Fucking perfect.

“What is this?” Spike growled vehemently, casting his duster to the vacant chair as he stormed inward. “’Ave I turned into a bloody Holiday Inn? Is there a vacancy sign advertisin’ a room in large neon letters that I missed? What the hell makes you birds think you can waltz in an’ out of here as you please?”

The woman in question looked forlorn at the inquiry. She pouted, and he had to remind himself that he was angry. A century’s worth of schooling was enough to convince his feet to cross the floor and take her in his arms. After all, she had been the love of his unlife. His salvation.

She had also ripped his heart out, stomped on it twice for good measure, and persuaded him back here.

Where he fell in love with the Slayer.

And now she was in his crypt, standing precisely where he had left Darla prior to bolting for the Bronze. She was alone; he knew that much. The presence of his great-grandsire had faded even as her scent lingered. But that didn’t change the very persistent depiction of a woman in his home. A woman he would have killed—very literally—to see a few months ago. A woman who had since wedged her way onto the unwelcome list.

His once black goddess.

Drusilla was still pouting, her large brown eyes drooping at his duress. “Are you not pleased to see me?”

He snickered and marched inward begrudgingly. This was turning into a very peculiar night. Were it any other town, any other livelihood, and he would’ve sworn he was dreaming. But no. Reality was too weird for words at times. Especially in a place where that particular phrase was consumed and digested on a daily basis. “Wonderful, luv,” he snickered. “Did the pixies tell you that, or were you able to work it out on your own?”

“I thought grandmum had talked with you. She did not mention you being cross.” Drusilla grinned seductively and took a step forward. “Do you want to punish me, William? Have I been awfully bad?”

“I really can’t stand for more of this, you know. You got your own bloody town to run amuck through. Leave me outta it. What the fuck is this? Pick On Spike Week?” He caressed his brow in loom of an impending headache. “Jus’ bugger off, Dru. Take Darla an’ get the hell back to Los Angeles. ‘m sure there’s plenty of fun to be had there.”

She whimpered. “My boy does not want to come to the circus? There’s a great big elephant, you know. And the acrobats have begun their stretches.”

“Good for them. Get out.”

Over the past half century, Spike had taken to mentally comparing Drusilla’s pout to the mournful sadness displayed by Pound Puppies. It used to have a profound effect on him, but now it simply made him angry. Her antics had been once purposeful; while motive had not changed, the thought of what she was trying to accomplish did little more than prod his negative buttons. “You don’t mean that,” she continued dazedly. “Didn’t grandmum tell you our delightful plan? What fun it will be? Round and round we go, never hopping off the carousel even when our mummies and daddies shake their fingers at us. We’re very bad children. Naughty. Shhhh.”

The peroxide vampire rolled his eyes. “Yeh. The ole bag laid full load on me. Bloody Peaches has gone the way of the Dark Side an’ now everyone wants a retake of our fun in nineteenth century Europe. Merry loads of bloodshed an’ laughter to make some deranged happily ever after.” He paused with a frown. “Only without the rhyme. That was bloody disturbin’.”

There was a long-winded whine. “You really don’t want to come?” When he offered nothing more than an arched brow in turn, the vampiress pressed her hands to her ears and began moaning in earnest. “Poor Spike. My poor, poor Spike. Left here in the cold when everyone else gets their cookies and milk. We’re going off and the little birdies will eat all the crumbs if we leave you any to follow.”

“Just leave, Dru. I won’t be followin’.”

“I don’t want to,” she complained. “Not without my prince.”

“Learn to live with disappointment.” Spike snickered and moved for his discarded duster to fish out a half-smoked pack of cigarettes. “Know I did.”

“Are you still sore? Mummy could kiss it better.”

He shook his head and lit up. “Snooze you lose, luv. You walked out on me, din’t you? Mummy’s kisses ‘ave turned bloody sour.” When her looked displayed a longing for lost comprehension, he sighed melodramatically and shook his head. “You walked out on me, you crazed bint! I did everythin’ I could for you! Every single day for a sodding century!” Temper got the better of him; he consigned his ciggies to the floor without consideration, knowing belatedly that he would regret that once he had the place to himself again. “Bloody well worshipped the ground you walked on. Gave you everythin’ you ever asked me for. Bent over backwards to make sure you were happy. And where the fuck did it get me? Here! In Sunnyhell with a blasted chip up my skull. The pun to the Slayer’s radically unfunny sense of humor an’ forced to play nice with the other puppies ‘cause it’s the only way I can get a decent spot of violence. An’ now you want me back? To come with you? For what! I might not like what’s become of me, but I’ve bloody well adjusted. Makin’ the bleedin’ most of it. You ‘ave some nerve to try an’—”

Drusilla whimpered again, effectively tearing into his rant. She wiped her eyes of fake tears and sniffed pathetically in an overdrawn cry for furthered attention. “I’m here to save you, my sweet. To make everything all right again. I’ve felt you calling. All alone, whispering and clawing at the dark. My prince…trapped in a prison of electricity where the nasty fence shocks you if you reach passed the wire. Left in the corner where only…only…”

“So, yeh…news travels.”

“The big bad lawyers told me. They whispered all sorts of nasty lies.” She neared, nuzzling the crook of his neck. “But the stars, my sweet. They tell the greatest lie of all. They said that you had gone away from me. So far that I cannot reach you. So far into the dark where my help cannot lead you back to where you belong.”

Spike snickered and moved aside, puffing appreciatively at his cigarette. “You lost interest in tryin’ to reach me years ago. The only reason you’re here is to make your precious Daddy happy. Sorry, Sweets. I’ve had my fair share of that scene, an’ I’m not lookin’ for a repeat.”

“Not even for your princess?”

That was bloody rich.

“Face it, Dru. You stopped bein’ my princess a long time ago.”

Someone unaccustomed to her random bouts of behavior would have been taken for a loop. As it was, he had more than his fair share of experience playing on his behalf. When she fell to her knees and began moaning once more, shaking violently, it was an exercise in protocol not to go to her immediately. “You…you stink of her!” She proclaimed loudly, wiping her hands against herself as though trying to rid her skin of an unwanted residue. As though contact with her former love was contamination of his uncanny humanity. As though she was in danger of contracting the same sort of caring. “She’s all over you. Filthy, rotten girl. Stealing my William. But she leaves you in shadows so that she can dance. You’re in the shadows now. With me.”

“You came to me, luv. So, yeh. I got myself a li’l problem concernin’ a girl that will, for the sake of this conversation, remain nameless. ‘S your fault, anyway. Y’should’ve known a right catch like me wouldn’t stay on the market long after we parted ways.” He managed a semi-cocky smile that failed for his lack of feeling. “Did you think I’d wait around for you to come to your senses?”

“She’s…” Her face crumpled with disgust. He knew that feeling well having grown more than accustomed to its presence. His own realization where his heart lay, and would remain until Buffy finally snuffed it or he rightfully met his dust. Either option was not the sort that one aspired to accomplish. “She’s a Slayer, my lovely. A nasty, wicked girl. Ooohhhhh…my skin is crawling all over. Crawling, crawling…” She started scratching at her flesh madly, a glance of pure desperation overwhelming her. “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

Spike had the decency to look sheepish. “Oi. No one’s braggin’ here.”

Drusilla mewled pitifully as her compulsion deepened. “I cannot see you. You’re lost in the woods and I cannot take you home.” She paused; ignoring the skeptical look he gave her, and had cried out in pain the next minute, clutching at her stomach. It was habit alone that prompted him to go to her, to support her in his arms as the vision came and went. The familiar trembling lasted only a minute, but she clutched to him far longer than needed. “The big bad wolf is coming for you, my Spike. All alone, lost in the woods. Galloping, galloping, and here he comes.”

A flawless eyebrow perched. “Somethin’s comin’ to get me?” he asked hesitantly. “Think your timin’s a li’l off, sweetheart.”

“But no…it’s coming for the both of you.” As suddenly as it had appeared, her depression alleviated and a huge grin sprouted across her face. “Ooh, isn’t that pretty? You should really see it, my darling. The stars are painting such lovely colors. And now…the sky is about to open.” The still crypt rang with the harmonious melody of a delighted squeal. “No one can stop the lark from singing. Sweet nightingale. Born to the night, just as we are. Singing sweetly until the nasty lark comes to chase you off. Bad lark. The sun will do nasty things to you when she wakes.” With another demented cackle, she pivoted to her childe, eyes shining like gems. “You have been a very bad doggie,” she scolded, performing the international sign for ‘shame on you’ before bringing her finger to her lips. “No treats for the bad doggies, you hear? No, no…no treats at all.”

Spike sighed tiredly. This was getting really old, really fast. “You’ve heard my answer, luv,” he said with every last strain of patience that he could muster. “An’ I’ve had my fair share of nightly visitors. Go tell Darla that ‘s off. The whole buggerin’ deal, you get me? I want no part of this.”

“But I have a secret,” she cooed, eyes distant in a gaze that forewarned little was getting through. “Miss Edith told me not to share. She’ll be so disappointed if I break my word. But I’m cross with her. She whispers lies against the night wind and makes it impossible for the children to have their cake and milk.”

Another sigh. Experience cautioned that it was better during such spells to simply humor her. The consequences if impatience was exacted could be very dire. He knew this firsthand. “All right, luv. All right. What did Miss Edith tell you?”

Not a beat was spared. Drusilla fell to her knees unceremoniously and straddled her wrists, raven hair flying back as her eyes narrowed gleefully. “The beast is coming for you,” she informed him, rocking back and forth. “Scampering down hallways, looking over the corridors. You aren’t as sneaky as you think. No, no. Not nearly enough time. No. We don’t want to make the King of Cups unhappy. That won’t do at all. Oooohh!” she threw her head back, grinning as though she had just reach some orgasmic bliss. “My Daddy likes to play. He and grandmum want to taste her blood. They will pour it down every hallway and dance naked under the moonlight. He is a vulture, circling around the dead. And you…” Her eyes opened and cleared, centering resolutely the peroxide vampire. “You are the lark, and he is going to make you bleed all over.”

There was one thing he knew for certain; making Drusilla jealous was not something that one should aspire to, regardless of her disposition. His affection for the Slayer was dangerous enough—implicating Angelus would likely push her over the proverbial edge.

But the Grand Poof wasn’t interested in making Buffy his voracious sex kitten. If he wanted her in Los Angeles, it was for one cause and one cause alone.

It was rather unnerving, knowing that he would stake Drusilla here and now if she made one brazen move to complete her still-unvoiced intentions. Unnerving to know that he was so lost already as to compromise a hundred years of history for the sake of something that would never be his. Buffy was untouchable, and he accepted that. He accepted that the morning he awoke from that godawful (bloody fantastic) dream. The morning he first realized the depth of his true feelings. Even if he performed the largest transformation the world had ever seen, there was no hope for his hapless desires to manifest.

It was a dreary acknowledgment, but he was satisfied. Content. Because with her, with this distant admiration, he knew the only peace that the century had offered.

Drusilla had been his savior; Buffy was redemption in itself. And to protect her, he would do what every fiber of his being rejected. He would stake his sire. He would defy the mandate of vampiric law. He would betray his brethren and do all he could to protect the Slayer.

Hell, he was a rebel, after all.

“Pet,” he said slowly, stepping forward, every move marked with caution. He knew her well enough to know that the slightest offset could potentially send her down a spiral of bad tidings. Even in falsely civilized conditions such as this. “Y’don’t know what you’re gettin’ into here. There’s…stuff in motion that you can’t stop. You an’ Darla an’ the Ponce can be as bloody chaotic as you please in dear ole LA. I—”

She held a hand up, quivering slightly. Every indication of a merry temperament lost itself completely with the presence of her demeanor. “I see you,” she whimpered, voice quivering. “Nasty little jibes. Dancing all on your lonesome. You’d kill for her…” The crazed vampire’s fingers caressed her own lips as if to ward off nasty words from escaping into the air. “You’d kill your princess?”

“Dru—”

“You’d…” And then she was disgusted, scratching at her skin once more. The face of a leaper without his disease. That was his girl, all right. The true first— Spike’s first, and in many ways, the only. She had brought him here. A nineteenth century lunatic attempting admirably to keep up with a world that did not want her. “You’d die for her. Nasty, nasty William. Reeking of the Slayer. She stinks you up, she does. Perfuming her good intentions all over.”

“You an’ Darla…” He sighed. This was more difficult than he could have ever comprehended. “You jus’ need to go back. I’ve told you my part. The answer’s no. Bloody carnage, sod all. Got me plenty of that ‘ere.” The nagging voice harbored perpetually in the back of his head forewarned that he was dangerously close to talking himself out of his own excuse, but somehow, even that cautionary diction failed to signal any red signs. As though, despite his liking for violence, he knew well enough to leave matters be. The chip’s exclusion would be a plus. A major plus. But somehow, the appeal had lost itself. He hadn’t given it much thought at all since the night that everything changed for him. And that was the way it was. “Jus’ doesn’ hold the same thrill for me anymore.”

“I’ve wrecked you,” she decided sorrowfully. “I’ve turned you inside out and all the birdies tear at your ribbons until there is nothing left but spoiled milk.”

“Yeh well, your bad, pet.” He spread his arms. “’m a taken gent. I might be bloody ruined, but I’m taken.”

Drusilla sniffled. “Grandmum will be most displeased.”

“Piffle. Grandmum doesn’ give two bloody pisses about me. Never has. She made herself quite clear when she was…” Spike trailed off with dangerous realization, glancing about the crypt in confirmation of what was already known. Though he had acknowledged it upon approach, Darla’s absence hadn’t struck him as particularly suspicious until it occurred to him that in a town of such size, there wasn’t much territory to explore.

And if the tale was accurate, her invitation at the Summers residence still stood.

“Dru,” the peroxide vampire said sharply, parading over to his dark maker and grasping her by the shoulders. One good shake—not too violent. He wouldn’t be intentionally violent with her unless it came down to radical decision-making. “Where’s Darla?”

She blinked at him. A long, annoyingly tame blink.

“Where. Is. Darla?”

Another blink. Then slowly, she smiled.

“Grandmum went for walkies,” Drusilla singsonged, pulling free without much persuasion. “She wanted to dance under the moonlight and taste the delights off the candy-coated tree. They are quite nummy, as I recall. Loads and loads of sweets to eat. Apples, plums, and—”

“Did you do somethin’?”

“My prince asks—”

“Bugger your sodding prince!” Spike knew he was on the verge of bursting into game face, and had he a moment to stop and reflect; he would have been taken aback by the unspoken implication. “You’re understandin’ me, Dru. I know that look. Stop skittering around the question an’ answer me. Darla mentioned somethin’ about some drug. Ro…Rohypnol, tha’s the one. Popular among date rapists an’ the like.” He paraded closer, eyes flashing neon. Energy protruded from every dead vein, begging to be released. A timely image of the Incredible Hulk flashed within his hindsight, and he inwardly reminded himself to kill Xander for the bloody awful cultural references. “You were at the Bronze tonight, weren’ you? The place was crawlin’ with—”

“I remember the Bronze,” she replied cryptically, kittenish grin revealing too much of what had not been said. “We used to go dancing. All of us. Remember that, William?”

“Actually, you an’ Peaches would go dancin’. I’d watch from the bloody sidelines. On. With. It.” He paused. “The lackeys…Stay Puft mentioned there were a few—”

“Ooohh! My boy’s getting it! Closer, closer, please! You’re almost there.” The grin on her face grew wider, and she was practically bursting with glee. “You mustn’t be cross with us, Spike. Grandmum assured me all was for your benefit. And I do so want to do right by you, my sweet. To make everything the way it should be.” She brought her hands behind her head and thrust her pelvis against him suggestively. “Grandmum always knows best.”

Spike’s eyes went distant with the cold sting of realization.

“Buffy.”

“She’s gone!” Drusilla cried gleefully, clapping her hands together. “Ring around the rosey, pockets full of posey, the nasty Slayer is gone! Oh, we’re going to have such fun with her!”

“This was all Darla’s fixin’. She knew I’d…” In all his years, he didn’t reckon he’d ever felt any thicker than he did at that minute. “She knew that I’d race across town the moment she mentioned that you were after her.”

It was useless attempting to make conversation with Drusilla. She was completely foregone, resorting to twirling in endless circles, face mapped with unkempt delight. “It’s just as I thought it would be!” She stopped just as suddenly as she began, focusing darkly on her platinum childe. “I’m sorry you do not wish to come with us, my darling,” she said regretfully. “But if you like, I will give the Slayer your regards.”

In days to come, Spike would wonder what prompted him to let her go that night. He remembered distinctly wishing her dead. He remembered the charge coursing through his numb limbs, the will to pop her head off good and proper. To do what he had wanted to do time and time again for ruining him. For sending him here. For bringing him to his complete and final destruction. He had imagined it a thousand ways. A thousand times. Every corner of Drusilla’s demise was etched out and played, stopped, and played again.

But he couldn’t do it. Not that night.

Not when his thoughts were consumed by one consistency. One reason to end all other reasons.

One choice to make in order to right the others broken.

He knew. He knew what he had to do. A decision made with such ease that it would have startled him into submission if he truly recognized the layered nadir of his transformation. Knee-deep in redemption without knowing that such was what he sought. Drowning in the light.

Drowning before he fell.

The beginning had never looked so bleak.

In any regard, the start of anything had never looked so distant. And he had known quite a few beginnings. While every nerve in his being demanded immediate retribution for his admittedly stranded view, he knew that he would pay dearly if he dared trudge uncharted terrain without a hunting permit.

There were other things as well. The Scoobies. His own verification. While he did not distrust Drusilla’s ramblings and knew more than enough than to question her testimony, his insane former was known for claims that exceeded reputable acknowledgement. She was dancing over thin ice, performing quite well for someone who did not know how to skate, and having a marvelous time poking her tongue out at him from a distance.

The small nagging voice that he had grown to hate delighted in reminding him that most of this was likely his fault. He didn’t know how or why, but there was usually a contract that bid him to the fault-having portion of any given predicament. The knowledge that, despite curiosity, the smartest thing he could have done the minute he saw Darla was throw her out. That confirming his sensationally sick desire to have the Slayer in all means excluding her death merited as one of the worst calls he had ever made.

That Darla’s absence from his crypt when he returned rang a clear sign of danger, especially when he sensed Drusilla at the Bronze. Of course. Dear grandmum would never entrust a mission so bold as to hijack a Slayer in the hands of a loony she did not particularly care for. Her coming to Spike in the first place was a divisionary tactic that worked beautifully; what was more, she had made no small game about that. She had openly confessed her personal distaste, the offers presented at the hand of Wolfram and Hart, and how he was only beneficial to her as a distraction for Drusilla. Every hinted aspect of fair warning wasted. In one ear and out the other.

It certainly wasn’t the first time, and he was not daft enough to believe that it would be the last.

There was simply too much left open to strategy. He knew that Drusilla had visited the Bronze; the impression of one’s sire was something that would never be forgotten. It was ingrained, innate, and completely charged every fiber that commanded symbiotic response. And he knew, given that, that his deranged former would have been forced to maintain safe distance from her prey.

The vampires that had arrived at the opportune moment provided the needed distraction. Enough time to slide Rohypnol into a discarded drink. Knowing Dru, she likely opted to drug the lot of them, just for safekeeping. Or to make the situation that much more entertaining.

Then she had come to him. She had come to convince him back to Los Angeles with her. And he, like a blind idiot, allowed Darla to do the rest.

Stupid, stupid, stupid…

And now, assuming his suspicions were correct, they were in the mother of all dilemmas. Glory the Wonder Bitch was out and about, running a general muck over things, hunting for the Key—whatever that was. Buffy had earlier complained about the Council’s interest in her plight and their resolution to conduct an evaluation of her behavior in a first-person basis. Angelus was loose once more, this time accompanied by his sire whose affinity for destruction was only surpassed by his.

They had Buffy. He shuddered to think of what they would do to her.

Then he did think of it, and the images his mind produced were enough to convince him that Los Angeles was too small an arena to cover what he planned to do to them.

But that was too few and far between. Any planning he did was second only to what the Watcher said in regard to all this. There was no way the Scoobies saw this coming. No way they could have anticipated something of such surprising magnitude. He wondered if any of them, save the Slayer herself, even knew what Darla looked like. As the story went, she was the only one present save Angel the day that he staked his sire. For all intents and purposes, they likely begrudged her the first spaces of leeway by ignorance alone. And if Buffy had recognized her, surprise would have lapsed her judgment.

He did not like to doubt her, but she was only human.

They would blame him. There was no doubt behind that. Despite whatever shell of bonding he and Xander had failingly attempted that night, despite his argument, despite everything, they would blame him. And they certainly wouldn’t entrust her retrieval in his very capable and more than willing hands. That much didn’t matter too greatly; rather, they had no choice. Of everyone present, he was the one with the greatest potential of uncovering anything as far as her whereabouts.

He could only hope the Watcher was keen enough and not blinded with rage to recognize that. The others couldn’t hope to come within a stones throw of Angelus. Los Angeles was not the Hellmouth, and they weren’t playing little games anymore. Darla had been level with him—he knew enough to recognize that, and if Wolfram and Hart were implicated, then the situation was well and beyond their grasp.

Spike was the only left member of the Order that mattered a damn anymore. And they had come for him as well; only they had had the courtesy to extend his invitation in form of an offer rather than kidnapping.

His first instinct was to go straight to Giles’s residence; it took two seconds to rectify his plan and set his footing for the Magic Box. That was the new and more popular place to group together for this sort of thing. It was well after hours, but there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that everyone would be sitting at the tables, digging into futile books and speaking loudly with accusatory undertones concerning his implication.

The light was on. He was right.

In the midst of heated debate, he was able to walk through the doors unnoticed. Bell and all. The Scoobies were situated awkwardly across the foyer of the store. Anya stationed at her customary location behind the cash register, Xander and Willow taking up table space with their persons, Giles at the staircase that led to the restricted section, and Tara in the forgotten corner, looking through old volumes of useless information.

They were shouting at each other. A scene that would have provided some humor, given any other context.

Spike wasn’t about to sit patiently and wait his turn. That was asking for more trouble than he needed, especially under given circumstances. Instead, he cleared his throat and effectively sliced through the forums of voices being strewn back and forth with the invasion of an alien brogue. All eyes fell on him almost instantly.

There wasn’t going to be time for formalities. In and out. With any bloody luck.

“’Lo all,” he said, glancing around the sea of blank stares that answered his call. “Jus’ wanted to drop by an’ say firstly…” His gaze focused on Willow and Xander, who were looking at him with near reverence, “I bloody told you so, an’ secondly, I’m gonna be outta town for a few days. I’ll drop you all a line from LA.”

With that, he turned to leave.

If only it could be so simple.

“Stop,” Giles ordered, command in his voice alerting everyone within propinquity that he was answering to his inner Ripper. And yet, there was a funny note embedded in his tone. An almost whim of understanding…but that couldn’t be right. “Spike…you saw Drusilla in town earlier tonight?”

Civilized conversation from the Watcher? This was highly suspicious. The peroxide vampire glared doubtfully at Harris and the redhead, but the gaze he received in turn was accommodating and desperate.

“No, I got wind that she was in town,” he replied, turning back slowly. “A li’l birdie dropped by my crypt to speak her piece. Offer me a bloody offer I wasn’ s’posed to refuse. She mentioned Dru was out an’ about. Which brings me back to the ‘I told you so.’”

“It was Darla,” Willow said softly. “You saw Darla.”

“Kinda left that part out with your friendly warning,” Xander added, his tone blatantly embittered. It was more by self-actualization and nothing he hadn’t expected, but the charge stung nonetheless.

Spike’s eyes widened. “Oh, tha’s right. Blame the vamp. Forget that I risked my bloody head racin’ across town to tip the lot of you off as to what was in the airs. But no, you couldn’t help but make a scathing remark at my expense ‘stead of givin’ me the sodding benefit of a doubt—”

“There isn’t time to worry with particulars,” Giles snapped, effectively silencing everyone. “Spike, just tell us what you know.”

A sigh. “Y’know, this is gonna slow me down.”

“Just tell us! Buffy is gone, and for all we know—”

His face fell. So that was that. They had taken her. They had really taken her. He had known, but hearing it made it all the more final. All the more authentic. And the danger escalated in suspension. Darla and Drusilla had taken the Slayer, and God knows what all they intended to do with her.

“—and the only lead we have is an arbitrary report that you supplied Xander and Willow with earlier this evening. Which, by the way…” The Watcher pivoted furiously to the aforementioned two. “I can’t believe you disregarded something as monumental as Drusilla’s presence in Sunnydale. After all, Spike is—”

“A vampire and completely in love with her,” Xander returned hotly. “One that wants us dead, or have we forgotten? Why should we have believed him? Like he’d really warn us about Dru being in town.”

“It did seem kinda wiggy,” Willow conceded. “But we should’ve listened.”

“You’re bloody right you should have!” Giles was pacing now, and it looked truly bizarre. Bizarre, but not out of line. Thus far, the one person Spike expected to be grilled by was seemingly siding with him. That was subject to change but encouraging nonetheless.

As though sensing his digression, the Watcher stopped once more and turned to him. “Darla visited you.”

It was not a question.

“Yeh,” Spike replied self-consciously. “Jus’ up an’ showed outta the bloody blue. Well, more to the fact that she was waitin’ for me to get home. Gave me the low down on how she was mojo’ed back to the land of the livin’, so to speak, an’ offered me a position with her an’ Dru back in LA.”

“And that prompted you to come and warn us?” Xander shook his head. “I’m still not buying it, Bleach Boy. I know we went a round of pool, but that’s not enough to convince me that you wouldn’t wish us dead in a heartbeat.”

“Maybe you,” he growled. “Listen, I don’ know why I did it, all right?” Little lie here and there never hurt anyone…in theory. “’S prolly communicable from bein’ around the lot of you do-gooders. Jus’ know that I’m not yankin’ any chains around here. What you see is what you bloody get. Darla’s involved with this law firm called Wolfram an’—”

“Hart,” Giles finished softly.

All eyes fell on him.

“What and What?” Willow repeated.

“Wolfram and Hart,” Anya supplied. “Very evil bunch. I’ve done business with them before.”

And no one seemed that that statement deserved consideration. Bloody typical. The peroxide vampire heaved a sigh, shook his head, and gazed intently at the elder man of the group. “Y’know ‘bout it, then?”

“Quite. The Watcher’s Council has kept tabs on its developments ever since it altered shape, back at the turn of the century, I believe.” Giles settled against the counter, glasses falling second naturedly into his waiting handkerchief. “I can’t believe…they are likely the only…only anything, really, that would have the power to revive a vampire from the beyond.”

“Ummm…” Xander waved a hand expectantly. “Angel?”

“We verified that he was brought back by the Powers, and it was for redemption. A quest of sorts to be measured and esteemed through actions that justified all that he…well, it was long and complicated, and I don’t have time to go into it now.” The Watcher glanced upward. “The Powers would have no such motive to bring back a vampire with the reputation that Darla has, especially without the additive windfall of a soul.”

“Yeh, well, ‘s safe to say that the Powers have bollixed everythin’ up squarely,” Spike returned. “’Cause accordin’ to Darla, Angelus is back.”

“He boinked her?!” Willow all but shrieked.

A chuckle at that. “No. There are other, less pleasant ways, way I hear it.”

“Mayor Wilkins attempted to remove his soul through a mage,” Giles reminded her softly. “Chances are, Wolfram and Hart have similar connections.”

“They wanted the Order back in full,” Spike continued. “An’ they wanted the Slayer.”

“Why?”

“I don’ know, but Darla thought it was a bloody brilliant idea. Came up here, decided to distract me…twice…an’ now…” He shook his head again. “I don’ know exactly how it all went down, all right? When I got to my crypt that firs’ time, she was there. Gave me the full of what was goin’ on, offered me a position up in LA with her an’ the Great Poof that I declined. Even offered to rid me of my zapper.” He pointed demonstratively to his cranium, even if elaboration wasn’t needed. “Then she mentioned Dru an’ their plans concernin’—”

“I so do not like where this is going,” Xander intervened shortly. “What possible reason would have you decline a package that extensive? The chip included? Hell, I’m not evil and it’s sounding like a good deal to me. Something’s not right here. Something’s really not right.”

“H-he has a p-p-point,” Tara offered from the corner, the first bit she had spoken at all. He softened instantly at the interruption, obeying whatever inner whim that forewarned the Witch was to be treated delicately, despite all other misgivings. “No offense or anything, b-but you really don’t have a reason to be here at all, do you?”

He had a reason. By God, he had a reason. He just knew it was wrong and wouldn’t win him any friends.

“’S personal,” he replied, hoping that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

“What’s personal?!” Harris was all but screaming now. “I know everything I said earlier about change and the like, but it’s null and void now. Drusilla and Darla waltz into town, offer you everything you’ve claimed to want for the past year, kidnap Buffy, and you say that you had nothing to do with it?”

“I didn’t.”

Willow intervened at that, her tone less demanding, but equally concerned. “Then why didn’t you mention this earlier? If you’d said Darla was alive—”

That was rich.

“Don’ even try to shift the blame here. You’re the bloody sods who lost your Slayer! Now you’re all out an’ about, lookin’ for someone to blame.” He shook his head with a huff of ill-amusement. “Look no further than a soddin’ mirror, ladies an’ gents. I would join you, but I don’ reflect.”

“That’s what you call ironic,” Anya supplied.

“Listen, I din’t come here to waste time squabblin’.” Spike sighed intently and began backing for the door once more. “Even ‘f I knew it was sodding inevitable. The lot of you ‘ave your fair share to worry with here. Nibblet an’ the Council of Wankers to top.”

Giles’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”

“Slayer told me earlier,” he replied absently. “’ve outed myself already, but no one else here has a stone’s throw chance in Hell to get close to any of ‘em, especially ‘f they know you’re comin’. I’m headin’ to LA to get Buffy home—”

“That’s. It.” Harris jumped to his feet and paraded forward. “You know how much I’m trusting you right now? Zero. That’s how much. You suddenly go from caring not at all to caring so much that you’re going to go to Los Angeles to…what? Play the hero? I’m not buying it. At all. This all seems way too convenient and especially given what you and—”

Spike sighed and rolled his eyes. “You really think ‘f I had any intention of takin’ Darla up on her offer, I’d’ve come here at all?”

The boy was forced into reflective silence.

“Tha’s right. The lot of you can think what you like. I’m leavin’ tonight for LA.”

“Where will you go?” Giles intervened. He held up a hand before a reply could be voiced. “Understand that I am not condoning this in any way. I don’t trust you, I never have, and I never will. Like Xander, I am of the belief that this is all too coincidental to be exactly that. But I am also willing to supply that should you be telling the truth, your presence in Los Angeles would be the best option.”

Willow’s eyes alighted in protest. “But—”

“Spike is connected to the Order. That is more than any of us can say. And should he be lying, there truly is no more damage to be done than what was done.” A sigh rolled off the Watcher’s shoulders. “Buffy is gone, in the hands of two, soon-to-be three, very ruthless, legendary vampires. We cannot be in two places at once. With Glory here and—”

“Glory? Glory? We’re bringing up Glory?” Xander demanded incredulously. “Who cares about Glory? We have bigger problems at the minute! If Chip’s Ahoy is going to Los Angeles, then—”

“He goes alone.” Giles’s gaze had not altered from the vampire’s in the slightest.

“We can’t trust him!”

Spike rolled his eyes again.

“I know that. But it appears that we have no choice.” The Watcher stepped forward again, solemn. “Where will you go?”

Finally a question he could answer without having to reveal something personal.

“Angel Investigations,” Spike replied immediately. “’F Peaches ‘asn’t torn it to shreds by now. I’d wager that Cordelia an’ that li’l mixed chap have all the precautionaries on what to do in such a bloody bleak scenario. Start there an’ work my way up.”

“Spike.” Giles’s gaze was level with him now, and he stood not two feet away. “I want you to listen to me very, very carefully. Should anything happen to Buffy, anything at all; I am going to hold you personally responsible. I don’t give a bleeding fuck if you are involved or not. Something happens to her, it’s going to happen to you, too. Do you understand me?”

It was a rare day when the Watcher used such raw language.

Today seemed to be the king of rare days.

“I get you, old man,” the peroxide vampire replied. It was nothing he didn’t expect. Nothing he wouldn’t demand if he were in the opposing position. Nothing he didn’t respect Giles for immensely, even if that went forever unvoiced.

“You are to remain in constant contact with us.”

“’Course.”

There was something else, but it wouldn’t be said here.

“I don’t like this,” Willow announced shakily, holding up a hand to calm whatever objection was ready on Spike’s lips. “Not that I don’t trust you…well, I don’t trust you, but you get me. I don’t understand why we have to be sitting ducks. Can’t we be standing ducks? Or flapping ducks? Or rushing-to-help-Buffy ducks? I just don’t get it…especially where Glory is concerned. Without the Slayer, what exactly do we hope to accomplish? Throw rocks at her?”

At that, the rough front that Giles had been depending on from the beginning started to crumple, and the first strains of humanly worry leaked through. “There are elements…” he said slowly, “that have to be taken into consideration. Things that involve Glory and her conquest…that I cannot disclose. Here.” He added the last with a pointed look in the vampire’s direction. “Let’s just leave it at that for now. We will discuss the details later.”

The peroxide vampire couldn’t agree more. “Right,” he snapped. “Save your sodding dramatics. ‘S of no interest to me.” He turned to the Witch. “Don’ get your knickers in a twist. Whatever the old man has up his leave’ll be common knowledge two seconds after I walk out the bloody door.”

“Wait it out,” Giles concurred with a nod. In such circumstances, there was no point to denying motive, especially when it remained rather unambiguous. “Spike, a word in the back, please.”

There would be no refuting; nothing to appease the tiny voice that protested this discussion in itself was a perfect example of why the Scoobies were daft all the way around, despite their ability to foil every Big Bad to date. They were wasting too much time with particulars. However, he nodded his compliance and made to follow the Watcher, refusing to waver even when they moved into the seeming seclusion of the Slayer’s training room.

In all honesty, he expected the old man to lose his still unspoken support. He expected to be shoved against the nearest surface with a hand at his throat, complete with a stream of long-winded, not-so-empty threats that centered on a matter of a decent staking.

Once more, he was surprised. Despite all his reasoning and insistence, Giles was far from reaching a point by the time he got him alone. The Watcher took to pacing quietly, brow furrowed as though lost in deep reflection. He made eye contact a few times, looked willing and ready to speak, but lost his train of thought, or reasoning, before the words could know the breath of air. It was more than obvious that he had something of importance to relate and more than one reservation about relating it. And, notwithstanding irritation, Spike couldn’t say he blamed him.

However, that didn’t mean he favored standing around until the old man grew a pair. With every second he wasted, the further the Slayer grew from hindsight. “So, what is it?” he asked after a few seconds. “Wanna lay me down with the ground rules? Do not touch the Slayer? Do not look at the Slayer? Do not interact with the Slayer? Do not—”

“Shut up.”

“Do not shut up? There’s a new one.”

“I mean, it Spike. This…” Giles pressed his hand against a wall to support his crumpling weight, the full signs of his fatigue leaking through to full glory. It was nearly worth a coo of sympathy. The strain of concern pressing into his brow overwhelming on levels of human candor that remained an overall mystery. “What you are about to do…God, I can’t believe I’m trusting you to—”

“Trust me or not, mate, I’m doin’ it.”

“Why? If I knew why, perhaps I could find some ease. I just don’t see what possible motive you would have to go to Buffy’s aid.”

The vampire sighed heavily. How the hell was he supposed to answer that question and simultaneously put the man’s worries to rest? There was too much that he still did not know, did not understand, and he rather doubted that a quick ‘I’ve had the sudden desire to shag the Slayer senseless’ retort would score any bonus points. He had to hand it to Giles; he was concerned in all the right areas. Asking all the right questions. Spike’s sudden bout of anxiety where any of the Scoobies were implicated merited a good period of observation.

“Honestly, mate,” he began with another sigh, unknowing where to go from there or why he was speaking at all. “I don’ know. I can’t explain anythin’ right now. But I’m goin’ outta her interest, not mine. Trust me, things’d be a lot easier ‘f I could say bugger all an’ let ‘em have her. Somewhere along the way, I wager I grew a conscience.”

“Forgive me if that’s not at all reassuring.”

“Well, this isn’t the firs’ time this sort’ve thing’s happened where the lot of you are concerned. That one time that Glinda the Second’s magic went all wonky, makin’ you blind to everythin’ that wiggled with demon insides?” He waited for Giles’s recollection before continuing. “Yeh. Walked in, saw the Slayer strugglin’ on the floor, an’ leapt in to save the bloody day. Don’ ask me why—she certainly din’t. Din’t even get a thank you for that.” Another brief break. “I don’ like a one of you, you know. But I jus’…I can’t let them have her. Angelus an’ Dru were bad enough. Throw Darla in—Darla with a wicked grudge ‘cause of the great sodding love affair that was the Slayer and Peaches—an’ I don’t wanna think about what’s gonna go down.”

“This is about possession, then? She’s the Slayer, therefore you get to kill her?”

If only it were that easy.

“’F it makes you sleep easier to tell yourself that…well, I don’ rightly care what makes you sleep easier.” Spike shook his head and headed for the door again. “’m all you’ve got, an’ you know it. An’ you also know I don’ welch on deals, no matter how much it twists your insides to admit it. I helped Buffy before. Before there was a chip. Before my hatred of the lot of you grew to colossal proportions. Helped her ‘cause I can’t bloody stand Angelus. Still can’t. An’ he’s not gonna ‘ave forgotten that.” Another brief pause as he collected his bearings. “’m all you’ve got,” he said again. “Regardless of whatever uglies there are between me an’ Peaches, I have a helluva better chance of gettin’ close to ‘em than any of you do. An’ I’d know where to look. More than Wolfram an’ Hart an’ that sham of a detective agency my wankerish grandsire was chiefin’. I know them all more than any of you bloody Watchers ever can. I’m on your side, Rupert. I’m on your side in this. Bygones be bygones an’ all that rot. You get me?”

There was a hefty pause as Giles considered this, even if his answer was yes. He had no choice, as Spike had so aptly observed, but for whatever reason, having passage granted suddenly seemed like the best idea anyone could muster.

“When the Council arrives,” the Watcher continued ruefully, effectively answering the inquiry with a non-answer. It seemed in the best interest, “I will not mention what has transpired. If they get involved, things could become even harrier than they already are. But if the news they present about Glory is dire, there is every chance that I will be taking a leave of America with Joyce and Dawn.”

That didn’t make any sense. “What?”

“I can’t tell you any more than that, other than I hope to have the others with me. Willow and Tara have school, of course, and I would not want to endanger them. And as hesitant as I am to abandon the Hellmouth in a time of crisis, I see no alternative as our Slayer has…” Giles stopped again. “If it comes to that, you will have to contact me in London.”

“You realize you’re makin’ about as much sense as Dru on a good day.”

“I can’t tell you more.”

Spike frowned, then shrugged and reached for his cigarettes. “Right. So ‘f you decide to make a great escape, how do I reach you?”

“I’ll give you the London number when you contact us.” The Watcher glanced down. “I hope it will not come to that, but I am seeing no alternative. I nearly suggested that you take Dawn with you and leave her with her father, but it would not be in her interest to take her from one element of danger and leave her in another. And, regardless of my not knowing the man, the tales I have heard leave very little room for heartfelt warm fuzzies.”

This was still not making any sense, but the vampire thought it better to simply nod and move along. There was too much to accomplish without worrying with a matter that seemed to be under wraps. “Right,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

“You better.” Spike headed for the back exit and was not surprised when his move did not inspire an objection. To leave through the front would openly welcome more questions, and there was no time for that.

Not when so much was at stake.

“One more thing,” Giles said softly without turning. “Please…tell her…”

“I will.”

“How do you know—”

“Because I’ve seen every sodding made-for-tv drama this bleeding world has to offer. ‘F my firs’ guess is off, I’m sure to get it within the top three.” Spike grinned lightly but the man still wasn’t looking. He didn’t blame him. “Take care of yourself, Rupert.”

There was no answer, and it was just as well. Before another beat of wasted air could pass between them, the vampire was gone.

Setting out for the beginning by starting at the end.

 

The air was sharp and cold against her skin, and the first thought that came to mind was, naturally, that Dawn had been playing with the thermostat again. The past few weeks had seen a silent war between them when it came to controlling the atmospheric conditions of the house, and while Buffy was very pro keeping things nice and cool to conflict with the hot weather that was outside, her sister seemed to think that it wasn’t cold if it wasn’t snowing.

An inward grumble. She would complain to Mom, but there was no point when fighting a battle so destined to be lost. Dawnie was the baby of the family, and unsurprisingly got everything her way. Even if that everything included a contractual obligation to have the temperate conditions rival the North Pole.

It wasn’t for a few more minutes before she noted the pain stretching from her calves to her hamstrings, the awkward soreness of her shoulder, and reopened, albeit mostly healed wound in her gut from where the random 80s vamp had staked her with her own weapon a few weeks back. The cold air did a number on her—nipping and commanding her body with more self-awareness than was rightly owed upon first awakening. It was then that she noticed she wasn’t in bed—rather propped against something hard. A wall, most likely. She also noted that the soreness in her arms was due to their being pulled behind her, wrists bound with a manacle hardness that itched against the skin. Her feet were tied in a similar fashion, stretched with faux luxury in front of her. A blast of trepidation seized her most innate understanding, and she realized belatedly that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Any other person would have waited a few minutes before opening her eyes. Buffy had no such reservation. Even if the light did force her to look away just as quickly. Damn light. She never got used to that—the first sting of brightness after a long sleep. A few more seconds passed before she tried again. Carefully this time.

And immediately wished she had not.

There were a variety of things she would have expected. Harmony, for one, even if her accommodations weren’t nearly this uncomfortable. Despite the recent quiet from Spike’s love slave, it was not entirely out of prospect that the blonde idiot would try something else. Hire a professional to get the job done proper. Glory was the most obvious, but her surroundings quickly betrayed that this was not up to par with the resident hell-bitch. Granted, she had yet to explore her foe’s digs personally, but none of what she saw rang true with what she had previously deciphered concerning her current nemesis.

First of all, Glory wouldn’t have humans do her dirty work. And Buffy was surrounded by humans. All professionally dressed: decked out in attire that appeared to label them as a security team. Had she broken into a bank or something last night? There were far too many blank spots to own up to, but even in her Beer Bad stage, she didn’t reckon that she would have coordination to even consider something so audacious.

That and she didn’t remember drinking all that much.

The men surrounding her all bore the same grave expression. Grave but not accusing. Buffy took this to mean that her presence…wherever she was, was not by choice, nor her doing. The men also possessed a variety of blunt instruments, utility belts with even more fancy toys, and a few in back were clutching guns.

This was not good.

“Okay,” Buffy greeted with a groan, attempting to stretch before deciding that was a very bad idea. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

No one moved or flinched. It was almost as though she hadn’t spoken at all.

Better to keep talking. Perhaps if she continued to speak, someone would reply and she would get an idea of what the fuck was going on. “Get it? Kansas?” Nothing. “Wizard of Oz?” Nothing. “Do my stylish pop culture references go completely over your heads, or are you all mute?”

Then something.

“Ms. Summers.” A male voice—an unknown male voice—that seemed to come behind the men keeping her at weary bay. The intonation suggested a laid back nature, but she knew better than to trust people based on brogue. Nevertheless, the voice evidently possessed the power to breech the impenetrable force that was the security team. In a minute, a very pleasant, if not overly relaxed man was within sight. He was dressed splendidly in what was most likely a ten thousand dollar suit, had very pretty chestnut hair, and a curious smile that was neither threatening, nor pleasant. “Welcome to Wolfram and Hart.”

Blink.

“To…huh? Who are you? And what the hell am I—”

“My apologies. I am Lindsey McDonald, attorney at law. You are a guest in the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart, law offices for the…well, I suppose I don’t have to clarify with you on the sometimes-unexplained.”

Buffy tried to stretch once more and was again met with a surge of unexpected pain. “You people sure have a funny definition of guest,” she snapped. “What the hell am I doing here? What’s going on? Where’s Dawn?”

“One question at a time, please,” Lindsey said, holding up a hand. “Firstly, you are here because the late Holland Manners thought your…expertise in certain areas would be very beneficial for the firm. I apologize for the barbarian manner in which you were obtained, but Wolfram and Hart does not have a history of taking no for an answer. We run in a low-risk fashion, you see. As to what is going on…that will be revealed in time. And Dawn, your sister, I’m assuming, is safely in Sunnydale. Our interest does not lie with her in the slightest.”

It took a few minutes, but she managed to fight to her feet without use of her limbs, and despite the candid professionalism that McDonald portrayed, it was obvious that he was impressed. Buffy heaved a deep breath of exertion, tossing a dubious glance to the security team surrounding her. “Okay, I don’t know what’s going on here, but let me tell you up front that is not smart to piss me off. And right now, you’re riding a one-way ticket to Pissed City. Whatever it is that you want, it’s not for sale. Thanks so much. I’ll just be on my way.”

She indulged one step, or half step as her feet were still bound. There would be no leaving in these conditions unless she wanted to wobble her way to freedom, but in any regard, it proved to be a mistake. The nearest official seized opportunity and smashed the instrument he was carrying against her cheekbone: a harsh blow that elicited a strangled cry and propelled her back to the wall with more impact than she had been expecting, despite better judgment.

“That’s enough,” Lindsey ordered, apparently unraveled. The simple demeanor he had betrayed only seconds before had melted completely, and concern marred his brow with shades of irritation. “Everyone out.”

“I take it,” Buffy coughed, stretching best to her ability against the wall. “That when you say ‘everyone’, you don’t mean me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. The instant they were alone, he knelt beside her and helped her to her feet, assisting her to a chair that sat before his desk. His desk that was now in view thanks to the absence of the weapon-wielding buffoons. “The men were supposed to be there just for show. I told them that you weren’t to be harmed…” His eyes fell to the faint spots of red leaking through her shirt. “Anymore than you have been already.”

“Sorry if that’s not at all reassuring.” Buffy cocked her head. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me out of these…what are they? Cuffs?”

“Enchanted manacles. The company always keeps them in stock. Inescapable unless you have the key. Which I do.” Lindsey sighed and pivoted to the front of his desk so that he was near her and took a seat at the edge. “And again, I’m sorry. I’m already endangering more than I rightly need to right now, and not to absolutely kill the cliché, none of this was my idea.”

Of this? There was a this?

It was time to drop the formalities, if there had been any at all. “None of what?”

“Holland Manners was the former Division Head of Special Projects,” he began conversationally. “He was a visionary, I must say. For the past two years, the firm has suffered…well, not really suffered, but endured the attentions of someone I believe you know quite well. My condolences in that regard.” There was no mistaking the innate bitterness that seeped through his tone at that. Again sincerity. It was bizarre to hear someone who had admittedly kidnapped her from her town without anything of a forward explanation to sound sincere in his lament. “I’m sure you’d recognize him. Tall, dark hair, always brooding, occasionally bumpy in the—”

“Angel?” Oh God. “This is about Angel?”

“In some respects, yes. Angel has been a thorn in Wolfram and Hart’s side ever since he arrived in Los Angeles. While the dent he has made in our interest remains a minimal at most, he still proved to be…well, extremely annoying.” Lindsey stood and began walking around the office, moving behind her so that her eyes couldn’t follow him. “Getting in the way, messing with our projects…generally being an all around ass, though I’m sure that hardly fails to surprise.”

She hated it that he was right. In so many ways, it didn’t surprise. But she wouldn’t admit as much.

“Last year at the end of our spring term, Holland concocted a brilliant idea to keep Angel off our backs so that the more important projects could be granted the attention they deserve.” Another sigh and Lindsey wheedled back into sight. When he sat down again, she noticed for the first time that he was one-handed—completely dependent on his left, and had the sinking suspicion that Angel was responsible. “Believe me, I never thought it would go this far.”

“How far?”

“Your involvement…I never intended…” Another sigh. “I don’t have much time to brief you, Ms. Summers. Things have since happened that forced the control out of our hands and into…well; I suppose you can call them clients. And trust me, when they learned the extensity of Holland’s vision, they were very eager to jump to the opportunity to bring you into it. My authority as far as these matters go has reached its end.”

That was not good. Not good at all. Despite the circumstances, Buffy could tell already that whatever her fate had in store, she would much rather be in the company of this man than whoever he planned to hand her over to. He was human at least, and his human conscience was obviously leaking through. “Please,” she said softly. “Please, I can’t be here. Whatever this is, you’re going to have to find someone else. There’s…my sister. I can’t…Can you please just tell me what I’m—”

“If I could, I would.” And again, she believed him. Honesty from the conventional bad guy was not a good. When the evils of the world quivered, something even more malevolent was surely around the bend. “In the meantime, I am going to do everything in my power to see to it that you…well, I’m going to do everything in my power to help you. Believe me, I never thought I’d be so wrong at something that it’d come to this. It has.”

“Come to what? Just tell me what the fuck is going on, give me something pointy, and I’ll—”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s always that simple. Believe me, if it weren’t, I’d know it by now.”

Lindsey sighed. “With all due respect, Ms. Summers, you’re not entirely familiar with how we do business in Los Angeles. This isn’t what you are used to. And trust me, they aren’t going to go soft on you. You’ve formed some pretty powerful enemies doing whatever it is that you do, and—”

“Whatever it is that I do?” she all but screeched. “I do more than you could possibly—”

“I didn’t mean to degrade your work, and I certainly don’t want to get you into anymore trouble than you’re in already.” McDonald ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “But this…this is nonnegotiable. Completely out of my hands. I’ve risked enough asking to have any time with you at all. Do you understand?”

“I understand perfectly. I understand that you don’t grasp the consequences of what will happen if you don’t let me go. Right. Now.”

“I can’t help you,” Lindsey said again. “I’ve already done more than I should. Said more than I should. This is my neck, you understand? I don’t even care for these people and I…if the Senior Partners don’t demand my life for this, they’re going to demand something else.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

There was a minute’s consideration as the man paced back and forth, effectively torn. The look on his face symbolized the diagnosis of the human condition. Worried, fretful, and completely out of sync with whatever it was he was trying to grasp. If circumstances were different, she would have pitied him. But the circumstances stood. She was here, made prisoner by means she did not understand, and lost in the way of things. “It’s not just your boyfriend that the firm objected to,” he began, and immediately she flustered with objection.

“He’s not—”

“—your boyfriend. Yeah, yeah, I know. Trust me, aside Lilah Morgan or the person down in records, I don’t believe anyone knows more about Angel than the man himself. And he has been a…considerable annoyance.”

“As you’ve said. Stop wasting—”

“His associates have also proven a liability to the firm.” Lindsey turned away as though ashamed. “And as you might have guessed, the firm has a way of dealing with its various obstacles, including arbitrary personnel. I have taken action against our policies before at great personal risk, and again, I went out of my way to protect people that I do not particularly care for. This leaves me subject to investigation; I would not be admitting as much if I had not already been charged.” He stopped again and shook his head. “You were brought in when you shouldn’t have been, but at the same time, you can’t possibly have any idea what you’re asking me to do.”

Buffy cocked her head unsympathetically. “Well, maybe if you actually told me something rather than keeping with the lame excuses—”

McDonald stepped forward with a sudden, unexpected incursion of authority. “I can’t tell you anything. Haven’t you been listening at all? It’s out of my hands. The project is far out of my hands. Ms. Summers—”

“Stop with that. The name’s Buffy, Lindsey. Use it.”

“Fine.” His eyes narrowed and he mimicked her brogue with a note of whimsy. It was unintentional, but made him seem more human nonetheless. Despite the circumstances, she found herself reassured. The more human he was, the more chance she had to relating to him on an interpersonal level. “Buffy.”

“Okay.” Reluctantly, she forced herself to relax. It was becoming more and more apparent that struggling and name-calling wasn’t about to get her anywhere. Of course, it hadn’t exactly worked in the past, but the Slayer wasn’t accustomed to encountering a disinclined baddie. Whatever else was presented, it was more than obvious that Lindsey McDonald did not want to see her hurt. He was going to outrageous extremes to ensure her safety—he had made that very clear. And despite her current disposition, she saw no reason to doubt him. “We’re getting somewhere.”

“So it would seem.”

“Okay then.” Potential for rational thought. This was progress. “Instead of trying to explain to me what you can’t explain to me, start at the beginning. Is there anything that you can tell me?”

“You are familiar with the Order of Aurelius.”

It was most definitely a statement. She had endured too many sessions with Giles of a similar nature. However, that didn’t mean she could recline from seizing the set-up provided. For someone who claimed to know her great first love as well as he claimed, he certainly had a liking for the obvious statements.

Buffy had the uncomfortable premonition that such observations, however bothersome, were more for her reassurance than his protocol. But she scoffed anyway. There was no way, despite fluency, that she would willingly reveal her weariness. “Familiar?” she repeated incredulously. “Hon, remember? I dated the most…well, biggest—not that he was…I dated one of them. You’ve reminded me of my relationship with Angel several times now. More than that, I’ve had another trailing me the past two years. Familiar with the Order? Hell, I could write a book on it.” A pause at that. “Not that I would, or anything. That would require mass amounts of research, and I already have enough on my plate.”

“That being the case-in-point. Regretfully, William the Bloody—”

Her eyes widened expectantly, and she felt a rush of eluded hope, and even more disquieting repose. The same provided whenever something of familiarity is mentioned in unnerving situations. “Spike?”

“Yes.” Lindsey frowned, studying her more intently. “Spike turned down the offer that was proposed when you were retrieved from Sunnydale. Evidently—”

“What offer?”

“I don’t know the particulars. Only that the opportunity to rejoin the Order and have his more bothersome attributes removed presented itself, and he showed little interest in following them through.” His eyes narrowed. “The chip, for instance.”

What? Wait. That made absolutely no sense.

“Spike was offered the chance to have his chip removed and he turned it down?”

“It came at a price.”

“What price? Two months ago, he would have and nearly did kill to get that thing out of his head.”

A small smile at that, as though she was abandoned on the outs of a horrendously funny joke. “That is not my place to say,” McDonald decided, grinning still. “But one of the side effects of his agreement, had he complied, would be his removal from Sunnydale and all known associates to correlate with his rejoining of the Order. That was Holland’s objective, you see. When Angel refused to play by our rules, we…well, changed the rules. As well as the mission.”

The Slayer’s face fell. Cold and aback with unwanted comprehension. “You want Angelus.”

“We—”

“That’s why I’m here.” She shook her head in astonishment. “I don’t believe this. This is the mission prerogative? You can’t begin to know what kind of pressure I’m under back home, and you snatched me up to…what? Be your whore? I don’t think so.”

“That isn’t our objective at all—”

“Then tell me what is! Angel and I are not involved anymore, and will never be again. If I’m not here to get him to go all grrrr and fangy, then what the hell am I supposed to—”

There was a vampire in the room. Buffy jumped to immediate awareness, breaking all connection with her objective and straining in her seat to turn. Amazing how one could turn from forethought to the most innate instincts on mere suggestion alone. It was not Angel—her senses, while dulled where he was concerned, were still reasonably pointed and functional—but the power beneath it made her shudder. She had only once before gauged a vampire’s presence alongside his authority. One night long, long ago in an alley outside the Bronze.

“My, my,” the voice behind her drawled. Chilling and familiar. A brogue she had not heard in forever. “She certainly thinks highly of herself.” There was a second’s flash of blonde hair, then she was in view. A face four, nearly five years dead. The woman behind her introduction. The beginning and end of the constancy within her understanding. A small, malicious smile spread across opposing lips as the figure reclined comfortably against the lawyer’s desk. “Doesn’t she, Lindsey?”

Snap. Buffy was not taken aback to the point where she didn’t follow guidance and turn in the aforementioned direction, but it was difficult to look away. And still, when she saw Lindsey’s eyes, her blood chilled. Bad guys were not supposed to look that genuinely concerned for hostages. He had already broken too many of the inherent Bad Guy rules for additional slips to be anywhere near accommodating. “I have ten minutes left, Darla. That was our agreement.”

“I’m changing the agreement.”

“You don’t—”

“I’m changing the agreement, darling. Living with it.” Such prowess and authority. No one was going to dare argue with that tone. The vampire had not looked away from her query, rather leaned forward with a wicked smirk. “It’s time for our guest to be escorted to her quarters and…broken in.”

Buffy shook her head, grasped entirely with unreason. Every nerve in her body numbed with raw astonishment, and at last her more favorable motor skills decided to represent themselves. “I don’t…” she stuttered unintelligently. “You…I saw you…you…Angel, he—”

Darla smiled condescendingly. “Aww, how sweet. You think the laws of time and raison d'être bend only for your precious Angel? Not very quick, is she?” The last was most definitely directed at the lawyer, but the vampire refused to alter her gaze from the prime objective. “You really think your boy was the only one worthy of such reanimation? You think he was so important that none others within reason deserve such…exaltation? You’re a fool, Buffy. You didn’t know us when we last met, and time has not worked in your favor.” At last, she turned her eyes to McDonald, who remained stationary and unwilling to move in the corner. “What is the first rule of engagement, Lindsey? Do you know?”

“Avoid avoidance behavior,” he replied softly.

Darla’s eyes narrowed and she redirected her attention. “I was going more for ‘know thine enemy’, but that works.” She tsked and shook her head. “You’re so ignorant…I can really see why he found you as compelling as he did.” Buffy flinched and immediately hated herself for it; the notion enough to inspire a smile to the vampire’s face as she reached out to thread her fingers through the Slayer’s hair before the strands fanned and fell back into place. “Angel always favored the weak-minded in life, and even more so after the gypsy whores rejuvenated his conscience. His victims, though, as I remember followed the same pattern. So much easier to find. To fuck.” A whispered glint in her eyes, and the blonde leaned forward, simply bursting with unkempt glee. “To kill.”

The Slayer jerked again, recomposing herself best to her ability. “Keep away from me.”

“Sorry, dear. That’s no longer on the menu. But I do believe Lindsey has had enough time trying to soften things up for you.” Darla glanced upward. “And there will be no arguing. Untie her. We have a little…trip to make.”

That was enough to silence her. The prospect of being freed, even if it was fleetingly in hindsight, nearly made her eyes bulge out of her head. There was no hint of deception behind the vampire’s gaze, though that was hardly proof enough of eradication. It didn’t matter. If even her legs were free, she had that much more opportunity to escape. Find out whatever the matter was, alert Angel, and be on her way.

Back home.

It was too easy. Much too easy. But Darla was convinced. More so to the point when Lindsey neared to undo her bonds. Ankles first, arms second. He whispered a warning into her ear not to try anything, but he couldn’t honestly expect her to comply. Not now. Not with what lay ahead. Not with what she had learned.

Evidently, he did. The instant the manacles released her wrists, the Slayer bounded to her feet and delivered a punch that sent him flying over the mahogany desk and twirled with a roundabout kick to dispatch the vampire. Her more primal senses told her to search out a wooden weapon, but firsthand knowledge forewarned that a demon with Darla’s instincts and experience would have at least thought that far ahead. Thus she followed a humanly impulse instead, and bolted for the door.

The blinding white of the hallways might have hampered her if she stopped to realize her eyes weren’t quite adjusted yet, and in all fairness, the contrast between Lindsey’s office and the world outside was considerable. But Buffy was far from caring about the disparity of her surroundings. Her objective was escape: everything else was simply a matter of consequence.

It was indeed a law office. That was the most surprising thing. Throughout McDonald’s longwinded explanation of her dealings here, the Slayer had not quite fully accepted that she was in a building that was as open to the community as an everyday service. The guards that had greeted her upon awakening seemed to be nonexistent, and the people she passed granted her with glances that would have suggested she was insane if she did not know very, very differently.

Something more than the obvious was wrong here. No one was trying to stop her. No one even bothered to call after her and bid her halt so that her torment would be lessened.

In later days, she would have time to consider her actions.

A lot of time.

It happened so quickly it might as well have been a dream. Reflexes called upon that she only had to use once in a blue moon, exacted by someone who knew her well enough to suss out her weaker points. Something grasped her wrist out of the blink of an eye, and Buffy immediately pivoted to strike her assailant. Before she could so much as take a breath, her wrists were bound behind her and she was pulled tightly to a broad, strong chest.

A very familiar chest.

“I knew,” an equally recognizable voice drawled as she stuttered and twisted futilely, “that it was only a matter of time before you came running back into my arms. Welcome home, sweetheart.”

No. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t…

A strangled sob commanded her voice and she jerked once more. His grip was too much for her. Even with her Slayer strength, her muscles were still worn and rejuvenating. Any extemporary attempt was useless.

Funny how the smallest instance could send her spiraling three years back.

“A-Angel?”

He laughed as if she had said something thoroughly funny. Time enough for her to register Darla’s presence behind him. The blonde vampire was grinning as well, a hand resting at his shoulder with such trained acquaintance that it caused the Slayer’s breath to catch in her throat. “What was I saying?” she asked rhetorically, eyes dancing. “Oh yes. So completely ignorant. Do yourself a favor, Buff. When you start to feel sleepy, go with it. It’ll be easier that way.”

“But not nearly as much fun,” Angelus chided.

A retort was ready on her tongue. She knew it was. But something heavy fell against her before she could think to release it. And then she was falling. Again down the endless tunnel where the clock chimed no more.

All went black.

 

This was not at all what he anticipated.

The trip thus far had greeted him with several complications. Namely, Angel Investigations had not been where he left it, and no one seemed willing to discuss its new location. It took every connection he had in Los Angeles, and given the notion that his reputation preceded him, it cost him more time than he would have liked.

Things didn’t lighten up when his search ended.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting. A hug. A scream. A frying pan over the head. The Hyperion was impressive, he admitted, but not impenetrable. Given that the last time he visited the City of Angels, the lobby alone looked to be a haven of rats and the upstairs had a reputation that put his factory back in Sunnydale to shame. From the outside looking in, though, a begrudging admittance conceded that his grandsire had done proper for himself. It was most definitely an improvement from the two-bit offices that were in service upon last visit.

Hotels were especially accommodating, and he considered it very thoughtful that the faithful staff had deemed it so for his usage.

There were surface concerns, of course. When Angelus was last loose, the first thing he did was scout out everything that made him reek of humanity. This being the center of operations, he figured it would have been hit first at full blast. However, the scent of blood was nowhere in the vicinity; at least not of the fresh, human variety. The elder vampire might be lacking in his torturing methods come the new century, but there was always blood. Always.

Except there wasn’t. The place was clean. As clean as a very large hotel could be. And yet the address was right. His informant—a lowlife demon by the name of Merle—assured him that this was the center of the Angel Investigations team, and he had no qualm in releasing the coordinates as Angelus would likely come after him next, and he would sleep easier if he knew someone of equal power was here to stop him.

Spike didn’t disclose that his intentions in no way circulated stopping Angelus. He wasn’t going to allow himself to think that far ahead. As long as the Slayer was unharmed, he was just as satisfied with anything else that happened in the city.

At least he told himself.

It was just minutes after sunset when he reached the hotel. After peeking in and confirming that everyone, while most definitely there, were elsewhere, he made to move inward.

And was propelled a good ten feet back at his presumption.

“Bloody fuck!” he roared, more out of surprise than pain. When he raised his head to gauge the invisible barrier, he was honestly surprised that the shield wasn’t sparkling or something equally retarded. The regular rules of vampiric entrance weren’t supposed to apply to public accommodations, and even though he had been fool enough to test out his abilities on invitation hijinxes before, the ending result had never been as powerful.

There was nothing.

In all rationality, it seemed probable that Angel would have cast some sort of invitation spell on the place to keep out all the nasty vamps that were out for his blood because of his treachery. A rush of pride flushed through his system to think he might have inspired the new system. All washed the next second with the realization that the Great Poof would see that as a form of weakness, and soul or not, he couldn’t stand weakness. He had nearly killed himself for appearing weak once—unfortunately stopped by his lady fair who simply couldn’t allow him to die like that.

Why was anyone’s guess.

It occurred to him upon second approach that he might not be the most welcome face to wipe his feet at the door. Well, they bloody well better appreciate it. After all, in a roundabout way he was there to benefit them.

He wondered arbitrarily if the Angel Investigations team had multiplied in employees since his visit last year. Cordelia would be here, he knew. The little halfling was another definite. Both were way too faithful to the poofter to up and leave him because of something as miscellaneous as a squabble in payroll.

These hero-types were the same everywhere he went.

Spike brushed himself off and stepped up to the entryway once more, peering inside. No difference. The lobby was still vacant. The upper hallways, best to his line of visibility, were empty as well. The scents and presentiment that the hotel was inhabited lingered—perhaps even stronger than before.

Back to the sodding basics.

“’Ello!” he shouted, his own Cockney brogue echoing back at him. “Anyone in there?”

A few seconds.

Nothing.

“Oh sod it, I know damn well that everyone’s home. No use playin’ hide an’ go seek. Come out an’ greet your guest right an’ proper.”

Nothing.

It was time to resort to dirty warfare.

“Cordelia! I ‘ave one of your frilly li’l shirts an’ I’m gonna rip it apart yarn by yarn ‘till you come down an’ bloody well let me in!”

At that, someone appeared at the veranda. Someone with much shorter hair than he remembered but eyes that he would know anywhere. A grin, unbidden, rose to his lips and he waved teasingly from the doorway. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Cordelia Chase replied, rolling her eyes. “I’m just coming down to tell you that 1) You’re so not invited in and 2) You couldn’t possibly have any of my clothing, because of the aforementioned number one. Besides, you don’t even know where I live.”

“This big ambiguous hotel doesn’ leave much to the imagination, luv.”

“Yuck! You think I live at work? Puhlease. Hasn’t Angel told you anything? Or are you just trying to wheedle an invitation over at my digs, ‘cause I gotta tell you, that wouldn’t do you any good, either.” Even from their respective distance, he could tell she was smiling rather proudly. “Dennis would so kick your ass.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Listen, Cordy, be a dear an’—”

“It’s not gonna happen, Bleach Boy. Deal with it.”

“Oh for cryin’…I’m here to help you!”

Someone else was present now. Someone who wasn’t the little Irish bugger. He took that as an affirmative to his earlier unvoiced query. “I find that rather unlikely,” a very British, twenty-year-younger-sounding-Giles said as a reasonably good-looking bloke took side next to the woman on the terrace. “As we explained to Angelus earlier, we are well aware of what has happened, as well as the objective to—”

“So Angelus did drop by here earlier?” It wasn’t so much a question as an observation. Spike raised a hand to the invisible barrier and lightly skimmed the surface—just enough so that it tickled. “Nice mojo. Your handiwork, Cor?”

“I had some help.”

“From the halfling I take it.” He rolled onto his toes to see further up the corridor, but it was no use. “Guess he’s comin’ down next, eh?”

At that, a very somber beat flushed through the lobby, and he knew he had said something very wrong.

Deathly wrong.

Oh. Best to change the subject.

“But I like it. Very posh.” His hands dropped to his sides and he redirected his gaze to the duo, growing more aggravated. “But highly unneeded. I’m on your side, here!”

“You’re a member of the Order of Aurelius,” the man observed.

Spike’s eyes widened comically and he felt his chest as though needing to verify his realism to satisfy any lingering doubts. “You’re kiddin’. I am? Well, isn’t that neat. You learn somethin’ new every day. Yeh, Dru already gave me the run through. I should say, Darla gave me the run through, then Dru decided to reiterate. But I bloody turned ‘em down. I’m here to help!”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose?”

“No, actually, for a girl. This jus’ ‘appens to be a side-effect.” He tapped his cranium. “All more besides, even ‘f I did ‘ave evil intentions, I have a cute li’l government chip that gives me a bloody buzzer of a shock ‘f I so much as lift a finger against one of you humanly types. You happy? Now bloody well lemme in!”

Cordelia snickered. “Yes, because we make a habit of trusting vampires based on word of mouth.”

“Wanna come down ‘ere so I can give yeh a demo?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Listen, you daft bint, your fearless leader an’ his tarty li’l sire have Buf…the Slayer an’ they’re doin’ God-knows-what to her. You want a Slayer death on your conscience? Tha’s the only reason I’m here.”

“Oh, to save Buffy?” A snicker. “Yeah, I’m buying that.”

A new voice permeated into the corridor, and the two on the veranda were made complete by the third resident of the hotel. He knew the man was the last on sensory alone; would have bet his smokes on it. The newcomer looked tougher than either Cordelia or the British bloke combined. He glanced down, took in a full glance of the waiting vampire in the doorway, and started with a small laugh. “No wonder I couldn’t concentrate. We’re under attack by Billy Idol.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “For the last bloody time, that git stole my look an’ what the hell do you have to be concentratin’…forget it. Listen, Cordy, I know we’ve had our differences in the past. There was that entire ‘me trying to kill you’ thing, which I take the blame for much as you do. I’ve seen the error of my ways an’ all that rot. ‘F you don’ trust me—which honestly, I wouldn’t either—phone up Rupert. ‘E’ll give it you straight.”

At that, Cordelia’s gaze softened.

The man next to her tapped the British gent and gestured emphatically into the lobby. “Who is this guy?”

“William the Bloody,” the other retorted, surprising him. “Better known as Spike. Grandchilde of Angelus, childe of Drusilla.”

“You mean there’s more to this family tree?” The darker man shook his head. “Man, I was wigged enough as it was.”

Spike was impressed. While he suspected that the Order was being studied, the first man seemed to have his facts down fairly straight. He jutted his chin at him showily and grinned. “’Ey mate, you seem familiar.” It was a lie, but a good icebreaker, nonetheless. “’Ave I threatened you before?”

At that, the man straightened reasonably. “I am Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” he introduced. “Former Watcher. In fact, I was Buffy—”

“Oh right,” the vampire interrupted, sparks of recollection flying behind his gaze. “You’re the wanker who turned that other Chosen bint all rogue. Right. Buffy’s told me ‘bout you.” He chuckled and presented him with a thumbs-up. “Nice goin’.”

“Hey, we don’t talk about that around here,” Cordelia intervened; waving a dismissive hand as though that didn’t cut just as deeply. Spike had to smother a chuckle. The bird did have stones. He had always respected that about her. “Anyway, what was that you were saying about calling Giles?”

“I owe the bloke a call anyway. Told ‘im I’d keep in contact.” He rolled on his heels and started impatiently. “So are you gonna lemme in or not? Get somethin’ wooden an’ pointy ‘f it’ll make you feel better. But ‘m here to help, okay? Couldn’t not help ‘cause of the chip anyway.”

The woman was considering, gnawing at her lip. As an afterthought, she turned to Wesley. “I suppose we could have him sing for the Host.”

“Or you could have a vision,” the man he hadn’t yet been introduced to suggested. There was a hint of dry subterfuge at the end of his tone, as though he didn’t care one way or another. Spike decided immediately that he liked him as well, that Billy Idol comment notwithstanding. “Come on. What do we have to lose?”

“Tha’s what I’ve been sayin’ since I got here!”

There was a second’s hesitation. Cordelia evidently reached decision and turned to Wesley, keeping her eyes studiously trained on the doorway as though the barrier was going to magically come down of its own accord. “Go get the crossbow.”

Ten minutes later, he was hovered over the front desk, nodding into the phone as he reassured the anxious Watcher once more of his good intentions. After teasing the hotels reluctant caretakers for a few endless seconds, he conceded the receiver to Wesley so the man might verify the same. There was a series of contended ‘ohhs’ and ‘I see’s’ before he nodded to Cordelia and the other man (who had kept the aforementioned crossbow trained on the vampire throughout the entire introduction process) that Spike’s story checked. He also added, slightly surprised, that the Watcher’s Council had arrived in Sunnydale. The Cockney nodded in confirmation that he had been expecting it, and ended on a note promising to call if they obtained any information.

“Okay,” Cordelia said once everything was in the clear. She was shaking her head as though to wake from an increasingly perplexing dream, and all but groaned when the vampire’s image refused to fade from tangibility. “You’ve officially snagged my attention. Why are you here to help? Last time I saw you, you all but tortured Angel to death and—”

“Yeh, yeh, good times an’ all that rot.” Spike was grinning even if he knew it was dangerous. He was, after all, surrounded by a lot of ponces who were loyal to his wanker of a grandsire, but the memory was a happy one, and he would never deny it. “An’, ‘f we wanna be fair, it was more that git Marcus who did the torturin’…an’ got the better end of the deal, ‘f you don’ count bein’ a pile of dust at the end of the day. Let’s jus’ say I’m a changed man. Seen the light an’ all that.”

Wesley cocked his head curiously. “Because of the chip? Vampires do not change, Spike. Without the guidance of—”

“Listen, do you want help or not?”

“I believe what Wes is trying to say is…” Cordelia intervened once more. “Shouldn’t you be crawling over a football field of hot ash to appease your wackaloon of a girlfriend?”

“Dru’s already spoken her piece to me, like I said. I turned her down.” He held up a hand. “Don’ ask me why. ‘S nothin’ that I can explain. Believe me, ‘ve tried. The lot of you are nothin’ compared to a bunch of righteous Scoobies. I’m here for the Slayer, an’ only the Slayer. ‘F she wants to go after your precious boss after I have her back, fine. Bloody fun times all around.” The peroxide vampire shrugged and dug his hands into the pockets of his duster. “I don’ rightly care much, either way.”

“You’re sure going out of your way for some chick you claim to not care too much about,” the man he didn’t know observed.

“I din’t—” Spike began shortly. “By the way, who are you?”

“Call me Gunn.”

“With evidential aspirations of Herman Melville,” Wesley added with an amused grin. His observation merited several blank stares. “Well, I thought it was funny.”

Cordelia shook her head in annoyance, stepping forward as some prime example of belated authority. “Sorry. Didn’t realize we were keeping you in the dark. Charles Gunn, this is Spike. Spike, Charles Gunn. Spike’s the vampire that’s tried to kill us more times than we can count.”

“In all fairness, luv, I never really had a yen for your head on a stick. It was jus’ the Slayer I wanted to do in.”

“And now you’re here to rescue her.” The former Watcher was looking at him with the utmost form of fascination coloring his features. As though the vampire was suddenly glowing with heavenly aura. “My, my. How intriguing.” He glanced up. “I don’t suppose this marks as a study that a creature whose prime directive is to be evil can alter his nature once the laws of science intervene and force him to—”

The looks of dueled irritation were virtually identical on either his colleagues faces. “No,” they answered in unison.

Wesley frowned. “I was merely saying—”

“No.”

“Believe me,” Spike said, grinning in spite of himself. “Rupert already tried that road. ‘S not worth wastin’ a repeat.” He turned as though remembering something, casting an interested eye at the entrance. “I wasn’ welshin’ before, I do fancy the new system. Very handy. Though for the past century, I’ve been under the impression that invitation blocks don’ work in public places, an’ the last time I saw you, you weren’t exactly a witch.” A considerate pause. “Well, in the formal sense of the world.”

She delivered a look that could freeze hell, thaw it, and freeze it again. “We could always disinvite you.”

“But I’m cavalry, an’ you’re the goody-good guys. You wouldn’t leave a poor, defenseless Slayer with only yours truly to come in with the bleedin’ brigade.”

“You could chop off all Buffy’s limbs, and I still don’t think you’d be able to call her helpless.”

“Agreed,” Wesley stated with a nod. “Though she would be in the running for the Black Knight.”

There was a second’s pause before the two British men established eye contact and simultaneously burst into rich chuckles. The occurrence seemed natural enough until neither exhibited the ability to stop with any sort of immediate control. Cordelia glanced helplessly to Gunn, who shrugged his indifference. “Monty Python,” he explained. “It’s funny the first time around.”

“Oh no, mate,” Spike objected, grinning madly. It felt good to have something to grin at. Though not much time had passed, two days’ worth of worrying had his stomach tied in knots that seemed unworkable. Humor was undoubtedly the best medicine. “It’s funny every time around. ‘S especially funny ‘f you mention that part about the rabbit around Anya. Sends her runnin’ in circles.”

“Anya?”

“Harris’s bird.”

“Anya as in the girl he went to prom with? They’re still together?”

Gunn was staring at Cordelia in sheer disbelief. “You remember who went to your prom with who?”

She shrugged. “I went with Wesley…well, sorta.”

He turned to the former Watcher, dumbfound expression intensifying. “You cradle robbing smoothie. I never woulda guessed that.”

Wesley turned back to Spike; deciding the best way to avoid the conversation was to ignore the two participants. “The invitation spell was enhanced by an independent contractor,” he explained after struggling to remember what was being discussed. It was an unusual digression, however welcome. “After Angel went bad, we were called by an…informant at Wolfram and Hart. He was generous enough to warn us about what had transpired, as well as Angel’s plans for us, seeing as we are his link to humanity.”

The peroxide vampire’s brows flexed incredulously. “Oh, ‘s that right? Jus’ a good friend who ‘appens to work for the greatest known evil this side of the Western hemisphere?”

“Someone who’s not as evil as he’d like to think he is.” Cordelia smiled unpleasantly. “But still a continuous pain in the ass. That sound better…or just really familiar?”

He frowned. “Oi! Take that back!”

The image of innocence merely intensified. “What?”

“’m still bad!”

“Please. That’s so twenty minutes ago.”

“You’re this close to—”

“Spike, if you were halfway as bad as you’d like to be, I never would’ve let you in.” She was shaking her head, laughing gently. “Hello! We’ve only been talking for the better part of ten minutes, and I can so tell that you’re over the entire evil thing. The being-here-to-rescue-Buffy ring any bells?”

Gunn chuckled his agreement. “Gotta say, bro, she’s got you there. Riskin’ your hide for the one chick that shouldn’t mean shit to you? Sound real bad to me.”

“Movie of the week complex,” Cordelia offered thoughtfully.

The other man shook his head. “I was thinkin’ a deranged Hallmark card.”

“Forget that. ‘S my business, innit?” A pause, and a better moment toward clearer digression. Spike reckoned that it was time to get back on subject, now that his pride was on the cutting board. “Wha’s to be done about Peaches?”

“I thought you didn’t care,” the woman replied with an amused smile.

“Bollocks. I don’t care. But ‘f I should run into ‘im on the street or what all, it might be good to know how far I can pummel him till it reaches ‘Spike-be-staked’ territory.”

That much made sense. The group exchanged a series of pointed looks.

“We don’t want Angel dead,” Wesley explained after a moment’s thought. “But we understand that getting him back might not be as simple as we’d like. There are forces out there working against us, and not having a champion…well…that’s going to make things all the more difficult.”

Spike snickered and rolled his eyes. “Champion.”

At that, the young woman’s humor abated, and her eyes shone with genuine offense. “Hey,” she snapped. “I don’t care what little issues you have with Angel, but around here, we—”

“Let it go, Cor,” Gunn advised. “You were spokesperson for the ‘We think Angel has lost it’ party for weeks before he went all evil on us.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to take it from Captain Peroxide.”

“Great. Seems no matter where I go, I’m surrounded by hypocritical white-hats.”

“Hey, watch it buddy. You came to us. Remember?”

A sigh rang through the air, and he wasn’t pleasant about it. There would be plenty of time to sit around and have at it with each other once the more important stakes were met. Right now, his only concern rested with the Slayer, and he wasn’t about to go wasting more time. There had been enough of that, already.

It was shameful how easy it was to digress, but these were people he felt he could like. Respect, if only have some shared.

“Not that this isn’t terribly interestin’…well, ‘s not at that, but I came here for one purpose.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cordelia waved at him dismissively. “We got it. The Slayer and all that. Jeez, Spike. If you had been this dedicated to getting her killed, she wouldn’t be around for you to rescue.”

“And I’m sure some part of that made sense,” Gunn observed with a frown.

Wesley stepped forward with an astute nod as though to verify his stealing of the platform from his coworker. It seemed more likely. For whatever reason, the Watcher had the air of someone who could get things done, and furthermore, manage a business with some reason of effect. “Our best option right now is Caritas,” he suggested. “The Host can read you…well, all of us, really, and point us in the right direction.”

“Cara-what?”

“Caritas. It’s a demon karaoke bar.” Wesley nodded to his colleagues, and instantly, they were gone—hurrying off to complete whatever silent request had been issued. “The Host there can read you when you sing. It’s most useful, really. I’m sure he can prove to be of some service.”

Spike gave him a hard look. “I have to sing?”

“If you want to help Buffy, it would be beneficial.”

A long pause.

“I have to sing?”

Cordelia reappeared out of thin air, fitting into her jacket after handing the former Watcher his. The vampire guessed that she had popped into the office; he hadn’t been paying attention. “Angel did.”

Another long, incredulous look.

Then he finally cracked. A short chuckle at first; before long, he was keeled over, resting his weight on his knees and indulging in his inner tickle demon. “Oh God,” Spike cackled. “Peaches sang? An’ your ears din’t bleed till you died?”

There was an appreciative snigger. “Nearly.”

“’d forgotten how tone deaf the wanker was till three years ago. I caught ‘im on occasion with a song or what all stuck in his head. Think it ‘bout killed all the flowers in his garden.” Spike shook his eyes, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Lemme guess…Barry Manilow?”

The lot of them were grinning now. “The one and only,” Gunn agreed. “It was…oh, I don’t think there are words.”

Cordelia shrugged. “Awful? Horrendous? Kill-me-now?”

“I stand corrected.”

She grinned and turned back to the vampire. “So, Spikey, you’re going to dazzle us with a number. For the sake of humankind, of course.”

“Or in his case, pussy-whipped kind,” Gunn corrected.

Spike glared at him.

“Any hints?”

Just as fluently, he turned back to the young woman and flashed an alluring smile. “Jus’ wait, luv,” he promised softly. “All good things.”

A wry glance but a smile to match it. “We’ll see.”

Spike grinned in turn and pivoted to follow his new associates out the door.

This was an exceptionally good start.

 

“Does she always do this?”

Wesley tossed an irked glance over his shoulder as Gunn cradled a thrashing Cordelia to his chest, waiting until the waves subsided and she fell still again, gasping for air. After the deeper shards of pain melted into nothingness, she turned violently in her seat and thwapped Spike upside the head. Hard.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Some consolation. ‘Does she always do this?’ Please!”

“Cordy, a little description of what you saw might be good.”

The woman turned around again, absently caressing her temples as the last of her headache waned away to nonexistence. “Kids. Two of them. They’re being attacked in the alley behind…oh, it’s that place on the east-side.”

“Not really helpful,” Gunn informed her. His observation also merited a grunted thwap, though notably not as hard.

“Hey, buddy. I work for these things. Not the other way around.”

Spike leaned forward expectantly. “So what ‘appens now?”

“Now we go save the kids that Cordelia saw in her vision,” Wesley replied.

“…right after you drop me off at this Tarabas or what all?”

“That’s Caritas, and no. We’re going now. We can’t afford to stop.”

The vampire sat back with furthered exasperation. “But you heard Charlie! The one alley on the east-side? We could be out ‘ere for hours.”

“I’m sure the lots of screaming will help point us in the right direction.”

A long silence.

“As I was sayin’, we could be out ‘ere for hours!”

“Serves you right for calling me Charlie,” Gunn snapped.

“The one by Mom’s Barb-B-Que House…not that one but the one close to it? You know? The one that has bad décor but doesn’t make up for it with decent food?” Cordelia slapped her friend again on the shoulder. “You go there all the time!”

He shrugged. “It’s cheap.”

Spike shook his head. “An’ we’re not stoppin’ at this karaoke bar firs’, why?”

“Because it’s not on our way,” Wesley retorted. “And if the Powers seem to think that our attention should be on the kids that Cordelia saw in her vision, then we’re going to trust them.”

“Bugger the Powers! I have to—”

“Save the Slayer,” Gunn groaned.

“We heard you the first time,” the woman agreed. “You have the broken-record epidemic. And there will be no premature leaving of the vehicle. The last time that happened, Angel went the way of the dark side.”

The man beside her groaned again. “I hate Star Wars,” he decided. “All that ‘dark side’ nonsense. Of course it’s the dark side. What else would it be? If I ever meet George Lucas—”

“Yes, he did it intentionally to get on your nerves,” Wesley agreed wryly. “It was a part of his evil plan, along with annoying the worldwide African-American population.”

“There is no worldwide African-American population,” Cordelia argued. “If they’re African-American, they’re American. Hence the—”

“Would the lot of you shut the bloody hell up?!” Spike growled. “’F we’re makin’ with the rescue bit, let’s go ahead an’ get it over with. Bad enough that I have a reputation for killin’ my kind on the Hellmouth. ‘S becomin’ a sodding conflict of interest.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Someone’s testy,” Cordelia observed.

His eyes narrowed at her. “Well, yeah! How the hell do you hope to defeat whatever’s eatin’ at the youngsters? Wes’ll throw a book at ‘em, I s’pose, an’ Charlie here’ll start talkin’ up interracial politics. Maybe you can spray a li’l perfume in their direction.”

“I don’t talk about interracial politics all that often,” Gunn clarified. “There are just some things that egg me in the wrong way. Like being called Charlie. I’d advise you drop it before it becomes habit and I’m forced to shove something very wooden and pointy through your chest.”

“Okay. Flash ‘em some attitude. That’ll work.”

The car suddenly jerked and came to a fierce halt beside a curb and Wesley pivoted to shoot him a disapproving glare. “Spike, if getting to Caritas matters to you at all, you’ll firstly shut up, and secondly help us deal with whatever we’re about to encounter,” he advised, climbing to his feet as the others piled out of the automobile. “Providing reaching your Slayer—”

Dirty fucking pool.

“Right, right. You ole git.” The vampire jumped to the concrete after them, making no small noise about his discontent at the inconvenience. “What ‘f the runts are bein’ attacked by a human? What then? I throw pebbles at ‘em an’ hope it doesn’ hurt?”

There was no answer. Just a collective demand for him to shut up.

Spike grinned. These people, once you got passed the unfortunate Angel-association, were a bit of all right.

Then again, he reckoned that working with a vampire—despite soulful disposition—had assisted in lightening their opinion of him. There was a group dynamic that nearly rivaled the one he had left behind. A willful need to search out. To seek. To investigate.

“Spike!” Cordelia called seconds after the others had disappeared into the alley. “You coming?”

To righteously annoy.

“Right, right,” he agreed under his nonexistent breath. “Rely on the vampire to save the day. You people are depraved.”

Of course, in consigning his services in turn for allegiance, not to mention transportation, something occurred that he had not expected. Something he would never have expected, given his nature. Given anything he had encountered throughout the long trials of his experience. The scene upon observation did something. Inspired something. A flow of unbridled…he couldn’t even label it.

Nothing had ever disturbed him as wholly, and he didn’t know what troubled him more. The notion, or the scene playing out before his eyes.

His eyes that were so used to chaos.

His hands that enjoyed creating it.

Spike feared the latter, and he knew it was true.

The most bothersome aspect was the lack of anything entirely bothersome. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen the same sight played out before, hadn’t caused the picture a thousand times. Never had he shied from reddening his hands. And the alley was void of blood. It was more the prospect of what could have occurred had they not arrived.

A Kraelek demon—glowing puss and all. The odious stench that he would know anywhere. Did that ever take him back? The creature was approximately a meter in length and deceptively quick, regarding its appearance. Its reputation centered on a habitual blinding of all victims with the aforementioned puss before draining the insides in a manner that could make the toughest man flinch in retrospect.

What was most suspicious was its origin. The Kraelek weren’t native to California, or America in that regard. He had seen them out of context before, of course, but usually on assassination missions. And it had been nearly thirty years. In Prague.

That was another thing. No creature particularly favored the demon. While its preference resided among the living, it would and had targeted the undead to add to a plethora of victims. Vampires wouldn’t die from such an attack—not at first. But they couldn’t well feed without a stomach and eventually starved to death. As in all other things, it bowed to the highest bidder; whether said bidder was proposing wealth or power. He wagered more the second as he couldn’t see what use the creature would have for money. Spike did not favor beasts that could just as easily turn on him, and had thus never before employed such services. Besides, they weren’t exactly easy to come by.

Nor cheap, in any case of its favored method of payment.

The Kraelek in question had evidently narrowed its selection to the two suggested in the vision. Two girls—one no younger than twenty with dirtied blonde hair, who looked anything but helpless despite the odds mounting against her. The look of fierce determination on her face rivaled any Slayer he had faced, and she had not spared the slightest glance in their direction. It was in the best regard: the creature hadn’t acknowledged them, either. She was currently warding it off with what appeared to be an elongated stake or something of a similar nature. Something she had most definitely had ready on her persons when the assault first began.

Her companion was considerably younger. A girl of similar blonde hair who had to be her daughter or a relation in that regard. The child likely around five, but her expression was startlingly matured. As though she would be fighting as well had her guardian not strategically placed herself between the girl and the monster.

It was odd to see a girl that age look at a demon and not reflect fear.

“What the…” Gunn said, frowning in disgust. “Puss? No one mentioned puss.”

“Get over it,” Cordelia snapped. “Someone get the girl. Wes, Spike, distract the demon. We have to get its focus—”

The vampire’s eyes narrowed at her. “How do you suggest we distract—”

Wesley had, at some point, brandished a small, handheld crossbow and projected an arrow into the Kraelek’s left leg. The creature howled and turned to them violently, flashing its fangs with intent.

“There,” the Watcher supplied. “That elementary enough for you?”

“Bloody fantastic. You ‘ave anythin’ in a larger size? ‘Cause that’s not gonna do us rot, you egotistical sod.” Spike rolled his eyes and leapt forward before the thought could entirely register, as if to prevent himself from retracting what was notably a fool idea. His features melted into game face, and he roared ineffectually, keeping his head trained knowingly as far out of spitting range as possible.

Right. Might be a good idea if he told the others about that.

“Don’ look at it!” he shouted, swinging furiously as the Kraelek attempted to turn back toward its intended. “’Less you fancy carryin’ around a tappin’ cane for the rest of your days an’ taking orders from a mutt named Sparky!”

Another flash of incisors. The vampire dropped to the ground instinctually and rolled over to the blonde woman and her child, fighting to his feet with an unneeded pant.

“Time for formal introductions’ll come later,” he said in hurried greeting. “Run off to the wanker in the glasses.”

He received a blank, incredulous stare for his troubles.

“Who are you?” the girl demanded.

Her inquiry went indefinitely unanswered; the Kraelek had turned its attention to her once more and smacked her in the proffered direction with a wide and oddly sloppy gesture of its arm. The girl behind him remained unharmed but exhibit the first sign of childish fear at her caregiver’s sudden ailment.

“Serves her right,” Spike muttered, though there was no feeling behind it. “Told her this wasn’ the proper time for bloody introductions.”

Cordelia rushed to help the fallen woman; Gunn and Wes were attacking the demon from the back. They moved with respective synchronicity—obviously well attuned to each other’s moves and abilities. The former Watcher had used up the last of his arrows and was attempting to distract the Kraelek while his colleague collected the weapon that had tumbled from the victim’s grasp in loo of her attack.

“That’s right, you bastard,” Wesley snapped. The insult was nearly comical coming from his cultured brogue. “Pick on someone your own size.” At the prompt, Gunn stepped forward and began releasing what looked to be a year’s worth of repressed rage on everything that had ever irked him at the monster. It was impressive to look at, but not altogether effective.

Spike chuckled and shook his head, turning to the girl behind him. “You all right?”

She nodded.

“It’ll be over in a minute, pet.”

There was doubt behind the child’s eyes, but she did not comment. Again, the vampire found himself taken aback by the layers of unguided maturity. She looked much too old to be so young.

“SPIKE!”

The vampire whirled around, bursting back into game face. His arms outstretched and prone; it took two seconds to divulge the Kraelek’s plan. And then it came—sheer rage. Rage beyond prompt. Beyond reason for being. Rage that a creature, any creature, could think to harm a girl such as this. Rage at himself for being the culprit more times than he could count. Rage at the entirety of his kind as well as all others prompted by the demon derivation. Unprecedented, neatly unprompted. It gnawed and clawed and ate away at his insides, but for a fraction of a second, he didn’t care a bloody damn. There was no thought beyond darkness—no concept swaying in the communal disorder of his cavity.

Thus he did what his instincts commanded of him. What his inner workings told him to do; that if he rejected what he was and what he felt, he would never walk away from that alley with a shred of anything to merit reasonability.

He sank his fangs into the creature’s neck, and tore. He gnashed. He dug. He made it bleed. A foul, repugnant taste invaded his mouth, and he didn’t care. Didn’t care when he felt the skin at his shoulder swipe away at the influence of an angered claw. Didn’t care when his side screamed out in pain, or at the thrashing the monster was making against any patch of flesh it could see. He growled and bit harder. Bit until his jaw hurt. Bit until he felt the vein in his head would burst only for the remembrance that he didn’t have a pulse. Bit until the creature cried out and released him, and he was consigned to the ground, an awed Wesley and Gunn standing at his wake. The sounds of an injured Kraelek distant now, suddenly, and wailing far into the traffic of the city.

There was nothing for a long, long moment.

“Ummm…” Cordelia offered unwaveringly. “Ew?”

The former Watcher tilted his head in respectful regard and approached, offering him a hand. “You all right?”

Spike flinched and nodded, his face distorting into a painful frown as he spat the mouthful of blood that hadn’t trickled down his throat back onto the pavement. “Okay,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe that wasn’t as bright an idea as I thought.”

The woman had at some point broken free of Cordelia’s grasp and raced back to the girl, who was staring at him with awe-inspired eyes. In turn, the vampire nodded, his face melting back into human guise.

“You knew what that thing was?” Gunn asked.

“Kraelek demon,” he answered distantly.

Wesley frowned. “Kraelek? Are you sure? They are non-indigenous to these parts…or anywhere in the American continent, for that matter. They—”

“I know what it was, boy. Don’ go lecturin’ me. I’ve seen ‘em before. Almost lost Dru to one in Prague.” He shook his head. “That was before the mob, ‘course.”

A small noise shuffled the group’s attention back to the woman that had just been saved, and the child protectively cradled in her arms. “I…uhhh…” she began awkwardly, all signs of the female warrior they had seen not ten minutes ago flying out the proverbial window. “I don’t…how did…?”

Cordelia smiled warmly. “It’s a long story.”

“Yeah, starting with how she’s not a kid.” Gunn pivoted heatedly to his colleague, though any anger was most definitely nonexistent. “I thought you said she was a kid.”

“So I screwed up. Okay? At least we found the place. There was still—”

The protective look was back; the woman rose knowingly to her feet. “You were sent here?”

“No, no,” the Seer amended, stepping forward before realizing that was likely not the smartest move to make. “I…we’re good guys, I promise. I just…sometimes know random things. Like when someone’s in trouble.”

Wesley was frowning. He had picked up something in her tone that he did not particularly like. “Are you being followed?” he asked, likewise taking a slightly more precarious step in their direction.

“No,” the woman, too rapid for comfort but authoritative enough to verify the line being drawn at the subject’s end. “We’re fine. Thank you for your help…we should be getting back.”

“Wait.” The Watcher sighed heavily and cast all cards aside, moving for them in an order that commanded attention. He reached into his wallet and withdrew something that Spike assumed was a business card. “If you need anything. Shelter. Protection. Someone to talk to…our number’s on the card.”

A pause. The woman studied it for a long minute before offering a snicker. “What? Do business with a vampire?” She turned a pointed gaze to the platinum Cockney, who arched his scarred brow in turn. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

The girl at her side sparkled to life at that, tugging insistently on her garments. “He saved me, Nikki. He’s not bad.”

There was nothing to warrant belief behind her eyes, though the expression notably softened, as though indulging a child’s innocence. “All vamps are bad, hon. You know—”

“Nikki?” Spike offered, moving toward them slowly. When the woman nodded in address, he smiled slightly and returned the favor. “Knew a bird named Nikki once. Tough cookie. Din’t take too kindly to vamps, either.” He smiled candidly before turning his attention to the girl, cocking his head with measured curiosity. “What’s your name, Bit?”

Her guardian stepped forward in protest, but the child spoke before she could be stopped. “Rosalie.” She paused, then grinned lightly. The first grin that had known that face since they entered the alley. “Rosie.”

“Rosie, I’m Spike. You can tell your mum that these blokes ‘ere are the do-gooding type, an’ for the half of it, ‘m not implicated anyway, so no fear from the Big Bad.” His eyes drifted upward once more. “’S not my business, luv.”

“We don’t need help,” she replied, demeanor softened if not trusting. It was good enough.

“Right then.” Spike sighed and shook his head, turning back to Wesley with an expression of rekindled boredom. “Can we be goin’, then? I got me a number to sing.”

The four headed back to the car, Wesley with a bit more reluctance but carrying the weight of a man who accepted an eye for those who did not wish to be aided.

“That was weird,” Cordelia ventured to say as they resumed positions.

“Girl alone with a kid like that? Especially one with those sort’ve moves?” Gunn shook his head appreciatively. “Man, gotta respect that.” He turned in his seat to give Spike an appraising glance. “You’re on the verge of seriously wigging me out. You sure you’re a vampire?”

“I believe we all saw the bumpies,” the woman observed.

“But since when—”

“It was the girl,” Wesley said softly. “There’s something about her.”

“Yeah…” Spike agreed, nearly unaware that he was speaking. “Somethin’ all right.”

That was the last anyone would speak of it. The car pulled back into the stream of traffic and disappeared among the multitude. All prior actions unmentioned but not forgotten.

There was an objective. A purpose. Something he could not push aside for anyone.

There would be no further distractions.