Phantom Whispers

AUTHOR: Jypzrose
EMAIL: jypzrose@aol.com
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Buffy/Spike, Willow/Other, Tara/Other
SPOILERS: None.
DISCLAIMER: All BtVS and AtS characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Mark and Johnny Lynch belong to me..
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 

Prologue

The soft, lilting sounds of a piano drifted through the air, the smell of jasmine permeated the room. Rain beat gently on the window, giving the woman in the room a feeling of solitude. Normally, she would have relished it. Tonight, however, it made her feel edgy. Almost like there was something in the air, something. . .wrong.

She walked around her room, her mahogany colored hair cascading down her back, her slim fingers sliding idly along the surface of the furniture. White silk molded itself to her lush curves, the dark tips of her breasts showing through the thin material. Her bare feet padded silently on the thick, rose carpeting. Dark wood gleamed in the light from the candlestick lamps, and bright colored flowers bloomed in brass vases. White lace curtains shielded the windows and shimmering satin sheets adorned the huge bed.

She took no notice of the finery around her as she paced. She was trying to pinpoint just WHY she felt so edgy.

"Faith." She whirled towards the smooth, cultured voice, her brown eyes searching his handsome face, her red painted lips split in a smile. Her smile faded at the look on his face, his eyes cold as he looked at her.

"Darling, what's wrong?" Faith glided across the floor to him, her hand raising to press against his chest. She pushed up on her toes to brush her lips across his rain chilled cheek. "Darling?"

She didn't even have a chance to scream. With a swiftness that belied his size, his hands were around her throat, squeezing. Her eyes widened at the obstruction to her breathing, and she brought her hands up to pull at his wrists. He looked almost lovingly down at her, her struggles against him arousing him. He tenderly pressed his lips against hers, feeling her go limp in his hands. He pulled back to look into her glorious, dead eyes, that wicked little mouth of hers slack. He laid her back on the bed, draping her arms across her stomach and arranging her hair in a fan around her head.

His hands were gentle as he handled her, his eyes roamed over her beautiful face.

"Goodnight, sweet Faith," he whispered, brushing another kiss across her mouth, he then turned and left, none of the servants in the house the wiser.

FAITH PRYCE FOUND MURDERED IN HER BED. LOVER UNDER INVESTIGATION!

Chapter 1

"What a dead ass town," Johnny Lynch observed as they drove past the 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign. He tapped his drumstick idly against his blue denim clad thigh, his dark brown eyes scanning the Victorian storefronts from the backseat.

"That's the point," William 'Spike' Giles stated in a clipped British accent from the driver's seat, his long fingered hands gripping the steering wheel. Mark Lynch didn't say anything, feeling his cohorts said it all.

He scowled darkly out the window of the big, black DeSoto, wondering just why this forced exile was necessary. It wasn't like he was slacking in the song writing department. He'd written three in the last couple of weeks, and was itching to get into the studio to record them. Unfortunately, the record company said that wasn't enough. Johnny and Spike had been doing a lot of partying, and hardly any writing, too caught up in their new celebrity to remember that they had to work to maintain it. So, their manager, after threats from the brass, had put his foot down. Either they went to Sunnydale, a town that was two hours away from LA, and put their noses to the grindstone, or they would find themselves back in Arizona, working shitty nightclubs for free food and a couple of bucks for cigarettes.

With little choice, they'd packed up, piled into Spike's car, and made the trip. The bleached blond bass player maneuvered the big car through town, picking up the map with his right hand and tossing it at the silent guitarist.

"Navigate. Where the hell is Crawford Street?" he practically snarled, greatly annoyed with himself for acting like such a git. Mark glared at him, his inky black eyes swirling with anger, then unfolded the map, snapping it loudly as he did so. Johnny rolled his eyes at the two in the front seat and ran a hand through his purple hair. He didn't see what the fuss had been all about. He'd been writing. Sort of. Kinda hard to make coherent lyrics when you have a blonde attached to your dick and a brunette straddling your face. That thought brought a smile to his lips, and he decided that ignoring the two in the front was a good idea.

"Turn left at the light," Mark snapped. Spike grit his teeth and bit back his response. He and Mark had been at each other's throats since the decision had come down, and he was getting tired of it. They had known each other for four years and been playing together for half that. Not once had they fought. It had been almost scary how in sync they were with each other, from musical vision to determination. It was their determination that drove them to the top of the club scene and got them signed within six months. Their first album had broken the top twenty, the following tour propelling them even further.

The girls had immediately been smitten with the good looking trio, despite the oddities of two of the members' hair. Spike's rough, accented voice had them screaming, and his high, sharp cheekbones had them sighing. His bright, electric blue eyes had them panting. All three were tall, leanly muscled, with a penchant for tight jeans. Most people wouldn't look at Spike and realize what a sharp brain lurked under the white hair. He was no fool and didn't appreciate being treated like one. He had a quick temper, a smart mouth, and enough energy to fuel him through a world tour in under eight months and make it look easy.

Mark was quieter, more internal. His temper was slow simmering, but when it went, it was explosive. He had long black hair, that shone blue in certain lights. High cheekbones, and a straight nose hinted at his heritage. He was the tallest of the three, standing just over six foot. He'd met the blonde in Arizona, while he was bouncing at a strip club, unhappy with his current band and looking for something different. Spike had just moved to the states with his professor father, who had decided to take a job at Arizona U. They became fast friends, promising each other that they would jam. It took two years before they were fed up enough to actually do it.

Johnny Lynch was the youngest, at twenty three, his personality a mix of his two bandmates. However, where they were more serious, he just wanted to have a good time. He loved to play, but he loved his downtime too. When it was time to walk on stage, he was there, banging on the skins like a man possessed, his odd colored hair flying around his face. He was Mark's cousin, and looked enough like him to be his brother. He went through women like they were tissue, however, as he liked to brag, they all left with a smile. It wasn't that he didn't want to settle down, he just didn't think he'd find the one that would make him need to.

When these three came together, the result was gold, which was why the record company was forcing this retreat. They wanted another album, and they wanted it yesterday.

"There it is," Mark said, pointing at a street sign. Spike took a hard right, sending the passengers into their doors. "Shit, man. You trying to kill us?" Blue eyes locked with black, anger simmering between the two.

"Would you two calm the fuck down? Jeez," Johnny huffed, is own anger rising to the fold.

"I will not calm down. If it weren't for you two, we'd be in the fucking studio right now, NOT driving through some shit ass town to some mansion out in the middle of BFE, to write songs that could have been done already." Mark let his temper go, making sure to turn around and glare at his cousin, so Spike didn't feel like he was being dumped on. He was pissed at both of them.

"Hey, now. Don't blame this shit on me."

"Why not? You were the one wandering around the Goddamned country, picking fights in dives, not me. I was back in LA, where I was supposed to be, getting ready to record. And you," Mark reared on the younger Lynch, his black eyes chips of ice. "What were you doing? Oh, excuse me, WHO were you doing is the better question. We worked too damn hard to get here, and I'm not going to let you two fuck it up." Spike's hands were clenching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were turning white. Johnny slumped back in the seat, staring daggers at his cousin.

"Look," Spike said after a second. "I'm sorry, a'right? S'not like I planned to wind up in jail. How was I supposed to know she was the local body builder's girlfriend?" He'd been in a bar in New Orleans, somewhere in the French Quarter, flirting it up with a pretty little Cajun girl. He wasn't the sort to engage in casual sex, mainly because AIDS terrified him. But he was willing to reconsider with her. Long black hair and eyes the oddest shade of blue. They were almost silver, they were so clear. Her body had been enough for a man to give up God, or at least forget about him for awhile. She hadn't told him she had a boyfriend. Or the fact that the boyfriend was roughly the size of a Sherman tank. When all was said and done, Spike was sitting in a jail cell, a newly acquired scar in his eyebrow, and a broken nose.

Mark sighed, letting go of his anger. It was pointless now, the damage was done, it was time to fix it. Johnny just sat in the back, not feeling the need to apologize for his actions. He was of age, and so were his ladies, so what did it matter? He would have come through when they needed him.

"Let's just make the best of this, okay? This town seems quiet, which means we'll be able to get some work done."

"Fine," Spike answered, turning through the tall, wrought iron gates that surrounded the property. "Shit," was all he could say as the house came into view. By Los Angeles standards it was small, with probably no more than twenty rooms or so. To them, it looked like a hotel. It was Tudor style, with a wide arching doorway, and enough windows to make any vampire nervous. Huge trees banked the sides, giving it a closed in appearance. Ivy climbed up the face, and unbelievably, a gargoyle grinned from the top ledge.

"Jesus Christ," Mark breathed, feeling the urge to cross himself. Johnny still sat silently in the back, his awe no less than the others. Spike pulled to a stop next to a white Lexus finally noticing the blonde perched on top. A slow, sensual smile spread across his face as he took in the smooth expanse of golden leg her jean shorts exposed. A brief, yellow top showed off the length of her throat and shoulders, and molded to her small, firm breasts. Her sleek blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail, the ends dancing around her shoulders.

The three men unfolded themselves from the car, as the blonde slid off hers and walked towards them. A bright smile lit up her face, a face that had Spike forgetting all about Cajun girls in New Orleans. Her clear, hazel eyes sparkled, and her rounded cheeks were flushed with the heat of the day. Her nose tilted up ever so slightly at the end, keeping her features from being too perfect.

"Hi." The word had a cheerful lilt to it, letting them know that her smile wasn't false. "My name's Buffy. My mom would have been here, but she had to go out of town unexpectedly. My aunt needed surgery and asked her to come help out," she explained, realizing she was babbling. She figured she was entitled to babble a little, since it wasn't every day someone, much less three someones, who were famous rolled into town.

"'Ello. I'm Spike," Spike purred, taking her soft hand in his rough one. They both felt the shock of electricity at the contact. Buffy's eyes widened and she quickly pulled her hand away, flustered. Turning to the other two, she shook their hands as well, trying to remember everything about them for when she met Tara and Willow later.

"Mark," the brunette said, nodding his head in greeting.

"Johnny." He gave her his best smile, thinking that being here wouldn't be so bad after all. Spike saw the predatory way Johnny was eyeing the girl and frowned. None of them seemed to notice as she turned and walked towards the door.

"Okay, follow me and I'll give you the nickel tour," she said, pulling out a keyring filled with keys.

"Shit, are we going to need all of those?" Johnny asked, eyes wide. Buffy giggled while she searched for the right one and shook her head, the movement sending her ponytail bouncing.

"No. The rooms these keys belong to aren't locked. Except for the attic and the basement. Oh, and the master bedroom on the second floor."

"Why's that one locked?" Mark asked, following her inside to the foyer. He whistled softly at the marble floors and cathedral ceiling, his head tilting up to see the stained glass skylight over head.

"I don't know. Mom just said to make sure you guys don't go in there," Buffy explained with a shrug. "Come on." She turned through the doorway to her left, leading them into a large living room. "We had it cleaned when your agent called us and brought in some plants and things. Over here, behind this panel is the tv, the bar is stocked. The piano is tuned," she said with a giggle, blushing at the idiot she was making out of herself. The couch and two chairs were deep, brown leather, the coffee table and end tables a gleaming wood. A pair of french doors led out onto a patio and an Olympic sized pool. "All the furniture is original to the house, except the tv," she told them, moving trough the room and going through a door that was practically hidden.

"Does your mother own this house?" Johnny asked, from his position in the back of the line. Spike had made sure to walk behind her, so he could admire the way her ass moved under her shorts.

"Yeah. She inherited it when my father died. She didn't feel right about selling it since it had been in the family so long. So, now she rents it out. Usually for receptions and things." Buffy led them down a short hall. "This is the servants' hall. It ends in the kitchen." She moved inside, doing a quick wave with her hand. "All the cabinets are stocked, and there's a twenty four hour supermarket in town." The kitchen had polished wood floors, with gleaming white appliances. A center island held the stove top, and there was a small table next to the window on the other side. After a second, she walked out, indicating they follow. They walked down another hallway that ended in the foyer again.

"Over here's the study, but it's not used, really. There are books and an old record player if you want to fiddle with it. I'm not sure it works anymore." She only opened the door so they could get a glimpse of the dark room, then started upstairs. Thick blue carpeting buffered their steps, giving the house an eerie quality. "That's the master bedroom. It's always locked."

"Why?" Spike cupped a hand around her elbow and drew her to a stop, smiling at the blush that crept across her cheeks.

"Uhm. Not sure. Well, I guess that's not ENTIRELY true." Her bottom lip formed a pout while she tried to decide how much to tell them. People had a tendency to turn tail and leave when they heard the history of the house. Spike fought the urge to pull her into his arms and lightly nibble on it.

"Come on, you can tell us. We're big boys," he urged, sidling just a little closer to her. She felt her heart start to pound and the air thicken around them. Mark and Johnny barely contained their snorts at the display.

"Well, er, well." *Good job, Buff. Stutter like an idiot just cause he's a little too close.* Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself enough to collect her thoughts before she spoke again.

"About twenty years ago, my. . .uncle, I think he was my uncle." She paused to try to sort out the familial relationship in her head, giving up after a few seconds. "Anyway, this house was owned by the Wyndham-Pryces, cousins of my father's grandfather. Well, one of them married a very young, pretty woman named Faith. One night, he went out of town for business and came home to find her dead." Three sets of eyebrows shot up at that. "Now, that's not the interesting part." She gave them a grin, getting into the story. "Apparently, when he found her, the guy she'd been having an affair with was wailing over her body."

"Did he kill her?" Mark asked.

"Don't know. A jury found him guilty. I think his name was Angel, or something. He never would say what happened, or whether or not he was innocent. He went to jail and I believe died in a prison riot. Her husband, who was really too old to have married her, died about ten years ago, leaving the house to his son, Wesley. Oh, you'll probably meet him. He takes care of the accounts. Anyway, Wes couldn't live here, with what happened to his stepmother. So, he gave the house to my father, who was his only relative in America. Now, the reason the door is locked, is because on the night that she died, Wes' father closed it and threw away the key. It hasn't been opened since." She smiled again when she was done, glad that she had gotten the chance to tell it. Her mother never wanted to discuss what had happened, she thought it brought bad luck.

"Hey, is this place haunted?" Johnny looked excited at the prospect.

"Some say it is. I haven't seem any evidence of it. Who knows? Let me show you the rest of the house, then you guys can get settled." She turned and started down the hall again, past the closed room. The three men shared a look before they turned to follow her, none of them seeing the fine, white mist that slid out from under the door.

Chapter 2

"Whatcha doin?" Buffy Summers stood in the doorway of her sixteen year old sister's room. Said sixteen year old was currently laying across her purple comforter, flipping through a teen mag, her fingers snapping the pages. "Dawn," the older Summers huffed. Dawn just kept flipping through her magazine, not even bothering to acknowledge her sister. Buffy rolled her eyes and walked in to sit next to her. "You can't still be mad," the twenty one year old insisted.

"Why would I still be mad? I mean, just because my older sister got to meet one of the most popular bands around right now, REFUSING to take her younger sister with her, is no reason to be mad. Don't know where you got the idea that I was mad," Dawn told her, tossing her shiny, dark hair off her shoulder and pinning Buffy with her azure eyes.

"Dawn, Mom made me promise not to take you. You know how she feels about those 'rock star' types."

"What's a little deceit between sisters?" Dawn shot back, throwing the magazine on the floor. She then rolled over on her back, her legs hanging off the side of the brass bed. Buffy glanced around the room and took in the lavender walls that were papered with posters of the Backstreet Boys, 'N Sync, and multiple others. Clothes were strewn around covering every surface available. Her lamp had a purple fuzzy lampshade on it, the word 'Princess' printed across the surface in silver.

"I don't see what you're so upset about. They're not exactly a boy band." Dawn rolled her eyes and flopped over on her stomach.

"They're boys and they're a band. What's the difference?" the younger girl wanted to know.

"The fact that they don't dance in synchronized steps with tin can music playing in the background?" Buffy suggested, stifling a laugh at the look Dawn gave her. When the teen went back to ignoring her, this time staring at the ceiling, the blonde stood and sighed. "Well, since you're so mad at me, I don't suppose you'll want this." She produced a CD from where she had hidden it in the band of her shorts, waving it around in the air. Dawn squealed and launched off the bed, snatching the prize out of her sister's hand.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed, staring down at the cover. The three men stood in a semi circle, Johnny and Mark flanking Spike and angled in towards him. The two on the outside had their arms down by their sides, and the blonde had his arms crossed over his chest, a smirk on his face. The letters SMJ were stretched out behind them, heading towards the stars. Scrawled across the front, in the worst handwriting she had ever seen, was 'To Dawn, don't let the bastards get you down', followed by their signatures. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou." She grabbed her sister in a tight hug, jumping up and down with excitement. She'd been the envy of all her friends when she let them in on the fact that the band was renting the mansion, now she would be queen.

"You're welcome. And maybe, if I go over there again, I'll take you with me," Buffy told her, smiling. Images of a certain peroxided blonde swam through her mind, making it obvious that she would definitely be going over there again.

"That would be so cool, you have no idea," Dawn gushed, putting the cd in her duffle bag.

"You wanna come hang out with Tara, Willow and me? I'll be giving a first hand account of what they were like," she enticed, chuckling when her sister frowned.

"I can't. I'm supposed to go to Amber's tonight, remember?"

"Oh yeah. Well, I'll have to tell you another time. Is her mom picking you up?" The younger girl nodded, throwing some clothes into the bag. "Alright. Guess I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Okay. Say hi to Will and Tara for me. I'll probably be gone before they get here."

"Sure will," Buffy assured, starting to walk out the door.

"Hey. Did you tell them about the ghost?"

"No. I told them what happened there. And anyway, I'm not sure there is a ghost."

"There is. I saw her," Dawn insisted. She had been twelve and Joyce was showing the house for a possible rental for a wedding reception. Dawn had been sitting downstairs in the study, bored beyond belief. The room had suddenly dropped in temperature, her breath pluming out in the air. At first, she had just thought there was an a/c snafu, but when she got up to tell her mother about it, she felt something cold touch her shoulder. She'd whirled around and came face to face with the prettiest woman she had ever seen. Her dark eyes seemed to see straight into the soul of her, and to say that it scared the girl would be an understatement. Especially when she had seen the bruises around the neck of the woman. Dawn had let out a scream, long and loud, then had run out the door and straight into her mother. Joyce had been scared to death by the scream, obviously thinking something had happened to her youngest daughter. When she heard the story Dawn had to tell, she got angry. She just thought it was the girl's attempt to get attention. She hadn't believed her, and the hysterical girl had made the possible renters look for another place to have their reception. Joyce had banned all talk of Faith since then. She wasn't even to be brought up in passing.

"I know you THINK you did," Buffy started, only to be cut off when her sister hissed.

"That's what Mom says. I SAW her, Buffy. And nothing you can say is going to convince me that I didn't."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. You have a good time tonight and be good for Amber's parents." Dawn rolled her eyes at the forced change of subject but nodded.

"Fine. See you tomorrow." Buffy stared at the stiff line of Dawn's back for a minute, sighing when the teen just kept packing her bag, back to ignoring her.

She turned and walked down the hall to her room, her mind jumping to the night ahead with her friends.

~*~*~

Spike and Mark stared at each other over the top of the grande piano, dark scowls on both their faces. They weren't mad at each other this time, they were mad at the fact that nothing was coming to them. They had managed to get a few melodies written, but no words to go with them.

"This sucks," Spike said, finally, slamming an irritated hand down on the keys. The resulting mangled notes had Johnny jumping from the half doze he was in on the couch. He'd been little help since they started, throwing out a word or two here and there. When he started to resort to quoting dirty limericks, Mark and Spike glared at him heatedly and he'd decided that being quiet for the duration of this very unproductive brain storming session, would be a good thing.

"You got that right," Mark agreed, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and tossing one to Spike, before lighting up his own. His acoustic guitar was balanced on his knee, his arm resting lightly across the top.

"Hey, why don't we call it a day? We're all tired and cranky apparently," Johnny suggested, his words indicating their earlier argument. Mark sighed, tapping ash into a black, opaque ashtray.

"I really hate to say it, but I think Mr. Clairol is right." Johnny flipped his cousin off and pushed up from the couch.

"You're just jealous 'cause of my fabulous sense of style."

"You have purple hair, John. How stylish is that?" Mark asked him, smirking. Spike snorted around the cigarette in his mouth, his fingers idly picking out the notes of Beethoven's fifth. He was classically trained, and had totally annoyed his straight-laced, British father when he decided to pound out rock and roll on a bass. He figured old Rupert was just going to have to get over it. He was twenty five and well able to make his own decisions. Where he could appreciate the structure of classical music, it was the power of rock and roll that called him.

"What are you snorting about?" Johnny turned to look at Spike. "Your hair is WHITE for Christ's sake. The Billy Idol look went out fifteen years ago."

"Isn't there a skirt you could be chasing somewhere, mate?" Johnny smirked at that, already knowing just how to get the blonde's goat.

"Yeah, I think there might be. That Buffy sure was a sweet piece, wasn't she?" Spike growled and angrily ground out his cigarette.

"Why don't you stick to your usual fare of cheap and sleazy and leave the LADIES to me and Mark?"

"What, you don't think I could get a girl like that?"

"Oh, I have no doubt that you could. The problem is, those types aren't the ones you just fuck and leave. Those are the kind you stay with," Spike told him, grinning evilly at the scowl on the younger man's face.

"I could be faithful," Johnny insisted. He could, he knew it in his heart. He just wasn't ready to be. He didn't think. He'd watched Mark and Spike and their relationships, especially Spike and Dru, and the trouble that girl had caused was enough to have Johnny thinking his way was best. But somewhere deep inside, he knew he wanted to settle down, have kids someday. Maybe when he was older, like thirty.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that."

"You know what? Fuck you," Johnny spat, turning on his heel and storming out of the room. The sound of the front door slamming told them he'd left. Mark and Spike looked at each other again, guilt lancing through the blonde.

"I think you went a little overboard there," Mark told him, crushing out his own cigarette. Spike sighed and pushed two hands through his hair.

"I know. Didn't mean to, really." The brunette gave him a knowing smile.

"It's just you want to take a go at Buffy yourself?"

"Maybe." A slow grin spread across the other man's face, making Mark chuckle.

"'Bout damn time. Been awhile since Dru."

"Yeah. I know," was all Spike said, as he went back to absently playing.

"Hey, think I'm going to get out of here myself for a little while. Wanna go?" Spike just shook his head, getting lost in the song he was playing. "Alright. See ya later."

"Bye," Spike called out after him. After they had gotten settled, they'd run into town to rent the other two cars, so they would all have a way around and nobody would be stuck. Once they got back, they assembled in the living room, hoping to give inspiration a little push. Unfortunately, that wasn't to be.

As his fingers played across the keys, he let his mind drift, random memories coming to the surface of his consciousness. The most painful one being the memory of Druscilla Cambridge. God, he'd loved her with all the intensity a twenty two year old could. She had been beautiful and charming. And crazy as a loon, according to Mark. Rupert, his father, had despised her from the start and had done all he could to discourage the relationship, despite the fact that his son was past eighteen. Spike hadn't listened to anybody. He'd been in love with her and all her quirks. She claimed to be clairvoyant and in touch with the spirits. She had said that they whispered in her ear, their voice her porcelain doll Miss Edith. Spike didn't know whether or not he believed in such stuff, but he would acknowledge that some of the things she said had been damn freaky. She had seemed so fragile, and he had been drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She was his dark princess, an exchange student at the University where his father taught. He couldn't see her faults, until they were slammed in his face with a force that shattered him.

He remembered, quite vividly, the day that he found her out. He had gone over to see her, excited about the prospect of finally playing with Mark, and had burst into her dorm room unannounced. When he'd first entered, he'd thought it was her roommate who was wrapped around the git so tight. Until they had ripped apart from each other. He'd stood, stunned, looking at the woman he had planned on being his wife someday, her mouth swollen from someone else's kisses, her crystalline eyes swirling with desire for another man. They stared at each other for a long time, the other person in the room forgotten as they did so. Then, his mouth had set in a hard line, his blue eyes darkened with anger and heartbreak, and he had slammed the door, never having said a word to her. His father had gleefully told her that Spike wasn't home every time she called. She'd struck another point against herself and as far as Rupert was concerned, she could crawl back under whatever rock she had produced herself from.

Spike had thrown himself into the new band, pouring his pain into songs. In fact, it was the one he had written about finding them together that went into the top twenty. Just like Dru had said it would.

"I'm sorry," she had said, about a week before he'd found them.

"For what?" She'd smiled sweetly and cupped his cheek.

"For causing you pain. But it will be good for you in the end."

"Hush now. You haven't caused me pain."

"My dear, sweet Spike," was all she said, kissing him softly on the mouth. He'd pulled her into his arms, dismissing her words. He remembered them again, the first time he'd heard his song on the radio.

Forcing himself away from those thoughts, he smiled when the golden image of one Buffy Summers drifted in front of his mind's eye. He'd often thought it was odd that the fiasco with Dru hadn't turned him off love forever, but he did want it. Hell, his father had found love again, why couldn't he? Anya had been his student aide over in England and had drawn the shy, quiet professor's attention almost immediately. Spike had been ten at the time, and in desperate need of a mother. His had died from complications during childbirth, and he had been raised by his somewhat distant father. When Anya had come into the picture, that had all changed. She had forced the two to deal with one other, making them forge a real relationship whether they had wanted to or not. She had also taken the sullen young boy and showered him with love, not caring that he wasn't biologically hers. She'd been the one to encourage his love of music, even running interference when he and Rupert had clashed over his musical preference. The day he had called her 'mum', for the first time, she had cried, making the then thirteen year old worried that he had said something wrong. She had assured him he didn't.

He figured Anya would like Buffy, even she had despised Dru, but had let him find out on his own. She had been the one he had gone to afterwards, the only person he had cried in front of.

A loud thump from the direction of the foyer caused him to jump, all thoughts of Dru, Anya and Buffy driven from his mind.

"Mark!" He called, pushing back the bench and standing. "Johnny?" There was no answer, and the short hairs on the back of his neck started to raise. Gooseflesh broke out on his skin, Buffy's tale from earlier coming back to him. "Come on, guys. This isn't bloody funny," he snarled, not willing to even think about the possibility that it was the ghost of the young woman murdered so many years ago. He moved out into the foyer, shivering a bit at the drop in temperature. His mind was spinning with every ghost story he had ever heard, or those supposed 'real life ghost stories' he had ever seen on the telly.

"Johnny, if this is you playing a joke, I'm so going to kick your arse," he warned, searching the area for the purple haired drummer. He whirled around when he felt something brush up against him, an involuntary 'ack' ripping from his throat. When he didn't see anything, his heart slammed into his chest. "Right then, ghost lady. You wanna play with me? I'm not scared," he told the air, thinking he sounded like an idiot. His voice had an obvious tremor to it, much to his dismay. *Come on Spike, you're twenty five for fuck's sake. Get a grip,* he scoffed at himself.

Suddenly, he felt as if an icy cold gripped him, moving through him. He tensed, his eyes widening with the sensation, feeling almost violated. Disjointed images started to flash through his brain, a dark figure, a room filled with flowers and the sounds of a piano playing. He found himself struggling to breathe, and he instinctively clawed at his throat, trying to pull the invisible obstruction away.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. Spike hit his knees, hands slapping hard on the floor. He gasped for air, taking in big greedy gulps. After a minute, when he had calmed a bit, he noticed the room was back to its normal temperature, and the feeling of not being alone had dissipated. He eased back on his haunches, trying to push the lingering images away. Already, his mind was scrambling to come up with a logical explanation. He was just overworked and tired, he finally decided, standing up.

"No such thing as ghosts," he declared, running a hand through his short, white curls. "No such thing as ghosts!" he said, louder this time, as if trying to convince himself and any of those spectral occurrences that he was denouncing. "Right. Just think I'll run into town and get some cigarettes." He found himself not wanting to be in the house alone anymore and went in search of his keys. *Not scared,* he told himself. *I just need some bleedin' fags.* Without a backwards glance, he slammed out the front door, never hearing the quiet voice that implored,

"Help me."

Chapter 3

"So, were they as gorgeous in real life as they are on tv?" Willow demanded, dipping her spoon into the open tub of double chocolate ice cream. Buffy looked at her redheaded friend and giggled at the spark in her eyes. The three girls were sitting in the large, gourmet kitchen in Buffy's house, the ice cream sitting on the table between them so they could eat at their leisure. There was no need for bowls when they were dishing about boys.

"Doubly so," Buffy replied, digging her own spoon into the vat of calories. Tara sat quietly at the end, every so often taking a bite of the forbidden treat, counting the estimated spoonfuls until she had to stop. She was on a diet and she needed to watch everything she ate like a hawk. If her friends knew, they would look at her like she was crazy. In their eyes, she was beautiful. She only wished that their vision of her would rub of on her self esteem.

The three girls were a study in contrasts. From Buffy's classic California girl look, to Willow's red haired, near pixie like face. Tara was nowhere near as confident as her two friends, and she often wondered just what they had seen in her to draw her into their group. In her own opinion, she was frumpy and plain. Her hair not blonde enough, her eyes not blue enough. She never had the poise to dress the way Willow and Buffy did, her normal attire a pair of jeans and an oversized t-shirt, in hopes of hiding her slightly fuller figure. She always felt like the ugly duckling compared to them, and when you threw Cordelia Chase, or Harris now, into the mix, it just made it worse.

"Do you think we could go over there and meet them?" Willow asked hopefully. She'd never met anybody famous before. The local bands that she met at the Bronze, where she worked to get herself through school, didn't count.

"I don't know. I don't want to bother them. I think Spike liked me, though." The three squealed in excitement at that.

"Well, then you just HAVE to go over there."

"I don't know. I mean, he is a star. What if I just turned out to be the one he screwed to get through his oh so boring stay in Sunnydale?" Willow snorted at that.

"Yeah, and what if you turned into the love of his life, traveling the world by his side." Always the one to see the positive side of things, the redhead was practically bouncing in her seat at the thought. Buffy rolled her eyes and looked down at Tara.

"What do you think? Think I ought to try?"

"Oh, definitely. Even if he does leave, you'd still have the memory." Tara had an almost dreamy smile on her face, wishing she had a chance like that. Buffy considered that for a minute.

"Hm. I don't know. I did just break up with Parker. Don't know if I want to go through all that again." She shuddered a bit at the memory of the black haired, blue eyed boy. He had been the son of one of her mother's friends, and they had hit it off immediately. They were together for nearly three years, before she found out that he had a problem. The problem being that he didn't know how to keep his zipper up.

"That was Parker, the wonder dweeb. Don't judge all men by that idiot." Willow said, distaste written all over her face. She'd hated that asshole from the second she'd met him, seeing straight through his 'oh I'm so sincere' facade. She'd nearly throttled Buffy when she found out that it was with him that she chose to lose her virginity.

"I know, I know. Just not too sure that me and love are mixy."

"Hey, in case you forgot, my love life hasn't exactly been of the fairy tale sort. First, I date my best friend from elementary school, nearly destroying said friendship in the process. Then, he goes and joins the army, marrying ANOTHER one of my friends. And finally, I meet Oz. He was great and terrific, but unfortunately so fraught with personal issues, that he didn't think that he could be in a relationship with me until he worked through them. So, he goes off to 'find' himself and has been gone for two years. Now, tell me. Between the two of us, who has more of a right to worry about the love thing?" Buffy managed to stifle her giggle through the redhead's speech, knowing that it wasn't anything to laugh at, but hearing it detailed out so matter of factly struck her as funny.

"Yeah, but at least Xander and Cordelia aren't around to rub it in your face."

"Wouldn't matter if they were. I love them both too much to wish them any ill."

"A-and anyway, Willow knew she shouldn't have gone out with Xander. They didn't fit."

"No kidding. Although, it was kinda nice to have my first time with some one I trusted," Willow agreed.

"I wouldn't know," Tara said, her nose wrinkling. She was convinced she was the world's oldest living virgin.

"Oh, honey. Don't think that way. Your time will come. Trust me." Willow patted her hand reassuredly. "And, really, it's not all it's cracked up to be. Causes more problems than it's worth."

"Then why are you trying to push me to go over and jump Spike's oh so sexy bones?" The look the blonde got had her giggling.

"There are just SOME things that need no explanation. You don't think I wouldn't jump him if I had the chance?" For some reason, that thought had Buffy frowning. "Me thinks the lady is already ensnared. And after only one meeting. You hussy." Willow gave her a knowing look, taking in the expression on the blonde's face.

"We'll see," Buffy finally said. After all, she could have been wrong about the vibes she felt coming off the blonde. Or maybe that's the way he was with all women. Charming and flirty. With a sigh, Buffy put the lid back on the ice cream and got up to put it back in the freezer. She turned and leaned against it, looking at the two girls that had been her friends since she moved here eleven years ago.

At first, she hated Sunnydale with a passion, not understanding why her parents were moving her and the then five year old Dawn away from their pretty, big apartment in Los Angeles. Hank had patiently explained that he wanted to get his girls out of there, away from the hazards of city life. Joyce had fully agreed, having never really cared for the city. They'd packed them up and moved them to Sunnydale, and into a real house. Buffy had done her best not to be enchanted by the pretty, three story house with the pretty blue trim. And she really didn't want to be happy that they had given her and Dawn the second floor all to themselves. There were six bedrooms in the house, four on the second floor, and two on the third. As soon as you walked through the front door, you had the choice of going into the living room, to the right with the large, overstuffed furniture. Or to the left to the dining room, then beyond to the kitchen. Then there was the choice of going up the stairs to the bedrooms. A bathroom was tucked under the stairs behind a door that would be missed if you didn't know it was there. It was made to look like the paneling. Her room had been done in pink and white, with a canopy bed. Dawn's was still the same color it had always been, purple being her favorite color.

After a week of pouting and being a general brat, she'd started school. She'd met Willow right away, the two striking up a fast friendship, despite their differences in station. Buffy had never been one to judge people by the amount of money they had, even way back then. She just knew that she liked the funny redhead and her goofy best friend, Xander Harris. By the time the second week of school was over, she had met Tara. It wasn't until a few years later, that Cordy came into the group. Once she did, it was like their little group was complete. Cordy had been acerbic and nasty, but if she considered you her friend, she was loyal beyond belief. Nobody had known that she had fallen head over heels for Xander, until he and Willow had broken up after their ill fated trial at moving beyond friends. Willow had been pissed for awhile, after they got together, but once she met Oz, she'd let it go. They were all deeply surprised when Xander joined the army after graduation, and even more surprised when Cordelia gave up everything to go with him. They were over in Germany now, awaiting the birth of their first child.

"Did you tell them about Faith?" Tara asked, sipping her diet soda. Buffy rolled her eyes and nodded.

"Yeah. Mom'll kill me if she finds out. But, they didn't turn around and run out, so maybe they like that sort of thing," she answered with a shrug.

"Probably think it's bullshit," Willow offered.

"I do, so that's not too much of a stretch."

"You don't believe in ghosts?" Tara asked Buffy, surprised. She'd been fascinated by the story when she had first heard it, later using her job at the University library to research it further. She knew everything that had ever been printed about the place, from the year it was built, to the tragic death of its young mistress.

"No. Well, I don't know. I've never seen one. And unlike Dawn, I've never actually had an experience that would make me think I did," Buffy explained, sitting back down.

"I believe in her," Willow said matter of factly. "I mean, she died so violently, and if you listen to the talk, Angel WASN'T the one that killed her. So, it would kind of make sense that she was still hanging around. You know, unfinished business."

"There's never been any proof that he didn't do it. He was found with the body, his fingerprints were all over the room. There was nothing pointing at anybody else."

"Yeah, but Angel NEVER confessed," Tara threw in. "In fact, he never said anything at all. Almost like he was in so much grief, he didn't care what happened to him." She sighed at the romance of the whole story.

"Or, he killed her in a fit of passion and just figured he'd let the wheels of justice do their thing," Buffy returned. "You know, the guilt getting to him and all."

"Then his confessing would have made them turn much faster. He didn't SAY ANYTHING," Tara stressed again, sitting forward in her chair. "Till the day he died, he never said a word."

"So, what's that supposed to mean? He probably didn't feel the need to after they convicted him," Buffy said.

"I don't think he did it. There's was too much funny business going on over there. My mom told me that the police didn't even look at the other occupants of the house, and forget about looking at old man Pryce. Or Wesley for that matter," Willow interjected.

"Oh, come on. Wesley? You guys have met him. Does he look like the sort of person who could even THINK about murder?"

"Anybody can think about it. Even mild mannered little accountant types." Although, they did all chuckle at the thought of Wesley killing a fly, much less a woman in cold blood. He hadn't even been in the country at the time. He had been at Oxford, preparing to take over the family business.

"Alright, enough talk about murder and ghosts. I have to sleep alone here tonight and this conversation will have me jumping at every creek I hear," Buffy told them with a shudder.

"Fine. Take all our fun away," Willow pouted, inducing a giggle from Tara.

"No, why don't we go into the living room, watch some Keanu and forget about all this?" the blonde suggested, pushing herself up again and walking to the fridge to get them all fresh drinks.

"Ooh, let's watch the Matrix. He looks so yummy in leather," Willow said, waggling her russet brows.

"Fine by me. Tara?"

"That's fine," Tara answered, getting up to follow them into the living room, her mind still swirling with said murder and ghosts.

~*~*~

Johnny let himself into the dark house, thankful that Mark and Spike weren't there. He was still a little mad about their comments earlier, and he didn't want to deal with them just yet. Flicking on the light by the door, he trotted up the stairs and down the long hall to his room. Throwing his keys on the large dresser, he stripped off his shirt, his muscular body rippling with the action. The removal of his shirt, exposed the ornate cross he had tattooed at the small of his back, the bottom point dipping below the band of his jeans.

Leaving clothes in his wake, he padded towards the bathroom. Once there, he pulled the curtain closed on the claw footed tub and set the water for as hot as he could stand it. He then got in, sighing in appreciation when the spray hit his skin.

After he'd left the house, he had driven around town aimlessly, finally stopping at a bar and having a couple of beers. He didn't know why he let Spike's digs about his dating habits get to him. They usually never did. Lately though, he'd been feeling restless, not enjoying his encounters with the opposite sex as much as he usually did. He'd never admit it to them, though. He didn't even want to contemplate the hell they'd give him if he did.

Johnny quickly washed himself and his hair, idly thinking to himself that it was time for a change. He just didn't know what color he wanted this time. After washing the soap out of his purple tresses, he shut the water off and squeezed the excess out. He then got out of the tub, wrapping a towel around himself before walking out into the bedroom.

He shivered when he entered, not thinking anything odd about it. He still had water clinging to his skin, so he just assumed that it was the combination of that and the cooler temperature of the room. He did a quick dry off, then shut off his light, before falling into bed. He stretched out lazily on the down comforter, rolling onto his back to get comfortable. He didn't realize how tired he was until he had laid down. Then, all the stress and fatigue of the last few days swept over him, making him fall asleep almost instantly.

The only sound in the room for a long time was the steady rhythm of his breathing and the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall. Johnny shifted in his sleep, the rustling of the sheets melding out a softer, silkier sound. He never heard it, being so deep asleep, but he did feel the touch on his back. Instantly, he was awake, shooting up into a sitting position. His dark eyes scanned the room, not seeing anything right away. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something shimmering and white.

He jerked his head in that direction, gasping when he saw the pretty, young woman standing there.

"Where did you come from?" he demanded, sliding to the end of the bed. She lifted a finger to her lips, asking him to be silent. One dark brow lifted at that, and he opened his mouth once more. She had made her way over to him by them and pressed her fingertips to his mouth, her touch eliciting goose bumps to burst out on his skin. Her dark eyes traveled over his body, taking in the sleek lines, a brilliant smile spreading across her face. Johnny couldn't help but smile back. After all, he knew he was a damn fine sight.

Her hands glided across his shoulders, gently pushing him back on the bed. If he noticed that her skin was icy, or that she had seemed to appear out of nowhere, he didn't let on. He was mesmerized by her eyes, almost entranced. When she crawled up his body, he felt himself harden at the feel of her silk nightgown sliding over his skin. Her lips pressed against his, and they felt warm. He brought his hands up to grip her hips, thrusting up so she could feel what she was doing to him. She pulled away, a wicked grin on her face. He ran his hands over her thighs, dipping them underneath the material. He moved like he was in a haze, on autopilot. Somewhere, buried beneath the raging lust he was feeling for this woman, his mind was screaming danger. Something was very wrong here, but it wasn't getting through.

It wasn't until she raised herself up, pushing her gown out of the way in the process, that he started to realize. . .something. Her grin never faded as she took him in. Johnny reared up off the bed at the feel of ice enclosing around his shaft. She was squeezing him so tight, he thought she might rip it off. He started to buck underneath her, wanting to get her off, a hoarse scream ripping from his throat when she raked her nails down his chest, leaving bloody welts in their wake. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy, her breasts straining against the material of her gown.

Unbearable pain lanced through the man, causing him to scream once more. Her entire body started to shudder as she climaxed, her brown eyes locking with his once more.

"Find him," she hissed, her voice a breathy moan.

"Huh?" was all he could manage, the feeling of being violated taking over his senses. Sweat coated his body, running into the cuts, adding another level of pain to what he was already feeling. With a final scream, he pushed fully off the bed, reaching up to throw her away. When all he encountered was empty air, he searched the room for her. His eyes darted wildly around, finally registering that there was nobody there. His eyes dropped to his chest, his hand coming up to see how bad the wounds were. Nothing. His skin was as unmarred as it had been before he laid down.

Disbelief coursed through him at how real the dream had felt. He shook his head, trying to clear it away from his brain. A shaky hand scrubbed over his face, wiping away the sweat from his brow. He stood in the middle of the room, convinced that it had been a dream. Another shudder racked through him when the smell of flowers hit his nostrils, setting off warning bells in his subconscious. Moving quickly, he pulled on a pair of jeans and stalked out of the room, deciding to sleep on the couch.