Author: Aeneas

Rating: PG-13 (violence, language, sexual situations – actual sex scenes have been removed)  Unedited version can be found on my website.

Summary:  AU Season 7 where the Scoobies discover that they are caught in something much larger than themselves.  Spike/Other but relationships aren't the most important part of the story.  Parts of Season 7 have been integrated into the story.

Disclaimer: In some other Universe, maybe the one with all the shrimp, I'm brilliant enough to have created the Buffyverse on my own.  Unfortunately this isn't that Universe and I am but a lowly follower.  All things belong to Joss and ME except Kamaria, her brothers, and the demon armies.

Note:  The story is finished and I'm finally done with the tweaking and polishing.  Reviews would be lovely, as this is my very first fanfic and I'm still learning the ropes. There is a sequel in the works.  It's currently on hiatus while I work on my Raison d'Etre series.
 
 

Chapter One - Out of Africa
 
 

The stifling heat weighed heavily on his chest, smelling of dirt and emptiness.  His back hummed with the vibrations beneath him and he struggled to clear the haze from his mind.  A moment of blinding, burning pain was followed by darkness as his memories came to a crashing halt.

"We will return your soul."

He wondered if he would ever forget the sound of that voice echoing through the dark passageways as the demon mocked and belittled him.

Beyond the heat, he became aware of the easy rumble of an engine.  Light seeped into his brain as he slowly opened his eyes.  The back of the pickup truck had been covered with heavy wool blankets in an attempt to make it more comfortable and the windows of the shell had been covered with cardboard to avoid the inevitable pile of dust should he encounter the fiery embrace of the sun.  Within his reach was a dirty green toolbox covered by spider webs of rust and sand.  It was cool to the touch despite the African heat.

Trailing his fingers along the edge of the metal lid, he fumbled with the latch a moment before getting it to click and release.  Pushing up onto his elbow, his shaking hands slid the top back and a faint smile graced his lips.  Inside the old toolkit was a small blue cooler.  The sight of the water bottles filled with dark red liquid brought his ravenous hunger to his attention.  He fished one out of the quickly melting ice and closed the lid securely.  Cool water dripped down his arm as he held the bottle, already exhausted from the effort.  Finally he managed to unscrew the top and raise it to his raw lips.  Pig's blood.  It was strangely comforting to know it hadn't come from a human.

Still chilled, he let it slid down his throat, and cool his body from the inside.  Once finished, he carefully screwed the cap back on and placed the bottle gently next to the cooler.  With hunger no longer threatening to send him back into unconsciousness he turned his eyes to the top of the cabin and let the steady hum from the engine ease the tension from his body.

Memories came slowly.  Puzzles being assembled piece by piece in his mind's eye as his brain dragged long forgotten details to the surface.  Blood.  Screaming. Pain.  Dru's black eyes stared out of the depths of his mind and he was drowning in the darkness, the evil, inside her.  Pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, he prayed that the images would recede back into the depths of his subconscious.  He could see himself, watching through a pane of glass as his own hands clawed, broke, maimed, and murdered.  Tears streaked down his face, his body racked with tremors at the horror inside his skull.  The monster inside him.

Gradually the tremors stopped and he found himself drained and weary but again lying in the back of a truck listening to the sound of the engine.  His mind began to fill with a haze that detached him from the violence of his past.  He could still see and hear the screaming of his victims but it was quieter, muffled in his ears.  The salt tracks on his cheeks dried and itched as they leeched the moisture from his skin.  Memories continued to play like a bad horror movie that kept rolling despite his attempts to turn it off.  The sights and sounds faded until he found himself sinking into blackness once again.

He didn't know how long he was in the back of that truck, curled up in the scratching blankets.  Night came and he huddled among the blankets, listening to the far off cry of hyenas and other prowling creatures.  During the day the heat stole his energy and lulled him into a fitful sleep full of nightmares.  There had been half a dozen bottles of blood when he had first opened the incognito ice chest.  He had noticed that the ice was replaced sometime each day as he slept.  Two bottles remained.

With the bloodshed of his nightmares still fresh in his mind, he toyed absently with one of the remaining bottles.  The sunlight filtering in around the edges of the cardboard was almost crimson and he could feel nighttime creeping into the last vestiges of the day.  He had dragged himself into a half-lying, half-sitting position so that he could watch the back of the pickup.  Hoping for an appearance from the stranger who had rescued him from the caves and kept him alive.  Although he had no conscious recollection of the truck ever stopping on its phantom journey, he knew that the driver would have to stop for fuel and possibly rest.  The grueling pace indicated that his rescuer was of the non-human variety and his curiosity was peaked enough for him to wait almost patiently, holding the blood loosely in his hand.

As the light disappeared from the windows and the first smells of night crept in through the cracks, he heard the engine stop.  Loss of the noise and vibration that he had become accustomed to was unnerving.  Footsteps sounded outside the truck and he found himself tensing against an unknown, unseen danger.

Slowly the back window raised and the tailgate lowered, the figure responsible still hidden in the cloak of night.  He could see the silhouette of a head and shoulders in the moonlight.  A match flickered and he blinked against the warm glow of a Coleman lantern as it spluttered into life.  The figure moved cautiously into the back of the truck, approaching him as one would approach a wild animal.

"Hey." His voice was harsh from disuse and heat.

"Spike." The answer was smooth and low.  A woman's voice.  He was surprised and shifted his legs, pulling them in toward his chest.  The lantern settled on the floor of the truck bed and she sat down next to it.  She appeared to be human but her smell was distinctly different.

"How do you know who I am?" He croaked.

"I was sent to you."

"By who?"

"A friend." She pulled a dark bag from her back. From it she produced a bag of fresh ice and three more bottles of blood.  Her hair was black in the darkness, draping over her face and hiding her features.  The gray tank top pulled snugly across her breasts and back and he watched strong, sculpted muscles move underneath her skin.   Army fatigues faded with years and wear stretched over her thighs, tucking into heavy black boots at the ankles.

Fear lanced through him, "Initiative?" His only experience with the military had been disastrous.

"No." She shook her head as she poured the water out of the cooler into a larger bottle and replaced the ice.  Adding the new bottles of blood, she made sure they were securely packed in ice and collected the stack of empty bottles.  Noting the unfinished bottle in his hand she slipped the pack to the edge of the tailgate and returned her eyes to him.  Still hidden behind her waves of raven hair, he could only catch a glimpse of pale skin.

"The blood is drugged." She said simply.

"I figured."

"It will make the journey easier." She paused.  "For you."

He tried to smile and failed, twisting the cap off and sipping slowly from the bottle.  "How's that?"

"It does not prevent you from remembering your past." She was blunt.  "But it makes it easier.  Makes it hurt less.  We have a few more days on the road.  When we arrive and you are safe you will have to cope without the drug."

The thought of reviewing the endless carnage of his life without the benefit of seeing it through the drug-induced telescope wasn't appealing and he took a long drink. "Who are you?"

"I am your protector."

"Don't need protection," he snorted.

"There are others who know of you.  Others who don't want you to survive or to return to your home."

"My home?"

"The Hellmouth."

His lips twitched in a grimace of pain, "Who says I was going back?"

"You love her.  You are needed.  You will return." Her voice remained neutral.

"You're very blunt."  Another attempt at a smile.  The dark haired woman's honest words reminded him of Anya.  That hurt.  Images of Anya, fuzzy with alcohol and pain, and Buffy's face.  Xander's face.  His eyes closed tightly against the tears ready to spill from his eyes.  When had he become so weak?  Despair opened its jaws, threatening to swallow him whole and damn him to an eternity of frailty and pain.

"We must continue.  You are not yet safe."

Her words barely registered in his addled brain and when he opened his eyes he was once again alone in the quiet darkness.  Gulping down the rest of the blood he prayed for the drug to quickly work its magic and dull the aching in his chest.  Curling against the blankets, eyes closed so tight they ached and his fingers clenched into fists. Like a child hoping for comfort, he rocked back and forth slowly.  The endless assault began again, ripping him apart with a physical pain that left him uselessly gasping for breath.  Reduced to half-delirious pleading for it to stop, for someone to end his suffering, he finally drifted into the comfortable haze, listening to the hum of the engine vibrating around him.

The strange journey was coming to an end.  He was on his last bottle of pain killing blood and he hadn't seen his mysterious protector to renew the cooler.  There was always fresh ice and he had dutifully and regularly finished off the blood, keeping himself in an almost cozy world where he could watch his many crimes without feeling the full extent of the crippling guilt trying to drive him to madness.  There was still pain and his eyes were dry from the loss of tears but he could breathe without wanting to burn away into dust.

Empty bottles lolled to one side, bouncing lightly against the cooler as the truck rounded a corner.  They had left the oppressive heat of the desert and he could tell the air was higher, thinner.  It smelled of water and life.  A few hours before he had heard the faraway thunder of a waterfall and occasionally the sound of rushing water reached him above the steady thrum of the engine.  Curled into a ball, one blanket pulled tightly around his bare shoulders, he idly wished for a change of clothes.  His dark jeans were burnt and stained with blood from one of the demons he had killed.  Unfortunately, the thought of clothes reminded him of his black duster and that led to the bitter memory of the Slayer he had taken it from.  Halfway numb, he replayed the scene in his head, remembering the look on her face, in her eyes.  The fear and relief when she finally realized that he had won.  Her death wish had been granted that night.  When would his be granted?  The thought was surprising but not unexpected.  Had he expected the soul to burn?  As though it sought to purge him from the inside out, burning the demon out of the body it had stolen.

Dusk had come.  He could smell flowers.  Sweet, almost jasmine.  He uncurled from his position, keeping the blanket tightly around his body as he waited for release.  He was physically well rested from his ordeal in the caves and energy he hadn't felt for days was surging through his limbs.

Stiffly, wishing that he'd been able to move around more, he inched his way toward the back of the truck and breathed a sigh of relief when it finally opened.  The sky was still lit but the sun had vanished behind a breathtaking expanse of jagged mountain peaks streaked with orange and pink.  He gaped at the sunset, feeling tears start down his face at the beauty of the view.  Green covered almost every inch of the surrounding area, slashed by an angry red line of dirt where the road wound through the mountains.  Wide brushstrokes of color accented the thousand shades of green.  Birds darted through the shadows, preparing for the night.  Some of the flowers were closing in preparation for sleep while others were unfurling their petals in anticipation of darkness.  The air was crisp, clear, and thick with the most wonderful aroma he could remember.

"It's beautiful." He whispered as he awkwardly climbed from the truck.  His companion remained silent, her hair once again hiding her face from him.  She motioned for him to follow.

Rounding the truck, he saw a whitewashed two-story building with a dark slate roof that reminded him of the Mediterranean.  Light shown from the windows like bright eyes looking out into the darkness of the oncoming night.  A wooden stairway led up the rocky incline, covered with dark vines peppered with tiny blood red flowers. Once inside he noticed that most of the building was made of windows, open to the night and allowing the heady scent to permeate.  Wood floors were softened by thick rugs and strips of plush carpet.  Every piece of furniture was designed with comfort in mind.  Smooth, round edges and mounds of cushions and pillows.  She led him to a bedroom and motioned for him to enter.

It was a soft gray room with cream blankets covering the bed and thick cream carpets.  A dark mahogany dresser sat to one side of the bed, bearing a small lamp and a clock.  Through a doorway to the right he could see a bathroom done in beige and rust.  After a second glance through the space he realized that there were no mirrors in the two rooms.

"Bed and Breakfast for vampires?" he joked, running his hand through his dirty hair in anticipation of a good shower.

"For you." Came the simple reply.  "I will be in the sitting room when you are ready."  She vanished down the hall in a whisper of fatigues and shadows.

He folded the dirty blanket from the truck carefully and left it on a chair.  Feeling coated with dust and blood, his skin still crawling from thousands of beetles, he headed straight to the bathroom.  Peeling his black jeans from his skin he discovered more bruises and gashes marring the hidden areas.  The burns on his chest and hands were healing and sloughing off charred skin as he moved.

Hot water and soap stung his wounds as it washed the sand and grit from them.  Standing under the stream he felt as though the water could somehow wash away the dirt inside his mind and heart, cleaning the debris from his newly tortured soul.  When he was finally satisfied that he couldn't feel the clinging feet of the insects anymore, he shut off the stream and climbed out of the shower.  A stack of warm terry towels sat beside the basin.  The stark white stood out even against his pale skin.  Brushing his hair back with his fingers he ventured back into the bedroom and inspected the chest of drawers.

It wasn't a surprise to find a small collection of indigo and gray button up shirts of brushed linen and several pairs of charcoal linen pants.  Slipping them over his ravaged
skin felt like pulling the cool silk of a cloud around him.  There were no socks or shoes to be found and he padded barefoot out of the room.

Following the yellow glow of the light bulbs he emerged into the main room once more.  The ceiling was nearly fourteen feet tall by his guess and lined with windows at the top.  He noticed that each window had a blind to cover it during the day although he doubted much light could get through the canopy of the surrounding forest.  The center of the room sunk down two small steps and circled around a large fireplace.  Inside the gray stone was the cheerful dancing of flames.  On top of a luxurious sheepskin rug was a small wooden table and a tall glass of blood waited for him.

"I have not added the drug yet.  That is up to you." Her soft voice came from his side and he jumped back, startled that he hadn't felt or heard her approach him.

His first good look at the woman was also a shock.  Nearly as tall as he, she glided down the stairs and sat down on one of the sofas with the grace of a panther.  He recognized her smooth movements as those of a predator, easy and powerful.  Dressed in cream pants and a billowing shirt similar to his, her midnight hair was pulled back into a tight twist at the back of her head.  He blinked and started down the steps, unable to think of any quips or joking barbs.  Violet eyes held him speechless and he sat down slowly on the lounge across from her.

"Beauty is the best disguise of danger." She said with a soft smile, her lips were an earthy red, rich and full.

"And evil." His mouth began working before his brain kicked in.  "I'm sorry."

"It's alright.  You are living proof of it."

His surprise was written plainly on his face and he reached for the glass of blood to hide his embarrassment.  "You and Anya must be related."

"Anyanka.  She's a good woman."

"You know her?" He nearly choked on his blood.

"I know those you deal with.  I am your protector.  It is my business to know who are your friends and who are your enemies." She offered him a smile.

"You know all about me, luv.  I don't know a bloody thing about you."  He wasn't angry but the small voice of suspicion in his head was making him uneasy.  "I know you're not exactly human."

"Guilty." She curled her feet underneath her.  "I have been sent to give you sanctuary until you are strong enough to return.  You will find that time passes differently in this place.  No one can reach you here."

Another sip of blood, it was calming even without the drug.  "I'll bite.  Someone doesn't want to see me dead.  That's a new one.  Exactly who or what are you?"

"My name is Kamaria."

"Pretty."  His concentration began to wane as he felt the drug begin to lose its effect.  "Sorry to push, pet...you've been a dear.  Not much for information but real nice. The drug's wearing off.  Any words of wisdom?"

Kamaria studied him thoughtfully; "It is better if you stop taking it slowly.  You may choose whether or not you want it while you sleep or while you're awake."

"I'll try asleep for starters." Spike said with a shaky breath, trying to feel as strong as he sounded.  The memory of his recent nightmares was enough to keep him terrified of closing his eyes without the benefit of something to numb the pain.

"It will get easier but it will take time.  That is what I am here to give you.  Time and shelter."

"How long?"

"It took Angelus one hundred years to come to peace with his soul."

Spike winced at the mention of the other souled vampire but he had known from the beginning that he would be unable to avoid the comparison.  "A century, huh?  So I'll be bloody useless for years."  He stopped.  "You said I was needed back in good ol' Sunnyhell.  What use am I to Buffy if I return after she's dead....again?"

"Several years here is only a few months where she is." Kamaria said patiently.  "You will not need that long.  You have always been a stronger man than Angelus."

That stopped Spike in his tracks.  All of his horrible memories paused their increasingly loud tirade to stop and stare in wonder at the beautiful woman in front of him.  A beautiful woman saying what he had wanted to hear for years.  But not from those lips.  He wanted it to be Buffy's voice.

"Drusilla chose you for your purity and your strength.  As well as your naivety." The barest hint of a smile turned her lips up at the corners.  "Those things which were stolen from her."

The mention of Drusilla threatened to release the floodgate of tears that had been omnipresent since the return of his soul.  He was in turmoil over her sweet words, torn between sobbing in relief or in bitterness over the pain he had suffered.  Evil, soulless, disgusting thing.  Those words rang in his ears.  Buffy's words.  Finally he bowed his head and let the tears fall, splashing his hands and making dark wet marks on the cloth of his shirt.

"There is another way to ease your pain." There was hesitation in her voice.  "Without the aid of a drug."

"How?" His own desperation sickened him.

She uncurled slowly, her lithe movements carefully measured as she pushed herself off of the sofa and closed the distance between them.  Gently, she removed the glass of blood from his hands and returned it to the table.  She linked his trembling fingers with hers and lifted his head.

Time stopped for a moment as he stared into the violet irises.  Her pupils were vertical rather than round, reminding him of a snake or a cat.  Shining, cat eyes from smooth porcelain skin.  High cheeks bones cut a razor line below her eyes and he felt the urge to slide his fingers along them.  Returning his gaze to her eyes, he took in a sharp breath when he realized what he saw.  Desire.  It rolled off of her in heady waves, threatening to drown him in her heat.  He knew without touching that her body would be firm and smooth.  Filled with strength and power.  It radiated from her skin, her eyes, even her lips spoke of a passion beyond what he was prepared to handle. His mind raced and finally he broke the contact of their hands, feeling the world snap back into place around him.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, covering his face with his hands.  "You're beautiful.  God, you're amazing.  But..." he stopped when he realized that she was laughing.

"It is one of my gifts, Spike." She smiled.  "In ancient times, there were women who could heal a man's wounds, his heart, and his mind with their bodies.  They were revered as healers and goddesses.  It is a magic that is very rare in this plane."

He could feel his relief in his voice as he began to laugh nervously, "So you're not hurt?  I feel like a bleedin' ponce turning you down."

"It was an offer of help, Spike.  An offer of solace."  She returned to her sofa.  "And it is an offer that will always remain open if you wish it or need it."

"I'm grateful, I am.  But I love Buffy.  I did this for her, got the soul for her.  To be good enough for her.  To give her what she deserves."  He grabbed hold of the glass of blood as if it was a lifeline and finished it off in a single large gulp.  "Anything else I need to know about you?"

Kamaria smiled.  "I will be here if you need me and absent if you don't.  There is a library beyond those doors and a kitchen where you will find blood." She motioned toward a pair of tall wooden doors.  "You may wander freely in this house and outside.  You will be bounded by magic and unable to leave the safety of this area.  It will always bring you back here."  She stood in one flowing motion and headed back toward the hall.  "Your job here is to become a better man."

She turned back to him, her eyes serious and dark.  "If you were to go back now you would be destroyed.  You must be strong enough to face what is coming if you wish to save her."

Spike stilled, silent as the grave as he thought about what she had said.  "How do I become strong enough?"

"You suffer." She said softly and then she was gone.

He turned his head back to the fire, staring deep into the primitive dance of heat and light.  Gritting his teeth, he settled into the soft cushions of the lounge and waited for the screaming in his head to begin raging without the benefit of any protection.  He didn't have to wait long.