Blood and Fog (Buffy The Vampire Slayer Series)

Book Description
The strongest magick ever distilled, and the deadliest butcher England has ever known... Buffy Summers is on the trail of a killer demon in Sunnydale, and reluctantly accepts the help of Spike. Anything's better than his moping around. But Spike -- as usual -- has his own agenda, and it involves something the demon is carrying: a vial of pure magickal power. Spike knows plenty of people and demons who will pay top dollar for this vial: Doc, Rack...and an ancient evil known as The First. Spike has encountered The First before. In the good old days in Victorian London, when Spike, Drusilla, Angelus, and Darla ran through the night in pursuit of dark fun, another evil being was stalking the streets, dispatching young women with brutal efficiency. But when the so-called "Jack the Ripper" struck too close to their twisted "family," the vampires found themselves on the same side as the Slayer of that time. Working to bring down Jack, and running afoul of The First, Spike and the Slayer formed an uneasy alliance, which followed Spike all through the twentieth century to present day Sunnydale, now blanketed in a mysterious fog....


Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One London, 1888 It was a bitter, wet night, and decent folk were escaping indoors, savoring the well-earned delights of hearth and family. Elegantly dressed husbands checked pocket watches as they returned home from their enterprises; wives and ladies' maids sailed in from their endless rounds of visiting and shopping. Aproned nannies supped with their charges, the well-scrubbed, apple-cheeked offspring of the upper classes. Knuckles were rapped, faces were cleaned, and then the heirs and heiresses of the Empire were presented to their parents, who accepted the little ones' dainty kisses. Then off to bed, in nightcaps and nightdresses, snug and smug and very, very safe. But in Whitechapel, it was another matter. In Whitechapel, there was no escape. It was indecent to be poor, and Whitechapel was the poorest part of London. There was no safety here, no lovely homes filled with fancy food and snobby servants; only a vast relief that one had survived another day. Night was on, fullforce, and it was busy. It was a drunk in an alley gesturing an equally drunk and bitter day laborer forward, taunting, "Come on, then, come on." It was a brute with patched clothes forcing a young girl into a darkened doorway. It was a monster in a cape with long, sharp knives. The indecent poor of Whitechapel faced a long, cold night where Death was everyone else on the prowl in the streets, and there was no escape from him -- or her -- except freezing stiff first and cheating the bastard of the hunt. In Whitechapel there were simply the poor, the victims of the world. Here there were very few wives and husbands -- there being little reason to marry -- and if anyone in the neighborhood knew someone so grand as an actual nanny, it was a rich relation who had somehow made it out of Whitechapel and got a new accent on, learned how to curtsy and also how to lie about her past. It was indecent to be poor, and somehow one's own fault, and in one's blood and, therefore, impossible to be rid of. There was naught to be done for poverty save provide the filthy lot with workhouses and poorhouses and debtors' prisons. They could not be improved. Hadn't Christ reassured his fellows, "The poor are with you always"? Wretched problem, the indecent poor. Maybe the Butcher of Whitechapel had the right idea, scare them into better behavior, make them go indoors and off the streets of a night, or face a hideous demise...but those were words best mumbled out of the side of one's mouth after the ladies had been excused and the gentlemen were enjoying their brandies and cards. What the Butcher -- the Ripper -- did to the poor was indecent, but after all...the lower classes did need thinning. There were how many prostitutes in London this night, perhaps twenty-five thousand? Shocking. Intolerable. At least those unfortunates were all contained elsewhere, away from the feather beds and mobcaps and nurseries that came from the blessings of good breeding and education. Contained in hellholes such as Whitechapel, frenzied with Death. On this December night, Whitechapel teemed with activity as half-starved men and women struggled to eke out enough pennies to survive another night. Gaunt-faced men bartered with ill-tempered pub men for the leavings of another's supper; boys begged for scraps, for pennies, for rags to wrap around their frozen feet. In doorways and alleyways, babes froze in their mothers' arms. There was gin everywhere, and the desperate populace reeked of it; it stank in the sweat on the brows of hopeless men half-mad with consumption and hunger. It spilled on tabletops as men scuffled over cards and imagined insults. It gave the unfortunate women of Whitechapel Dutch courage as they strutted down the cobbled streets, beckoning like sirens to the lads, to the men, promising the same thing gin did. Gin and sex; tears and flopsweat ran in rivulets down the filthy streets, and everything got lost in heavy fogs thick as blankets. Fog was the eiderdown of the lowest classes, the mob; fog was the curtain that shielded their degradation from aristocrats and royals, who also blamed the denizens of Whitechapel for their terrible lot in life. Fog was the wool pulled over the eyes of all Londoners as politicians blamed not the poor, but the Jews, for all the suffering and premature death. And the poor blamed God. Somewhere in the bitter night of eight December, 1888, fog was the cloak of a madman who lurked on every street corner, glided silently down every alleyway, knives and torture instruments at the ready. His name drifted like a wisp of nightmare, a twisted handkerchief soaked in blood. Jack the Ripper. He had gutted two women, and because they had been whores, the sister bangtails were sure the police would never find him -- because the police would never look. They would take their fine, swaggering walks down the streets, accosting the beggar boys and winking at the landladies; then they'd make a few noises about "leads" and "information" and retire to their fine offices to smoke and ruminate...and another poor girl would be found in the morning, flies buzzing inside her petticoats, blood congealed beneath her like a mattress thrown in the middle of the street. Lyin' down on the job: It was a coarse old joke in their line of work when you found a mate of yours had been murdered. It made her death less terrifying to sneer at her, say she got what she deserved, stupid whore. Piece of trash. Only stupid whores got killed. Smart ones got out somehow, got married, got a business going. Just last night was long enough, and the nightmare that was this awful life would be over. But not by dying. No one gave prostitutes respect, not even other prostitutes. Any girl to give up her virtue was a Judas to her sex, no matter how hungry she got or how many starving brothers and sisters waited for the money she made. No one was tougher on a brand-new streetwalker than the older ones...because here was another fallen angel, another soiled dove, and it was more disgusting than any proper lady could stand. So them last bits of propriety hated the pretty new ones...and then once she got slagged-looking, lost some teeth, reeked of gin -- in short, had lost her womanly virtues -- then she was a bit of all right, one of the sisters of the streets. It was the fault of the fog, all the butchering; if there hadn't been any fog last night, there wouldn't have been another murder. The streetwalker's name had been Mary Kelly. What a fool that chit had been, to wander about in the fog, hanging on to gentlemen and promising to do things their fine wives could not even imagine. What a right fool. "I 'eard she wasn't all there. In the 'ead," Barbara said. She leaned forward and tapped her skull, paper-thin lids fluttering from all the gin she'd had to drink that night. She still had all her teeth, which were white and fine. Her eyes had gone dead, though; it was the look that said that the streets had already claimed her, though she insisted she had just got to London three weeks before from the north country, and had launched herself in the profession only because her aunt, who was going to teach her how to embroider linen, had died of the influenza. Elizabeth had known Barbara was lying from the first moment they met. Elizabeth worked alongside Barbara these nights; explaining that she was too afraid to go on her own. Barbara was grateful for the company. The gentlemen didn't mind; they had no shame when it came to their needs, and the prospect of enjoying the pleasure of more than one doxy -- or at least of having her look on -- thrilled and excited them. Still, trade was a little slow tonight, and there were fewer men of the higher classes strolling amongst the general heathenry. Jack had scared them off. Several of the other girls had announced that they were giving up for the evening, and planned to congregate at the Three Bells for as long as they could nurse a single glass of gin. "We ought to go in, too," Barbara muttered, stamping her feet to warm them. The sad peacock feather in her bright red hair drooped in the wet weather. She had on a low-cut dress of dark pink and a shawl of puce; the ensemble did nothing for her ivory complexion, yet who was Elizabeth to say anything? She was wearing all black, like a widow. "Can't go in yet," Elizabeth muttered back at her. "Jimmy would have my head on a platter if I came back with nothing but two coppers." She sighed heavily. "You're right not to have a man to answer to, Barbara. All they cause is trouble." Barbara's smile was sour and mean. It made her look tired and old, and in their trade, that was not good. "Men. Bleedin' barbarians. Look what they've driven fine girls like us to do. It would be better if we could make our own way in the world without them. All of us." She sniffed. "You're a fool, Elizabeth, to let your Jimmy boss you like 'e does." "He takes care of me," Elizabeth said quietly. "He's good to me, in his way." "What, he puts the bruises where the paying customers won't see them?" Barbara huffed and readjusted her shawl around her shoulders. "No. It's not like that," Elizabeth replied. "You should come and meet him, Barbara. He'd take care of you, I guarantee it." Barbara raised her chin and sniffed. "I'll never 'ave a man, my fine girl. Save my shillings for myself and someday, take a ship to America and leave this 'ellish place forever." She looked around in disgust...and there was much that was disgusting to see. "America," Elizabeth said wistfully. It was a favorite topic between them, going to America. Elizabeth knew Barbara would never go there, but talking about it passed the time. And both our days are numbered.... "I'll go to New York and I'll be a lady, and keep slaves like the Americans." Evidently she did not realize that the Americans weren't allowed to have slaves anymore. "I wants some'n, I'll snap my fingers." Barbara demonstrated, then shrugged as if she was ashamed of wanting anything more than a doss and a slug of gin, and tucked her hands inside her armpits. "I'm catching my death, Lizzie-lass. Let's go in." "One more hour," Elizabeth protested, glancing about, surveying the pickings. A few men sauntered along the opposite side of the street, but they appeared to be as poor as she and Barbara were. One had his elbows sticking out of his jacket. The other was covered with grime. Her stomach turned at the thought of his touching her. She added, "Could be the rich men are still at the theater, that's why they're not about." "They're not about because they don't want their bellies slit open." Barbara glanced up and down the street. "Cor, with this fog, we couldn't see Jack come up on us if he was ten feet away. It's too dangerous out here." She turned shining eyes to Elizabeth. "Let's go in, lamb. It's not a good night." Elizabeth shrugged her halfhearted resistance. Then, a rat skittered down the street and she jerked, startled, though God knew she saw more rats in a day in Whitechapel than there were diamonds in Queen Victoria's jewels. Shadows danced in the darkness, making phantoms and nascent nightmares, and she thought about what had happened to the prostitute Mary Kelly last night. The girl had been very young and beautiful -- new to the trade -- and she'd been gutted like a fish. It could happen to any girl in Whitechapel, in the dark, in the fog. "Please, pet. I'm shaking with cold. See?" Barbara held out her hand. "Your Jimmy will understand if you go in. Better a whore who didn't make her lot tonight than a whore who'll never earn another penny." "Oh, all right, then," Elizabeth said, sighing. Elizabeth turned to the right toward the main street, where the Three Bells and its noise and warmth and gin waited like a half-drunk granny. "Not that way," Barbara admonished, shaking her head. "There's a shorter way down this alley." She smiled and gestured for Elizabeth to join her as she entered a low, narrow street with an overhanging second story like a Roman arch. The windows were all dark. "One of my customers showed it to me the other night. We can be at the Three Bells inside of ten minutes and avoid them big carriages and all the horse dung." "If you're sure, Barbara," Elizabeth said. "I'd stake my life on it," Barbara replied. "Makes no difference to me." Elizabeth looked around, taking note of how deserted the street was. The only sound was the echo of their shoes on the cobblestones. She glanced up at the darkened windows and frowned. "But you know, Barbara, if the Ripper comes down this way, there'll be no one to hear us. No bobbies." "They wouldn't come for us no matter if he attacked us inside St. Paul's," Barbara scoffed. "We're whores. And he'll not come here," she added, sounding unconvinced. "The pickins are too slim." "He only needs one to do his devilry," Elizabeth answered uneasily. The other bangtail drew Elizabeth into the narrow alley. A cat squalled and darted away, landing in a crate of rotten cabbage that stank to high heaven. Faint music sounded, an accordion, and Elizabeth thought of her father, who had been blinded in the war and had played a hurdy-gurdy on a street corner until he died seven years ago, when she had been all of nine. Barbara shivered as she looked right and left. "He'll not come in the next ten minutes, anyway. And by then we'll be safe and sound inside the Three Bells." Elizabeth demurred as Barbara took another step into the alley. "It doesn't feel right. It's not safe. It's too dark." "Come on. Don't be such a baby." Barbara gritted her teeth. She grabbed Elizabeth's arm and gave it a tug. "You haven't any brass, Lizzie. That's been your trouble in life. Why you 'aven't made anything of yourself." "And you have?" Elizabeth tossed back. "You're a bleeding duchess, yeah? With all your fine talk of America and your servants?" "Oh, now you've done it. You've gone and vexed me," Barbara said in a low, dangerous voice. Half-turning, she took a step away from Elizabeth. Her face was averted; Elizabeth cocked her head, watching the other woman, waiting to see what she was about. She hadn't long to wait. Barbara hissed, "You've vexed me indeed," and showed Elizabeth a terrifying face, a nightmare image of monstrous evil. "Say you're sorry before I kill you." "I..." Elizabeth stumbled backward, catching her balance against the grimy wall behind her. She wiped her hand on her skirt. "Say it!" Barbara threatened, advancing on her. Elizabeth's eyes widened. "I'm so sorry." The monster smiled. "Apology accepted, me girl. And now..." "But not sorry enough," Elizabeth continued, moving her hand into the hidden pocket and drawing out a finely carved wooden stake. The vampire's eyes went wide. "Cor, it's you, ain't it! Oh, my stars, my stars, I thought you was a story!" "Yes, I'm the Slayer," Elizabeth affirmed, gathering up her skirts with her free hand as Barbara slowly backed away. It was her turn to advance. Her training took hold as she assessed her surroundings: crates of garbage, made of wood; lights still out in all the windows; no footfalls, no sense of anything else to observe their mad, fatal dance. "We was walking the streets together," Barbara lamented. "We was mates, you 'n' me." "Yeah, you were walking so you could rip open some poor sod's throat," Elizabeth said coldly. "And you, so you could turn me into a pile of dust." Barbara's glowing eyes darted left, right, as if she was seeking a way to escape. Elizabeth had already assured herself that there was nowhere for the vampire to go. "I only take the bad ones," Barbara whined. "The sick ones. Them that God's got his hooks into already, going to die soon, anyway." Elizabeth said nothing, only prepared to strike. She put herself in the defensive posture her Watcher, Sir James -- the "Jimmy" of their nightly conversations -- had taught her, and took a moment to think of her mother, as she always did before facing death head-on. The vampire, sensing that her end was near, nervously licked her lips and half-raised her hands in supplication. "No! Don't! Please, mistress! I...I can 'elp you," she said brightly. "I know who Jack the Ripper is, see -- 'e's one of us. A vampire." She kept her brows raised, her eyes innocent. On her vampiric face, it was almost comical to see. Elizabeth laughed mirthlessly. It was as if Barbara had read her mind -- or overheard her heated conversation with Sir James earlier in the day. He had forbidden Elizabeth any action against the Ripper, no matter how hard she argued that no human being could do the things he had done, and therefore, he must be a demon. There was no proof of that, and so, she could not declare war on him. "I wish that Jack was a vampire," she now told Barbara. "Then I could have a chance at him. As it is, they say he's a human monster, and I can't touch him." Despite her terrifying countenance, the vampire looked horribly dashed, as if she had actually expected her offer to save her life. "Well, don't take it out on me. It ain't me fault that he's not a vampire," she pleaded. "I'd have turned him right quick..." She thought the better of that. "That is to say, I'd have butchered him, Lizzie. I still can do it. I'll hunt him for you." Elizabeth said nothing, only moved slowly forward, waiting for her chance to plunge the stake directly into Barbara's unbeating, vampiric heart. This one is for my father, she thought. He'd been killed by a vampire, though of course Elizabeth had not known that at the time. Throat torn out, blood all gone...now she knew the signs. Sir James had assured her that the vampire who had savaged him had died, and that her father had not been transformed into one himself...but she knew better now than to believe much that he had told her. Horrible as it was to contemplate, her father might yet walk these streets as a vampire himself. Barbara tried another tack, smiling sweetly and holding out her hands. "I been a bit of all right to walk with, eh? Ain't done nothing to try to harm you in the entire week we been together. I been a good friend to you, shared my gin with you, din't I?" "You're nothing to me," Elizabeth replied coldly, "except something that I have to kill." At that, Barbara turned tail and tried to run. But Elizabeth pushed off with her high-button shoes and launched herself at the vampire, grabbing her around the waist as the two dove straight for the pavement. Barbara landed with an ungainly thump; Elizabeth was on top of her and turning her over as fast as she could, grabbing her shoulder, pinning her, and raising her stake high over her head. "'Elp!" Barbara shrieked to the walls, to the alley. "It's Jack! 'E's going to kill me!" "No one is coming," Elizabeth assured her, although she listened for the clatter of footsteps, the bleat of a bobby's whistle. There were none. She was still alone with the vampire. "No one is going to save you." "No, it is Jack! 'Tis! 'E's behind you! Mistress Lizzie, 'e's behind you!" Barbara screamed, her gaze darting from the pointed end of the stake to a place past Elizabeth's shoulder and back again. "I can save you from 'im, only let me up. Please let me up!" Elizabeth ignored her and brought the stake down, pushing it into the dead flesh, ramming it home through the dead heart. The vampire shrieked, and then she exploded into a shower of dust. At the same instant, in case her warning had been true and the Ripper lurked behind her, Elizabeth leaped to her feet and whirled around, the stake held out like a sword. There was no one in the alley...save the Slayer herself. With no one to see her, Elizabeth crumpled back onto the rough, wet stones. She leaned her weight on her palms and retched violently. Bile and gin came up, and she was terribly sick to her stomach. Her forehead beaded with sweat. Then the tears came, harsh and wild. As she sobbed, she shook all over, head to toe, contorting so badly that one coming upon her might assume her to be palsied. But she wasn't palsied. She was terrified. Elizabeth the Vampire Slayer was sick to death...with fear. Sir James would be so disgusted with me, she thought, and of course the thought brought no comfort. He had been her Watcher for an entire year, and he had no sympathy for her lamentable condition. Indeed, it was so unheard of for a Slayer to be a coward that there was nothing about it in the texts. "Blood will out," she had once heard him say, when discussing the problem with another member of the esteemed Watchers Council. She'd burned with shame; her family had been very common. Indeed, the Watchers Council of Britain had declared themselves quite amazed that such a low-class chit had been called to be the Slayer. It wasn't at all what they'd been led to expect from their various readings and predictions. "Well, Our Lord and Savior was a Jew, if one considers the matter," Lord Morchwood had declared. "And yet, He turned out to be quite a good sort." Elizabeth was shocked, and yet not surprised. None of the men present had realized that she, Elizabeth, had followed Sir James to the Council Headquarters and was now spying on their privy council. There were thirteen of them at a long, rectangular table of deep wood set with candles and sharply cut crystal goblets, the Prime Minister William Gladstone at one end, and Sir James at the other. At his words about Jesus and Jews, the others chuckled -- a few somewhat uncomfortably, as Gladstone's predecessor, Benjamin Disraeli, had been a Jew, and one should not speak ill of the dead. She wondered if the others knew, as she did, that Gladstone spent a great deal of time attempting to rehabilitate prostitutes -- that he loved looking at them and speaking to them, but was so ashamed of his vice that he would whip himself before his meetings with them, and never actually employed them for their services. But he cloaked his desire with trying to "help" them, and all the ladies of the night knew what he was about. Cheap bastard. Many a fallen woman she had met on her patrols had complained of being given a meal and a glass of wine, then made to listen to his theories about rehabilitation. His lectures centered on learning a trade that a thousand women could do better already, and were starving to death at it -- making lace, running a flower stand -- or marrying brutish men who would spend all their wages on gin and beat them when they got home. One girl, Annette, had shocked the great man by declaring, "Sir Bill, I'd rather hang meself than do as you suggest. In fact, give me tuppence for the rope and I'll be off, thank you very much." Elizabeth's musings were disturbed when one of the Council members whose identity she didn't know sympathetically patted Sir James on the shoulder. "My condolences, James," the man drawled. "You've waited a long time for this opportunity. It was your turn to guide and mold a Slayer, and when the other died, I raised a glass to you, knowing your girl was Chosen. Who would have known she would turn out to be such a coward? Bad luck." The others nodded, and Elizabeth flooded with shame. "One can only hope she'll die soon, and we'll have another go at a brighter girl," Lord Morchwood put in as he sipped from his fancy goblet. "But, of course, your candle will have burned out as well, James. I've never heard of a Watcher who's had more than one Slayer to look after." "Yes, well, there it is." James sighed deeply, looking very disappointed with his unfortunate lot in life. "Perhaps she'll buck up eventually. After all, she is British." "One assumes, at any rate," Gladstone remarked. Hidden in the shadows of the Council chamber, hot tears washed down Elizabeth's face and she had had to bite her fist to keep from crying aloud. She had never felt more alone. When she'd been told that she was the Slayer, and had been presented to the handsome young aristocrat who was to look after her...well, she had counted herself a lucky girl. Alone, a penniless orphan and trying hard to help her mam keep the little ones from starving...it seemed like a novel by Charles Dickens -- like Oliver Twist. Elizabeth had been given beautiful clothes and her own room; she had thought she'd gone to heaven. Then her training had begun, and she'd had to face her very first vampire. It had all gone very badly, and Sir James had shouted at her, "I ought to have you whipped! Get out of my sight!" She had thought of doing herself in. It was an agony to be judged such a horrid failure...and all because of her blasted cowardice...and then, to hear how ashamed he was of her...it was more than she could bear. And so she had given it her all, tried hard to find courage deep within herself. But there was none. She was terrified of the vampires and demons that she was pledged to kill. She rarely slept without laudanum, and she never went out on patrol without first fortifying herself with a bit of drink. None of it helped. The one hundredth night of slaying had held every bit as much fear as the first. Now, in the foul alley way, she looked around to see if anyone had seen her, then she awkwardly got to her feet and leaned against the wall of the nearest building. She was shaky and drained, but she knew she had to report to Sir James as soon as possible. He always wanted to hear about her evening patrols; she got the distinct feeling that he kept careful track of her successes, as if he had to prove to someone -- either the Council or himself -- that she was worth keeping around.Those were questions she could not answer. Nor was she certain that she really wanted to know the answers. But she had done her best tonight, for Queen and country; in a filthy street in the worst part of London, she had destroyed a vampire she had walked beside for an entire week, and she had lived to tell the tale. Is that not brave? Am I such a coward, then? Still trembling with fear, the Slayer moved back into the teeming throngs of the indecent poor. She walked unsteadily, and her breath came with difficulty. A man dressed in rags leered at her and made an indecent proposal. A woman carrying a pale infant perhaps a year old yanked at Elizabeth's sleeve and demanded money for milk. "I haven't got any," the Slayer said truthfully as she glanced down pitifully at the child. It was wrapped in nothing but a dirty, tattered shawl. Its eyes were closed, its mouth slack. "I'm so sorry." "Damn your eyes, you 'eartless strumpet," the woman hissed, and moved on. As Elizabeth watched them go, the child's arm slipped loose from the shawl and dangled limply in the frigid air. It was thin, and frail; a lump formed in her throat as she realized that it was quite probable that the babe would die in the night, from the cold and want of milk. I'll go ask Sir James to give me some money, and then I'll find her, she thought. But that was utterly ridiculous. She would never see that woman again if she let her go. "Wait!" she called to the mother, thinking that she would ask her to accompany her home, and demand that Sir James give her some money directly. But the crowd on the street had already swallowed the woman up. Elizabeth could see her nowhere. She ran in the direction she had last seen her, scanning the gaunt, gray faces, the eyes bright with fever and gin; and then she saw -- -- monstrous -- -- a flash of something on a man's passing face; something sinister and very evil. Her heart skipped a beat and she whirled around, her Slayer's reflexes propelling her to follow him. "Sir," she said, and grabbed his sleeve. But when he turned around, nothing was there but a disinterested frown and a single raised eyebrow. Save for the red sheen of his cheeks, there was nothing remarkable about the man who looked at her as if he assumed she was a bangtail about to proposition him. She let go of his sleeve and stumbled backward. Had she imagined the evil she'd seen there? "What, are you mad?" he demanded, drawing his coat around himself and stomping away. As she watched him go, a great swirl of fog rushed over the scene, as if hurrying to meet him. Apparently unaware, he stalked into it, and the thick blanket of white concealed him from Elizabeth's view. The fog kept coming, mercilessly so, covering everyone like a shower of new-fallen snow. Elizabeth realized she would see neither the man nor the woman with the hungry baby in her arms, and felt unaccountably defeated. Wearily, she slipped her hands under her armpits as the vampire Barbara had done, and headed for home, no less afraid, and dispirited to boot. Sunnydale Just like fashions, various types of the bad go in, go out. It's almost like the fashion show of evil. One year, it's lots of vampires; one year, it's those weird Knights and their obsession with Dawn. But through it all, Sunnydale stayed in the number one spot of Ten Most Inconveniently Evil Places in This Dimension. Inconvenient, that was, if someone who happened to be tagged for Slayer duty actually wanted to have a life.... Once known as Boca del Infierno, or "Mouth of Hell," Sunnydale had been founded over two hundred years ago by some very unlucky Spaniards who'd had the foresight to name their town but not to move on and live somewhere else. The happier "Sunnydale" name came later. Some early Sunnydalians had wondered why the founding padres opted to stay, once they had decided that the town they were building had anything to do with hell at all, but no matter. Any of the old-timers who had the brains to ponder that notion were ashes now, and beyond caring what evil crawled out of the hole in the ground beneath the ruins of Sunnydale High School. Buffy had been a student at Sunnydale's old high school, and Willow and Xander, too. They were Class of 1999, end of an era in so many ways. Anya -- formerly Anyanka, the vengeance demon -- had started dating Xander and decided to resume doing so after he survived the apocalyptic battle with the Mayor. Buffy, Xander, Willow, and their classmates had also prevailed, for the most part, and now, here they were...still in Sunnydale and still battling things that crawled out of the Hellmouth. Oh, yeah, and Spike was back in Sunnydale, too, after a great run with Dru, taking over the Master's gig from the Anointed One. But he hadn't been able to stay out of trouble, and now he was fully chipped by Buffy's old boyfriend's secret government ops and unable to hurt humans. Now Anya, Xander, Spike, and Tara were sitting on gravestones because the grass was too wet, and Xander was humming an old folk song to himself to while away the hours. "'And the something something something, just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.'" "You shouldn't sing songs you don't know the words to," Anya said irritably. "It's a waste of time. Which is precious." "Are we having another 'Oh, my God, I'm dying inch by inch, let me freak out' moment?" Spike asked, sounding even more irritable than Anya. "Because if that's the case, I'll pack up my old kit bag and head back to the crypt." "Shut up, Spike," Anya snapped. "It's a great old song," Xander pressed. "It's about some guy who has sex with a fair young maid in order to save her from the foggy, foggy dew. Y'know, just dew it. Dew wah, dew wah." "Please. Forbear," Spike growled. "I'd like to keep down my supper." "Rat goulash?" Xander sniped. Spike drew himself up. "For your information, I -- " " -- would rather not hear about it," Tara cut in. "All right?" "All right. How about this? 'Take me out to the Hellmouth, take me out to the graves,'" Xander sang. "'Buy me some garlic and Cracker -- '" "Shut up, Xander," Anya and Spike chorused. "Hey," Xander said. "I can sing if I -- " "No, mate, you can't." Spike rolled his eyes. "That's the point." Buffy glared at the lot of them -- or rather, at the blurry shapes she could barely make out in the thick, gray fog. Since moving to Sunnydale, she could not recall such a dense fog as they had tonight. It made it far more interesting -- Slayerese for dangerous -- to hunt for the Congara demon that had been terrorizing the neighborhood surrounding Waverly Park. The cemetery was on the other side, and Buffy was hoping that tonight it would show, trying to eviscerate something, and wind up dead. "Will all of you please shut up?" she demanded of the blurry shapes. They sort of kind of moved, shifting on their perches, and she had a flash of inspiration for something new at Disneyland that would be called the Haunted Tiki Room. "I need it quiet." "We're not fishing at the old swimming hole, Buffy," Spike said archly. "Nothing to scare away, y'know? Congara demons are deaf." "Then Congara demons are luckier than we are," Anya grumbled. "Gee, Ahn," Xander said. "I was just singing." He sounded puzzled. "You usually like my singing." As Buffy resumed her patrol along the perimeter, Anya said, "I'm sorry, Xander. Sitting here in the fog waiting for something that's got a bigger mouth than it has a body is making me irritable, and the discordant notes you're hitting are adding to the mix. Plus" -- she took a breath, then lowered her voice -- "there are wild bunnies in the park." She gestured helplessly, her mouth a baby pout with the lower lip thrust forward. "They can get through the chain-link fence. I've seen it before." "Ah. Understood," Xander said sympathetically. "Bunny jitters." "Bunny jitters," she agreed. "I don't know what Spike's excuse is for being so cranky." "There is no excuse for Spike," Xander said, and chuckled goofily. Buffy allowed a quick grin to pass over her features before she got all serious face again. My friends. I think I'll keep 'em. Even if they are kinda wacky. She took another few steps before she realized that yet more fog was rolling in, curling and falling like a phantom ocean as it headed straight toward her. She raised her brows and tucked in her chin, bracing herself for the first chilly wave, then snorted in derision -- it's only fog -- and met it head on, walking directly into it. And...it was only fog. But more than bunnies could be hiding in it. Her beloved the park." She gestured helplessly, her mouth a baby pout with the lower lip thrust forward. "They can get through the chain-link fence. I've seen it before." "Ah. Understood," Xander said sympathetically. "Bunny jitters." "Bunny jitters," she agreed. "I don't know what Spike's excuse is for being so cranky." "There is no excuse for Spike," Xander said, and chuckled goofily. Buffy allowed a quick grin to pass over her features before she got all serious face again. My friends. I think I'll keep 'em. Even if they are kinda wacky. She took another few steps before she realized that yet more fog was rolling in, curling and falling like a phantom ocean as it headed straight toward her. She raised her brows and tucked in her chin, bracing herself for the first chilly wave, then snorted in derision -- it's only fog -- and met it head on, walking directly into it. And...it was only fog. But more than bunnies could be hiding in it. Her beloved crossbow was in her hands, and she had a quiver of bolts at the ready. Plus, a stake tucked into the belt of her stylin' black leather pants. Which are clinging to me like ew, wet dead things, she thought. Note to self: In fog, stick to wearing something that breathes. Not literally, of course. Because that would be very gross. Then, in the abundant blankets of white thickness, something brushed her hand. Something that was not a cute rabbit or other friendly graveyard mammal, but sharp and jagged, something that cut her fingers with a quick, mean slice and sent her into attack mode. Without a moment's hesitation, she let fly a crossbow bolt. A high-pitched, inhuman wail pierced the night, and Buffy sprang into classic Slayer attack mode. She bounded forward toward the sound, executed a shoulder-high sidekick that made impact with a solid mass, and followed it with a back kick. The double action pushed the mass off its center of gravity. It wailed again and moved away. Buffy pursued it, finding it again with the heel of her boot as she kicked it again, and again. "Need help?" Xander called. "Got it!" she grunted. However, whatever it was, she couldn't see it, and that was freaking her out a little. Still, dead demon she couldn't see was better than living demon she could see. So she kicked it again for good measure. And again and again and again. She was a whirl of total againness. Then it wasn't there again. Buffy shot forward, did a roundhouse, did a sidekick. She impacted with nothing. Huh. Slayers had a spider-sense about creatures of the bad, and Buffy knew without a doubt that this one had checked out of her air space. Still, just to be sure that she was right about that -- okay, with one small doubt for Slayer kind -- she hunkered down and scrabbled forward, aiming her crossbow low. There was nothing in her path. She zigzagged left and right, raising her crossbow like Riley on Initiative-style patrol. She was still finding no obstacle that would indicate she'd wounded it so badly, it had collapsed. Maybe it flew away. "Can it fly?" she shouted. "No!" Spike bellowed back. "Not if it's a Congara." Good. "Then again, it could be something else. One of them zingy things from Australia, rips your head off in midflight," he added, half to himself. "Or an eye-plucker." He chuckled. "Haven't seen a good eye-plucker since Dru and me -- " "Can they dematerialize?" she cut in. "Nope," he answered. "What's up? You lose the bloody thing?" She scowled as she tried to scoop away the fog. No go; she couldn't cut a swathe through it, nor even thin it out well enough to see. She crept swaddled in it like a mummy. And a blind mummy at that. "I didn't lose it," she retorted. "It left." "Left," Spike echoed, snorting. "Yes." Buffy straightened her shoulders. "Left. Took a hike. Vamoosed." "Um, tonight's the sixth moon after the Horizon of Osiris," Tara piped up. "If it's a Congara, it's got to kill six living things tonight in order to survive for another thousand years." "Well, we know it's killed at least one," Buffy muttered. Coming home from the Magic Box, Buffy had nearly stepped on -- or in -- one very savaged tiny baby possum in the middle of Revello Drive. Little possum, but that was enough for Buffy to send Dawn home. That, and a massive math test Dawn was supposed to study for tonight. Dawn was not loving the order, but Willow had volunteered to go with her, and Dawnie was much cheered by that. She adored Willow. Satisfied that Dawn would be safe, Buffy had returned to the Magic Box to find Xander and Anya arguing about something. Upon hearing about the possum, Xander had eagerly offered to help Buffy patrol for its eviscerator. "You're just trying to avoid the subject," Anya had flung at him. "Subject?" Buffy had queried, curious. Anya frowned in Buffy's general direction. "I'm not allowed to talk to anyone about it," she bit off. "On our way out the door?" Xander begged Buffy. "I'll go, too," Anya informed them. "There is nothing left to dust and I've counted the money twice." She sighed. "When I was a vengeance demon, I'd go torture some man horribly, in the mood I'm in." "Yay?" Xander said weakly. "Come on," Buffy told them. "If there's a trail, I don't want it to grow cold." Maybe they would kiss and make up. Maybe not. "Is the possum still fresh?" Xander asked now. "Why? Are you hungry?" Anya said darkly. Buffy was sorry she'd invited them. They had been more with the bickering than the hunting and lurking. Then Spike had lumbered out of his crypt like a bear out of hibernation, announcing that he was bored -- and up for killin' things, too. Buffy wondered if Willow's magicks could help relocate this thing. So far, Tara hadn't been able to do much on her own. But there was the whole keeping-them-separated thing. Tara and Willow were still splitsville. Buffy swept forward, then cut figure eights, then finally jogged the perimeter of the cemetery. The others had gotten quiet; all she heard were her own footfalls and her breathing. If anything else was out here, it was doing a good job of playing dead, squished possum. As she trotted on, she stumbled over what was probably a chunk of broken gravestone, caught her balance, and continued on. She was getting bored, and her fingers hurt. She needed to clean them and slap some bandages on her cuts. And she was cold. Somewhere behind her, Spike drawled, "That's it, then. Fun's over. I'm packing it in." "Quitter," Xander flung at him. Then he whined, "Buffy, can we go, too? Maybe Tara can whip up a spell to track this puppy. But otherwise, seems to me you're gonna be spending all night running in circles. And my butt is wet." "I have to agree with him, even though what he's saying is wimpy," Anya said. "My butt is wet, too, but I didn't complain or ask to leave," she added. Buffy heard Spike chuckle. "Anya, I'm not being wimpy," Xander insisted. "Just practical. We're going to get pneumonia out here." "We are not, and you are being wimpy," Anya shot back. "Hear, hear," Spike said. "Demon girl's got a point." "Could we discuss this at home?" Xander asked his one true love-demon. "And could you please think about what you're saying in front of other people and...things?" "Hey," Spike protested. "No need to get personal." "You are a thing," Anya informed him. Then she said to Xander, "Every group needs the deadpan newbie who says what everyone else is thinking. I read it in your new issue of Starlog. In the bathroom. I'm your Seven of Nine, so to speak. Except for the enormous breasts. Well, my breasts aren't all that small, but -- " "Ahn," Xander begged. Spike snorted. "It is getting a little cold out here," Tara ventured. "Maybe we should go." Trust Tara to try to smooth things over. "As of course we're speaking of nippy," Spike drawled wickedly. Trust Spike to try to rough them up again. Buffy wasn't pleased at the prospect of giving up the hunt, but on the other hand, she wasn't sure there was anything left to hunt inside the Shady Hill Cemetery. It could even have popped into another dimension, she reminded herself. This is Sunnydale, after all. "All right. Let's go home," she said. No one moved. Then Anya cleared her throat. "You must carry me, Xander," Anya announced. "In case there are...you-know-what's." She lowered her voice. "I promise I won't try to hurt you." "Then, yay," Xander replied. "The only good bunny is a dead bunny," Anya continued, to noises of lifting and arranging. Buffy assumed she was making herself comfortable in the arms of her boyfriend. This was the Anya-Xander version of making up if she had ever seen -- or heard -- it. One mission accomplished, she thought happily. "Take it indoors," Buffy suggested, knowing that she sounded cranky. But she did have some crankiness mixed in with the joy of her friends' makeup makeout session. For all she knew, the Congara demon had five more kills to make tonight. Which will be a better score than me tonight. Congara Demon six...the Slayer a big fat zero. The group bunched up and began to walk. Buffy turned on her flashlight, and the others followed suit. It was weird to see their faces disappear and reappear as they walked through the billows of fog. It was like a bad mummy movie. Shamble, shamble, shamble, eek, there's someone's face again. Never got those movies, Buffy thought. The Mummy could barely walk. How come he always caught up with people who were running for their lives? What was that all about, some kind of death metaphor? "Are you going home, too, Buffy?" Tara asked. "Because I -- I'm not...I mean, I'll be going back to my place, and..." She trailed off, looking forlorn. "We'll drive you home," Xander told her, giving her a brief smile. "Our car's at Buffy's house." "Oh." Tara looked anxious. "Way out at the curb, not even the driveway. We'll just leave," Xander promised her. "We won't go in." "Th-thanks," Tara managed. She sighed. "I'm sorry." "Nothing to be sorry about," Anya assured Tara. "Willow's using too much magick. You want her to stop. It's just like in Al-Anon." She shrugged. "I had a boyfriend with a problem." "Yeah. Couldn't sing," Spike said. "Drove you to the bottle." They walked along, and Buffy moved over close to Tara. She could practically feel the tension coming off the Wicca. Waves of it, the same as Willow whenever Tara's name was mentioned. They both missed each other terribly. It was such a sad situation. "She's doing well," Buffy said softly, deciding not to add that Willow had used magicks in the cave earlier that evening. "You'd be...I'm...really proud of her." "Good," Tara said mournfully. The corners of her mouth pulled up in a weak smile. "That's really good." "Speakin' of twelve steps," Spike said. "I'll make sure you guys get back okay. But then I'm coming back out." Buffy flushed hard, knowing that Spike was processing that information and making plans. And God help me, so am I. "Something's up tonight," she added defensively. "Slayer-sense still tingling." From Spike's quarter came another wicked chuckle, and she flushed to her roots. But luckily no one could see her roots, on account of the fog. And all she saw of Spike was his white hair and black duster as it moved through the thick blankets of muted gray. Focusing on his duster, she thought of another vampire who had worn one and how it had wafted behind him when he walked, when he fought beside her; a very different vampire, a different sort of addiction... Tara nodded. "I feel it, too," she said, glancing around. "This fog is weird. It's so thick. I think it's been magickally created." "We get fogs," Spike said, sounding bored. "We've always gotten fogs. We're near the coast. Hence, fogs. Pea soup." "Not like this," Buffy gritted. "We're not in London, Toto." "Hey," Spike protested. "No need to get snotty." "The fog is hiding the bunnies," Anya muttered, turning the conversation back to more important things. She looked hard at Buffy. Her dark eyes were troubled. "You will protect us from the bunnies, won't you?" Buffy crossed her heart. "Not for nothing am I called Buffy the Bunny Slayer," she quipped. "Oh, I thought your name was Bunny," Xander returned. "Bunny the Vampire Slayer." "It's my domain name," Buffy volleyed, remembering the good old days with Xander of riff, counter-riff, double-riff. Everything had been simpler back when he was an angry young man and she was oblivious to the fact that he had a crush on her and Willow ended up sobbing in the bathroom when he lost his virginity with Faith. Okay, maybe not simpler. While Anya processed their exchange, obviously trying to figure out if they were mocking her, Xander said, "We'll just give the evil rabbits to Spike. He looks thirsty." "They're all evil," Anya said anxiously. "Ha bloody ha," Spike glowered. "Taunt me all you want, Harris, but when I get this chip out of my head..." "Taunting now," Xander announced. He smiled pleasantly at Spike. If looks could kill...Spike's head would explode. The creature -- not at all a Congara, not at all -- panted, then glanced up lovingly at its master. Jack stroked the fur of the Hound as the two stood on the rooftop of the Slayer's home, watching the progress of the small-boned, very lovely blonde as she and her band approached. She was loaded down with a weapons satchel and a number of well-meaning friends. "Very good," Jack said, smiling. The friends would help slow her down as he and she began the dance. Their presence would probably make it possible for him to kill her off very soon. On the other hand, Jack had learned not to miscalculate the strength of a Slayer. That last time, in London...he shrugged. Huge mistake. That was then. This is now. And I am back in the delicious and strange world of human beings. It was true that he had once served the dark God Balor and his Goddess, Nemain, and of his people, the Fomhóire, who had taken such good care of him all those decades. True that the Fomhóire believed he still answered only to them. But the fact was, now that he had drifted back into this world, he saw what astonishing changes had come about. The British Empire was dead. The Slayer was an American. The people of the New World had many ways foreign to those who had come from the Aulde Sod. The old Gods are...the old Gods. Outdated and useless. They cannot hope to lead in a world such as this one has become. But I... ...I was born to be the champion of the darkness, those whose forms can change with the years. Those who long to come over because their own dimensions are so excruciatingly unchanging and dull. I brought terror to humans back in London a century ago. I shall do so again. And I shall lead this world into hell, smiling and singing my own processional hymn as my minions join me from more hell dimensions than there are in all philosophy. Here, in this time and place, I am a god, as I told my old foster mother. And I shall wipe these creatures from my lands. Smiling to himself, he watched the tall, dark-haired boy. The one called Xander. Muscular lad, that. He'd be a fighter, maybe present a small challenge when the death-dealing came. And the shy blonde with the stammer. So very sweet. Had some magicks, had some power. She, too, might prove interesting. Of course, in the end, they would both die. He made kissing noises at the Hound, who slathered a combination of mucus and blood. "I need a nightcap. Let's go kill something." As smoke drifted from its mad, vacant eyes, the Hound chuffed eagerly. Jack closed his eyes and murmured a few words in the ancient tongue. The fog in the cemetery rushed up to them, like the ivory-limbed arms of lovesick women, stretching and extending to wrap lovingly around them, master and Hound. The fog clung to the two, enveloping them; thick waves and piles and blankets of the stuff. Fog such as Sunnydale had never seen. But Sunnydale would see more of it. Much, much more. And then, in the madness that it brings... Jack smiled in delicious anticipation. The Hound chuffed again. The fog increased, thickened, increased again. He remembered the Druids in the grove with a fondness he usually reserved for the dog, and sighed. "I usher in the new millennium," Jack chuckled. He raised his hands into the air. And then the two were gone. ™ and © 2003 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation.


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Spike has encountered The First before. In the good old days in Victorian London, when Spike, Drusilla, Angelus, and Darla ran through the night in pursuit of dark fun, another evil being was stalking the streets, dispatching young women with brutal efficiency. But when the so-called "Jack the Ripper" struck too close to their twisted "family," the vampires found themselves on the same side as the Slayer of that time. Working to bring down Jack, and running afoul of The First, Spike and the Slayer formed an uneasy alliance, which followed Spike all through the twentieth century to present day Sunnydale, now blanketed in a mysterious fog....


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