by P.H. Wise
A Buffy crossover fanfic
Prologue: Red in Tooth and Claw
Disclaimer: I don’t own Buffy. I don't own Angel. I don’t own Highlander. Please don’t sue me. I’m only a poor starving writer. I have no money.
England, 1227 AD
She fought as she always had. Fist for fist, blood for blood. This was her life. This was her nature; red in tooth and claw. They danced the dance of death together, vampire and Slayer, she full of grace and rage in equal measure, he little better than an animal, albeit a cunning one. Blocking, ducking, weaving, punching, kicking, jumping.
A middle-aged, graying man lay face-down in the muddy grass but a few feet away from the two combatants, blood pooling around his body. The night was cold, but the cold seeping into his limbs was something quite different than mere temperature.
The ancient vampire, hairless, baring pale fangs that gleamed in the moonlight, set within a mouth that had long ago been stained by the blood of his victims, leaped over her kick and landed behind her. The Slayer couldn't turn quickly enough - she took a brutal hit to the back that sent her reeling. Blue eyes widened. One misstep was all it took in a battle like this.
The vampire caught her by her long, blonde hair and yanked her savagely into his arms. Almost effortlessly he twisted her arms around behind her until they broke with a sickening snap. She screamed, though more out of rage than pain. He laughed, and sank his teeth into her neck. The Slayer's blood flowed into his mouth, and he drank.
Her watcher struggled to rise, but lacked the strength to do so. It reminded the vampire of the last feeble floppings of a fish too-long removed from the water. That thought made him laugh, and he nearly lost his hold on her throat. This angered him. It wouldn't do to waste even one drop of a drought as heady as the Slayer's blood. It just wouldn't do.
At length, the vampire had drunk his fill. Smiling bloodily, he slashed his own wrist with his talon-like fingernails and pressed the seeping wound to the Slayer's lips.
The Watcher, his vision dimming, reached for his Slayer. "Alisoun..." he whispered, and his tone was the tone of one whose last hope was fading before his eyes. He shuddered, stiffened, and lay still.