Mormons. Choirs. Olympic scandals. No booze, no smokes. What was he thinking? Well, he'd been thinking that he needed a change from the Hellmouth, that's what he'd been thinking.

That desert. The sun in that desert. For a change he'd almost been warm, hiding from that light inside the car.

He'd laid over in a rest stop near a town called Beaver and snickered himself to sleep. As soon as the sun was down far enough behind the western mountains, he'd headed out, heading north. There'd been a couple of men lurking about the rest stop with shady business of their own. He wondered if the cops would just call it a gang killing, what with that open trunk lid and the pile of white packages inside.

He'd passed Provo around 8, but didn't stop. The people in Vegas he'd talked to had told him there was nothing in Provo worth bothering with.

Salt Lake touted itself as home of the Mormon Church and all, but there had been rumors in the after-dark world in Vegas that Salt Lake was worth a stop and see.

Even vampires needed to stretch their legs. He negotiated that maze of off ramps in the middle of the city and got off the Interstate somewhere in a shabby part of town. The sound of music, loud good music, caught his ear, and he followed the sound to a parking lot and a party.

A big sign on the street advertised a party for radio station KRCL, a local free-access station. The parking lot beyond was full of strangely dressed people, goths, freaks, hippies, and mundanes. Spike pulled the car off the street. A crowd worthy of the leather duster, maybe. He got out and sauntered over to see what there was to see.

Some weird electronica was the music on the speakers. There was a disk jockey setup in the middle of the parking lot, surrounded by people in casual business wear. Spike ignored them, nattering about fundraisers and donations and matching funds. He looked at the women, instead, assessing the possibilities.

Most of the women looked back, most approvingly. The obvious lesbians--and there were a lot of them--just glanced up then glanced away--the ones who didn't eye his duster with envy.

He slipped past a nicely padded middle-aged woman in a green silk shirt, muttering an apology. She glanced at him, looked him over, and smiled faintly in appreciation. He smiled back automatically but kept looking.

A woman carrying paper cups of punch sidled out of his way, heading for the woman in the green shirt. Spike glanced at her, eyes caught by the muscle shirt and the exposed arms. But she turned when two teenagers yelled "Mom!", and he quickly moved away. First rule, no kids. He glanced back, though, admiring the shoulders. He loved women with muscles.

A whiff of cigarette smoke attracted him, and he turned to look. She was perched on one end of a folding table, puffing ostentatiously on a cigarette near enough to the punch bowl to attract annoyed looks.

Her tall mohawk was striped black and purple, and her black t-shirt was ripped in strategic places. The black leather pants left no room for anything in the pockets, and the Doc Martin boots had inch-thick soles. Her cigarette pack was tucked into her cleavage--such as it was--and the cigarette lighter was tucked behind one multi-pierced ear.

Spike smiled and moseyed over. On closer look, there was an anarchy symbol tattooed on one side of her bald head. She glanced up at his approach, then looked away, oozing boredom.

"Got a fag to spare?" he asked in his best North London drawl.

She looked around. "God, yes, they're everywhere, take your pick."

He grinned. "A smoke, then."

She pulled her cigarette out of her mouth and blew smoke at him. He didn't bother to cough. "A smoke like that?" she asked.

"You got another kind?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not here where cops are wandering around." She plucked her cigarette pack out of her shirt and tossed it to him.

He pulled out a cigarette with his lips, then tossed the pack back to her. She looked at him thoughtfully as she tucked the pack back in her shirt. "My name's Tango," she said, going back to her cigarette. Spike used his own lighter, noticing she never offered her own. All those silver skulls on her lighter would probably have gotten stuck in all those ear studs, anyway.

"I'm--" He was interrupted by feedback from the speakers. "Oh, Lord, what?"

Tango sighed hugely. "Karaoke. I'm leaving." She slid nimbly off the table. She glanced at her new admirer over her shoulder, in the age-old look women have used on men since females had shoulders to look over. Spike had long ago learned that male was male, breathing or not, and started to follow.

From by the speakers came a female voice with the kind of resonance that worked on the radio and an almost British accent. "I told you, Jerry, I'm not singing. If you washed your ears more often, you'd have heard me."

The balding man on the dais with the equipment grinned at the woman in the green silk shirt. "Elizabeth, you sing in the studio all the time."

"With the microphone off, yes. Not in public."

"You've got a great voice, I've heard you."

"Singing Puccini in private is different from singing whatever you've got here in public. What do you have on that thing anyway?"

Tango looked at Spike disdainfully. "Don't tell me you *like* karaoke?" she asked in tones of deepest scorn.

"Most karaoke singers should be parboiled," he said. "I was listening to her voice. Who is she?" Spike noticed she scowled harder, which amused him. Was the leather tart jealous of the mom-type?

"That's Elizabeth," Tango sneered. "She's old." Spike tried not to laugh. "Old music, old stuff. She's got the 8 to midnight show, plays archival blues and jazz and old opera recordings and ancient classical stuff. We wouldn't even have a turntable anymore if it weren't for her."

"Does anybody listen to her?" he asked.

She looked away sullenly. "She's got the second highest ratings of anybody on the station. Only the country show at midday does better."

"Do you have a show?" he asked.

She preened. "I work with the punk show on Saturday nights." Work with--sounded like a euphemism for a hanger on who sorted CDs and got in the way.

She glared towards the karaoke machine and the woman who was flipping through the playlist with a look of grudging interest. "But I'm not staying to listen to her sing. What about you?" she asked blatantly.

A tasty little crumpet, good for a quick tumble. He started to go after her when the woman at the karaoke machine said, "Ah, Pat Benatar! This one, A3. And I'm only doing this one."

Tango cringed. "Oh, god, '80s slut rock. I'm going in there," she said, nodding at the building nearby, where people walked in and out. "You do what you want."

She stalked away. Spike hesitated, thinking. He'd liked Pat Benatar when she was new and hot, that tousled dark hair, smoky voice, and the guitars backing her up. Did he really want to hear what the local classical geek did to an '80s glam rock song? It could be so painful as to be funny.

The tape started and Elizabeth picked up the microphone like it wasn't unfamiliar to her. The song sounded familiar, then the singing started

"Never again, isn't that what you said?/You've been through this before, you swore this time you'd think with your head./No one would ever have you again/And if taking was gonna be done,/you'd decide where and when!"

Spike stared. The song started low and thoughtful, and Elizabeth's voice was well suited to the ballad form, low and rich, with lots of depth.

By the end of it, though, it was a full-out, bluesy torch song, and the classical music geek's voice had developed the edge of an angry woman vowing not to fall for the same old things again.

"Just when you think you've got it down/Your heart securely tied and bound/They whisper promises in the dark."

The guitars on the tape kicked in, and Elizabeth grinned out at the audience. The woman who had brought the punch over was gleefully indulging in accurate air guitar, while her teenaged son and daughter looked on in mingled shock and mortification.

Spike stood and stared and watched till the end of the song. Someone shoved the air guitarist up on the podium, and the two women thoroughly rocked the place to a standstill. They resisted calls for encores. Elizabeth shoveled her long, dark red hair back off her shoulders and into the scrunchy that had been holding the hair up in a demure bun on the back of her head.

It had all come loose during the song, and she'd just tossed it back out of her way, never missing a beat. She looked like a woman who played old, dusty records, digging through archives for obscure references--until you saw her eyes and her grin. She tried to muffle it back down, but it kept getting away from her.

"Let's hear it for Elizabeth and Leah!" Jerry yelled, leading the applause. Spike joined in. Jerry offered the karaoke mike to the audience, but everyone wisely realized that they'd only embarrass themselves. No one was drunk enough to be stupid yet.

He maneuvered through the crowd to get closer to the two women who had performed. "Look, Jerry," the woman named Leah said, "I'd love to stay, but it's a school night and I've let the kids stay up too late as it is." The two teenagers behind her tried to prop their eyes open and not look sleepy. Leah hugged the other woman. "Have fun, sis. Will you be home for breakfast?"

"Oh, probably. If not, that's what Denny's is for." Elizabeth glanced around. "The party looks like it's winding down anyway." She winced as some of the punkers took control of the sound system and started pounding out heavy industrial sound.

Jerry took Elizabeth's arm as Leah headed out with her kids. "Look, Lizzie, about that morning show--"

"Jerry, I told you, I like working at night. I prefer to go to sleep at dawn, not get up at dawn." Spike, close enough to overhear, raised an interested eyebrow.

Jerry shook his head. "If you're not careful, Lizzie, people are going to check your incisors for points."

"Hah. I've been out at the amusement park in the noonday sun--but I hated every minute of it. Besides, I'm not up to happy-happy chitter chatter for the morning crowd. My stuff is aimed at insomniacs and the fatally hip types who come out after dark."

Spike knew his cue. "'Ello," he said, stepping into view.

Jerry looked over and blinked. "Hello." Elizabeth briefly looked over her shoulder, wondering if the fashionably dangerous looking young man was talking to someone else.

"Nice song," he said, leering at Elizabeth. She looked briefly flattered, then amused. As if he was doing something terribly predictable.

Jerry looked very interested and stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Jerry, the station manager. Have you ever done radio?"

"Oh, Jerry," Elizabeth sighed.

Spike shook hands, trying not to crack anything. "Radio? Can't say I have. Looks like it might be a bit of fun, though."

Jerry grinned. "You've got a great voice for radio. You know, we've got a training class starting for new DJs. We've got a couple of openings and we need DJs."

Spike thought about it for a moment. "I only work at night," he said.

Jerry brightened. "Hey, I've had the hardest time finding someone to take the midnight to four show."

Elizabeth looked stricken. "Dustbowl Jack's leaving? He always brought nachos, and he shared."

"Sorry, Lizzie, not everybody's a night owl like you. Jack said something about his skin starting to match the counter top and forgetting what sunlight looked like."

"Wuss," she muttered. "Sunlight's over rated."

"I've always thought so," Spike agreed cheerfully. "Is this radio thing a paying gig?"

Jerry looked uncomfortable. "Well, we're a community supported station, there's not a lot of money available for salaries. We put most of the money into operations and keeping the music library up and --"

"And so no pay," Elizabeth finished sympathetically.

"Is that a problem?" Jerry said anxiously.

That suitcase full of money that Spike had liberated from his evening meal down in Beaver would hold him for quite a while. Besides, no pay meant there wouldn't be any of that annoying employment eligibility paperwork to mess with. He reminded himself to check his driver's license and see if it was peeling yet.

"Not a problem," he said easily. "When's this training class?"

"Next week, six pm to nine, we'll set you up with a limited license that'll let you run the transmitter and do Emergency Broadcast stuff if you need to, it's easy." Jerry nudged Elizabeth. "Plus you get to watch one of our best in action to see how it's done."

She rolled her eyes, but Spike smiled meaningfully. "I always enjoy seeing the best in action."

Elizabeth sighed, shrugged, then held out her hand. "I'm Elizabeth Winthrop."

He took the hand and kissed it lightly. "Delighted to meet you."

She pulled her hand free. "I didn't catch your name."

"Not surprised, it hasn't gotten away from me."

She looked at Jerry pointedly, but the station manager only shrugged. Elizabeth looked back at the new arrival. "Do you have a current preferred alias? Or shall we just say 'Hey, you'?"

Her eyes were grey, he noticed, and they crinkled in the corners as her annoyance warred with amusement. The doctors probably twitted her about her weight, but it was well distributed, padding her figure to something that would be very comfortable to lay against. A bloke could hold onto that and not worry about sharp edges. The loose shirt didn't disguise the big tits underneath, but if she was trying to downplay her bustline she shouldn't wear her shirts unbuttoned so far you could see that much cleavage. He'd probably get slapped if he took the nosedive he wanted. He contented himself with the view he had.

She waved her hand in front of his face. "Hello, they don't talk." She pointed to her eyes. "Talk to the face, not the tits."

Jerry blushed and sputtered, but Spike only grinned. "Do they understand sign language? Braille, maybe?"

Elizabeth hesitated. "No," she finally said, trying not to smile. She glanced at her watch. "Goodness, the time."

"Leaving so soon?" Spike asked, enjoying her discomfort.

"Tragically yes, but sometimes one must rip oneself away from pleasure in obedience to one's duty."

"What duty?"

"My own, which forces me to bid you adieu. No doubt we'll meet again, and perhaps by then you'll have a name." She smiled at Spike and Jerry, then left.

Jerry watched her go, puzzled. "I hate when she talks like Richard Burton, I never understand her." He turned back to Spike. "Then I take it you're interested in the class?"

Spike shrugged. "Might be. If you see me there, then I am."

Jerry only grinned, as if he was used to prima donnas. "Hope to see you there." He shook hands again, then drifted off.

Spike briefly wondered if he'd bother to show up for this class. He'd see how he felt come Monday. That gave him the weekend to scout the town, see if there was anything to hold his attention for that long. Maybe all the funky people of the city were here, maybe that undertone he felt in the crowd was a sign of something more interesting in this very conservative town. He'd felt a few wisps of Power in the crowd, the feel of people familiar with the currents of magic and mystery. And judging by what he'd seen, the female contingent had a few members worth pursuing. He wondered just how high a note Elizabeth Winthrop could hit if properly inspired.

But that could wait. He wandered into the building and tracked down Tango. She looked like the sort who probably didn't mind if the man used his teeth during sex. A little something to take the edge off after his journey.

***

Elizabeth started her last song and pulled off the headphones. Where was the new guy? He'd better come up with a decent name soon, she refused to call him the Love God of the Night, the way he'd asked. Jerry had obligingly put the name on the roster, and the women of the station occasionally could be found lurking in his vicinity when he was working on tapes. The immediate response from the audience was positive, though, so it looked like the name was going to stick.

The studio door opened, and the bleached blond newbie sidled in. "I am here," he announced in that sexy British voice that had gotten him the job.

Elizabeth restrained her reactions. "'Bout time. I can play another song if you need time to get settled, but we've got the ID at the top of the hour. It's supposed to be live, occasionally."

He held up a tape cartridge. "I've made a tape, that's why I'm late. Won't happen again," he grinned.

"Hmph." She leaned forward to let him scoot behind her.

He shrugged the long leather duster off his shoulders and draped it over the table on the other side of the room. Elizabeth looked covetously at it, creaking in that way heavy leather does and rich with that smell leather carried--though it wasn't just the coat that smelled good. And he moved nicely, too. The black t-shirt was tight and showed very pleasant muscles over his shoulders. He glanced over and caught her looking at him.

"'Scuse me," he said with a smile as he leaned over her to put his tape in the machine.

She slid out of the chair. "The conn is yours, captain." Who was he trying to impress with the cologne, anyway? There wasn't anyone here except them and the janitor--though a couple of her friends were due in to go get a late dinner. He dropped nimbly into the seat, checked the time left on the song running, then put his CD into the empty machine. "Tape cued, CD ready, two minutes left in the song." He grinned at her again. "Two minutes can be a lifetime."

It was probably glandular. No one went on the air who didn't have a bit of exhibitionism in them. Elizabeth took the clipboard with the transmitter readings off its hook and moved around to look at the controls of the transmitter. She was just finishing the readings when the new guy potted down the song and started his ID tape.

"Good evening, boys and girls," purred the voice out of the speaker. "It is I, the Love God of the Night, on KRCL, 87 FM, in Salt Lake City, come to bring you things in the darkness that you've never experienced before."

The next song, full of exotic beats and mysterious rhythms, began.

Elizabeth leaned her head around the transmitter. "Excuse me?"

The new guy laughed. "It's my new intro, like it?"

"A trifle arrogant, isn't it?"

"As am I."

"Lord. I'm not calling you that, by the way. Don't you have a name?"

"Of course I do."

"And?"

"In good time."

Elizabeth sighed and hung up the clipboard. "Well, have a good shift, Mr. Night, and enjoy the wacko calls you get from desperate souls." She reached for the door.

"Wouldn't go out there, if I were you." The new guy arranged his CDs.

"Excuse me?"

"When I came in, there was a bloke and his girl giving each other an intense mutual tonsil exam on the couch. Buttons had become unbuttoned."

"Oh, crap." She peeked out the window and ducked back. "Blast."

"Has it reached the criminal stage yet?"

"It's only criminal if we charge money to watch."

The blond grinned. "No laws on public lewdness in this town? Well, well."

Elizabeth sighed and glanced out the window, just in case. Nope, still going. "Dammit, they have a house to do that in, we were going to get some food. I'm starving." She resisted the urge to peek out the window again. Opening the door wouldn't distract them, either, she'd walked in on them before and not had them notice. Anywhere else she'd just sneak out, grab her jacket, leave them a note and go to Denny's by herself. But the new guy would undoubtedly tease.

"Opening the mike," he warned as the CD came to an end. Elizabeth settled into silence and wondered if it was her imagination that made her hear sounds from outside. The new guy smiled and leaned to the mike.

"Hello, my children, welcome to the night. The moon is high and the blood is up." He smiled at Elizabeth. "The hunter pursues his prey, and sometimes the prey lets itself get caught. The fun part is the hunt, but there is also a lot to be said for the capture." He kept glancing at her and smiling, obviously trying to fluster her. Hell, this only reminded her of college, and she smiled back at him before glancing casually at her fingernails. He had a wonderful radio voice, and Elizabeth was sure he was still looking at her. But innuendos were only part of the job.

He clicked off the mike and leaned back. Elizabeth glanced very quickly out the window then leaned back, blushing.

The new guy glanced at the clock on the wall. "Five minutes, a new Yank record, I'm impressed."

"Oh, please, as if the Brits have any kind of international reputation in this sort of thing. Well, they do, but it's not a good one."

He put a hand to his heart. "The lady doth wound me! I feel the need to defend my country's honor."

"You have a radio show to do."

His smile held less mocking and more invitation. "That's what long-playing tapes are for."

She took a deep breath. "If you tell me you have one handy, I won't believe you."

"I could make one."

"Not tonight, you couldn't."

He tilted his head slightly, gauging her willingness. "There are always other nights. Make a tape of, say, an hour, start it at the top of the hour, put in the IDs ..."

"A whole hour?" she said, trying to sound mocking and afraid she only sounded intrigued.

He shrugged and smiled. "Some things shouldn't be hurried," he said softly.

She knew she was blushing and made a show of glancing impatiently at the door. "I do wish they'd hurry, I'd like to get my dinner."

"I'm a fan of dinner myself." He segued to another CD. She knew this song, it was almost ten minutes long. He got up to stretch his legs. He glanced at the window and sauntered over.

"Oh, don't!" Elizabeth protested.

"Try and stop me," he grinned. She moved to the other side of the door instead. He spent a good thirty seconds watching, nodding in approval. "I think they're almost done. Your average mortal can't keep up that kind of pace for long." He snickered at the curious glance she sent at the door. "Oh, come look, you know you want to." He held a hand out to her.

"No, thank you, nothing I haven't seen before."

"Oh, really? Tell, tell."

"No." Damn the blush reflex, a 40-year-old woman should get some kind of break.

Suddenly he was at her side. "I do hope you got to participate more than you watched," he said softly.

She had to take a steadying breath. "That's none of your business." But she couldn't help smiling a little.

The shriek from outside was loud enough to get through the soundproofing and held a pure high-C for several seconds.

The Love God appeared at the window to look out, just in case. "Oh, good," he said. "Nothing dreadful. Professionally trained, is she?"

"I beg your pardon!"

"Voice, dear girl, voice. What did you think I meant?"

"Never mind."

"Quite the athletic pair. You might want to give them a few moments to clean themselves up." He was next to her again. "You don't bring them with you every night, do you?"

"I don't think the upholstery could take it, and no, I don't."

He kept his eyes on hers. "So no one usually expects you home after your show?"

She tried to look away, she really did. "No, not really. I sometimes get something to eat afterwards." Her stomach tightened at the way his smile changed.

"I think having a nice, long tape could be very handy," he said softly. "Never know when you might want some uninterrupted time."

Some other part of her answered. "No, you never know." She was not, however, dumb. "You could invite Tango to join you."

"Sometimes the music is right for tango, sometimes the music is right for waltz." He moved a little closer. "Do you dance?"

Elizabeth refused to give in to the bashfulness that tried to crawl up her spine. "All depends on the partner." Maintaining eye contact felt like a blatant advertisement of her availability; looking down would feel like cowardice.

He looked towards the door thoughtfully. She wondered if he was trying to figure out how much time he had before Joe and Marnie outside knocked to find out what was taking Elizabeth so long. And she scolded herself for thinking of that herself.

But there was a knock on the door, and the self-proclaimed Love God looked over at the control board. "Damn it," he muttered, rushing over to get another CD ready.

Taking deep, slow breaths, Elizabeth waited to make sure he wasn't opening the mike before she opened the door. "Be right there, guys," she said to the couple outside. They grinned like the besotted fools they were. "Joe, zip up your pants."

The Love God leaned back in the chair. "So you're off?"

"Yes, I am." She retrieved her purse from the space below the control board. She contemplated the proximity of his knee for only half a second, then moved away.

"And what will you do with yourself the rest of this lovely warm night?"

She paused at the door. "Go to the all-night supermarket, see who else is out at this hour. Read a book by candlelight in my sister's garden and look at the stars and sip some wine. Think thoughts."

"Sounds dull," he smirked.

"Sad you," she remarked. "There's very little else of interest to do in this town at night."

"That because I wasn't here."

Elizabeth met his eyes and only smiled at the challenge she saw. "So you say. We'll see." She slipped out the door.

Spike began making notes of what songs to put on that long tape.

***

Spike strolled casually past the men in fishnets lounging outside the coffee shop on the corner, nodding to the heavily made-up women and pretending not to see the thinly-disguised demon chatting with a man with better legs than Elizabeth Hurley.

Elizabeth's house--or, more correctly, her sister Leah's house -- was not quite three blocks south of the corner of 9th South and 9th East, home to a collection of small, fiercely independent shops, the local art film house, and the splendidly shabby Coffee Garden. The folk who lounged on the grass were pierced and tattooed, patrons of the more outre hair cosmetics, and smelled comfortingly of leather, coffee, and assorted smokeables.

The invitation had been in his box at the station, tucked among the messages from love-sick listeners of all genders, offering exotic inducements for his attention. He'd kept two of the thirty for possible follow-up, then found the note from Elizabeth.

"If you can possibly find the time with all the demands on you, my sister would like to meet the new guy I mentioned. We will be at home tomorrow night till late, if you find yourself in the neighborhood."

So she talked about him. He wondered what she'd said.

They were queueing up for the midnight show of Rocky Horror at the theatre. A brush from a black polyester cape made him smile derisively and quicken his pace, and three brisk strides brought him out of the sodium-vapor streetlamps and back into the comforting darkness.

More light and noise came from the porches and steps of the houses here than he expected at this hour. From one radio came the sound of KRCL and Blair and Tris's show, "Women and Metal", blasting the mosquitoes into a stupor from one of the doorways along with the smell of decent beer and better pot.

A little quieter as he headed south, the sounds of crickets audible. "Crickets, gah, damned noisy buggers," he muttered in disgust. "What they doing, clutterin' up a perfectly good city? Can't hear the radio for 'em."

Most of the world was asleep, except the odd folk. The interesting ones. Night folk, like vampires and late night disk jockies and their weird witch sisters. Hopefully the kiddies were tucked away in bed. Was it a school night? He didn't even know. Something white ahead -- Spike looked at it thoughtfully, tracing down the memory. A hitching post, painted stone bearing evidence of recent scrubbing. He pulled gently at the iron loop in the top of it. "Bit out of your time, eh?"

The house the post guarded was old, but younger than he was. He remembered when this style had appeared, Arts & Crafts as a reaction to overblown Victorian. Rooms you could see the bones of, rooms impossible to hide in. Ornamental plum trees screened the porch from casual glances. As he walked up the path, he could smell crushed thyme beneath his heels. The garden was not confined to neat beds in the borders, but had staged a successful coup and taken over every available inch of space.

A good deep porch, with chairs and tables taking up the space. Wicker chairs and plastic chairs and a two-seat swing at one end. A place for courting couples to get a little privacy with the potential attention of the whole neighborhood serving as chaperone. Could be amusing to see what a bloke could get away with in front of everyone.

The rosemary, in a weathered terra cotta urn, beckoned him closer and invited his touch, but he shook his head. "No, thank you. I was invited." He moved past it, oddly pleased by the solid clomp of his boots on the stairs, and tapped lightly on the glass of the stormdoor. No sense pissing off the owner of the place by waking her kids with the doorbell.

He saw a cat peeking through the big window to the left. The cat did not look pleased.

"I'll get it," said Elizabeth from inside the house.

"No, I'll get it," said another voice, apparently the sister. Something in the new voice suggested that she wanted to a preliminary look-see at this new guy.

A moment later, a face appeared behind the beveled glass panes of the inner door; dark reddish-brown hair surrounding a pale blur of a face, shirt was something green, then she pulled open the inner door. Spike arranged his features into something resembling politeness and endured the scrutiny.

After a moment of close study, she nodded, unlatched something and pushed the stormdoor open. "Come in," she said, stepping out of the way. Even with the invitation, Spike felt a definite jolt as he passed the threshold. Looking back at the door, he spotted a small triple crescent, worked in silver and moonstone, just over the glass panes. As the door closed, there was the definite sense that more than physical bolts had been thrown.

He saw Elizabeth in the room beyond watching all of this with interest. A little warning might have been nice, but it was interesting that she'd decided to forego it.

"Ta," he said, with no small amount of irony. "I'm guessing you're Leah?" This woman didn't look like the kind to play accurate air guitar in front of crowds, but it was the same one who had "accompanied" Elizabeth at the parking lot party.

She nodded, her own expression one of wary amusement.

Elizabeth got up from the comfy-looking Navaho-print sofa. "And what name are we introducing you by tonight?"

"What, my title not good enough for Big Bad Sister, here?" he said, in mock dismay.

Leah's mouth twitched. "Not if you expect me to keep a straight face -- or keep from asking for bona fides on your right to claim it."

He ignored the comment with dignity and, with a flicker of a smile for Elizabeth, set about exploring the room while he thought.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow to Leah, as if to say "I did warn you." Leah was half a second from rolling her eyes, but obviously thought better of it.

The household was apparently of the "decorate with books" school. The built-in bookcases either side of the wide, tiled fireplace were crammed with books that had been respectfully and frequently read.

A casual visitor would have passed by the altar on one of the shelves, but it was obvious to anyone with sensitivity to arcane energies. The tools were simple, but well-made and showed signs of frequent use. Spike would not have touched the innocuous blue-green pottery cup upon that shelf in peril of his unlife.

"Is there anything on these shelves that doesn't have to do with religion?" he said, with a sneer of irritation.

"Next bookcase," Leah replied. If she was amused at his discomfort, only the faintest flicker of it showed.

"Smut on the top shelves," Elizabeth added wryly. "The Harry Potter's are scattered to everyone's rooms, though, sorry."

Cats appeared from the holes cat occupy and began circling closer to his feet. By the number of cat representations about the place, kicking the furry slugs would not be a good idea. A stiff-moving old grey cat stared at him. Spike met his eyes and sneered to himself when the cat backed down.

"It's all right, Old One, no one thinks less of you," Leah called as the cat stomped through a door at the far end of the room.

"So nice when a guest makes himself right at home," Elizabeth said brightly to Leah.

Leah looked very much as if she wished to put her hand over her eyes. "Love, if I'm getting up with the horde tomorrow, I need to finish that report. It was interesting to meet you, Nameless Stranger; kindly don't bite my sister without her specific invitation." With a quick hug to Elizabeth, she left through the same door the discomfited cat had used.

Elizabeth stared after her sister, puzzled at her wording. Leah had the disconcerting habit of dropping important information in the middle of innocuous conversations. Elizabeth looked at Mr. Night out of the corner of her eye. She knew the night was not empty, had heard the veiled references to legends that held far more of fact than fancy. But her sister had let him in the house without a quibble.

Spike glared after Leah. Damned witches. Mages of all sorts. Had she known when she let him in the door? Hell, yes, with all those wards on the door. He saw Elizabeth staring at him uncertainly. "Does she always let people she thinks are creatures of the night in the front door?"

"No," Elizabeth said, "not normally. She got the ash staff out last All Hallows when this couple showed up at the door trick or treating. Neither of us liked the kinds of treats they were asking for."

Spike invited himself to the couch and sank into the deep cushions. "Oh, this is nice."

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Elizabeth laughed.

"All the comforts of home?" he asked.

"Not all of them."

He glanced at the altar. "Didn't expect anything so open like that in this town."

"You're on the cool side of town, now. The East Side is the home of the gently weird."

"Yours or hers?"

"Hers."

"You going to stand on the other side of the room the whole time?"

Responding to the challenge was juvenile. Staying on the far side of the room from him was prudish. Instead, she tugged the Morris chair in the corner a little closer and settled in--putting her feet up on the battered coffee table only after making sure Leah wasn't around to scold her for not being a good role model for the kids.

Spike put his feet up as well. "No shoes on the couch," Elizabeth said calmly.

"Fair enough." He shucked the boots and propped up his feet. "You never said what your sis does with herself," he said cheerfully, managing to make it sound lewd.

"She's a meteorologist, mostly, fiddles with web pages and programming when she's not helping people restore their Arts & Crafts houses. A Renaissance woman."

"Multi-talented, eh?"

"She's raising teenagers, she'd better be."

"And where are the little darlings?"

"If you mean my niece and nephew, they're in their rooms."

"Yes, them." He glanced around. "Awfully tidy for having kids about."

"You're a rude son of a bitch, aren't you."

"One of my nicest features."

Well, she rather liked his cheekbones, and his feet were rather nice, too. She wondered if he was ticklish. "Little darlings isn't the term I'd use. Both of them are taller than Leah, and very nearly as devious."

"Dad was big, hm?"

"Relatively tall, yes."

"And you," he purred. "What do you do other than torment impressionable minds in the night?"

Elizabeth smiled with dignity. "That woman never did call the FCC to complain. If Howard Stern can get away with stuff in the middle of the night, I can get away with an accusation of having an overly sultry laugh. I'm sure you get more obscene phone calls than I do."

He looked at her from partially closed eyes. "Laugh for me."

"I try to save it for the air."

"There's words for that kind of attitude."

"Yes, discreet."

"That's all you do, then? Think of ways to inspire listeners to complain to the FCC that you're lewd?"

"Actually, I'm a part-time librarian at the University."

"Never."

"Reference Department, I help people look up things."

"No. Librarians are dull, repressed people who go around shushing people."

"Loud noises in the stacks are rude. Anything anyone needs to do in a library can be done quietly. And how do you know librarians are repressed? Got turned down by one?"

"It's a good indicator." Spike gazed around the room. "So you take care of this library?"

"Oh, this is only part of it. My books are downstairs. Leah likes to see occasional spots of wall, whereas I believe nothing adorns a wall like a solid face of books." She saw him raise an interested eyebrow, but resisted the urge to offer a tour. "No one should have to deal with the Dungeon on the first visit."

"Tease."

"Besides, the cats are probably hiding down there now."

"Good place for cats, the dungeon. They make good torture implements."

"Sorry, it's not that sort of dungeon."

"Too bad."

"But the back garden's wonderful this time of year," she added, hoping that it sounded off-hand.

He tilted his head as he looked at her. "Gardens are nice."

"Leah usually has tea this time of night --"

"Oh, god, another one for the tea."

"--but I don't have to be anywhere tomorrow, so I thought we could grab a couple of beers and --"

"Decent beer?" he asked suspiciously.

"We do not offer guests anything we wouldn't be willing to drink ourselves." She motioned to the door at the other end of the room.

"Ah, the mysterious door," he said. "What fearsome secrets lurk behind -- oh, God. This is -- I wouldn't put my worst enemy in a room this colour." Maybe it had been yellow once. Beige? Pale green? All of the above?

"We're still deciding what it should be painted. Mind the carpet in the next room, it's been known to eat people."

"What gods did your sister offend, that she's forced to cook food for her children in a room this colour?"

"You should have seen the carpet we ripped out of the other room. Green shag. Very '70s."

"Shag is very '70s."

She preferred not to react to his tone of voice. She knew what shag meant in British, so she just opened the fridge for beers.

Faint glow of a computer down a passage; Leah, sitting in front of a large flat-screen monitor with the rest of the lights off. The glow gave her face a pleasantly corpse-like cast. "Need a glass?" she asked when she saw the pair and their beer bottles.

"No, thanks, sis. Leah believes in glasses," Elizabeth explained. "She was properly raised."

"We all have our burdens to bear," Spike said kindly.

"We also recycle the bottles, so don't leave it under a bush somewhere."

"So if she was properly raised, should I assume you weren't?"

"Mother tried, she did her best. I was stubborn, though."

"I can believe that."

"Going out to the patio, sis."

A quick flash of concern, no more. "The fountain's still on; will you shut it off when you're done?"

"Certainly," Elizabeth said. "Don't forget and arm the alarms."

"Do my best."

Spike smiled at the discreet announcement that one could not do away with a person and not have it be noticed.

She paused at the back door to undo latches, and he glanced around. A painting on the wall caught his eye, a real painting, not a photograph. "What in the world...?"

Elizabeth looked up, then sighed, half amused, half chagrined. "A friend who likes doing allegorical paintings did that."

He recognized Elizabeth and Leah, and the two teenagers must be the niece and nephew. Leah sat at a large, old-fashioned loom, dressed in a Greek tunic, a shield, spear and helm leaning against the bench she sat on. The girl stood behind the loom, likewise wearing a tunic but glaring at the bow she held awkwardly in her hands. The boy, on the other hand, was laughing his head off as he flew out of the painting on the back of a young Pegasus. Leah was looking over her shoulder at him, smiling in that tolerant way mothers have. Behind them all stood Elizabeth, draped in a more formal robe but with a near-smirk on her face as she casually tossed a golden apple in her hand.

"Athena Minerva," Spike said, considering Leah's outfit. "Goddess of war and wisdom."

"Very good."

"The golden apple, though--Atalanta, that girl who lost the race because the damned cheat kept throwing the apples in front of her?"

"Do I look like an athlete? It's the Apple of Discord, symbol of Eris."

He tracked the reference down to a hazy, long-ignored corner of his brain. "Eris. Goddess of Chaos." He looked at the respectable-looking librarian beside him in surprise and saw the sly smile in her eyes. And he remembered the sultry torch singer he'd seen his first night in Salt Lake. "Does your sister deserve her allegorical identity as well as you do?"

"You'd have to ask her. But I advise you never to piss her off. Come on, we're burning night."

A faint breeze had risen in the trees, but it was still warm out. The light near the door didn't dispel the darkness in the further corners. Benches were scattered about, under the grape arbor and near the garage. Spike peered up at the night. "Can you see the stars back here?"

"Most nights," she said. The blue-tiled fountain was still splashing in the center of the patio; the sound would mask any noises from the band practicing loudly next door. . . or anywhere else. She blushed, scolded herself, and stepped down into the yard, ducking under several low-growing branches of the fig trees.

Spike followed her into the darkness, watching her move in the faint moonlight. Her hair was down, he noticed. At the station she always had her hair up on pins, looking nearly as prim as the Victorian matrons he remembered. He wondered what she would do if he played with her hair.

Elizabeth sat down on one end of the bench and tipped the bottle up to drink. "Well, there are a few stars, at least." Spike looked up. More than a few, to his eyesight. She curled a leg under and turned towards her guest. "Why won't you tell us your name?"

"And ruin my air of mystery?"

"Trust me, you have more than enough air of mystery, giving us a useable name will not harm it."

"Might be a dull name."

"So make up something."

"I did. You just don't want to use it."

"Sorry, I don't call just anybody God." Elizabeth took another swig of beer. "Now, I'm willing to call you Mr. Night, but it's rather awkward in general conversation."

"Mr. Night," Spike repeated. "I like the sound of it."

She snickered. "Sounds like a comic book character, or something from a poor science fiction movie."

"Oh, if you want awkward, there's Elizabeth. Sounds like a bloody queen or something."

"Elizabeth is a very good name."

"Oh, sure, but then there's Liz or Betsy--"

"Do not call me Betsy."

"Ah, sensitive, are we?"

"Don't call me Betsy and we won't have to worry about it."

He toyed with the bottle in his hands as he looked at her. "Ellie. Has anyone ever called you Ellie?"

She smiled grudgingly: "If you can resist the urge to say Ellie Mae."

He snickered. "'Let me tell you a little story 'bout a man named Jeb,'" he sang softly.

"You're still barefoot, my boy, and I was wondering if you were ticklish."

He stuck his foot out towards her and grinned. She raised an eyebrow, and he only grinned harder.

Slowly she reached for his foot then paused, her finger tips poised over the top of his arch. He debated pulling his foot back, then wiggled his toes at her. She turned her wrist to move her fingers to the bottom of his foot, still staring at him. His grin dared her. She slowly raised one finger to touch the bottom of his foot. He flinched slightly, and she smiled.

Two fingers tapped lightly on the bottom of his foot, and he bit his lip. A third joined the other two, but then she removed them and ran one finger slowly from the heel all the way to the ball of his foot before he yanked his foot away.

"Well, then," she said in the low, laughing voice that had gotten her a threat to call the FCC. "I would say you are ticklish."

He drained his beer with a hand that only shook a little, but he kept his eyes on her. "You're a wicked woman. And where, pretty, are you ticklish?"

"I don't believe I care to tell you."

"Would only be fair."

"When did fair enter into it?"

"You tickled me."

"You offered."

He slid closer, leaving little more than an arm's length between them. "Everyone's ticklish somewhere."

As she drained her beer, he edged closer, to within reach. She saw the lessened distance when she lowered the beer, but didn't comment. Instead she leaned over to put the bottle carefully on the ground. Her hair fell over her shoulder, and he reached down to brush it back and run a finger lightly behind her ear and down her neck. He could see the pulse in her throat.

She tried not to straighten too quickly, but her reactions were becoming unreliable. He took her hand and laid a kiss on the inside of her wrist, then in the palm of her hand. Her blood coursed warm against his lips under her skin. Her hand jerked, but not enough to free it from his loose grip.

"Your hands are cold," she said, her voice no longer the confident, seductive whisper.

"Must be the night air." He held her eyes as he nibbled lightly on her wrist, gently running his tongue along the big vein. He took a deep breath and pulled back. "If you want me to stop, Ellie, tell me now."

Elizabeth wanted to tell him that what they were doing was a mistake, that respectable people shouldn't do this. But his eyes burned into her, willing to stop if she wanted but more willing to take things further. He wasn't above persuading, either, and he ran a light finger down the pulse in her wrist.

"Don't stop," whispered the woman who spoke to strangers in the middle of the night.

His smile flashed white in the dim light. "Oh, good."

He kissed her wrist again, then the inside of her elbow, then the join of her neck and shoulder. One arm went around her neck and the other slid to her waist as he settled on her lips.

His lips were cold. She tried to tell herself it was just night air, but his hands were cold and his body was cold where it pressed against hers. His tongue slipping between her lips was cold, but it felt good as she met him willingly. He let her return the favor, and she couldn't help carefully exploring his incisors. A sharp point caught the tip of her tongue, and blood flowed. He jerked back in surprise, then went still. But she could see him tasting the inadvertent offering.

She met his eyes, so close to hers. Playing with sexy strangers was one thing. Playing with sexy strangers who were more strange than could be readily believed, though, was something else. "Leah--Leah said no biting unless I say it's OK," she managed.

There was only waiting in his eyes. "Yes, she did," he agreed. He licked his lips. "It's a plan I can work with."

Could he hear her heart, pounding so loud in her own ears? Or was he watching the pulse under her skin? What could he see in the dark that was hidden from her mortal eyes?

"I won't hurt you," he whispered. "I just want to taste the fire in you."

She rested a light hand on the chilly spot just behind his jaw, where a pulse point should have beat. "Can you ever get warm?" she asked for the reference librarian in the back of her head.

He smiled and pulled her close again. "You're warm enough for two," he told her softly.

He tasted the blood on her tongue again, sucking gently. His bleached hair was stiff under her hands, but he twitched like any other man as she traced unknown symbols on the back of his neck.

He tried to pull her closer, but the arm and back of the bench got in the way.

"Dratted things," he muttered. "Oh, not you, love. Slide down here." He tugged her to the center of the bench, then eased her back down. "There, much better," he said, looking down at her.

She ran a finger along his lips. "I suppose you've had a lot of practice at this."

"They don't call me the Love God of the Night for nothing."

"The only one I've heard refer to you as the Love God of anything is you."

He nibbled on her finger. "If one can't love oneself ... What are you smirking at?"

"Self-love is very healthy," she said piously. "Relieves the pressure, as it were."

He leaned down and kissed her with a growl. "I'll give you pressure," he muttered into her lips.

"Please," she gasped in reply.

He buried one hand in her hair as he kissed his way down her throat. An act of will kept him from tasting just yet. Instead he started in on the buttons of her shirt, kissing everything he could get to. "Oo, those are nice ones," he said when he got down to bra level.

The bra conveniently snapped in the front. A man invented that, he thought to himself as he finally got the cotton item out of his way. He wrapped his arm around her burning hot body as he tasted first one, then the other nipple.

She slipped her hands up the back of his shirt, his chill skin delightful to the fever in her hands. "Not bad tits for being forty and saggy," she murmured.

He let her pull the shirt over his head, freeing the hand in her hair so he could wrap both arms around her.

"40's nothing, pet," he told her with a grin. "And these are better than plastic rocks poking me in the ribs. Skinny girls, it's like laying on a pile of twigs." He settled against her comfortably and began fondling her right breast. "Move too fast, you think you'll hear something snap." He started tracing her ribs south. "Better a woman who's up to the challenge, not some fragile little girl you have to treat like a tea cup."

She gasped as he traced the belt line of her jeans. He chuckled and lingered on the sensitive patch of skin. "Found your ticklish spot, have I?"

"Darn you," she muttered. Her hands moved restlessly up and down his back and on the obnoxiously narrow male hips. She slid her hands into the back pockets of his tight black jeans and squeezed.

He obediently ground his hips against hers. "You couldn't have worn a skirt," he complained against her lips.

She smiled. "You didn't."

"I don't need to sneak up on sheep."

She tugged one hand free and stroked around his hip to the front. When she traced the bulge under the zipper, he shivered.

"Don't know if I can get the zipper down with that in the way," she said worriedly.

"Fuck the zipper," he growled.

She looked concerned. "But won't the teeth hurt?"

"Woman ..." he muttered. He got one hand free and yanked open the fasteners on his jeans. "Oh, thank god," he sighed when he was free.

"Oh, yes, that is nice," Elizabeth agreed, wrapping her hand around him. What heat there was in him was concentrated here.

"Smug wench." His fingers fumbled as he felt her squeezing gently, but he got the top button on her jeans unfastened, then he slowly ran the zipper down. He smugly watched her face as she gasped when he slowly slipped his hand inside.

"So hot," he murmured as his fingers went exploring. He let her go only long enough to shove her jeans down and to kick himself free of his own. Then he lay down against her again, feeling the heat of her against his skin. He took possession of her lips again, barely letting her gasp as he slowly slid his fingers further up.

With some wiggling that only made him smile, she managed to get her legs free of her jeans so she could give him better access. She wrapped her arms around him. "Please," she whispered against his lips.

"Please what?"

"Inside, I want you inside."

"Just a moment, pet."

"No. Now."

He smiled and nibbled across her cheekbone to her ear. "Not long, love."

"Now."

"Come for me, first." He ran his fingers through the heat of her, looking for the places that made her gasp the loudest.

She pressed against his hand, wanting more. Her breath caught when he found the main knot of her nerve endings. "There. Oh, there."

"Here?"

"Oh, yes ..."

"Or up in here?"

"Oh..."

"Or both?"

He could smell the blood just under her skin, or he thought he could. But not without her agreement. He rested his fangs against the roaring pulse in her throat but managed to pull himself back. "Let me taste you," he growled into her ear.

"What?"

"Let me taste you, let me feel your hot blood on my tongue."

She let her head fall back. "Yes," she breathed.

His mouth on her throat found new nerve endings, tying into the nerves his fingers were tangled in. The sharp stab gathered everything into a tight knot. The way his hold tightened on her as he held her greedily against him unhitched it all at once. "God, yes," he breathed as he tasted the rush in her bloodstream.

She whimpered faintly as the world came back. So much glory, but still so empty. He was kissing her throat now--or was he cleaning up?

"More," she whispered as he moved his head around to kiss her lips.

He chuckled. "Fucked your last lover to death, did you? Have to try harder with me."

"You haven't given me a chance, yet."

He smiled and pulled his hand up to slowly lick his fingers clean.

She bit her lip, then reached down to trail her fingers along his balls. "They're not just for show, are they?"

"Oh, my god, woman. Your last lover probably did kill himself trying to get that smug look off your face."

He grabbed her hand and dragged it above her head, then snagged her other wrist to hold that in one hand. He nudged her legs apart with his free hand--not that she tried to stop him--and settled down against her.

"Naughty girls don't get dessert," he told her, fondling a breast as he tried to frown at her.

"I haven't even had the main course, yet." She debated, then decided what the hell. "You at least got an appetizer."

He hesitated, then grinned slowly as he realized she was teasing him. He moved against her, just to watch her bite her lip. "Hungry, are you?"

She tried to pull her hands free, even though she knew she couldn't. "Damn you," she whispered.

Very slightly, he pressed against her, feeling the heat he longed to bury himself in. He leaned down to suck on her breasts, then kissed her fiercely. "Aching for it, hm?"

Oh, she wished she could keep from moving against him, but she wrapped her legs around him and urged herself against him.

"Yes," she growled into his ear. "I want you in me. What do you want from me?"

"Everything," he said, and he shoved himself into her.

She pulled her hands free and wrapped her arms around him.

He rocked his hips against hers, wishing he could get deeper. She burned around him, and he felt her pulse echoing in his head. He raised up slightly so he could watch her face. She moaned slightly each time he slid into her.

"Oh, god," she whispered.

"Yes?" he said softly.

"Wasn't. Talking. To you."

"Oh, wench." He slowed down, burrowing against her, yanking away, then burrowing in deliberately again. He ran his tongue along the big vein in her throat and into her ear. "Something managed to distract you at a time like this?"

She whimpered as he stopped trying to control himself. No bruises, he tried to tell himself.

Her hands ran down the moving muscles in his back and down to his hips. As he paused to push against her, impatient with physical limitations, she tried to help, moving her hips into his and locking her ankles around him.

"Please," she whispered, "just a little more."

"Everything I've got, love, everything you want." His fangs ached as much as the rest of him. He pressed his lips against her throat, tasting the remnants on her skin.

She slid her hand into his hair. "Yes. Yes, that too."

"Oh, love." Despite what the rest of his body was doing to her, he took his deliberate time about this. The fire of her blood burst into his mouth, and she cried out as she spasmed around his body.

He held on as long as he could, then yanked her hips against his as hard as he could without causing damage as his body let go.

She still couldn't breathe without it being part whimper as the world spun to a halt. Her arms and legs were still wrapped around him, and she didn't mind his weight on her.

"Oh, pretty one," he finally sighed. She chuckled and hugged him, than ran her hands down his back appreciatively. If she stretched her arm out far enough, she could just caress his balls. He gave a shudder and gasped.

"Black widows and you," he said, blinking. He managed to pull the questing hand up to where he could kiss the palm. "Stop that."

She ran her fingers through his hair before the muscles in her arm went limp again. "I'm a patient woman."

He felt nerve endings answering the call, but hard-won practicality reminded him of something. "Love, the spirit is very willing--so's the body, for that matter--" He ran a finger down her body and smiled at the shiver that shook her. "But if we keep this up I might just forget myself and forget not to hold you just as tight as I can." He kissed the side of her neck, tidying up one or two stray drops. "Or be tempted to take a bit more than you're willing to do without."

She was tempted to take that road and see where it took her, but there was a fine line between abandon and foolishness. Was this just too-long-ignored, normal lust or the product of the infamous vampire glamour? Leah would know ... oh, lord, Leah.

"What?" he asked as she looked guiltily towards the house.

"I imagine someone is waiting up."

He looked suspiciously towards the one lighted window, wondering if that was a shadow he saw. Then he looked back down at Elizabeth. "Afraid to admit you just fucked your brains out with a vampire?"

She started to protest, hesitated and thought about it. "Not afraid," she finally said. "Surprised as hell, a little embarrassed by the sheer wantonness of it all. But not ashamed."

The knot in his stomach eased, and he licked his lips pointedly.

"Stop that, damn you."

"Sorry, but sex with a chaser of woman is better than good whiskey." He sighed, then pushed himself up and away from her.

She shivered as the night air hit her. "Cold," she complained.

"Oh, not you," he protested. Her shirt still hung from her shoulders, and he tugged it around. Repositioning the bra baffled him, and she finally chuckled and took over dressing herself. But she winced as she sat up.

"You all right?" he asked, hoping she wasn't too worn out.

She laughed. "Oh, I'm fine, the hips aren't used to that much activity."

He helped her stand and held her as her equilibrium re-established. "Don't donate to the Red Cross for the next day or so," he told her.

"Probably not a good idea. Shouldn't you get dressed, too?"

"In a bit." He glanced at the house. "I'm thinking it might not be a good idea for me to go back in there at the moment. Make my apologies."

"Your boots are in there."

"Bring 'em by the station tomorrow night. I'd rather walk barefoot than face your sister."

"She's not that fearsome."

"Oh, you think."

She sighed, then put her arms around him and leaned against him. Her casual appropriation of his person startled him, but he put his arms around her and ran his fingers through her hair, undoing the worst of the knots. His gut longed for the heat he felt in her body, but he knew better anymore than to try and satisfy himself with one person's body. Not a body he wanted to keep around for a bit, anyway.

Elizabeth got a hold of herself and straightened. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow night then, at work. Can you get home all right?"

"There's hours yet, I'll be fine." It occurred to him that Liberty Park was full of snack food at this hour, a little here, a little there, find the proper flavorings ... But best not to mention that just now.

"There's a gate just back here," she said with a smile. "It goes out into the alley."

"Very handy." He pulled her closer to kiss her good-bye, sliding his hands down her back to press her against him. He wanted to drag her to the ground and make her whimper for his body again, but one thing he'd learned in a century and a half was patience. It had taken him awhile, but he'd finally learned it.

"I made that long tape I told you about the other night," he whispered in her ear. "It's an hour and a half long. Should I bring it with me tomorrow night?"

She caught her breath at the thought of it, the two of them in the station all by themselves and what he could do to her in comfortable surroundings and that much time on his hands. "Yes," she said breathlessly.

He grinned wickedly. "Have you ever come so hard you passed out?"

"Not that--not that I remember."

"Give you half an hour to recuperate while the tape rewinds and recues, we can play it twice. No one will notice."

Part of her was frightened. Part of her wanted to start tonight. Part of her just wanted to collapse into bed and sleep for eighteen hours. And part of her was starting to shiver.

Spike frowned. "Don't you dare catch a cold on me. I can't make you beg for mercy if you've got a stuffed up head."

"How romantic."

"This isn't romance, pet. This is me wanting free rein with your body and being very happy that you're willing to give it to me."

She sighed and nodded. "I know. Animal passions are underrated, but they don't last forever. I understand."

"I don't know how long I'll be in Salt Lake. I've got other places I should be eventually." He grinned again. "But when I do go, you're going to be walking funny for a week and smiling oddly when people ask why."

Elizabeth laughed. "That's a good working plan for now." She gave him a narrow look. "I'm still not going to call you Love God of the Night."

He kissed her deeply one more time before he went. "You will," he promised her. "You will."

***

Elizabeth hadn't opened the mike in the last twenty minutes of her show. Her voice was shaking too much with anticipation to trust on the air. Whether it was anticipation of lust or humiliation, she wasn't sure.

Last night seemed unreal. If not for aches in her hips and the faint pain in her neck, she'd have thought she dreamed it. The man who called himself Love God of the Night was a vampire. And she'd made frenzied love with him in the backyard. Hell, they'd fucked like minks. And he'd insinuated that he was arranging a sequel for tonight.

Or was he going to walk in here like nothing had happened, toss a few innuendos around, and just smirk at her? Even odds he'd find himself getting raped if he tried that.

Ten minutes before the end of her show, the studio door opened, and the blond Brit vampire strolled in. She jumped and stared at him, wondering if she looked guilty.

"Hello, love," he smiled. He had a large flat box under his arm, the kind that the big tape reels came in. She blushed and looked back at her dials.

He whistled softly as he went to the tape machine and began setting up the reel. Elizabeth very carefully kept her attention on her work. But she wondered if he'd noticed that tonight she wore a skirt.

He had. Spike told himself very firmly that he could wait the eight minutes it would take to let Elizabeth wrap up her show and start the hour-and-a-half tape. Eight minutes was nothing in a one hundred and twenty some year lifetime. But it seemed forever when he was hard as a nail and wanting to yank a willing woman to the floor and get on with it.

He carefully cued up the tape and inserted his sign-on cart into the cassette deck. Elizabeth was barely two feet away, and he forced himself to be content with a brush of a finger along her cheek. She dropped the CD case she was trying to open.

She managed the segue to her last song without messing up, and she leaned back, trying to breathe evenly. "Last song," she announced.

"No sign off?" Spike asked.

"Not tonight." She licked her lips. "Don't trust my voice." She wanted to hate him for that faint chuckle, except that she was thinking about his mouth and her body. "The board is yours."

She started to get to her feet, but her knees had gone on holiday. He caught her as she stumbled, and they stared into each others eyes for two seconds. Then his mouth was devouring hers, and her hands were in his hair.

Spike pulled away first. "Not yet, not yet. Have to start the tape." He glanced at the clock. Thirty seconds, so he pulled Elizabeth tight against him so she could feel his lust. "All the doors are locked, lights are off except the ones in here, no one in the building but us. Unless somebody's got a key, no one's going to bother us for at least three hours."

"Phone calls."

"Fuck 'em."

"Me first. Oh, hell," she muttered, embarrassed.

"Trust me, love, you first." He let himself unbutton one button on her shirt as a reward for good behavior.

"There's the door bell."

"We can cut the wires--"

"No, we need that doorbell. There might be an emergency."

"There'd better damned well not be one tonight." He stepped very deliberately away and pulled the side chair over for Elizabeth to drop onto, since her knees were unreliable. Ten seconds to go, and he sat down at the control board to confirm all the settings were right. At the top of the hour, he faded out the song and pushed the button on the cassette machine. His radio voice oozed out into the airwaves, promising marvels and wonders to anyone who was still awake at this hour. Then he pushed the button for the tape player, and the big reel started turning.

Music came out, something with guitars and drums. Spike sat back and relaxed. Or as much as a man could relax who planned to spend the next significant block of time hip deep in female flesh.

He swivelled the chair around to face Elizabeth. "Hi, there," he grinned.

"Hi," she breathed.

He got to his feet and sauntered over to her. "Nice skirt."

"I thought so."

Preliminaries out of the way, he leaned down to kiss her, balancing himself on the back of the chair. He unbuttoned her shirt and slid his hand inside. He grinned when all he found was skin. "Out on the street like that, were you?"

"Well, no. I took it off an hour ago, just in case."

"Thank you."

She efficiently unbuttoned his shirt, and he dropped it on the floor. She then turned her attention to his belt. He watched her rapt interest and decided the first round was going to be straightforward and fast, just so he could think.

But Elizabeth had other ideas. As she opened his jeans and started pushing them down, she leaned forward and laid a delicate kiss just on the tip of him.

"Oh, god," he gasped. He grabbed the back of the chair as she let go of his jeans to let them slide to the floor, shifted forward, and wrapped her lips around him. "Oh, my god." He felt her smile, then all he could feel was her hot wet tongue and the suction.

Cool to the touch, almost like ice cream. Soft skin, and he was getting harder in her mouth. He smelled faintly of soapy male, and she pictured him in the shower getting ready for her. She shifted impatiently, but first there was payback for last night. Very gently, she ran her fingers up along the inside of his legs and delicately cradled his balls in her hand.

He tightened his grip on the chair back. "Ellie, if you don't stop, I won't be able to help myself." She laughed faintly, which made matters worse, then she ran her hands up along his ass and squeezed. "Ellie, I mean it." He felt his guts tighten and tried not to push himself into her mouth. "God ..." She worked him greedily, and it began to dawn on him that she was trying to get him to come, not just drive him mildly nuts. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had been willing to let him ... "Last chance, love, 'cause I'm about to--" He lost his breath as she cupped his balls again and very gently squeezed, apparently in invitation. He managed to keep his hands on the back of the chair and not clamped around her head as he let himself go. White sparks flashed in his head as he felt her try to drain him dry.

Finally she made sure everything was tidy and sat back, delicately wiping her lower lip. She burped faintly. "Excuse me."

"Excuse you." He slid to his knees in front of her. "I might just worship you and your tongue." He blinked quickly to clear his vision, because he was still seeing two of her. And two of her would probably kill him.

Smiling very smugly, she reached for the water bottle on the counter. She took a swig, then offered it to Spike. "Water?"

"I'll make an exception for extraordinary circumstances and say yes." He took a small sip of the insipid liquid to ease the dryness in his mouth. He then collapsed into her lap. "My god."

She ran her fingers through his bleached hair, playing with the backs of his ears and making him shiver again. "I gather you liked that."

"Isn't there a category of sainthood for that kind of thing?"

"I very much doubt it."

He was catching his breath and ideas. "I don't know, it might be classified as raising the dead. That's good for some points." He grinned wickedly at her from his position in her lap.

"That was dreadful."

"Thank you." He got to his knees in front of her and leaned in to kiss her. He remembered what he'd been thinking before and reintroduced himself to her breasts, giving first one, then the other a proper kiss hello. In the course of this, he noticed that her skirt was held up by a drawstring, and he tugged on the long end of the tie to loosen the knot. "Plenty warm in here," he said softly. "No need for clothes."

"Probably not."

He put his hands around her waist and pulled her towards him, letting the skirt drop away as he tugged her into his lap. She wiggled against him eagerly, but systems were still coming on line.

"Give me a little bit, love," he whispered against her lips. "Your own fault. Just you wait, and I'll shove into you so hard you'll beg for mercy."

"I hate waiting."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll distract you."

He shoved the chair out of the way and laid her back on the floor. He kissed her lips, then started downwards.

"Oh ...," she gasped, suspecting what he planned.

"Only fair," he whispered against that ticklish spot low on her belly. She shivered, but not in protest. He nudged her knees aside and set to work. He explored for areas of best effect with a delicate finger, then followed his explorations with a demanding tongue. He found the center of interest and settled in to give it serious attention. She whimpered and rocked against him.

He got a hand under her and lifted her rump, giving him a better angle for work. Then he traced his tongue lower and began exploring further inside. She spasmed and cried out, but he didn't stop. He moved back up to the nerve bundle and gently slid two fingers inside her. She wiggled hungrily against his hand, crying out again. Blindly she reached down to him. He captured her hand. "I'm busy," he muttered against her.

She was willing to beg for more, but she couldn't formulate words. All she could do was beg with her body, press against him pleadingly. He answered with fingers and tongue, his chill to her warmth, drawing fire on her body. Another small nerve explosion took her, making her open herself even further to him. He slid a third finger inside her, which was better but not enough.

"Please," she whimpered.

"I will," he promised. "Just this first." He circled the central nerve bundle with his tongue, again and again. Each circle wound the spring tighter. She wanted his body buried in her, but his fingers and mouth made her helplessly move against him. Her whole body circled down to the points where he touched her.

When it broke, she could only squeak faintly. She felt turned inside out and clutched at his shoulders for an anchor.

He paused only long enough to wipe his mouth, then crawled the length of her to nestle the tip of himself against her. She blinked helplessly for a couple of seconds, then gasped eagerly as she felt him probing against her. "Oh, yes," she breathed. "Please."

He teased both of them for a moment, just dipping inside the heat he craved. Finally the fire seized him, and he slid slowly into her. She cried out faintly and opened utterly for him. He hung above her, buried to the absolute hilt, feeling her urging against him, trying for more, her hands on his ass holding her against him. Slowly out, then slowly in. He seemed to go further each time. He bent his arms just enough to kiss her, and she put her arms around his neck.

Her body was his, his possession, at his command. She whispered her acceptance of his mastery against his lips, but fortunately she'd forgotten all languages but an obscure sub-dialect of Spanish, and he didn't understand. He thought he understood the tone, though, and he wrapped his arms tight around her. Her fire pulled at him, and he let his body answer. She shivered again and went limp.

She finally came to herself with him smiling lazily down at her with half-closed eyes. "Thank you," was all she could think to say.

"You're welcome, of course." He glanced up at the tape. "Over an hour left before we need worry about anything." He wrapped his arms around her, then rocked back to sit up, Elizabeth in his lap. She wobbled from lightheadedness and sagged against his shoulder. He ran his hands up and down, shoulders to hips, his mouth resting perilously close to her throat. But he'd dined before arriving, so he only longed to taste her, not feed on her. His physical need was lust, not hunger.

Elizabeth traced the moving muscles in his shoulders. His arms held her easily, safely. A foolish thing, to feel safe in the arms of a vampire. She nibbled gently on his shoulder, feeling the pleasure in the pressure of teeth against skin.

"Gently, gently," he gasped. Memories of too many sorts ran through his mind.

"I was just wondering what it felt like."

"You'll just have to wonder." He chuckled and kissed the side of her throat. "Most mortals don't get this fascinated by it all."

She blinked momentarily at "most mortals," taken aback by the blunt reminder. "Just seems smart to want to know details of what's happening to me."

"Details. All you need to know is you're being willingly fucked silly by a man who won't tell you his name. Surprised your witch sister isn't making accusations of enthrallment."

"She contented herself on that point this morning."

He leaned back to meet her eyes. "Circles of ward and spells of manumission and all that?"

"Um hm. She didn't find a thing except a middle-aged woman making a happy fool of herself with an unexpected lover." She kissed him lightly, running the tip of her tongue along his lips. He opened his mouth for her and pulled her closer. She felt him getting hard again under her, shifted her hips around carefully, then gasped eagerly as he stiffened inside her. Growling appreciatively, he held her hard down against him, not letting her move as he ground into her. When she spasmed helplessly, he laughed.

"You've got a hair trigger, don't you. How many times can I make you go off before you pass out?" he asked, freeing her hips.

Her grin was a challenge. "I have no idea."

She pushed his shoulders, and he laid back willingly, watching her above him. He wrapped his hands around her breasts, teasing the nipples as she started to move.

Her eyes were closed, and she alternated gasping with biting her lip as she focused on the hard flesh buried in her. She rested her hands on his chest, absently flexing her fingers into the muscles. He didn't protest her leaning most of her weight on him as she moved up and down in earnest.

"What are you thinking?" Spike asked softly, watching her face.

"Not," she gasped. "It's all feel." She whimpered as he starting moving up to meet her.

"And it feels good?"

She could only nod, her hair in her face. He grunted in surprise when she clamped down on him, then he had to catch her as her elbows gave out.

"Oh, my god," she whispered between pants.

"I will be, if you insist," he crooned into her ear.

He rolled over carefully, letting her fall limp and blinking on the floor. A quick check of the tape showed lots of time. He stood, then crouched to pick her up. He managed the studio door one handed and carried her out into the darkness beyond.

There was a big wooden conference table in the outer office. Elizabeth gasped as he laid her on the chilly surface.

"I hate rug burn, don't you?" he grinned down at her. He leaned down and kissed her, putting his elbows on the table to either side of her. Then he started working his way down. He gave her navel due attention, then nibbled along her ribs. She gasped and tried to wriggle away.

"Oh, dear," he said, all concern, "are you ticklish there?"

"No," she said firmly, willing him to believe the lie.

He straightened and ran his fingers lightly down her flanks. "I'm glad you're not ticklish. This would be maddening for you, if you were."

"Damn it, damn you ..."

"Say please."

"Please, damn you."

"Well, since you ask so nicely."

He kissed the top of her thigh, but didn't go on to where she expected him to. He raised her leg and nibbled his way down, pausing at the femoral artery pulsing just under the skin. Not yet. The back of her knee proved another ticklish spot, as did her ankle.

"Please don't," she gasped carefully.

He kissed the sole of her foot and raised an eyebrow. "Don't what?" He ran a finger across the top of her foot and along the bottom. "Such tiny little feet."

"Sweetheart ..."

"This little piggy ..." He relented slightly and massaged at the tense points he felt. He couldn't quite tell if her whimpers were pleasure or pain or just confusion between the two. He scooped up her other foot and began rubbing that one too. "Wasn't it Lazarus Long who said 'Rub her feet'? Rub a woman's feet and she'll follow you anywhere." Finally he let her feet drop carefully. She sighed happily.

"That felt wonderful," she admitted.

"Of course." He ran his hands up her legs and belly, then slid his arms under her as he leaned down to kiss her.

She put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back. When he shifted his hips to find the way in, she tilted helpfully and murmured happily against his mouth as they slid together.

He tugged her arm loose and kissed down its length to her wrist. He paused there, running the tip of his tongue along the delta of veins there. He met her eyes, but she only looked back. Deliberately he kept her gaze as he sank his fangs carefully into her wrist. He wondered if she could see his real face there in the near dark. She gasped, but didn't look away. His mouth moved in time with his body, slowly. Finally a shiver broke her gaze, making her close her eyes.

He let go of her wrist, keeping a thumb over the wound until it sealed, then leaned down to kiss her. Could she taste her own blood on his tongue, could she taste anything like what he did? The thought of it spurred him on until they both came.

Spike propped himself up on his elbows to watch Elizabeth's face, smug at the slack delight in her weary breathing. Probably enough endorphins running through her bloodstream to make him woozy. He picked up the limp wrist he'd nibbled on earlier and considered the barely healed wound. Then he put her arm back down. He remembered the days when he'd preferred his victims to have fear coursing through them, loving the taste of adrenalin. He regretted nothing--or very, very little--but there had come a day when he remembered the opium eaters of his youth and realized there was very little between their pathetic search for oblivion and sensation and his lust for emotion-laden blood. No need to sneak sips when Elizabeth was willing to share.

He looked back over his shoulder into the studio and sighed. Fifteen minutes on the tape. He ought to go set up a few things to cover the time to rewind and recue. He kissed the still-bleary woman, then took himself back to work.

Elizabeth blinked to enough consciousness to realize he was gone. Her hips were beginning to protest, so, with a groan, she rolled the rest of herself up onto the table and curled on her side to look into the studio. Watching the self-proclaimed Love God of the Night--who was earning his title more and more--move around without regard to lack of clothing was delightful.

"You're not a natural blond," she observed sleepily.

"What a surprise."

Nearly two o'clock, she noticed by the clock on the wall. "Do you go till four or five? I don't remember."

"Only supposed to go till four, but sometimes it takes DeeDee a bit longer to pry herself off of Tommy BoyToy and get her lazy ass in here. She didn't show till nearly five once last week."

"That's getting awful close to dawn. Do you live far?"

He paused and glanced at her. She was only half awake. "I've got lots of time to get back, no worries."

"I hope it's not some horrible cellar somewhere."

He turned off the lights in the studio and stood in the doorway, watching her. "I've stayed in worse. Why the concern with where I am during the day?"

She blinked at him, a pale shape in the darkness. "I'd hate to have to dedicate 'Dust in the Wind' to you."

He didn't react to the pun. "I've been at this a bit. I'm fine."

"I suppose so ..."

His voice drifted towards her, but she couldn't see him. "I had a friend once, called Deacon. He was shagging this girl named Alice. Sweet thing, beautiful, adored him. She'd have done him in the middle of Grand Central if he'd have let her. She kept at him about where he stayed during the day, said she was worried about him, said she wanted to watch him sleep. Finally he gave in, took her home with him."

He seemed close, but Elizabeth's mind was too muzzy to try harder.

"As soon as Deacon was out for the day, darling Alice got up, phoned some friends, who came over, pulled down all the coverings on his windows and staked the poor, silly sod through the heart. We knew it was her, see, because she tried the same trick on me, telling me it wasn't safe to sleep alone. What the silly bint didn't know was I was the one who found what was left of poor Deacon, and I knew something was wrong when I found his door unlocked. Deacon wasn't that dumb. Someone let the slayers in."

It occurred to Elizabeth that it might be wise to be a little worried. His voice was close to her ear when he next spoke. "Turns out sweet Alice belonged to a zealot group that believed nothing was wrong if it helped kill vampires. She had sacrificed her virtue to the cause of eradicating the evil undead. I congratulated her on the pleasure she took in her sacrifice before I sent her back to her friends as an object lesson."

A cold finger touched her throat. "It's the kind of thing that makes a bloke a bit uneasy when people ask where he can be found when he's not keeping an eye out."

She held very still and located her voice. "Then it's a good thing you've never told me. Probably be best if you never did."

The finger drew slowly down the jugular vein, then brushed across her lips. "Probably so." Cold lips caressed hers very briefly, then she saw movement in the studio. She tried to focus, tried to process the very thinly veiled threat rationally, but it was late and her mind was unwilling to work that hard. Her eyes flickered closed despite her best efforts to keep an eye on her ill-considered lover.

Spike waited till he heard faint snores. He didn't think she posed a threat, but then, no one had taken tender young Alice seriously either. Her face had been aglow with righteous vindication even as he'd choked the life out of her after wrestling the stake out of her hand.

With Elizabeth sleeping the sleep of the unrighteously sated, he tracked down her big purse where she'd stashed it under the counter. No holy items, no stakes. No vampire hunting gear. Though he was a bit surprised to find the holstered .38 semi-automatic pistol in the side pocket. A woman out and about in the wee hours of the morning, in a section of town that was not one of the picture spots of the city, probably not surprising. But something to keep in mind.

So odds were she wasn't a vampire hunter. Still no reason to give her information. She might tell her witchy sister, who might let it slip to a couple of her witchy friends. And they told two friends, and so on and so on. It was always possible he might walk into an ambush at the station some night, but they'd be fools to try it. He might decide to make it open mike night and let the city hear something new in the way of shock radio.

He let her sleep for the half hour it took to rewind the tape, recue it, and wait for the bottom of the hour so that the taped ID's lined up properly with time. When he opened the mike for a live announcement, it was a struggle not to laugh at being stark naked and talking to -- maybe -- thousands of people. Something very appealing about that.

The blinking light that showed the phone was ringing came on. Spike thought a moment, then picked up the phone. "What?" At this hour of the night, if he even bothered to answer the phone, he never bothered with proper business procedures.

"You're not answering the phone, man," whined one of his regulars, a young man whose very voice was pimply. "Why don't you answer the phone?"

"I've got better things to do." He swivelled the chair around to look out into the dark outer office and the pale shape of the woman sleeping on the conference table.

"Like what?"

He chuckled, letting his voice sink half an octave. "If I told you that, your very ears would wither and fall off your head. Though it might be an improvement."

He hung up. Amazing how these people kept calling night after night, no matter how he insulted them. The light blinked on again, flashing someone's desire for his attention. His desires lay elsewhere tonight.

The last song he had to babysit finally came to an end, and he pushed the button for the tape. A couple of the avid listeners would notice the duplication, but no one important would care. Elizabeth herself had a few pre-taped show segments for those times she absolutely had to run to McDonald's and no one else was around.

And, speaking of Elizabeth and, not coincidentally, the munchies ... He rose to his feet and strolled out of the studio. There was a physiological experiment he'd been meaning to try.

She was curled up in a tight ball, her back to the studio door and her arms pillowing her head. The sight of her on the table top was not unlike seeing a feast spread on the table. But where to start?

Gently he pulled her hair away from her face. She was smiling slightly in her sleep. He ran a delicate finger down behind her ear, and the quiet breathing caught faintly. He continued to trace down along the big tendon and down the jugular vein, pulsing lightly under his finger. He paused, then swallowed determinedly and drew his finger out along her collarbone along her shoulder.

She twitched, but her murmur was pleased. When he leaned down to kiss her shoulder, she made a contented sound. He pulled out a chair tucked in at the side of the table and sat down to pay closer attention to his work.

There were faint bruises on her back. A brief comparison between them and the spread of his own fingers told him to be a little more careful in the future. But she certainly hadn't protested at any point. He ran a finger slowly down her spine, and she shivered in her sleep. Carefully he leaned forward and laid a kiss in the small of her back. She gasped again, a little stronger, suggesting what he was doing was beginning to make itself felt through the dreams.

What a nibbleable rump. His hand was already reaching to give it a proper squeeze when he remembered to ask himself if he wanted her to wake up yet or not. He contented himself with a mere fondle before considering access to other points of interest.

With her knees pulled up like that, there was nothing between him and the warmest part of her. But he touched her lightly, trying not to wake her. She almost managed words this time, and she moved slightly. He let his fingers continue their lazy explorations of outer terrain while he nibbled his way back up her spine to the back of her neck.

He flicked her hair out of his way, exposing the nape of her neck. He nibbled lightly, then ran his tongue up to just below her ear, where he laid another kiss. His other hand continued its gentle explorations down below.

"Oh ..." she gasped, finally becoming moderately coherent.

"Good morning, love," he murmured into her ear. "Have a nice nap? All rested?"

"What time ..."

"World enough and time." He paused, then tracked down that impulse to poetry and hacked it to shreds. "Got an hour before anyone's likely to be here to bother us, and I still haven't made you pass out."

She shivered as he trailed another kiss along her shoulder. The skin of her back tingled where he'd explored, and his chill lips left a trail of fire. "Let me wake up ..."

"Why? I like you like this, all helpless and vague." He tugged her over onto her back and smiled down at her.

Enough light filtered in from the bright parking lot lights outside that she could make out the general lines of his face. "I can hardly see you."

He put a hand over her eyes. "Then don't bother looking. Your eyes can fool you." He chuckled at her wince. "See with your hands and your skin. That will tell you everything you need to know." He leaned down and ran the tip of his tongue around her right nipple, teasing it to wakefulness.

"Um, sweetheart, I have to ask you to stop for a bit."

"What possible reason could you have that would be good enough for me to stop?" He switched to the left nipple.

"I have to go to the bathroom."

He paused, then the snicker got away from him. "All right, this time I'll let you get away it."

"Oh, thank you."

Spike had to help her to her feet. Besides the lust-incited wooziness, sleeping on tables was not easy on less-than-young joints. Once she had her equilibrium at 70 percent reliability, she toddled off towards the restroom.

"Leave the lights off," he called after her.

She glanced over her shoulder towards where she thought he was, but he was nothing but a voice in the darkness again. "All right, but the thump and swearing you hear in the next few minutes will be me running into a door."

She cheated and turned on the lights in the station's restroom. Too many things got left on the floor to navigate the room in the dark. Before she headed back out, she peered at herself in the mirror. Eyes blinking in a stupification of lust and grogginess. Over ten years since she'd last tried to spend an entire night having sex, she was out of shape at this. Then she giggled. Great exercise, sex.

With a deep breath, she opened the door and turned off the light. And froze.

What low-light vision she'd had was utterly wiped out. And it was very, very dark out there in the outer office. And somewhere, waiting for her, was a naked vampire with ideas concerning her on his mind.

She took a couple of steps out into the office, careful of furniture. The arm of the couch brushed her leg, and she jumped.

"Hello?" she said uncertainly. "Where are you?"

"Right here."

How did he do that, sound like he was standing right beside her when she couldn't see a thing? She reached out carefully, just in case, trying not to flail around. No one in reach.

Something crossed one of the windows. "Please tell me where you are." She hoped her voice didn't show her nerves. 40-year-old women shouldn't be afraid of the dark. But sometimes there were things in the dark.

"Not far," he answered from somewhere in the shadows, across the room from where he'd been before.

She took another careful step forward, wary of the conference table. Her night vision was slowly coming on line. The floor creaked near the studio door, and she looked over there. A cold hand fell on her right shoulder.

She jumped and squeaked. Be damned to anyone who said it was a scream. Spike wrapped his arms around her from behind, not being too careful if she heard him chuckling. "It's all right, love, just me."

"Just you." A vampire playing tag with her in the dark. To think her high school year book had voted her most likely to have a boring life.

He felt her pulse racing. "Poor Ellie," he crooned in mock sympathy. "Afraid of the things that might grab you in the dark?"

"Does a knee in the crotch hurt as bad for a vampire as it does for a non-vampire?"

He laughed even as he held her too tight to turn around and make good on her threat. "Don't damage the toys, love. There are better things to do with them."

Elizabeth took deep breaths and leaned her head back against him. It was very pleasant, how neatly she fit against him, her head just against his shoulder, that amazing torso of his against her back. And something hard and almost warm stirring against her ass. She reached up to run her hand along his arm, savoring the feeling of being held.

He thought briefly of saying he was sorry for startling her, then dismissed the idea. Better things to do. Slowly he ran his hands down the front of her, tracing the curves and seeing how far he could reach. The curls at the base of her torso invited the fingers of his right hand to go exploring. His left hand decided to go back up and play with her breasts.

That hard item against her rump was pushing more insistently against her. She deliberately moved against him, hoping to pay him back for some of the frustration he'd given her. But he only held her closer and leaned down to kiss the side of her neck, his hands continuing their explorations.

Her knees were going weak again. Too many sources of input. The bites on her neck didn't involve fangs--yet--but there could well be bruises later. The fingers at her crotch teased expertly, stroking and probing the various folds. He licked the forefinger of his left hand and ran the cold, wet tip around her nipples. Through all this, he moved his hips slowly, rubbing against her but refusing to let her move. And every time she came close to coming, he'd pause, denying her the release.

She ran out of awful things to call him, distracted by how wonderful it all felt and not having breath for anything but gasps of pleasure. She reached around behind her to feel his hips moving and ran her other hand up into his hair.

Then he stopped again, and her so close to coming that she almost reached down to finish matters herself.

This time, though, he loosened his hold and pulled her around to face him. He smiled, then scooped her up neatly into his arms again. She gasped and threw her arms around his neck, partly from startlement, partly because she'd always wanted to do that.

It was maybe two steps to the couch, and when he put her down he let her pull him down too.

"The infamous couch," he whispered.

"The legendary couch," she agreed.

He ran the tip of his tongue along her lips, then ran his hands into her hair as he kissed her. Practice had taught them the angle of his hips to hers, but he delayed sliding in just to hear her mutter in frustration. She stopped breathing for a second as he entered just as slowly as he could.

She felt him throb within her and wondered if he did have a heartbeat or if it was just her own body pulsing around him. He didn't move for several seconds, just held her against him, kissing her then moving down to suck on her breasts.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and she stopped worrying about her nails. With the focus she had left to her, she squeezed her internal muscles around him as hard as she could. If he wasn't going to move, then maybe she just wouldn't let him.

He gasped himself and decided she was right: drawing things out was enjoyable only so long. He ran a hand along her ticklish ribs to break her concentration, then began thrusting. Growling encouragement, she wrapped her legs around his hips and moved with him.

Bracing himself against the arm of the couch above her head, he looked down at her, enjoying the lust on her face. This time when he ran a finger along the ticklish spot on her side, the shiver was not one of displeasure.

His touch was so close to agony, but not quite. His free hand rested lightly on her ribs, teasing her, and his hips ground against hers. She blindly ran her hands up the muscles of his abdomen to his shoulders. Then his fingers trailed in torment down her ribs, across her stomach, and between them. Everything in her gut twisted into a whirlpool, fed by his body moving in her and searching for the trigger to escape. Then his thumb found the knot of nerves just where the two of them moved together. She tried to scream as the universe exploded in her head.

The hard spasm of her body took him over the edge as well. His arms gave out, and he didn't know how he kept from crushing her or burying his teeth in her. When the fragments of his mind reconfigured, he realized that Elizabeth didn't seem to be breathing.

"Oh, hell. C'mon, woman, you're only supposed to black out for a little." He managed to prop himself on one elbow and patted her face. "Ellie. Come on, Ellie, breathe, there's a good girl. Breathe, you silly bitch, I don't fancy explainin' this to your sister, never mind the cops."

She gasped and opened her eyes, then said eyes rolled closed again. But she stayed breathing. Sighing in relief, he collapsed on top of her again, enjoying the sated feeling.

"Oh, my god," she finally whispered, eyes still closed.

"You called?"

"Oh. My god."

"You're repeating yourself."

"What happened?"

Spike propped himself up on one elbow and grinned at her. "You passed out."

"Did not."

"I was there, pet. You passed out."

Her head hurt, her muscles felt like some Russian folk dance troupe had been through wearing cleats--but she remembered seeing the universe before everything went black. "That was amazing. But I don't think I want to do that again."

He frowned over the fragility of mortals. "Probably best." Belatedly he listened for the tape in the studio. Half an hour to go, the odds were becoming greater that someone would be by. Dammit all. "Can you stand up, pretty?"

She giggled a little hysterically. "Not this decade."

"Then I'll leave you here for the morning people to find. Me, I'm going after some trousers." He tried to push himself up. "Eventually."

Elizabeth ran appreciative hands up his stomach and chest. "Don't move on my account."

"Wanton wench." He focused that legendary vampire will and got himself to his feet. But he wobbled faintly once he was there. "My."

Reluctantly, Elizabeth sat up. "And so we come once again to the conclusion of our story." She yawned hugely. "I want my bed and my pillows and my stuffed Cthulhu."

Spike paused and looked at her. "Your stuffed what?"

"My stuffed Cthulhu. He's green." She blinked at him in happy sex drunkenness.

"You're not fit to drive."

She frowned. "Probably not. Oh, dear. I can't stay here. They'll know I didn't leave and they'll wonder what we were doing."

He laughed and headed for the studio and his clothes. "One look at you, love, and they'll think you've been entertainin' the entire Utah Jazz."

"John Stockton, yum." With great concentration, she got to her feet and stayed there.

He came out of the studio and tossed her clothes to her, then finished zipping up his jeans. "Get dressed, insatiable." Not that the two of them being clothed would hide anything. Anyone with half a nose would know what had been going on. "And when the next shift gets here I'll drive you home."

She paused in pulling on her shirt. His story about the traitorous Alice was fresh in her mind, but she wondered if he was cutting time too close.

"Let me worry about the dawn," he added quietly.

Elizabeth nodded and focused on not putting her clothes on backwards. Then she would nap on the couch and replay the last few hours to make sure everything was saved in memory.

For the next couple of weeks it went on like that. A couple of times a week she'd stay after her show and he'd play an entire CD of the Ramones as a special tribute or something. But not every night. Twice Tango arrived with him, she smirking as he gave Elizabeth a noncommittal look. But Elizabeth had left jealous pouting behind in college, thank the Goddess, and she only smiled cooly as she turned the studio over to him. Then she went to the all-night shooting range and went through a box of ammunition with her pistol.

The weekends, though, when neither of them had shows ...

She'd looked up from her computer very late one night, when everyone else was asleep, turned off the house alarm, and slipped out the back door. On the bench in the back of the garden she'd found him, feet up, duster around him, smoking peacefully, his eyes waiting for her.

The next weekend he mentioned that the art cinema near the house was showing a double-feature of old vampire movies. She spent the first forty-five minutes wondering if she'd been stood up. Then, when she was stretching her legs in the back of the theatre, he appeared at her shoulder out of the darkness, took her hand and led her to the balcony, where the black duster shielded them in that back corner. She nearly passed out again when he sank his fangs into her neck as Dracula's daughter bewailed her fate on the screen.

But he never openly came to the house, and she never asked where he went when he wasn't with her. And the subject of his name was never brought up.