Ma'at

Well, that was bracing. There’s this strip joint. I didn’t own it when I came in – but I believe I do now. It’s been the base for the protection rackets. I’ve just called for a visit. To introduce myself, you understand.

They were, of courpleapleased to see me. Saved them the trouble of making a call. The levy on my properties has been 7 ½ % of gross takings. They want to increase that to 10%. Wanted. They’re past tense now. They thought I was just another human, a bit more bravado than most, but someone who would knuckle under at the first sign of tough talking. They learned the error of their ways. And they found out the hard way that bullets don’t kill me – just make me extremely testy. A testy, bullet-riddled vampire is bad enough, but a testy, bullet-riddled vampire nursing a three-day hard-on, and who’s bottling up a killing rage? My, my. What a mess I’ve made. Lovely. I’ve drunk my fill. Well, from the ones who were intact enough to make it worthwhile, that is. My wounds are painful and need attention, but there’s something to do before I leave here. I’m sitting in this room of beautiful death, doing something soothing. I discovered I still have my sketchbook and pencils on me, and so I’m drawing the scene in front of me. It’s black and white on the page, of course, and the scene in front of me is in glorious colour. But I think my drawing will be a more than adequate reflection. In places, it’s more like an anatomical sketch. The exploded version.

************

Angelus is back and he is injured. I have some skill with battle wounds, and I have summoned Silene, one of my Norag companions, to join us. Angelus understands that it would be better to remove the bullets, rather than leave them in place – there are at least half a dozen, from what I can see – although I’ll bet that he is not a long-suffering patient. Hence Silene.

She’s an extremely attractive demon. She, too, has some experience of battlefield injuries – we Norags are a small clan, and have often had to fight for our existence – but her role will be different here.

There is a long table in the kitchen, and I have persuaded Angelus to remove his clothing and stretch out on that table. I can now see seven entry wounds, all of them at the front, as you would expect of him. The ones in his thigh and his hip have exit wounds, so I have five bullets to find, one in his chest, one in his liver and three in his abdomen. This is going to hurt. He was initially inclined to just try and dig them out with his fingers but this will be better. We will be seen to be of service. Also, what I have planned will hurt less.

I have a small first aid kit ready, and here comes Silene.

She sways into the room like the siren that she truly is. She was chosen as one of the two to accompany me here in the hope that she might prove alluring to Angelus. He visibly appreciates her charms, but has yet to turn that appreciation to anything more…concrete. We had not understood how monogamous he had become in his relationship with the Slayer. Still, life is long, and it will be longer still before Silene shows any signs of ageing. Who knows what may happen in that time?

She stands on his left, so that I can work on the chest wound on his right. As I am poised to probe, she runs one well-manicured hand down the uninjured side of his chest and bends to kiss him, her hair a shining blue-black curtain hiding me from him. Even a powerful vampire such as he is likely to plunge like a gelded colt when I probe for the bullet, and four strong men might not hold him down. One woman – or demoness, in this case – will. It would be better if it were his mate, but he is attracted enough to her that his pride will hold him still. That will make my work easier, and less painful. I can see that the kiss is having the desired effect, and her hand reaches over his wounded abdomen to find the part that, despite his pain, has come up to greet her. She strokes him gently, and he gives a shuddering sigh of pleasure. It is time for me to set to work.

***********

Ixolon has proved to be a competent first aider, although you might well guess that first aid for a demon probably means something different than first aid for a human. What he lacks in surgical experience and finesse he more than makes up for by a serious quotient of guile. Using Silene to keep me quiet – well, I ask you. Mind you, she demonstrated absolutely no lack of experience and finesse – quite the opposite, in fact – in her own…manipulations… shall we call it? It took him over an hour to dig out all five bullets, then clean and dress seven wounds, and she kept me hanging on the edge of that precipice without even once letting me fall over. Compared to that, the agony of a few bullet holes is minimal. Only when they got me back up here, to my own rooms, did she finally make good on those promises and give me relief.

But it really was no relief at all. As I lie here, I’m still achingly hard for the one who stalks my every waking moment, and haunts my every dream. Buffy.

I remember when I was human. When I was Liam, all those years ago. He had a fondness for poteen. Well, often it was all he could afford. And some of those moonshiners made a very good liquor indeed. What? You thought those mugs he was always waving around were filled with ale? Don’t be stupid. He’d get a skinful, you know, and then wouldn’t remember anything for the next month. I could do with some of that now.

My mind is racing, and how am I expected to get some sleep and heal? Thoughts of her are running through my head, the times we’ve shared together – and not all of them in bed, although just at the moment, those are particularly attractive memories, and particularly futile. And memories of our parting, in that dizzying moment when we were released from the Underworld, when I held her warm and living body in my arms again. When I thought I should never, ever let her go. When I would have been prepared to admit that the Soul might not be such a bad sort after all, after he had helped me win her freedom. When she threw everything I had done for her back in my face.

I remember every moment of my time there, too, although somehow I’d always thought that you wouldn’t be allowed to. I’ve never before met anyone who *remembered* firsthand a visit to the Underworld. Why should I be able to?

It’s a long time before I get any sleep. It should have been longer.

*************

Buffy is chained in a crypt. She is naked, except for a covering of ashes. Vampire ashes. Spike prepares to take her whilst Drusilla looks on, encouraging him, then singing her ridiculous ‘run-and-catch’ ditty. Spike is in demon face; he runs one claw gently down the line of her jaw, down the side of her neck, along her collarbone, then down the valley between her breasts. He dislodges some flakes of ash as he does so, and smiles a small, feral smile.

“Sire wasn’t so tough, was he? He could never replace *me*!” His claw starts to dig into her golden skin and a small drop of blood blossoms from her.

The claw digs deeper yet, as he draws it down her belly towards her sex. The skin parts, gently, reluctantly. The muscle follows. There is a hiatus, a brief suspension of time, and then her belly splits and releases a monster, a werewolf of sorts, fully-for mou mouth agape, strings of bloody saliva hanging from its teeth. It starts tearing at her flesh as it struggles to be free. Drusilla laughs with glee, and Spike joins her. My beloved screams. Her scream mingles with mine, as I wake from the nightmare.

I am angry and confused. I don’t *have* nightmares. I *am* the nightmare. What is *wrong* with me?

And why a werewolf? Well, I suppose we both have a werewolf connection after that time that Oz bit me, and she licked the wound, but that was resolved, and certainly hasn’t preyed on my mind. What has she done to me? She’s made me weak, that’s what she’s done. This has to stop.

I returnthe the hospital in the small hours. The new Slayer is mending, but still has almost no strength. She is asleep when I arrive, and it’s the work of a moment to clamp my hand over her mouth. She’s strong enough to bite, but that doesn’t matter. It’s only pain, and it will pass.

I turn her head and snuffle around her jugular. She really, really hates that, so I continue doing it for a few more minutes. Let her anger and her fear build – her blood will be all the tastier for it. Then it’s time. I sink my fangs in very, very slowly – I want her to feel me penetrate every strand of muscle, every cell wall, feel me violate her slayer-stuff – and start to drink. It’s such potent stuff that I could get lost in it, could stay here sucking in the richness, until she wo moo more than a dry husk. I don’t want that. She’s much more use to me alive. But I do mark her as mine. Oh, not as my mate, or anything like that. I have one of those, and this Slayer may be very good indeed, but she can’t hold a candle to mine.

No. This one is simply mine. My property. I’ll break her to the bridle, make sure she comes to hand. The mark will warn others not to touch this one unless they *really* want trouble. And I’ll drink enough to set back her recovery a little, to keep her here for another day, maybe. The taste of her rage is delectable, and particularly so since it is spiced with arousal. Her body is quite beyond her control, and it is responding now only to me. Then, as I intended, she comes, and it’s really, really hard. There is little sign of it in the inert flesh lying on this bed, but the explosion of it into her blood is as distinct as sherbet on the tongue. I draw on her vein very, very gently, prolonging her fall into bliss and then, just as bliss is turning into something darker, I withdraw. She will never have experienced anything like that. She’ll have to come back for more. She may not know it yet, but she really is mine.

**************

Looking back, I can see that the next two or three weeks are a surreal pastiche, patches of my life with squares of others stitched in, and a different reality glimmering in the joins. I’m almost two different demons. I remember how it felt when I first returned after that century of imprisonment by the Soul, the madness pounding through my blood. I still want to make Aurelius suffer for the things he did to me whilst he held me captive in Egypt, but I have understood since then that he brought me back to some measure of sanity. Now, I am once more beginning to feel the way I did after my first release. Sometimes I am in control, but at others… It would be so easy to give in to it, to just be as much the demon as I can possibly be. To regain that clarity of purpose. To get some peace. Why do I not do that? Why do I not make this town – and her – suffer for the slight done to me? Perhaps I will. That part of my fabric is frayed at the edges, and the pieces cannot hold. I can find no respite from her even in sleep. Each day, I have the nightmare. The same nightmare. And each day, it grows a little sharper, a little more real…

I’m leaving quite a pretty trail of carnage behind me. Bodies – and body parts – strewn liberally across town. I have drawings of them all. Ixolon’s first aid skills have been put to good use, and I’m sporting quite a collection of half healed wounds. Bullets are so damaging, and even drinking as much human blood as I am, they take a few days to heal. Never mind. My town is considerably freer of the worst of the competition now. Human and demon, if I don’t want them on my side, then I’m making away with them. demodemons I leave for her to find – if I’m cleaning up the town for her, she and her retinue can fill a dustbin or two. Besides, you could, I suppose, consider these to be a prenuptial offering. Gifts to my intended. And she *is* my intended, whether she knows it or not. One way or another. A demon would love my offerings. And slayers do have the darkness of a demon at their core. Oh, yes, I’m afraid they do.

The humans I just leave where I kill them. The authorities have always been singularly stupid here, but even they are getting a bit twitchy. They’ll be mine soon, along with everything else. I’ve told you – this will be my town, and a thriving metropolis it will be, too. A place fit for my Slayer and me to live. My mate, my slave, human or vampire. I don’t know! Stop asking questions, if you know what’s good for you.

I don’t kill all the humans, though. I need to seriously reinforce my base of minions. The way I’m going, I’ll be offending some people. I might well have to defend my patch.

In between my forays to clean up the place, I’ve been stalking the Scoobies. Including the new Slayer.

They all catch glimpses of me, from the corner of their eye, although I’m gone when they turn around. They feel me, often, the hairs on the backs of their necks screaming in warning. I’m never there. Someone brushes against them, and it might be me. I have all the time in the world. I can play this game for as long as I like.

I have a lot of fun with Harris. I remember what he said at the hospital – demons *never* forget – and I pay a little special attention to him. He may hear a whisper from behind him, although no one is there when he turns round. Sometimes it’s a silken touch on the back of his neck, or a hand strokinm whm where he least expects it, in the middle of a crowd. He never sees me, but he knows who it is. And he responds with the most delectable aromas of fear and arousal and denial. He hates me because he envies me. He wants to *be* me: at least, he wants to be the handsome, debonair and darkly mysterious character that none of the women can resist.

And let me tell you this: something in his cramped little soul *wants* me. Something that he’s afraid makes him a pervert, but mak makes him a normal human in close contact with a hunting vampire. You catch more prey with honey than with vinegar. He denies it but it is still there, every time he feels my touch, the scent of it flooding from his every pore. Before I’m finished with him, he’ll beg me to stop, to carry on, to do it, to spare him, to hurt him, to give him ecstasy that he has never known. I’ll do it, too. I don’t think I want to kill him, not yet. I’ll just kill him inside, and remake him as I wish. He’s easy meat, so he’s at the top of my list. The Watcher is at the bottom. Let him suffer by watching what I do to his little troupe of white hats, as I take every single one away from him, because now I understand what he has done.

I started with the witches, you see. Willow and Tara. I went into the Magic Shop the back way, and heard them talk to Giles. I was surprised by what they said, but it explained a lot. They were both angry with him. He hasn’t allowed anyone to tell Buffy what happened after she took a dive from that tower. She doesn’t even know that she died – she thinks I simply caught her. All she really knows of me since I came back to Sunnydale – since I came back to the world, even – is that I killed Spike, and I tortured her. They think she should be told that I tried to make amends. It seems I have some friends.

I’ll send her something that will try to explain. When she’s had time to think about it, I’ll see her myself. Make her understand. Make her remember.

When I get back to the mansion, I sit down to write to her, to tell her how I feel, to tell her what happened. But the words won’t come. Any words that do are simply inadequate to the task, as if my pen were simply sliding away from the words I need. This is not something I had expected. The Soul certainly managed to get tongue-tied most of the time he was with her, but me? Words have always been one of my weapons. Why can I not use them in my own defence, now?

The why doesn’t matter. I simply can’t. Even if she were here in front of me, I’m not sure I could do it. Is this something to do with the spell of the Underworld? That I can remember it but never speak of it? That sucks.

And yet, the Being that I met there, he told me that ‘others would tell her’. I don’t know what that means, although he seemed certain that it would happen. I must hold on untien, en, hold on to something that she might still be able to love. And I must try to make her remember. And love me again.

It’s then that I recall something, something that isn’t words, which hopefully can be made clear to her without encountering the spell. It’s old-fashioned, but there will be records. I’ve already sent some gifts to the others, with messages for them, which I’m sure they will understand.

Something for the witches, to say that I know they are loyal.

For Dawn, to reassure her sister that for her sake I would never hurt the girl.

There’s something to tell Anya that, if she throws in her lot with me, I will protect her from her demons, since she is now only human.

There’s something a little less… friendly… to Xander, to warn him to stay away from my girl.

And there’s a special gift to the Watcher, who is keeping my mate in ignorance. A reminder of what I do to those who cross me.

I’ve sent something much more personal to the new Slayer. Well, several things. To let her know she can never be free of me now.

I’ll send my mate a gift that will speak to her. The witches will help her to unravel it. I know it. And I’ll make it as plain as I can, as plain as this damned hex will allow.

And I’m wondering where the devil Estevan is? He should have been in Egypt long before now. Has he failed? Has he run away? No, he wouldn’t dare fail me and live. I still have his whelp, Thomaherehere and there are a great many ways in which I could make the youngster regret his sire’s defection. I’m very inventive. Estevan knows this, and is devoted to Thomaso.

So, where the hell is he?

*************

I have delayed as long as I dare, but I have now reached Syria. My next stop will be Port Said. I can expect to be discovered there. If I am not, I shall proceed to Cairo and deliver the message I carry from Angelus to Aurelius. But first, I shall telephone Angelus, and make sure that he still wishes me to do that. It is, after all, a message of death.

***********

My name is Thomaso. We have not spoken directly before, but I believe that you are aware of how I – and my sire – came to be in the service of Angelus. My sire does not speak of it to me, but I often wonder what his feelings are in the matter? To become a bondservant when one has been a master? That cannot sit well. I am less affected, since I was only three when we were taken. I am irrevocably tied to my sire – that is how vampire relationships work – but I would have it no other way. I have another tie, now; one that supersedes even that most fundamental tie to Estevan: the bond to Angelus. That bond has not chafed much during the years that Angelus has been something else, and somewhere else. But now he is back. What will our lives be like in future, I wonder? It is his business that I am upon now. I am in Willy’s bar, checking out the gossip. Willy says nothing new is happening, other than Angelus, and I am inclined to believe him. I’ve given him a big enough bribe to buy even Willy.

So, I’m taking the time to have a glass of blood – Willy supplies some very fine product, provided you threaten him enough or bribe him enough to get the stuff that he keeps under the counter, rather than the stuff on open sale. And I’m listening to the gossip. I’m about to leave for the mansion, to report back that everything is quiet, when a pack of four demons stroll in. They’re new in town, new enough that I can still smell the foreign scents of another city on them. Willy hasn’t lied – this time.

I learn later that they are called Andrej demons. They hunch over the other end of the bar, and examine the under-the-counter stuff. I suspect they’re also looking for what Willy keeps in the way of self-defence. I have a bad feeling about these fouTheyThey’re more or less humanoid. Their skin is rather too leathery – and reddish-brown in colour – and their hair takes the form of quills, a bit like a very neat porcupine. They’re also a good head taller than most humans, and built like football players. They aren’t dumb, though.

One of their number orders drinks for the pack. Surprisingly, it’s milk. Oh, well, builds strong bones and teeth, I suppose. They’ve certainly got those. As Willy hands them the glasses, the leader asks, softly (although not so softly that everyone in the place can’t hear), “We’re looking for the big cheese in town. He in here?”

Willy immediately points at me, sitting minding my own business at the far end of the bar – thanks, Willy – and tells them, no, the head honcho rarely comes here, thankfully, but one of his minions, Thomaso, is. They move over and cuddle around me in a *very* friendly manner. Up close, they smell of fish. It quickly becomes apparent that Willy’s isn’t the first place they’ve been to do their research. They already know some things.

They’re polite enough to introduce themselves first. I expect they want Angelus to know exactly who they are.

There’s Kemal, the leader, and his friends Mabry, Fulke and Ozni. They work for their own big cheese, Dukker. Some of the organisations that Angelus has… annexed… over the last few weeks have been Dukker’s. These four are here to open… negotiations… I suppose you might call it. They know who I am, and they know why I am a minion of Angelus. They want to see whether I will turncoat, but they are bright enough to be subtle about it: subtle enough to call for another glass of blood for me, any way.

“Thomaso. Ae hee heard how you came to *join* with Angelus. It must be nice to be a small cog in a bigger operation, rather than just you and your own sire, fending for yourselves. He around too?”

“No. He’s out of town.” If they know about me and Estevan, I’m sure they know he isn’t around at the moment.

“I suppose you were lucky that he didn’t kill the both of you.”

“I suppose so.”

“He’s putting himself about a bit in town, isn’t he?”

“I suppose he is. That’s his way. He can’t abide competition.”

“He wouldn’t be open to sharing, then?”

“You’d have to ask him that.”

“Would he let us get that far?”

“I don’t see why not.” Well, I do, but I’d like to get out of here alive. Alive’ish, anyway.

“How many does he have working for him throughout Sunnydale?”

Ah, here’s a crunch question.

“Three Norags, a Hylekian, Estevan, me and a couple of dozen minions, at the moment, several of them no more than fledglings. I think he’s intent on building his forces, though. He hasn’t been back here long, and the numbers were run down whilst he was gone. It will take a little time to turn some more reliable minions. The people in the businesses don’t yet know who they’re working for. They have no loyalty to him.”

They are pleased with that answer, I can tell. I’m waiting for the next question, though, and I’m not disappointed.

“And the Slayer?”

“They’re estranged right now. He doesn’t tell me personal stuff, so I don’t know exactly why.”

“So she wouldn’t fight on his behalf? She or her friends?”

“Shouldn’t think so, but I’ve hardly ever spoken to her. Remember I’m just a minion now.” My voice is petulant. Good to remind them about that. Remind them how resentful I might feel at a demotion from much-favoured childe to lowly runabout.

A wad of bills thick enough to choke Willy appears in his fist.

“And you’d tell us if the Slayer were to… become less estranged? Or if he turns some extra muscle, enough to make a difference?”

I hold out my hand for the cash.

“Where can I reach you?”

He gives me a cell phone number – and the cash.

“Is there a message you’d like me to take to Angelus for you?”

“Tell him that Dukker feels there must be some misunderstanding, and wishes to see what sort of resolution can be reached. He’ll call on Angelus tomorrow night, if that suits. We’ll wait here for a response.” I’m not to let Angelus know I have a direct contact by phone, then. Right.

*************

There are lots of things I wish. I wish I weren’t the Slayer. I wish I hadn’t lost Angel his soul. I wish I knew why things had gone so terribly wrong betwee ane and Angel’s dark half. I wish I knew why I ever thought they could possibly go right. I wish I had the strength to kill him. Perhaps Faith will do better. Perhaps that’s why she’s here, now. Perhaps the Powers know that this is something I must fail in.

I wish I didn’t still love him.

He’s spent the last few weeks stalking us. I think it’s worse than when he first reappeared, all those years ago. In the Bronze, several times I’ve felt him behind me, his fingers on my spine. Then he’s gone, unseen.

In cemeteries, when I’ve been on patrol, I’ve felt him in the shadows. I thought at first that he meant to rape me, as he did when he first came back. But he hasn’t. He’s just lurked. Shadowy stalker guy again. And it always seems to me that stalking alongside him is Spike’s shadow. All my fault.

Now there are the gifts again, just like last time.

He’s sent a dead rabbit to Anya; a gypsy tambourine to Giles; a gelding knife to Xander (and didn’t *that* get a reaction). Tara and Willow got a bunch of sunflowe And And he’s sent me a picture. It’s in watercolour pastels, and it’s signed with an A. He’s done it himself.

It would be beautiful if I had received it in any other way, from anyone else, at any other time. But I know there’s a message here for me, and I’m sure I won’t like it. Like the ‘gift’ to Tara and Willow, it’s a flower arrangement.

Now, we’re here in the Magic Shop, while Willow tries to find what some of these things mean. He knows that Anya hates rabbits. He must know what the reminder of anything gypsy would do to Giles. I won’t even think about the gelding knife. But why the flowers? Well, it seems that Willow has found it now. She’s coming over to me with the picture. Everyone else is watching, waiting.

“It’s the language of flowers, Buffy. That’s what the message is. This arrangement, each flower says something different.”

Then she explains. The arrangement is centred around red tulips. Those are for reclamation of love. There are calla lilies, which she tells me stand for magnificent beauty, or perhaps pride. The anemones mean forsaken, the trailing tails of amaranth are immortality and the feathery leaves of rue are for contrition. The ears of golden wheat mean the riches of the continuation of life. The vase is twined round with honeysuckle for the bonds of love, and with periwinkle for happy memories. There are red wallflowers for fidelity, and sprigs of yew for sorrow. Lying on the table at the front of the vase is a huge begonia bloom on a branch of myrtle. Dark thoughts on wedded bliss.

How do we know what all the flowers are? He’s taken the precaution of listing them on the back.

All I have to do now is understand it, but my first impression? I’ve hurt his pride, and he’s going to come to reclaim me, and turn me, and make me very, very sorry that I have forsaken him. I’d rather die.

Willow and Tara seem to think I’m wrong, that there are different interpretations for this arrangement of flowers, but it speaks clearly enough to me. I ask Giles what he thinks, but he just has an unreadable expression on his face. I’m going to go with my first thought, then. Xander thinks I’m right. Well, given his gift, I suppose he would.

The sunflowers that Angelus sent to Willow and Tara? They mean loyalty. Perhaps he’s warning them that they have been disloyal to him. Why? Willow and Tara are the ones who tell me that perhaps I should talk to him, hear what he has to say, give him a chance to explain. They don’t mention Spike, but he’s there, behind every sentence. They weren’t the one in Angelus’ chains, feeling his fangs and his whip, though. And all the rest.

Dawn? He’s sent her a silver cross, just like the one that Angel gave to me. Why? Is he telling her that even that won’t keep him away?

Faith? Every day, he’s sent her a drawing. Each one is of Faith herself, and in many of them she is doing something personal or intimate. They are shocking, even to Faith. She isn’t like me, you know. We’re sister Slayers, and have a bond, that’s for sure. rwisrwise? She’s tough and streetwise and openly sexy. And she’s a lot more experienced at that side of life than I am. But even she is shocked at these drawings. Shocked, very unnerved and, I think, a bit turned on. Correction, a lot turned on. But she’s angry, too, and says that now she’s back to full strength, she’s going to come on patrol with me. And kill him. Even though he saved her life.

*************

Estevan has just telephoned from Syria, apologising for taking so long, and asking if I have more instructions for him before he enters Egypt. I knew what he was really asking. Have I changed my mind?

I cannot, of course. I would lose face, and I can’t do that. I have my pride. So, he’s off to Port Said now, then Cairo.

I’m expecting Dukker to come and ‘negotiate’ over the way I’m putting him out of business here, but not for another couple of hours. If he’s honourable – and that’s a very big if – I may have to make some concessions. So, I’ll need to stay sharp. I’ll just go for a stroll, I think. Check on my women.

************

Faith and I have patrolled most of the cemeteries, and we’re now in the Eternal Rest. This one has particular memories for me. It’s the one where I lost myself to a demon. Not Spike, although I was selfish enough to hope that he could fill a gap, could help me try and find comfort in the touch of my mate’s childe. Not my souled Angel, my knight in armour. My other demon. My nemesis. I’m a disgrace. I must have been stupid, to think I could ever tame him. Now we have to kill him, before he finishes off this town. Xander was right about that.

He’s leaving a trail of blood and body parts behind him. It’s as if he’s challenging me, daring me to come and stop him. He’s killed so many, and I’ve done nothing about it. It has to stop.

If he’s going to be waiting anywhere, it’ll be here. I know it. I feel it in my… in my *blood*. That fits, I suppose. Where else would I feel him? We’ve split up, Faith taking one side, me the other. If he comes, it will be for me, surely? And I can’t bear to let Faith see me cr I d I do what I should have done years ago. Or, perhaps, see me fail altogether.

There’s a guy just ahead. He looks a bit like my demon, but it isn’t him. Although I can’t make out his features, I can see he’s the same build, the same colouring. But I can’t feel him in my heart, my head or my womb, like I can feel *him* when he’s near, when I allow myself to feel. And I certainly can’t feel his teeth at this mark on my neck, like I can feel *him*. It really is a mark of ownership. Yes, I do indeed feel him in other places than my blood. I’ve given him everything, handed myself to him for complete and utter possession. More fool me. I can’t think how I let things get so far, so out of balance. How I could sink so low.

I don’t know what this guy’s doing here, but it isn’t safe for him. He’s seen me, and he’s turning to talk to me. Well, unless he’s got a gun, he’s in more danger than I am. Even with a gun, if Angelus sees him talking t, al, alone, here, at this time of night, he’ll be dead.

**************

I can see B on the other side of this cemetery. She doesn’t say much to me, but she’s eating her heart out over that demon lover of hers. That’s the thing about demons, I guess. They’re pretty damned hard to resist. And this one has had his teeth into her, just like he’s had them into me. He’ll die for that. She doesn’t think that she’ll be able to kill him, although she’ll try anyway. She won’t have to. I’m going to do it for her.

I can still feel his hand running over my body, his fangs sinking through my skin, the *unbelievable* orgasm when he drank from me. B’s had a lot of time with the sonofabitch, time that I have to say I envy. I’d really like to get me a piece of his action before he’s dust. But it’s too dangerous. And I don’t think she’d forgive me, anyway. She might not forgive me for dusting him, let’s be honest. Oh, she’ll say she does, but in her heart? I don’t think so.

Damn me! He’s over there. He’s walking over to talk to her. Goddamn him. I’m going to get the bastard now. This is the last time she’ll have to see him. And the last time I’ll have to wonder about the touch of him, the feel of him against my skin, the whisper of his fangs tracing a path down my throat… Whether having him inside me is anywhere near as good as having his fangs in me…

There’s plenty of cover here, lots of big old tombs, and some trees, I can easily sneak round behind him. This stake I’ve got is as sharp as they come – sharp enough for him, believe me. Just a bit further… Got him! Straight in the heart.

Oh, fuck…

****************

I’m watching my women from the shelter of a familiar mausoleum, and what has just happened must be a gift from the Lords of Hell. The new Slayer has just killed a human. He was talking to my mate, and I could tell from his scent that he had evil on his mind. I don’t care about the evil part, but I do care that it was my mate he had designs on. He was going to die sometime tonight. Or perhaps tomorrow, or the next night. Or next month. He was a well-built guy. Maybe he’d have lasted a long time chained to the wall of my dungeon. He wouldn’t have enjoyed what I was planning to do, though.

And now the new Slayer has spoiled my enjoyment, deprived me of a plaything. Still, I can’t hold that against her. I like that she protected Buffy. Of course, she didn’t intend to protect her from a human. She may be a rather more mixed-up slayer than mine is, but she still doesn’t kill humans. She thought she was killing me. Gotta give her full marks for effort. A for effort, E for attainment, I’m afraid.

I suppose I’d better take a hand. They won’t know how to dispose of an actual corpse. And I haven’t fed yet. If I’m expecting company, I need to eat. I much prefer meat on the hoof, so to speak, but he’ll do.

“Hello, lover. Slayer.”

The fight has gone out of the pair of them for the moment, it seems. Buffy is staring in shock at the corpse. The other one is looking defiant, but I can smell the horror and adrenaline. You have no idea how difficult it is to keep myself under control. Down, boy. This is a delicate situation here. I’d prefer it to be knight to the rescue, but who knows how this will end? I make myself comfortable perched on a nearby headstone, but out of staking reach, just as a precaution.

“I’ll take care of the stiff, don’t worry about that.”

I might as well be talking to myself. No response. So, I wait a bit longer before I try again.

“This guy,” and I stir the body a little with the toe of my boot, “had bad intentions towards Buffy. If you hadn’t killed him, I would have. It’s no big deal.”

Buffy rouses herself to look at me. There’s disgust and loathing in that look. Well, that’s not very promising. I can see her tense herself for action. She’s really off her game. She never telegraphs her moves like that. I’m going to have to take a hand in her training. And then she launches herself towards me. I just have time to fling my arm up in front of my most vulnerable area. No, not there. My heart.

“This is all your fault…” and the stake is in my arm. Before she can free it to strike again, I give her a backhander that sends her flying. She lands hard, winded. The other one is on me in a heartbeat. Two Slayers to one vampire? No fair. It’s a good job that both of them are rather distracted. A quick turn, a small sidestep, and I have the new Slayer pressed back against me, with my fangs against her throat. I take some deep draughts before Buffy can get back on her feet – just enough to slow this one down – and while I’m doing that, I run my hand over her lush body, enjoying her curves, and turning her on. Told you. Got to get her mind right. Then I fling her towards my mate. They cannon into each other, and both go down again. The new one is crouched down, clutching her neck, and Buffy puts an arm around her. She raises her head to me, utter contempt written all over her face.

“What? Two Slayers to one vamp? She was going to *dust* me. All I’ve done is take her out of the game for a little while.”

Well, not quite all. I’ve reinforced my mark on her. I go towards them, meaning only to pick up the corpse, but the new Slayer rises to her feet, *throws* her stake at me, and runs. She isn’t really running from me, you know. She wasn’t afraid of me. She’s running from herself – that’s who she fears. I can tell. But she’s got a good right arm, and her stake has sunk in, close to my heart. That was a near thing.

It hurts, but I can’t afford to be distracted because Buffy stands up, stake in hand. She still carries spares. That’s good. I wonder whether anything can be retrieved tonight, and it occurs to me that my mate may not appreciate that I drank from another Slayer in front of her. Although, looking at her frozen expression, that might be the least of my sins.

“The next time I see you I *will* kill you,” she spits, and then she’s off after the other Slayer. Well, I guess that didn’t go so very well, did it? I rip the stake out of my chest, and when the blinding agony lets go, I set about clearing up. I empty the corpse – and its pockets – and head for a dumping ground. My arm and chest are throbbing, and I remember that I now have a hole in the sleeve of my coat. Damn. I really liked this coat. Oh well, I suppose I can go and steal another one tomorrow.

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Continued in chapter 3