Vices of My Blood
Chapter 12
Chapter 12
“I can’t drink blood. I can’t kill anyone. It’s my duty as The Slayer. My job is to protect people, not to become one of the monsters that hunts them.”
Buffy was determined to get this through Spike’s head. She could accept her death; even welcome it, if it was for the greater good.
Spike slumped back in his wheelchair and stared at the ceiling, unable to keep the desperate frustration from his face. He knew it would take a while to talk to Buffy about her illness, so to speak, but it was time they didn’t have and the stubborn chit wouldn’t listen to reason. If he couldn’t persuade her to drink from him, she would die. As it was, her argument was coming out in low rasping tones as her strength gradually waned.
He wheeled the chair closer to the bed and climbed up beside her. Once he’d propped the pillows behind his back and was settled he looked at her. How could he make her see that this was the only way? That she had to survive so that she could save the world from whatever apocalyptic plan Angelus had thought up to destroy it?
“Pet, you have to drink or you’ll die. Who’s gonna protect your mom and your slayerette pals from Angelus if you’re dead?”
Buffy worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Spike had a point. Who would protect her friends and mom from Angelus? Kendra had no specific obligation to do either in the case of Buffy’s death. Yes, the foreign slayer would stop Angelus from world destruction if that’s what he had planned, but she didn’t really know what was going through the older vampire’s mind. This was the same guy who had kissed her chastely and held her like he cherished her. Now, he wanted to torment her to an early grave.
“Kendra will take over my Slayer duties. She’ll watch over the Hellmouth,” Buffy declared, even though she didn’t sound too convinced herself in her lackluster state. Why couldn’t Spike see that all she wanted to do was rest?
"I want to sleep, Spike," Buffy whimpered. She couldn’t recall ever being this weak before.
Spike reached his hand up and lightly brushed her cool cheek. Buffy was getting worse. She had been almost unbelievably hot earlier but now this thing, whatever it was, was draining the warmth from her along with her life. He smoothed her brow which was furrowed with her efforts to quell the pain. Her expression was tense as she fought the urge to cry out in agony.
“Pet, if you go to sleep you won’t wake up," Spike said. He had to make her see that not only did her friends and the world need her, he needed her.
Buffy didn’t answer him, only moved closer to his body. It hadn’t registered in her cloudy mind why she was colder than Spike. She tried with little success to burrow under Spike and seek warmth between his body and the mattress.
Spike held her to him. She was going to drink even if he had to force her. He refused to let her die this way -- someone like Buffy should go down fighting, not slowly slipping away. Besides, who would ever fight him with the same fire and passion as his own and keep him on his toes as well as she did?
“Buffy, you can’t die this way. You can’t leave me alone. Not now that I’ve found my match in you. You have to drink, baby. You must drink to live, to repay Angelus for what he’s done to you . . . to us,” Spike chanted the words hypnotically, hoping to drive them home in Buffy’s mind. If she refused to drink and died in his arms, he may as well dust himself. In spite of his inner turmoil, he grimaced at that. Angelus would love that ending.
Buffy only had enough strength to whimper in pain. Spike could take no more of this; she would drink even if he had to manually work her throat to make her swallow. Spike growled to himself; this stubborn streak of the Slayer's was wearing his nerves to a frazzle. He refused to accept the thought of being without her even if she made his life hell and drove him crazy.
“I won't turn you; love, if that's what you're afraid of. You know how a turning works. For you to become a vampire I have to drink from you first, and then have you drink from me. This is only you drinking from me. I just want to make you better, so we can kick that ponce of my grandsire’s ass and put a stop to whatever he has planned.”
Buffy eyed Spike warily. He had to close his eyes against the pain and mistrust that lingered in her hazel ones. "Love, I need you here. I can't fight them alone. Your mum needs you, your friends need you; the world needs Buffy Anne Summers. I know this is hard for you, that being the Slayer makes you naturally hate and distrust what I'm asking you to do, but Buffy this is what needs to be done to keep you in this world."
Buffy’s eyes softened as she stared up at Spike. He had finally broken through the barrier she used to protect herself. He felt her waver under his heartfelt speech. Before she could put the wall back up, his game face slid into place. He hurried to slice his wrist open and moved the gaping wound over her mouth.
Buffy would have pulled away had she any strength left to accomplish the task. Spike’s blood dripped into her mouth and slowly trickled over her tongue. Her taste buds sizzled at the new flavors that ran across them -- sweet, salty, bitter, coppery tang -- all rolled into one thick, flowing stream that washed down her throat.
Spike closed his eyes at the sensation of Buffy’s tongue pressing against his torn flesh and licking at the wound. He could feel himself starting to harden. It surprised him that he felt anything below the waist, let alone his cock hardening. This slip of a girl had only to touch him and he felt truly alive again.
A sense of euphoria washed over Buffy and made her skin tingle. A jolt of sensation raced to the pit of her stomach and ended in a pool of liquid between her thighs. She could taste Spike’s deep feelings for her in his blood and bucked against his crotch in response. She was at a loss for words to explain what came next. One moment she was licking the wound and sipping his blood, and the next she wanted to tighten her thighs around him. To fuse her body to his and devour him.
Oh, God! Spike thought for sure he was on the verge of coming with each pull on his blood that she took. He was so lost in the sensation of her body grinding against him that he only vaguely noticed when her suckles changed from hesitant to demanding. The harder she sucked the wound, the tighter his jeans became.
Buffy slid her hands along the contours of Spike’s muscles, sweeping from his chest to his waist. Gripping his hips, she pulled him between her thighs and pressed her mound against his crotch. She pulled her mouth away from his wrist and gasped, “Please, Spike!”
When Spike licked his wrist closed he noticed twin punctures above his own rapidly healing marks. The Slayer had bitten him! He looked down at her with a mixture of awe, confusion and surprise. What stared back was confusion, lust and something else. Something that wasn’t entirely Buffy. The process of healing must have drawn forth her Slayer demon, and it called to his in the most primal of ways, in blood. He was helpless to resist it.
Buffy couldn’t control herself. The urge to be a part of this man -- this vampire -- that had been with her for nearly a month was almost unbearable. Spike had become her world in such a short amount of time that she couldn’t imagine what it had been like without him in her life.
She couldn’t explain what had possessed her body. Before, when Spike begged her to take his blood, she denied the tremble of temptation, trying to come to terms with her mortality and imminent death. Now that an unknown primal force had demanded free reign, she couldn’t help herself. Her body knew what it wanted and it wanted Spike in a bad way.
Spike must have stared at Buffy for too long. One minute he was searching for the demon he sensed beneath her surface and the next she had gripped the back of his head and pulled him down to kiss him hard. He moaned when her soft, hot little tongue flicked out to trace the shape of his mouth. She slipped it inside his open mouth to draw his cool tongue into hers.
When his tongue mimicked hers it was like being led into a fire. The cavern of her mouth was like wet velvet to his tongue and burning . . . Burning?
The Slayer was radiating heat he had never experienced before. She was much hotter than normal human body temperature, and seemed to be burning up with fever, yet he had sensed something within, something demonic in nature. He had never heard of demon that rose in body temperature so why was Buffy heating up?
Buffy started tearing her clothes off and working on his at the same time. She needed to feel Spike against her. He was cold compared to the heat racing through her. She needed to cool down now or she would combust.
“Spike, please! I have to feel your skin against me. I’m so hot. I can’t stand this heat anymore.”
Spike breathed deeply, struggling to gain some control of the situation. Something had definitely happened to Buffy during the bloodletting. He would die of torturous agony for not taking what she offered, but he had to get a handle on what was happening. He had read the section on the cure thoroughly, and he didn’t remember it saying anything about this kind of reaction.
I’m going to dust from saying this, but . . . “Buffy, I can’t.” That brought a stricken look in her eyes he never wanted to see again. “Not until I figure out what the hell’s going on.” For some reason that had seemed a sensible thought before he’d voiced it. Now, with the Slayer ready and willing for him, that statement tasted like ashes.
Buffy looked at Spike as if he had grown horns and a tail. He couldn’t be seriously turning her down now. She needed him to help her. God, she wanted to cry. “Spike you have to put this fire out inside me. I’m burning up! Why am I so hot?”
Spike saw the tears in her eyes. He may not dust from turning her down, but witnessing her unshed tears was another thing. He couldn’t resist tears from his mate. Mate? Why do I keep thinking of the Slayer as my mate? He gathered Buffy in his arms and pressed kisses all over her face and neck. Everywhere his cool lips touched she was hot. She wasn’t perspiring or moist from sweating; she just felt scorching. "Your Slayer is getting more powerful, pet. I can feel it,” his voice purred near her ear.
“What does that mean, Spike? What’s happening to me?” Buffy was perplexed. What was wrong with her? For some unexplained reason she felt drawn to Spike even more than she was before. It was as though the Slayer in her recognized him as a kindred spirit . . . like a mate? Spike is mate-worthy?
Spike could read her troubled thoughts by her expression. He eased off of Buffy and lay next to her, pulling her against him. The heat poured off her body like steam and warmed his cool flesh to a good 50 degrees above room temperature. It took all his will not to bury himself inside her just to feel that heat surrounding him.
“Buffy, love . . . We need to suss this out.”
Jenny slipped into her apartment after carefully checking the wards she had erected. She locked the door and unplugged the phone. She didn’t want to be disturbed for any reason until she had finished her task.
She went into her home office and saw that her Trans-coder program had deciphered the ancient Romanian text of the spell that would re-ensoul Angelus. She sat down at her desk and opened the wooden box to reveal the glowing Orb of Thesulah. As she intoned the words that were on the monitor, the orb grew brighter to almost blinding white before it flashed. It wasn’t supposed to do that.
The orb had become a blackish-gray lump of scorched glass.
Something must have gone wrong with the spell. Maybe the translation was wrong.
It was an hour and a half before Angelus could calm Drusilla. The boy bound to the ceiling wasn’t much help in that regard. Every time he thought he had succeeded in helping her, the Harris boy would squirm in his bonds and she’d going into hysterics again, babbling about Angelus losing his soul to the light. It seemed like it took forever and a day to convince her that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Angel stood up abruptly, dumping Dru unceremoniously on the floor. Something was wrong. What am I doing at Spike's lair? What am I doing here with Drusilla? Where is Buffy? Why is Xander hanging from the ceiling? A myriad of emotions were chasing each other across his face at each thought. As soon as the last thought appeared it was gone again, leaving Angelus wondering what just had happened.
“My Angel, what happened? Where did my daddy go? I warned you that you would leave princess.” Drusilla’s dark blue eyes cleared with insight for a moment before clouding over again in insanity. She crawled up on the bed as a child would and curled into a protective ball, shuddering as she watched the dark vampire intently.
“Angel, go d’anam don diahbal!” Angelus muttered in Gaelic before throwing out a string of expletives while he paced the floor trying to figure out how a soul could enter his body and leave in an instant.
Drusilla had ignored Angelus’ outburst and continued to babble in her own hysteria. “The gypsies . . . they must be punished with crops and whips. Smack, crack and they will bleed.” She gestured wildly with her hands and swayed softly from side to side.
Xander stared at the dark couple in wide-eyed fear. He tried to keep still despite the excruciating pain in his arms from his precarious position of hanging from the ceiling. He didn’t know what had set them off, and didn’t want to know. All he wanted was to get out of this crazy nightmare. Preferably alive.
Angelus growled and snarled as he paced the floor, trying to figure out what the hell just happened to him. Who had the audacity to try and re-ensoul him again? He was Angelus, for fuck’s sake. He didn’t want to be leashed by a soul; he was evil and torture incarnate. He’d get to the bottom of this before the night was through. “Come on, Dru. We’re going out.”
Drusilla looked up at her sire and a smile slithered across her face at the prospect of hunting with her mate. Her daddy wanted to include her in his activities tonight. He wondered if she would get to kill the gypsy teacher tonight, or if Angelus would rip the woman’s throat out before she had a chance to play.
Angelus grabbed Drusilla by the hand and helped her off the bed. The couple left without a word or glance toward Xander, leaving him to hang there like a forgotten toy.