. Spends a year feeding on the town. Got that. Finally kills his son and his wife. Got that – especially the wife part. Had a front row seat to that one, thanks to Slayer dreams – and that explains why he could get into the house, too. This was his house, he wouldn’t need an invitation. But why does he only feed on women and children? That strike you as unusual? This town would have been one long smorgasbord, so why only the women and children? And if you’re a vampire, large with a thirst for life – and blood – why did he dust himself after killing what was left of his mortal family?”

She pulled away from Spike slowly, her mind going a mile a minute. He watched her walk over to the large window in the room – the window that had been broken in almost a hundred and thirty years ago. Under her breath, lost in thought, she muttered, “What was she running from that night?”

That’s when it hit her. Like a ton of bricks it hit her. She remembered what Jacob had told Miranda when he crashed through the window. “Your own actions dictate the course I take,” he’d said. Then he didn’t just kill her; he punished her with death.

“Oh God.” The words were ripped from her throat in a hoarse whisper.

Spike heard her and panicked, but was held back from rushing to her side by the sun coming through the windows. Stuck in the shadows, cursing his helplessness, he called out to her. “What is it? Buffy? What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer him, couldn’t answer him. The thoughts in her head were too horrible to express. It couldn’t be…

“Buffy! Talk to me damn it!”

Backing away from the window, she stepped back into the shadows and he was on her in a minute. Holding her shaking body, he searched her face, confusion and worry gnawing at his stomach. She raised her eyes and he sucked in an unneeded breath at the dead expression in them.

“I think I was wrong, Spike. I don’t think you’re as one-of-a-kind as I thought you were. He loved her. Not just before he was turned – but after. He was a demon and he still loved her. Whatever she did…it was so horrible that he killed her for it. And I think I know what it was.”

Tears trickled down her face. She wasn’t sure how she could be so sure, but it was there – like a cancer that wouldn’t go away.

“She killed her own son. She killed Nathan.”

They had no warning. One minute they were standing, alone, in the quiet living room. The next, an explosion of sound was ripping through the house, shaking it on its foundation. Glass shattered, blown in by some unseen force, from every window on every floor. Buffy and Spike ducked down behind a couch to escape the deadly flying projectiles.

“You know nothing, whore!” The shrieking sound of inhuman fury came from behind them and Spike and Buffy spun around, still crouched behind the couch, prepared for anything.

Anything, that is, except what they saw.

Part Six

Occasionally, people see things that are so out of the ordinary – so bizarre or obscene or…wrong…that the mind doesn’t quite allow them to process what it is they’re seeing.

Sometimes that’s a blessing. Sometimes, just sometimes, it’s better not to be able to process the unbelievable. But the Slayer and the vampire were both, themselves, unbelievable. And they did unbelievable things. Fought unbelievable things. Dealt with the unspeakable, the horrible, the worst of the worst. They didn’t have the luxury of not being able to process what their eyes were telling them. Buffy, for one, wished she did.

Ida Heggan, the sweet and friendly innkeeper of the Carr House, hung inches off the floor, suspended in mid-air. The right side of her face dripped blood, her entire right side down to her waist was covered in lacerations, her trendy business suit a mess of sliced fabric. A few large, glass shards stuck grotesquely out of several wounds. Visible energy coursed over and through the matronly woman; flickering, hot energy that glowed angry and red, then vile and green. Hair, once professionally coiffed and neat, snapped and flipped and twisted as if alive, snakelike. Wide, brown eyes flashed insanity and crazed intent. A mouth known for smiles and kindness was twisted into a macabre but silent howl of unrestrained rage.

And she was no longer Ida. The haunt had come…with a vengeance.

Slayer and vampire had little time to react before a hostile hand shot up – palm out – and a ball of energy erupted from it with malevolent intent. An instinct for survival and the inherent speed of their reflexes were the only thing that saved them as they leapt over the back of the couch in complete synchronicity. Spike reached an arm out as he went, tipping the couch with them, giving them marginal protection from above as well as in front as they crouched behind it.

The ball of energy slammed into their barrier. Buffy and Spike flinched at the sound of cracking wood and ripping fabric.

“We can’t stay here,” Spike ground out, feeling the couch pushing into him with each blow it took.

Buffy, kneeling next to him, a hand up over her head supporting the back of the couch, rolled her eyes at the glaringly obvious statement, wincing each time she felt the couch giving under the weight of spectral fury.

“Infidels! Interlopers! Feel me! Feel my wrath!”

It was superhuman sound, unimaginably loud and completely beyond comprehension that it could issue forth from any human throat.

“Demon, can you feel it?! Do you and your whore have any idea of what I am capable?”

Buffy’s head snapped up and fire crackled in her eyes. “That’s it!” she shouted, startling Spike, who jerked his head around and glared at her. “That’s it. I’m done.”

“Buffy,” he hissed in warning, not liking her sound of voice at all, “you’re not think – ”

She didn’t give him a chance to finish. As soon as she felt another energy bolt plow into the couch, she used all her Slayer strength to push it up and away. She was so pissed, she’d put more into it than she’d intended and it flipped through the air – before crashing into the wall across the room.

Miranda, slightly surprised by the Slayer’s show of brute strength, paused her attack. Perhaps a tactical error, but the girl she’d thought as no more than a bug to be squashed under her booted heel stood and crossed her arms over her chest and glared at her defiantly – and absolutely without fear. It was…unexpected.

Buffy didn’t pause long. She charged, taking the haunt by complete surprise, and slammed her fist into Ida’s face. And it was Buffy’s turn to be completely surprised when it did nothing but bounce off ineffectually.

The haunt was unaffected.

Pinning Buffy with a superior smile, Miranda gathered her energy and flexed her fingers. Spike saw it and panicked. He bellowed in rage and fear and leapt into action, tackling Buffy and bringing her to the ground mere seconds before a blast of power slammed out of Ida’s body and hurtled towards them. It passed over Spike’s back with enough heat to smolder his leather duster.

His quick thinking and quicker actions had probably just saved the Slayer’s life, but it also drew the haunt’s attention to the original focus of her retribution.

He didn’t know quite what to think when he felt himself lifted off the Slayer. Buffy rolled to her back and sat up, thinking Spike had just gotten off of her, but her eyes flew wide when she saw him hurled into the wall next to the couch.

“Spike!”

The vampire landed with a thud and slumped to the floor, slightly dazed by the harsh impact. Before he could recover, before Buffy could do anything to help him, he was picked up in an invisible grip yet again and thrown to the other side of the living room.

He grunted in pain when he crashed into an end table and lamp with such force that they crumbled under the impact. A shard of debris sliced into his back and he gasped reflexively.

“MIRANDA!”

Ida’s body spun at the hail. The Slayer stood there, fierce and furious, with an antique floor lamp held in her hands like a staff.

“Leave. Him. Alone.” Buffy drew back to swing, but she was hit by what felt like a tree trunk and tossed out of the living room, crashing into the reservation desk fifteen feet away.

Spike was just barely conscious, his eyes heavy and sight blurry. Dazed and confused, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head to try to get a better look at what caught his attention. A little blue light pulsed just inches from his face. Something about it was familiar, but he just couldn’t get his mind to wrap around what it was.

There was no mistaking the fact that it appeared to be looking him over, however, and he could only hope that it wasn’t something keen on making him dusty. Somehow, he didn’t think it was.

Surprised when the little blue ball danced away from him, expanding as it went, his eyes followed it with vague curiosity as it floated over to the dangling body of the inhabited innkeeper. Her back was turned, she was focused on something over by the reservation desk but Spike couldn’t see what it was. As long as the bitch wasn’t tossing him about like a rag doll, he couldn’t really care what it was. He needed to get to Buffy.

Raising his head gently, he cased the room. She was nowhere to be seen. Not exactly comforting. He sat up gingerly, wincing at the sharp pain in his back, and could finally see what Miranda was so intent on. And he almost died again at what he saw.

Miranda’s arm was outstretched, her hand in a claw as if she was trying to wring the life out of the very air. Crumpled by the reservation desk, clutching her throat and turning a dangerous shade of red, was Buffy. Miranda was choking her. From several feet away she was choking the life out of her.

All thought of his own pain and little blue balls of energy fled on hellish wings.

Leaping to his feet, his game face surged forward and he snarled. “NO!”

Miranda’s head swung around, but she didn’t release her stranglehold on Buffy’s throat. In a glance she sized up the impotent vampire charging towards her and she flicked up her unoccupied hand, sending out the same kind of wall that held Buffy in place back in their room. Spike was stuck. He struggled against the invisible but indissoluble wall but could move no closer.

“Buffy! No!!”

One arched eyebrow raised as the haunt studied the fiend in front of her. “Tell me, vampire,” she rasped, “do you love her enough to sacrifice everything for her? Give up everything for her? Can you comprehend that kind of love? No. Of course you can’t. It’s not in you, is it? You are an abomination. Evil. That’s what you are. Have you deceived yourself into believing this…thing…between you can last? You would have killed her. It’s what you do. Just like he killed me. Of course, now you don’t have to. I’ll do it for you.”

The struggle was ferocious and feral and wild. Spike railed against his constraints, screaming Buffy’s name again and again, hearing the haunt’s words as little more than an irritating buzz in the back of his mind.

Buffy was dying. He could feel it. Hear it. In her faltering heartbeat and her wide, terrified eyes. He was watching the life ebb from her and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. His mind screamed against it, howled against having to lose her again. And again he had only himself to blame.

Spike didn’t see the blue energy slide into haunt’s line of sight. He didn’t notice Miranda’s attention shift away from him or hear her waspish tirade cut off abruptly. Nor was he witness to the coalescing form in that blue energy, or the look of fear that flashed across the haunt’s appropriated face.

The vampire was completely unaware that there was another battle being waged in that room, a battle of wills. There was nothing for him but Buffy’s dying form, several feet away. So close, yet miles and miles too far. He didn’t see two energies clash together, was oblivious to the sparks that snapped and crackled as a result.

All Spike knew was that he was suddenly free from the restraining wall of energy and he crashed into the floor at the suddenness of its release. Not that he stayed down for long. In a blink he’d rolled and leapt to his feet, charging to Buffy’s side. The relief in seeing her taking in a huge unrestricted lungful of air made him weak-kneed and he dropped to the floor by her side. Trembling violently, he pulled her up into a sitting position.

Buffy buried her head in his shoulder but he yanked her away to stare at her. He needed to have the reassurance of that glorious natural color of hers rushing back into her face. She pouted a little at being set away from him, but he lowered his head to plunder her mouth for a brief but powerful kiss, which in her oxygen-deprived brain was more than consolation.

He didn’t even realize that he still had his game face on. Buffy did. And she couldn’t have possibly cared less. When they finally pulled apart, Buffy ran a trembling hand across his ridged forehead, smiling slightly.

“Been a while since I’ve seen the ‘grrr’ look on you,” she said in a voice scratchy and dry from the abuse her throat had taken.

As soon as she said it, he remembered the reason he’d gone bumpy in the first place and he spun around, kneeling in front of her, ready to act as an undead shield to keep the haunt from doing any more damage to his girl.

He needn’t have bothered. All that was left of the haunt’s presence was the unconscious and supine body of Ida Heggan and the general destruction of the house itself. A hand on his shoulder made him jump, but it was only Buffy.

Only Buffy. He chuckled ruefully at that thought. Two words that should never be used in the same sentence, ‘only’ and ‘Buffy’.

“She’s gone, Spike. I saw…I don’t know what I saw, but she’s gone. I don’t think it’s for good, though.”

“No,” he drawled, shaking off his demon visage and turning back to her. “We don’t have that kinda luck, pet. No doubt ‘bout that.”

Feeling less lightheaded, Buffy got to her feet and stood on shaky legs, holding on to the reservation desk for support. “What the hell was that, anyway? Spike, she was so strong.”

Frowning, the vampire brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, feeling frustrated that he couldn’t provide any answers.

Buffy moved to Ida’s side, afraid of what she would find, but was relieved when a quick check revealed that she was still alive. “Check out the bathroom under the stairs. See if you can find any towels or anything. We need to stop this bleeding.”

Spike moved to do her bidding while Buffy gently removed the three shards of glass still embedded in Ida’s right arm. They weren’t too deep and didn’t bleed too badly when they were taken out.

Ducking his head back into the living room, the vampire called out to her. “Sorry, pet. No dice on the towels – I’m gonna check out the kitchen.”

She nodded in response, letting him know she heard him, but didn’t take her attention away from the fallen women. Thoughts were chasing around in her head, a huge, jumbled mass of them that made absolutely no sense. She felt like she was trying to put a puzzle together with several key pieces missing.

A dishtowel flew through the air and landed on Ida’s arm, startling Buffy enough to make her jump. Spinning around, she frowned at Spike.

“Don’t do that!”

Spike raised a brow and smirked. “Dinn’t realize you’d be so jumpy.”

“Yeah…well…oddly enough, I get a little jumpy when dead bitches almost choke the life out of me, right after they try to fry me into oblivion.”

Frowning at the memory of how close he came to losing her again, he bobbed his head in apology. “Think I may finally have an answer to one of those questions you asked, luv.”

Turning back to Ida, using the dishtowel Spike threw, as well as the one he handed her to stop the blood, she said, “Answers would be nice. What’d you find?”

“Judgin’ by what I saw in the dining room, that Kaplan lot we met earlier, two older birds, and what I’m assumin’ to be the cook, all unconscious – unhurt, mind, but sleepin’ like babes, all – I’d say Miranda decided to drain the batteries on the lot of them. Figure that’s how she juiced up her power, did what she did.”

“Great,” Buffy mumbled under her breath, “couldn’t have just gone with Duracell, could she?”

Once the towels were wrapped around the worst of Ida’s wounds and the blood had stopped flowing from the rest, Buffy leaned back on her haunches and shot a serious look at Spike.

“We need to get everyone out of the house, but I’m not leaving you in here alone.”

“Normally, I’d be offended by your lack of confidence in my abilities. Course, nothin’ normal about this bloody situation.” He raised his chin in her direction. “What’s on your mind, then.”

“We wake up the sleeping beauties, run the basic cover story – gas leak, small boomy thing blew out the windows, yadda yadda – you know, the usual. They can take Ida to her house; she said it was on the grounds. From there, they can get her to a hospital.”

“Are you out of your bleedin’ mind? That’ll never work. More holes in that story than a soddin’ block of Swiss.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “Spike. You remember your little raid on the high school way back when? Do you know what principal Snyder came up with as a cover story? Gang on PCP. Trust me, this’ll fly. I’ve had a lot of experience with the fact that people believe what they want to believe. Besides, it’ll work a lot better than ‘scary haunt is using you as a coppertop, run away, run away’.”

He smirked at the expression on her face and conceded her point.

Facing him, she saw something drop from his hand and she glanced at the floor next to his feet. “Damn.”

Following her gaze, curious at her frown, he noticed the small puddle of blood next to him. “Oh, bloody hell.”

“Spike, you’re hurt!”

“Yeah, looks like. Dinn’t even notice I was leakin’.”

Buffy got up and went to him, grabbing his hand carefully and looking at it. She didn’t see any cuts or wounds. “Take off your coat.”

“Can’t”

“What? Why?”

Spike turned his shoulders so Buffy could see his back. She gasped when she saw the eight-inch piece of wood embedded deep into the flesh just under his right shoulder blade. It was sticking out of him at an angle, holding his duster firmly in place.

“Oh my God, Spike, why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were a bit busy at the time, luv, what with bein’ choked to death and all…after that, I just forgot about it.”

Buffy threw up her hands, completely frustrated. “Who forgets a large block of wood stuck in their back? Are you trying to get dusty? Suicidal tendencies aside, I t