Prologue

Ashes slowly fell to the grass between his booted feet as the cigarette slowly burned down, and got closer to his fingertips. He briefly pondered why his pristine white hands weren’t stained yellow with nicotine after decades of smoking at least a pack a day. You’d think there would be at least some sort of affect; it was downright unnatural. Might as well blame it on his vampire constitution; the many benefits of being beautifully undead. The cigarette’s red hot line finally reached his fingers and burned painfully bright for one moment but he didn’t drop the cigarette or even move, but let the fire burn.

The miniscule feeling of pain felt better than the emptiness and sorrow that filled his heart. To turn around and face the dark charred remains of his crypt, a silent ruined reminder of all the failures of his life. Sometimes he wondered why he didn’t just give up and walk out into the fuckin sun and really let it burn. It wasn’t like anybody would actually miss him. Those wonderful kind-hearted Scoobies reminded him of that every bloody day. Buffy would rather be with the empty dream of what used to be with the cardboard soldier than deal with whatever they had brewing. Cold comfort no longer wanted or needed. He knew moping wasn’t helping the situation and he was headed dangerously into Angel territory but damn it all if he didn’t know what else to do.

He finally tossed the remainders of the cigarette on to the ground and got off the cold wet grass. He turned around and faced his dark very crispy fried crypt and sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was go inside and clean up, to start all over… again. Spike was having an extremely bad week. And he’s had some bad ones in his time, but this one was right up there, a close tie with that time Dru tied him up in magically reinforced chains and practiced directing sunlight using a mirror onto essential parts of his anatomy.

'Guess it’s the car for me tonight. Least my girl never betrays me.' he grumpily thought.

Spike turned his back on the crypt and started trekking through the silent cemetery. No body or thing was around to break his depressed mood, not even a young vampire to take his aggressions out on. The only thing breaking the monotonous silence was the howling wind tugging at his coattails and pushing him forward. Occasionally it made a noise that sounded like a forlorn wail, which tugged at the moody poet hidden inside his heart. As he trudged forward, the wailing sound grew in strength and urgency. It was probably nothing really; a cat that got himself stuck in the tree perhaps, but yet the sound called to him, tugging him forward at a faster clip. Investigating was better than doing the nothing he was currently doing. The sound brought him closer to the edge of the cemetery where his car was parked. Behind the DeSoto, another car had pulled up, with the driver-side door swinging wide open. The driver had fallen out of the open door, limbs awkwardly askew. He was feebly trying to get up while holding a bundle in his right arm. Pain was evident in every slow movement of his legs and arms. The man finally lifted himself up and propped against the bottom of the car, breath coming out in short painful gasps. The wind suddenly changed directions and carried the strong scent of sweet blood to his sensitive nose. The blood was an intoxicating calling card, if there were any other vampires about, they’d soon be swarming.

'Damn, this bugger must me more desperate for death than me. Not that I’m one to judge.

Even though Spike was still some distance away, when the man lifted his face, the dim moonlighted highlighted his features as if he were in the sun. “Wesley?” In a blink of an eye, Spike was at Wesley’s side kneeling down and visually assessing his wounds. He looked like death warmed over and he couldn’t believe that the ex-watcher made the whole trip from LA.

“Wesley, what the bloody hell are you doing here in Sunnydale? And frankly you look like shit.”

And, Spike wasn’t exaggerating. He couldn’t believe his friend was still alive. He had a large gash running from neck to collar bone. It didn’t look like it hit any major arteries but he had lost a lot of blood. There also seemed to be a stab wound in his stomach. Wesley’s skin had taken on a sickly grey color and was clammy to the touch. He needed to get help fast or he wouldn’t make it past another hour.

“Spike, thank heavens, I didn’t think I’d make it.” The words falling from Wesley’s lips where low and dry, like they were crawling out of his throat in a slow and painful process. His breathing was shallow and he took a long breath before continuing. “You have to keep him safe…safe from Angel. You’re the only one who I could think of to come to.” Apparently speaking drained the last vestiges of energy from him and he passed out cold. Spike could hear his heart beat still beating faintly in his chest so there was still hope, but he’d have to get him to hospital soon or he wouldn’t be walking the earth much longer.

The bundle in Wesley’s arms suddenly started to move, wiggling urgently. Then a small heartbreaking wail broke through, the wail he heard from across the cemetery. As Spike pealed the layers of the blanket away to reveal Wesley’s precious package he realized that this was no ordinary object or even an ordinary baby because that would be something. No this was Angel’s own son squirming impatiently.

“Bloody Hell!” was all Spike could say.