Chapter Fourteen
Rain splattered heavily along the windshield, blending the onslaught of highlights into one shape. He hadn’t seen anything like it—fine one minute and pouring the next. Absolutely pouring. The change had occurred so rapidly that he briefly thought he was dreaming; only his dreams were that choppy. And such would certainly explain what he had seen earlier.
But no. He wasn’t surrounded with the fogged sense of alternative reality. A sigh shuddered through his lips. This was real. It was all real. Furthermore, the rain and the humidity were doing a number to fog up his glasses. He briefly debated pulling over to get a hold of himself; it was hard enough to see with a perpetual flood washing down his line of vision. And very much like the President, Sam wasn’t the most cautious driver when his emotions were erratic.
Right now—all things considered—erratic was too tame a word to describe the wealth of skewed feelings that had his internal networking in overdrive.
Witchcraft.
The Deputy Communications Director shook his head. No. It wasn’t possible. While Sam had never doubted his vision in such a large magnitude, he simply could not wrap his comprehension around the concept that so blatantly defied every logic he knew to be true. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. Witchcraft was practiced, sure, but it wasn’t serious. It wasn’t…people couldn’t do that. They just couldn’t.
Sam was a man of faith; there was no doubt about that. While he had never endured a genuine religious experience, he was accepting and even somewhat hopeful of the possibility. He relied on his Catholicism when things became too rough, referred to the teachings of his mother above everything else, and did his best to do right by people. It had been months since his last confession, though, and even longer since the last time he attended Mass. There just wasn’t time for that anymore. Not for any of them. Of everyone he knew, Toby and the President were the only two members of the Senior Staff that heartily attempted to keep their religion a focal point in their lives—though he honestly didn’t know if Toby went to Temple because it was habit or for affirmation. He just knew that he went.
That aside, he knew what he knew. He knew what he believed. He knew that many of his beliefs conflicted with the teachings of Holy Mother Church, and that likely played an unspoken factor in his lack of attendance. Similarly, he knew that the President’s religion had gotten him into trouble with religious groups—particularly the Religious Right—time and time again for his more liberal view on the Constitution. This was a man who preached against abortion while confirming his belief in a woman’s right to choose. A man who favored condoms in schools and stricter regulation on gun control. A man who believed it was never too late to turn a life around, and would abolish the death penalty in a blink if he could.
Sam was a bit more out there than that. He believed there was no such thing as an absolute right or wrong. That society had deconstructed itself to a point where good could not be seen without evil. But he did believe that good always prevailed when helped. When given that push forward. And he believed with all his heart that he was here doing a genuine good. That Josiah Bartlet was a better man than had ever before served as Commander and Chief, and the country took that for granted in ways that boggled his mind.
And yet, despite the absolute of goods and evils in society and the vast depth of Sam’s ability to seek out the gray areas, witchcraft was simply not one of them. He had never been very good in physics, but he knew what a human was and wasn’t capable of. And no one could do what he had seen Willow doing.
Only…only…
This was typical. This was beyond typical. This was the Seaborn curse. Find a girl, like her, get to know her, like her even more, and then BAM. Something bad. Always something bad. He had simply assumed that Willow’s age was the bad thing and that everything else was on safe territory. But no. Oh no. She had to be a witch. Of all things crazy, she had to be a witch. Of the spell-casting, broom-flying nature. And in a world where Sam depended on logic, he was at a complete loss.
A witch.
He turned the car down Rankin, absently admiring the structuralism of the homes while his mind raced. “First Lisa,” he murmured, barely even aware that he was speaking. “The estranged fiancé that left you because honest politicians make her uneasy. Then Laurie, the one-nighter that you really liked before she turned out to be a call-girl. Not that you don’t like her anymore, but her profession is questionable and she refuses to let you help her. And Mallory, your boss’s daughter, whom you told about said call-girl the day after.” A sigh hissed through his teeth. “And now a witch. A very cute, rambly…but a witch! And a nearly underage witch, at that.” He pulled to a stop at a red light and released another deep breath. “Well…at least it can’t get any worse.”
The perpetual black that shrouded the road was interspersed only with selective streetlights and the sheen of oncoming cars. While it wasn’t necessarily foggy, the head index plus the storm seemed to do the trick enough. That plus Sam wasn’t exactly at his best—thus when he nearly ran into a girl that appeared from nowhere, he felt as though the last screw holding him together had been snatched away. He slammed on the breaks and lurched forward out of instinct, his body crashing against the horn for several stunned seconds before he realized that it likely wasn’t the best idea to wake up the entire neighborhood. His heart pounded. His pulse raced. His ears hummed. His fingers were wound so tightly around the steering wheel that he doubted a crowbar could pry him away.
“Oh God,” he said, unaware that he was speaking. “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.”
The woman he had nearly plowed over hadn’t moved. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t batted an eye. She looked at him—nearly catatonic—her eyes burning his as though she had been expecting him. Her hair was crazy and unkempt; her skin marred with dirt, scraps, bruises. And her gaze burned him. Devoured him and spat him back out. In the midst of the chaotic confusion that racked his brain, the knowledge that he had to get out and make sure she was all right, Sam found himself paralyzed with the strangest sense of foreboding.
It was a strange moment that occurred between realities. One often never recognized that his life was about to change forever the minute before it happened. But Sam did. Nothing out of pride or assumption—just knowledge. Basic knowledge. He looked into her eyes of nothingness and knew.
And perhaps that was what did him in. What sealed it for him. In a flash, the woman was gone and at his passenger side door. He had little time for reaction; the smash of glass hit the air and shards of broken window scattered across the front seat. The man squealed and pressed himself as far to the other side as possible. His heart was pounding so ferociously he thought it would be a miracle if it didn’t break his chest completely. The woman lunged herself inward without a flinch, feet first so that her land was oddly graceful. All the world for a ballet.
The next thing he knew, something sharp was pressed against his throat. Sam gagged and tightened his grip on the steering wheel; anchoring himself with desperate futility.
Oh God.
He was going to die.
“I didn’t mean to almost run you over,” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m really sorry about that.”
Her reply was nothing but a cold silence. Then a word. Only one. “Drive.”
Drive. Sure. He could do that.
“O-okay. I…I owe you a ride, a-at the very least.” Easier said than done; his foot was glued to the brake pedal. It took a few seconds for his senses to convince his body that he wasn’t dead yet and if he wanted that to remain the verdict for at least another sixty years, it would be better for him to do as he was asked. “Where do you want—”
“Motel 6. Room one-nineteen.”
Sam nodded urgently, having no earthly idea where the Motel 6 was. “Y-yes. I’ll drive you. I’ll—”
“Now!”
How he ever found it, he didn’t know. Logic told him that most motels would be on the outskirts of town, so he picked a random direction and went with it. He was usually very considerate of traffic laws but likely broke every restriction outlined in every patrol manual, both here and internationally. The car came to a violent stop outside the woman’s given room, and only after he had killed the engine did she remove the sliver of window glass from his jugular.
His heart was pounding to the point of pain.
“Get out.”
Sam swallowed hard. “Ummm…I believe I’ll be on my way. I can give you my business card if you need anyth—”
“Out!”
“Okay.”
The cold slap of rainwater greeted his face as he bolted from the vehicle. He was panting hard and trembling beyond the realm of control. The woman exited the car in the same manner in which she had entered. Her eyes danced over him for a brief minute, sizing him up in a manner that was borderline appreciative.
Sam shuddered again and tried to keep his teeth from chattering.
And then he saw something that wasn’t by any means possible. A human fist punched through the hood of a car as though it was made of paper. She didn’t flinch or scream; her eyes closed briefly but that seemed to be all she needed to ease herself. When she withdrew her hand, she was cut and bleeding but didn’t react. Her eyes were made of stone.
“We just h-had that fixed,” he said, simply because there was nothing else to say.
She looked at him. He shut his mouth.
Then she was right in front of him. Her gaze burned his with the power of a supernova. There was nothing she would say that he would contest. This woman meant business: it didn’t matter what kind.
“Follow me.”
“Inside?”
Something sharp pressed against his abdomen. “Inside.”
He had the sinking feeling that if he went in, he would never come out. However, since she was making it pretty damn clear that if he denied her now he was dead anyway, he thought it better to nod and go along with it.
The room was illuminated with the soft glow of motel lamps that the maid had undoubtedly provided in the hours of absence. The woman removed her jacket and tossed it onto one of the twin beds, flexing a shoulder in a manner that was more human than any characteristic he had seen thus far.
Something was wrong. Beyond what he knew was wrong.
“I…ummm…I hope this doesn’t sound forward or…but did something happen to you?”
Her back was still to him, and she spoke in spite of his expectation of being ignored. “Ran here. I didn’t have anywhere else…I was just running. And I got here. Had to get here. Now I have to get out. I have to get out. And now it won’t let me leave.” She glanced almost wistfully at the ceiling, temper flaring without suggestion. “I can’t fucking leave!”
“Oh.” Sam frowned. “Who won’t let you leave?”
But that seemed to be the end of pleasantries. She turned to face him again, eyes blazing. “Take off your clothes.”
“W-wh-what?”
“Your clothes. Lose them.”
“I…uhhh. I don’t think…yes, they are wet, but I don’t need—”
“Well I do need.” She began walking toward him, eyes blazing dangerously. “I’ve been needing for the last two weeks. Hell, if you count the big sleep before that, damn near coming to a year. And I’ve been trapped in this fucking motel room for days. Going out of my mind. Can’t leave. He won’t let me. Girl gets kinda frustrated, if you follow.” Her hand was on his shoulder; his body was frozen. “Got to go out tonight. No danger tonight. Guess I have the big Q to thank for that. Takin’ care of his little problem so he can deal with mine. Great. I get that. Now take off your clothes.”
Sam shook his head, trying to back up but not making it very far. “L-look, I-I think you’re con-confused and probably…despite what some people like to believe, I’m not the sort of man that just goes around a-and sleeps with…I don’t…I’m not accustomed to…well, I did sleep with a call-girl once, but that was by accident. You’re not a call-girl, are you? Not that there’s anything wrong with that…well there is, seeing as it’s illegal and dangerous and I don’t think this is a good idea and you’re unfastening my pants.”
“Wow. Score one for Special Ed.” Then her hand was inside his trousers, grasping him with force that was far from intimacy. She didn’t want intimacy; that much was clear. She wanted a walking-dildo, and he had won first prize. “Only we have to get your little man to join the party.”
Sam whimpered. “He doesn’t like strangers.”
“We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?” She yanked his belt from the loops the next minute and cracked it against her thigh. His eyes went wide. “Get comfy, honey. You’re not going anywhere until I’m finished.”
“That…didn’t hurt?”
She shook her head, walking back to him with intent. “I don’t feel pain. Not anymore.” She cracked the belt again, whipping it around his wrists before pulling him into her. And Sam felt everything. His pants were around his knees, his shirt was torn and his skin was burning. He felt everything.
She pushed him onto the bed before throwing her own clothing in every which direction.
Sam gulped again when he noted she obviously wasn’t going to take the needed precautions. He was far-placed from ordinary; while his body was rejecting any potential arousal for the namesake of fear, something told him that was of little circumstance. “Do you do this often?”
“Haven’t had a ride since Xander, if you call that a ride.”
His eyes widened, but he bit his tongue before he could repeat the name.
“I don’t know who you are,” he whispered as she tore away all vestiges of clothing below the beltline. He was bare and exposed and had never felt so out of control. The innate strangeness of this alongside its perversion and tied in with everything else was doing its best to convince his brain that he was dreaming a very sick dream. It wasn’t working. “I don’t know your name or…or anything. I don’t—”
“And you’re not gonna know my name,” she replied, casting herself astride his ankles. “My name is not important. Neither is yours. You think I give a fuck who you are?” She glanced to his flaccid penis and licked her lips. “You’re in luck, Sparky. Don’t do this often. But I guess I gotta if we wanna get you goin’, right?”
Sam closed his eyes. This was not happening. This could not be happening.
A hand grasped his cock and let him know just how real it was. And he sank into a dark tunnel, clawing for light while no one soothed him with answer. He was alone.
“Let me go,” he whimpered as her mouth closed around him. There was nothing after that. His insides wrenched and his eyes filled with tears.
But she said nothing.
Just took.
*~*~*
St. Francisville was situated just outside the Mississippi Stateline in Louisiana, nestled comfortably away from metropolitan influence while still enjoying a respectful influx of seasonal tourism. The air was even more confined than Natchez, the borders smaller in size. But that didn’t matter—it was homey and clean. Small but seemingly family-oriented.
Granted, they didn’t get far into the town. The Toyota veered suddenly to the right just within the city-limits, and the Winnebago after it.
Not onto a road—a plantation. A home called the Myrtles.
Which made absolutely no sense.
“What the hell is she playing at?”
Spike’s brows perked, slowing down obligatorily as the wheels hit gravel. The home evidently enjoyed more tourism than any of the places they had seen in Natchez—the grounds were filled with people, the parking areas nearly completely occupied. “I don’ know, kitten. Only met the chit once, an’ I don’ think I was seein’ her at her best. Well…” He drew out a breath and glanced at her wickedly. “Unless you count the skin she was wearin’.”
Buffy rolled her eyes, ignoring the way her face flushed at the compliment. “Very funny.”
“You’re sure it’s her?” It was the first time he had questioned her judgment since her gripping command before they had begun this wild goose chase. Not that he doubted her; there was nothing like a Slayer on a mission. He just knew the difference between believing something because it was true and believing something because he wanted to believe it.
“I’m sure.”
Spike nodded. That was all he needed to hear. “Then hop out,” he said. “We got ourselves a Slayer to catch.”
They started with the grounds, which seemed logical. The Myrtles was easily larger than any of the houses they had seen—not so much in structure as in means of acreage. There was a restaurant on the premises, a pond and a gazebo. The gift shop was in the back alongside the courtyard. The property was surrounded by a number of trees; its appearance, all except the cars and the definite hum of passing traffic, made its origin more authentic.
“’S ‘cause the houses in Natchez are townhouses. This ‘s an authentic plantation,” Spike explained when she commented on it.
Buffy frowned. “How do you know that?”
“Well, other than bein’ old as sin, a bloke asked at Dunleith yesterday.” He tsked and shook his head in a manner that was supposed to be condescending. “’F you’d actually been payin’ attention, luv, you’d know the answer, too.”
“Oh, bite me.”
The vampire’s eyes widened and flashed a devious grin. “Well,” he murmured, voice tickling her ear. She jumped slightly, not realizing how quickly he had neared. He was directly behind her; his presence as comforting as it was intimidating. “Not here. But I’ll show you my goodies ‘f you show me yours when we get back, savvy?”
She flushed and cleared her throat before moving ahead in hurried steps. “Yeah,” she retorted as cynically as she could muster. “’Cause that’s happening.”
“Watch it, sweets. You’ll get a bloke’s hopes up.”
“Well, that would be your fault.”
“So says you, you minxy cocktease.”
Buffy gaped and whirled around, eyes flashing. “Why you—”
Spike held a finger to his lips, indicating that they were attracting an audience. Not much for stealth-mode. “Come on,” he said after the color flushing her cheeks began to pale again. “Let’s find this Slayer of yours.”
“Probably gone now,” she pouted, but followed nonetheless.
“An’ whose fault would that be?”
“I believe I’m looking at him.”
The vampire grinned and shook his head. “Toyota’s still in the lot, pet,” he said. “’F she’s here, she’s here.”
Buffy sighed and took a detailed look at their surroundings with some resignation. “I don’t…” She paused, and her insides flushed with cold. As though a piece of her had been robbed. And then there was nothing. Just nothing. And she was dumbed into submission. A sudden burst of knowledge to blankness. She had never felt anything like it before. It left her barren—frozen from the inside out. “It’s strange…” she said, a little dazed. “I don’t…I’m not sure I feel her…now.”
“Well, there’s a bit of good news.”
“It just.” An exasperated sound hissed through her teeth. Comfort gone. Now nothing. “It just…God, I can’t—”
An arm tightened around her middle, and she found herself reigned into a protective, soothing side before she could protest. “Calm down, pet,” he murmured gently. “You felt somethin’. You felt somethin’, an’ it brought us here.”
“But it’s…” She didn’t know how to explain it. How could she explain it? With a little over an hour, an entire belief had been established and destroyed. Quick. A hit-and-run. “I knew it. And now it’s just gone. I—”
“Buffy, ‘f you knew somethin’ that strongly, there has to be a reason.” His hands dropped from her sides, one worming into hers so that they were connected with platonic intimacy. A flurry of butterflies swarmed her stomach. “’F somethin’ brought us here, we’ll figure out why. Okay?”
Since when did Spike become her comforter? Not that she was complaining or anything. His presence was more than consoling. More so than any man before him.
He was taking a lot of those trophies for himself.
“So, what do we do?” she asked, voice nearly husky.
“’m thinkin’ we check out the grounds. See ‘f anything’s amiss. ‘F there’s nothin’, we’ll take the tour an’ get a peep on the inside. Right?”
She blinked. “The tour?”
He nodded. “Mystery tour. ‘F nothin’ else, it’ll be worth a laugh.”
Buffy still wasn’t following. What the hell was he talking about?
“Well, come on, Slayer. Somethin’ brought us here. ‘F it wasn’ Faith, an’ ‘f we find it wasn’ the grounds, the smart thing would be to take the tour an’ figure out what in God’s name we’re doin’ here.” He neared. “Toyota’s still parked. Our guide’s not goin’ anywhere.”
The Slayer licked her lips, unconsciously drawing his attention to her mouth. “It’s a mystery tour?”
“Heard one of the guests talkin’ about it.”
“When?”
He grinned. “’Bout two minutes ago. Vampire hearin’, luv. Wasn’ exactly eavesdroppin’—jus’ worked out that way.”
“You wanna take the mystery tour.”
A snicker. “Like you don’t.”
“Not really, no.”
“You’re not curious?”
“About what?”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Well, for one thing—an’ please tell me ‘f I’m repeatin’ myself—what the bleedin’ hell we’re doin’ here. Secondly, what makes these sodding tourist traps certifiable hauntings.” When her expression remained skeptical, he sighed and bounced a little on his heel. “Come on! Donna has a yen for these places. It’ll tickle her fancy to have the up close an’ personal scoop.”
“Assuming you did your job right, they’ll be gone before we get back. And why are you wanting to impress Donna all of a sudden?”
The vampire didn’t miss the note of envy in her voice. A deaf man would hear it. He ran his tongue over his teeth and grinned. “Jealous, luv?”
Buffy flushed but refused to appease him. “Dream on.”
“Think I got an’ itch for the delectable Ms. Moss, do you?”
She shouldn’t; having seen what she had seen, there should be no doubt of his regard for her. However, with his eyes dancing and the honest sense of admiration in his tone, she could not help but feel a stab of righteousness. It was unwanted, unprecedented, but real nonetheless.
“If you do,” she replied at last, “it’s hardly any of my business.”
“Somebody is jealous,” he singsonged, determined for a confession.
“You wish.”
Spike smiled. “Yeh, but we’re not talkin’ about me, are we?” He utilized her stupor to brush past her, tugging at her and in gentle reminder that they were connected. “Come on. They’re sellin’ tickets in the gift-shop.”
“And I’m supposed to pay for your dork-like infatuation with these places?”
“Oi! Watch it!”
“Call it like I see it. And are we just skipping the grounds and doing the tour?”
“No. We’re jus’ definitely doin’ the tour.”
Buffy released an exasperated sigh and pouted. “Why?”
“’Cause you called me a dork. This way, kitten.”
It wouldn’t end there. The South and all things that had celebrated centennials seemed to bring out a childish glee in Spike that she couldn’t help but find endearing. In the gift-shop, he ogled over the makeshift voodoo dolls and flipped through the ghost books, sniffed at incense and commented on how lovely the very expensive necklace under the counter would look on his traveling companion. The tickets for the mystery tour were a tad pricier than the daytime historic tour, and to her great surprise, the vampire refused to let her fork over the cash. Not that being a college student gave her much cash; being an impotent bloodsucker wasn’t exactly a profitable business, either.
Buffy knew she wouldn’t like it if she knew where the money had come from, thus decided not to ask. It was infinitely better to perpetuate her ignorance. As long as she didn’t see him steal, she could pretend it was actually his. Of course, knowing Spike, there was the possibility it was. The guy had been around forever. There was every chance that he had learned to invest.
That was the thing with Spike. He was an enigma. And he was always surprising her.
When he learned that spirits were often captured through photography, he insisted on purchasing a throwaway camera. He was having much too much fun with this.
Thing was—he was helping her as well.
“You know this is all bogus, right?”
Spike turned to smile at her from where he was surveying the pond and gazebo. “Come on, pet,” he teased. “Don’ tell me you’re a nonbeliever. Happen to know for a fact that you’ve run into your share of ghosties.”
“Yeah. In the real world. This is a tourist attraction for a reason.”
“Bloody hell, Slayer, learn to live a li’l.” He tossed her the camera and struck a pensive pose.
That would be something to tell the others. Why Spike was standing by a random pond, creating a classic thinking-man pretense. But she laughed anyway, and his eyes sparkled at the sound.
An elderly woman stopped them on the way back to the house and asked if they would operate the camera for her and her husband so that they could pose together. After minimal persuasion, Spike convinced Buffy to join him as the couple returned the favor.
It was strange. That did not escape her. She knew it was strange. Standing next to Spike with their arms linked was strange. Even with everything that had occurred, it was still so strange. Their fights lately had been more flirty than fighty. Being here together was giving her serious couplehood wiggins. She didn’t know what the vampire’s thoughts on the subject were, but he seemed happy. He seemed happy, and he was never happy.
She was scared to death of what they were doing. Of what she knew. The hand that clasped hers had recently been used to seek his pleasure while thinking of her. And while she had stopped trying to convince herself that she didn’t want him, there were certain things that she couldn’t yet grasp. Wanting Spike was one thing; having him was something entirely different. And for the way her mind was currently set, it likely wasn’t the best idea to send him welcoming signals that would do more damage than good.
She was playing with his heart without knowing what her own wanted. And yet when the lady handed the camera back to her companion and commented that they were the happiest couple she had seen, her heart swelled even as her face flushed. Spike smiled and nodded his thanks, murmuring something that she didn’t quite catch.
Then it was time to go in. And as they crossed the threshold, Spike’s hand darted down to grasp hers, a hiss whistling through his teeth. The side-windows were paneled with crosses, and while they didn’t bother him to any great extreme, he winced and squeezed her hand all the same.
The tour itself was a laugh: slightly entertaining but mostly ridiculous. It was noted that the house itself was built on an ancient tunica Indian burial ground, thus explaining the vast number of disturbances. Such was ironic, of course, because much of the design was structured to keep bad spirits away—the crosses, upside-down key holes in doors, angels looking down on the four corners of each room to ward evil off. When it came time to take a picture of the mirror that was said to house the spirits of Judge Clark Woodruff’s wife and two children, Spike couldn’t get the camera to work and spent the next ten minutes banging it against every piece of furniture he found until the tour guide snapped at him.
Buffy supposed this was interesting to anyone who entertained the idea of ghosts as a passing whimsy. However, evil spirits and demons were her profession, so she spent the bulk of the hour rolling her eyes and scowling at her companion when he stepped on her toe or nudged her hard to keep her from speaking up.
And through it all, there was nothing. No sign of what they were supposed to do here. No Faith. No indication of purpose. Nothing. Nothing but a colossal waste of time.
When they got back to Natchez, Buffy was going to crawl in bed and sleep away the rest of the week.
Evidently, by the time the group had moved to the old part of the house—back through the entry hall, the dining room, and into the ladies’ parlor—Spike had likewise lost his interest and took instead to pestering her like an insolent child. He tugged on her ears when it was noted that one of the favorite tricks of the residential ghosts was to steal women’s earrings. The guide mentioned that many guests complained about some spirit of childlike stature pulling on skirts or trousers, as though trying to get their attention. Spike replicated this as best he could without getting smacked. And when it was pointed out that furniture had a habit of moving on its own, he nonchalantly kicked over the nearest chair before appearing enchanted in one of the paintings on the wall as the other guests started sprouting a series of ridiculous theories.
It was a miracle that they weren’t asked to leave.
The tour concluded in the study with a passing of pictures that had captured images of spirits on the grounds. And the guide once again extended the invitation to snap a photo of the mirror in the entry hall to anyone who hadn’t had the chance earlier.
With Buffy’s fervent protests, Spike grabbed her wrist and dragged her back. He waited until the bed and breakfast guests had retreated either upstairs or to one of the outer rooms before flashing a pert grin.
“Wanna pose?”
“For crying out loud, stop wasting time and let’s go.”
“’F I din’t know better, I’d say someone’s spooked.”
“Spike, you don’t know better. I’m tired. We wasted three hours and gas getting up here. Let’s just go back.”
He shook his head, aiming the camera at the mirror. “Hester said it has to flash, right?”
“Yes. So that the large purple spot can look like a ghost. Can we leave now?”
“Swear, Slayer, that bug up your ass must be suffocatin’. Why don’ you kill it an’ put it out of it’s misery?”
She scowled. “There is nothing wrong with my ass!”
At that, Spike cocked a brow and leaned back, giving the appropriated area a long, hard glance before grinning his consent. “You’re tellin’ me.”
“For Chrissake, take the picture!”
He made a face of her, but did as he was told. And as the flash went off, so did the lights.
In the whole house.
There was a long pause; Buffy’s breath lingered in the air as her eyes went wide.
“Oh God.”
“Yeh, that was some flash.”
“Spike? Where are you?”
Something cool and familiar grasped her hand and tugged her to a comforting side. “Right here,” he murmured into her ear. “Don’ get nervous, kitten.”
“Nervous?”
“Yeh. ‘Cause there’s every possibility that I jus’ bollixed us up.”
She wouldn’t put it past him. “How?”
“I don’ know ‘f our guide noticed we were goin’ back.”
Buffy swallowed. Hard. “Huh? That doesn’t…why would you think she—”
The next thing she knew, she was being dragged to the nearest window, her eyes catching the rear of the Toyota as it made its way up the drive and disappeared.
Oh shit.
“Oh, I dunno,” Spike retorted. “Lucky guess.”