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We Will Remember Them by Lilachigh
Chapter Three
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We Will Remember Them….

By Lilachigh

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Laurence Binyon

Chapter Three
France: 1943

“Bloody hell, it knows my sodding name!” Spike pushed Buffy away from him in disgust as she spoke. “Oy, are you Joy? How the hell did you get out of the chateau? I thought you were a prisoner?”

Buffy stared into the face of the vampire who had haunted her dreams for weeks now. It was Spike – but it wasn’t the Spike she knew, the man whose body had plundered hers, whose very presence in a room made her blood sing. There wasn’t a single glimmer of recognition in his eyes. This was William the Bloody and, with a shudder of horror, she realized this was the vampire Quentin Travers expected her to kill.

“I’m not Joy, I’m Buffy.”

“Buffy? What idiot gave you a name like that?”

“My mother!”

The vampire clicked his fingers. “You’re a Yank! Not even a Brit Slayer. I suppose those clowns in London sent you. And how can there be two of you? Don’t you have to pop your clogs before there’s a new one? Or has poor old Joy copped it already?”

“If you mean, has she died, not as far as I know. I’m supposed to – “ Buffy hesitated. She couldn’t tell him she was here to dust him. And anyway, if she killed him, what would that do to the time-line? “Help you save her. I’m a sort of – extra Slayer.”

Spike pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, savouring the tang of the smoke in his mouth. “A Yank Slayer. God help us all.” His eyes gleamed suddenly in the moonlight. “You know what they say about all you Yanks coming to England, don’t you? Over paid, over sexed and over here!” He leered at the girl standing in front of him. “Well, the last part is right. What about the other two, Slayer? Over-paid? Well, as far as I know, you don’t get a load of gelt for staking us poor vamps. But what about over-sexed?”

He took a long stride forward, grinning and Buffy backed away, glaring at him. “Any closer and you’re a little pile of dust. I don’t want to be here any more than you. But I’ve got a job to do.”

Spike took a final pull on his cigarette, then sent the end spiraling away into the bushes. He shrugged. Drusilla’s existence depended on the next few hours. Tempting though it was to have a second Slayer on his kill list, it would have to wait.

“Saving this Joy girl is my business, Slayer. There’s a lot depending on it. You can come along if you want, but don’t get in my way.”

“Get in your way?” Buffy felt a familiar surge of irritation and an overwhelming desire to punch him on the nose. “You’re the one likely to mess up my plans.”

“What plans?” Spike jeered. “I bet you don’t even speak French.”

Buffy ignored him. It wasn’t her fault she had been far too busy being a Slayer to pay attention in class during French lessons. “Jeez, I’m not here to have conversations with people. I’m here to rescue a Slayer, an English Slayer who will speak English! And the longer I stand here in these woods arguing with you, the less chance I have of finding her before dawn.”

“Temper, temper, Slayer. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” He pulled up the collar of his flying jacket and squinted at the sky. “About another hour before it’s light. Let’s get moving.”

He turned and strode away. Buffy bit back the hot words that she longed to throw in his face and hurried after him. It was weird, she thought, following the slim, brown leather clad back along a narrow path, this was the Spike she had known when he’d first arrived in Sunnydale: not chipped but dangerous, an evil, soulless killer.

She knew in this time he would kill her as soon as look at her. They had no history, no shared experiences. He’d already killed one Slayer and she knew he would kill again in the future. So if she dusted this Spike, would the Slayer in New York get to live? But then Spike had destroyed The Anointed One. If Spike hadn’t existed, what would have happened in Sunnydale at that time? And what about Angel? Was he likely to appear here in France as well? Wouldn’t that be fun! Not.

Buffy shivered. Was this why the Council had sent her back to this war zone? To kill Spike! Perhaps it had nothing to do with the Slayer held prisoner by the Germans. Buffy had no illusions where Quentin Travers was concerned. He could manipulate any circumstance to his advantage. Was he relying on her instincts – save the Slayer, kill the vampire?

She gasped as a branch Spike had pushed aside swung back into her face. Her hand shot out and stopped it with centimeters to go before it slashed her cheeks.

That one gesture brought it home to her as nothing else had done. Her Spike would have been walking at her side, clearing the path for her, watching her back. This Spike saw her as a problem, one he had to accept but didn’t have to like.

For a long, stupid second Buffy felt tears burn her eyes as an overwhelming sensation of loss swept over her. Then, just as suddenly, she giggled. The temptation to tell the cocky jackass walking in front of her that they had – on several occasions – had astounding, mind-blowing sex was almost irresistible. But she was sure he would never believe her. Probably think it was some Slayer plot to confuse him.

Spike quickened his pace. He could have sworn he’d just heard the Slayer laughing! Stupid bint. What the hell was there to laugh about? Poxy Yank with a poxy name. What the hell was she really doing here in France? How could she rescue the English girl? She had no plane, no way of getting Joy out of the country and across the Channel.

Spike frowned. That was a point. How had she got here? He shrugged. He’d sort out that problem later. All he needed to do at the moment was concentrate on the prisoner he was here to find. Anyway, there was only room for one passenger in his plane. So that meant he’d have to leave the Yank behind. Good, let the Nazis deal with her. He’d heard they had all sorts of different ways of getting rid of people they didn’t want around.

Feeling more cheerful, Spike strode on towards the chateau.

Twenty yards on, he stopped abruptly.

“What’s up?”

“Guard,” he muttered.

“I can’t see anyone.”

Spike sighed. “I can smell him! Rank sausage and cabbage.” His head moved slowly, then he stopped. “There! Under that tree.”

Buffy strained her eyes, then caught a glimpse of light reflecting off the metal of the man’s buttons and belt.

“We need to take him out,” she muttered, but realized she was talking to herself. Spike had vanished into the dark and without thinking, she walked forward, knowing instinctively what was going to happen.

“Excuse me? Do you know the way to Paris, France?” she asked politely and the guard swung round, raising his rifle as he did so.

“Halten Sie! Hande hoch!”

The last word turned into a gurgle as Spike in full game face appeared like a shadow behind the guard and sank his fangs into the man’s neck.

Buffy watched for a couple of seconds, trying to tell herself this was war and the man was an enemy, but she couldn’t help hissing, “Stop that! You don’t have to feed off him. Killing the guy’s enough.”

Spike wiped his lips. “Tastes rank. God-awful blood. Sort of thin. And excuse me, Slayer, but I’m hungry. You might have filled your tight little stomach recently, but I haven’t. And I work better with some nice hot blood inside me.”

Buffy shuddered and turned away. How could she blame Spike for being – Spike? He’d killed in her presence before. But somehow, as the months had passed since he’d been chipped, she’d tended to push memories of his past out of her mind. But watching now, smelling the hot, iron smelling blood of his kill, how could she have ever forgotten that part of his life?

“No need to look so upset, Slayer,” Spike said, puzzled. “He was a Kraut. A Nazi. We’re at war, remember?”

Buffy refused to look at him. She stared up at the black bulk of the chateau that was now only yards away. High up in one round tower a light flickered faintly. Was that where Joy was being held? It was at least one place to start.

“Come on,” she said curtly. “Let’s get this over with. I want to go home.”

Spike watched as she moved swiftly away from the guard’s body. He followed, puzzled. Not at her distaste at his feeding – bloody hell, Slayer – Vampire, it would have been odd if she hadn’t looked horrified. No, what puzzled him was the ease with which they had worked together, each seeming to know exactly what the other would do, without any words or commands.

Just like a complicated dance whose moves they both knew, he thought, and followed the Slayer towards the chateau.


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