Chapter Seven

Spike was watching television. The reception was lousy since there was no cable. He was watching Oprah. Go figure. Spike watches Oprah. She could not wait to tell Xander. She hoped she would get a chance to tell Xander. During a commercial break, Spike walked over to the bed where she was sitting to lift the book she was reading. “The Bible. Why?” he asked.

“I need something to read.”

She was stuck with out of date tourism brochures and a dusty copy of the Gideon Bible. She wondered if she should just skip ahead to the New Testament since, being Jewish, she had never read it before. Maybe she would convert to Christianity. Her Dad would love that. Her Mom would call it a phase.

“Not religious, then?” he guessed.

She eyed him warily. “I’m a Jewish Wiccan living in a patriarchal Christian world,” she said. “I like Christmas, Easter Egg hunts, and Hanukkah. I’m probably going straight to hell. According to this,” she waggled the book.

He snorted at the idea. “Doubt it, pet. Anyway, Christmas trees and Easter eggs are pagan, not Christian. Can’t see you in hell. You’d screw up the suffering and what not,” he told her. “You want a soda?”

She wasn’t so sure about messing up the suffering. Her mother would probably start an encounter group Willow decided with an inward smile at the thought.

He had bought her diet Coke on his ‘take the minions out and teach them how to kill people’ field trip. “Uh, okay.”

He wandered off to the mini refrigerator and returned with a soda for her and a beer for him. “Thank you,” she said automatically.

“Your welcome,” he mocked her. There was nothing on television. Oprah was rattling on about her bloody diet. No disaster victims. Pity. That left it up to Red to entertain him. She was reading and massaging Harmony’s bite mark with mineral oil.

“What’s the story with the mineral oil?” he asked.

“It helps minimize scarring,” she explained. “I don’t want to go around with a Harmony bite mark on me.”

She said the oddest things. He laid across the foot of the bed on his side. “Does it work?”

“Yeah,” she leaned forward, pushing her hair aside, peeling back her t-shirt a bit. “I’ve got another one,” she said. “Right, uh,” she frowned, feeling for the spot, “Here.”

He leaned forward to look at her shoulder. Even with her pointing it out, he could barely see the mark. It was a little nothing of a bite mark. “Hardly a bite at all,” he scoffed. “Another fledge?” he asked, lifting the bottle to his lips.

“Nope. Darla,” she said.

He managed to swallow. “You got away from Darla?” he hooted. That was one for the books. “How did you manage that?”

“Buffy,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Ah, yes. The Slayer,” his lip curled. Bitch. “If it weren’t for that bitch . . . “ his eyes narrowed. “Slutty the Vampire Layer,” he intoned. “Tell me, pet,” he invited. “When your good friend was knocking boots with Angel, were you thinking romance or bleeding farce?”

She looked at him like he was truly repellent. “They loved each other,” she said quietly.

“You are a piece of work, Red,” he sneered. “Don’t try to dignify it. It's like humans mating with sheep,” he told her, watching her flinch. “Didn’t your Mum ever scold you for playing with your food? It’s not romantic.”

The analogy did not work. “I can talk to my food, but it doesn’t talk back.”

Score one for Red, he thought. “So, let me get this straight. Some noble, poofy demon git goes all swoon-y for you, and he gets in your knickers? Or is this one standard for the Chosen One, and another standard for the,” his gaze raked her, “sidekick?”

Oz had. She shrugged. “Maybe,” she allowed. “My boyfriend is a werewolf.”

He vaguely recalled Angelus mentioning that. “I thought the bloke I kidnapped you with before was your guy?”

She shook her head. “Xander?” she rolled her eyes. “He barely knew I was a girl,” she said. “Well, except . . .” she frowned, “he did notice, and there was the kissing, and then Oz—“ she looked depressed by the memory.

“A couple of stolen kisses?” he made a face. “Piffle. It’s a wolf thing. They’re bloody possessive. What a tosser. Better off without him.” He looked disapproving. “And what were you thinking dating a wolf anyway?”

“Only three days a lunar cycle,” she defended her boyfriend. “The rest of the time he’s just Oz. He knew all along how I felt about Xander,” she said with a far away look. “And he was okay with it. He gave me time to make up my mind,” she smiled, looking down.

“It was wrong,” she said softly, and then she looked up, teary green eyes kindling with ire. “But, we’re past that, and I’m not better off without him,” she added.

What did he know about it? She might be dating a werewolf, but the object of his affection was insane. Who was he to give unsolicited dating advice?

“I’m a million times worse off. I took this stupid internship, and look what happened! Maybe I’ll never see him again,” her voice broke on a sob. “I could have spent the whole summer with Oz.”

She conveniently forgot that Oz’s summer plans didn’t actually include her.

Kidnapping doesn’t wind her up, thinking about her trifling teen romance does the trick? He really hated weeping women.

“Don’t starting crying,” he warned. “Hey. It’s not my fault that you were in San Jose, or that you had to go and be little Miss Save the Daft Bint with Harmony.”

She sniffed wetly. “Sorry,” she grumbled. “I miss him.” She closed the Bible with a thump. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” she reminded herself. “He’s in a band. Spending the summer with his friends, playing in clubs and stuff.”

Even if she had spent the summer in Sunnydale, Oz wouldn’t have been there. “I guess, he needs his space, or something,” she said sadly.

‘Needs his space’ indeed. If he was up to that sort of pap he would have left Oprah on. Spike refrained from rolling his eyes. It took some effort; on the other hand, she wasn’t paying enough attention to him to appreciate the non-verbal sarcasm behind the gesture.

“Cheer up, Red. On the bright side, your big disappearing act may remind him that you might not be around forever, waiting in Sunnyhell, or passing the time being a Slayer groupie or doing something nauseatingly wholesome until he shows an interest,” he said. “It’ll get his attention.”

He could tell that this thought had not occurred to her and that it had her attention now. She got this goofy, far away look on her face, her eyes widening. It was a trick of the light, or sumptuous bone structure, but for a second, her eyes were Disney kid big, luminous with tears. He had to bite the inside of this cheek to keep from laughing.

Then her eyes narrowed, and she looked mildly disgusted. Like it had just dawned on her that she was thinking of ways to make being kidnapped work for her.

Don’t worry, precious, Spike’s got that angle covered, he thought. She really was rather amusing, he decided.

“You are—“

“Evil,” he finished for her. “Vampire. Keep up, pet.”

She looked sad. “They do tend to go together,” she conceded. “That’s why I couldn’t tell with Harmony. She’s pretty much the same either way.”

“Really? I thought: brain damage.”

She giggled at that. “No. She’s the same Harmony,” she sighed. “That was . . . disturbing!” she shuddered, thinking of her near death experience.

She shot him an annoyed look. “You must have thought it was hilarious.”

A slow smile appeared and his scarred eyebrow lifted. “You saving Harmony? It was moderately amusing,” he conceded. “There was a huge mirror behind that bar, pet. If you’d just turned your head, just enough to watch yourself for a second, you would have seen for yourself.”

That hadn’t occurred to her before now, though she really didn’t think it mattered now. She didn’t go around checking herself out in every mirror that she passed.

They were on kidnapping, Part II, Day five. D-day. She had been officially missing for twelve hours. The police had not been called, or at least there was nothing on the news to suggest that a massive manhunt had been launched to find her. She wasn’t a local girl, so no one was getting real worried about her yet. He didn’t call in for her today. His previous calls had hinted at playing hooky.

Yesterday when he had called her supervisor just sounded annoyed, and told him to tell Willow that they did expect her to come to work if she wanted to keep her internship. It was time for him to get in touch with the Slayer or her Watcher and start making his demands before some busy body got the police involved and complicated things.

He was puzzling over how he was going to establish his bona fides with the Slayer. He’d taken a cell phone off a three martini business snack last night. He would make the call and . . . what? Announce that he was offering a deal on missing redheads? Offer to cut off a recognizable body part to prove he had her?

“I met myself as a vampire,” she said.

His lips twitched. Red as a vampire? “Do tell,” he invited, willing to be distracted. Plenty of time to think through his ransom demand later. That she had stopped weeping about her object of infatuation was a conclusion to be encouraged.

“It’s a long story, involving a vengeance demon,” she began, not really sure why she had thrown that out there. Amuse the kidnapper. Entertain the vampire. Keep him thinking cute, fluffy, and harmless.

Spike gestured with his beer for her to continue.

“And an amulet that got lost in an alternate universe that was created by someone wishing that Buffy had never come to Sunnydale,” she explained. “Anya—it was her amulet—sort of tricked me into helping her open a temporal fold to get it back,” she said. “But she spilled the potion on me, so we got me—except in that reality me—er, I, was a vampire.”

“And wackiness ensued?” he guessed.

“More or less.”

“You met? Face to face?”

“Or, tongue to neck,” she muttered. “What is it with you guys and the grabbing people from behind? Don’t you have enough of an advantage as it is?”

“Feeding isn’t really a fair fight moment, pet,” he told her. “Hard to get staked by a victim when their chest is between their hands and your heart.” He got a wistful expression, “and it feels kind of nice to have someone all warm and panic stricken against you while you drain ‘em.”

“Eeeew!” She grimaced. “Sorry I asked.”

His eyes danced. “So vampire you was all ready to do you?” he prompted.

She blushed. “Uh . . . yeah. She was . . . in a couple of hours in Sunnydale, she had minions, and she took over the Bronze, and she scared people that pretty much ignore me, or didn’t notice I existed,” she frowned at that thought. “It was like evil me. Successful evil, skanky, leather wearing, dominatrix me, and with the inappropriate touching and—kinda gay,” she recounted.

Spike chuckled. “Sorry I missed that. She sounds like a treat.”

“Or not,” she said. “Maybe she knew you too. She knew Angel. He was in her world, with the soul, she called him Puppy. He was mad about that—“

“What?” Spike sat up. Astonished glee made him look almost boyish.

“Puppy,” Willow repeated. She didn’t roll her eyes. This was Xander’s favorite part, too. Well, go figure. This was almost too easy. The one thing Xander and Spike had in common was a passionate dislike of Angel. It had taken her a while to hit on her new indulge the kidnapper strategy. Amuse him. Keep him happy. It wasn’t a plan. It was a holding pattern until she figured out a plan. They had been talking for a while without threat of violence, which suited her.

“She kept him in a cage, and . . . you know . . . you do know, don’t you?” she checked worriedly, because she was not telling that part. Not that she had pressed her vamp-self for details, but she could fill in the blanks too.

Spike’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“Xander thought it was funny, too,” Willow’s tone was dry. Hilarious, in fact. The idea of a skanky, leathery version of her making Angel her bitch was a sure fire way to cheer him up. Thinking of things that cheered Xander up was oddly comforting, it was like slipping into a nice, soft, comfy angora sweater. Her mind drifted over a short list. Jelly donuts, badly dubbed movies, calling late and discovering that they were watching the same thing on television, talking each other to sleep on the phone.

“It was funny,” she admitted, mostly to herself. “But I try not to be mean, even if he did kill my goldfish and Ms. Calendar, because that was Angelus. Angel feels bad about that—more about Ms. Calendar than my goldfish—and he’s already depressed enough. Oh,” she snapped her fingers as she thought of another reason not to be mean about Angel, “He saved me from Faith’s evil Watcher,” she reminded herself. “Which cancels out the goldfish, if you think about it, though the goldfish might not feel that way.”

“That’s hilarious,” Spike said. Halfway through her babble, he had tuned out. “Funnier if you imagine it with you. Fuzzy lavender sweater wearing teen witch you, but still funny with the leather and attitude.”

“E-rase!” Willow made scrubbing motions.

He looked skeptical. “Your heart never beat faster for the King of Brood?”

She just stared right back at him for a moment. Her nostrils flared the tiniest bit.

Guess not, Spike concluded.

She took a deep breath. “May I ask you a question?”

So polite. He gestured for her to continue. He was sure he knew where this was going.

“Is there a point to all of this?” she asked. “You saved me from being eaten by Harmony—which ranks up there in the ten most humiliating ways to die—and I’m grateful for that. There’s karma involved. I’m not sure why you did it, but I really don’t want to be dead. But—“she pursed her lips. “You dragged me around for days, and scared me, and kidnapped me, and now you are being almost friendly. So what is this really about?”

He was mildly curious. What did she think it was about? “Maybe I’m just making it up as I go along.”

She frowned at him. “Do you want me to do that love spell for you? I’ve had some more practice,” she thought about it for a moment before appending a condition. “I think you should promise that there won’t be torture involved, because even though Drusilla killed Kendra, I don’t think I should help you bring her back to torture her because, she’s insane, and maybe not so good with the decision making,” she reasoned, before adding, “I kind of owe you. For not killing me,” she clarified in case that was in doubt. “And, you know, not killing me later is sort of a condition, too.”

“That’s really . . . sweet of you,” he said. God, it actually was. If he bit her now he would probably go into sugar shock. “But, I’m past all that, pet. Thanks for the offer.” He was lying through his teeth, but feeling all manly about denying his pain.

It wasn’t that. Her face fell. “It’s because you think I’m not a good witch?” She had been a little flattered to be kidnapped the first time to do a spell. It was a weird kind of endorsement to be kidnapped by a completely terrifying master vampire who had come all the way from Brazil looking for a witch and had picked her.

Okay, so she had done the math on that.

Her disappointment was evident. “Souled Angel up, didn’t you?” he pointed out. “Did that un-invite spell.”

She nodded, not understanding where he was going with this.

“Very impressive.” Angelus hadn’t seen the un-invite spell coming and it had pissed him off mightily, he recalled. “S’not like there are souled demons all over, and you’d think there would be if any old witch could do that,” he said, completely unaware that she thought he had come to Sunnydale with a plan.

He had come to Sunnydale, drunk off his ass, with a vague notion of inviting Angel and Buffy into his world of pain, and he had gotten the idea of kidnapping her to perform a love spell when she was in the magic shop chatting with the shopkeeper. He had been thinking boils, plague, and leprosy before that, for Angel. The Slayer could pick up his rotting parts as they fell off. Now that would have been proper.

She looked pleased. “Well . . . “she bounced a little. “Thanks. Most of my spells go kind of wonky, but the big ones seem to work.”

“You’re interesting, Red,” he told her. “Kind of amusing. And so far, you’ve acquitted yourself well,” he graced her with an indulgent half smile, his gaze slightly averted. “Let’s say I like you?” he proposed to the ceiling.

“I like you?” he tried it out, and looked directly at her, the indulgent quality of the smile disappearing, though the smile remained. His eyes were cold.

Willow felt her mouth go dry. A shiver climbed her spine. He kills people every day. People like the woman who would have helped her.

“I’d still kill you in a heartbeat, without a single regret,” he said watching the color wash out of her face. “I’d drain you drier than the Sahara, and enjoy a smoke for a chaser, and I’d still like you,” he said with a smirk.

“You’re alive because you’re too valuable to kill. I’m betting you’re worth something, ducks. So, I’ll see what I can barter you for,” he told her, getting to the crux of her question. “I probably won’t hurt you,” he ladled a bit of doubt in that. “As long as you appear to be more valuable alive, and more or less intact—and you aren’t more trouble than I’m willing to put up with.”

She wished she hadn’t asked.



“Have none of these people heard of call waiting?” Spike wondered aloud, glaring at the cell phone. He got the Watcher, the Slayer, and Angel’s phone numbers out of the witch’s day planner. Angel’s phone number had a neat line crossed through it, but it was not disconnected. He wondered about that. He had decided to call the Watcher, though it would have been a kick to chat up Joyce Summers again. She’d probably hang up and call the police. He remembered the Watcher taking a mace to Angelus after his bird had been left dead in his bed, and holding up like an obstinate bastard under Angelus’ torture.

English, of course. Yea for the mother country’s stubborn sons.

After his fourth attempt—the librarian must live on the telephone, Spike concluded; the line was answered with a diffident ‘Hello’.

“Watcher,” Spike intoned. He kind of liked being a kidnapper. All dark and ominous and evil. It gave him a warm feeling all over.

There was a moment of silence. “Who is this?” he asked.

“Three guesses,” Spike offered. “Not bloody Angelus. That was free.”

“Spike,” the Watcher sighed. Based on the description Oz had gotten from the waitress at the coffee shop, as wildly improbable as it seemed, it sounded too much like Spike for anyone’s comfort.

Nice to know he was still on the radar in Sunnydale. “Very good, Rupert,” Spike said. “I’ve got your witch, old man.”

“Not bloody likely,” Giles growled. He was determined to make Spike prove it.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Watcher,” Spike drawled. “Five’ two-ish, red hair—don’t care for the new look. Rather fancied her hair long enough to wrap around my wrist,” he mused. “Lovely little beauty mark under her right shoulder. Freckles . . . everywhere,” this was fun. “Any of this sound familiar?” he asked. “Ran into her in San Jose. Imagine my surprise,” he gave it a beat before continuing, “Or imagine hers,” he purred.

“I want to talk to her,” Giles refused to be baited.

“Don’t believe me?” Spike teased.

“I want proof that she is alive,” Giles retorted. “Otherwise, I’m considering this the vampire version of a crank call,” he bluffed. Spike had no idea that they already suspected that he had Willow, so he had the advantage.

“Hmm,” Spike considered. “Hold that thought,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time and going into the room where he kept Willow.

She was sitting on the bed with Georgia doing her toenails. She looked up at him curiously. He was across the room and twisting his hand in her hair before she could do much more than gasp. She cringed, whimpering in pain. Much better. He shoved the phone in her face. “Say hello, pet,” he ordered. “Watcher.”

“H-hello?” she stammered. “Giles? Is that you?”

“Willow,” he breathed. Worst case scenario now confirmed. It was Willow and she sounded terrified.

Spike took the phone away from her ear, and she went after it and him. Two whole days of food and regular baths, and she was ready to fight? He pushed her down on the bed, pinning her there. She looked at Georgia for help, but the blonde vampire had vacated the bed and was just watching this with a small frown that had a lot to do with the fact that her toenail polish had gotten smudged during her evacuation maneuver.

“What do you want, Spike?” the Watcher demanded.

“Good. Stay on topic,” Spike said, “because this is all about what I want, Rupert.” He felt the girl’s struggles lessen. She probably wanted to hear this too. “I want the Gem of Amara.”

“That is a myth,” Giles scoffed. “It is the vampire version of the Holy Grail. It doesn’t exist,” he insisted.

Spike made a buzzer sound. “Wrong,” he sang. “It does exist. It is real. It is in Sunnydale, and you are going to find it and deliver it to me. When you do, I’ll give her back. You’ll be receiving a package in the mail. It has Dalton’s research in it. Should get you going in the right direction,” Spike said.

Willow twisted enough to get her arm free and slammed her elbow into Spike’s face. Which even she knew was not exactly a good idea.

“Hold on,” Spike said into the phone before he tossed it down and unfastened his belt, yanking it through the belt loops of his jeans. He flipped Willow over, his hand heavy on the back of her neck, pushing her face into the mattress. He smacked her hard across the ass. The first time he hit her, she cried out in surprise. By the fourth stroke, she was crying in pain. “You want to fight some more?” Spike’s fingers tightened unpleasantly on the back of her neck.

“Bastard,” she choked.

“That’s better. No argument here. You hit me. I hit back. Stick to a fight you can win,” he advised. He let go of her and picked up the phone.

“I’ll check in on your progress. When you have it, we’ll work out the details of the trade,” he said. “I want the Gem of Amara, Watcher. Make a project of it. I’ll do what I can to keep you motivated, but my patience is fairly limited.”

“Then you will see to it that she is returned to us, unharmed in any way,” Giles said, practically choking with rage.

Spike didn’t bother to respond. He thumbed the disconnect button and pocketed the phone. He leaned over Willow, smoothing her hair away from her face. Her tear filled eyes clung to him even as she arched away from him as much as she dared. “I meant what I said, Red,” he warned her. “You hit me. I hit back.” His finger traced the curve of her ear. “Understand?”

She gritted her teeth and nodded.

He backed off and she scrambled off the bed on the opposite side. If looks could kill, Spike thought, he’d be fit for the dustbin. She was still breathing hard, her small fists clenched. “What is the Gem of Amara?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” he told her. “If it exists, if it can be found, the ever resourceful Slayer will find it,” he guessed.