Summer doesn't want to go to Africa. She doesn't care who is there or what is fated or about any of that crap. Why should she? It doesn't have anything to do with her.

"You're chosen," says Dawn. "You have to."

"Yeah?" replies Summer. Her hands are on her hips and she's glaring at Dawn. "You were supposed to go with that British guy, and you didn't."

"That's different," says Dawn, but Summer isn't convinced.

"Why, because you've got Spike and British guys are interchangeable?" Summer shoots back.

"I hate you," says Dawn, and scowls.

"Whatever," says Summer. "It's not like I'm not going to go anyway. I just don't want to."

"You totally want to go," says Dawn. She rolls over on Summer's bed, repositions herself so that instead of laying on her back, she's on her stomach. She puts down her book and clicks on the television. "You're just afraid."

"I'm not afraid of anything," says Summer, and she tosses her hair.

"Good, then go wake up Spike. It's almost time to patrol." Dawn doesn't even look over from Iron Chef or whatever lame television show she's watching.

"I don't want to patrol," says Summer.

"Too bad."

"Cemeteries are the height of ick," says Summer. Dawn doesn't reply. Summer waits a beat, then two, then leaves.

Spike is staying in the red guest room. It's the room Summer's always hated the most, because it's tacky -- the walls are blood red, everything is reds. The curtains are sheer and red -- or, rather, they were. Spike took them down and replaced them with heavy, opaque curtains. Black. No light gets in while he's sleeping during the day.

He doesn't have to sleep during the day, Dawn explained to her at the beginning. He doesn't have to sleep at all. He doesn't get tired. He doesn't wear out. If you beat him up, he can get bruised and bloody, but he doesn't die. He'll only die if he has his head cut off, or if he gets staked through the heart.

Summer wonders if he can pull his heart out of his chest and put it into a jewelry box and still be alive, as long as the heart stayed alive.

She doesn't understand the mechanics of being a vampire, but she doesn't really care either, so she doesn't ask.

When she walks into the red guest room, he's still asleep, a satiny sheet thrown over his body. If she didn't know better, she'd think he maybe did it on purpose, totally posed himself so that his whole, pale back was showing, and his long legs, and perfect feet, everything showing except for where the sheet is pulled over his ass.

She doesn't know why he'd bother -- he's not that hot. He's hot, but he's kind of. Funny looking. He's got hollow cheeks, like Coop when she stopped eating, and, yeah, okay, he's totally got muscles like a movie star or something, but he's so skinny. And he dresses bad. And his eyes are squinty.

Not everyone can be perfect like Summer, so whatever. It's not like she holds it against him.

Her stomach hurts, just a little, just enough so that she knows he's a vampire. Every instinct clamors at her to kill him, kind of like when she sees the new Steve Madden shoe collections every season and every instinct clamors at her to buy them all, all at once. Kind of like when Cohen got up on that table and told her he loved her and every instinct she had said to run away as fast as she could -- but she didn't, because she didn't trust her instincts, and she still can't trust her instincts.

Dawn told her a bunch of stories about slayers whose instincts were evil, wrong; Summer can't be like that.

She doesn't understand why she can't just be left alone. It's not like she even noticed that she had special instincts -- or special strength or special anything -- before Dawn came to town. It's not like she needs to be special.

Summer is special enough being Summer Roberts. She doesn't need to be chosen.

Plus people need her here. Coop needs her. Cohen needs her. They're all idiots, but they need her -- how can she leave them for stupid people she doesn't even know researching magic in Africa? It seems like a bad plan to her, like maybe the world will end if she's not in Newport to hold it together.

And from what Dawn's told her about that big ugly red dust crater north of L.A., that's not entirely an inaccurate assumption or whatever.

Summer is staring at the little shadow under the sheet where it stretches over his ass when Spike turns over, fast, and stares at her.

"Getting a good look, pet?" he says in that stupid accent. She scowls at him.

"Dawn says it's time to go patrol." Summer wrinkles her nose and purses her lips. "Like I'd look at you? Ew."

Spike doesn't look like an evil, blood-sucking fiend or whatever it was that Seth called him on their date last night.

Cohen does not look like this with his shirt off.

"All right, then. Close your eyes, but peek if you like." He starts to get up off the bed, and she closes her eyes just in time, as the satiny red sheet slides off his hips.

"I have a boyfriend or whatever," she tells him.

"Yeah, all the slayers say that." She can hear him moving around the room, zipping up his jeans, the soft shush of a shirt being pulled on. "Do you have a destined true love, too?"

"Um, what?" She opens her eyes; he's wearing the same clothes he wears every day, a red shirt and black jeans and his black flappy coat.

"Nothing," he says, and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Smoke?"

"Not inside," she says, but once they get outside, she holds out her hand.

"Where are the weapons?" he says, looking into her car, ignoring her hand.

"You think I am carrying an axe around Newport? Whatever," she replies, and shoves her hand further into his face. He sighs angrily, gives her the pack of cigarettes and his Zippo, and storms into the house. She lights up and rolls her eyes.

They've done this for the last four days, every night, and it's really tedious. So far she's killed exactly one demon. Newport's not exactly a hotbed of evil -- at least, not the supernatural kind.

Seth came along the first night, totally wanting to horn in on Summer's superhero action, but he fainted when Spike vamped out and ate someone's poodle.

They start by walking across the beaches and ignoring each other, passing Spike's pack of cigarettes and his lighter back and forth. Then Spike usually leers at someone or says something stupid, and then Summer has to talk back to him, and then they banter back and forth just the way Summer and Coop used to, except Spike is a lot meaner than Coop, and sexier, and not an alcoholic -- just a self-destructive vampire with a self-imposed mission to save the world that he won't talk about.

Dawn, however, has no problems talking about Spike, so Summer knows all about his soul and that he used to have a chip and that he's in love with her sister, or something -- maybe he was in love with Dawn's sister's boyfriend? Summer can't keep it straight, mostly because it's stupid and boring and she doesn't care.

Then after that they go to the cemeteries; Spike says that mostly vampires that are turned and then buried will wake up around midnight. Summer thinks that's stupid, because all the books Dawn has say that vampires who are turned will wake up almost instantly with an insatiable craving for blood -- but since Spike is a vampire, maybe he knows better. Who cares? The cemetery is gross, and full of ugly tombstones, and the only vampire Summer's staked wasn't in there, but on the beach, just swimming like a normal person.

Oh, and then after that she and Spike make out.

Except for not, because that's just in her mind. She can't help it -- she looks at Spike and thinks about sex. Maybe because he's totally a vampire's vampire, the kind of guy who can swing an axe at what looks like a demon one second, and the next second take three big steps to get to a door first so he can open it for her. She's totally fascinated by his weirdo manners, but she appreciates them too. Cohen never opened doors for her, and would never swing an axe to protect her from anything.

Tonight is different because while they're on the beach, Spike stops and sits down on the dry sand and stares out at the moonlight on the water.

Summer drops down beside him and looks at his skin. Sallow. He has a scar on his eyebrow -- can vampires get scars? Did he get that before he was turned? What was he like, anyway? She wonders about him, about who he is.

She knows all about Dawn, because Dawn never shuts up. Summer once thought that no one could talk more than Cohen, or less than Ryan, or be more meaningless than Coop -- because she never fucking talks about anything except how much she hates her mother and how all boys always betray her or whatever, which is really getting on Summer's fucking nerves anyway -- but Spike definitely talks less than Ryan and says less than Coop, and Dawn talks all the time.

Summer might have to run her through with a stake or an axe or something and pretend like her instincts told her to do it. They kind of do tell her to do it. There's a low thrum under her skin when she's near Dawn; but Dawn is mystical energy or whatever.

Her stomach hurts when she's near Spike. It's because he's a vampire. It's because he's a vampire. It's not because she's gone way too long without sex and isn't likely to be getting any at all any time soon. Like there's gonna be someone who appreciates her in Africa? Whatever.

"How come you don't burn up in the moonlight?" Summer asks. Spike hands her a cigarette, already lit.

"Only direct sunlight. Didn't you read the guidebook?" Spike shakes his head and exhales smoke through his nose.

"Whatever, that boring old book? It was dusty," says Summer. She stretches her legs out in front of her and leans back on one elbow. She's wearing jeans. She can't remember the last time she wore jeans, but miniskirts and heels aren't exactly good for hunting down demons.

"It's important," Spike says sharply.

"I'm bored," replies Summer, just as sharply. "Besides, I'm probably going to die soon anyway."

"You're not going to die soon." Spike turns his head and looks at her. It's more of a glare. She turns her head and glares back.

"I totally am," she says. "If you make me go to Africa, I am totally going to die." She stops there. She's totally serious -- Summer has the feeling that more than a few people who hook up with Spike and Dawn end up dead. But Spike is staring at her with a raised eyebrow, like he's not scared of anything and she shouldn't be either. Well, why should he be scared of anything? It's not like he's still alive. He's already died! Summer hasn't! So she keeps going: "I mean, no lattes? Please. No shopping?"

"Where we are is rather civilized, pet," says Spike. "They've even abolished slavery."

Summer rolls her eyes and focuses on her cigarette. Sometimes Spike sounds way cultured, like a real person. Then he slips back into sounding like one of those punk idiots Marissa likes. Summer prefers him cultured; people are stupid enough without having to fake it.

She smokes her cigarette, then stubs it out in the sand and stares at the water and ignores Spike's offer of a flask. She wants to know if vampires can get drunk, how long they can go without eating someone, why they don't all just move to someplace where there's never any sunlight, like Greenland or something.

And if she knew all these things? She could tell Seth and he could write a comic book and live his dream. Yeah, dating her was his dream -- except not, obviously. Maybe she could sic Spike on him and turn him into a vamp and he could write a comic book about that.

Yeah, maybe.

"Oh my god," says Summer.

"You should say, 'Oh my powers that be'," says Spike.

She ignores him. "I'm never going to have sex again, am I? No one will want to have sex with a slayer freak. And doesn't everyone in Africa have AIDS?" She buries her head in her knees. She's being irrational and she knows it, but what if she really doesn't ever have sex ever ever ever again? What if her ever ever ever again is just a few months? What if she dies without having sex again?

"Don't worry about it," says Spike. She looks over at him as he stands up. He brushes off his jeans, then holds out a hand. "Humans are too fragile anyway."

"I am totally still human," says Summer. She takes his hand and lets him help her stand up. It's warm out, but Spike's fingers are cold. Dead. She shivers.

"You're not human -- you're superhuman. You're a slayer, don't you get that? You're a mystical force to fight mystical evil." Spike rolls his eyes. "And anyway, plenty o'demons wanna bag a slayer, and I don't mean kill. You won't have any problems, pet."

"That is so icky," says Summer. "Demons?"

"Slayers sleeping with vampires -- there's a whole long history," he says. "Destined love, true desire, all that rot."

"Whatever," says Summer, but she looks at him sharply as they walk across the beach, because was he hitting on her? Destined love, whatever, but vampires and slayers? He's so cold. She imagines his body pressed up against hers, him really cold and her really warm. Flushed. But Cohen's an overlay, she can't get rid of him, his sweaty hands and loud breathing and fumbling.

Not like she's totally skilled, but she's not, like, inept either.

They walk through the streets and then through the cemetery and Summer kisses her fingers and brushes them over her mother's tombstone, her grandparents, an aunt, two cousins. This isn't the old cemetery, so none of her other family is here, but they never have to go to the old cemetery because no one is buried there anymore.

"Are you the only vampire in Africa?" she says. He leans against a big crypt and lights a cigarette.

"You offerin' me somethin'?" he says, with a heavier accent than usual. "Well, pet, I'm right flattered, I am, truly now, but --"

"Shut up," she says angrily, and turns, and keeps walking. Because she wasn't offering him anything, but if she had been, he'd turned her down. So now she knows better, now she knows never to offer him anything -- anything -- what a fucking asshole -- like she ever would -- whatever --

Someone grabs her by the arm and she's got a stake at his heart before she realizes that it's just Spike, it's not danger, and he's raising an eyebrow at her.

"Good instincts," he says. "Go with your gut."

Their faces are together and his breath smells like cigarettes, not like blood at all. She's on her tip toes. He's so much taller than she is, taller than Cohen, taller --

"What if my gut's evil?" she asks against his mouth.

"Long history of that with slayers too," he says, and kisses her for real, pulls her tight against him, and the stake falls to the ground. There is something totally morbid and gross about kissing in a cemetery, but she pushes the thoughts out of her mind. The rules don't apply to her anymore -- she's a slayer, she's chosen, she's gonna defeat evil or something, without even messing up her manicure.

When he lets her go, she kind of staggers. His mouth was hot hot hot, not cold like his fingers or his lips, and she's feeling all -- all -- all discombobulated, like she doesn't know which way is up and which way is down. Which is stupid and silly, and she's acting like she's never been kissed before, but that wasn't like any of the kisses she's ever had.

"That was stupid," says Spike. His voice is proper, real high class. Summer knows class when she hears it. He must have been rich when he was alive, must have had servants, must have lived in a big house and rode a purebred horse or something.

She stares at him.

"That was stupid," he says again. "I -- uh." He's going to apologize. Then he's going to walk away. She knows it. Her stomach cramps extra hard and she takes a long, deep breath.

"Yeah," she says. She agrees. It was totally stupid. But -- she wants to do it again.

She stares at him, bites a little on her lip.

"No one will know," she says, "if we don't tell them."

He rolls his eyes at her. "What you don't know about what people know..." He shakes his head. She bites harder on her lip, and harder, splits it with her teeth, and it hurts, but she can taste blood, and his nostrils flare, so he can smell it, and she walks up close to him and puts her mouth on his, puts her blood on his lips.

Spike licks his lips, looking at her the whole. "You know what you just did?" he asks, and vamps out.

"Ugh, bumps," she says, and then he grabs her again, and kisses her again, and sucks at the cut on her lip, tongues it, pulls the blood out of it and into his mouth, and when he puts his tongue in her mouth, she can taste the metallic tang of her own blood. He pulls back a little and scrapes her lips with his sharp teeth and she's bleeding again, harder this time. Her mouth is going to be totally swollen, and probably her lipstick is gone, but she pushes the thoughts out of her mind, lets her hands go under his shirt and over his cold skin and cold muscles, lets her fingernails dig in. His skin is dead, she's touching dead skin, and she kind of likes it, and he's sucking on her mouth -- like actually sucking.

So this is where the term 'sucking face' comes from, she thinks, kind of hysterically, and then she's pushed up against something and he's grinding against her, totally hard, holding her up -- vamp strength -- and his face is back to normal because his teeth aren't extra-sharp against her bloody mouth anymore.

Her head falls back against whatever it is -- a tree, a tree -- and his mouth attaches to her neck, but he's not vamping up, he'd better not vamp up --

"Do not bite me," she orders breathlessly, and he laughs at her and bites her, hard, and her hips jerk, and his fingers are biting into her hips, and he sucks at her neck, and then kisses her again, and pushes himself, he is totally totally hard, and he's pushing against her and he bites her mouth really hard and she starts bleeding again, so they're kissing and she's bleeding, and she bites him back, and he's bleeding, and their blood is mixing and they're kissing and it's so hot --

Her orgasm takes her by surprise, because it's so unexpected. One moment she's kind of writhing, moving against Spike in ways she didn't know her hips could go, and sucking on his mouth, tasting his blood, her blood, his tongue, running her tongue over his teeth and tongue. The next moment she's coming, and her head is falling back against the tree again, hitting hard this time, so hard she doesn't know if she's dizzy from her orgasm, which makes all her muscles convulse and her body shake, or if she's dizzy from a concussion or something.

"Oh god," she says.

Spike's face is against her neck and he's still pushing -- thrusting -- against her, and then he makes a choked sound like he's crying and shoves really hard and she scratches down his back with the edges of her nails, and he comes, she guesses, because what else was there for him to have done?

She pulls her hands out from under his shirt -- he's not sweating, he's still cold, and it's weird, and totally creepy -- and wraps them around his shoulders and holds him, because he's shaking a little. Since he totally has super strength, it's not like it's hard for him to hold her up, so she's not sure what's going on.

Then he lifts up his head and looks at her and smirks, and she rolls her eyes and pushes him away, and it's like they are totally back to normal, except for the weird wet spot on his jeans, and how she's all sticky inside her jeans, and her fingers are kind of weak.

He lights two cigarettes at once, and hands one to her, but before she can put it to her mouth, he leans down and licks her lips. She holds herself perfectly still. Now that they're not, like, involved, all she can think is "Blood. Ew." And also maybe she's going to turn into a vampire now. She feels her heart racing and all the blood in her veins is sparkling like the one time she did E, and --

And --

When he's done licking her lips, he licks his own, and then takes a long pull on his cigarette. He's still wearing his flappy coat, even.

"Yup," he says. "Long history of slayers being hot for me."

She hits him on the arm and sucks on her cigarette and follows him out of the cemetery.