__One Long Night__
By B'cat



Giles waited until he was sure Xander had put the blood bag in a secure container on the counter before he would allow anyone else to enter the Magic Box. Then he charged his bookshelf.

“REVEAL!” He commanded, uncaring that he had an audience. “Maleus Sanguisa e Deux.” The auras went into a frenzy of vibrations and palpitations. Not waiting he plunged into the stacks, stalking up and down, glaring accusingly. This time. He would find it this time. His magicks would not let him down again.

Hell Blood and master level magical incantations (maybe surpassing master level). SHIT! His nostrils flared, fists clenched behind him where he had clasped his hands. What the hell had that stupid vampire been doing? Where had he been doing it? His eyes savagely raked the shelves. The auras were still writhing and twisting around their tomes as he had commanded. Still beautiful. Come on! The ephemeral masses shuddered. They churned faster still, their exquisite colours gripped in a frenzy to obey.

“What’s he doing?” Xander’s voice reached him as he paced.

“Magic!” Willow’s voice was barely a whisper but it was awed, disturbed, even frightened. She had a right to be. This level of the mages art he was practising was not to trifled with. A single word misspoken, unintended, used in anger or grief or passion, by one initiated at this level, could kill. Or worse. Ethan and he had learned that in the most painful way possible. Ethan. That thought suddenly sapped his agitation and he drew to a stumbling halt. His shoulders sagged.

He leaned his forehead against the shelf and sighed, suddenly weary. Forget your history and you were doomed to repeat it. The gentle auras brushed feather soft through his hair. A comforting gesture - one he did not deserve. He jerked away and began walking again. Slow and considered this time. He made for the section he knew held a range of possible books and sure enough the familiar tang of bitterness greeted him. As he neared the area he spotted a thick red tomb enveloped in a rotten egg gas cloud. It hung humid and heavy, fetid amongst the slowly settling brilliance of the other auras. Ah ha!

“Got it.” He announced as he exited the library, holding the prize aloft. He looked nervously at the wicca and winced. They were staring round eyed at him.

“H-how did you do that?” Tara finally asked, her aura had lightened a little to a navy blue. “You’re a magic user?”

“Uh,” he cleared his throat. You stuffed it up, now fix it! “As you know, I, uh, have dabbled a bit, in my youth. Stays with you you know. It can be very useful....” He trailed off. Bloody brilliant effort you great arse.

“Oh.” Tara said. Willow just stared. Their auras clearly broadcasted their hurt at his deception. All those times that he had cautioned against magic use in ordinary life would now be ringing hollow in their memories. If only he could explain in a way they could understand.

“What?” Xander asked, bobbing his head between the wicca and Giles. His grin was uncertain, as if he knew he had been left out of a joke and was trying to cover up. Some joke.

“Nothing important.” Giles grabbed at his glasses.

“Nothing important?!” Anya exclaimed, green mist pulsing. “Well, that certainly has hit an all new high of British understatement. If master level magic was so mundane it wouldn’t have annihilated most of the alternate realities for this dimension.”

“Thankyou Anya.” Giles sighed. Oh yes, there it was - he was getting The Headache.

“What?” Xander said again.

“Master level.” Willow had recovered mouth function. “That’s incredible Giles. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“What else haven’t you told us is what I’d like to know?” The ex-demon was hiding behind her confused beau. “You’re not really a fyarl demon are you?”

“No! Anya!... Look we do not have time for this.” Giles slapped the book down on the table.

“But, Giles...” Willow started. He could see the accusation in her eyes, it was rippling through the unique rainbow of her aura. There was no time for this now.

“NO! Willow. Later.”

“Ooh, don’t make him mad.” Anya warned, face paling.

“What?” Xander said again.

* * * * *

Giles flipped rapidly through the book. The pages were brittle with age and a few cracked under his fingers. He could feel the four sets of eyes staring at him. Accusing, nervous, confused. He tried his best to ignore it.

“Ooh, Romanian.” He muttered to himself as he found the most unpleasant smelling portion and recognized the ink scratchings. “Uh, that’s alright.” He looked over his glasses at his little audience. “Its one of my languages.” He went back to the text. “Oh dear.”

“Is that an ‘oh dear’ or an ‘OH DEAR!’ ‘Oh dear’?” Xander asked.

“I hate it when he says oh dear.” Anya confided to Tara. “Its never a good thing.”

“What is it?” Willow was impatiently hovering at his shoulder, looking at the text. He could sense her continued discomfort. Her aura flickered at the edges of his vision. It did not reflect to him in his glasses, a phenomenon that he had never become accustomed to.

“The, er, author has written a short piece about an associate of his that spent the better part of a year tracking down a Hell God blood pool around the Hellmouth of Soarevale, Romania. About 500 years ago by the look of it. He has chronicled a translation into this text and has summarized the main points in this section here.”

“Its very brief.” Willow commented after a moment.

“Yes, it is.” He nodded slowly. “Very, actually.”

“What does it say?”

“Well, er, the essence of it boils down to this. After several reports of an increase in crazed vampire activity that resulted in the death of two Slayers, and the Calling of a third, the Watchers Council of Europe set Alexandru Tilea, being their best and brightest, the task of hunting down the cause and the finding of a cure to the inexplicable activity. He left the council a year before this writing, a willing servant to the purpose he had been sent forth with. For many months he searched through the foul swamps and mires of the Undead and inhuman creatures that inhabited the depths of Soarevale. He questioned many of their number, fought many battles and sent home regular reports. None were of consequence except for the last. In this report he alluded to a conversation he had had with one of the Undead: a vampire called Bogdan. This Bogdan was near death at the time and bore all the signs of the insanity that had been ravishing the vampire population. He was much diminished by famine and was barely able to speak. Promising nourishment to the expiring creature Tilea obtained the following words:

“Beware, for it always returns to the Master of Masters. To him and him alone belongs the Wine of Life, to him alone the Sire’s glory, to him alone the deepest, sweetest depths of the chalice of Baru. Beware of Shadows. They track. They seek. It always returns to the Highest of High.

“He wrote that he now had enough information to conclude that it was contaminated blood that was causing the rash of, er, rash vampire activity. The Master of Masters obviously indicated the Hell Gods, Baru refers to one of the ancient Hell Gods, and thus the rest followed. He concluded that he was about to embark underground to find out more. He never returned to report.” Giles pulled off his glasses and chewed on an ear piece.

“That doesn’t help.” Xander said.

“No.” Giles bit down on the plastic. “Its doesn’t.”

“Didn’t the Council send anyone after this poor fellow?” Tara asked.

Giles looked down at the book, slipped his glasses back on. After a moment he shook his head. “The activity seemed to burn itself out a few weeks later, so they never did. Probably wrote him off as a casualty of war and got him a nice bright shiny memorial stone.” He tossed the book aside in disgust.

“So he was successful in defeating it?” Willow said, hope in her voice.

“Possibly.” Giles nodded. “It may have stopped of its own accord. Unfortunately he did not return to tell us which and we cannot afford to assume that it ended ‘naturally’.

“But none of this helps us at the moment. I will contact the Council and ask them to check their records. Unfortunately I doubt they will have changed much since I read them all some time ago.”

“So its into the breach once more.” Willow said.

“With as much weaponry and mastery magical mojo as we can physically carry?” Xander asked hopefully.

“There is something else we have to consider.” Giles said. “The magic user behind the camouflaging spell. To so effectively mask the presence of the blood of a God we are dealing with someone, or something, very powerful. Possibly approaching godhood itself.

“If they are gathering this blood, bagging it up for what looks like individual consumption, then Buffy’s concern regarding a super army of hell tainted creatures becomes a rather urgent issue.”

“So,” Willow said. “We need a spell that seeks out this camouflage spell so we can track it to its source.”

“Then what?” Xander asked. “We track this blood back to the factory and then take on an army of crazed vampires that no longer respect their own existence and who now fight like Mike Tyson experiencing ear withdrawal? Then after we dust their little fanged hides, we track down the god who cast the masking spell and kick his sorry ass all they way back to hell? Hey, we should about done in time for the 6am cartoon hour.”

“Sarcastic much?” Willow asked, frowning at the boy for his outburst. Problem was, Giles acknowledged, he was right - they couldn’t do this without more information or without backup.

* * * * *

Spike weighed lightly over Buffy’s shoulder as she carried him from the carnage. That was strangely disturbing. He was taller than her, bigger too, but she’d never really appreciated just how lean and light he was until now. All those times they’d had their confrontations, beating the hell out of each other and all those unnatural beasts she had come to assume a certain weight behind his punches, a certain gravity behind his presence. Like Angel. But, beyond the vampiric strength he still had William’s physique - all lean muscle and bone stitched together with sinew. The thought suddenly struck her that his fighting style was not at all like Angel’s either. Whilst his grandsire, perhaps harking back to his mortal days, was comfortable going head to head with an opponent relying on the strength and weight of his kicks and punches, Spike tended to throw, trip and use his opponents’ strength against them, opportunistically chipping them down a little at a time. Even in a face-to-face throwdown where strength mattered his force was threaded through with a strategy that probably had more to do with a perception of physical weakness that he still carried from his mortal days, than the real strength of the demon he now carried. She found the revelation disturbing on a level she didn’t want to think about.

Don’t think - find blood.

She jogged into the cellar complex, nose alert. There was nothing down here. Dammit. The dead blood behind them must have been the sum total of the blood supply that Willy stored. Where the hell was that annoying little snitch anyway? Okay, she hadn’t wanted to do this, but it was going to have to be the bar supply itself. Better not be busy up there...

She picked up the pace as she neared the stairwell. With out breaking stride she kicked the door open and bolted upward. Spike bounced against her shoulder and one of his limp hands connected with her backside. Unbelievable. Even unconscious and dying he was a lecher.

“You’d better not be faking Spike!” He did not reply. Very wise.

The bar door gave easily under her boot and she burst into the dimly lit Undead boozer. Immediately she swept the smoky premises with Slayer sharp vision. A vamp couple in the corner curled over glasses of something bloody. Male and female, dressed in what looked like mouldy left overs of the 19th century. They were both vamped out, surprised by her entrance, and scenting the air. No problem, she could skewer the both of them in heartbeat. A Malik demon, big, blue and hairy was hogging the bar. It stank of booze and something gross and was staring at her through its oversized eyes - the Malik’s Achilles heel. No problem. Then there was the barkeep. A pimply teenager with limp dish towel in his hands. Double no problem.

“Okay,” Buffy declared. “You all know who I am - the Slayer, right? Hi. Now, my associate and I would like a little privacy, so here’s what I’m going to do. A one time offer. All of you leave in the next 10 seconds and I won’t kill you.” She pulled her stake. The Malik demon stood, slapping its shot glass down ominously on the bar top. The vamps did not move, the barkeep turned a whiter shade of pale. “Oh, now, see, I don’t have time for that. Are you really sure you want to mess with me?” She glared. Every bit of her Calling funnelled straight into the eyes of the huge demon. It froze, pinned like imminent roadkill in car headlights, then it ran. Buffy blinked, surprised. “Cool.” The two vamps were gone by the time she looked their way. The barkeep was shaking in his boots but he did not flee.

“Gonna cause problems?” She asked him and he shook his head. He looked familiar. “Hey, aren’t you Tony Foster - Briny’s brother? What the hell are you doing in a demon bar?”

“My Dad got me the job. Seemed like a good idea at the time... You’re not going to Slay me are you?”

“Not if you get me all the blood you’ve got in the next five seconds. The good stuff. Nothing watered down.”

“S-sure.”

Buffy lowered Spike to the floor and looked at him again. Not good. Still grey and skeletal. What ever those things were they had taken just about everything he had. She frowned. For such powerful creatures they had folded so easily. She was missing something and Spike probably had the answers.

SPLAT! A blood bag exploded on the floor next to her. She looked up and glared at the pimply kid. There were at least five other bags in his arms. He shrugged at her, sweaty scared, and handed her one of them.

“He doesn’t look so good does he?” The kid said, very unnecessarily. He peered closer. “Hey is that Spike?” That second question held far more awe than it should. She was going to be having a little word with Mr Foster senior.

Ignoring Tony, she tore the corner off the bag and grabbed Spike’s jaw. Awkwardly she shoved the open end into his mouth and gently squeezed the bag. Most of the liquid ran straight out of his mouth. Come on. Come on. Then suddenly she saw his adams apple bob. Once. Twice. A brittle skeletal hand grabbed her wrist, holding her in place. The bag emptied in record time and she watched, fascinated and appalled as his skin lost its pasty grey look, becoming the flawless marble she recognized.

She pulled the empty plastic away and Spike followed it until he was sitting up. His eyes were still shut. Buffy turned, tossed the bag and held out her hand to the boy - “Another one.” That was when she felt hard cold fangs pressing on her neck. Spike was nuzzling her throat! She could hear him sniffing, scenting out the blood that pulsed just one bite away. He suddenly nipped at her skin, light and dainty, just getting a taste. Was that tongue?

“SPIKE!” She jerked backwards, more rattled than angry. He lunged weakly after her trying to follow her backward scramble. His yellow eyes were slitted and dopey; mouth, cheeks and neck covered with spilled blood. Recovering, she shoved the next bag under his nose. It took a moment for him to refocus and then he snatched it from her and plunged his fangs into it. His claws gripped the plastic so tightly trickles of blood ran down his fingers. And was that purring? There was a very faint rumbling vibrating out from the thin vamp that sounded a lot like a purr.

“What happened down there?” Tony whispered, still awe struck.

“I’m not sure.” She only partly lied. “But, I think it would be wise for you to go home. Then, once dawn rolls around you write Willy a nice little letter of resignation. A bar for the Undead is not the best place for a kid-.”

“Hey, I-” The kid started.

“What the hell!” Spike was back and looking wild and shaken. He tossed the empty blood bag aside and struggled to his feet. He stared at Buffy, then around the empty bar. “What’s going on?”

“Amnesia again huh?” She pursed her lips at him. “You could start by saying thankyou Buffy for saving my worthless corpse?”

“What?” Then she saw memory fire up behind his ice blue eyes. A flicker of fear and then something else shifted across his face. Then anger swallowed both of those emotions. “How did I get up here? Those ghouls were doing for me.” He looked at her properly. “You.”

“Me.”

“All of them?”

“Uh huh.” Buffy nodded. Spike cocked his head, assessing something. His vamp bumps smoothed back into his human face.

“What did you use?” He asked.

“Fridge door.”

He pursed his lips and with a preoccupied motion wiped a tattered sleeve across his mouth. All that that accomplished was to smear the blood and add a whole new layer of crud. He didn’t seem to notice. Then he shook his head.

“No. No. Not likely.” He pushed away from the bar and used a flat palm to shove Tony out of the way. The kid flew off his feet and crashed into a table. He made an oof sound as he disappeared out of sight. “We gotta go.”

“What?” It was her turn to fall out of the loop.

“Can’t kill a ghoul with a fridge door.” Spike spoke as he was heading for the door. “You should know that. Whatever they were up to they ain’t finished and I for one don’t want to be around when they pick up from where they left off.” Then he was gone, the doors flapping behind him, and Buffy was left feeling stupid, pissed off and still out of the loop.

“HEY!” She started after the ungrateful vampire. That son of a bitch. She passed Tony, on his knees crawling back to the bar, one hand pressed to his chest where Spike’s hand had connected. “And you, go home and stop hanging around the Undead. I see you again and I am so telling your mother.”

* * * * *

Spike strode down the lamp lit street coat flapping out behind him. He hardly noticed the pedestrians as they scuttled out of his way, staring in horror at his dishevelled appearance. Fuck them. He had more to worry about that sticking out in a herd of glorified blood cows. He staggered suddenly but recovered, pushed off from the wall on weak legs, and kept on walking.

He did not know what the bloody hell was going on but he was determined to do something about it. Something was fucking with him and that could not stand. No one and no thing fed off William the Bloody and lived to gloat over it. Well, actually one had, but he wasn’t going to think about Angelus anymore tonight. He was still burning with humiliation after crying out for his Daddy back in the cellars. The self reproach smouldered in his chest and scorched a path to his cheeks. He thought he had been over that pathetic episode in his unlife.

He had learned to overcome Angelus’ mind games when his grandsire had gone through a very nasty stage of playing with his newly awoken grandchild. Trying to break his mind, trying to tie him all up in knots so that even if he took him to the point of a second death he would still love him and call for him like some deranged child, like some tortured dog - like Drusilla. His poor, sweet princess. Unlike Dru though, Spike had been turned before Angelus had started on him and he had had a resiliency that Dru had not. He had learned to withstand. He had learned to cope. He had learned to overcome. He had even learned to get off on it.

Or so he had thought.

With a short, choking roar he kicked over a lamp post. The metal pole caved in a car roof as it fell and the glass globe smashed onto the road. Car breaks squealed. A cow screamed.

Damn you Angelus. Damn you.

“SPIKE!” It was the Slayer. Yelling behind him. He could hear her feet running down the pavement. Smell her sweat and the congealed blood that smeared her clothing. “Don’t you walk away from me.” At least she had not heard him calling out for Angelus. He did not think he could live with the humiliation - better to get drained by those ghouls until he croaked. “SPIKE!” She grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. He came up with his game face on, the humiliation turning into rage, turning against Buffy.

“Don’t you touch me Slayer! I’m getting fucking sick of you laying into me all the time. What the hell do you want from me?” He was screaming right in her face, fangs so close snapping shut around any flesh he could get them into it was all he could do not to act on the urge.

“I tasted Hell blood because of you!” Buffy screamed right back. “The least you could do is show a little gratitude for saving your dead ass.”

“You what?” A surge of black emotion and tinged with green burst, supernova hot, through his body. He bared his fangs. “You drank demon’s blood? First you let the Great Poof drink yours and now you’re drinking other demon’s blood! What are you, some kind of undead slut?”

“Don’t call me that you neutered fuckwit. It was your fault. If you hadn’t been down in the sewers thieving and drinking any old shit like some vampiric wino this would never have happened.”

“I can smell it. I can smell him in you!” Spike sniffed the air. His nostrils flared and he panted with the intensity, lips pulled back in a grimace. The traces of the blood coloured the scent. Powerful and dark and familiar. They contaminated the clean burn of her blood. He didn’t like it, not one bit. Unthinking, he growled.

“I hate you!” The Slayer hissed, actually trembling with rage. Her fists were balled but remained locked by her sides.

“I hate you more.” Spike rasped back right in her face. He couldn’t remember being this angry, not even when the Slayer had killed off his last batch of minions, not even when he had been brushed off by Cecily in that shadow existence before he had been Turned, not even when Angelus had made moves on Dru. “If I could bite you right now I would!”

“That’s supposed to be some kind of revelation is it?”

“RRRRrraaaaaaRRRGRHHHHH!” Spike roared right in her face, frustration and rage coiled in his belly. It burned like acid. He turned away from her and took out his anger on the nearest object - a fire hydrant. It uprooted like a daisy in his claws and he hurled it across the road to smash against a shop wall. Water gushed and fountained like an oil well in the Iraqi desert from the hole it left in the pavement. It rained down on them, cold and hard.

“Have you finished?”

“NO!” He pointed accusingly at her. Then his arm dropped momentarily. “Actually, yes, but I still hate you.”

“Bite me.”

“Bitch.”

“Bastard.”

* * * * *

They glared at each other in the down pour until the Slayer heard the cops coming. By mutual agreement they decided this argument could wait until they pissed off. Spike turned and ran. Couldn’t go back to the cemetery. Might have some unwelcome home invaders there. Couldn’t go to Buffy’s house because, whilst her sister was a pushy bitch, Dawn was a sweet distraction in his existence as a neutered freak. No way would he drag her into this. Giles and Xander had uninvited him from their respective homes. That was damned inconvenient but the respect it showed for his capacities, even in this unmanly state, made it a bearable problem - until now. And Willow and Tara had yet to invite him into their university rooms.

That left one place where he knew he could find what he might need to rid himself of these ghouls and exact his revenge. The Magic Box. The Slayer followed without complaint.

Unfortunately, his legs began to fail him before he reached the shop’s street. Not enough blood. He should have eaten more. He staggered, bounced off a wall, but he was still upright. No way was he going to be so helpless in front of anyone as he had been tonight. Not in this existence. Not again. He staggered again, panting out of habit.

“Spike-” The Slayer was jogging easily beside him. She made a grab for his arm but he shrugged her off.

“Fuck off.” He snarled. Putting everything into it he rounded the corner. Not far now.

“Spike, this is stupid.”

“Get fucked!” He roared and nearly fell over with the effort.

“What the hell is the matter with you? I’ve just pulled you half dead out of a ghoul fridge what does it matter if I help you now?”

“Don’t want your help. Don’t need your help. Don’t need anyone’s help. Don’t need anyone.” The street blurred in front of him.

“Fine.” She barked. Silence. He started a barrel roll walk, staying up right only in the momentum of his stagger. The Magic Box false front wavered and hazed in front of him as he approached. It reminded him of the ghoul tainted air. Echoes of the strange magical fear that had gripped him then made his guts feel icy. He had to find those bastards and get them.

* * * * *

Giles looked up from helping the wiccas hunt for a location spell powerful enough to track mage level magic, as for the second time this evening the shop door banged open. This time it was the missing members of the group who burst through them. Looking like soldiers from the trenches too. Ragged, filthy and saturated with mud and blood. Spike was walking very strangely. Fast, bent forward at an impossible angle, yellowed eyes glaring in an unfocussed kind of way as he went. The vampire’s usually pure black aura was weak. Giles recognized the hue - he was low on blood.

“What the-?” Giles started as Spike barrel rolled right by him and ran head long in to the new fridge tucked around behing the counter. Buffy shrugged in a ‘fuck him’ manner and stalked over to the table. She sat down stiffly, angrily, as Spike wrestled with the fridge door. It opened with a pop and he fell inside. Scrabbling sounds started up. Giles suppressed the urge to go slam the door on Spike’s head - the blood inside that fridge was a new investment, a new line in summoning spell ingredients. Oh well, there went 200 dollars of hard earned money right in to the belly of the beast.... Mental note, if we live through this: send Anya to retrieve investiment from Spike.

“What happened?” He asked. “Buffy?”

“What’s with dead boy over there?” Xander had Anya’s thief deterrent in his hand. A piece of lead piping inscribed with a rabbit at the business end. He looked ready for someone to shout batter up. He and Anya had been assembling weaponry on the end of the reading table. Anya looked up from her crossbow and cocked her head.

“I tracked Spike to Willy’s.” The Slayer said. Her tone was sour, angry.

“My god! Willy isn’t dealing in Hell God blood is he?” Giles started, bracing both hands on the table top.

“No, I don’t think so. He wasn’t around to ask.”

“That’s because he’s snuffed it.” Spike looked up from the behind the fridge door. He had a blood bag in his mouth and was speaking around it. “Those ghoul bastards got to him. Musta dried him up like a husk and shrivelled him all away.” The vampire shuddered.

“What?” Giles said. “Ghouls?” But Spike disappeared behind the fridge door again.

“When I found Spike he was getting a little karma returned his way.” Buffy filled in. “Those ghouls, or whatever they were, were draining all his blood out. I hit them with a fridge door - long story, don’t ask - and they disappeared. We escaped. Came back here.”

Giles pulled off his destroyed glasses, thinking hard. The younger people were all looking at him. He wished they wouldn’t do that - expect him to spout forth all necessary knowledge and courses of action when their young energy and limited life experience was running short. He had no experience with children of his own and yet he seemed to suddenly have five of them, as well as two unpractising demon hangers on. The weight of their expectation was heavy. Sometimes almost unbearable.

“Ghouls.” He mused.

“Yeah, “ Spike was suddenly next to him. He had a fresh blood bag in his mouth and another clutched tightly in his hand. He looked sick, exhausted, angry, and not a little frightened. Though he was hiding it well, auras never lied. “Ghouls. Powerful too. They were radiating some kind of energy. It was killing the air, the blood and the stone. Never seen anything like it.

“I was looking for a little snack down in the cellars there when Willy comes in with these ghoul things. Nasty they were. Real nasty. Anyway, I made a strategic retreat (he ignored Xander’s unkind laugh though Giles noted his game face flickering - bad sign) and listened in. Turns out Willy had been hiding some blood for them and they had come to collect it. Too bad for Willy that a bag was missing. They killed him.”

“Missing?” Buffy stared accusingly at the vampire. “We found it, in your crypt.”

“What?” Spike looked genuinely confused. He pressed a hand to his stomach, suddenly looking queasy. “Who put it there? Those bastards that smashed up my stuff?”

“Actually it was most likely you who put it there.” Giles said.

“And redecorated.” Xander said, sounding nasty.

“Its Hell Blood.” Giles finally revealed, carefully gauging the vampire’s reaction. The 100 years plus demon paled visibly, becoming almost transparent, and stopped guzzling his blood.

“Bloody hell.” He breathed. Giles was sure he hadn’t meant the horrible pun. “I’ve heard about that stuff. Supposed to be lakes of it somewhere deep underground, innit? Around the Hellmouths. How’d Willy get Hell Blood?”

“We were hoping you could tell us that.” Giles sighed. The vampire’s aura was flickering, but not with deception. At least he didn’t think so. Damn. Another dead end. All they were left with now was a few hard to define threats, very possibly an army of insane Undead, ghouls with the power to destroy the elemental forces of nature and a cryptic passage from an unverifiable and ancient text that had originated from a dying, possibly delirious, vampire. How to fight that? They didn’t even have a time frame.

“No, can’t help there.” Their vampire was looking extremely ill now.

“Are you alright?” It was Tara who asked. Spike seemed not to have heard her. The hand over his stomach was twisting the torn t-shirt until his knuckles looked ready to pop through the skin. He was staring at the door too, eyes bugging. “Spike?”

“HEY!” Buffy shot to her feet and grabbed at her pocket. She reached in and after a second pulled out his rune stone. “This thing has gone nuts. Eew, it feels like a bug. Here, Giles, take it back.” He grabbed the little rock. It was agitated, alright, and burning hot. Oh no.

“They’re coming.” Spike’s voice was thin and rasped through his emerging fangs. “They’re coming back to finish me off.”

* * *