FAMILY FEUD
PART ONE
The Mayan civilization flourished in Central America from 2000 B.C. to 1000 A.D. The muscular Indians built grand temples, crafted astonishing artifacts, tools and pottery, carved their history on slabs of stelae, and accomplished scholastic achievements that forever changed the world. They were gifted astronomers, created an efficient calendar, derived their own writing system and developed ingenious mathematical concepts, including the concept of 0.

Among their greatest achievements was that they managed to devise a fantastic trade route from Mexico to Roatan Island, Honduras. The Mayan setters that occupied Ambergris Caye totaled 10,000, inhabited almost every part of the island and initially set up fishing villages. As their settlements progressed they converted them into trading centers.

In present day, those same trade routes and their scattered temples are used for the unholy dealings of the demonic persuasion. Using the Mayan legacy for travel and shelter, another race is endeavoring to "change the world" from this locale. However, unlike the precursors, it is not for the benefit of mankind. To put it plainly, they want to raise hell on earth. What better place to make history than where history has ere been made? To follow in the footsteps of their predecessors by mimicking their methods in the security of Belize's jungles?

* * *

Approximately six months ago...

Succeeding months of internment, the militant group was getting restless. Raids on temples and besieged homes to clean out vampire nests occurred on a daily basis. Frustration was evident that what should have been a simple mission had lasted far too long. Worse, Belize is a sub-tropical region. The temperature had been in the upper nineties from the time of their arrival and no reprieve was expected as they were in the middle of the dry season.

If you asked most of the soldiers, they would tell you hell was here and its homefront was Belize. Only the few men that had been transferred from Sunnydale, California, formerly operatives of the Initiative, would refute this assertion. They knew where the gate of hell was and had no yearning to return. Well, except for one. Not a day went by that he did not lament deserting his beloved to fight the forces of darkness alone.

* * *

They did not know what hit them.

The self-proclaimed demon hunters were out of their element at the gorilla tactics employed by their adversaries. The vampires came from all directions - from the earth, from the trees and from the shadows. Their cry was loud and clear: SHOW NO MERCY. The hostiles were well-prepared for the assault. This was the first that they had banded together to eradicate the blight that had ceaselessly been exterminating their kind and their unity was an undeniable triumph.

A soldier listened as his compatriots fell one by one. Agonizing screams rent the air. The bulk of crosses, holy water and stakes were stationed on the other side of the camp and there was no way he would make it to the supply tent and survive. This was the end.

Disgusted, he pumped a continuous blaze of ammo out of the weapon he had kept at arm's length to no avail. It would not kill what was already dead. He cursed, muttering about useless weapons for a useless war. Regardless of how many nests were destroyed, more were produced in their stead.

With his defeatist attitude, he soon suffered his comrade's fate. A sharp pain enveloped the back of his head, disorienting him enough to lose his footing. It was all the opportunity his inhuman foes required and they swarmed on top of his lax figure.

That very day he had stumbled upon a quote by Lt. General Thomas Stonewall Jackson when reading in leisure: "My religious belief teaches me to feel as safe in battle as in bed. God has fixed the time for my death. I do not concern myself about that, but to always be ready, no matter when it may overtake me." Since discovering the monsters that children heard go bump in the night were real, safety was an illusion. He hoped God would have mercy on his soul... he was ready.

He felt their hands tear into his clothing and flesh. His final coherent thought was of a young woman who was the true crusader in the battle of good versus evil. In the concluding moments of his existence, he spoke a silent prayer for her and her allies.

PART TWO
Spike contentedly dragged a warm body closer, keeping it imprisoned in the iron grasp of his embrace. A tired moan roused from his companion at the act, but she did not struggle. Instinctively, the female burrowed into the possessive hold. Satisfaction filled him at her innate knowledge that she was protected in the confines of her once sworn enemy's arms.

Vampire intuition made him sentient to the setting sun and Spike irritably cracked an eye open, peering at the tousled head nestled comfortably at his side. His hand voraciously ran over the mild indent of her stomach, ever upward until he was fondling the mounds of her breasts. Growls and purrs of pleasure intermingled from the two. Buffy dazedly reached out and commenced with her own exploration.

Kissing the nape of her neck, Spike's tongue skied its way toward her jugular. The combined scent of cigarettes and sex wafted around them and her breathing escalated at the unhurried stroking. Sucking on the sensitive area, he tempered the urge to sink his teeth into her then and there, overriding the mark previously branded by Angel.

"Don't think about it, blondie."

Stopped in his tracks, a chuckle was wrought from him. "Mornin', pet."

"Don't you mean evening? What time is it?"

"It's goin' on 6:00 p.m.," he responded with a sigh, perceiving where this was going. Kicked from his bed a week ago, she now regularly visited and was more attentive than norm. Nonetheless, while the sex was phenomenal, no additional sharing was involved. When their bodies were sated, she left. He had ridiculed Captain Cardboard for having her body and not her heart; roles reversed, it was not quite so funny anymore.

He cupped at her breast in a distraction attempt. When a small murmur of encouragement emanated, his eyes gleamed with malevolent glee. He gradually increased the pressure, his digits compressing the malleable orb within the strong cusp of his hand. Tugging her desire-inebriated frame firmly to him, he rumbled huskily, "You're clueless about what you do to me. I just had you and can go again."

Snaring her with vampiric speed, Spike pinned her to the mattress. Maintaining his unyielding grip on her bruising breast, his free hand descended in domineering fashion until it made contact with her inner thighs. He pierced her spasming channel with two fingers and gnarled in appreciation, "So hot. So wet. So tight."

Withdrawing his hand, he brought the two probing extremities to his lips and tasted. "So sweet."

"Please," came the whimpered supplication. Buffy milled herself into him.

A leer touched Spike's features. "Please what? I love when you beg for me like a nice little..."

Not permitting him to complete the coarse remark, she shoved him aside and frowned. "A nice little what, Spike?"

When no answer was forthcoming, she doggedly replied for him, "Bitch. Slut. Whore..."

He refused to let her finish the tirade, "You know I didn't intend it that way!"

"Do I?" The query hung between them.

He mutinously stared at his lover as she rose in a fluid motion. His eyes raked her nude form. Even though she bedeviled him, he was amazed at how perfectly they fit: she was slender, so was he; she was golden, he was ivory; she was soft, he was rough; she was all that was good, he was her opposite; she was the sun, he was the moon; she was an innocent, he was a praetorian... devil help him, he was turning into William the Bloody Awful Poet.

Sometimes he forgot how green she was. Lewd talking was not part of her sexual repartee... yet.

Too bad she did not see how well-suited they were. He feared that, deep down, she honestly considered herself all those nasties she was spouting off about. After all, she considered what was happening with him a sick fetish. A dalliance. A good person would argue with her self-depreciation, make her see how worthwhile she was. Be that as it may, as told... he was the opposite of good. If she resumed her lofty moral code, she would not come back to him. He would not have what bit of her that he did now. He would have nothing. Yes, he was a bastard when necessary. So-fucking-be-it.

Buffy offered a strained smile. "Sorry. I shouldn't have been so snappish. Look, I've got to go. Gotta check on Dawnie and Willow."

Spike's fists reflexively clenched at reference to the witch. Residual anger had been laying dormant for weeks at the injuries inflicted on the nibblet due to her "addiction." And addiction is what it was. She had been high on power until her friends had grown the balls to take action. Despite the fact that she professed to have renounced magic cold turkey, he had lost his trust in her. In certain respects, Buffy had too. Her constantly checking on Dawn was proof of that.

Understanding it was futile to protest, he sought to diminish his ardor. "Want me to go with you?"

Stuttering, she hastily rebuffed, "N-n-no, no. Thanks. I'm sure they're okay. You do whatever you dead guys do. Scare the locals or what-not."

He assumed it was a defense mechanism, the way she mentioned his living, rather un-living, status when he got too near. Regretfully, their newfound relationship was secret, as if it was some sordid affair that her friends and family would be repulsed to learn of. Huh, maybe they would be repulsed. Buffy was. It aggravated him that she allowed others to dictate how she lived her life. She could go toe to toe with a hell god and could not stand up to a bunch of pubescent let's-save-the-world fanatic groupies.

Peer pressure was a bitch.

Grabbing his pants, Spike extracted a pack of cigarettes and lighter. "See you next time you have an itch needin' to be scratched."

Not having tried to conceal his bitter tone, he received a glower for his efforts. A partially dressed Buffy settled on the bed. "If you don't enjoy what we have, it can end here and now."

It was an empty threat. It disturbed him in any case. He was walking a fine line. So far he had played his cards right and she came back for more. A single mistake could bring everything to a screeching halt. Masking his apprehension, he derisively snorted at her coercion ploy and flicked the Zippo. A flame shot up and danced heatedly in the darkness as he shrugged off his nervousness.

"What we have, slayer? What we have is wild, animalistic sex, mutual loathing, and a love-hate relationship. I love you, you hate me."

As suddenly as the tiny fire flared, it extinguished upon bussing the cigarette's tip. Spike took a lazy drawl and went on, striving to be detached, "Go. Get back to the witch and kid sis. I've important things to do anyway."

Buffy was exasperated. Pulling on a shirt and screening herself from his ravaging eyes, she recapped, "You said it yourself, Spike... in this room, if I recall correctly... this, you and me, it's wrong. Remember? It's when you had me chained to a wall with your lunatic ho of an ex-girlfriend. I was listening."

"You listen to what you want to hear."

A chaste peck was planted against the cool surface of his lips. She retreated before he could intensify it, avoiding further temptation. "I have to go. No pouting."

With that, she fled the room.

He inhaled the fag resting amid his relaxed fingers. This was what he had yenned for. The slayer in his bed, willing and wanting. So, what was the snag? Alright, Buffy and his relationship was not made up of poems, flowers, chocolates, and midnight strolls. So what? He was getting shagged! That is what mattered. Did he seriously believe himself to be the long-haul guy? As twisted as it was, he did. Dalliance be damned!

PART THREE
Tara was a painstakingly shy girl. She had begun to leave her shell by attending Sunnydale University and a lot of that had to do with her "adopted" family from the preceding year. Being bashful did not signify her as weak; she had seen and done unimaginable feats. Her life was a genuine sci-fi adventure.

Glimpsing out of the chemistry lab window, she quietly groaned at noticing it was after sunset. Not a complainer by nature, she merely gathered her school books and gave her classmates a hesitant farewell. She was not stupid. Traveling at night was a surefire way to become one of the hundreds of missing persons posted on a bulletin board at the Sunnydale Police Department. She was determined not to be another statistic, written off as a PCP casualty.

Swiftly moving along the sidewalk, her eyes roved left and right in assurance that all passerbys were not more than the average Joe. While it might have appeared odd in many cities, the sight of a college student carrying a piece of wood as a safeguard did not capture the town residents' interests. This acceptance came with residing on a Hellmouth.

Associating with Willow and her friends had taught Tara to keep a stake handy, though her magic was more reliable. The stake was to frighten assailants away with the impression that she was geared for an attack.

She slowed her gait as two men sauntered ahead of her, barring passing. Uneasiness engulfed her. Their auras were peculiar, which generally indicated... vampires.

Tara inadvertently eavesdropped:

"The challenge'll be delivered tonight. Do you suspect he'll run?"

"The Master of the Hellmouth run? Never."

"He doesn't look so tough to me."

"I'll bet you twenty bucks he meets Creel and wins."

"You're on."

Sensing her presence, the vampires glanced over their shoulders. Bloodthirsty eyes hungrily examined her in a manner she knew all too well. Flashing the stake, she commanded, "A-a-away."

They were propelled back and toppled into a jumbled heap, both baffled as to what had happened. Tara then flew into the closest sanctuary to be found. Starbucks.

Pinpointing a payphone at the rear of the crowded cafe, she rushed to it and dialed.

"Hello?"

"D-d-dawn..."
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