Chosen

  Then she tumbled off the catwalk, landing hard and dusting in the middle of the crowd. Everyone froze for a moment . . . and then the music started up again.

  Spike hurried to the back of the bar to the pay phones. He dialed Buffy’s cell phone number. Sweat rolled off him. His hand was trembling.

  Then she answered, and he was unbelievably grateful.

  “It’s me,” he told her. “I’m seeing . . . I think I’m remembering. I think I’ve done some very bad things.”

  Buffy’s voice came through clearly. “Where are you?”

  “I need . . . I need to see you. There’s a house. Six-thirty-four Hoffman Terrace.”

  “I’ll meet you.”

  They both disconnected. Relieved Spike turned around . . . only to be confronted by his own image.

  His mind went numb. Don’t understand . . .

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” his double said. “It’s not time yet. Not nearly. You’re going against the plan.” It smiled. “But we can make it work.”

  * * *

  The rendezvous house was a large brick building that reminded Buffy of the old Tudor-style homes of Pasadena. Spike let her in; they headed for the brick basement, Spike in the lead, as he went down the stairs, Buffy hesitated at the top.

  “I understand,” he said, indicating her unwillingness. “It’s a risky proposition.”

  Then Spike’s double blocked his way and said, “There’s an order. The Slayer’s not in order. But it can’t hurt to play. Get your claws in the mouse, you know?”

  Spike said carefully, “You are not here.”

  Just then Buffy came down the stairs, pulling his attention back to their reality, and he said in a rush, “I’ve been remembering. The girl. I walked her home. The one you saw. And the one before that. And I think I killed her. And I think . . . I think I killed the lady who lived here. And there might be others.”

  Buffy stared at him and said, “Oh my God.”

  He walked to the center of the room, and Buffy followed. “Here. I—I think I buried them here.”

  “Spike, why?” she asked, her voice filled with emotion.

  He felt as if his insides were on fire. He was terrified. “Well, I don’t know, do I? I don’t even know how. Shouldn’t be able—”

  He was distracted by the appearance of his double gliding past the stairs. He was humming.

  And he was then singing, as he lounged on an old ice box with a smirk on his face.

  “ ‘Early one morning, just as the sun was rising, I heard the fair maid sing in the valley down below. Oh, don’t deceive me. Oh, never leave me.’ ” He rolled his eyes with mock innocence. “ ‘How could you use a poor maid so?’ ”

  Spike was mesmerized. It is my song, he thought vaguely. My order . . . in the order . . . claws . . .

  Then he vamped out, and it was glorious! Wonderful! He was all fire and fury, and there was the Slayer, meant for killing.

  He attacked her. She had a stake, but he yanked it out of her hand and threw it away. A glass bottle shattered. His blood sang.

  The Slayer threw him across the room.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  He grabbed a shard of glass and went for her, slicing her shoulder. They fought, and she pushed him to the ground.

  “Spike, listen to me. You don’t want to do this!”

  He shoved her away . . . and then his double said, “And it’s just about to get fun.”

  A fist shot through the earthen floor. The ground shifted and cracked as others burst through, fanged faces cauled with dirt through like demonic children struggling into the world. Vampires, all of them . . . murder victims.

  They gathered in a ring. They were the stupid, raving kind of vamp, the worst kind, decaying extras from Michael Jackson’s Thriller. They took turns hissing at Buffy and attacking her. Then one of them found a spade and started after her with it. Buffy grabbed and punched him in the face with it. “You know what I want you to do,” Spike’s double said to him.

  But one vamp grabbed her arm and another grabbed the spade, using it as a pinioning weapon, and even though she fought that off, the second vampire grabbed her arm. She was being held between two vampires, and they held her fast.

  “They’re waiting for you,” Spike’s double told him. “Take her, taste her. Make her weak.”

  He stood and walked toward her. She struggled.

  “Spike, no!” she cried.

  Spike put his face near hers, savoring her, wanting her blood. In a dream he leaned toward her cut shoulder, smelling the fear, the steam from her wound.

  He tasted.

  Slayer’s blood.

  Buffy’s blood.

  Flash: Killing the bird.

  Flash: Killing others. Carry a corpse through town. Burying two men. Killing the lady whose house this was . . .

  “I remember,” he said, as he recoiled from her sight and staggered back through the brick arch of the basement.

  Buffy’s vampire captors were distracted. She took advantage of the situation and grabbed up the spade, using it rather like a kendo sword, taking a strong stance, jabbing, thrusting, lunging, dusting vampires with order and precision. Then she swiped three of the vamps’ feet out from underneath them.

  Spike’s double crouched near him, talking to him in a sibilant, low voice.

  “You failed them. Now she’s going to kill you. You lose, mate.”

  A single hand tentatively pushed through the earth; Buffy grabbed it and hoisted the elderly female vampire up. As she staked her, she said, “Sorry, ma’am, but it’s my job.”

  Spike was jammed behind the brick archway, utterly defeated. Buffy carried the spade with her and stood in front of him. He gazed up at her with misery and resignation, as he scooted out of his hidey-hole, and very purposefully opened his shirt. He was not without dignity; he was crying.

  “Do it fast, okay?” And when she didn’t move, he added, almost angrily, “He said you’d do it.”

  Buffy asked, “Who said?”

  He didn’t have the words. “Me. It was . . . me. I saw it. I was here the whole time, talking and singing.” He let out a heavy sob. “There was a song.”

  “I don’t know,” Spike confessed. “Please, I don’t remember. Don’t make me remember.” Then he turned his head and said to the air, “Make it so I forget again! I did what you wanted!”

  Buffy stiffened, looked around. “There’s something here.” Resolutely she threw away the spade.

  “Oh, God, no, please,” he begged, realizing that she was sparing him. “I need that. I can’t cry the soul out of me. It won’t come. I killed, and I can feel ‘em. I can feel every one of ’em.”

  She knelt beside him, trying to get his attention. “There’s something playing with us. All of us.”

  “What is it?” he asked her wretchedly. “Why is it doing this to me?”

  “I don’t know.” She felt sorry for him, but she did not lose her edge.

  Spike looked at her with wet eyes.

  “Will you . . . help me?” he asked her. “Can you help me?”

  His double watched from the stairs, sneering as Buffy said, “I’ll help you.”

  * * *

  Spike was wrapped in a blanket like a shock victim while the others talked. Buffy had just finished telling them about what had happened.

  “And you believe him?” Anya asked incredulously.

  “You didn’t see him down there.” Buffy glanced in Spike’s direction. “He really didn’t know what he’d done. It wasn’t in his control.”

  “Oh, an out-of-control serial killer,” Xander said, dripping with sarcasm. “You’re right, that is a great houseguest.”

  “Wait . . . is he staying here?” Dawn asked worriedly.

  “I don’t know,” Buffy admitted. “But I’m not letting him out of my sight. That’s for sure.”

  Willow was not so sure. “Buff, he’s been feeding. On human blood. That’s gotta do stuff.”


  Buffy said, “I’m not keeping him around just to help him. I think there was something there, talking to him. Making him do things.”

  Willow considered. “Something like what was talking to us?”

  Buffy nodded. “Maybe. But if it was, it’s been screwing with Spike big time.”

  Xander still needed leading. “So, you want him around because . . . ?”

  Buffy’s gaze took in all of them. “Look. There’s something evil working us, and if we are ever going to have a chance to fight it, we need to learn everything we can about it. This thing has been closer to Spike than any of us.”

  “And if you want to understand it,” Willow said.

  Buffy glanced Spike’s way. “I’m going to have to get close to Spike.”

  “Nah, it’s too dangerous,” Xander argued. Not for nothing had he been called “gallant” by D’Hoffryn, who, as a rule, held the male species in contempt.

  “I don’t have a choice,” Buffy said. “Whatever this thing is, from beneath us, it’s bad, and it’s only getting worse.”

  London

  Robson had not shown for the scheduled meeting of the Council of Watchers, nor had he answered his phone. So Giles was sent to see if anything was amiss . . .

  And it was: There was Nora, Robson’s Potential, lying on the floor. Her blood was pooled beneath her. Giles knelt beside her and checked for signs of life. There were none.

  “Oh, dear God! Robson, are you here?”

  Giles got up and searched for his colleague and friend. He hadn’t far to look: Robson was half-propped up near a chair in the next room.

  “You too?” Giles took off his glasses, tears filling his eyes.

  Robson’s eyes flashed open. “Gather them,” he said with great difficulty. “It’s started.”

  A wave of ice washed over Giles, and then he composed himself.

  “It’s all right. I understand. I’ll take care of it,” he assured the dying man.

  Then a robed figure snuck up behind Giles, a weighty battle axe in its grip.

  It swung at Giles. . . .

  Chapter Nine: “Never Leave Me”

  Aftermath.

  The gang was trying to put Buffy and Dawn’s home back together after the fury of the haunting Dawn had managed to exorcise. In the living room of the Summers’ home, Xander was measuring the picture window, having just covered the empty square with plastic. Anya was dusting candles and knickknacks, while Willow swept wreckage off a table. Dawn stood beside her, debriefing about Spike.

  “So the basement was filled with dead bodies?” she asked, referring to Spike and Buffy’s visit to the Hoffman Terrace.

  “Apparently,” Willow said.

  “And Spike couldn’t have sired countless others and buried them around town? And we’re waiting for him to do what, exactly? Do something crazy?”

  Willow sighed and said, “It’s not that simple.”

  From her place beside the mantel, Anya looked up from her dusting . . . of candles, not Spike, and asked, “Shouldn’t we stake him through the chest? Isn’t that what we do when these things happen?”

  “Look,” Willow said loyally. “Buffy knows what she’s doing.”

  Not getting comfort from that, Anya looked over at Xander. “Well, Xander, you know what we’re all talking about. I mean, you’ve always been part of the ‘Spike is evil’ faction.”

  Xander let that slide by saying, “I’ve got a house to put back together.”

  “Fine. You guys keep your heads buried in the sand, but I think we should prepare ourselves for the possibility that William the Bloody is back.”

  * * *

  Kicker boots.

  Long, dark coat.

  Hair.

  And the most evil-looking human on the planet award goes to . . . Andrew, master of all darkness, the man who had killed his best friend.

  Master of all darkness, that is, except for Warren, who was über-master of all darkness. Now he appeared beside Warren and gave him a bit of applause. “Looking good,” he said appreciatively. “We’ve got work to do.”

  “I have to do work right now?” Andrew whined. “Can’t I just walk around awhile in my coat?”

  “Don’t go soft on me now,” Warren chided him. “We’re right in the trench. The exhaust port’s in sight.”

  “I thought that was it,” Andrew argued. “I did what you told me. It’s not my fault it didn’t work. Why do I have to do all the wet work?”

  Warren halted. “Hey. You know the rules. I can’t take corporeal form.”

  He gestured for Andrew to try to touch him, easing his shirt lapels aside. Andrew’s hand went straight through his chest.

  “Pretty bitchin’, right?” Warren crowed. “I’m like Obi Wan.”

  “Or Patrick Swayze,” Andrew said dreamily. Then, “I just don’t think I can kill anybody else.”

  Warren turned into Jonathan, and Andrew said, “I didn’t want to kill you. Warren made me.”

  Jonathan replied earnestly, “Hey, I’m glad he did.” He chuckled. “This is the best thing that ever happened to me. It wasn’t that bad. It’s kinda like when I used to get ulcers in high school, only at the end I became one with light and hope.”

  “It’s my fault the ritual didn’t work,” Jonathan added generously. “I’m little, and I probably should have told someone I was anemic. Don’t worry. We’re going to fix it. You’ve got to trust us. We know what we’re doing.”

  * * *

  Robin Wood regarded the two incessant troublemakers—Grimes and Hoffman—in his office.

  “Now, we can settle this one of two ways,” he told them. “You can help repaint the walls, or I can suspend you and report the incident on your private record.”

  “Fine,” Hoffman deadpanned. “Do that.”

  Robin uncrossed his arms. “Okay, I was bluffing. I hadn’t really thought that through.” He looked at them. “The whole ‘permanent record’ thing is a myth anyway. Colleges never ask for anything past your SAT scores and it’s not like employers are ever gonna check how many days you missed of high school.”

  He stood up and walked around to the front of his desk.

  “I could suspend you, but that would mean calling your parents, alerting your teachers, filling out paperwork, and possibly talking to the school board. All of which sounds positively exhausting to me.”

  He paused. “No, I think it would be much easier if I just called the police and let them deal with it. “

  The boys looked at each other, unsure what to make of him as he stared them down. “In case you’re wondering, now’s the part where I’m not bluffing.”

  The boys did a buddy-check with each other, then nodded. “

  “We’ll repaint it,” Grimes said.

  “Good,” Robin told him.

  There was a knock on the door, and he was mildly perturbed by the disruption.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  He walked to the door and opened it. Dawn Summers stood on the other side.

  “Miss Summers,” he said.

  “Hi. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “I’m with students,” he informed her.

  “I just wanted to tell you that Buffy won’t be coming in today,” Dawn said. “She’s really sick.”

  Robin was concerned. “Oh, no . . .”

  “Yeah,” Dawn continued. “Last night she was vomiting and then this morning she was vomiting some more and then just when we thought she was done, she started vomiting again.”

  He nodded. “We’ve got stomach flu going around.”

  “Her exact words were, ‘I’ve got stuff coming out both ends.’ ”

  Pause.

  “Thank you,” Robin said. “That’s very helpful.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Dawn said to him. She looked around him to the boys. “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Pretty good,” Grimes said.

  “Tell your sister not to worry,” Robin said to Dawn. “We’ll solider on without her. She should just
concentrate on getting better.”

  “Yeah, she’ll be fine,” Dawn said. “She just needs to get some stuff out of her system.”

  * * *

  The Slayer had called Watcher Headquarters, and Quentin Travers, as Council head, was the man to speak with her. As the rest of the Council looked on, he listened to her speaking from across the puddle, in Sunnydale.

  She told him that she was looking for Giles.

  “He’s not answering any of his numbers,” she explained.

  Quentin remained polite, if aloof, as he said, “Miss Summers, ever since Mr. Giles pulled up his stake in Sunnydale, we’ve not made it our business to follow his every move. I suppose if you feel the matter’s urgent, we can look into it.”

  He could tell that she was aware that he was simply trying to mollify her. After he hung up, he looked down the expanse of the polished wooden table at the other Watchers and informed them, “The girl knows nothing.”

  He rose. “And we need to find Rupert Giles as soon as possible.”

  * * *

  Power.

  Addictions scream with unbelievable power for satisfaction. Base, primal hungers wreak havoc on the system when denied, make sane men mad, and make madmen madder still.

  In her bedroom, Buffy had tied Spike to a chair, and she was watching him shiver and shake as he withdrew from drinking human blood. Buffy sat on her fern-green-and-cranberry bedspread, her heart breaking for him. It was agonizing to watch.

  Once her back was to him, he vamped yet again, raging at her, chomping and clacking like a mindless feeding machine, fighting his restraints.

  Upset, she went into the hall. Willow was there, and they conferred.

  “I think we need to get him some blood.”

  “Do you want me to kill Anya?” Willow asked helpfully.

  It was decided that Willow should go the butcher’s—Buffy had done the same when Angel had come back from hell—and get some animal blood. The Wicca was almost as eager to run the errand as she had been to kill Anya.

  “Xander’s installing the new windows,” she explained, “and he keeps giving lectures on proper tool maintenance.”

  * * *

  I’ve got the power, Andrew thought, hunting knife in hand. He stared down at his victim in the basement of Sunnydale High. But I just can’t use it.