Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (For language, violence, and adult content)
Distribution: Sure. Just tell me where.
Timeline: Season 5 of BtVS: AU after Triangle. Season 2 of AtS: AU after Reunion.
Summary: Wolfram and Hart, host of the greatest evil acknowledged on Earth, attempts to restructure the Order of Aurelius, one vampire at a time. A soul hampers one, a chip harbors another, and a Slayer stands between them. The pawns are in place; it is simply a matter of who will move first.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon. They are being used for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

[Prologue] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [25]

[26] [27] [28] [29] [30] [31] [32] [33] [34] [35] [36] [37] [38] [39] [40] [41] [42] [43] [44] [45] [46] [47] [48] [49] [50] [Epilogue]

Chapter Eleven

To My Someone

By the time they arrived at Caritas, Spike was more than irritated with himself.

Throughout his period of adaptation into the consistencies of human life based on human mandate, the vampire had maintained a consensus on what was and was not accepted according to the limitations of his preset boundaries. He would drink bagged blood, but he would not like it. He would kill other beasties, but not because he wanted to. He would save the innocent if they gave him a reason. At no point in the aforementioned ground rules would he ever develop empathy for those he was saving on a begrudging whim. He would never take pleasure in performing good-doer deeds, and he would certainly never put himself at great personal risk to help another person.

Even if that person was a child.

Tonight, he had broken all those rules.

In all honesty, Spike didn’t know what had come over him, or furthermore why it should strike him now as particularly revolutionary. After all, his very being here had already broken about a thousand vampiric laws. An admittedly unsouled fiend rushing at beck and call (though Buffy had notably done neither of those) of a Slayer, going against others of his own kind who happened to be similarly of his own Order. He was far beyond worrying about the unspoken motives of saving a child.

But it bothered him.

It bothered him a lot.

What was it about that girl? He honestly couldn’t put his finger on it. While it remained true that he hadn’t gone out of his way to kill children as an active vampire, he certainly hadn’t shied from it. There were girls all across the globe that enjoyed hiding in proverbial coal bins. A century’s worth of bodies piled at his feet, and he didn’t care a piss for any of them. For the families that mourned, for the tears that were cried, for the damage he had done. He simply didn’t care.

There were other things that he cared about, though. And it was starting to egg at him in a way that was most unbecoming. The beginnings of a conscience he had never hoped to have.

Being around humans was the most sickening punishment anyone could have conjured for him. Being around them without exacting his only way of dealing with numerous annoying antics. It had taken him too long to forget the strings of his own humanity. Even through the early years at Angelus’s side, punishing those who mocked him with a swift spike through the head, shagging Drusilla in the snow of St. Petersburg while laughing at the dead that encircled them. All the while, far out of the reaches of his admittance, there had harbored a voice that demanded if this was what Mother would want. That demanded what he had become, and if it was too late to make things right.

But he was a demon. Death was what he was made for. What he was supposed to do. And secluding himself from the very eyes of temptation, by trying to be what he was supposed to be, by having a good time and ignoring the conscience that he eventually drowned, he was able to be the vampire. William the Bloody. The menace. The Scourge.

Then his anchor abandoned him and left him for the smut of humanity to dirty as it liked. To have its glorious retribution. By then, he had all but forgotten how to be human. The meaning of guilt had lost its weight. His nerves were burned at the tips and only time away from the new inducement could heal what was wronged.

Only then, he didn’t want to be healed. He was addicted to what he had become. The power. The rush. Everything that life had denied him, he found in death. By the time the world was ready to accept him again, he had turned his back on the world. There was no guilt. No journeyed path to penance. No want of anything except the life that he had been robbed of.

Both times, transition had proven the most difficult fray anyone could ever hope to joust. Guilt, concern, and all of the above were too human for his taste. He thought he had forgotten how to be human. All notions of the like shoved back into a recess that did not wish to be addressed.

He found now that the final barriers were being attacked, and he repelled everything he had against such abomination. It was unheard of. It was unjust. It stole the very meaning of his existence from grasp, dangled it tauntingly just inches from view, and stuffed it away where things went that were not meant to be found.

Being around humans had ruined him. He was starting to care. Loving the Slayer was just the first. He was starting to care about others, as well. He knew he would kill anyone who dared touch Dawn Summers, and not simply because she was the sister of the object of his affections. He liked Red and Tara, he adored Joyce, and when the boy wasn’t talking, Xander Harris was tolerable as well. Anya was a bloody hoot and Rupert…well; Rupert…the Slayer wouldn’t fancy his disappearance. All more besides, he needed someone that appreciated British humor, and the old man had good intentions.

That was just it. Good intentions. A heart of bloody gold. Everything he was supposed to hate.

It didn’t end there. Of course not. He had only been in Los Angeles for a number of hours, and he couldn’t complain about the company. Wesley was an all right bloke, applying for all of the above to concur with the other Watcher. Gunn seemed like someone he could rightly get along with, as long as nothing pointy was within proximity. And Cordelia…well…where to begin?

She was almost exactly like Anya, except more…human. Had the former vengeance demon been born and raised in California, he had no trouble believing they would have been the very best of friends at Sunnydale High. The same as Harmony and the like. People that lived formerly money and fame.

And now with this new lot. Two faces that he would likely never see again. A child and her guardian. Mother, babysitter, older sister; it didn’t matter. The fact that he had noticed them at all, gone to the lengths he had to keep them safe, risked what he had risked, felt what he felt…it was enough to make him nauseous.

But the feeling would not go away.

He was beginning to care. And the prospect terrified him.

If his hosts were at all the humanitarians they claimed to be, they would stake him good and proper based on the display alone. As it was, they were chatting comfortably, addressing him on occasion and describing his newest task best to ability. They were an exceptionally strange group. The valley girl from the Hellmouth, the fired Watcher, and the man he guessed had been raised on the streets. Spike knew enough to identify them as he saw them. Gunn had enough ability to skillfully portray what he was without saying anything at all. A demon hunter. He had been doing this for a long, long time.

The peroxide vampire wondered with a slight grin if the man had nearly killed Angel upon first encounter. He hoped so.

Spike’s thoughts drifted inevitably to Buffy. Seeing her again seemed so far away that he couldn’t reach it within tangibility. One of those things he knew was foreseeable but was blinded to. It turned his stomach in knots to think of what they were doing to her. What sort of playthings Angelus might have developed a liking for, what sort of new toys he would try for kicks. With a prize as robust as the Slayer, he wanted to think that the vampires would keep her around with some measure of reasonability, but he didn’t know. There was no doubt that Angelus and Darla enjoyed a good, long torture session, but that could mean anywhere from hours to days.

There was knowledge there. Knowledge he had resigned himself to the minute he left. Despite whatever he told the members of Angel Investigations (they really needed to change the name of their enterprise), and furthermore what he had told himself, he was going to kill everyone who had touched her. From the lackeys that helped bring her in to the man behind the big desk. Chip be fucking damned.

As for Angelus himself…

There was Darla and Drusilla to consider. Spike didn’t want to consider what was to become of the latter, knowing that it would likely result in a dusty ending for one of them. He similarly wasn’t fool enough to believe he could pull all this off by himself, or execute everything to such perfection that he didn’t end up badly wounded or extremely dead by the end of it.

But he had to try.

If caring didn’t destroy him first.

“So, Spike,” Cordelia said, twisting again in her seat. “Any hints on what you’re going to sing?”

Oh, yeah.

The vampire grinned. “Anyone ever tell you that you ‘ave an impatient streak?”

“I’m sorry? What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the pot calling the kettle black.”

Wesley sniggered.

“You look like a death metal guy to me,” the woman went on. “Or something equally lame. Maybe Jimi Hendrix?”

He nodded. “Bloody genius, that man was.”

Wesley looked at her aghast. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that Jimi Hendrix is…lame?”

“Oh no. That was me being random.”

“Perish the thought,” Spike muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Are we discounting Billy Idol?” Gunn asked, casting a copious gaze over his shoulder. “I mean—come on! It’d be a hoot!”

“Right. An’ I wouldn’t hear the end of it.”

“Well, do you like Billy Idol?”

“Yeh, actually I do. The boy’s got decent music. I jus’ don’t appreciate the ‘stealing my look’ parts of his gig.” Spike tilted his head speculatively. “Mmm…dunno. ‘F I’m persuaded to do an encore ‘cause the crowd loves my stunnin’ vocals, I might—emphasis on the might —consider it.” A chuckle. “A demon karaoke bar. Still can’t fancy the scene. Rupert’d shit himself.”

Cordelia frowned. “Giles? Why?”

“’Cause he sings.”

“He what?!”

“Sings. Gets li’l odd-job gigs around town.” The Cockney sat back comfortably, gazing off in thought and ignoring the dumbfound look of raw astonishment tied in with near reluctant strands of admiration coloring the woman’s face. “Actually, the bloke sounds decent. Guess every Watcher has to get his kicks off somehow. Your man kills demons, ours sings. ‘Course, he is bloody unemployed right now. Guess I can’t blame ‘im. He was so bored last year ‘e even watched Passions with me.”

Cordelia almost pulled a Regan MacNeil in her seat before remembering that her body was supposed to turn with her. “You watch Passions?!” she demanded.

Spike flinched, looked at her, then turned his gaze to Wesley, who was preoccupied driving. “She always this shrill?”

There was a sigh and nothing more.

“I love that show!” she continued excitedly. “Hey, do you really think they’re going to go through with the wedding? Come on! It’s so a not. And what about Timmy? He—”

Gunn caught Wesley’s eye and they nodded. “Cordelia!”

“What? I’m just—”

“Sit down, please. We’re nearly there. You and Spike can discuss the fundamentals of bad television programming when we are not in a moving vehicle.” The former Watcher grasped her arm with his right hand and jerked her back into her seat. “On the way back to the Hyperion, one of you is riding in the back, or he can come up here. I believe we have established that the vampire is not going to attack.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Y’just now…’ave you all gone very deaf? I couldn’t bite you ‘f I wanted to.”

“In all fairness,” Gunn observed, “you haven’t proven that.”

“In all fairness,” he retorted in the same brogue, “I ‘aven’t fancied a headache.”

“Still, I think a demo is in order.” The man grinned at him unrepentantly. “Just so we can be sure. Wouldn’t want you to go all bite-happy around a bunch of unsuspecting fleshies.”

“No,” he agreed dryly. “We couldn’t have that, could we?” He sank further into his seat and kicked the back of Wesley’s on a whim, flinching when the chip activated. There was a whoop of victory from Gunn and a brief swerve as the Watcher attempted to regain control of the wheel, and a very deliberate notion to ignore all jokes made on his behalf. “Oi! Mate! Any chance I can call shotgun now?”

“It’s yours.”

It was obviously his on more a note to avoid any other physical harassment than a genuine wanting of his presence in the front seat.

“Hey!” his colleagues protested good-naturedly, but that was the end of that.

“We’re here,” Wesley announced anticlimactically, parallel parking with enviable ease and killing the ignition. “It’s a few blocks down, and I’m suspecting that this is the best place we’re going to find up the strip. All right everyone. Spike.” He regarded the vampire with a nod and an air of anticipation. “I hope you have your number selected. We’re going to be hearing it soon.”

Spike flashed a cheeky grin and quickly made to follow.

The bar was everything and nothing he would expect of a demon karaoke establishment. The gatherings of a thousand species—those that both hated and intermingled with humans. Some that were dangerous beyond reproach. Some that were as harmless as kittens. Very few that he could not identify. In all his years, he had never seen such a gathering of genus—the same that would be battling on the streets sharing a drink over some really bad vocals. As though someone had a right mind to redo the scene from the Star Wars Cantina properly.

The bloke at the mic currently seemed to know what he was doing. Some demon that he couldn’t identify upon first glance, belting out the soulful lyrics of Etta James, proclaiming that his love had come along, at last. It was a tad on the poncy side, but well done. Marvelously done, if he wanted to be completely honest.

Spike had absolutely nothing against the sentimentalists—he rather enjoyed a good number of them—but it was a bit too Hedwig and the Angry Inch for his taste when a guy tried to sing the part of a bird.

Someone tapped him hurriedly on the shoulder. “That’s him,” Cordelia whispered, pointing in the direction of the stage. “That’s the Host.”

The green fellow was the one who read when others sang? The vampire’s brows arched dubiously. “Well, isn’t that interestin’?”

“Isn’t he good?”

“Bloody fantastic, pet.” His gaze drifted to the mélange species of demon once more, fascinated. “Does everyone sign a peace treaty or what all before comin’ in? Half these gits are at war all the time. I know. I’ve seen it.”

“Caritas is a sanctuary,” Wesley explained. “There can be no violence within its boundaries.”

“Oh, so now I can’t hurt humans or my kind? Spectacular.”

“No one can. That’s the beauty of it.” The Watcher stopped shortly and smiled as the Host finished his number, announced some Gnackner demon was about to take the stage, and immediately set off to see them. Evidently, their presence had been anticipated or something of the like. Perhaps this was genuine.

“Evening, kiddos!” the Host proclaimed loudly, sliding an arm around Cordelia and Gunn. “How goes it? Aside from the ugly death and the digression that is your boss, of course. Honestly, I’m surprised you had the stones to show up here in the first place. Someone like woke-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-coffin-Angel-cheeks on my tail? Whew! I’d be hiding under the bed.”

A rumble of mirth surged through the platinum vampire at that. Angel-cheeks.

Cordelia was positively beaming at him. “Watch that. I’m going to start believing you’re not glad to see us.”

“Oh, I’m glad. Let me count the ways. Especially to see all of you in three whole-looking pieces.” The Host shuddered lightly and shook his head. “You haven’t had any trouble?”

At that, the young woman seemed to have no answer. The aforementioned three shared a series of sheepish glances.

“Not so much as trouble as the big bad Angelus standing outside the Hyperion, yelling his ass off at us to invite him in from sunset to sunrise two days straight. We haven’t seen him since, but that’s nothing we regret,” Gunn replied. “Your spell worked like a charm, man.”

“As spells are supposed to do,” the Host agreed. “Well, the man himself showed up here last night. Didn’t stay long. Spoke a piece, made some threats, and I think I lost me another bartender, but no harm no foul. He knew enough not to try anything.” He turned swiftly to Cordelia. “You never mentioned that the bad Angel is like a PMSing Martha Stewart. Details are appreciated!”

Spike laughed again, louder this time. Oh yeah. Definitely liked this bloke.

“I thought the ‘nailing of puppies to walls’ sort of covered that territory,” she replied with a grin.

The green fellow shuddered again at that. “Oh thanks, sweetcheeks, for rehashing that image. I had to have Larry the Hashnog demon forcibly remove it last time around. Not exactly an experience I’m looking to suffer through again, but sacrifices must be made.” He turned to Spike suddenly, eyes narrowing. It took only a minute of study to garnish his conclusion. “You’re one of Angel’s!”

The vampire frowned in resentment. “Now wait—”

“No offense, skittles. I just go with the flow.”

“How did—”

“The pout, pumpkin, it’s all about the pout. I’d recognize that glower anywhere.” He turned to Cordelia and leaned over, studying the new arrival diligently. “You think it runs in the family?”

Okay, whether or not he liked the bloke, no one got away with calling him a sodding Angel-model.

“Temper, temper,” the Host said disarmingly before the vampire could object. “It won’t do you any good in here, anyway.” He extended his hand with a friendly. “Hello. I’m Lorne, the owner/operator of this fine establishment.”

At the stage, some horrendous beast was vocalizing the theme to Love Boat.

“Lorne?” Wesley questioned with a frown.

He waved airily. “Yeah, yeah. Proper name and all. What? You thought mummy dearest took a look at me and decided to call me The Host? Trust me, where I come from, there is nothing to Host. Very sad and I’m sure we’ll shed a few tears later. I’m betting you’re here so sugarbritches can grace us with a number.”

“The name’s Spike, mate,” the vampire grumbled. “An’ how the bloody hell—”

“Oh, and he has Angel’s attitude, too!” At the offed look Lorne received in turn, he immediately set forward to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Only you’re much livelier, pardon the pun. And that accent! To die for. There were times when I thought Angel might as well be an animated mannequin for all the moving around he did.”

“And you’ve made several facial expressions tonight,” Cordelia observed. “That’s way non-Angelish.”

The Host laughed richly. “And I knew because the team at Angel Investigations isn’t daft enough to risk a trip here for the drinks while the boss is on his…how shall we put it…holiday? Since they brought you along, I’m guessing you need to be read. Well, step on up! I love fresh blood around here. Again, pardon the pun.”

“Yo, man,” Gunn interceded gruffly. “We’re not gonna cower in some corner just ‘cause Angel’s out there in the not best sense, all right? We’re demon hunters. That’s what we do. The Hyperion’s just—”

“Yeah, yeah,” the Host agreed dismissively. “Bygones. Spike, babe, walk with me, talk with me. We must get you set up for your number. I’m seeing strobe lights, a disco ball, and stylish choreography.”

The vampire stopped in his tracks and stared.

“Kidding,” Lorne reassured with a smile. He was perhaps the first anyone that the Cockney had ever met that could continue to look so genuine without his expression going plastic. That was oddly refreshing. “But I do love the attitude. Tell me, sugar, you play any instruments?”

Another hesitant pause. “Why?”

“Because, as often as possible, I like to get authentic performers on my stage. Lindsey McDonald—oh, talk about a voice to die for. Not to mention that boy could play! Heaven’s chorus couldn’t compete. That was, of course, before Angelkins decided he did wonders for the one-handed look.” The Host paused expectantly. “So, do you play?”

“Uhh…piano. A bit.” Spike shuffled, more self-conscious than he felt he had a right to be, given the circumstances. “’S been a while, mate. An’ really, I’d fancy jus’ gettin’ up there an’ gettin’ this over with without makin’ a big thing outta it. See, there’s this—”

“There’s always some ‘this’, and chances are it’s either a drug bust or a girl. I’m personally leaning more toward the second.” It was positively exhausting watching the man move. “Piano, you say? Well, we have keyboards. Not quite the same, but workable. You say workable? I say workable. It’d be easier to haul those on stage than that honkin’ huge piano. We’ll save that for next time.”

“Listen, mate, I’d really rather—”

There was a pause at that. Lorne sighed and draped an arm over his shoulder. “Spike, babe, you have to do this anyway. Something’s obviously worth the effort. Right?”

No contesting that, no matter how painful this experience was turning out to be. “Right.”

“And you obviously have trouble associating yourself with big daddy, right?”

He arched a brow.

“Angel.”

“I got you. Yeh, the git annoys me. ‘ve never denied it. An’ really, can we please get on with it? I gotta—”

The Host grinned. “The sanctuary spell’s really annoying you, isn’t it? Not used to negotiating with words.”

“More used to it than you’d wager.”

“Well, petals, I think, other than entertaining, outdoing Angelface here’ll be very therapeutic. I take it you’ve heard him. A tune can’t carry him, let alone the other way around. Let us not rehash that night of the singing undead.” Lorne shuddered, and Spike grinned without realizing it. “You have a helluva voice. I can tell.”

“’S that right?”

“Well, hon, I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I do do this for a living.” He shooed him forward. “Roberto will bring your keyboard up. We’ll talk after you’re finished.”

The Host was gone the next instant. He reappeared within seconds on stage, announcing their next performer—a Chaos demon, of all déjà vu’s, to be followed by a British baddie with a Billy Idol complex.

Okay. That joke was old before Gunn made it, and with constant off again/on again phases the Host was going through; Spike wagered it wasn’t the best bet to press his luck. He might like the git, but didn’t mean he wouldn’t rip his throat out as soon as they stepped onto unsanctuarized ground.

Yes it does.

That voice was becoming a real nuisance. Bloody conscience.

The Chaos demon performed a breathtaking rendition of Stand By Your Man that brought the house down. He wasn’t necessarily good, but the movements he decided to randomly choreograph were so hilarious that a mime would laugh aloud. Too soon it was over, and it was his turn on stage.

And he hadn’t the faintest buggering idea what to play.

Inspiration had a funny way of striking at last minute.

If there was one thing that Spike abhorred above all others, it was being labeled predictable. The expanse of his experience had been a continuous effort to outshine the expectations that vampires across the globe had constructed into the accepted norm. The bloody mainstream tedium. He was and always would be a rebel at heart.

And it was the rebel’s duty to do the unexpected.

Thus when he took his seat at the bench, he flashed a smirk to the crowd, and decided spontaneously to surprise them all.

The first notes were soft—he hadn’t played in what seemed like lifetimes, but with him, it had always come naturally. A talent his mother had encouraged him to master. The same that was later enforced by Drusilla, who would on occasion demand to be lulled to sleep by musical poetry. The years had been generous to him in the growth of ability, even if it had been a while since he put the skill to test.

Then his vocals were tickling the air.

“La lune trop blême, pose un diadème, sur tes cheveux roux. La lune trop rousse de gloire éclabousse ton jupon plein d'trous.” He took an unneeded breath, glanced up, and grinned unashamedly at the expression on everyone’s face, particularly Cordelia who looked to keel over at any minute. “La lune trop pâle caresse l'opale de tes yeux blasés. Princesse de la rue soit la bienvenue, dans mon cœur brisé.

“The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh. While windmill wings of a larger world shelter you and I…”

His fingers paused over the keyboard eloquently. Really for this number, a piano would have been preferable, but it wasn’t as bad as all that. Another upward glance confirmed the same. The look on Gunn’s face was priceless, and the Host, unsurprisingly, while seemingly impressed was studying him intently, a look of inspired wonder on his face.

That unnerved the vampire slightly. The prospect of being read like an open book did not rest well with him, even if it was for a cause he believed in.

“Ma p'tite mandigote, je sens ta menotte. Qui cherche ma main, je sens ta poitrine et ta taille fine. J'oublie mon chagrin, je sens sur tes lèvres, une odeur de fièvre, de gosse mal nourri. Et sous ta caresse, je sens une ivresse. Qui m'anéantit.

“The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh. While windmill wings of a larger world shelter you and I.

“Et voilà quelle trotte, la lune qui flotte, la princesse aussi. Mes rêves épanouis. Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux miséreux, les ailes du moulin protègent les amoureux…”

As the final notes drifted off into their delineation, the bar erupted with fevered applause. Spike rose to his feet, gave a small bow, and bounded off stage before anyone could demand him an encore. There would no further wasted time: it was straight to Lorne, who had abandoned his seat to give him a standing ovation.

“Enough of that,” Spike growled roughly, every façade of gentility having abandoned him. Playtime was effectively over. “What’d you see?”

“Boy oh boy, was I ever right? That was—”

“Stop with the bloody small talk. You snooped around my noggin. I did my bit. Now what did you see?!”

The Host took a prolonged sip of his drink. “The question, honey, is more that I didn’t see. That is one conflicted cranium you’re supporting on your small albeit muscular shoulders! But first you have to answer me an inkling or two. Why Complainte de la Butt? Always a fave, no doubt, but I don’t see you much as a Rufus Wainwright fan.”

Spike glanced down self-consciously. “Wanted to throw everyone off. Figured they’d be expectin’ some…” He caught himself in midst of another digression, paused, clenched his teeth, and shook his head intently. “Okay, enough. We’ll ‘ave plenty of time to chat about this later…not that I will, or anythin’. Now jus’ tell me. What. The. Bloody. Hell. Did. You. See?”

Lorne studied him a beat longer, head cocked curiously. “You’re a strange fella, Spike. Got yourself all in love with a Slayer—the same Angel was so cockamamie crazy about for years, mind you—and now have crossed proverbial oceans to save her from your own kind. All without a soul, mind you. It’s fascinating. Get me a camera crew and a group of talented actors—preferably including Johnny Depp—and I got me an Academy award winning script.” He took another drink, holding up a hand when the vampire looked to interrupt. Silent indication that a point was being approached. “You’re setting your own path. That’s amazing. Most vampires are essentially pathless. At least the ones I get in here. They sing and all I see is whom they had for dinner, or whom they will have for dinner. Except your great-grand pappy—of course—and quite frankly, I’d rather not see what’s in his head right now.” There was a theatrical pause as if an invitation to contest the statement. When none was offered, he shook his head and continued, “It’s so rare to meet an evil creature with purpose. Refreshing, really.”

Spike snickered. “You make it sound like ‘s been all sunshine an’ daffodils.”

“Of course not. Purposes are nasty, grueling things that’ll kill you if you let them.” A curious smile spread across the Host’s lips. “I know this isn’t anything you asked for, pudding. It’s been decaffeinated when you needed your sugar boost and given you one Linda Tripp of a headache instead of energy. Hey—it happens to the best of us.”

A sigh. “So, ‘s there anythin’ you can tell me, aside describin’ me an’ my problem? How’s the Slayer? Did you see her? Have they—”

“Slow down, Tiger. The only way I’d have any four/one/one on little Buffalicious is if Angelkins came in here to sing to me about it. Or the Slayer herself, but no one’s holding their superfluous breath for that one. You sing, I see your path, not hers.”

At that, the irritation that had been flustering since this insane request was made burst into all out anger. It was enough. The line marking his notably overstated patience had been thoroughly crossed, and he was through wasting time. “So I came here for nothin’? For Chrissake, ‘f you can’t—”

“All I can tell you is that you won’t be alone. You can’t.” Lorne seized a napkin from the table’s dispenser and began jotting something down with a pen that materialized from nowhere. “You missed it once, sweetie-pie. Can’t afford to make you oh for two.” He slid his scribblings across the table, appraising the vampire with arched brows. “And for that I really should whack you upside the head, you enormous dolt!”

Spike glared at him, confused but too tired and angry to question him. He turned his eyes to the proffered napkin and arched a brow. “Wha’s this?”

“The address you need to go to.”

“…Why? The Slayer there?”

“No, hon. That’s an alley. Knowing your hunka antihero sire, Buffy’s probably shacked up at good ole Wolfram and Hart. The alley’s your rendezvous point with your guide, so to speak. You’re going to meet someone to help you.”

“What about the Angel Investigation squad team of white hats?”

“Oh, they’ll help. But you need to go to the—”

“Who could I possibly find in a bloody—”

“Listen, I wanna help you. I really do. And I’ve done what I can. You sang, I read, and this is what your path is screaming. In all languages, brother.” He leaned forward seriously. “You want to help your girl, right?”

His girl. Spike softened immediately at the implication. He liked the sound of that.

“More than anythin’, mate.”

“All signs point to the alley.” That was it. The Host backed up in his chair, hands coming up neutrally. “I’ve done my part.”

Spike watched him leave; watched him disappear into a multitude of creatures. Watched for long seconds, then turned his attention to the instructions left on the napkin.

An alley. Help found in an alley?

Flash. Little girl staring calmly at the Kraelek demon. Looking at it as though she had placed it there. Flash. Same girl looking at him with no fear. At his true face. At the neon that could just as easily take her life as it had god-knows-how-many children before her.

An alley. Well, it couldn’t hurt.

Stranger things had happened.

There was a bloody annoying song stuck in his head, and that was the least of his troubles. For a man who had traveled the world several times over; he was beginning to have the sinking suspicion that he was lost.

Los Angeles was not a town he toured by habit. A trip here or there—usually with several years to supplement the gaps between visits; enough time for the city to grow and develop. Granted, there hadn’t been much to go on since leaving Caritas. He had stopped once at some second-rate novelty shop where a Mahayle demon—in human guise—firstly proclaimed her astonishment that a man would ask for directions, then helpfully pointed him along his way.

Not that it had done a bloody bit of good.

It was easy to see why Angel had relocated here. A dark, ambiguous city that positively swarmed with life and lifelike figures that were attempting to make it on their own just as he. Enough to make any creature of the night feel right at home. An overly dismal and hopelessly dramatic place that had formed the grueling habit of attracting lost souls.

Everywhere he looked, another pity-case waited to be discovered.

What was worse, the inner poet flourished with anticipation, and Spike’s noted marks of discontent were going steadfastly ignored. The annoying inner muse had been acting with more frequency than the past forever. Sprouting off new ideas to fill a thousand hapless sonnets after an ageless drought of creative process. He hated it. Reduced again to what he had thought he had escaped. Such distasteful notions of the prolific touch had been growing evermore persistent since the morn of his realization, and the immediate call thereafter to document the Slayer in all her effulgence.

Another mark in the namesake of his growing humanity.

Bugger all.

The vampire banished all away. He could not consider that now. The city was left to explore, and he had some tune performed by the last wandering buffoon at Caritas running circles in his head. There was also the distant acknowledgement that he should contact Giles soon with word of what had transpired since his arrival, even if it didn’t produce much in the limelight of understanding.

It would be better to know if the Scoobies intended on staying in Sunnydale or not, pending on what the Council had provided.

Better to now. With little progress tailing him and the ever-hazy instructions to meet some nameless whoever in an alley behind an equally nameless bar, it was to his benefit to at least make a little progress in maintaining contacts. Giles could do bugger little to improve their problem right now, but he could prove troublesome if rubbed in the wrong direction. Spike was already on his list of People Most Likely To Be Staked, and in order to avoid an elevation to the next level, contact was better preserved.

There was a nagging now or never feeling tagged onto that fixation. Spike wasn’t completely daft; he knew how simple it could be to lose oneself in the city, and he was that much more determined to remain focused.

Focused as in he had been in Los Angeles for almost thirty-six hours and had thus managed to locate Angel Investigations, save some nameless girls from a nasty monster, and partake in a demon karaoke bar. Giles would be proud.

Spike spied an arbitrary payphone weaned at the corner that separated two virtually identical pubs, and, without realizing it, started digging change out of his pockets. He wasn’t accustomed to carrying money that wasn’t weightless and thus nearly pulled out Wesley’s business card on habit. The former Watcher had passed it on to him before leaving Caritas, just in case he decided he needed help and didn’t know how to reach them.

“Dressed up like a million-dollar trooper,” he sang absently under his nonexistent breath, making a distant note to rip the spine out of whatever unholy creature insisted on singing such an overused oldie. Not that he didn’t appreciate the oldies, mind you. He just didn’t fancy them stuck on repeat in his cranium. “Tryin' hard to look like Gary Cooper—super-bloody-duper. Come let's mix where Rockefellers walk with sticks or um-ber-ellas in their …’ello? Rupert? Yeah, ‘s me.”

The old man seemed eager to speak with him but equally cynical and condescending. As though waiting until this particular juncture to phone with real information was very inconvenient. Spike was nearly tempted to call him on it, but he knew the temperament was more in ode to his delay in calling on the hour as had been wordlessly implicated. Honestly, though, Giles couldn’t expect continuous contact of a similar nature. Not with the promises of what would have to be done in order to get close to Angelus and Darla at all, not to mention their precious amount of leverage.

“I don’t suppose this is a call confirming that you have Buffy in the safety…well, not safety, but—”

“’m callin’ from a dingy alley near midnight in a city where Angelus is king. Do you really want me to answer?”

“Point taken.” There was a sigh. The vampire could nearly hear the old man polishing his glasses. “So, what have you discovered?”

“Right now, a blessed-bloody-little.” It was more than difficult to maintain his bitterness in that regard, though he gave it his best. Giles was already more than suspicious given Spike’s enthusiasm to do something that promised no self-benefit in the least. Perhaps it would have been better if he had required a cash supplement before he left—though that only occurred to him now that he was miles away from the Hellmouth and not in the place, so to speak, to make monetary demands.

Rather, he could, but he knew innately that money was not what he wanted.

Bloody wanker.

“Explain ‘little,’” the Watcher requested.

“Well, Cordy, Wes, an’ Charlie dragged me to some demon bar, an’—”

He nearly dropped the phone with the sudden incursion of Ripper-like rage.

“You’ve been wasting time gallivanting at a bar?!”

Spike swore that the bloke sitting at the stools of the neighborly bar flinched at that. As it was, his vampiric hearing was likely shot to hell, as his ears refused to stop ringing for longer than was customary. That wasn’t the end of it, of course. By the time the initial shock had worn off, Giles was in mid-tangent about how he had foolishly assumed that a vampire could take any project with a regard for seriousness, even if said vampire offered himself for the position. It took several seconds to cut through the embittered ramblings, but finally he had a grasp on the old man’s attention.

And after that first grasp, a blessed hook.

“…a karaoke pub?”

“Right. You sing, this green wanker tells you your fortune or what all, an’ I guess in my case, ‘e sends blokes down random alleys to find their guides.” Spike paused and shook his head. “This ‘s beginnin’ to sound like a very bad Japanese film.”

He had to credit the old man; it didn’t take much to change his tune. From infuriated to intrigued in two seconds flat. “A demon that can patch into one’s providence. How fascinating. I’ve never—”

“Yeh, yeh, yeh. I’m sure you an’ the faithful Scooby patrol will have oodles of fun researchin’ that after we’re through with talkies. The Council still there?”

At that, Giles’s voice grew softer. As though he had forgotten about the presence of twenty tweed-donned people surrounding him for the moment. “Quite. And none too happy with the absence of the Slayer.”

“She’s on bloody sabbatical.”

“If only.” There was a sigh, and without any prompt, the peroxide Cockney knew a very personal, very difficult question was bordering on the horizon. He felt in stirring in his gut. The same that the lot of them had been dancing around since his revelation that Darla and Drusilla were in town and had their marks set on one Buffy Summers. And yet, it needed to be asked. For both their sakes.

They had to make it real.

“Spike,” Giles began softly. “What…you would know better than anyone. What do you think our chances are…of seeing her again?”

The notion that anything else was remotely possible made him want to smash the phone against the nearest wall, but reality was needed in such tidings. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, teeth clenching. “I wish I could say somethin’ to reassure you, mate,” he replied after a long bode of silence, surprising himself with the truth behind his own words. The inner voice that warned him of all impending wankerish characteristics had been booted for the time being, and he intended to use that to his benefit. “But I really don’ know. As you know, Peaches is one to fuck his food…but I don’ think I’ve ever seen ‘im do it into overkill, ‘f you catch my drift. He likes ‘em fresh. Bloody enough to—”

“That’s enough.”

He was glad the old man had stopped him. The thought alone had his insides raging.

There was a quiet, reflective pause.

“I’ll do my best by her, Rupert.”

Another respective silence. Shorter this time, but no less significant.

“I…” Giles began, fumbling slightly. “I know. Don’t ask me to explain how or why, but I know. It’s the strangest thing.”

You’re tellin’ me, mate.

“Yeh, well, we can talk over the particulars later. I don’ know ‘f whatever I’m meetin’ or findin’ in the alley’s on some sorta schedule.” Spike sighed into the phone. “’ll give you a call come mornin’.”

“I don’t trust you.”

That statement was so abrupt it made him grin. As though to compensate for the odd exchange of human candor. An ode to the bevy of unspoken reassurances that in all other aspects, the vampire was not to be treated like an equal. Not until he produced an honorable result. “I know,” he replied with a short chuckle. Then he hung up.

It was time to get this over with. With as much as he might have liked the Host, the idea of finding what he needed in some abandoned alley seemed a little on the side of crazy. Regardless of how many little girls with captivating eyes might decide to brave the uglies that lurked in the shadows.

He hated it that his thoughts kept going back to her.

Especially when he was being sent on a very ambiguous task of locating an unnamed target that was supposed to help him in an equally ambiguous manner.

There wasn’t much to go on. While notably reeking of the same filth commonly buried in human waste—both the literal and the metaphorical sense—it was nothing that one would not expect from such an ill-reputed part of town. There was nothing particularly remarkable. No scents that struck him as something to purposefully seek out as though it meant something significant in the larger scheme of things.

Though it wasn’t difficult to gauge that he was not alone.

The revelation was hardly groundbreaking, and would have struck him as otherwise extraneous were it not for the immediate acknowledgement that whoever it was did not want to be seen. Even his vampiric eyesight failed to provide additional leeway. Oh no. The alley was inhabited.

Quite.

There was no fear in the air. Another oddity. Spike might have been out of practice, but he knew enough to identify when humanly types were unsettled. His correspondent was not. The prospect brought a smile to his face—stirring feelings birthed on nostalgia that were otherwise irrelevant. He was tempted to allow his bumpies to emerge and see if that prompted a response, but something told him that his presence was no more unapproachable, regardless of what face he wore.

On any other day, Spike would have played this out. Engage in a game of hide-and-go-seek, as it were. But his will forbade it, tugging back irrefutably to the face of a girl that was depending on him whether she knew it or not. Thus as he stepped forward, it was not with an eye for what he had given up craving long ago out of acceptance. It was a man on a mission. A man whose mission ranked higher importance than any endeavor he could dream to embark.

“Right,” he said, surveying the unchanging scene once more. “Give it up. Who’s there?”

A few beats of silence. Nothing.

“Notice how I said, ‘who’s there’, indicatin’ that I know I’m not addressin’ the friendly neighborhood dumpster.” The bleached vampire stalked forward slowly, gesturing to the large navy tin out of instinct rather than a need for specification. On the prowl, regardless of esteem. He could not ignore innate disposition. “No point in hidin’, mate.”

The anonymous presence was not hiding, and he knew it. That didn’t make it any less fun to speculate.

“Come on. ‘m gettin’ bloody bored talkin’ to myself.”

There was a rustling then, and Spike whirled just in time for his eyes to become level with the wrong end of a crossbow.

Then an answering call.

“I find that rather doubtful.”

The arrow dispatched and met its target, soaring with a victorious snare into the vampire’s left shoulder. Spike roared and dropped to his knees, bursting into game face before he could help himself. Pain tingled up and down his back, but not enough to wane away the unburdened rage that flustered within meaningless seconds. It took no time at all to regroup.

“Oi, mate!” he snarled, grasping the end of the projectile. “Tha s’posed to be funny?”

“No.” More shuffling and the crossbow lowered, revealing a pair of very stern chestnut eyes, molded into a face that demanded no sudden movements without having to say a word. “That was your warning shot. You have ten seconds before I fire again. And trust me, the word miss is not in my vocabulary.”

Spike rolled his eyes and clamored to his feet, grip on the arrow tightening before he yanked it free. The scent of dead blood hit the air and prompted an untimely growl from his stomach—he hadn’t eaten since leaving Sunnydale.

“’F this,” he said shortly to no one in particular, “is that green maggot’s idea of a joke, I’m gonna rip his innards out.”

“And yet you’re still standing here. I think the count’s down to three.”

The vampire’s gaze darkened. “Right. Real intimidatin’. You know who I am, boy?”

There was a corresponding tightening of the other’s jaw at the degrading and—frankly—arrogant slander of his station, but he did not offer any further reaction. “Well, the face suggests vampire,” came the retort. “Everything else screams William the Bloody. And I’m willing to bet that even if I am wrong, there isn’t a single person who would care for such a presumptuous mistake.” The man raised his crossbow again, cocking his head to the side. “Okay, time’s up.”

Another arrow flashed in his direction. Spike was prepared. His hands clasped the small projectile before it could penetrate its target, and he consigned it with a distasteful grimace to the pavement.

“Love the attitude,” he snapped. “I take it we’ve met? Lemme guess…Once upon a time, I killed your sister. Or your uncle. Or your missus. Or—”

“Shut up!”

The platinum Cockney arched a brow. Oh. Perhaps he had.

This was not good.

He was really going to kill Lorne.

“Listen, mate,” he said, hands coming up before realizing that leaving himself entirely vulnerable was likely not in his best interest. “Whatever I did, whoever I killed…well, ‘s not like killin’ me’s gonna bring ‘em back. An’ frankly, I have better things to do than rassle this out. So—”

“Lovely to know that a vampire wouldn’t think to forget a face,” the man replied cynically. “As it is, you’re not the one I’m looking for.”

Spike arched a brow and looked pointedly to the crossbow.

“That doesn’t mean,” he continued, “that I’m not going to kill you anyway. Your existence is enough of a crime as far as I’m concerned.”

“An’ yet,” the Cockney retorted. “I’m willin’ to bet that I was here first. Look, I got no quarrel with you, so ‘f you’ll jus’—”

There was an incredulous snicker. “You’re actually trying to barter your way out?”

“What? This not a time for diplomacy?”

“A diplomatic vampire. I thought I’d never see it.” The crossbow lifted a bit, but it was more in gesture than to suggest threat. “You’re not living up to your reputation, William.”

The platinum blonde was impressed. Whoever it was had obviously done his homework. Enough to know demons by appearance, or perhaps it was a part of his trade. The Order, as it was. With as little as the Host had told him, he figured anything was fair game. “The name’s Spike. An’ for someone who seems to know so much ‘bout me, you might look into your more recent chapters.” He steepled two fingers against his head, arching his brows tellingly. “Can’t fight, ‘ave to be tactful. Got me a handicap.”

“Is that a fact?” The man shrugged as if it were of no consequence. “Well, I usually try to refrain from killing a man with glasses. Unfortunately, your vision’s fine and you’re not a man. So, without—”

If killing him was the hunter’s intention, Spike was struck with the radical realization that he could. The bloke was human and had a weapon he had proven more than efficient with at his disposal. And as quick as the vampire might be, he wasn’t quick enough to effectively dodge all further aims at his heart with a hope of synchronicity.

And if he died, Buffy died.

It was better to keep him talking. To try to keep him talking, if anything else.

“Who was it?”

“What?”

“Who was it? You’re sproutin’ off way too much fact an’ not enough fiction, not to mention a li’l testy ‘bout the relatives. You know about the Order of Aurelius, an’ I’m guessin’ have a few clues as to its key members.” There was a slow, reluctant nod in turn. “So, who was it? One of mine? Grand-pappy Angelus?”

“That what?”

“That hurt you.”

A pause. “Why do you care?”

Spike looked pointedly to the crossbow. “Do I really need to clarify?”

The man snickered. “Of course. Self-serving. I forget how petty you creatures can be. You think you have a chance of talking me out of this?”

“Now, there’s a thought.”

“You don’t. Give it up, blondie.”

“Oh, name-callin’, are we?” Spike’s gaze traveled briefly to the hunter’s strands. He had a head of chestnut hair to match his eyes, but even the darkness of the alley could not blind his vampiric eyesight to the bleached tips that starked nicely at the very ends. So, this bloke enjoyed hair-coloring from the bottle, too. That was interesting; it even looked to resemble his own preference. “Doesn’ seem like you have much room to talk.”

“Gave it up. It was a bit too high school for my taste.”

“Look, I don’ wanna—”

“—what, hurt me? First of all, you couldn’t. Second of all, bullshit.”

That was it. Spike grabbed whatever eyeful of bait he had been allowed and pounced, forcing the crossbow’s aim to the ground with one hand and socking its holder as hard as he could with the other. The chip fired before the hit even had chance to connect, but that didn’t stop him from knocking the man off his feet and into the corresponding wall.

“Bloody hell!” he shouted, hand going instinctively to his cranium, even if an external massage did little to alleviate the pain. “See? This is what ‘m sayin’. Jump to conclusions, an’ people get hurt.”

“You’re not people,” the man snarled.

And then lunged.

Where the crossbow had gotten off to, Spike hadn’t the faintest, and he wasn’t exactly sure which he would have preferred. An all-out fists and fangs brawl that he couldn’t participate in; rather hope to dodge without receiving a massive shock to his neurological bug-zapper, or a date with a dusty ending.

For the millionth time, he arrived at the conclusion that the chip had to go.

The face-off quickly became a game of dodge. Spike located the discarded crossbow and quickly consigned it to the dumpster he had seen earlier. He didn’t bother to see if his aim had been satisfactory; but by the absence of a loud clamoring at the ground, he knew it was out of the picture.

Before he could turn around, however, two very masculine hands grasped by the shoulders and he was on the ground the next instant. “Come on, you bastard,” the man snapped. “Drop it.”

“Me?” Spike repeated incredulously. “You’re the one with a sodding attitude problem.”

“I wasn’t aware that there was a Vampire Awareness week. See, by my book, you can’t dust too many.”

That was it. He was tired of playing nice—especially when this was evidently the bloke he had been sent to find. What good was he going to do anyone if he was dead? “All right. That does it. Who the hell are you? Some kinda Slayer wannabe?” The peroxide Cockney rolled to his feet. “Brassed ‘cause have a pair too much to qualifyin’ for the job? You’re in over your head.”

The hunter paused at that, gracing him with a perplexed glance. “What the fuck is a Slayer?”

Oh. Sod. All.

With a huff of frustration, Spike pivoted sharply on his feet, arms outstretched as he raised his voice to no one in particular. Then he was screaming, venting everything he couldn’t through his hands by means of his voice. “What the bloody FUCK am I doin’ out here?!” he shouted. He turned his eyes to the sky—addressing God or the Powers That Be or whatever it was that decided that seeing him chase after an allusion was so amusing. Rage in its purest concentrate coursed through his veins. In all his years, he couldn’t remember being so angry, and there were a lot of spots in the running. “I don’t have time for you to fuck with me! I don’t have time to be pointed in a bunch of novelty directions while you sit on your less-than-holy arses an’ have a bloody good laugh. She’s gonna die if you—”

“Who the hell are you talking to?”

“The filth. The smog. The roaches. Take your bloody pick.”

There was a beat of hesitance. “You’re just trying to distract me. It won’t work.”

Spike rolled his eyes and turned back to his adversary. “’m not tryin’ anythin’, mate. But it looks as though you’re already distracted. ‘F you weren’t, you wouldn’t’ve taken the time to explain how it wouldn’t work.”

The next thing he knew, he had been forced to the ground once more. A field of blue crashed with a wave of brown, understanding layered behind depths of prejudice. Something that another of his kind—perhaps his own Order—had placed there at some point. But that only held the vampire’s attention for a second.

There was a stake in his hand.

Spike’s eyes went wide.

It was time for one of the aforementioned distractions. A purposeful one. A good one. He knew a thing or two about those. Something completely random, wholly unexpected, and the last thing anyone would think to hear from a vampire. His mind raced to an image of Xander playing some insidious James Bond videogame in the days where they had been roommates, and his eyes sparkled with inspiration. Without allotting time to reconsider, he held out a hand and cried: “Stop in the name of the British government!”

Blink.

That had to be the dumbest thing that had ever crossed his lips.

It worked.

The man’s arm faltered and his face fell, utter bewilderment soaring behind his eyes. There was no stopping the same from reaching his voice. “…What?!”

Spike flashed a grin and rolled to his feet. In an instant, he had the hunter stranded without a weapon and was effectively putting his technique of ‘hitting without the intention of hitting’ front to good use. The same he had pulled on the Slayer several weeks ago. A night in the alley outside the Bronze. The technique worked until he mimicked the act that had rendered him on the pavement a minute before—tossing the man to the ground with such unleveled hostility that a sharp shimmer of pain attacked with all the expectancy in the world.

And just like that, it was over. While the vampire recovered from the chip’s activation, the hunter’s attention had momentarily shifted to something that had fallen from his adversary’s pocket in the midst of the scuffle.

A business card.

“Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” came the soft murmur.

Spike was staring at the man, wide-eyed. “You can read that?” he demanded, gesturing to the darkness that surrounded them. “Bloody hell, I never thought I’d find a human with eyesight better than mine.”

“Years of practice. How do you know Wes?”

“Jus’ an acquaintance, really.” The vampire found he was panting needlessly, as though he had just given his all at a track meet. It had been more than a long time since he had a good brawl with anything. He missed it with such fervor that it nearly broke him on bad days, and had the circumstances been different, he might have taken the time to realize that despite all, this encounter was just what he needed.

For now, it was occurring to him that perhaps Lorne might not have been playing him a fool. He studied the man intently before moving forward. Not close enough to open himself up to an encore, but to gauge his position. An unshaven chin, dark used-to-be-bleached hair, a set jaw, and he knew the eyes. Spike verified silently that his initial estimation had been right. This was someone set into the game as an act of vengeance. Someone that had been wronged in the past. Someone that had a vendetta against vampires—particularly those of his Order—for a good reason.

A reason he was determined to discover.

“Wes would…” the man continued, shaken. “Associate with vampires?”

“Depends on the vamp. ‘E was one of Angel’s for a while.” The look he received was clearly stunned. “Before the wanker went out an’ lost his soul again. The old git might be a ponce, but ‘e doesn’ fancy sidin’ with demons that’re out…well…demonizin’ every night.”

“So he’s one of yours now?”

“No. ‘E’s jus’ helpin’ me.” Spike hazarded another step closer. “Listen, mate. I don’ know who the hell you are or why you wager my head would look better on a stick, other than the obvious. But I’m guessin’ that means bugger all. You know who I am.”

“Yes. I’ve done my research.”

“You a Watcher, then?”

Well, that hardly followed. The peroxide vampire flinched inwardly at the hint of redundancy. If he was a Watcher, he would sure as hell know what a Slayer was. One would think.

And yet, the answer he received surprised him. A telling snicker—one that knew its confines. Nearly conversational. “Hardly.”

Spike arched a brow. “But you know what one is?”

A shrug at that. “Wes was one. That’s all I know.” The man paused a minute and glanced up. “I’m a demon hunter. Well, vampire hunter, but demon hunter’s general. Gives me some leverage.”

“I see. Any particular reason?”

He quieted.

“Okay. We’ll work up to the personals, then.” Spike decided to go for broke. The stake was immaterial at the moment, and there wasn’t much that his opponent could do to harm him without a weapon at the ready. Anything that he might have on his persons was safely stored in some compartment or hidden pocket, and he would have more than enough time to leap out of the way if it came to that. He crouched on his knees beside him. “You have it in for vampires?”

An arched brow. Well, that had been a rather stupid question. “Gee, you think so?”

“The Order’s bein’ reassembled. My own sodding family tree. Angelus, Darla, Dru—the whole bloody works. I take it you’re familiar with them, too.” He didn’t need a reply to confirm that theory. “An’ they happen to—”

“You’re William the Bloody.”

“Well, yeh. As we’ve established.”

“Why aren’t you with them?”

That question had effectively reached its limit. He was tired of people—especially people who didn’t know him particularly well—demanding the status of his nature. “’S complicated, mate,” he replied gruffly. “Let’s jus’ say, there’s this girl.”

“Ah. Always about a girl.”

“Not jus’ any girl. Chosen bird. Slayer. Killer of evil things.”

“And we’re progressing into the ‘sounding like a really bad episode of Passions.’” The man had looked away before Spike’s eyes could brighten in turn. “Let me guess. Classic ‘beauty and the beast’ syndrome. The big bad monster tripping over himself for a chance at the one girl he’s never supposed to have.”

Spike shuffled uncomfortably. “Somethin’ like that.”

An incredulous snort. “And you want me to help you?”

“No. I want you to help her.” He sighed. “This particular Slayer has a bit of bad history with vamps belongin’ to the Aurelius clan. An’ now they ‘ave her. Don’ particularly wanna picture what they’re doin’ to her. What they’re—”

The man held up a hand in ode for a pause. “Wait, wait, wait. Please speak into my good ear. Are you saying you’re in against this? You’re willing to go against your…” He trailed off; evidently finding whatever it was he needed ready in the vampire’s eyes. “Wow. Now there’s something I’d never expected to find in a vampire, even for a girl. She must be a hottie.”

Spike smiled. There was simply nothing to say to that.

“And you want me to help you?” It didn’t sound nearly as incriminating this time. Cautious, yes, and still a bit on the skeptical side, but leaning more toward something that resembled conviction.

The Cockney’s jaw tightened and his eyes stormed over, thoughts wandering when they shouldn’t. “I want her back, mate. Safe an’ sound. Whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes?” The hunter paused considerately. “You understand this sounds completely and utterly ridiculous. I know vamps. Vamps aren’t typically the type to pull all this righteous bullshit. I—”

“Well, I’m not one to follow the rules. ‘F you know me so well, you’d’ve quoted that back to me by now.” Spike slowly rose to his feet, steps heavy with finale. “You can keep that card. Look up the white hats ‘f you get around to feelin’ particularly heroic. In the meantime, dreadfully sorry, but I gotta be off. Needin’ to see about a girl.”

It wouldn’t take a phone call. They both knew it before another beat could pass.

The vampire had only taken five steps when he was stopped. The man bid him halt, fished out his crossbow from the dumpster and recollected his stake, mounting all into their security packets and nooks before moving to join him. His steps were slow but deliberate; marking everything that he was. A reluctant accompaniment to something he wasn’t sure he believed in.

“You understand that if I discover this is anything—”

“You’ll stake me good an’ proper.” He rolled his eyes with a treacherous grin. “Somethin’ tells me you’re gonna fit right in.” They walked in silence for a few minutes before it threatened to consume them. Spike was not an advocator of silence; especially when there was an alternative at the ready. “You got a name?”

There was a beat of hesitation, but he complied nonetheless. “Zachary Wright,” he said softly. “…Zack. Just Zack.”

The vampire grinned and decided to proceed for the hell of it. Might as well make something out of an otherwise completely random encounter, even if he hadn’t the faintest idea where it was supposed to lead him. “Zachary Wright, demon hunter extraordinaire, I’m William the Bloody. Or Spike. Jus’ Spike, preferably. Begrudgingly reluctant to make your acquaintance.”

Wright smirked a bit at that, and soon they were chuckling together. The sort of laugh that was disguised as much as possible. Like two children caught giggling in church.

If anything else, it was a start.

Chapter Fourteen

Let It Rain

An unfamiliar face crowded the entryway to Angel Investigations, but Spike did not let that slow him down.

The hotel had come to life at some point between his arrival and the evening’s deepened end. Amazing that a building that had looked to be abandoned could activate with all the general expectancy that coincided with the detective agency motif. It was broadened and had an effect that almost soothed. As though the string of normality so craved, despite the concurrence of recent events, was not far out of reach.

The only unusual aspect was the icy blonde woman lurking beside the entry. She was looking at them expectantly; gaze convicting them of a crime they hadn’t heard the charges to. He granted her a half-interested nod before turning his attention to the expectant eyes that immediately demanded for attention without saying a word.

“Evenin’, all.”

“Don’t ‘evening all’ us!” Cordelia snapped, though he could tell she wasn’t genuinely upset. “You have some explaining to do, mister!”

He arched a brow. “’S it about the pig’s blood? Well, luv, hate to break it to you, but a vamp’s gotta eat.”

Gunn was reclined comfortably against the front desk, his arms folded crossly athwart his chest. A snicker rumbled through lips, and he earned an inquisitive look in turn. “If only,” he said, chuckling in spite of himself. “Man oh man, are you ever in for it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you could sing like that?!” The irate brunette had graced his arm with several meaningful swats, and it didn’t look like she was calming down any time soon. “I used to have connections! You could’ve made it big!”

“Like that vampire from what’s-her-face’s novel,” Gunn added.

Spike rolled his eyes. “Sodding no. I din’t tell you ‘cause I don’ sing…often. Or voluntarily, less ‘s for somethin’ special.” Without prompt, he turned on his heels to usher in the guest, who passed the anonymous woman with a polite, if not uncomfortable smile. It was more than obvious that despite surroundings, he wasn’t entirely at ease with the set up. And that was reasonable. The walk back had been tedious and silent. There was some reluctant camaraderie; they were not going to go out of their way to be friends.

Reluctant associations. Spike was a tool for vengeance; Zack was a tool for leverage. And that was the way it was.

“Anyway, let’s make around the room with the introductions,” the vampire said, gesturing his companion forward. “Cordy…” He turned to the woman standing at the door and appraised her with another nod, “bint I don’ know, an’ Charlie—” Gunn offered a throaty cough at that, but he earned little more than a cocky smile in turn. “—meet Zack Wright. Bloke who wants me an’ all of my kind dead.” He nodded to Wesley, who was staring slightly agape. Wide-eyed and dumbfound. “Wager you two need no introduction.”

The former Watcher finally snapped back to himself and moved forward, steps colored with astonishment. “Well, I’ll be damned. Zachary! How are you?”

At that, the stern façade that had guarded the hunter’s exterior seemingly faded, and he offered a kind smile. “Wes. Good to see you.”

“What on earth brings you all the way to Los Angeles?”

A sigh rumbled through Zack’s throat and he fidgeted slightly. The sort of conduct that screamed an uncomfortable disposition. “I was dropped a lead a few weeks ago, about Darla.” He wisely ignored the telling and rather triumphant sparkle that overwhelmed the vampire at that. An answer without the obligatory pestering. “I had to come.” He stepped forward at that, eyes narrowing. “The last I heard, she was eating dust.”

“Yes, well…” Wesley glanced down self-consciously. “Wolfram and Hart have powerful means of getting what they want. Evidently, she managed to wheedle her way to the top of their list.” He nodded at Spike. “He’s all right. We have an…associate that has a way of seeing into the intentions of others.”

Spike arched a brow. “You chatted up Lorne ‘bout me?”

“Of course,” he replied. “We had to be sure. After all, we were taking a lot on faith.”

“An’ here I could’ve sworn that was your sodding motto. You are the goody good guys, right?”

“Ahem?” Cordelia said from her corner, waving a little. “Hello? You guys mind filling us in, because I really think we missed something.” She pointed to the hunter skeptically. “Who’s this and how do you know him?”

“I jus’ gave the introduction,” Spike grumbled. “Doesn’ anyone around here pay attention?”

“Zack Wright,” Wesley retorted, ignoring the undead houseguest. “A vampire hunter I met in San Antonio. This is the man who inspired me to engage in the practice of rogue demon hunting before I joined the Angel Investigations team last year.”

Gunn chortled. “That must’ve been a picture.”

“I’m afraid your arrival couldn’t have come at a better time,” the former Watcher continued. “We have a situation on our hands that—”

“Yeah, Spike told me.” Zack nodded professionally, dislodging his crossbow and bag to the floor. “The Order of Aurelius. And something about a…Slayer?”

“Oh, they’re kinda like you,” Cordelia offered, moving forward intently, “only female and Chosen…and they have this super-strength thing going for them. And it’s a part of this larger thing… Anyway, Wes used to be in the mix, so he can fill in the blanks.”

The air filled with the crisp attention of an unfamiliar tenor; the same undoubtedly owned by the woman at the doorway. She didn’t look any less severe than she had upon first entrance, but Spike wagered that she had held back a little of her usual attitude and forwardness. “Excuse me,” she said, before immediately finding herself the center of attention. “Not that I’m not sure this all very important, not to mention interesting, but there are more imperative things right now. Cordelia, I—”

“Right, right,” the brunette agreed sharply. “Spike, this is Detective Kate Lockley. You’ll like her; she hates Angel. Anyway, she’s here on behalf of Wolfram and Hart.”

“Spike?” Lockley repeated, arching an incredulous vampire. There was no mistaking the note of distaste that colored her voice. “As in, one of them? More vampires?”

Zack pivoted sharply to her, his interest suddenly piqued.

The peroxide Cockney rolled his eyes. “Oh for cryin’…twice in one night. Yes, I’m a vampire. There, ‘s out. Everyone stop makin’ a big thing outta it. I’m a vampire. A bad, evil, scary, vampire—”

“Not really helping the cause,” Cordelia warned through her teeth.

“And I would reconsider the ‘scary’,” Gunn suggested.

Wesley stepped forward, intrigued. “You know about Spike?” he asked softly.

Kate nodded, her distrustful gaze never abandoning the peroxide vampire. “Yes,” she replied. “After the truth about Angel came out in all its deceitful glory, I spent quite a few days becoming very acquainted with his family tree.” She took a few bold steps toward the Cockney, accusing eyes refusing to falter. “I know all about you. William the Bloody, right? For impaling people with railroad spikes?”

A terribly flustered look overwhelmed him, and Spike backpedaled. “Erm, no. Tha’s where the nickname comes from. William the Bloody an’ all that rot’s a very dull, not-worth-mentionin’—”

“So, two nasty monikers,” Zack muttered distastefully. “Great.”

“The other one’s for butcherin’ somethin’ a li’l less human, mate.” He turned back to Lockley. “Not that it matters for rot now. I really don’ give a damn what you think of me, luv. You say you came ‘ere on behalf of Wolfram an’ Hart? ‘Ave you heard her? Seen her? Is she—”

“What are you talking about?”

Gunn snickered. “We never got to tell you. Spike here’s a little preoccupied with a heroic rescue mission. Seems your favorite vamp snagged his favorite Slayer. Trust me, you’ll have the full story soon. Damn Brit can’t talk about anything but.”

“I haven’t heard anything about a Slayer,” Lockley replied. “Only that you mentioned one a minute ago. What is that? Another demon?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “You did all your vamp homework but never bothered to look up the Slayer? Wow. A true note in investigative reportin’. Nice work, Detective.” He turned expectantly to Wesley. “Well, go ahead. This is your territory, right?”

At that, the former Watcher rolled his eyes and straightened. He looked like a schoolboy about make a recitation of a speech had long ago memorized and grown bored with. “In every generation there is a Chosen One,” he said monotonously. “She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer.” He shook his head. “God, I never realized how much that sounds like some deranged fraternity chant.”

“You actually have one in custody,” Cordelia said. “Remember Faith? The fugitive that Angel was harboring last year that you pulled a major wig over?” She paused at that. “Oh wait. You do that over everything. Anyway, never mind, she was a Slayer.”

Lockley frowned in confusion, gesturing to Wesley. “But he just said there’s just one in every generation,” she replied. “How—”

“Something about how Buffy died for like a second. It called the next Slayer, even if she didn’t formally kick it,” Cordelia explained. “It’s a screwy, flawed system. What can I say? Anyway, she and Angel had this torrid love affair that ended in general nastiness—”

Spike snickered.

“—so, naturally, as Angelus, she would be one of the first people he’d wanna target. Wolfram and Hart decided to take it a step up in that direction. They had Darla and Drusilla—you’ve read about Dru, right?—snatch her up from Sunnydale. Spike here has, for whatever reason, developed the major Buffy-boner, and—”

“Oi!”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Puhlease, Spike. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Gunn shook his head, smothering an arrogant smile. “You’re really not.”

“Hell,” Zack offered, grinning broadly now. “I’ve only known you for an hour and I could tell that right off.”

“Other than the fact that I told you right off,” Spike retorted. Then he was sulking. “Right. ‘S not like the lot of you have to rub it in.”

In an odd moment of synchronicity, the three locked gazes and marked their objection. “Yes we do,” they decided.

“Regardless,” Kate interrupted, dragging everyone back into hindsight. “Lindsey didn’t tell me any of this. All he said was that Angel had turned and that I should—”

“Lindsey told you as much as he could without incriminating himself,” Wesley clarified slightly. “I know he’s being indicted for warning us before Angelus could tear us apart. Bringing you in is not going to help him, and Wolfram and Hart does not tolerate negligence on the company line.”

“He’s doing as much as he can without getting himself sacked,” Gunn agreed. “And that’s the literal sort. Sacked and dumped somewhere.”

Spike sighed, caressing his brow with the foreknowledge of an impending headache. “So, this bloke din’t mention Buffy?”

“The Slayer?” He nodded. “No. Just that…I should come here.”

“Well, that was right considerate of him.”

“How are you hoping to get close to her, anyway?” Cordelia asked. “It’s not like you can walk in there and say, ‘Oh, by the way, you know that blonde that you snatched from Sunnydale? Well, we’d really like her back, if you don’t mind.’ Honestly, have you thought this through at all?”

His eyes widened. “’ve done all I can! Came to you sods, let you drag me to some demon pub, bloody sang, an’ nearly waved goodbye to my dusty bits ‘cause I thought it’d be of some sodding use. What was that? A bloody rouse? I’m not used to playin’ a white hat! This is the best I can do. A li’l help would be appreciated.” An irritated string of profanity perturbed the air, and he began pacing. “God, this is all so buggered up. ‘F I ‘ad jus’ kept my big mouth bloody shut in SunnyD, I could’ve gone with ‘em an’ gotten her out that way. But oh no. Darla the Fucking Herald has to mention that li’l diddy after she’s so bloody sure I’d decline an’…God, I wanna rip her innards out.”

A shadow flickered over Zack’s face. “Get in line,” he said quietly.

“Can’t you just contact them and say that you’ve changed your mind?” Cordelia wondered.

Spike’s gaze narrowed. “Yeh, ‘cause that won’t look suspicious at all.”

“Well, sorry! I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“Wait,” Wesley said, stepping forward. “Angelus’s pattern is to torture his victims extensively. If Buffy has been in his hands this long, it is safe to consider that she has already—”

A very still, very cold note rang through the room. Spike’s hands formed fists at his sides, his bumpies threatening to emerge on the very thought. The look he delivered was sharp and dangerous, and everyone in the room, regardless of disposition, was suddenly very grateful for the chip. “Finish that sentence,” he growled, “an’ I’ll make you wish you were never born.”

Zack’s brows arched skeptically.

Cordelia was quieted for the moment, but decided to go for broke anyway. Her voice was considerably softer than before. Meek and, if possible, frightened. “Gee Spike,” she said with a slight titter. “Cliché much?”

It was silent for another long moment.

“Okay,” Gunn said loudly, snapping everyone back into place as he rubbed his hands together. “And we’ve established that Spike can still be scary. All opposed? All right. I stand corrected. Either way, man, chill. It was nothing personal. I think Wes was just trying to make a point.”

“I was,” the former Watcher agreed. “Admittedly, I have never encountered Angel in his…darker state…I don’t believe that he would have…” He glanced up hesitantly, but the vampire’s eyes had softened even if his glare had not. “I don’t believe he would have killed Buffy, despite the consistency of habit. With a Slayer, I believe he would…”

“Make it as painful as possible,” Lockley voiced from her corner. She earned a glare for her observation, but matched it all the same. “And that means as long as possible. Right?”

“Precisely.” Wesley nodded before turning back to the platinum vampire. “But you wouldn’t know that. If you approach the Order now with the front that you seek penance for your…transgression without Buffy involved, then—”

“Why would they believe that Spike wouldn’t know this Slayer chick is alive?” Zack demanded. “I’d think that a vamp that knows them as well as he does would have figured all this out sooner than two people who’ve read up on it.”

The peroxide Cockney pointed to him appraisingly. “The boy’s gotta point. Theory doesn’ fly, Wes.”

“Because you know Angelus’s mannerisms better than anyone.”

“’E’s not gonna be too keen on believin’ me as it is. Last time I was face-to-face with the Great Poofter in all his evil glory, I tried to knock his head off with a crowbar.”

Cordelia’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Remember that whole Acathla thing? Yeh. Pulled a truce with Buffy then, too.” Spike snorted. “For the ‘good of human kind.’”

“You didn’t have a thing for her then, did you?”

His eyes widened, appalled. “Of bloody course not!” came the vehement denial, followed irrefutably by a sea of unconvinced gazes. “Well, it wasn’ what I feel for her now. More like mutual admiration as well as raging hatred for my mortal enemy, all right? Sure, I woulda…” He trailed off and cleared his throat. “Truthfully, I sided with her then to get Dru back. Dru din’t take kindly to that. An’…well, the rest isn’ important.”

Wesley pursed his lips. “My point was this,” he continued. “If you call or contact Angelus, Darla…whomever it is that you would…to see if their offer still stands, and presume a façade of surprise when word of the Slayer is mentioned, then—”

“They’ll still find it suspicious, mate,” Spike retorted. “Trust me. No one makes for a sudden change of heart of that bloody magnitude. Not where they’re concerned. An’ I was much too forthright with my…feelings for the Slayer when Darla chatted me up, ‘cause I’m a right wanker.”

“How forthright?” Cordelia asked.

“She mentioned Dru was attackin’ Buffy, an’ I bolted from my crypt.”

“Wow,” the brunette commended, brows arched. “You’re dumb.”

“To say the least.” Then he frowned. “Oi!”

Zack ducked his head to shadow the grin that instinctually claimed his lips.

“Regardless of plausibility,” Wesley continued, holding up a hand. “Does anyone here have a better proposition? If we cannot get Spike to work from the inside, then getting Buffy out and to safety is going to take a measure of cunning that she might not have time to sit around and wait for. In spite of Angelus’s altered mode of operation, he will eventually tire of her.” His eyes focused intently on the flustered peroxide vampire. “Won’t he?”

There was nothing to say to that. Spike’s silence spoke for all the things that he could not.

“If Darla refuses to adhere to her offer, then we need to know now,” the former Watcher decided firmly. “Else, we are simply wasting time…and that is something that Buffy cannot afford.”

A beat of reflective silence settled through the lobby. Calmly tense in some incongruous respect. Spike turned away, afraid his eyes would betray the weight of his concern—something that, despite whatever jokes had been made at his expense, had only been explored in the quantity of the iceberg’s tip. A fraction of what awaited in a sea of uncharted feelings. His plethora that insisting on maintaining a safe, steadfast distance.

The wrong decision could cost the Slayer her life.

And he would never recover. Never forgive himself.

Too much was riding on a simple yes or no.

“Spike,” Wesley said softly. “If this fails, we will find another way. I promise. We’re going to put up a fight…we just need to know where we stand.”

And that was that. The vampire nodded, realizing for the strike of no particular epiphany that he truly wasn’t alone. A notion that struck deep—engorged firmly in his gut in a way that was unsurpassable to any sense of belonging that he had ever felt with the Scoobies. The dawn of new reason.

These people were going to help him. Trust him. Because they wanted to.

“Right,” he agreed, closing his eyes as he reached the end of his proverbial tunnel. One of them. The first of many. “So how do I go ‘bout this? Waltz into Wolfram an’ Hart an’ schedule an appointment with the Great Poof between torture sessions?”

“Call Lindsey,” Cordelia offered. “He’s our best bet right now.”

“Great. Leave it in the hands of the lackey.”

“He has a thing for Darla. She trusts him.”

“Even with all the runnin’ around behind their backs that he’s done?”

At that, Lockley spoke up. “I don’t think they know about that. From what McDonald told me, the firm is trying to keep the Order as secluded as possible from their outer dealings. They want them at their disposal if and when the time comes…but Darla had set the grounding that they’re not going to be working for the firm; the firm would be working for them.”

Zack bristled and turned from the crowd. “Some things never change.”

Spike extended his arms in open welcome of advice, brows quirking as he surveyed the room for the first taker. “All right then. Into the bloody belly of the beast it is. Anyone ‘ave any sodding suggestions that might mark a scale on the helpful side? I’m all ears.”

There was a beat of silence and the exchange of several blank glances.

“I have the number to McDonald’s private line,” Lockley finally offered, stepping forward and digging out a business card. It was to the dry-cleaners, Spike noted with some amusement, but the extension to Lindsey’s line was scribbled on the back. “He wanted…well, he wanted me to keep in touch. In case things got out of line.”

“What were you gonna do?” Cordelia demanded skeptically. “Throw stones at Angel? Hon, he’s not exactly gonna be a pushover. The only reason you got close to him in the past was because he was Angel. Angelus is a completely different matter.”

Spike nodded but snatched the proffered number up anyway. “Yeh,” he murmured. “Luv, you can read up on us all you bloody well want to. Din’t do much good for Zangy over here.” He gestured to Zack, who looked both confused and slightly affronted at the brandishing of a random nickname, but everyone else seemed to follow without hindrance. “’m not the bloke I’m depicted to be throughout history—though some of the stuff they’ve jotted down is right complimentary. I did a lot of badness, but I wasn’ as…” The vampire stopped again when he realized he was the center of several pointedly accusing glares and held out his hands again. “All right, I was a mean, nasty bastard. But Angelus? Much as I hate to admit it, you can’t confine what ‘e did to others to paper an’ expect any degree of accuracy. The stuff I’ve read up on him for laughs paints a monster, but not a legend. An’ that’s what he strove for. The bloody legend. Had to be the best at everythin’. When it came to bein’ a nasty bugger, he beat out the lot of us.”

“I think the best option is to call Lindsey,” Wesley maintained. “Establish contact. Claim that you have rethought your position, and now wish to rejoin your family. If they don’t buy it, at least we know where we stand.”

There was a heavy breath of concession. Spike’s eyes found the ground, evidently fascinated with an unmoving spot etched across the marble. When he spoke again, the tenor of his voice had dropped several degrees. Nearly compassionate; the closest to human anyone had ever seen him approach. It wasn’t prompted—it was just. And that made it all the more real. “I’m hesitant to do anythin’,” he admitted softly. “’m…what ‘f they jus’ kill her? ‘Cause of me?”

A note of respected silence flittered through the air.

“It’s a bad situation,” Lockley finally said. The statement in itself was more than obvious, but her observation of its existence was somehow soothing. Even if the line of sincerity was difficult to draw.

“They’re not going to wait around for you to make a move,” Wright added. “It’s not like they know you’re in town.”

Cordelia arched a brow. “Actually, they probably do. It’s hard for a pin to drop in this city without Wolfram and Hart being all over it.”

“But that doesn’t mean they’re relating the information to Angelus and Darla,” Wesley continued. “Chances are, if Lindsey is in charge—”

“—I don’t know that he’s in charge,” Lockley interceded sharply. “He’s just the one who contacted me.”

“Be that as it may, I don’t believe he would have gone out of his way unless he thought that things were slipping from the firm’s control. Wolfram and Hart might be a powerful, deadly force, but the Order of Aurelius has older blood working at its side. Darla is four hundred, and her sire was the oldest in recorded history.” The former Watcher stroked his jaw in thought, breaking into a segmented and more sedated pace that mimicked Spike in stride if not in speed. “Lindsey’s warning to us came out of civility. It wasn’t because he thought that the situation had exceeded their control. His move to use you, Detective, as a bargaining tool, solidifies his status. He doesn’t want to be directly implicated. If his pattern has shown anything, it’s that he is deliberately taking baby steps, attempting to keep Angelus from the loop of what is going on in the corporate office.” He stopped and glanced up. “And in doing so, I believe they will try to keep Buffy alive as long as possible.”

Zack frowned. “Why?”

“To keep them occupied,” Gunn concluded.

Spike shook his head, unconvinced. “I still don’ see how tha’s gonna amount to rot. ‘F Peaches finds somethin’ he wants done, ‘e does it. Sod the wankers in charge an’ all that. An’ yeh, she’ll keep him busy for a while. Doin’ things…to her…” He stopped once more and his eyes went dark. It didn’t take as long as expected. Rather, the platinum vampire drew in a deep breath and nodded after a few seconds. “Right. Right. ‘S better to know now where we stand. ‘F they touch her, I’ll—”

Everyone immediately tensed again at the sign of an impending tangent. Gunn seized initiative; stepping forward sharply and placing a neutral hand on the vampire’s shoulder. “Save it for the baddies, man. I think I speak for everyone when I say, we know what you’re going to do them isn’t pretty.”

“Yeesh,” Cordelia agreed, nodding emphatically. “I can only imagine. Have I told you recently that you’ve got it to a degree of bad that I thought couldn’t be achieved before?”

Spike snickered but didn’t reply, turning instead to Lockley. “Right then,” he said diplomatically. “Looks like I got me a phone call to make.”

Chapter Fifteen

Ashes

It didn’t take long to decide that there were a few missing principles to be satisfied before something even as rudimentary as a phone call could be accomplished. Two seconds after the vampire’s announcement, Wesley made the obligatory observation that maintaining a separation from Angel Investigations was imperative to the success of their endeavor, and that Wolfram and Hart would certainly have the means to deduce that Spike’s phone call came from the Hyperion. Being that the Cockney lacked a cell phone of his own, it took several minutes of persuasion and finally a concession from Zack Wright that his own could be forfeited. He did not like the idea of Darla being that close to recognizing his name—for reasons he still refused to disclose—but conceded that it was likely more important for this Slayer person to be apprehended than to keep his continued ambiguity maintained.

That wasn’t to say his personal feelings on the matter had alleviated any. While the trip to Angel Investigations had definitely made him more personable, there was a suspicious leer in his eyes that clearly established his discontent in being centered in such negotiations. His objective was Darla’s death—that much was all he would release. And true, it was obvious that he felt a string of curiosity where Buffy Summers was concerned.

The fact that she was something connected to the higher influence in worldly apprehension and perpetual fight against demons helped considerably. And, though he refused to comment in one way or another, Spike suspected that he was also tempted by human curiosity. To see this person that could bring the notorious William the Bloody to his knees with no additive influence other than her being. Her goodness.

“Remember,” Wesley said cautiously, “he might have been instructed to lead you on in a certain way. Don’t take anything to heart. We’ll have Detective Lockley phone him immediately following—”

“Yeh, yeh,” Spike said dismissively, hoping his tone masked how anxious he was. With as much as he wanted to have this over with, there was a certain measure of safety in the imprecision. As long as he remained ignorant, Buffy could still be rescued. She was still waiting for him. Still there, if only a trip across town from reach.

If he received word that the worst had already happened, that safety net was robbed from him. He couldn’t imagine it. A world without the Slayer. Without her.

Funny. With as often as he had tried to kill her in the past, he had never thought through to conclusion the effect of her death. He would have mourned even then. To see the pass of such a formidable foe. There had been Slayers in the past and, however he wished to deny it, there would be Slayers in the future. But there was only one Buffy. Only one worthy of the title mortal enemy. The others had not the chance to come halfway as close as she had to delving beyond the protective walls he had put up, even without realizing it. Those established when he died. When he abolished humanity from his system. When he discovered the trophy of Slayer blood. When Drusilla left him.

Buffy Summers had broken through all of them. She had, in essence, made him human all over again. A terrifying realization. One he resented with every fiber of his being. He hated her for it. He worshipped her for it. He had wished her dead more times than he could count, but love betrayed him with more power than he could credit. His love for her was the most frightening enterprise he had ever undertaken; he knew it had the power to consume him, break him, destroy him. He had already crossed more boundaries than he ever thought possible. And there were others ahead.

He wouldn’t stop until she was back. Until he had her home.

Even if she never returned anything of what he wanted to offer.

He would have sworn his heart started beating again as the phone rang. While he had not requested it, he almost wished the others had left him in peace for this. It was Wesley’s observation that at least one person needed to be present in case he looked to lose it with whatever Lindsey related, but a group audience seemed on the side of overkill.

Spike chuckled inwardly in spite of himself. He never thought he would see the day when he complained about overkill. There was definitely a first for everything.

The phone was answered on the fifth ring. A sharp and disinterested call into the receiver. “McDonald.”

And just like that, every reservation the vampire had carried dissolved just as easily. He was pacing, but more to keep moving than out of anxiety. “The very same…oh, how’d she put it…‘charmingly ignorant personal association’ that Darla mentioned when she dropped by?”

There was a pause. He could almost smell the air heating with awareness.

Then the man cleared his throat and dropped something that sounded like a pen. “William the Bloody, I presume?”

“’S Spike, mate. Jus’ Spike. I’m not interested in a bunch of bollocks made to up my rep. Do that enough on my own.” The vampire glanced briefly to Cordelia, finding solace in her presence for a random, unidentified courtesy. “I know I’m a li’l late for the party, but you see, I ‘ave this problem. Last year, a group of government—”

“Yes, the chip. We have the information on you. More than you likely realize.” There was a heady pause. “Darla, however, related that you had declined her offer, and all the benefits that came with it. I don’t suppose this call is to reverse the implications of that status. Certainly, you have been informed that Wolfram and Hart contracts are structured on a one-time-only basis.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed, and he felt his patience begin to ebb. “This contract isn’t with Wolfram an’ Bloody Hart, you enormous ponce. ‘S with—” There was a loud cough. Cordelia’s gaze had pointed warningly and forced him to calm without a word in the affirmative. “’m callin’ ‘cause I changed my mind.”

“The contract the standing members of the Order established is connected to the Senior Partners.” Another pompous pause. The vampire decided without any incentive in either direction that he did not like this wanker one bit. “Either way, I was told you might be in contact. Something about your family being in possession of something you want. The message I am to give you is as follows…” McDonald cleared his throat again. “‘Tell my dearest that Angelus has already given me my treat, and that mummy fixed all that was wrong. It’s over now. We made a banquet of her heart.’ It was done shortly after they arrived, I believe. Truthfully, Mister—oh I’m sorry— Spike, we haven’t kept much contact with them for the past few days. But I was instructed to tell you that if it’s the Slayer you seek, it’s too late in that regard. She has already been taken care of.”

In all honesty, Spike wasn’t sure how he stopped his legs from collapsing. How his brain continued to function. How his motor skills didn’t abandon him. How he failed to crumple to his knees and scream his pain. Somewhere secluded, his mind switched to autopilot as the rest of him bowed with the infliction of every holy relic he had ever thought to encounter. An inward mantra initiated immediately, reassuring him that it was a rouse. That McDonald was acting under orders. That he had been told to relate the same. That Buffy was dead. But he found no comfort in empty promises. From here, from where he stood, all was lost. He couldn’t see her. Couldn’t feel or taste her. If it were true, if she was dead, blood would run in the streets. There would be anger, then vengeance, then sorrow. Tears purchased with crimson tidings.

Right now, though, there was nothing. A big, empty nothing.

“Well, then ‘s a bloody good thing I’m not callin’ about the sodding Slayer, isn’t it?!” he heard himself shout. Distant. As though watching his form on a screen with no say as to what came out of his mouth. What lie conjured that could be spread with any degree of persuasion. “Tell that wanker Angelus that I have a piece to speak with him, an’ to be at Caritas tomorrow. Sunset. You got me?”

“I will relate the message,” Lindsey replied conversationally. There was no evidence of the slightest intimidation. That something he would never get used to. Being a vampire that didn’t invoke fear. “My apologies for the misunderstanding. I’m sure he will be most interested to hear what you have to say.”

Spike muttered some form of a begrudging farewell and disconnected the call.

Then dropped the phone. The small instrument landed haphazardly, and the otherwise still reverberation sounded through the lobby with the brunt of a minute strike of lightening.

The vampire’s eyes remained studiously on the ground. He was not going to break down in front of these wankers. He was not going to let them know how the very thought—the threat of her being gone affected him. How he felt like dying a thousand times over. Like kissing the sun to have it all fade from tangibility.

How he could feel the world for someone who would never feel the same.

The first voice that dared perturb the air was Cordelia’s—the sympathy crashing from her aura nearly perceptible. “Spike…” she said softly. “Maybe you should…sit down or something. You’re…well, you’re pale. Well, obviously you’re pale. You’re dead. But you’re even…paler than usual. And I think it’d be a good idea if—”

He held up a hand. “There are rooms upstairs? Empty ones?”

The brunette nodded emphatically. “Totally. I mean, it’s a hotel, right? And there’s only Angel here…mostly…but he’s gone, so you can take his—”

He was not going to Angel’s room.

And, to her credit, Cordelia seemed to catch on to that with no hindrance. “Or there’s another room. There are…well, hundreds…literally. I think there’s one with an old bed…I haven’t gone up there all that much, but Angel had some telekinetic chick staying with him a while back. Try room 308. Okay?”

Spike nodded and moved for the staircase wordlessly.

He needed to be away from them before he broke down.

It was still in the lobby until the definitive click of a door locking rang through the dead air. Cordelia glanced to Wright for a minute, who was surprised that such a small note could carry that far. She murmured something about acoustics. The hotel was large and eerie, and most certainly not without its surprises.

“He gonna be all right?” Gunn asked, gracing the upper level with an arched brow.

“As long as she is,” Wesley replied. He had remained diligently quiet throughout the exchange, watching the Cockney’s alteration of manner and mood with more than a note of fascination. It was enough of a marvel to work around a vampire trying to repent for two hundred years’ worth of evildoings, but for a demon to develop such a whim of redemption out of love…it sounded as though it were plucked out of a fairytale.

Now was not the time for such regard. Sharply, the former Watcher pivoted to Lockley and delivered a short, sharp nod. “You better phone Lindsey,” he said. “Tell him everything you can, save, of course, that Spike is here with us. Find out what happened to Buffy.”

She looked at him blankly. “Why would I care what happened to Buffy?” she retorted. “I’m not even supposed to know she’s there. Or that she exists at all.”

“Tell him that a man named Rupert Giles called the Hyperion and told us everything.”

“Why would McDonald disclose any of that information to me? He’d only be incriminating himself more.”

Gunn stared at her blankly. “Never thought I’d see the day when you’d be hesitant to uphold the law.”

“I’m not here as an officer. I’m here—”

“So? Big whup. That doesn’t mean that you aren’t one.”

Wesley sighed. “You’re here. Period. That is all that matters. You’re here because he called you. Right now, Detective, that makes you one of us. That makes you the enemy. He chose to speak through you once.” There was a heady pause. “In any case, the girl is an innocent. She’s being tortured and worse by the very being that you hate. Not Angel. Not the nice version. She’s in the hands of the creature that warrants your aversion. We need to know what happened to her.” He glanced upward once more to the empty corridor. It was silent. “Spike deserves to know. He’s come this far.”

“Did you see the look on his face?” Cordelia demanded. “He’s completely in love with her!”

“So it would seem,” Wright commented.

“All the more reason for us to find out what truly happened.” Wesley stepped away, shaking his head. “The last thing we need is an enraged, heartbroken vampire on our hands.”

“He can’t hurt us, though,” Gunn observed. “We’ve all seen it.”

“I haven’t,” Kate volunteered, reaching for her phone all the same.

“Well, take my word for it.”

“I’m not worried about us,” Wesley said. His eyes were fixed on the upper level.

He would not elaborate.

Spike sat on the edge of a barren mattress, staring at the blank wall as though he expected it to speak.

Somewhere deep within himself, he had already made solace with the understanding that whatever Lindsey told him was untrue. There was no way the Slayer would have been killed already, even if such were Angelus’s ultimate intention.

But hearing it. Hearing it from someone who was there. Who had the potential to be there for her; see her, touch her, feel her every day…it was enough to make the false truth realer than the best kill in his colored, flawed past.

The truth—the authentic truth—was more terrifying than that. Because the day would ultimately come when the same call would not be a lie. When he would lose her. When she would slip away from him without ever having been his at all. And it made him wonder. The ponderous strains of mortality, and all its terrible pragmatism. Was it better to lose her like this? When he didn’t know the warmth of her touch except for what she offered in the fantasies she visited? The dreams she starred in? Or would his will collapse for the knowledge of what had never been. The loss of an idea—of something that would have been perfection if he had been, just for one second, allowed within the protective boundaries of her —so distant. So rare. So…Buffy.

His face was wet and his eyes were raw. Bloody wanker.

“She’s alive.”

The voice came from the door. He had sensed Zack there for a minute or so.

Spike sighed and wiped his face free of tears. “I know.”

Evidently, that was all the invitation the demon hunter felt he needed. He stepped into the room and moved quietly to the mattress, studying his vampire foe curiously. Spike made no move to acknowledge him otherwise, though as all good prey, he knew to keep alert. The man was one who killed his kind for sport, and even in the hindsight of their unlikely truce, he might find flaw in the vampire’s being.

Once more, he was surprised.

“‘I know’?” Wright asked, arching a brow. He assumed a seat on the mattress, preserving a good foot between them. “I half expected you to get up and dance.”

“I don’ dance.”

“Yeah, and you don’t sing. It seems you’ve made all kinds of exceptions tonight.”

There was an appreciative snicker. “’ve been makin’ exceptions for the past year.”

Wright nodded his agreement. “I’d say falling in love with your mortal enemy checks as a big one.”

“So you’re gonna admit that that’s what it is, then?”

“What?”

“Figured a big vamp-hatin’ demon hunter like you’d be one of the firs’ to contest the idea that vampires can feel anythin’ at all.” Spike turned to look at him, eyes expressive but distant. “That love where we’re concerned is possible.”

He shrugged. “I was skeptical at first.”

“I’ve known you for the better of two hours. You’ve had enough time to change your mind?”

“You’ve given me enough to change it on.” Zack sighed heavily and turned to mimic the vampire’s pose, even if it was subconscious. “I don’t think in all the years that I’ve been hunting demons that I’ve ever seen one react to bad news the way you did downstairs.”

“I don’ reckon you’ve met many demons with implants in their noggins.”

“It’s more than that.”

But he did not explain how.

There was a brief silence. Oddly comfortable. The settlings between two people who had no reason to greet each other with anything resembling amiability. Mixed and matched among a sea of others just like them. In any other context, Spike would have second-guessed himself and his motives; it was hardly as though this was the first time he had sided with the enemy.

The voice that was becoming not-so-little whispered another prettied lie about how the conventional enemy had reversed sides in the past year. He was the only vampire in the vicinity, unsouled and very blood-happy…yet in a hotel room managed by people who went out of their way to do good, preparing to battle his own kind to save the Slayer. Selflessly. Without motive or cause. Without aspirations of achieving something higher. Of convincing her of anything that would tally one mark under his name. While his mind had entertained certain fantasies involving Buffy, a tall tower, and a stylishly wankerish version of himself saving her for the sort of ending the people of those breeding enjoyed, he knew it could never be so. Because she was far above him. She was the light that could never be touched, lest he crumple to dust.

Spike took a deep breath. Comfortable or not, he hated silences. “So…” he began, cautious but conversational. Despite their standing, he would never allow himself to forget that this was the same man that had greeted him with many a-crossbow arrows. He would never deny himself on a thirst for knowledge or—better yet—really amusing tales, but he wouldn’t go out of the way to get on a pulser’s bad side. It wasn’t as though he had numerous means of protecting himself. “Wha’s the story?”

Wright spared him a glance but complied. “Kate called that Lindsey person…is he a guy?”

“Either that, or a very butch chit.”

“Well, in a nutshell, he told her that the Slayer was alive. Not fine, but alive.” There was a sigh. “Neither mentioned you. She told him that someone named Giles had contacted Wes and—”

The vampire nodded. “Thanks,” he said softly.

“Don’t mention it.”

“But that wasn’ the story I was askin’ about.” He grinned when the other man frowned his displacement. It always was fun catching them at ends. “Oh, come on, Zangy. How do you expect us to become the very best of friends ‘f you don’ share a tale or two?”

Wright blinked. Once. Twice. “The very best of what?”

Spike snickered and waved dismissively.

That wasn’t the end of it. His humor failed to register as appropriate, or funny in the slightest. Instead, a dark scowl befell Zack’s face, and an unrepentant glare commanded the stormy seas of his eyes. It was amazing how quickly a man’s temperament could alter. The flick of wrist. The snap of a finger. This was no different. Any sense of amity evaporated. “Let’s get one thing very straight,” he snapped. “We’re never going to be friends. Ever. I’m here to get something that was wronged fixed again. My helping you is an unfortunate consequence. I don’t give a damn about you or your kind, and I fucking pity this Slayer—whoever she is—if you’re what she has waiting for her. Jesus Christ…”

There were moments when Spike reckoned he was older fashioned than he cared to concede. While his temper was hardly difficult to offset, it took more than a personal remark to get his bloody boiling in the most metaphoric of senses. Say a word against him, he got irritated. Utter a syllable that could be construed as negative against those he loved—Buffy Summers, for example—earned punishment that would put God’s wrath to shame.

But he couldn’t do anything beyond anger. He couldn’t resort to the violence he craved. All he could do was watch from the sidelines.

“Look, mate,” he growled. “You’re the one who came up here to chat. Leave the bird—”

“I came up here to tell you that your girlfriend is all right.”

“She’s not my…” The Cockney trailed off longingly before snapping back to the present. “Why even bother ‘f ‘s such a bloody inconvenience? You hate me, remember? Say what you want—do whatever you sodding please—but leave her outta this. She’s done nothin’ but save the world an’ kill all the nasties that get your knickers perpetually twisted. She’s a bloody hero, ‘s what she is. An’ I’m jus’ tryin’ to get her back from some fairly nasty blokes—one of whom I know you’ve met—to save her from a fucking clichéd fate worse than death. Am I a vampire? Well, yeh, last I checked. Don’ believe I’ve sported a pulse an’ a heartbeat since. Am I evil? Bloody right. I’m not tryin’ to score points here, you git. I jus’ want to get her home.”

At that, Zack was quieted. There was nothing for several beats.

Then Spike exhaled in concession, reaching for his cigarettes.

“Come on,” he urged. “’F you’re gonna be up here enjoyin’ the dark with a beastie, you might as well tell a tale or two. I know it was Darla. Wasn’ difficult to piece that together. What’d she do?”

There was another lengthy silence. The same that spoke for everything that Wright refused to relate. It was that and more. The comprehension that, despite notable differences, the man had been molded into the form he was in now because of consequences. Severe consequences. Darla had the ability to turn anyone into a drunkard.

He had the nagging feeling that she had done more than simply kill someone that Zachary Wright had cared for. And in that regard, despite all the mutual aversion between them, he could understand. Even relate.

Relate.

With humans.

The heart of his final corruption. He was within a breath of being one of them.

Silence grew and waned, and the vampire’s suspicion became more belligerent. He decided that not only had Darla hurt this man by robbing him of whatever joy he had previously had in the world, that she had take his own Buffy. The one that made him—made and broke him in one fell swoop. The one that was his reason. His oxygen. His blood. His life, in essence.

In Spike’s eyes, that was unforgivable.

He decided to go for broke. After that, if nothing came of it, he would let it lie.

It was Xander’s fault. This sudden urge to chat up every past ugly an analyze it. Though that standing had no support, he knew it was always better to blame the whelp if doubt was ever on the prowl.

“Was it your honey?” he ventured speculatively, lighting up.

A sigh at that. Distant and elusive, but not as tempered as before. One of concession. He knew well that sound.

“It happened…” Wright began softly, nearly unaware that he was speaking. A pain he had forfeited and swallowed. Too long ignored, too soon refreshed. One of nature’s delightfully excruciating ploys. “It happened so long ago. I don’t even…most people…those I’ve come across…they remember every last detail of what happened to them. I can’t tell you how many men I’ve talked to who lost wives or children. Sisters, brothers…that sort of thing. I guess you could call me a profiteer, but I don’t like to think about it like that. I’ve never been in this for the pay. Not once. I’ve done too many freebies and the like…no. To me, it’s all about the leads. It’s always been the kill.”

Spike gave him a very long look, then nodded with astute precision. “Good to know,” he decided.

“The people, though, the others…they remember every detail.” Wright exhaled deeply and shook his head. “I don’t. Seven years have passed and I’ve spent every day trying to forget. Trying to get… I’ve heard too many stories. Eventually, the details start to mesh and everything becomes one long, bloody drama with the same people killed again and again. It wasn’t easy. Forgetting. I’ve worked at it so hard for so long. It took forty-seven states, and god knows how many kills. I’ve forgotten now.”

The vampire’s brows perked. “Forty-seven, eh?”

“I go anywhere. Everywhere. And I’ve forgotten how I met Darla. Where she was. Why I was there. Why we spoke to each other. Why I didn’t kill her on the spot.” Another lengthy break. Spike waited with not much patience but more perceptiveness than any demon should think to relate. “She hunted me. I remember that much. She sought me out. After I read up on her, I figured that she was looking for a replacement-Angelus. Guess I was the best candidate.”

The peroxide Cockney snickered at that. “She wanted you to fill in King Forehead’s space? Bloody hell. Either she’s risen her standards or stopped carin’.” He grinned in spite of himself, but Zack didn’t reply. He was too lost in his own words, however brief.

“There was a problem, of course. A complication.”

Spike nodded and exhaled a pillar of smoke. “Always is.” He paused and tossed the hunter speculative glance, sensing the next without any difficulty at all. “What was her name?”

It was amazing, watching the seasons of human emotion change. From cold to warm in two seconds flat. The soft glow that warmed the ice behind Zack’s eyes. The winter storm’s upheaval in light of the first day of summer. Melting all that painful residue. He wondered briefly if he looked like that whenever Buffy was mentioned, and sincerely hoped not. If his eyes revealed half as much, it was a wonder the entire Scooby clan hadn’t made his chest a haven for all sorts of stakes.

Like everything else, Zack put his everything behind the utterance of one word. Breathing it as though its existence would determine his own. “Amber.”

“She was your bird?”

A blink at that. The spell broke without ceremony. “My…what?”

Spike rolled his eyes and indulged another puff. “Your girl, mate. She was—”

“Oh. No. More than that. She was my wife.”

At that, the vampire’s gaze widened. He hadn’t expected that sort of revelation. Though time and anger had worn the man’s features, giving him the appearance of several years older than his likely age, he hadn’t reckoned the bloke to having been hitched.

“We got married when we were freshmen in college, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Wright noted off Spike’s skeptical look. “Very young and stupid. We thought it was all so romantic. It felt right, and that was all that mattered. I had loved her since the moment I saw her. I went through…everything just to earn a look from her. A smile. A laugh. She had the most…I can’t even think of a word…her laugh was just…musical. Her eyes…” He broke then, realizing he had been rambling with a flush as he coughed and turned away. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”

Spike quirked a brow. “’Cause I’m listenin’?”

“I don’t see why you care.”

“I don’t, to be truthful. Jus’ the same as I reckon you don’ care for rot either way ‘f I get Buffy back safe an’ sound. But you’re here, aren’t you? Might as well take you up on it.” He paused and pursed his lips. “An’ I asked. You’re an odd fellow, Zangy. Bit more like myself than I wager you’d wanna admit.”

At that, the other man instantly drew into himself, his eyes going stony. “I’m nothing like you.”

Spike snickered. “Right. ‘Course. You’re too good for it.”

“I sure as hell am.”

“Tha’s why you went outta your way to chat me up about a bird you’re not supposed to care two sods about, right?” The vampire rumbled a humorless chuckle, shaking his head incredulously. “You’re a piece of work. Y’know that, right?”

“I—”

“You ‘ave a wicked grudge. I get that. The story prolly goes that Darla reasoned you were out of the runnin’ as her next-best mate when she discovered you already had a honey warmin’ your bed. She decides to narrow out the competition.” Spike emitted a sigh of irritation, tapping cigarette debris to the floor before reclaiming the bud with his mouth. “You’d think four bloody centuries’d be enough to inspire a li’l originality.”

If possible, the air surrounding Wright chilled even further. And he was silent.

As if this confirmed everything, Spike nodded, even if it was more to himself. Then he grew somber. There were many things he knew about Darla, but none struck quite as true as her affinity for destruction. It didn’t matter at whose expense—she was a vampire, after all, and didn’t care a lick for who she was hurt. Never had. If rejection had spawned her warpath against Zack’s wife, there were several truths guaranteed. It had been bloody, prolonged, and about as painful as three consecutive Pauly Shore movies.

Like what she was doing to Buffy. Somewhere out there. Right now.

Without realizing it, his hands had fisted and his jaw had tightened.

And he felt a sudden rush of furthered empathy for the demon hunter. Something he definitely did not need.

“You ruined lives just like mine,” Zack said coldly, breaking the silence.

There was no sense denying that. “I have.”

“And you don’t care.”

“I am what I am, mate. I was made this way.”

Wright inhaled deeply. His entire being was trembling. “I oughta rip you to pieces,” he decided. “Simply for being here when others aren’t. For being…for ruining what you’ve ruined. For—”

Spike quirked a brow, knowing inherently that he wasn’t in any real danger. If the hunter wanted to kill him, he had been granted more than enough chances. This discussion was nothing outside diplomacy. Two people that were curious about each other by nature, even if that curiosity led down a path that resulted in a dead end. “Vamps kill, Zangy. ‘S what we do. What we’re made to do, an’ we’ve been here an’ doin’ it a lot longer than you humanly types ‘ave been wanderin’ the horizon in search of truth an’ meanin’ an’ all that other bloody rot.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop calling me that.”

The vampire paused before grinning broadly. “Well, now you’ve gone an’ done it,” he informed him pristinely. “’F it annoys you, it sticks. One of my many charms.” When all he earned was an irritated glance in turn, he sighed and looked down once more. “Would it make you feel any better ‘f I told you I’m losin’ it?”

There was a long pause. Wright made no attempt to even verify the comment had registered, but finally caved to intrinsic inquisitiveness. “Losing what?”

“Whatever made me the way I am. The mojo that all vamps feed off of.” Spike grumbled lightly and snubbed out his cigarette against the floor. “’m not proud of it. Hell, I bloody well hate what this fucking chip has done to me. Made me more like you. Made me feel.” A pause at that. “Can’t blame everythin’ on it, though. Even ‘f I’d never realized it, I’ve had a yen for the Slayer for longer than I’d like to admit. An’ it’s bloody ruined me.”

“Oh yes,” Zack snapped bitterly. “That must’ve been terrible.”

Spike’s gaze glimmered with anger. “Jus’ about as terrible as it’d be for you to fall head over for one of us. Your enemy. I’m a vampire. She’s a Slayer. She’s everythin’ I’m s’posed to be against. It’s sick an’ wrong, an’ ‘f I could rid myself of these feelings, I’d gladly do it. But I can’t.” He paused and shook his head, waving dismissively. “Never mind. Understanding’s not in your sodding vocab, is it? Right there alongside miss. What I am…what she’s made me…’s somethin’ perverse. But she’s…” His eyes softened. “She’s Buffy.”

The air that settled between them fell on an oddly cordial note. As though some peace could be discovered through all the animosity. Without a word—without a breath—ground that resembled something similar to what either man had spent the last few years looking for. A mutual understanding. Something that burst into the limelight of what was versus what had been.

It was frightening; the way the smallest thing could alter one’s entire universe.

Nothing for several minutes. Nothing, then something. Wright drew in a deep breath and raked his fingers through his chestnut locks. “You really love her?”

Spike nodded. “With everythin’ that I am. She’s a bloody disease. A disease, an’ its cure. She poisons me an’ brings me back all with one breath. All in one glorious package.”

Another lapse into nothing. Comfortable. Familiar.

Then Wright spoke. He spoke freely, holding onto reservation, but with a higher levity for all things around with. He spoke in a manner that forewarned all boundaries had been forfeited. “Amber was different than anyone I’d ever met,” he stated softly, eyes glossing over even if he didn’t realize it. “She was…God, I don’t even know where to begin. Intelligent, beautiful, funny…she probably had more boyfriends in high school than I had zits.” The vampire cracked a smile but didn’t comment. “She was an over-achiever. One of those rare people who make it to the top without becoming so full of themselves that they turn into only a shadow of the person they were. I was…I guess I was as enchanted with her as everyone else. It shocked the hell out of me when she finally agreed to give me a chance. I never got over that, I don’t think. Never got over her. And when she said she’d marry me…God, I was on Cloud Nine for…well, the three of marriage. For the entire ride.”

He broke then in unspoken offer for commentary. Spike made none. Just sat in silence and waited for the man to continue.

It took a minute to find his footing, and by the cracking in his voice, it was perceptible that they were nearing dangerous territory. “We were poor but happy. My job was…well; it was for shit, to be blunt. Somewhere along the way I met Darla. I had no idea who she was. I had no idea that vampires existed, and certainly didn’t think they’d live around me were that the case. Darla…she was…I don’t have a word for it. All I remember for sure was that she was captivated. She spoke of things I’d never heard of. Told me things I could have if I’d accept her offer. I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

There was an emotional pause—Wright’s voice cracking. The vampire had the vague feeling that he no longer existed in the room. That the hunter had long ago consigned to speaking to the wall as soon as he would relate so openly to his enemy. Then again, perhaps he hadn’t measured the man as well as he thought he had. The night had only introduced them. Tied their paths with a common objective for a reason. Something that remained yet to be seen, even if the root screamed its obviousness. There was always something beyond the obvious.

“Of everything I’ve forgotten, there are two things that I can’t make go away. The smell. I’d gotten a whiff of blood before, but never like that. So thick. So… everywhere. It was everywhere. Practically running down the walls.” At that, Zack lurched forward as if to vomit, and instinctually, Spike grasped his forearm in wordless offer of support. He froze when he realized what he had done before bidding his lingering reservation away. If he wasn’t buggered before this, he certainly was, now. The hunter’s voice clouded with tears; his face glistening with the taste of unburdened sin. Releasing that weight into a world that didn’t want it. And for all the vampire had seen, all he had done, it took seeing that to understand the tools of his own trade.

“And she…she was…Oh God…” Wright drew an arm across his eyes as his body trembled. “She was…hanging. She had…she had been nailed…that monstrous bitch had nailed her to the wall. To look like Jesus, I guess. Just there…waiting for me. Her arms…she…and her stomach. Her sweet stomach…she…” He held up a hand, shielding his face and shaking his head. “Darla had taken a…I don’t even know what she used…but she had carved my Amber’s stomach open…to kill my child. My son. She…s-sh-she put him in the bassinette we had from Ro…from earlier…and suffocated him.”

Spike was stunned. There was no other word for it. Of everything he had ever heard, of everything he knew of Darla, he had never known her to do something so atrocious. So callous. She was a creature who relished the kill more than any he had encountered before. Any save one. His own grandsire.

Point of fact…

“Angelus,” he murmured. “It was Angelus.”

“No, it most definitely was not Angelus,” Zack snapped, wiping his eyes irately. “She had transcribed ‘with love’ on the wall next to my…my son. In blood. It wasn’t—”

“That’s not what I meant. She was recreatin’ somethin’ Angelus did back in the day.” He shook his head. “I wasn’ around for it—bit before my time—but I remember them laughin’ about it. Reminiscin’ an’ the like. Guess after a bloody century of bein’ without her boy, she began to lose it. When was this?”

Wright closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Like I said, seven years ago.”

“Be right before she came to SunnyD, then.”

“Where she was supposed to have been killed.”

“She was.” Spike’s brows flickered. “Jus’ not well. Peaches staked her to save the Slayer, way I hear it. That sentiment din’t last long. An’ God, does that prat ever go on? Aside from him shaggin’ Dru, I don’ think I heard more garbage than his woes about slayin’ his sire.” He caught himself before his digression got too carried away, cleared his throat, and retuned himself to the present. “So ‘m guessin’ after…you became a lean, mean, demon-huntin’ machine?”

“It wasn’t just demons,” Wright said coldly. “It was vampires. I wanted Darla dead. I wanted all vampires dead. There were a thousand leads to follow…most of them stayed within the family. I contacted an old friend from high school who came from a military household. He taught me things I’d…he taught me things that I’d never have even dreamt of knowing. I practiced. I killed. I’ve killed so many vampires I’ve lost count, but it was never enough. It was never her. I read so many books that my eyes started to bleed. Memorized every single detail about her. Her past. Her associates. Those she’d sired. Those most noted in her Order. Angelus. Drusilla. You. Some random vampire named Penn, who I lost track of—”

“One of Angel’s,” Spike confirmed. “Think he kicked it.”

“—and then word came that she was dead. She was dead, I hadn’t killed her, but that was enough. It was more than enough for me. But by that time, I was too far into what I was doing to stop. It had only been months, and I had lost myself. Never staying in the same place. Always following some lead. Then I met Wes. Nice enough guy, but didn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘rogue.’” A shadow of a grin, in spite of himself. “He told me who he was and that he was more acquainted with otherworldly phenomena than he cared to disclose. I helped him a bit, I guess. He came on a couple kills with me before he proved to be a liability.” He turned to the vampire with a longwinded sigh. “Then Darla was alive again. Back. That was…when I heard; I was out the door. There were no questions asked. I had to get to where she was. Had to kill her. It was…God, it was as though…”

Spike nodded, capped. “I get it, mate.”

Wright snickered and turned to him, eyes wide with incredulity. “Do you? Do you really? How could you? You’re just like them, right? A fucking vampire who’d just as soon—”

“Look, as much as it might pain me to admit, I was never anywhere to the degree of nasty that Darla an’ Angelus strove for. All right? ‘F you’ve read up on me, you’d know it.” The vampire chuckled humorlessly and shook his head. “I get why you’re here. I…what she did…I guess I’ll never understand it completely. I can’t. I don’ have the wirin’ for it. But that kind of…as far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to her.” He scoffed. “Never did care for the old bat, anyway.”

Zack smiled without feeling. “You make her sound like an unkempt relative.”

“From where I’m sittin’, she is.” Spike rose to his feet at that, as some sort of deranged pun, and made for the door without acknowledgement. He paused before he could leave the room completely, turning to glance at the man who remained ambiguous. Still not friends. They would never be that. But something more than just associates. People with a common enemy. People fighting a fight for the same purpose. A reason for being. “I’m not makin’ light,” he said seriously. “Not a one of ‘em. I loved Dru. Loved her for a long time. But that won’ stop me from killin’ her ‘f she stands between me an’ the Slayer. It’ll hurt like hell, but ‘f that’s what it takes, I’m up to it. What’s worse, she knows it. The lot of ‘em do. Guess that’s why you’re here, then, mate. The bloody Powers needed someone who had a cause worth dyin’ for.”

“I have a cause,” Wright said without turning, voice soft. “Guess you do, too.”

“Bloody right, I do.”

There was a moment’s pause followed by a sigh of concession. The man’s head dropped. “Your girl,” he said. “She’s worth this? To you?”

The question was getting unspeakably redundant, but Spike figured the reassurance was needed amongst enemies. He knew he would be doing the same if the tables were turned. “She’s worth everything. An’ not jus’ to me. She’s not for me. She’s for the world.” He stopped and cocked his head curiously. “Wasn’ yours?”

A long, unwavering beat at that. “Then,” he said quietly, “we’ll get her back.”

Spike smiled. Perhaps he had been wrong. After all, as was becoming the motto for this town, stranger things had happened. “You know what, Zangy?” he asked rhetorically. “I think this is the beginnin’ of a beautiful—”

“Shut up.”

Or maybe not. Better not to push it.

“Right then,” he agreed, grasping the handle of the door to pull it shut. “G’night.”

A room sealed with a defiant click. Something else encompassed with so much more. The vampire didn’t know what to make of it. If he should regard the new with a smile and a nod, or resent it with every fiber of his being.

Somewhere, it had stopped mattering. And in the midst of all, he still hadn’t decided which fate was worse.