__One Long Night__
By B'cat



Rupert Giles paced slowly around the magic shop deep in thought. In one hand he held a thick text concerning the Realms of Magicks in Matters of the Undead. In the other he rubbed a thumb over the smoothed rune stone tucked into his palm. He came to a halt in front of the book stacks once again. Behind him Xander and Anya were still staring morosely at the books he had given them.

He could not understand why he was unable to feel his way to the answer to Spike’s unusual behaviour. He squinted sharply at his vast and comprehensive literary cache. The hues and vibrations that he had magicked into his precious private collection of books were vibrant and pleasing to his senses. They covered and clung to the tomes in pockets of mist and cloud. Beautiful. Ethereal. Richly coloured and textured. And absolutely useless.

Ever since they had entered the shop tonight he had kept on glancing over at the book shelves hoping to see some discolouration, some blemish, that would taste dark and sour and guide him onto the correct path. The magicks had always given him an edge before. When ordinary research failed they always guided him truly, but this time they were letting him down.

“Reveal.” He murmured too low for Xander and Anya to hear him. The mists rippled before his eyes. They swirled around their tomes, writhing and searching as he had bidden them. Then, one after the other they gently settled around their books and were still. Beautiful as jewels once again, but as useless and deceptive as glass diamonds.

“Blast!” He said out loud as he snapped shut the book he held. He flicked off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I take it that that grandma cuss indicates no luck in the stacks?” Xander commented very unhelpfully. “You know you really should put some more thought into your swearing Giles. Something post world war two for a start... May be what the fu-?”

“Yes, thankyou Xander!” He cut the younger man off, turning to look at him. “And you are correct, unfortunately, there is nothing here.” He consented. Despite the banter the young man was radiating frustration, and his normally pale white aura was rippling with the stain of his dislike of book learnin’.

Anya had dropped any and all pretense of staring at her book and was staring instead at the lucky rabbit’s foot Xander had bought her a few days ago. It lay on the table in front of her. After she had fainted in front of the pet store last week Xander had decided that enough was enough. She had to learn that fluffy bunnies from this dimension were harmless. Becoming used to a piece of dead rabbit was her first test, but so far she had failed even to touch it. Her odd green aura was brighter than normal too. Probably terror. “You?”

“Zip.” Xander slapped the book shut and sat back in his chair. “An’?” He touched her back. She screamed. Both men jumped.

“Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?” She demanded eyes wide as saucers. Her hands flew to her face, framing stark heart pounding panic.

“Whoa, An.” He reached around her and grabbed the foot, tucking it into his pocket. “I think that’s enough familiarizing for tonight.”

“Anything?” Giles asked the hyperventilating young woman. “Anya! Did you find anything useful?”

“Ah, no.” She finally snapped out of it and grabbed onto Xander’s shirtsleeve. The boy reached over and hugged the ex-demon and Giles thought he heard her mumble something about orgasms, Buffalo Bill and the Magic Box store room, followed by the words ‘right now!’. Xander’s pale tainted aura suddenly glowed pure white-gold. Giles sighed. This was getting them precisely nowhere. He had to be missing something -

“Giles!” The shop door suddenly crashed open and the two wicca hurtled through it panting and clutching their sides. “GILES!”

“What!?” He said, alarmed. “What’s happened? Where’s Buffy?”

“Oh!” Willow panted, her aura flickering and sputtering rainbow colours. “Oh, Buffy’s fine. We left her watching Spike.”

“And is it magic?”

“Oh yeah.” Willow nodded vigorously. “Powerful. Spike is drenched in it. We tracked it to the lower level of the crypt.”

“And?” Giles stepped forward, eager. Though he was unable to see it, he was sure his own aura was doing that gold sparkly thing Annie had described to him so long ago. “Were you able to discern its intent?”

“Er, no.” Tara glanced at Willow. The newest human member of their little group was nervous and the agitation was sending irregular shivers through her midnight blue aura. “Its really powerful, really really powerful. We were kinda hoping for some back up to check it out.”

“Yeah,” Willow gasped out. “Like, right now.”

“Right.” Giles nodded and pocketed his rune stone. It settled irritably into his pants pocket, annoyed at being sidelined. He could feel it moving about in tiny agitated jumps. “Tell me everything that happened whilst I gather some items.”

Giles was still no closer to the truth of the matter by the end of their story than before they had told it. Incredible. If only it wasn’t so potentially dangerous he would have loved to study it, slowly and with hugely satisfying attention to detail. But, like most unusual magicked happenings on a Hellmouth the fist seemed destined to come before the quill once again. He sighed.

* * * * *

Spike was feeling mean. Bad, nasty and mean. He had not managed to find anymore clothes and all his hair gel was gone. They were low down bastards is what they were. He stuck his head under a gushing storm drain outlet and tried to wash the crap out of his hair. The water was cold, hurting his scalp and running down the remains of his shirt and duster. It just wasn’t cricket stealing a bloke’s intimates like that. It was kinky. It was unnatural. It was something he would do.

He scrubbed at his hair. “Shit!” His head really hurt. In fact, he was beginning to hurt all over. Deep achy hurt. Bloody Slayer beating on him like that. He was also hungry. Very hungry. He needed some of the good stuff: top shelf O-neg with a shot of something brain damaging. Yeah. Best preventative for a hangover was never to sober up.

He pulled out of the frigid waterfall and shook like a dog. Water sprayed the sewer walls.

He wiped the wet curls back trying to press them to his scalp. They wouldn’t stay without gel. Bloody thieves! Bloody bastard thieving knuckle-dragging mouth-breathing cretinous... Rrrrrr.

Anger boiling Spike set off down the sewer tunnels at a fast dangerous pace. He felt, heard, saw and smelt his undead bretheren scattering into side tunnels, into disturbed earth and even out of the access grates to avoid him. They felt his anger. The rage of a master vampire, a lord of the underworld, destroyer of two slayers and grandchild of the Scourge of Europe. They took one look at his game face, caught one gleam of yellowed eye and knew to keep clear. That was respect. That was how it should be. It did good things to his self-esteem to get a taste of such awe occasionally. Nothing like a bit of fearful respect in a being. Not like the bloody Slayer. Not the goddamn high and mighty Slayer. Bitch. How could it hurt to give him a little bit of the white of an eye, a little tremble, even a little “Ooh!” occasionally, especially since he couldn’t hunt and feast anymore.

Bitch.

He stormed through the sewers heading straight for the closest source of blood. Well, the closest that didn’t require money. Damn! This is what he was reduced to: thinking thoughts of lawful currency and stealing from a bloody pub. The Plunderer of China reduced to thieving like the Artful bloody Dodger! His growl rolled around the curved brick work ceiling like thunder.

* * * * *

“Buffy!” She heard Giles calling out to her as he and the rest of the Scooby gang jogged down the ghostly boulevard. She rose from her watchful crouch by the crypt door and waited for them. Without a word she led them back into the crypt. Back to the crime scene that was called Spike. Asshole.

Except that he wasn’t there.

“Where’d he go?” Willow asked, very unnecessarily, as they spread out into the broken up tomb. Shit! Buffy sprinted over to his coffin and then headed for the ladder. Her face was flaming with embarrassment.

“Wow - look at this place!” From Xander.

“Buffy wait!” She was one leap away from dealing with the Evil Dead when Giles’ voice stopped her, almost mid jump. Damn, how did he do that? “Don’t, he’ll be long gone and we have more pressing matters.”

“Such as?” She demanded, almost unable to raise her eyes to his with the shame of her lapse. To her relief her watcher was not staring disapprovingly at her but was setting a large black bag down on the bloodied floor. Willow and Tara, without being asked, started clearing a circle large enough for a queen sized bed. Xander was still in major freak out mode and Anya was clinging to him like a limpet.

“Such as determining the nature of this magic for one.” Giles said.

“You and the gang can do that. I’m the Slayer, I should go slay, now, while the trail is still fresh.”

“And what happens if you run into Spike in the same state as he was before? What happens if this .... condition, has spread beyond Spike and infected others?”

“Then I’ll slay more than one vamp.” She pulled her stake out of her back pocket.

“Buffy- if I am not mistaken by the frenzied tale I was told earlier, Spike almost notched up three slayers for three tonight.”

“He got lucky.” She offered. Her watcher looked over his glasses and pursed his lips in that irritating way he had when he knew he was right. It was no good, she couldn’t even convince herself now. Damn he was good. She reholstered her stake and folded her arms. Bugger. Oh no, did I say bugger? Oh hell I said it again. Fucking Spike! I am so going to dust his pointy ass.

“Right then.” Giles nodded at her as he knelt down with his bag. “Now Buffy, what did Spike say about his little, er, act? Exactly, what did he say?”

“Oh, right, well. He said that he didn’t remember anything after the poker game last Friday. I got the impression that he thought today was Saturday and that everything else was some kind of weird vampire lust dream.”

“Hmm, memory distortion along with a severe disruption in behaviour patterns?”

“Is that significant?” Buffy asked.

“I’d says so.” Giles pulled a small cauldron from the bag. Then a belt of pouches. “If it wasn’t for the distinct presence of magic I would be inclined to say it sounds like a case of possession, maybe a psychotic break, but, well....”

“Can vampires be possessed?” Tara asked, pausing in her cleaning. Buffy thought immediately of Angelus and his possession by the dead high school boy.

“Yes!” Everyone spoke at the same time.

“So, its back to square one then?” Buffy said.

“I’m afraid so.” Giles pulled out a set of crystals and some things that looked a lot like incense sticks. “Willow, you tried the Seeker of Sargos incantation is that correct? What did-”

And she was tuning him out. She blew out her cheeks and started, unconsciously, to weave a protective perimeter around her watcher and friends. Her feet never failed to find the steadiest pieces of rubble and never strayed into a sticky congealed pool of blood. Slayer enhancements, there was nothing like them for maintaining a low laundry bill. She sighed. Dammit! This was no good. No good. She should be out slaying. Or at least out vamp chasing.

She side stepped a pile of T.V. parts and nimbly jumped over a broken wooden beam (where did that come from in a stone tomb?). Rubble. T.V. part. Coffin lid. Traffic pylon (!!!). She completed the circle and peered down the ladder. Blood bag. Hello, what was this? Without thinking she dropped back into the lower level and squatted down to poke at the opened half full bag. How did she miss this before? Not like Spike to leave any leftovers, he was a strict clean-your-plate man. Damn, I hate that I know that.... She leaned in a little closer and sniffed to assess its age.

Immediately she felt dizzy, almost nauseated. But she also felt good. Very good. Alive. That odour, it was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Not even Xander strength coffee gave her a buzz like that. She sniffed at it again. Woooo!

Power flickered like a rain shower through her body, strength poured into her limbs and the hair stood up on her arms. Her heart started to race. Pleasure/pain flared and grew in her belly and the world felt sharp and clear for the first time since she had been summoned to slaying. She felt good. Very good.

And she wanted something to slay.

Like right now.

Her palms itched. Filling one of her hands with her stake was good but the empty one clawed the air, searching for undead flesh to rend. It had been so long since she had had the blood of dead things under her nails, not just on her stake. Her eyes flashed; nostrils flared. The memory of a time long ago when slaying had been simple and bloody exploded into her consciousness. She remembered. Back when she had the death wails of demons in her ears and the immortal dust of vampires in her nostrils. When she had prowled through the night tracking, hunting, slaying and leaving horror in her wake. When her name had been Death.

She shot to her feet, stake raised to strike. The sweet stink of vampire was in the air. Yes! There was one not long left this place.

Prey.

Prey.

Prey.

What the hell?! Buffy blinked suddenly and the world deflated back into dull mortal hues. The urgent pleasure of the Slay dissolved and with it clarity returned. What the hell just happened? She looked down. Damn - the blood! She hastily stepped back. The innocent looking liquid shone a brilliant red in the weak light. Beautiful colour.

Really beautiful....

Then she was approaching it again. Crouching over it, eyes pinned on the rich scarlet. She reached out and touched the surface. The warm liquid seemed to rise to meet her finger tips, pulling on her skin, seeking to drag her in. Immediately the vibrancy of the Slay reignited and thrilled through her fingers, hand, arm, body. Her heart fluttered. Her senses flared and grew sharp. Just to touch it was almost overwhelming. What if she-

And she raised one wet finger to her lips.

“Buffy! What are you doing?!”

Sweet. It tasted sweet. Like power. Like frenzy. Like fire and ice. Like the power of the Slay, distilled and purified an infinite number of times.

“BUFFY!” Hands grabbed her around the biceps and for a moment she was propelled backwards away from the liquid heaven. Then she was recovering. One twist and the hands on her arms were wrenched free and she was springing backward to regroup. She landed on the bed, stake drawn. She growled.

Then she attacked.

The fragile mortal frame collapsed like a house of cards as she struck it, full body impact. Hard and fast. She followed it down, clinging to it like a lioness on a wildebeest. It howled pitifully and the weak noise barely made an impact on the world. Pathetic. She bared her fangs in a predatory smile. There was a wild cat inside her skin and it was roaring and demanding succour. Bite into the throat and suffocate the mortal snuff like the big cat would. Rip and tear. It would take only a moment and then the hunt could begin. The Slay. Yes. The fresh scent of vampire was still hanging sweetly in the air.

One bite and it would be done.

“BUFFY! SLAYER!” A new voice. Mortal and yet not. It cut through the air like lightening and pain exploded behind her eyes. She shrieked throwing herself backwards off the Prey and back onto the bed. It hurt. Like spikes inside her head. Make it go away.

Attack it, drive it away.

She gathered herself to spring and launched once again from the bed to slaughter this unnatural mortal that had dared to attack the Slayer. The new comer rushed up to meet her attack, charging with intent. Did it want to Dance? Could it Dance? The thrill of challenge rippled through her.

And then they crashed together and they were going down. She grabbed at its neck. Its flesh was unnaturally warm under her claws and she could smell the blood pulsing just a rip and tear away. The scent of the Slay. Glorious Slay. She inhaled, eyes half closed. Dreamy.

A familiar scent filled her nostrils and suddenly she was wide awake. It reeked of something... It smelt like another Slayer! She froze, stunned and confused. Can’t be, can’t be, can’t be. And yet it was. Under the dull musk of mortal flesh this one’s shadow was washed through with the power and thrill of the Slay. Another like her.

She sat up on its chest in utter confusion her hands fluttering indecisively over the delicate throat. Kill, no, kill, no, kill, no. Her thoughts grew twisted, complicated. She should kill. No, can’t kill. Slay! No! Frustration grew, swelling into a knot inside her chest. The pressure grew with it. Greater. Greater. Her head throbbed and her guts ached. KILL! NO!

Then the world seemed to implode. The super-sensory world of the Slay collapsed, rushing into her blackhole soul, and the dull flavourless mortal realm was pouring in to replace it. A tsunami of perception carried her away to drown. It swamped the colour, the scent, the ecstacy. Then it swallowed even the confusion and she felt the strength drain from her limbs. Her hands dropped to her sides.

“Buffy?” A familiar voice called out to her. Sharp like a knife. It penetrated the fog and she looked down at it.

“GILES!” She leaped to her feet and backed away. Oh my god! Her watcher lay on his back in the messed up pile of empty blood bags, staring up at her. His glasses were gone and there was blood on his neck. She looked down at her hands. Red was smudged over her fingers, under her nails. Oh, god. She’d injured her watcher. She’d tried to kill her watcher. Oh god. Oh god. OH GOD! “Buffy - ?” Giles was saying carefully, voice hoarse, like he was trying to talk down a jumper. He hoisted himself stiffly to his feet. One hand unconsciously touched the wounds on his throat.

“NO!” She pushed into the corner. I just tried to kill my watcher! “Don’t come near me. Don’t!” Her voice sounded shrill in her ears.

“Xander!” Buffy whipped around to see Anya scrambling down the ladder and rushing over to the limp body of her boyfriend. The Slayer felt her knees give out and she sank down onto the cold dirty stone floor. Xander... Oh god, could it get worse? The shock, the guilt, the terror, cut through her chest, pierced her heart and speared her to the spot.

Horror...

Horror...

* * * * *

“Xander! Speak to me! Say something honey.” The boy’s aura was dull, transparent. Anya grasped one of Xander’s large hands in both of hers and peered into his face. “XANDER?” “Ooerrghhh.” The young man said obligingly, and Giles could see the dulled white glow surrounding him flare into brilliance once again. He sighed, relieved. Now -

“Buffy?” His Slayer was sitting against the wall, arms locked around her knees, staring blank faced at Xander. His Slayer... At least he could say that now and mean it. What he had wrestled with a moment ago had not been his Slayer. Hadn’t been anyone’s Slayer. It certainly had not been Buffy Summers. Her normally vibrant light blue aura had been streaked with black/red and pulsing with unnatural power. Now it was fluttering, transparent in places, but once again that clear and clean blue. “Buffy?” He edged closer, closer. No reaction. He stepped close enough to kneel in front of her and block her view of the couple across the room. He reached out a hand and grasped both of hers where they overlapped across her knees. She flinched but his grip held firm. “Look at me.” He commanded using his ‘Watcher’ voice.

She did, with an involuntary snap of the head, and he flinched himself at the haunted, hollow fear that he saw there. They looked at each other for a long moment and then there were tears in her eyes and she was launching herself into his arms. He grabbed, teetered on his haunches, and held firm. “I’m so sorry Giles. I don’t know what happened. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Hush.” Giles admonished gently, not minding that he could feel his ribs creaking under the Slayer strong grip.

“Can you hear me honey?” Anya said behind him. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Anya?” Xander, voice weak and small but clear.

“No, that’s my name. Your name is Xander, Xan-der.”

Giles heard the exchange and grinned into the top of his Slayer’s head feeling a ridiculous urge to laugh. Reaction to the situation he knew, but still... Everything was ok. Everyone was alive and not seriously harmed. Not least Buffy herself. Holding her he was suffused in her pale opal blue glow, it coloured his vision as he looked through it at Spike’s very unvampiric bed (hmmm, Spike has a book shelf. Odd. What was a vampire doing reading Seneca?). He waited until the aura’s strength began to return before moving.

Reluctantly Giles gently disengaged Buffy’s super-normal grip and pushed her back a little to look into her face. The blind terror was gone but the guilt that was there would linger for a while. He smiled a small reassuring smile.

“What just happened?” He asked after a moment. He did not release her arms from his grip. She was more than capable of breaking his hold if she wanted to, but he didn’t think she would.

“I don’t know.” There were unshed tears in her voice and the sound cut at him like a rusty blade. “I was looking around upstairs and then I spotted something down here. I came down and then... Then...” She grimaced, trying to remember. When she relaxed her face Giles thought she was going to cry finally, but she did not and he felt a glow of pride. “I don’t know! It was like a dream, a nightmare. I couldn’t wake up. I don’t know what happened.”

“I do.” It was Xander and Giles swivelled to look at him. He was sitting up, hand wrapped around his throat. He looked a little wild, a little pale. Understandable under the circumstances. He was also eyeing Buffy with undisguised shock and betrayal. Tara and Willow were peering into the lower crypt from the access hole, wide eyed. Giles did not release Buffy. “I saw her with the blood.”

“The what?” Giles demanded. He felt Buffy flinch.

“There.” Xander released his throat long enough to reveal deep red and blue marks and to point at the bag across the floor. Amazingly, it had not been spilled during the melee. Giles let go of Buffy and launched himself back onto his feet. His knees cracked and he felt a little light-headed. Getting old Rupert old boy. “I came down to see what Buffy was up to and saw her kneeling down next to the blood. Then I saw her ..... Taste it.”

“WHAT!” Giles barked, stopping dead. He whirled to face his Slayer. The girl had dropped back into her knee hugging position and, if possible, was even more pale than before. Her eyes were wide and ringed in darkness. Her aura flickered and pulsed in and out of his vision. “Buffy, what on earth possessed you to do such a thing?!” Mutely she shook her head.

“And then it was all - kill, kill, kill - friend Xander. I had no idea she was that strong. Not really...” He trailed off to himself. Anya rubbed his back and sent withering looks across to Buffy. “Kinda reminded me of Spike.” Giles looked piercingly at the boy.

“In what sense: reminded you of Spike?”

“In the literal. I mean, the way he was when we first ran into him tonight. All Grrrr and kill.”

Giles did not reply. He looked at the innocuous looking bag of blood and gingerly approached it. He felt out with all six senses but nothing registered. It was just blood despite the unidentifiable throbbing magic that filled the room. Maybe... But it couldn’t be, after all somehow the Slayer had been compelled to taste it. He shuddered, what would have happened had she not been discovered before she had consumed it all?

It had to be some sort of bewitchment. Some sort of Siren. If only he could sense it.

He paused, thinking hard.

Maybe it worked on proximity? He reached into his pocket and chased the little rune stone around. Withdrawing it he held it out in front of him in a fist and resumed inching closer. Six feet. Nothing. Four feet. Nothing. He could have heard a pin drop in the lower crypt. Everyone was holding their breaths. Three feet. Something? He frowned. The stone seemed to vibrate a little. If he wasn’t imagining it. Two feet. There. That was something. He had to grip tighter, feeling the stone start to wriggle. It was trying to escape. It tugged his hand in the direction of the bag. The pull was strong, as strong as he had ever felt from this little charm.

What are you telling me? He asked the rune. What’s happening to you?

Suddenly the little stone jerked in his grasp. Hard. He fell forward, but caught himself in time, or, he would have if the floor underfoot had not been covered in Spike’s slippery used blood bags. His feet flew out from under him and he was pulled forward. HELL! Behind him he heard the chorus of “Look out”s and “GILES!”s. Then his knees hit the ground. He arched backwards, not releasing the stone, trying to pull away from falling face first into the blood. He was falling.

Too late.

Suddenly he was jerked backwards. A small strong hand had grabbed his belt and was trying to haul him backwards. Helpless, he was, for a moment, caught between the bag and his Slayer. Then Buffy was winning. Just in time too. His top half was toppling forward despite his best efforts. His free hand slapped down on the stone floor; the other was desperately straining to keep the little charm away from the blood. He couldn’t lose the little stone.

My GOD! The blood in the bag was doming. Rising up and out, reaching for his closed fist. The odour of magic, and something much more powerful, erupted out of it like a volcano. He choked on it. Desperately he twisted his head to the side, squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath.

Hurry Buffy!

He felt himself being dragged backwards faster now. Thank god. He opened his eyes again and turned to look at the blood. If he had thought he was safe, he was wrong. The blood was still rising, arcing now to follow his fist as it withdrew. He squeezed his eyes shut in dismay. Then it touched his knuckles. Hot and cold, wet and dry. Like the touch of fever.

It was a narcotic-like rush. The kind he and Ethan had cooked up in the kitchen of his London squat, only they had done it in a cauldron, using magical ingredients rather than earthly. They had discovered early on that to get a real rush it was best to head straight to the supernormal; the more exotic the better. They had even tried dragon’s blood once. It had been worth the trip to emergency - or so he had thought at the time.

This was like that, only more so. He felt the rush rising inside him, touching something primal, something quiescent deep inside. His senses flared and expanded almost painfully until he was aware of everything in existence within the crypt. So clear. So bright. So intense.

And he felt the call of the Slay. It was more powerful and more insistent than he had ever felt in his life. It was incredible. The best high he had ever had. Ecstasy blossomed deep inside. It filled his soul.

He wanted his Slayer.

He wanted something to Slay.

He wanted it NOW!

Opening his eyes he sniffed the air. The dismal stink of inconsequential mortal flesh assaulted his senses, but beyond that there was his Slayer. Yes. She was looking down at him. And there was the stink of vampire. Fading a little now, but it was still trackable. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Prey.

Prey.

“GILES!” It was the Slayer. He sat up with a start. Slayer. Hunt. Track. Slay. Like it should be. Side by side, back to back, facing down the immortals. The demons. The strange creatures that crept and crawled in the bowels of the earth. The nameless horrors from the infinite hell dimensions. Fighting. Killing. Killing.

Licking the black blood from his claws.

Howling with delight as the undead flesh exploded into dust and the demon blood ran like a river under his hands.

Like he remembered. When Ripper was free and he was going to hell as fast as he could run there. The thrill made his skin tingle and he shuddered.

“GILES - SNAP OUT OF IT!” And his Slayer grabbed his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. An explosion of ecstasy from the contact burnt into his flesh. He looked at her and grinned. Her aura was so blue, electric. It hurt so good to look at it. He laughed, reaching out a hand to touch it, but it recoiled from his finger tips.

He frowned.

It recoiled a second time, like parting fog around the bow of a ship. Wrong. Wrong. This was wrong. All wrong. He dropped his hand. Wrong.

“Buffy - ?” His voice was rusty. They should be tracking, hunting through sewer and back alley. His hands twitched with the memory of killing. No. Something was wrong.

“Fight it Giles. Don’t let it take over! Its the blood, its the magic, its not you!” He heard the words but the desire to comply was hard to take hold of. It was the blood. Not him. The blood.

Blood. Rich. Red. Salty.

NO! THINK DAMN YOU!

He bared his fangs against the strain. Sweat ran down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut. The Slay pulsed within his skin, demanding to fulfill its purpose. Kill. Track the vampire scent. Kill. He was choking with deadly desire.

NO!

And then the world shrivelled, shrinking so violently he cried out, his suped up senses imploding and fading until he was left weak and disoriented with a pounding headache, on the stone floor of Spike’s crypt. The echo of the Slay was still ringing in his ears and the little rune stone was vibrating with anger in his fist.

“My god!” His laugh was short, breathless and not a little hysterical. “My god.”

“Giles?” He heard the concerned voice of his Slayer and opened his eyes again. Everyone was kneeling or crouching around him, staring with round eyes and pinched faces. He looked up at his Slayer. The electric colour had faded to the pale blue he knew so well. It was over, for the moment, but now he knew. He knew what it was and he also knew that they were in serious trouble.

* * *