__One Long Night__
By B'cat



Spike jumped six feet straight up and grabbed the metal spike he had jammed into the tunnel ceiling weeks ago. He dangled for a minute looking up and down the tunnel. Nothing. Silent. Good. With a chimpanzee-loose swing he reached out and grabbed the grating above his head. The handle was stiff but he was able to twist it and then push up. The trap door opened easily enough. Then one last check and he swung up, feet first, into the ceiling.

The cellar complex of Willy’s Blood Bar was unlit. No need to waste money on lighting that no customer or employee needed. Spike lowered the grate back into place. It scraped against stone and he froze, listening. Nothing. He was unobserved.

Now, just follow your nose and in no time, my lad, you’ll be drinking your fill of all that’s good and nasty. He licked his lips. How long, he wondered, had it been since he had eaten properly? The Slayer said the poker night had been over a week ago, even though it felt like yesterday, so it could be a long time. He did feel kind of dried out.

Bloody Slayer.

He already had an idea about tracking methods for the bastards who had wrecked his place and drugged him up with magic. Ooh yeah, he knew some serious nasties that could help him out. Nona was the first on his list. He had known the demon priestess for nearly a century, ever since Angelus, Darla, Dru and he had gone on that summer vacation around the horn of Africa. Oh what a time that had been! All drenched in blood and voodoo. He and Dru getting up to all sorts of nastiness under that big beautiful African moon, fangs still wet with blood, drunk on the essence of life. He still had a few interestingly placed Dru shaped scars from that little trip. Sexy, sexy, sexy. He felt a rush of fire and memory, and rumbled a deep vampiric rumble that vibrated pleasingly through his chest. Beautiful Dru, delicate as a spider’s web and twice as strong, hurting him so pretty, making him bleed.

Nona had been held prisoner in a cave above a small village that had fallen prey to one of Angelus’ luncheons. Their inadvertent act had freed her from the cursed confinement magicked into place by the local priest (extra spicy that one’s blood had been) and she had been satisfyingly grovely; quite forthcoming with offers of repayment too. All sorts of lovely little services. Recipes for spicing up the blood of future snacks, curses, luring spells and of course, tracking services. Turned out she had quite a nose for hunting through everything from mud, to water, to magicks. And now she was in Sunnydale visiting her brother. It was time to call in a little favour.

Padding in silence down the hallway he let his nose lead him deep into the maze of corridors. Past gated cellars and recesses. Past locked doors. Ahha! This was more like it. He could hear the buzz that he had come to associate with refrigerators and thus BLOOD. Slipping like a shadow into the long recess walled with industrial fridges he rubbed his hands together. So much to choose from. Now, which one was it that held that excellent drop that had flavoured his mixers so nicely?

Eeny meany miny mo, catch a Slayer by the toe, if she hollers you must be doing something right, eeny meany miny mo..... Ahha - BINGO!

* * * * *

Willow peered anxiously at Giles as Buffy reached around to haul him into a sitting position. He looked wiped out. Neatly combed hair messed up, clothing ruffled and sweaty. Sweat was running down his face too and the finger shaped bruised cuts either side of his throat were still bleeding sluggishly. He was still breathing hard too, but trying to control it.

The Wicca shuddered. She never wanted to see the Watcher like that again. It had been like a demon had slipped into his skin, pulling his face into a rictus of insanity and perverted hunger the likes of which she had never seen before. It had been the antithesis of the man she knew. Terrifying to witness. If she had not had hold of Tara she was sure she would be a shivering jelly on the floor. As it was, her lover’s hand was gripping hers so tightly she could feel her bones straining against it.

Come to think of it, Xander and Buffy did not look much better. Her childhood pal was pale as chalk except for his neck, which was showing the beginnings of spectacular bruising. Anya had bunches of his shirt gripped in her fists. The Slayer still looked haunted, eyes cowled with darkness and fear. She also had a tight grip of Giles’ jacket, knuckles white, and did not look like she was going to be letting go anytime soon.

Giles blew out his cheeks and opened his clenched fist with care. Willow caught a glimpse of a small ochre red stone with a faint smoothed carving on it. The watcher smiled at it, wearily. Whoa! Did that move?

“What’s that?” She asked, curiosity overcoming fear. Her magic radar was almost completely overcome down here but she was sure she was picking something up from the stone. Magical vibrations rippled out from it in tiny short lived waves. She glanced at Tara. Her best girl was staring too, head cocked.

“Oh.” Giles glanced up at her. “Oh, this? This is a little something I have had for a long time. A... fr... an associate gave it to me.”

“Ethan.” Buffy said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, Ethan.” Giles grimaced and pocketed the little rock. He clambered to his feet with Buffy’s help. They all followed him up. “Its a kind of detector, for magic, but its major function is to sense minute changes in magical fields and the like. Very useful for delicate work.”

“Delicate work huh? Doesn’t sound like much Ethan’s style.” Buffy pointed out still holding a handful of her Watcher’s jacket. Willow wondered if she was aware she was still hanging on to it.

“Yes, well, I didn’t say what he had in mind for it.” Giles was looking very uncomfortable. Oooh story there! He did not elaborate, but pushed gently through their throng and approached the blood bag, careful this time to stay well back. Buffy followed. “I think I know what this is.”

“What?” Xander asked. “Don’t keep us in suspense G-man. I think we have all learned from long experience that suspense usually leads to bad things in the ol’ Hellmouth.”

“Yes, quite right.” Giles nodded and Willow walked up to stand by him. Tara followed. She saw Giles make a familiar grabbing motion at his eyes and come up short. Glasses.

“Talk, we’ll find.” She patted his arm.

“Thank you. Right.” The librarian’s hands hovered for a moment and then he jammed them into his trouser pockets. Willow crooked a finger at Tara and together, staying well clear of the blood bag, they began to search the crypt. “Right. Well, I think its the blood of one of the original Hell Gods.”

“What?” Buffy peered around her Watcher’s arm and looked at the bag. “How do you figure?”

“Well, there have been several allusions to such blood written in a variety of ancient texts. I have been privileged to read a number. Most of them are extremely old and their voracity has never been proven, but the description of the activity of such blood and the symptoms from contact with it pretty accurately describe what just went on in here, and earlier this evening for that matter.”

“What’s with the magic then?” Tara asked, poking disgustedly at a lump of something crusty and gross.

“Camouflage I think. Has to be why I couldn’t see it before.” Willow frowned, what a curious thing to say. Then one of Giles’ hands sneaked out of a pocket and made to grab for his eyes again. Catching himself he put it back. Willow put her eyes to the glasses hunt once again. “Hell God blood is extremely potent, as you would imagine, and any being connected with the hell dimensions is attracted to it.”

“Like flies to doo doo.” Anya added helpfully. She now had Xander’s arm slung around her shoulder for his support. He patted her arm.

“Yes, well, quite.” Giles looked over his shoulder at her. Willow found Giles’ glasses under a patch of empty plastic bags. They were a little bloody, but mostly intact. One of the lenses had spidery fracture lines on it. She passed them to the Watcher. He nodded at her. “Anyway, as I was saying, muting that attraction would be an absolute necessity - ”

“If you were going to use it.” Buffy stepped out from behind Giles, released her hold on him, and stared at the bag. Her Watcher nodded. “My god,” Buffy murmured, “imagine the armies that could be raised. How could we stop an army of insane demons?”

“Its very likely that we couldn’t!” Anya said brightly. Willow wondered, not for the first time, if the ex-demon truly did not fully appreciate the ‘ex’ part of the equation. “I mean, some demons and vampires are nuts already; really violent, eat everything talk later kind of feral-”

“Spike!” Xander exclaimed, making a totally not subtle effort to cut Anya off. “That slimy no good undead piece of...”

“Unlikely Xander.” Giles interrupted whilst he inspected his glasses, frowned and put them on. “For Spike to get close enough to actually take some of the blood it is likely that he would never have returned. I imagine he would still be by the pool drinking himself into Hell if he had ever been so stupid as to try to collect any. And its not as if he could ‘enlist’ any really useful help with the chip still functioning.”

“Err, excuse me but: pool!?” Willow asked.

“Yes. The original Hell Gods are called Original precisely because they are what came before the current pantheon of Hell Gods-”

“Oh those Hell Gods.” Xander butted in. Anya patted his arm.

“Quite, now, as I was saying.” He glared at Xander but there was no malice in it. “They were the first and last Hell Gods to bring forth progeny. Not very intelligent of them. Can’t think why gods would be so stupid.

“As soon as they were able, their children, not surprisingly, turned on and killed their parents, but they kept their blood for later use, in great caverns deep below the earth. The positions they chose have become quite attractive to other hell tainted beings in the years since. They are usually called Hellmouths.”

“Great. So now someone is stealing and bottling Mommy’s and Daddy’s blood?” Buffy still had not taken her eyes off the bag. “Why? What for? To sell it?”

“That’s not really the issue at the moment is it?” Anya said. They all looked at her. “In case anyone’s forgotten, the one who started this night of fun by finding and drinking this God blood is out there right now. From what you’ve all said Spike looked like he hadn’t eaten in a while. What do you think a hungry vampire is going to do, first chance he gets?”

* * * * *

Spike was up to his arse in delectables, bending over, half inside the fridge, piling bags into the inner thief-pockets in his duster when he heard the faint scrape of boot on stone. Dammit! Emerging from the fridge he yanked the smoldering cigarette butt out of his mouth and sniffed the air. Willy. And some others. Ooh, nasty, nasty, nasty others. His nose wrinkled and his game face flickered across his features. He jammed the fag back into the corner of his mouth. Time to go.

He looked around the corridor of fridges. No where to hide. The scrape of boot and a newer slithering shadow-soft padding were getting louder. Crap, if Willy found him like this his custom at the Blood Bar was going to be very unwelcome indeed. He’d be lucky if he’d be unbarred in time for the year 3000 new years bash. Turning once again to the open fridge he sighed - this was gonna be so cramped.

“So, hey, like you guys catch the game last week?” Willy’s voice, close. He sounded nervous. That sharpened Spike’s interest. It took a lot to rattle ol’ Willy. Spike knew this personally because he had tried everything to intimidate the demon barkeep into giving him freebies after he had become chip infested, but not even his impressive imagination had been able to come up with anything to get so much as a raised eyebrow. Willy had just polished his one eyes, said ‘uhuh’, and then poured Spike a mixer so tasty he had forgotten what he had come in for. In fact he had blacked out and forgotten all about that night until a flash back had reminded him a few weeks later. By that time he and the demon were set into a comfortable barkeep and best customer situation, so.... “No huh? Well, uh, what about them Dodgers?”

Spike hopped into the fridge and pulled the door shut. He was immediately drowned in total darkness. Instinctively he let the demon surface but he was still blind, very disconcerting. Oh, well, shouldn’t be here long... He relaxed his face again and fumbled for a seat. Brrrr, good thing he was stone cold dead already or this empty shelf would be freezing his arse off something serious. Reaching out to a find another shelf he grabbed a bag and bit the corner out. Mmm, tasty. Oh hell, who was he kidding - it tasted like cold, days-old, plastic-tainted sheep blood...

“Okay, right this way, uh gentlemen, uh ladies, uh, gender neutral patrons? Its right over here. Just like it was left.” A fridge door was opening. Sounded a few doors down. “See, just like it was left. Count it if you like.” The next voice made Spike’s dead flesh crawl, and his game face rippled to the surface, fangs barred in a grimace. His nostrils flared. The air, even in the fridge seemed to be writhing and warping, moaning low and tortured. He flicked out his tongue. Ugh! It tasted foul, bitter, and dark. Too dark even for him. Fuck me but that’s power, he thought. Very evil this. Very bad. He decided it wise not to inhale.

“One isssss missssssing.”

The whisper was slurred, indemon, inhuman even, but the accusation was clear. Spike’s body went rigid as the words made terror blossom in his demon blasted soul. The blood in the bag he held began to move. Writhing hideously like the air. Gripped by a voice so foul it could not withstand the pain. It pulsed and warped in his frozen hand.

“Uh... Uh... No. It can’t be. No.” Willy was stuttering. “It wasn’t me. I did everything like you told me! No, you can’t think I would do that. Not after... Not after what you did before... No! NOOOOOO!”

The screaming went on and on and the air around Spike continued to writhe and strain, peaking and troughing with the final wail of the demon bartender. The darkness, the evil, staining the inside of the fridge was so oppressive Spike felt crushed. It pressed in on his skin until he was sure all his bones were visible. Black, heavy, wet concrete malice.

Then there was silence.

Spike did not move. He did not indulge in human twitching or breathing. He could not. He remained rigid, fangs locked in a silent hiss. He was frozen. He was stone.

Suddenly an explosion blasted through the recess. Then another. The sodding fridges were exploding! Booming and screeching metal deafened him. He listened helplessly to the horrifying sounds of the doors bursting off their hinges. Impossibly violent. Erupting from their connections and smashing against each other and the ceilings, the floors. Spike could not move. They were getting closer. He could not move. Closer. Bang! Bang! Bang! Closer. He was going to die. Permanently.

Help me!

Bang!

Help me Angelus!

BANG!

ANGELUS!

* * * * *

“So let’s go find him.” Buffy bent and picked up her stake. Anya’s input, as usual totally unexpected and totally clear headed, had galvanized them all. “If he’s run off to get more Hell Blood we have to stop him. I have to stop him.”

“Agreed.” Giles said. “Is the trail still fresh enough?”

“Yes, I think so, but I have to go now.”

“Be careful.” Her watcher looked at her from behind bloody, cracked lenses. “If he’s already feeding do not approach him without back up. I mean this Buffy. Do not attempt to intervene. Don’t even let him see you.

“We will not be far behind.” He suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out the rune. “Here, take this. I can find you if you have it with you.” Buffy took the little stone, it was warm, almost hot, and it vibrated in her hand. She stuffed it into her pocket. “Willow, Tara and I need to get some supplies from the shop and do some fast researching.” He sighed. “Hell God blood is one thing but the spell that is hiding it is another. It is incredibly powerful. Whoever, or whatever, has woven that spell is not to be trifled with, and if they are also behind the appearance of the blood...” He pursed his lips, took in a breath and shook his head. “Just be careful.”

“What about us?” Xander was doing his keen puppy routine. It was falling rather flat with the hideous multicoloured bruising all over his neck.

“Are you sure you’re up to this Xan?” Willow asked. “Maybe you should go to the hospital?” She fumbled over the last word and glanced in Buffy’s direction. The Slayer cringed inside.

“I will if he does!” Xander retorted, pointing at the bloody wounds on Giles’ neck. Buffy cringed visibly this time. Drugged with Hell God blood or not, it had been her hands that had caused their pain. The shame burned like coals in her stomach.

“Honey, maybe Willow’s right...” Anya said.

“Traitor! Look, I may not have wicca powers or Slayer strength but I can help.”

“Fine.” Giles held up a hand. “We don’t have time for this. Xander, Anya, we could use some help assembling the weapons and magical arsenal.”

“See, told ya.” Xander said. Anya folded her arms.

“Now, what are we going to do with the blood?” Giles scratched his head. “We can’t leave it here and risk it being consumed by anything... nasty. And, more magic is out of the question. We’ll have to hide it until we can deal properly with it.”

“I’ll get it.” Xander, it seemed, was determined to be useful, insane plan or no. “We can de-mojo and re-mojo it at the shop.”

“I don’t think so mister!” Anya said. She made a preemptive capture of his arm. Giles did not reply, still thinking. Probably about how to get rid of Xander.

“Come on, I can do it.” He appealed to the watcher. “You said that only hell tainted beings were affected by Hell God blood.”

“Actually, I said that only they were attracted to it. Rather a different thing altogether.”

“Okay, so what happens if an un-hell-touched person goes near it?”

“Er, well, actually I don’t know?”

“Let’s find out then.” Xander made Wiley Coyote running arms. Ready to go.

“Hey, wait a minute, you don’t know!?” Buffy exclaimed, staring accusingly at Giles. “What does that make me then? A hell beast? For that matter, what does that make you?”

“No! Xander-” Anya suddenly yelled, interrupting Buffy’s fledgling interrogation. They all looked, just in time to see Xander using the distraction to retrieve the blood bag.

“XANDER HARRIS!” Giles actually bellowed. Buffy reeled back a little, she had never heard him do that before. It vibrated right through her and she nearly fell over. No one else seemed to notice its effect. Whoa.

Too late. The young man had already darted across and reached out to gather up the gaping hole in the bag, to fold it shut. His licked his lips nervously, but then he was lifting it. He grinned suddenly - “No problem!” Giles stared, looking speechless with something not remotely resembling pleasure. Then his shoulders sagged. He sighed.

“Alright, let’s go! Xander, you will have to stay well back from us.” Giles started shepherding the younger people toward the ladder. He did not look at Buffy - he was avoiding her question... Under normal circumstances she would be pissed off, but now his reticence was just freaking her out. Then he did look up once again at Buffy, eyes intense behind bloody and broken lenses, and almost spoke. His mouth froze before it had created the first syllable and instead he said - “Be careful. We won’t be far behind.” She nodded tightly, turned and fled into the sewer.

* * * * *

Spike’s trail glowed faintly, visible to all her senses. Delicate as moonlight on water. Very delicate. Dammit! She was going to have to be very careful not to destroy it as she tracked. She cocked her head for a second. The typical scrabbling, creeping, skittering and occasional thumping that usually coloured the Sunnydale sewers tickled her ears. It was undead central down here. There were a few demons and other creepy things, but vampires were the order of the day in this end of town. Something to do with living close to home - where they first woke up after being Turned. At least it wasn’t daytime, things would get very interesting very fast if it were sunny out.

She slipped down the sewer, senses pealed, stake poised. She heard the faint scratchings of feet and claws all around her, but thankfully distant. The smell was something else too. All sewery and undeadish. Despite that though her nose found the most familiar reek with ease. Damn Spike. If he wasn’t intentionally causing trouble he was falling into it and dragging her with him. Should stake him, she thought. End both our miseries in one pointy jab. For a start there would be no more cigarette butts littering the garden and sending her mother into a near Slayer level rage on a weekly basis.

She frowned, suddenly projecting a future devoid of the English vamp.

A world without William the Bloody was an odd concept. An interesting concept to entertain, but weird. Certainly her highly disturbed Spike liking sister would never forgive her - neither would Drusilla. Hmmm might be worth dusting ol’ Mr Impotent just to bait her and finish that tortured insane killer as well. Angel probably wouldn’t object to her dusting Spike, but she wasn’t sure he would be happy about it. Despite being souled and all, Angel still had a soft spot for his blood and violence crazed grandchild (so much so he couldn’t talk about the circumstances of the siring of his grandchild without getting majorly morose and wallowing about in enough guilt to drown a whale), not to mention Dru, and she didn’t want to hurt Angel. Not unless it became impossible to avoid it.

Bloody Spike.

ARGH! I said bloody again!

Damn him and his stupidity. If she had killed Xander and Giles tonight because of him.... With renewed anger she began to lope down the sewers, senses pinned to the trail.

* * * * *

Spike’s fridge door blew off with such force his rigid body was blown out with it. He flew into bright light, blinded once again. He had time for a brief sensation of moving through Van Gogh painted air, to feel its pain scald his skin, and then he was smashed hard against something very solid and very unforgiving. He would have howled in pain if he had had working vocal cords. His body bounced off and he hit the floor. Agony streaked through his shoulder and head.

The smooth stone floor was shuddering, waves of torment rippling through it. He rolled over it helplessly jolted along by its peaks and troughs. He could hear it cracking under the strain. The roar of the tortured air filled his ears. Dammit! Move you stupid git! Move! Why can’t I move? He felt pain and blood on his cheek. The floor was flooded with lakes of the red stuff, all writhing and agonized. He could smell it spoiling as the very life was squeezed out of it.

Then he was moving. Control returned with a snap and he immediately scrambled to his feet, fighting his way upward through the heavy weight of evil. His muscles strained to their capacity. Then he was up and the doorway was in sight. YES! Can’t keep William the Bloody down! Kiss my big fat lily white arse-

Then he stopped. It was silent in the destroyed recess. No more fridges were exploding. No more noise. No more flash frozen Spike. The back of his neck suddenly crawled.

Oh shit.

With a dread laden swivel he turned around.

Oh my god...

“Angelus-” He managed to work that one tortured word out in a rasping plea before his insides turned to water and he screamed with everything he had.

* * * * *

Buffy knew where she was going now. God, he was so predictable. Willy’s. Then she thought: OH GOD WILLY’S! Willy had Hell Blood. Willy ran a bar. Willy was selling Hell Blood to his hellish bar frequenting customers.

Turning on a burst of speed she ignored the trail and sprinted toward the access grating to the bar’s cellars. Sure enough, there was Spike sign all over it. She peered up and listened for a moment. Nothing. Then suddenly a scream bit the air. A last breath horrified agonized howl. Its echo bounced and recoiled around Willy’s cellar and down into the sewer proper. The hair stood up on the back of her neck, and adrenaline suddenly sizzled through her veins. Then it was fading away and the sewer was abruptly plunged into total silence, its denizens ceasing their creeping and skulking, the very air seemed to have stopped moving. She swallowed convulsively.

Spike?

SPIKE!

Jamming the stake in her back pocket she crouched and launched, giving one hard push upward, full body motion just like Giles had instructed. So long ago it seemed like another life time now - Sunnydale High... Most efficient and powerful way to achieve some height he had instructed, right before she had complied and accidently taken the short route into the library rafters. It worked now too. She shot straight up, her hand finding and grabbing the metal pin jammed in below the grating. She twisted the handle on the grate and pushed it up and open. One flip and she was shooting up through the hole and launching into the darkened cellars. She crouched by the grate. She pulled out her stake, gripping it ready to strike.

What the hell?

The air was writhing, rippling, moving out in waves from somewhere up ahead; a banshee moaning accompanying it. It deafened her. The air... Her nose wrinkled and she recoiled a step. It smelt foul. Acrid and evil and sulphuric. It burnt her lungs and made her cough. Made her wheeze. Made her feel ill to her very soul. Can a soul puke? Unthinkingly her free hand grabbed for the cross at her neck. It burned clean and cool in her hand.

She stepped forward. The air pushed back. Its tortured writhings pulsed and pushed against her, wave after wave of poison and hate trying to force her back. She raised a hand to her eyes, instinctively shielding them from danger. Somewhere beyond this was Spike, she knew it. And, it seemed likely, the ones responsible for disturbing the lakes of Hell. Joy. Oh well, time to earn my keep. She pressed against the buffeting waves and forced her way into the maelstrom.

* * * * *

It wasn’t hard to find the source. The waves were getting stronger, the light brighter, the air movement more violent, the closer she came. Her hair was flying out behind her now, buffeted and twisted by the streams and coagulations of atmosphere and it was becoming very hard to breathe. The pressure on her chest and the hurt of the poisoned air as she pulled breath after breath into her lungs was making her head swim. She was sure she would have suffocated by now if it weren’t for the increased strength imbued in her by the Calling. Gritting her teeth she pushed on, head down, body bent forward, each step deliberate and heavy, like those old films of antarctic explorers as they fought their way through gales out on the ice.

Then she saw it. Through the chaotic swirl and shudder of the air, there it was. The violent, condensed heat haze that signalled her goal. Regripping her stake she forced her way into its heart.

She made it to the entrance of a long recess and braced herself against the door frame to catch a badly needed breath. She squinted against the bright Escher air. The long corridor warped and rippled, fighting her sharp vision and making her nauseous. Dammit! She was as good as blind.

But, no wait...

Blurry images resolved slowly. The recess looked to be walled with huge gaping, cavernous containers. Wrecked and smashed containers covered in blood. The whole corridor was soaked in rippling, shivering, coagulating lakes and splashes of the red liquid. The stink was wet and heavy in the air. Steam snaked around in the twisting entrails of the air. There were twisted and broken metal panels lying along the corridor too, bucking about like icebergs on a rough sea as the stone floor crackled and cried out in agony.

She peered deeper, trying to find the definite article, the demonic source of the foul power that was killing the very elemental forces of this dimension. The cross on her chest burned ice bright against her skin.

There! In the haze, flickering like flame. The whisps of dull black/grey figures. They rippled in and out of her vision as the air moved violently around them, swirling, trapped in their blackhole embrace. Looked like three of them. Standing in a line deep inside the recess. No, wait there was another. A dark smear on the ground. As she stared the blackness pulsed in and out of sight. Blond hair. Her stomach dropped to her feet.

Spike.

She looked down at the floor. The shifting metal plates and shallow swamp of dying blood looked extremely treacherous. I’m going to kill him, she thought as she stepped onto the first slippery plate. It bucked. Her arms flailed as she fought for balance. The thick pulsing evil pushed at her, trying to bring her down. This was no good. No good. Have to keep moving.

She regained her balance using every bit of power she had. Then she started to run. Relying on Slayer skill and blind luck, she leaped from plate, to exposed stone floor, to plate and in and out of the containers along the walls. All the time the pure malice emanating from the three figures dragged at her limbs and tried to drain her of her strength. Her clothes and hair blew and billowed, whipping around in the frenzy. Her lungs burned with the effort of trying to draw breath, and the squealing wail of the air and the cracking and groaning from the stone floor grew louder and louder.

Still she moved forward.

Almost there.

The three dark figures did not resolve into clarity as she gained ground. If anything their whispy shape seemed to melt more definitely into the waves and twists of air and light that surrounded them. Spike, however, began to emerge from the haze where he lay on the floor. He was covered in blood, lying rigid, skin stretched to his cheekbones and forehead. His skin was grey. She remembered this. An image of the starving, newly chipped vampire at Giles’ house flitted across her mind. But this was wrong. He shouldn’t be like this, he hadn’t been in that bad shape.

“Spike!” She called. Her voice, even at full strength, was swallowed by the air - the strength gone and the sound dull and impotent. Spike did not hear her. Or at least he did not move. In fact he looked dead. Well, more dead than usual. “SPIKE!” The three figures did not move.

It was then that she noticed his hands. Clawed fingers strained at the end of arms raised in defence. Against the ghosts that now towered over him? Come to think of it... It had to be them. Somehow feeding from him even as they stood there. Shit.

“Hey! Casper and Co., you’re jumping the line! I’ve got dibs on dusting his undead butt.” The Slayer launched herself onto a container mere feet from the spooks, poised to engage. No reaction - nothing. Maybe they couldn’t respond. Maybe you had to speak ghoul. O.K. then, let’s communicate in the universal. She dropped into the container proper and snagged one of the plates as it bounced and shuddered past her. With a roar of effort she hoisted it above her head and charged through the treacle thick air. Using all her strength she swung it down to flatten the ghouls.

The plate arced hard and she continued using all of her strength until she felt it strike the floor. Three stack ghoul pancake feast for one, hold the syrup. The impact of metal on stone was like a gun shot.

Everything stopped. The air grew instantly still and placid, the floor ceased its struggles and silence crashed down upon her head like the plate had done to the ghouls. She staggered, suddenly freed from the oppressive weight and foul air. The artificial light vanished. Oh god. She reached out to grab onto a container, blind, weak and gasping for breath. She sank to her knees.

For the longest time Buffy did not move save to breathe. It felt like sweat was running freely from every pore and she was shaking so hard she could barely hold herself upright. That had been too intense. Waaaaay too intense. She felt contaminated with the tarry black hate that had been radiating from the ghouls. It was lining her lungs, corrupting her heart and guts. She felt sick. There couldn’t be enough ipecac in all the dimensions that would purge her system. Oh god...

“Angelus?” The weak, breath thin voice barely reached her ears, but she heard it and looked up, relieved to find she was once again blessed with night vision. Spike’s shadowy form was still lying where it had been when she had arrived. The only difference was that his arms had fallen to his sides.

Wearily straightening her bowed shoulders she picked her way across the floor toward him. Oh, those plate things are fridge doors... The blood had congealed and blackened everywhere. It stuck to the soles of her shoes, making sticky sucking sounds as she walked.

“Spike?” She said as she squatted down. God, he was a mess. Really a mess this time. Skeletal, almost a ghost himself. His dry cracked lips moved once again, silently, unintelligibly, and then he was completely still. Dammit. Fear rippled new energy into her guts, her limbs. Blood. She had to find some blood. Then he would live long enough for her to kill him properly.

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