To a casual passer-by, the scene before them in the wide alleyway would have spelt just one thing. Murder.

Three foolish tourists trapped between some of the most unpleasant citizens the city had to offer, and shrugging, they would likely avert their eyes and scurry silently away, eager for home. A braver observer would perhaps have stayed long enough to witness the arrogant, almost jovial faces of the mob, grinning expectantly as they converged on their prey. Of the three soon to be victims, only the old soldier looked like a fighter. Drawing his sword, he reached into the bundle he carried to pull out a shiny black stake. This he handed to the tiny female in his charge, no doubt expecting her to use it to take her own life. Death before dishonour.

A second male, an effete figure seemingly transfixed by the same female, reached forward to brush a few loose strands of hair from her face. She looked at him solemnly, her eyes compelling, reflecting his in bright, burnished gold. As if only now aware of the danger they were in, he reluctantly took a step back, slowly unbuttoning his fine red coat. His stance subtly altered to present a sideways view to his assailants; feet apart for better balance, arms by his sides, hands making fists before unfurling, flexing as gold rings caught what light there was. Head bowed, he looked up at the approaching group to his right almost flirtatiously, a black rimmed amber gaze, blazing with devilish fire. Prey now predator. Crossing his hands he slipped them inside his coat, withdrawing them smoothly to reveal a deadly short sword held in each. Blades down. Waiting.

A few faltered at the change but, bolstered by sheer numbers and alcohol, they closed in. Easy pay for an easy job. No-one gave the female a second glance - except to perhaps admire her lack of fear as she shrugged off her cloak, laying it carefully by the wall before returning to her two protectors. Like an exotic dancer, she spread her thighs and crouched down, fingertips of one hand skimming the pavement, her other arm raised across her face, gripping the stake. With hair tumbling like spun sugar, and lips curving in a ghost of a smile, she became perfectly still. Those closest to her laughed in admiration at her bravery, while licking their lips at the erotic picture she presented.

Toadman’s shrieks broke the still scene and, as one, the attackers surged forward.

Brack was all efficiency of movement, conserving his energy, making each strike count. Sword and boot employed to disable then skewer each opponent. Experience borne of many years fighting gave the soldier a deadly edge and he pressed it home, again and again, despite being hopelessly outnumbered.

Spike had a more showy style, part street brawler, part gymnast; a heel in one man’s balls, an elbow in another’s throat, a deadly double arc as the two swords swept together then out again, neatly beheading the man before him. If a lucky jab or blow caught him, he didn’t register it, merely narrowing his eyes before disabling the new threat with a sweeping kick or fierce slash. His expression was gleeful, fangs gleaming, tongue tasting death in the air. Soon only the experienced fighters were ringed around him as the common thugs lay choking on their own blood or had backed away.

Those who had targeted Buffy made the biggest mistake. Capture, not kill, this one. Overconfident, they kept their weapons sheathed and approached her with leering grins and meaty fists, determined to get in a rough grope before handing her over to their boss.

In one powerful spring, she jumped up in the air, kicking outwards, her little furry boots contacting with the jaws of the two men on either side of her. They both flew back, knocking several others down. After witnessing a third man smashing head first into the wall with a hard crunch, they hastily reassessed their opinion of the not-so-harmless human.

Buffy danced before them, her skirt swirling around her like deadly white petals. Hair flying, she leapt up to plant a dainty foot into a barrel chest, or darted forward, her stake sliding in, then out, leaving a blossom of red growing in its wake. She was grinning. One particularly corpulent attacker spat out bloody teeth from his new position on the ground. “Witch!” he shouted and, maddened by her trickery, they drew their weapons and advanced upon her, thoughts of capture gone.

It was over all too quickly. Toadman, frothing and incoherent, was screaming out instructions, even as his men were falling. Spike calmly whipped his right arm outwards, his sword blinking across the thirty yards between them, finding its mark. The disgusting beast toppled backwards, an almost comical expression on its face, impaled through the chest.

Disheartened by the sight of their fallen paymaster, the remaining attackers faltered. Before long, they too fell and were still.

The unearthly light fading from her vision, Buffy took an uncertain few steps towards Spike before sinking gracefully towards the ground. Catching her before she hit the cobbles, Spike frantically checked her for damage, but apart from little cuts and bruises she was unhurt. Brack stood nearby, breathing heavily, his right arm dangling uselessly, drops of blood falling from his sleeve. He looked tired but relieved.

“I’m getting too old for this.”

“Nonsense.” Spike grinned, trying not to show worry for his friend. “A few days back at the village with the women fussing over you and you’ll be fit as a butcher’s cur.” Seeing the thoughtful smile creeping over his compatriot’s face, he added slyly, “Perhaps Flo might set you down to a pot of tea and some extra comforts when you get back.”

Startled at his friend’s perceptiveness, Brack shrugged a little before grinning back. “Maybe she will, maybe she won’t. Would be nice though.”

Buffy was returning to herself, blinking up at Spike, her eyes having returned to their familiar green.

Unable to resist, Spike lowered his head to where he cradled hers and touched her lips once with his, before returning them for a deeper kiss as she drifted an arm up to hold him to her.

“My beautiful girl,” he murmured. “A warrior queen is what you are, pulsing with light. You blind me, Buffy.” A little astonished at his words, Buffy just stared at him until he looked away, blushing slightly.

“Well, then, we’d best be off before more miscreants stumble on us, don’t you think?” Without waiting for an answer Spike got to his feet, bringing Buffy up with him. He turned and retrieved her cloak - which had somehow escaped being trampled on - and clasped it round her throat. “Seems a shame to cover those pretties,” he glanced down at her torn bodice, “but I haven’t the energy to fight off any more of your admirers tonight.” Smiling at her little scowl, he offered her his arm. Pausing, she then relented, snaking her hand into the crook of his elbow. The three survivors made their way back to The Sleepy Dragon.

Just as they came within sight of the inn’s finely wrought gates Spike withdrew his arm with a low curse, patting his side.

“You two go on, I left one of my blades back there. Part of me, they are, can’t sleep without knowing my baby’s safe. Brack will see you safely in.” Ignoring Brack’s raised eyebrow and Buffy’s puzzled expression, Spike turned and swiftly raced off into the shadows.

***

Treading lightly among the bodies, Spike listened for heartbeats. Wherever he encountered one he reached down and snapped the unconscious creature’s neck. If just one of these bastards recovered enough to tell tales, Buffy would have a price on her head to rival the most sought after treasure in all Lossangel…and that wouldn’t do. Not while they still had business here. Satisfied that he had dispatched everyone to a far worse place, he looked around.

Only one last thing to do.

Scanning the area, he spied what he was looking for, a bloodied blade pointing towards a gap in the wall. Stealthily he moved towards it. Reaching in through the crumbling brickwork he found what he was seeking and pulled. Hard. A diseased looking ankle became a leg then a bloodied bundle of clothing, and pretty soon a gasping, squirming merchant was wrenched out of the garden shrubs where he had crawled to hide. He looked terrible, chest wound gaping, but Spike knew that his race had the ability to regenerate from all but the gravest injuries. Toadman glared up at him, looking death in the face.

“Now the way I see it,” said Spike casually, “you went to great trouble to see me dead, and had some pretty nasty plans for my woman. Now you’re hurting and helpless, and wishing you’d stayed back on your own stinking swamp of a planet. Buffy’s a kind hearted girl, perhaps she’d spare your life and that of your men. Me, I’ve been around a bit longer and know when animals need putting down.” Spike, grimacing, reached into Toadman’s cloak till he found what he was looking for. Holding the silver phallus up in front of the creature’s now terrified face he turned it, examining the horrific carvings. “I know you had plans for this thing and it would be a shame for them to go to waste. I’d stuff it up your arse where it really belongs but I really, really can’t bring myself to do that. So,” he said, wrenching Toadman’s jaw open, “I’ll do the next best thing… Open wide.”

***

Entering the inn’s tranquil garden, Buffy and Brack saw immediately that they weren’t alone and simultaneously reached for their weapons. The trader who’d sold Spike the ebbon stake earlier was perched on the shallow ledge of the dragon fountain. He rose and held his hands up to show that he wasn’t armed. “Steady, mistress, I mean to talk not fight.” He smiled at Buffy, no trace of drink in his manner.

“Wonderful, just wonderful,” he whispered. “One girl in all the world destined to fight the darkness. I’d hoped but I’d not believed it to be true, not really. Till tonight.”

“What are you babbling about, old man?” Brack moved forward menacingly, aware that he was reaching the end of his strength and hoping that there was no-one else hiding in the grounds.

Ignoring Brack, Snidda stood beaming at Buffy before remembering himself. “Was told to look out for strangers at The Silken Rope. Knew straight away that you was special; live as many years as I have and you get a nose for people. Couldn’t believe your boldness, you and your heart-mate, stringing the others along so nicely, and the way your pulse raced when you saw the stake…no-one else would have recognized it, been drawn to it.”

Buffy withdrew the ebbon weapon and held it up to the light. Looking closely she could see a slightly flattened plane running down one side, rubbed smooth to be hardly noticeable along its perfectly tapered surface. “This? What is it?”

“I believe it to be yours, mistress.”

***

Satisfied that Snidda wasn’t a threat, and curious to know more, the trio quietly entered their rooms. Scarr was alone on the couch, arranging lines of playing cards on a small table in front of him. Taking one look at his injured friend he hurried to get their medical supplies. Buffy helped Brack out of his jacket and shirt, revealing the damage underneath. His arm looked pretty bad; a jagged stab wound with a glimpse of white bone at the shoulder. The bleeding had slowed but Brack looked pale. Not used to actual field dressing - having only practiced it in First Aid training - Buffy gratefully let Scarr take over and do what was necessary.

Snidda had retreated out of the way to a chair in the corner of the room; with the faint glow of a wall-light directly behind him, his large ears glowed red like exotic butterflies. Hands clasped in his lap like a small child, he didn’t take his eyes off Buffy once.

Getting a little exasperated at being stared at, Buffy snapped at him.

“Okay, you’re here, we’re here, what do you want? Sensible answers only, please.”

Ignoring her sharp tone, Snidda replied, “Watched you fighting back there and didn’t fancy a sword in my gut. Came here to deliver a message.”

“You saw us? Why didn’t you get help?”

“Saw your eyes glowin’ so bright with that pointy stake in your fist, and that man of yours, a regular striper that one, all fearless and clever, and your soldier friend, knowing what was what. Trusted that you’d be fine and, if you weren’t then I’d know I’d made a mistake and guessed wrong about you.”

“Wait. You saw my eyes glow?”

“Like sunshine down a well, mistress. 'Course, it could be from bonding with an Aurelian, who knows with humankind, but your strength and power, that’s all you, isn’t it?”

Buffy looked a bit embarrassed, softly replying, “Yes, that was all me, but it felt different tonight. I was...different.” She trailed off, not knowing how to describe the strange feeling of detachment, the intoxicating power dancing through her sinews as she’d faced real flesh and blood enemies.

Nodding as if he could hear her thoughts, Snidda became grave.

“My boss would like to meet you. There’s portents, secrets to share and hidden things that only you can find…and time is running out.”

“But I’m not part of this world. Why me?”

“Ah, but you are Buffy, part of this world, and soon your choices will decide our fate and that of your own people.”

“What claptrap is this? Leave off scaring the girl, will you?” Spike, who’d returned unnoticed and had been listening with growing alarm to the conversation, strode to Buffy’s side. She looked upset and, unthinkingly, he put an arm around her and drew her close.

“We’re here for one thing only, Saya’s axe. Do you have it or not?”

Snidda cast his eyes down. “No, sir, but we do have a puzzle. The right person, they might just see all the pieces and put it together, find the prize.”

“Where’s this puzzle, then? I, for one, am getting heartily sick of this city and can’t wait to leave.”

“We’re not all ruffians here, this can be a good place, but you’re right, it’ll soon be time for you to begin another journey. Come tomorrow - or rather tonight - to Ahnja’s curiosity shop. It’s in the old city, just ask around. Dinner is at eight of the clock, please don’t be late. You’re all invited.”

Knowing that he’d outstayed his welcome, and would be leaving the group with heads whirring with unanswered questions, Snidda excused himself and departed.

***

After a few cups of blood pilfered from the inn’s kitchen, Brack looked much better. He and Scarr disappeared into their room for some rest, leaving Spike and Buffy alone. An uneasy silence fell.

Nodding towards his bedroom door, Spike cleared his throat.

“Well, I’m ready for some sleep, don’t know about you. Nite, Buffy.” Not quite knowing what to do, he gave Buffy a swift peck on the cheek and disappeared into his room. Buffy reached up to touch where his lips had been before walking to her own door and peeking inside. Faythe was sprawled out on the bed, dead to the world, and tucked in with her was an equally spent Ennico, his head resting on her breast. He was still wearing his collar, the end of the leash knotted firmly to the bedstead and wore a blissful smile on his face.

Realising that she’d lost her bed, Buffy slipped in quietly to retrieve her nightwear and retreated to the bathroom.

Buffy eyed Spike’s closed door with suspicion. Had he known where Ennico was all along? And, if he did, then why didn’t he warn her, offer her his own bed? Eyeing the couch with distaste, she grabbed her cloak and lay down on it, grumbling to herself.

It was no good; it was like lying on a precipice waiting to fall over the edge. Lumps kept appearing where lumps shouldn’t be and her cloak, although toasty warm, kept tickling her nose and feet. After half an hour of writhing about, seeking a comfortable position and failing, she reluctantly got up and crept towards Spike’s room. He was fast asleep, facing inwards on his side but leaving plenty of space for her. Dropping the cloak, Buffy tiptoed to the bed and very, very, slowly, edged her way beneath the covers. Willing her heart to slow down, she lay still, all senses alert for signs of wakefulness from her partner. Nothing. Just as she was prepared to relax properly into the soft feather mattress, an arm slid around her waist. Spike turned her to face him and hooked an ankle over hers, arm securely around her back, bringing her head to rest on his shoulder.

“Come here. Switch off that spinning brain of yours and relax. You can go back to being all contradictory in the morning.” Spike growled drowsily. “Sleep now, that’s all. Just sleep.”

Buffy tensed. But truthfully, deep down, this was what she wanted, so without a word she decided not to fight this time and settled down by his side. Sensing that for now she wasn’t going to run away, Spike extricated his limbs from hers and drifted off. Content. Recognizing the change in his breathing as genuine, Buffy snuggled a little closer, allowing one hand to come to rest over his naked heart. Another few moments and she joined him in slumber.

***