Chapter Text
Time for William the Bloody to dust.
Buffy watched the vampire warily as he circled her. The overhead lights bathed the warehouse’s interior in a sickly yellow that made him look like the corpse he was. No amount of black leather or eyeliner was going to change that. The cavernous building on the outskirts of Prague was defunct, the concrete floor empty. It was the perfect place for a showdown with a soulless monster.
Spike, as the creature called itself, looked crazed. His clothes were dirty and disheveled and she could smell the stale booze on him from here. It’d been a week since she’d put a stake in the chest of his paramour, the lunatic vampire Drusilla, and it appeared Spike did not like having been deprived of his favorite toy.
It was exciting to think how close she was to taking out the last remaining member of the Whirlwind. She’d even done it chronologically. First Darla, then Angelus—though he’d been a disappointment. He hadn’t put up much of a fight and had kept trying to talk to her—and now Drusilla. Spike would be her crowning glory.
“Fucking bint,” Spike snarled.
Buffy smiled. “Poor little vampire. Have you been having to spank the monkey yourself since I made your girlfriend fit in an ashtray?”
He roared at her, an angry, animalistic sound. “I loved her!”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “You boinked her.”
Spike’s voice dropped. “It’s too bad you’ll never get to know how sublime it is to love someone with all your being. How it makes your heart tremble and sing.”
Buffy frowned. Romantic love really wasn’t a Slayer thing, so no, probably not. But hey, vampire. He was just talking out his ass.
“What does a young thing like you know about shagging anyhow?” Spike’s entire demeanor changed. He stalked closer to her, his hips leading. It was obviously supposed to be sexy, but the effect was marred by the fact that he looked like hell.
She didn’t answer his question, though he’d probably be surprised. Not long after she’d been called she’d figured out that the way she liked to blow off steam was to pick up a guy at a bar, screw him senseless, and leave. Names weren’t important, just that they were tall, dark, and handsome. Hard muscles were very much appreciated. There usually weren’t enough words exchanged for personality to matter.
Spike lewdly cupped his groin. “Doubt you’d know the first thing about what to do with one of these.”
Was he seriously thinking that being gross was going to throw her off her game?
“Not one that small,” she responded, rolling her eyes.
Spike let out a bark of genuine laughter. “Feisty one, aren’t you?” He let go of himself and balled his fists. “I’m sure you’ll die same as the others.”
She tilted her head. “Try me.”
Spike closed the distance between them and the real fight started.
He was good, but so was she. He fought dirty, but so did she.
They traded blows, at first carefully as they felt each other out, and then exploding into sudden fury. Spike was relentless, a look of grim determination on his face. She fought just as hard. Kicking and punching, blocking and countering, with all considerable skill.
She tried to stake him, but he batted it away, sending the piece of wood flying off into a dark corner. She didn’t even pause, slamming her fist into his face and knocking him back.
Back and forth they went, neither able to get the upper hand, not until she backed up against one of the huge beams that held up the warehouse’s roof. She ducked a punch and he hit the beam instead, the metal ringing with the blow. Buffy went to duck under his arm and dance away, but her shirt caught on a bolt. It stopped her for only a second, but it was a second too long.
Spike’s entire body crashed into her, pinning her against the beam. She struggled but had no leverage to push him away. Her legs were restrained by his and her arms were trapped against his chest. His fangs were inches from her throat, but then his demon face disappeared.
“Got you,” he whispered in her ear. She could do nothing but pant and try to catch her breath.
His hand disappeared into his coat pocket and came back out with a switchblade. The noise of it opening was loud in the echoing vastness of the empty warehouse.
“What first? An eye? An ear?” He ran the flat of the blade over her cheek, grabbing her chin to keep her still when she tried to turn her face away from him. “Uh-uh, pet. Dealer’s choice.”
Buffy’s stopped trying to get away. She was dead. There was no sense of relief. She didn’t feel done, just sad that there were so many things she’d never done. The vamp’s words, about never knowing love, came back to haunt her. She didn’t even know if it was a regret. She didn’t seem built for love, but it hurt that another human being had never been happy to see her or wanted to spend time with her.
“I know.” A feral smile curved the corners of Spike’s mouth upwards. “How about a kiss?”
What?
She had time to draw in a startled breath before Spike’s hand jerked and slashed the switchblade across her mouth. Burning pain erupted and she could taste blood. In the next moment, Spike had sealed his lips to hers. His tongue lapped at the spilling blood and dove deep into her mouth.
Buffy was so stunned she couldn’t move. She was even more surprised when the knife tumbled from his hand and he threaded his fingers into her hair. A deep moan rumbled through his chest and his lips gentled.
The world wasn’t making sense.
Her own body, which had gone pliant and loose-limbed, wasn’t making sense. Without meaning to, her tongue moved and brushed against the vampire’s.
He groaned again, louder, and this time the lust that shot through her was unmistakable. She was awash in it.
Spike’s hold on her loosened and she raised her hands to his shoulders, abruptly aware of how wide they were and how powerful his thighs felt. She was melting against him. One of Spike’s long-fingered hands descended to grab and knead the cheek of her ass.
With a growl, he pulled her against him, grinding his obvious hard-on against her belly.
That woke her up. Her eyes, which she didn’t remember closing, flew open. What the heck was she doing? Arms now free, she braced herself and roughly pushed him off her.
Spike looked dazed, then pained, and, finally, fury clouded his features. “You…you…” he sputtered. Her blood was red on his lips. He wiped a hand across them, smearing the thick fluid across one cheek. “Slayer, mark my words,” he hissed. “You took Drusilla from me, and in return I’m going to make sure everything you care about burns.”
He turned and ran, quickly disappearing into the shadows.
Buffy, shaking, remained where she was for long minutes. She’d faced a lot of vampires, but one had never made her feel ashamed before. Finally, the cut to her mouth still burning, she was able to make her legs move. Her Watcher would be waiting for her report.
****
Four Months Later
The club, situated in the heart of London, was throbbing with techno and humanity. The bass felt like a second heartbeat in her chest. Buffy, dressed in her go-to little black dress, threaded her way through the crowd, drink in hand, and her eyes scanning the place’s interior. Technically, she wasn’t on duty at the moment, but she always made sure vamps knew to get out of her territory before she went on a different kind of hunt.
The cut Spike had given her had healed quickly, but had left behind a scar. She was eighteen, had been a Slayer for nearly three years, and this was the first injury to leave a permanent mark. No one knew why. The current theory was that the blade had been cursed, somehow, but Buffy couldn’t help but wonder if the vampire’s kiss had done something to her. Not that she’d told the Council about that part. She hadn’t wanted to explain it. Hadn’t wanted them to see the truth in her eyes that for a second, she’d kissed him back.
The scar wasn’t hideous, and it hadn’t affected her ability to find someone willing to have the kind of fun that made her forget everything for the night.
Not that she’d taken anyone up on the offer since returning to the Council’s headquarters from Prague. She’d told herself it was because she’d been training so intensely, her Watcher determined she wouldn’t lose to such “scum” again. She’d just been too tired to get horizontal with anyone. That was it.
Once her circuit of the thankfully vampire-free premises was complete, she turned her eyes to the men on offer. She cycled through what was available quickly. Not a bumper crop. She settled on a tall brunette standing beside the bar. His eyes were jumping from girl to girl and Buffy figured he was there for the same reason she was. He’d do. She had a horse to get back on, after all.
As she pushed through the crowd towards the bar her cell phone, tucked in her black clutch, started to vibrate. She ignored it. The only people who ever called her were from the Council, and it was her night off.
The vibrating paused, then started up again, but it was accompanied by a rising murmur from the crowd around her. She saw multiple people, eyes wide, talking on their phones.
Her phone was still for a moment, but then rang yet again. Something was wrong, very wrong.
Buffy rushed out of the club and pulled her phone out, flipped it open, and pushed the ‘talk’ button.
“Buffy.” It was her Watcher. “Return to headquarters now, there have been consequences from your failure.”
The line went dead.
****
The Watchers’ Council was housed in a large mansion with several walled-in gardens. Buffy hadn’t cared to explore them, but now she found herself cooling her heels in one—filled with two weeping willow trees and a myriad of different colored roses—while she waited to be called to task. It had to be something bad. Really bad.
Eventually, a set of French doors opened and her Watcher, a spindly man with a pinched face, gestured that she should enter. Buffy was glad she’d changed from her dress into a serviceable shirt, pair of pants, and set of thick-soled boots. Her hair was braided down her back and she’d scrubbed her face clean of makeup.
She marched inside and stopped, arms crossed, in front of Mr. Travers. The room was as reserved and stuffy as the man seated behind the mahogany monstrosity of a thing he called a desk.
“Miss Summers,” he said, face stern. “I had thought your failure to end the existence of William the Bloody was nothing but your own personal shame. A black mark on an otherwise sterling record. However, it now appears that by your dereliction of duty, you have damned us all.”
“Excuse me?” she said quietly, her heart thudding.
Mr. Travers leaned back and steepled his fingers as her Watcher picked up a TV remote and clicked on a television that sat on a bookshelf. It was tuned to a news station. The image was that of a shopping mall in Atlanta, which flames were consuming. It took her a minute to read the caption. ‘Thousands feared dead’.
Buffy gasped. “They couldn’t get out?”
“The fire was secondary,” Mr. Travers said, nodding at her Watcher, who clicked off the TV. “Your missed target has assembled the Judge, a demon who is capable of killing many humans very quickly. The mall was a trial run.”
Buffy put her hand over her mouth, feeling ill. Spike had promised he’d watch what she cared for burn. She hadn’t understood he’d meant the entire world.
Damn him.
Damn him and his mouth.
“Send me now,” she said, her voice low and harsh. This time she’d wipe that stupid smirk right off his face.
“No,” Travers replied.
“No?”
“It’s too late.”
“So we’re going to allow an entire planet worth of people to die?” she asked, horrified. “We can’t just give up! I can kill him. I know I can.”
“I do hope so, Miss Summers. But it’s entirely too late. All hope is not lost, however.” He paused and studied her, making her squirm. She rubbed a hand over her stomach as nausea made it churn. When Travers spoke again, he sounded very weary. “There is an artifact in the Council’s possession. It allows for an individual to travel back in time. It is good for one use, and will both send the person and retrieve them. It’s not exact, but should suit our purposes well enough.”
Buffy had no doubt who’d they be sending back. “Am I going to be sent back to fix my mistake?” She propped a hip against Travers’ desk and he sent a disapproving glare her way.
“No, Miss Summers. Such a rare item is not going to be wasted on fixing one stupid girl’s error.”
She winced and looked down at the toes of her boots.
Her Watcher spoke up when Mr. Travers didn’t continue. “You are being sent back to the year of William the Bloody’s siring. You will infiltrate his household, posing as a companion for his ill mother. She placed an ad in several London newspapers that appear to have originally gone unanswered. You will monitor William and as soon as he is turned, you will dust him. Once it becomes clear he will not be murdering his century-worth of victims, the artifact will return you to the present. Should you fail, you will become stuck in the past.”
Buffy’s mind was whirling. “What year?”
“1880,” Mr. Travers said. “You will have several weeks’ worth of lessons here to help you function in the past, along with suitable clothing and some money.”
Buffy pushed herself off the edge of the desk and began pacing. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
“I don’t remember asking if you were volunteering.” The wooden chair Mr. Travers was sitting in creaked as he shifted his weight.
She took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Should all go right, you will return to this time with only moments having passed.”
Buffy glanced at an ornate little clock that was sitting beside several books on a table by the door. The second hand was ticking merrily away. She hadn’t thought a lot about time before, because every minute of a Slayer’s life felt like it was stolen. Or maybe just borrowed. Whatever. Her life was not her own.
“You will have to be exceeding wary of William. All our records indicate that he was a street thug before becoming a vampire. His mother may not be aware of his less savory activities and associations. Guard yourself well, Miss Summers.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said flatly. “I know what I need to do.”
“Good. Your lessons will start at six tomorrow morning.” Mr. Travers rapped his knuckles on the top of his desk. “Dismissed.”
Buffy huffed and stomped out the door, but her hip bumped a small table as she walked past it. A book toppled to the ground.
Seriously.
She bent over and grabbed it. The Collected Poems of John Keats.
Buffy snorted and dropped the book back on the table with a thump. Poetry. Who liked freaking poetry?