Sitting on what had been the Master’s throne, one leg thrown over the arm of the high-backed chair, Spike was lazily pulling on his cigarette. His narrowed eyes remained on the entrance to the back room as he waited for the Slayer to come out.

She had seemed confused by the idea that Angelus played on her side, and Spike found it a little amusing. It fit with the whole Slayer image that she would believe in a world where white and black precluded any other color. As for him, Spike swore by red. Preferably blood red.

From where he now sat, he had a feeling that blood would flow soon. The town was interesting in itself, being situated over a hellmouth, but there was more than that to consider. There was the fact that vampires had ruled the nights long enough here that people were scared, genuinely, in that primal fashion that spiced up their blood before it was even shed. There was also Spike’s upcoming lack of purpose.

He had once lived to make his Princess happy, dancing with her between cities and continents amongst dresses of the finest silk, porcelain dolls with perfect smiles and the blood of whoever struck her fancy. Then his role had been to take care of her, nurse her back to health after that bloody debacle in Prague. He had brought her to Cleveland thinking that Slayer blood might help her be strong again. From that, he had become her avenger, and soon that part would be played out too.

What next? Roaming and killing alone held no attraction, not after decades of doing it with a lover. Maybe this little town was his answer. He had already gotten rid of the Master, all Spike needed now was to pick up the shreds of his empire and make them his own.

After all, he had earned that title for himself, two times over. And he would soon earn it once more, with one more kill.

When the Slayer finally walked out, she still had a stake clenched in her hand. Spike’s gaze lingered over the piece of wood as she approached and he half-wondered if there was any new dust clinging to it. Had she staked Angelus or not? The bastard wasn’t behind her, but that didn’t prove anything one way or the other. She could have left him chained in his cell. Or he could have left through another door to avoid any further confrontation.

And Spike really didn’t give a damn either way.

“Weird coincidence that you’d find someone you knew here,” the Slayer commented dryly, her tone making it clear that she didn’t believe in such coincidences. “Especially someone from your… what is it? Clan? Family?”

Blowing a ring of smoke in her direction, Spike stood lithely. “You don’t know the half of it,” he snorted. “The Master I dusted before he could kill you?”

Her flinch was so light it was hard to notice, but Spike did, and reveled in it.

“He made the bitch who made Angelus,” he continued, and took a couple of steps toward her. “Family, if you want to call it that. I don’t.”

She didn’t move again, merely raised her chin a little higher when he came closer, but a tightening at the corner of her eyes incited Spike to prod what his instincts wanted to call a weakness.

“Speaking of which… where’s yours? There wasn’t anyone for you in Cleveland except for piece of tweed, and no one here either save for that other one. Did your family sell you to the cause? I’ve heard—“

“Shut up.”

Her voice was ice, her eyes even colder. Her hand curled tighter on the stake as she walked past him and back into the club itself, the curtain swinging behind her. Grinning to himself, Spike followed. It had been a blind shot, but he had struck her where it hurt. One more advantage for him in their coming fight, if he played his cards right.

“Ever been betrayed by a parent?” he threw after her, and she stopped dead in her tracks. It was almost too easy.

She turned slowly toward him, her eyes calmer but still as cold.

“Betrayed?” she repeated, the tone dangerously soft. “You mean, like that Angelus guy betrayed you by playing for my side? That kind of betrayed?”

The attack, perpetrated with no more than a few quiet, almost caressing words, struck Spike speechless. He had been playing with her, with her mind, thinking he could weaken her mentally by striking the right chords. He had never expected her to be able to wield the same weapon.

“The truce is over,” she announced after a few seconds, her feet sliding apart to widen her stance into a defensive position. “I came here for this Master of yours and now he’s dead. Let’s get on with it.”

Spike flicked what remained of his cigarette to the floor in front of her and considered her thoughtfully. He wanted her dead at that moment with the same burning rage that had consumed him when he had seen Drusilla falling to ashes only a few yards in front of him. He didn’t like the realization that she could play with words so well, despite using them sparingly most of the time; he didn’t like either having to admit to himself that there were still parts of her he didn’t know. She was his prey. He could predict her movements, could guess new weaknesses from a simple look. She wasn’t supposed to be able to surprise him. She wasn’t supposed to see through him so easily either.

He launched the first attack, not really trying to hit her yet, just getting into the swing of things. She parried his fist, as he had expected she would, and they both drew back. What Spike hadn’t expected however was that she’d move so sloppily; in hindsight, he should have guessed she would. He had helped her clean the lair, but she had battled and dusted most vampires in the club. The adrenaline rush had had time to fall back down, and now she was tired. She could still fight, of course, and she would if he pressed her, but it all came back to the reason why he had offered her a truce to begin with, and why he hadn’t taken her down earlier that night when the opportunity had arisen. This was not the fight he wanted.

“I’m going to kill you,” he all but promised, and smiled when she tensed at the words. “But not tonight. I will best you at the top of your game, not when you’re starting to be unsteady on your feet.”

“I’m not!” she protested, sounding almost offended.

Two steps brought her in front of him, and her arm was already swinging, deadly wood seeking Spike’s heart. He was across the room before she had finished her movement.

“Two days,” he called. “I give you two days to rest. The night after next, we end this. I’ll find you.”

If Buffy hadn’t been so tired, she wouldn’t have watched Spike go without making a move to stop him. Instead, she would have run after him, plunged her stake into his back, and ended it right there, right then, with no need to wait two more days or who knew how long until Spike would decide it was time to play with her again.

She had been fine through the battle, except for that near miss with the Master. She had been fine afterwards, too. She didn’t give a damn if that vamp had been on her side or not; the one vamp she needed to worry about for now was Spike, no one else. But Spike’s blind shots had found a target, and to hear him, of all people, question her about her family…

She could almost have believed that he knew. It wasn’t possible, she was certain of it, but the way he had brandished the idea of betrayal had gone straight to her heart, reopening a wound she had believed closed if not healed, leaving her to bleed in front of him as effectively as though he had cut her.

He couldn’t know, of course. No one knew but herself, her parents, and the doctors and nurses she had manhandled when escaping the institute. She hadn’t even told her Watcher — the first one; she had never told Spencer anything — about the experience, refusing to answer when he had inquired about her family and whether she wanted to go back to them. After he had died, she had regretted her silence, wondering what he would have said if she had confided in him how her own parents had tried to have her locked away.

As though thinking of a Watcher was enough to summon another one, Rupert Giles suddenly rushed in, followed by his little troops. His look of worry melted into relief when his eyes met hers. It was…strange; almost difficult to understand. Shouldn’t he be checking whether she had done her job properly?

“Miss Summers! Are you all right?” He looked at her, up and down, clearly searching. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head and tucked her stake into her belt.

“We saw Spike walk out alone and we thought…But you’re fine.”

It was really relief, she realized. He hadn’t looked away from her yet, and it was making her uncomfortable.

“The Master’s dead,” she said, clearing her throat. “I think most of his minions are dust too. Whatever is left should be easy to stake now that they lost their leader.”

“We got a couple that tried to run out,” one of the boys said. The other one, the one with the weird hair, merely nodded.

The next few seconds of awkward silence reminded Buffy that she was amongst strangers, and even Giles’ concern didn’t change that. Part of her wished she could have told someone about the fight, about the near miss, about Spike’s games and how tired she was of them, how she wished they would have had their fight that night, whatever the outcome, rather than have things drag out any longer. But she couldn’t admit any of this aloud, not to anyone. There was nothing in what she had done tonight that she could be proud of, not when she had required the help of a vamp to do it. She regretted now having accepted Spike’s truce; without it, she would have lived or died on her own terms. As it was, the feeling that she was only borrowing time was slowly sinking in, as it had done more and more often in the past year.

“I’m going back to the motel.”

She consciously didn’t look at Giles to see if he approved or not. He wasn’t her Watcher and she had no explanations to give him. She was halfway to the exit when he cleared his throat.

“Would you like a ride back? You must be tired.”

She was indeed, and the temptation to accept his offer was strong. But accepting would have meant showing him where she lived. She had no desire for him to intrude on her life, as Spencer had been so fond of doing.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, and didn’t look back until he called her name.

“Miss Summers, wait! What about Spike? I still think this truce—”

“The truce is over,” she interrupted him. “It’ll be done in two days.”

It was more than she had cared to say and she shook her head, annoyed with herself, as she finally walked out. The night air was fresh, and after the dusty interior of the club she could suddenly breathe more easily.

She tried not to think as she hurried back toward the hotel, but it was difficult when she couldn’t shake the idea that she could feel Spike’s eyes on her the whole time. Several times she looked around her, tried to spot him, but without any luck. She could only glare at the night, and bite her lips not to call out for him to show himself. She couldn’t let him know how much he was affecting her; she didn’t even want to fully admit to herself how easily he had been able to break past her defenses earlier, mental and otherwise.

The feeling of being watched finally disappeared when she reached the motel, but it wasn’t particularly reassuring. She hadn’t wanted the Watcher to know where she lived, but she had led Spike – because she was sure that it had been him – straight to it without a second thought. She had to be more careful, she admonished herself, or she would get herself killed.

She ought to have known better, but she stopped at the public phone two doors down her room. She slipped a quarter in and had dialed the number before she could think of what she was doing. The phone rang six times before someone picked up; it was late, she had to have woken them.

“Hello?”

Her mother sounded half asleep. Buffy remained silent.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Annoyed, now, or was it worried? She couldn’t tell anymore. It had been so long since she had heard her voice.

“B…buffy? Is that—”

She hung up abruptly. She shouldn’t even have called. It was all that damn vampire’s fault.

And it was his fault, also, that she barely slept that night. Every time she managed to doze off, the same dream would play again in her head. Instead of the Master, it was Spike who cradled her face between his hands. But no one stopped him when he twisted her neck. Not even her.