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 Twenty-One

The False Prophet 

It was a strange feeling.

The streets were populated with people. All sorts of people. Young, old, tall, short, fat, thin, it didn’t matter. They were people. They were humans. They were everything he was supposed to hate. Everything he was supposed to resent; everything he was supposed to discard after having drained them dry. After referring to their vitals for his ever-important meal ticket.

He could have one now. He could have a thousand. The chip was gone. It was gone, and he could have whomever he wanted.

And yet.

The procedure had ended an hour ago—there had, apparently, been a lot of paperwork to go through. Medical releases, completely bogus questionnaires, inquiries to his family’s history. Spike had the nagging suspicion that most had served as more means of distraction while McDonald searched for a loophole that would prevent the surgery altogether. There weren’t many absolutes that the peroxide vampire could be sure of anymore, but he did know that, within the first few minutes, Lindsey McDonald was not his number one fan. He had absolutely no want to have him anywhere near Wolfram and Hart, and while he refrained from shouting that from the rooftops, it remained more than palpable.

Curious.

The position he had assumed was a dangerous one; he didn’t realize how deep he had allowed himself to venture until noting that—quite possibly—from here on out he would be facing the rest alone. While Zack, Cordelia, and the others would remain true to their word, bringing them in now had the potential to jeopardize everything.

Lindsey’s aversion to him was enchanting. Though Spike didn’t usually take to people who refused to find him positively delightful or bloody terrifying, the repugnance he sensed from the man was something different altogether. It wasn’t that he didn’t like him for the sake of crowding the offices or a quibble along that regard; more that he was hesitant to live up to his own contract. To bring the Order together.

The man did not care for the way things were going. That much was obvious.

Angelus had big plans for the evening, and that made Spike nervous. It was a bizarre feeling, despite the year of practice tied in with innate preparation. Temptation at its blessed fullest. It was hard enough resisting the urge to act out the full potential of his demonhood without tangible restriction; flaunting what he craved, and would always crave, while keeping it out of hindsight was as close to bona fide torture as the vampire ever wanted to come.

He had given his word, and that was something he refused to take lightly. Too much depended on restraint. Buffy’s trust, Wright’s friendship, and the continued support from his newfound colleagues at Angel Investigations. So much on the foundation that he would be a good little boy and play by the rules.

It was against his nature.

Every step thus far had been against his nature.

There was also that pesky little voice that warned him of his overly interested conscience. That was also a bother.

It was intimidating—carrying so much weight on shoulders that were not only accustomed to dropping their burden at whatever convenient location, but also rolling around in the carnage such tomfoolery cost. Being responsible was something he had never fancied for himself.

And yet here he was.

Spike discovered quickly that there was little one could do in this city that Wolfram and Hart wouldn’t ultimately know about. There was much he wanted to share with his associates, but he didn’t dare risk the trip across town to relate what the evening according to Angelus would entail. He knew he was going to be expected to kill. He knew he was going to be surveyed like he had never been surveyed before. He knew that whatever he did had to look authentic. Genuine enough to fool one of the most notorious vampires in documented history.

There would be real blood spilt tonight.

The vampire decided the best course of action would be through Caritas. It was the perfect middle-point, and Lorne would be sure that Wright received whatever forwarded message he needed to relay. It was close enough to Wolfram and Hart to mark notes in convenience and elude suspicion, but far enough to range beyond the prying eyes of those who might be interested in leaking his duplicity to the family.

Spike wanted to avoid his unfortunate blood ties as long as possible. While remaining within the boundaries of Wolfram and Hart was something of a given, he couldn’t stand the idea of being confined to a lot that didn’t particularly care for him. He roamed as much as he could, delivered the goods to the Host along with his message, and made several rounds of the law offices. Angelus had yet to mention the Slayer, which failed to surprise. When and if Buffy was ever introduced to the picture, it would be far after he had completely regained their confidence.

However, the peroxide Cockney wasn’t willing to wait that long. He wasn’t willing to wait at all.

There were other things. Drusilla had expressed an interest in renewing their relationship as soon as possible—in the all out physical sense. Daddy and grandmummy hadn’t seen to her as they used to, she claimed. Daddy was once again aspiring to a level where all he saw was Darla. All he saw, touched, and inhaled was Darla. Darla Darla Darla.

Funny. When Spike saw his great grandsire again, he had to fight the urge to stake her. Out of loyalty.

Loyalty.

To a human.

There was more than something wrong with that picture.

The platinum vampire resolved himself to elude his former princess’s advances as long as possible, but he understood that he might become cornered. If he was too forceful in his refusal, suspicions were going to arise. And it wasn’t that Spike hadn’t been known to indulge in the sins of the flesh—rather he was very known for it. There was no clause that suggested he needed to be faithful to Buffy. There was not a relationship there to taint with infidelity. He had used Harmony for more of the same.

He didn’t want to shag Dru. He didn’t want to use the face of a woman he had loved in order to save the one that now held his affections. For whatever reason, it seemed wrong.

Wrong. That was a word that had radically changed definition in his personalized vocabulary over the past year. What was worse, he didn’t know who it would be wrong against. Using Drusilla didn’t bother him, per se. She hadn’t been the picture of faithfulness during their discourse. No, he felt he would be betraying Buffy, even if it made no earthly sense.

Betrayal. Betrayal was virtually palpable with every step indulged within Wolfram and Hart. Betrayal from a thousand different sources. The walls practically bled with it. With every file exchanged, every conversation by proverbial water coolers, every look flashed in every direction, that much more was betrayed. That much more was given away. Sealed. Stamped. Shut. Over with.

He had to find her. He was here now. He had reached his destination, and patience was running on empty.

He had to find her.

It was amazing what a man could find to miss. The past few days—weeks—however long it had been, had schooled him effectively into categorizing everything that he had not experienced since he last saw her. The icy looks. The irritated tones. The empty threats that followed the not-so-empty punches. Romancing the bloody stone. And then, there was the rest. The way she laughed with him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. The way they patrolled and chatted comfortably when no one else was around. The way she could open up just a bit—allow herself to become that much more human.

The scent of her tears against the cold night air. The shiver of her skin beneath his touch. The way he could frighten her without threats, even if she would never admit it. The way she could match him—word for word, move for move, in anything he did. Her butchering of the English language. Her liking for petty clichés. The vanity she had depended on since adolescence; how he enjoyed watching it blossom and fluster within the same respective beat. The hint of her mother’s perfume in the air, even if she used it sparingly. How she dropped her shoulder in battle without realizing it, and never in turn lost the upper hand.

How she could be so cold. So distant. So perfect. So completely not his, and make him not even care.

Much.

It had been too long, and he missed her.

He missed her for all her faults. For all her mistreatments and admittedly numbered failings. For all her Buffyness in the sense that was not always entirely flattering. She could kill with a look and still be glorious. Her warmth could melt the iceman’s heart if he was at the receiving end. The way she cared and tried. The way she simply was.

He missed her.

Before this had happened, they had been on the road to something. Not friendship—not completely. But something beyond the revulsion that mapped everyday existence. It was more than he would have ever expected to grasp without outward acknowledgement. She had saved his life more times than he could count, and he had returned the favor in mutual respect even if she never noticed.

He missed the way she made him human. She had started it, after all. She was the ultimate inspiration for being.

And he missed her.

The lower foundation of Wolfram and Hart upheld the reputation the rest of its stature had maintained. While offices were situated on a level that seemed to personify prestige and elegance, there was always the hidden understanding that skillfully underlined all transactions. It was more blunt. Truthful. The real espionage of human affairs. He had the distinct feeling that his presence rang on the side of unwelcome, perhaps even prohibited, but such tidings had never kept him from exploiting all aspects of human frailty before.

If Angelus or the others knew where he was, he knew they would not like it.

Spike had never doubted the probability of finding Buffy within the Wolfram and Hart offices. He knew while she was still alive, the lawyers contracting her wouldn’t allow their dealings on such a profitable manner to be taken outside the boundaries of comfort. And knowing that she was in the hands of Angelus and his girls singled out the likelihood of finding her anywhere but the lower levels of the edifice. His grandsire had a liking for large, open and assuredly dark spaces. He would want the traditionalism of a good old-fashioned torture. He would want to make it as nineteenth century as possible while incorporating all the luxuries that modern technology had allotted.

He would want it all.

The peroxide vampire had no delusions of heroism. Not now. With his head still aching from the chip’s removal and no feasibility in smuggling the Slayer to safety while the place crawled with personnel and others that were, while not fully behind the recent changes, loyal to the innate chaos that Wolfram and Hart represented. When they got her out, it would assuredly be a team effort. An infiltration that would ensure as much support as possible, even if—by his standards—there could never be enough.

Spike wished it otherwise. The last thing he wanted was to overcrowd her, but there were no other options. Not with the path they had selected for approach.

The bowels of Wolfram and Hart potentially stretched for miles. There was no way to explore to satisfaction without arousing suspicion of the others. Especially with his reemergence so young. So distrusted. So…supervised.

They wouldn’t even tell him about Buffy. That she was alive. How she had allegedly kicked it. Anything. She hadn’t been mentioned, and he would be damned before he jeopardized her and brought up the ordeal himself.

His manhunt would have to be postponed. It was nearing time for departure.

Mustn’t keep an eager audience waiting.

The platinum Cockney was ready to turn and head back to the surface when the scent hit him. It was faint, nearly imperceptible, and so forgone that he originally suspected his overly-anxious mind was playing tricks on him. But no. It was there. Very pale. Nearly nonexistent.

But real. It was real.

An overwhelming sensation. Spike found himself flooded with an unexpected wave of emotion—such that he nearly choked on tears that sprouted from nowhere. Finally. Within the strain of tangibility. Oh God. And there again. The mix of dirt, blood, the salty essence of skin…everything that made her Buffy. His Slayer. What he had and would cross oceans for. The very same that had brought him here—to his personalized inferno. Everything. The vampire choked pitifully, following his footing without realizing it. Following the corridor as far as her scent would carry him.

Followed until he encountered a barrier. A door.

Buffy was on the other side of that door.

And he had run out of time.

The larger part of him wanted to blow it off. Sod the entire plan and all that bloody rot. He had found her—in essence, he had found her. She was on the other side of that door, waiting for him. He wanted to race in, take her into his arms, and get the fuck out of Dodge. Now.

But the smaller, more reasonable voice within forewarned that it could never be that easy. He would be staked dead before reaching the first floor—if not by Angelus or one of his own, then most assuredly by a Wolfram and Hart associate.

Spike sputtered an indignant sob at that, irritated by the hint of tears that still blinded his gaze. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to be here, to be standing with only a door between them. To be drawn back because it was in accordance to some preordained arrangement. He needed her now. He needed to look at her, touch her, feel her…now.

To do so now would risk everything, and not on the kind of odds he liked to wager.

A touch. One. The vampire lifted his hand to caress the rough exterior of the door. The unwanted barrier keeping him from his purpose. His reason for being. His ladylove, even if it remained entirely unrequited for the rest of her days. His eyes drifted shut without realizing it, as though to absorb the promise of heat and life that was concealed from hindsight. It was as damn close to torture as he cared to get when he pulled away, gazing at the obstruction longingly. As long as he could watch it.

“Hang on, luv,” he whispered, his voice echoing with haunting reverberation to the halls around him. “I’ll be back.”

And he would. He would be back. Sooner rather than later.

Spike always kept his word. And nothing short of a stake to the heart could keep him away now.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Cordelia hung up the phone and collapsed tiredly against the front counter, burying her head in her arms. The motion was enough to cause Wesley to glance up from his reading; the slowly-becoming-ritualistic perusal of every convenient newspaper to see if Angelus was indulging in patterned hunting routines. Thus far, all inquiries had resulted in a big negative, but it was always better to keep busy. “Good news?” he asked.

“Oh yeah. The best.” She sighed and shook her head. “We gotta get Zack on this, stat.”

The man in question bounded down the Hyperion staircase as though reacting to a well-timed cue. “Gotta get Zack in on what?”

“The Host just called. Apparently, Spike has to go hunting tonight.”

A perceptible shadow crossed Wright’s face. There was notably nothing about that sentence that he liked. “Hunting?” he demanded.

“Every bit as ‘bite the humans’ as it sounds.”

“So his chip is out?”

“Out, and our resident vampire has himself a new set of teeth that are just hankerin’ for the chomping.” Cordelia sighed again, leveling her gaze with the demon hunter meaningfully. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” she reassured him. “I mean, before Wolfram and Hart decided to get soul-happy, he was probably the last person in the world that I would trust, but—”

“Why is that?”

She glanced up again without realizing her gaze had fallen again to the desk. “Oh. Because the last time I saw Spike, he was sticking hot pokers into Angel. Trying to get some gem. The…ring…I think…the…”

“Gem of Amara?” Wesley offered helpfully.

“Yup. That’s the one.”

“It exists? Dear me, I hadn’t thought—”

Zack held up a hand and the former Watcher immediately fell silent. “So,” he ventured, “Spike’s new leaf didn’t turn until…recently, is what you’re saying.”

“Way recently,” Cordelia agreed. “But he’s completely different from the vamp he was in the way back when. I didn’t even know him all that well, to be perfectly honest. Not when he was all ‘kill Buffyish’. I just knew that he was there, had some psycho girlfriend, and now he’s one of us.”

“You trust him.” It was more an observation than anything else.

At that, the young woman paused with a frown as she considered. In all honesty, the thought hadn’t occurred to her. Not in the fullest sense. It wasn’t something that someone randomly shouted from the rooftops. The willful change of everything she had come to accept. That seemed to be happening a lot lately. “Yeah,” she finally said. “I do. I guess it’s a little premature, but since he’s been here, he’s really…well, not been Spike.”

“And you don’t think it’s an act?”

“Honey, I’m an actress. I’d know it if it was an act.”

Wesley coughed something indistinguishable. He wisely ignored the look he earned in turn.

The irritation on the brunette’s face was palpable, but didn’t last long. She was too immersed in studying the reactions playing in glorious conflict behind Wright’s eyes. A thousand different feelings for one simplified being. “You’re not suddenly thinking Spike’s not one of us, are you?”

Zack glanced up. “No,” he said. “No, it’s not that. I’ve…for reasons beyond me, Spike and I…we’ve come to an understanding.”

Cordelia nodded. “You’ve…become friends?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he hastily amended. “I just—”

“You know, it’s okay if you have. He’s a pretty cool guy, once you get passed the retro ‘Oh dear God, did someone trap me in the 80s’ look.” She smiled affectionately. “You wouldn’t be the first to warm up to a vamp. Trust me. Been there, most definitely done that.”

A still air quieted him. It didn’t last long, but long enough for Cordelia to realize she had brushed a particularly sore spot. “I…” he said softly. “I don’t befriend vamps. Doesn’t matter about the…conditions.”

Wesley made a noise of understanding, even remembrance. That only served to irritate.

“Don’t go getting righteous on me,” Wright snapped at the other man. “You don’t know the half of it.”

The Watcher looked affronted, and his hands came up in semblance of diplomacy. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He shook his head and combed pathways through browned hair. “God…the sooner this is over, the better. What did the Host say? Anything he wants us to do in particular?”

“Yeah.” Cordelia glanced down, unwilling to concede defeat that easily. Whatever Wright was hiding would be out eventually; it had to. If not only to satisfy her curiosity, to help put whatever haunted him still behind him. Scars hurt—she knew this as well as anyone else, but picking at the scabs didn’t do a damn thing to help. It just made the wound bleed more while denying it any chance to heal. “Spike’s said that he’s going to have to…well…bite…a few…people.”

A very still beat settled through the Hyperion.

It didn’t last.

“WHAT?!”

“He wants you to follow,” she added, slowly rising to her feet. “Angelus is going to be there…watching him. I guess it’s some sort of initiation. He’s told the Host that he’s not going to kill anyone. That he doesn’t want to, and I think we need to trust him on this. But he’s going to be biting people, and he’ll need you there to help get them medical attention. Stat.”

“Why me?”

“A demon hunter seems logical,” Wesley intervened. “Especially one with a grudge.”

“And if they see me?”

Cordelia shrugged. “You’re just gonna have to be careful.”

Wright wasn’t sold. He had broken into a pace across the lobby, shaking his head and muttering little incomprehensibles to himself. “No,” broke through with some clarity. “No, no, no, no. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”

“Neither does he.”

Zack stopped at that, eyes blazing. “How the fuck can we know that? Really? Spike’s—”

“—a vampire. I think we got that by now.” Cordelia sighed and stepped forward diplomatically. “He’s also one of us. He’s in it for her.”

“How do we know he wasn’t in it for the chip? How do we really know?”

“Because he would’ve agreed to Darla’s proposal in Sunnydale,” the former Watcher reminded him rationally. “Cordy’s right. Spike cares far too deeply about Buffy to do anything to endanger her…and that includes hurting others. He knows that our support would falter greatly if word was confirmed that he was feeding again.” He stilled a moment. “You know this, Zack. You were here when McDonald told him that—”

Wright held up a hand, slowly calming. The weight of reason drifted slowly back into his eyes, and he sighed his displacement. “I know. I know. I was arguing this point earlier…I just…” Another long breath. “I don’t like it.”

“Neither does he,” Cordelia said softly. “Apparently, he got really righteous at Caritas. Started ranting about how it was too much pressure for someone who doesn’t know, and, I seriously quote, ‘what the bloody hell’ he’s doing, and where the line is.” She waited for the hunter’s eyes before continuing. “He’s just as afraid of his potential to slip up as we are.”

That seemed to settle it on some unspoken terrain. Wright exhaled deeply and nodded, again shaking his head. “I don’t know how he expects me to help,” he said. “I’ll go. Of course I’ll go…but even…what if we don’t make it in time?”

“You’ll make it.”

“And Darla?”

Cordelia frowned. That was the first direct reference he had given her to any relevance about the vampire that had wounded his past. The past two days had been colored with hints—various squicks that suggested where the curious might look. But Zack was a very private person. He hadn’t always been—that much was obvious from merely looking at him—and it was taking him an admitted while to reestablish the innate need for association.

“He didn’t mention Darla,” she said after a thoughtful minute. “But I’m guessing that you have free reign.”

The shadow affixed against Wright’s stature didn’t agree with him. “I don’t think so,” he decided. “Just yesterday, he was pissed at the idea of…no. For Buffy’s sake.”

“I don’t think it would matter, personally,” Wesley volunteered, just as gravely. “If you’re there and visibly not at Spike’s side. From what I gathered of your agreement last night, he didn’t want you to attack because of your established relationship.”

“No good. Angelus thinks that I’m a vamp groupie.”

Cordelia quirked a humored brow. “You made him think you were a vamp groupie?”

Wright grinned unashamedly. “I did at that,” he retort. “And I’m a damn good actor, if I don’t say so myself.”

“I’ll bet,” she replied with a smirk. Then her gaze turned thoughtful, studying him to the point where he visibly trembled self-consciously. “You know, you should really do that more often.”

“Do what? Act?”

“No, smile. I don’t think I’ve seen you really smile since you got here.”

He shrugged. “Haven’t had much reason to before.”

“I like it. Keep it up.” Before he could offer another reply, she turned sharply to the former Watcher, who was fixated on the transaction with an arched brow. “So, what’s the game plan? You both gonna tackle the ‘patrolling Spike’ front, or—”

“It’s not a good idea to advertise that I’m a demon hunter,” Wright interjected. “Especially not now. As much as it really pains me to admit it, Spike was right last night. If I establish that I’m very much working with you guys, it’ll raise suspicion and get him staked and her killed. There’s no way that’s going to work with any degree of accuracy.”

“You can say that you were using him because you knew who he was.” Cordelia shrugged. “It wouldn’t be too far from the truth, pre-us.”

“I’d already thought about that. Seems most plausible, but still too early.” The hunter shook his head, glancing to Wesley again. “If we follow, I’m gonna have to take you with me. That way any diversion we cause can be at your digression.” He held up a hand before any feasible objection tainted the air. “Don’t worry, old man. I won’t let them—”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” the former Watcher grumbled. Then paused. “Old? Do I look old?” He turned to Cordelia, whose eyes were alight with amusement. “I don’t look old, do I? I certainly don’t think so. Why, I’ve gotten carded at several of the bars Gunn drags me to. Point of fact—”

The young woman cleared her throat, unable to banish the smile from her face. “Earth to Wes. Slightly on the less of the importance-o-meter right now.”

“But—”

Wright cleared his throat. “I take it back. Are you coming or not?”

“Of course.” Wesley sighed and removed his glasses. Amongst all Watchers—current or former—the routine polishing of lenses was a definite must in such tidings. “If it will help. I am prepared to deal with Angelus if I must. Anything right now would be useful. Right now, we at least know that Buffy is all right, and—”

Zack pursed his lips worriedly, disposition altering without the suggestion of any labeled whim. “I don’t understand that,” he said. “Despite everything…from what I’ve read about the Order, particularly Angelus, it seems that he would’ve tired of her by now.”

“If she was anyone else, he likely would have,” the former Watcher agreed. “But Buffy is a Slayer. Not only that, she is a Slayer that he had a lengthy relationship with. And even if the novelty of abusing her now wears off, she might have some higher importance to Wolfram and Hart that is keeping her temporarily protected.”

The demon hunter was complacent for a minute before the frown on his face deepened, and he shook his head. “I don’t see any of them being the type to uphold contracts. Especially where these matters are concerned. From what I’ve read on Angelus—and what I know of Darla—there are too many opportunities opened to them. What’s to stop them from siring her and causing the town that much more damage? I don’t get it.”

Wesley chuckled humorlessly. “I wouldn’t worry about them siring anyone,” he offered. “It would not be beneficial in the slightest.”

“Why not?”

“Because the last time a Slayer was sired, she laid waste to her maker, his childer, and who-knows-how-many-other-vampires before she was finally defeated. That was centuries ago.” When it didn’t appear that Wright was following, he shook his head and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Siring a Slayer is essentially signing a death warrant. They’re damn near impossible to kill, with Slayer strength in addition to demonic attributes, and by the time it’s over, angry as hell with the one who made her. The fact that they maintain humanity is really, in the end, merely a footnote.”

“Angel explained this to us a long time ago,” Cordelia said, nodding. She was munching on an apple that she had seemingly brandished from nowhere. “If Slayers didn’t maintain their souls, then all vampires would wanna turn them. Being a sire already gives you a certain measure of power—if you were the sire of a soulless Slayer, you’d be damn near invincible.”

“Which is why the Powers That Be deemed it impossible,” Wesley concluded. “To even the odds. I suppose they consider it poetic justice. If a vampire is fool enough to sire a Slayer, he’ll most assuredly get what he deserves when she wakes.”

Wright took a long minute, blinking unsurely. “So we don’t have to worry about that.”

“No,” the Watcher replied.

“Nadda,” Cordelia confirmed.

“Zilch,” Gunn said, slamming the door to the lobby shut to gain their attention. The group jumped at random before simultaneously setting into a glower at his haphazard entry. It wasn’t a good idea in times such as these to try to surprise one’s colleagues. He merely grinned unashamedly and shrugged. “Ya’ll are humorless. So, what’d I miss?”

Wright and Wesley’s eyes met, and they broke for the weapons closet in unison. It didn’t take much make an assortment of selections—rather they were on their way for the door in a matter of seconds.

“Come on, Charlie,” Zack said with a grin, patting the other man on the shoulder as they headed out. “We’re goin’ out for a spot.”

“A huh?”

Cordelia just shook her head and gestured after them. “Just go. They’ll explain.”

“Right.” Gunn turned to follow with a frown. It took a few seconds for the demon hunter’s words to sink in—he whapped him upside the head in affirmative relapse. “And don’t call me Charlie. God, you and Spike, I swear…”

Wright merely smiled and shook his head, turning to wink at Cordelia. “Watch the girls for me, would you?”

“Sure.”

“And don’t let them get in trouble.”

She waved dismissively. “Trouble? Around here? Psh. What could…” She stopped with a frown, eyes wide. “God, I almost said it. Right. Big no to trouble. We’ll stay here and watch the very safe television, order some very safe pizza, and play a very safe game of Scrabble.”

“Wouldn’t call that safe,” he advised. “You don’t know how competitive Nikki can get.”

“Nikki?” a thoroughly confused Gunn asked.

“Again, we’ll explain.”

“Bye, Cordy!” Wes called.

“Bye! Don’t get killed!”

Wright grinned. “Words to live by.”

There was a thing to be said for casual camaraderie. A sort of group dynamic that he could definitely grow accustomed to.

Not that he would ever admit it. He was much too proud.

Lousy pride.

Over the expanse of his long life, Spike had never seen himself in this position.

The start of old times combining with new. The feel of déjà vu was too much for him—or nearly, as one might speculate. For an hour, he had followed them. Been one of them. Watched as Angelus slaughtered who he liked—some for food, most for pleasure. Watched him dance with Darla under the falsified starlit night. There was so much blood. Everywhere. It was intoxicating.

Wrong.

He wanted so desperately to ignore that voice, but it was too persistent to be taken lightly. It was wrong, and what’s more, he knew it.

He felt it.

They had made beautiful havoc of downtown Los Angeles. The four—rather three—of them. He had watched from a distance, feigned activity in a manner he very much assumed Angel had once portrayed while attempting to convince Darla of his inherent badness in China. It disgusted him, but that didn’t mean rot for difference. It was simply that. The face of what he had become. Not for anyone. Not even for Buffy: not in the end. Spike. The Slayer of Slayers—William the Fucking Bloody…reduced to this. To caring.

To caring so much that he had to avert his eyes when his grandsire sank his teeth into another hapless victim. He had to clench his fists to stop himself from throwing Darla off the single mother heading to her car after a long night’s shift at some cheap diner. Had to flash Drusilla a smile when she danced over to him with a bloodstained mouth and asked if she had earned a cookie. He hated them for being what they were, and worse, hated himself for hating them in the first place.

He had never felt so thoroughly torn. And he hated them for it.

“My William is not hungry?” Drusilla asked him, pouting as she rubbed his stomach, curled into his side. “I can feel you, pet. Tummy’s growling at me. Think it will feast on my hand lest we find you something better.”

Of-fucking-course.

“Spike!” Angelus exclaimed loudly, thumping him on the back. “M’boy. What’s wrong? Too fresh for you? I’m sure we can make a pit stop at the blood bank if you really find it necessary. Though I must say, I’m disappointed. Nearly a century of famine and I dove right in. You’ve been on your diet for…what? A year?”

“I must say,” Darla cooed, strolling up to him and licking idly at her fingers. “You are quite a picture from the loud, obnoxious thing I remember. Actually, Angelus, I think I prefer our Spike this way. Submissive and influential. Perhaps we—”

“Just levelin’ the playin’ field, mate,” Spike said, though his thoughts were decidedly elsewhere. If it wasn’t bad enough that every turn saw a dampening of his already forbidden conscience, he couldn’t keep himself from thinking of the girl he had left behind. For this.

She was waiting for him, and he was out with those who had wronged her.

The peroxide vampire’s eyes fell shut and blinked to awareness immediately.

He couldn’t afford to sacrifice his footing.

“Leveling the playing field?” Angelus reiterated, arching a brow. “Interesting. And here I thought you were simply sitting on your ass.”

“You must concede, Spike,” Darla added, “that in the past, you’ve been more a leveler, rather than waiting for it to happen.”

“Hush, grandmum,” Drusilla cooed, burying her face in his shoulder. “My dearest is simply working up to his goodies. He’s been all alone for too long. Wandering through the night with no one to answer his call.”

“Aww, poor baby,” his grandsire snickered. “Does somebody need a hug?”

“Always knew you were a poofter,” Spike retorted snidely.

“By all means…” Angelus gestured grandly. “Thrill me with your acumen.”

“’ll do better, you righteous wanker.” In all honesty, he didn’t know what he would do. The idea of taking one of these people…the very same that he shouldn’t care about.

The very same that he did.

These people who had homes and families. Husbands, wives, children, parents, brothers, sisters, friends, lovers…

One li’l nibble won’ hurt anyone.

Spike sighed. When had life become so damn complicated?

Three words. Buffy Anne Summers.

There. He subconsciously selected the best looking of the lot. The healthiest. The one chit that looked like she could stand for a little bloodletting. And from there, it was instinct. He didn’t know how it happened. Any of it. From one minute standing on the sidelines, watching everything pass before him, to pursuing his intended into some dark, forsakenly archetypal alley.

He reverted to game face and inhaled deeply…searching…

The woman was trembling. A wreck. Her eyes were fixated on his face in horror, and she had released a string of burdened pleas and bargains for her life. He wasn’t listening, too entranced by the picture she presented. There was fear. Real fear. He hadn’t smelled true fear in a long time. A man half-starved with self-induced famine, and she was practically begging for it.

God. For that moment, he wanted to. Wanted to bugger it all and sink his fangs in her throat. Remember, remind himself of the taste of blood. Real blood. Direct from the sodding concentrate. Buffy’s image flittered in and out of his mind, but he was too forgone to worry with intangibles. What mattered was there was reason here. There was purpose. And if he neared just a bit more…

“Please!” the girl whimpered, throat scratchy and rumbly with all sorts of mousy squeaks. “P-p-please d-d-don’t hurt m-m-m-me. Take whatever y-y-you need. I have money. Just p-pl-please don’t hurt—”

Something nagging his insides. Spike was too entranced with the scent of raw fear to notice. He had her by the shoulders and pressed flush against some building side. He nuzzled her throat, reveling in the throbbing pulse that beckoned his fangs to her. Intoxicating.

Then something happened.

In later days, he wouldn’t know if the guilt or the smell hit him first. He speculated it was the guilt but there was every chance he was reaching with wishful thinking. Just that at one precise moment, everything came reeling back. Buffy’s face fought through his bloodlust, remind him of his purpose. What he was here doing. What he needed to portray in the face of danger. His reason. His bloody meaning.

He became aware of a familiar scent next. Actually, three familiar scents. His friends from Angel Investigations were close. Close to the point that they were watching him.

Spike reckoned if he actually went through with it, he earned whatever punishment they gave.

He didn’t. It was bad enough that he thought about it.

It was bad enough that he lamented thinking about it.

Life was one vicious fucking cycle.

He didn’t make a move to withdraw. Rather, his mouth neared even further. Such to the point where his bumpies ground against her in effort to avoid the throbbing temptation of her pulse. Then his lips were at her ear, and he was whispering with serenity that directly contradicted the pressure his body was suffering. “Shhh, pet,” he murmured. “’m not gonna hurt you, all right?”

There was a pause at that. She was trying to decipher if he had already killed her and this was the afterlife. That or something equally expected. “Wh…what?”

“’S gonna sting a li’l. But I promise I’m not gonna kill you. I’m not even gonna rob you. Your goods are safe as bloody houses.” The hands that had previously kept her prostrate were now rubbing circular caresses into her shoulder, but at that she seemed to tense more. He frowned until he realized her assumption, and had to fight the temptation to roll his eyes. “An’ no, I’m not gonna sully your virtue. Reckon ‘s not virtuous enough for my taste, anyway. Jus’ close your eyes, an’ it’ll be over before you know it.”

“But—”

“Three blokes’ll be here in a sec. Good guys. You get me? They’ll take care of you. Don’ fight ‘em.”

“I—”

An intrusive scent suddenly perturbed the alleyway.

“Well, Spike,” Angelus drawled, bored. “You actually gonna do it, or have you taken to romancing your dinner before you make the kill?”

Spike tensed but relaxed just as easily. He didn’t move. “Jus’ make it look real, pet,” he whispered, voice degrees lower. “An’ all will be fine. ‘F you don’, this chap’ll do you an’ me in. Y’don’ want that, do you?”

She shook her head rapidly. The hot sting of her tears collided with his cheek and served to make him feel worse than he already did. But they were through with negotiations; he had told her all that he could. The rest was up to her.

At first bite, though, Spike nearly buckled with pleasure. The first taste of human blood from the source in over a year. It felt so damn good. He pressed her against the wall with more intent, ignoring her dying wails and pleas that seemed to melt into nowhere. He drank, and he drank fully. Unabashed. And it was good.

Too good.

When he felt her heartbeat begin to slow, he pulled away and consigned her to the ground without so much as a second glance. He snickered disinterestedly before pivoting back to Angelus, arching a brow. “Right then,” he said, overwhelmed and more than a little buzzed. “Let’s off, shall we?”

For the look on his grandsire’s face, the entire ordeal was almost worth it.

Almost.

It continued like that for what seemed like hours. Watching. Tearing. Destroying. Killing without killing. Confronting many terrified patrons who looked him in the eye and realized that what he said was true—others that refused to listen to reason. Those he let go without a struggle. Well, a struggle in the hindsight of those watching him, but not a real struggle. There were times when he thought Angelus’s eyes narrowed a bit too much for his own good, but his action was never questioned. Drusilla was pleased. Darla was apathetic. And that was, currently, all that mattered.

Only that his thoughts were with someone else, and being so near her without seeing her at all was slowly driving him out of his mind.

He couldn’t stay out here long. He had to get away.

To see her.

If only once.

“Hospital checked,” Gunn reported as he strolled over to Zack and Wesley. They were hovering over the third person that Spike had allegedly killed that night. A small teenager who looked to be much too pale for her own good. “The chick I dropped off should be fine.”

“We better check her in, too,” the former Watcher decided, lifting the girl into his embrace. “I believe he took enough to make it look realistic, but still it was too much to my liking.”

“Everything tonight’s too much to my liking,” Wright muttered irritably.

Wesley nodded at him gravely but did not reply. Instead, he turned back to Gunn and deposited the small bundle into his arms. “Did you see them on your way back?” he asked softly.

“Yeah. And let me tell you, man, not a pretty picture.”

“Where are we gonna be needed next?” Wright demanded.

“I don’t know. Spike wasn’t there.”

“Wasn’t there?”

Gunn shrugged. “Not that I saw. And Angelus was getting pretty pissy about it. Seems he snuck off about a half hour ago. Think our boy’s afraid of a little competition?”

“That or something else.”

Wright frowned. He didn’t like this one bit. “I don’t get it. It’s risking too much to…” he began lowly. “Where would he have gone?”

Someone was nearing.

Buffy realized this dimly, but it failed to click. Somewhere, everything had fallen into a tedium of habit. Habit. Had she been here long enough to form habit? It sure seemed as such. She didn’t know. Her eyes were too tired from trying to keep them open, her arms strained with too much exertion and the innate but denied need to find rest. She had been hanging for what seemed like forever.

There might as well be no skin there, for all they had done.

And more. Always coming back for more. She wondered if she would feel it this time. Last time hadn’t hurt nearly as bad. Perhaps her nerves were wearing away one by one. Perhaps…

Someone was nearing. A vampiric someone. Her Slayer senses were still there, still tingling in her gut. Lately it seemed to be an Angelus alarm. Forewarning her of his impending approach.

Someone was nearing. God, she hoped it didn’t hurt this time.

Someone was there.

There. Breathing. Harshly. And then murmuring her name with such wrought emotion that it nearly stirred her to awareness. Nearly but not quite. Someone was there.

“Oh…God…” That voice! That rough brogue that had lost its cocky tenor. She knew that voice. Knew it to the point where it haunted her dreams, and served as the false idol of her salvation. Some distant point, that thought had come and gone, and she was used to it by now. Used to dreaming up the image of the one person that shouldn’t come. Used to seeing him—though for no reason whatever—only to have him tell her the same.

She was dreaming again. Only she wasn’t. This was real.

“Oh…Buffy…”

And she knew that voice.

That was all it took. She glanced up, and her pained eyes went wide with astonishment. The Slayer had thought all surprise in her weary being to be forfeited. But no. It was there. There, and burning with as much fervor as ever.

Never had she known the ocean could be so blue. It took a minute to realize she wasn’t looking at the ocean. And another to come to a realization she still thought to be of her own design.

It wasn’t Angelus.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sweet Temptation

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ballad For Dead Friends 

The lobby of the Hyperion was encased in darkness, and while this was hardly bizarre, it wasn't difficult to isolate that something was wrong. Nothing concrete to offer a voice of louder reason. The men crowding the entry had seen enough of the darker side of humanity to identify an ambiance of trepidation when one was presented.

"Anyone else having a serious Jack Nicholson moment?" Gunn asked when no one spoke.

Nothing for a minute. Wesley blinked and looked at him oddly. "Pardon?"

"He's referring to The Shining," Wright clarified before the other man could leap inward with amplification. "You know? It was a very bad horror movie made in the '80s."

Gunn frowned. "Bad?"

"If you've read the book," the demon hunter replied with a shrug. "I've nitpicked at a few books over the years. You get bored when there are no monsters to kill. The Shining just happened to be one of them, and what Kubrick did to the story—despite the godliness that is him—was just...awful."

"Movies aren't made to follow books."

"Then they shouldn't include a 'based on' in the opening credits, dumbass."

"As fascinating as this is," Wesley said slowly, venturing a step inward. "I think there might be matters of greater significance afoot." His gaze swept the scene before them. There was still nothing. Then, quietly, "Spike?"

Zack blinked. "Why would Spike be here?"

"Well, he did disappear at random from the hunting brigade. Maybe he found something and wanted to share."

"If Spike was here, he would've greeted us in some undoubtedly unorthodox fashion," the hunter replied wryly. "No...this is something else..." He stopped, holding up a hand. "It's..."

Then he wasn't speaking at all. Before either of his associates could get another word in, Wright had bolted across the lobby and leapt behind the check-in desk. It was almost amusing—he actually did jump over the mini barrier rather than opt for the more logical circumnavigation approach.

When Wesley and Gunn followed, the found him in the corner with Cordelia, cradling the sobbing Seer against his chest and murmuring comforting reassurances into her hair.

"Oh God, Cordy," the Watcher gasped, hurrying forward.

Gunn was paralyzed with dreaded astonishment. "What happened?"

There was nothing for a long minute. Just gentle rocking amidst the soft sobs she cried into the hunter's shoulder.

"Cordy, are you—"

The instant another step was taken in her direction, she clutched more tightly to Zack and shook her head, mumbling something intelligible.

"What is it?" Wesley asked.

"She says she doesn't wanna talk about it," Wright replied.

The Watcher nodded and cocked his head. He didn't attempt to approach again, though he similarly made no move to leave her in peace. In any regard, it wasn't expected. Something had happened that was worth investigating. "Cordelia," he said softly. "Was it a vision? Did someone hurt you?"

Zack's eyes went wide. "The girls." A sense of urgency suddenly corded his muscles, but at the same time, he didn't want to leave her. He met Gunn's eyes, and the other man nodded his understanding.

"I'll check it out," came the unneeded reassurance before he disappeared up the staircase.

Neither man seemed to register his sudden absence. Their eyes met briefly in mutual admittance that whatever had reduced Cordelia to this needed to be singled out before they went any further. Wesley hated seeing her cry—namely because he had known her long enough to identify that tears on such a tower of strength were not only deeply disturbing, but similar forewarning that something terrible was on the horizon.

Luckily, she seemed to compose herself without much hindrance. That was one of the many good things about her. While she succumbed to the more likely waterworks every now and then, she did not rely on them so much that she found it impossible to stop crying once she started.

"It wasn't..." she began hoarsely. "The girls are fine."

Wright expelled a sigh of relief, but that didn't stop him from tightening his arms around Cordelia when she tried to sit up. The entire incident had suddenly made him very protective of her as well, and he wasn't quite ready to let her go.

Wesley had the same idea. Cautiously, he leaned next to her, cocking his head to the side. "Cordy..."

"I'm fine," she replied defensively, sitting up. The remark earned a foray of skeptical glances. "What? I'm...I—"

"Cordy, we saw you," Wright said softly, wiping away a lazy tear from her cheek with his thumb. The gesture had such gentlemanly softness to it that she glanced to him with wide-eyes that suggested another entourage of weeping. As though she had not expected that he had it within himself to be so convivial. "You better tell us what's wrong."

She shuddered within his arms a bit, shaking her head. "I..."

"Girls are fine," Gunn announced, jumping back into the lobby. "Is she all right?"

"We don't know," Wesley replied. His gaze remained trained on them with unmoving precision. "She won't tell us what's wrong."

At that, the young woman became defensive. It was actually rather admirable, considering that she looked ready to start crying again at any turn. Neither Gunn nor the former Watcher were particularly familiar with seeing her in such a state, though while they perturbed an air of discomforted concern, Zack had no such thought to any sort of reaction. "That's because," she said, glancing back to the demon hunter. "There's nothing wrong."

"Nothing you wanna tell us, you mean," Gunn clarified.

Wright glanced to him sharply, eyes narrowing. "Just back down, all right?"

"It might be important. Cordy, we love you. You know that, right? If something happened—"

"It was nothing," she repeated. "I..." And then trailed off completely, gaze distancing with thoughtful perseverance that took them all by surprise, if not by the implication, than the direct slap that stated whatever it was merited more consideration than any could have foreseen. When she came back to herself, her eyes shone with clarity. Understanding. More strength than anyone could have wagered themselves, given her condition of just moments before. "I need to speak with Zack alone, please."

There was a surprised furrow at that. The men exchanged curious glances.

It didn't seem so radical a request to Wright. He helped her to her feet, keeping an arm around her middle as to steady her in case she decide to fall. The move was likely superfluous, but he needed the reassurance, anyway. "Right, guys," he said. "You heard the lady."

Wesley didn't seem convinced. "Cordelia—"

"I'm fine, Wes. Just...go home. See Virginia or something." She plastered a weak smile on her face and wheedled from Wright's arms to give her friend a hug. "I wouldn't lie to you."

"I know," he replied. "It's just...with things as they are..."

She nodded. "I know. I love you guys, too. But this...this doesn't have to do with you. Okay?"

The Watcher looked at her for a long, reflective moment before nodding his reluctant agreement. "All right," he murmured. "All right." Then, with a sigh of concession, he turned to Gunn and nodded for the doors. "Come on. We better go."

The other man was not so easily moved. A permanent frown seemingly depressed his features, and he was studying her harshly with no other means than a protective older brother. It was understandable, given the circumstances. "I don't like this," he said. "We—"

"Please, Gunn. I'll see you tomorrow. Okay?"

Nothing, and finally a nod. A very reluctant but understanding nod. "All right." His gaze turned to Zack's. "You're staying with her tonight?"

"Yeah."

"Let us know if anything—"

"I will."

"Okay."

It seemed to be a fairly open and shut case: no one was bleeding, Cordelia hadn't confessed another vision, and all seemed to be within the boundary of control. Admittedly, it was more than unnerving to see the Seer so bereft with grief—especially when she refused to single a source—but the young woman was far too hardheaded to allow something as insignificant as concern sway her judgment once a decision was made. It was nearly an ordained miracle when Wesley and Gunn left when they did. While she was notably not helpless, they both felt a sense of obligation toward her that out measured any exterior persuasion.

There was an uncomfortable silence when it was left to just two of them. Zack and Cordelia glanced to each other uneasily.

"Ummm," he said. "I'm going to go check on the girls."

"They're fine."

He smiled understandingly. "Yeah. Well, maybe when you have kids, you'll understand."

"Nikki's your kid?"

At that, he paused, eyes wide. "Good God, no!"

"Didn't think so."

A pause. Wright appeared genuinely affronted. "Do I really look that old? Honestly?"

Cordelia grinned, though it was only a shadow of her usual glower. The sheen of dried tears glimmered lightly off her face, and while neither wagered her as likely to break down again, there was innate fragility in her tenor. "Well, I dunno," she mused speculatively. It was odd to hear a voice that was usually bathed in its own confidence quiver without tangible suggestion. "Maybe if you shaved and smiled a bit more, like I said earlier." It was natural: Zack scowled, and provoked a small chuckle. "Or do the exact opposite. Whichev."

"This is getting back at me for calling Wes old, isn't it?"

"Ummm...sure."

His eyes narrowed at her. "Yeah. Uh huh. I'll be right back."

The girls were fine, though he had known they would be. A picture he had seen a thousand times. Nikki was curled on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow where she kept a stake, just in case it was needed. He had told her that such precautions were not necessary while guests in the Hyperion due to the enhanced invitation charm, but she didn't care. It was habit, after all, and she couldn't sleep properly if there wasn't a weapon within convenient reach.

Rosalie was on the opposite bed, wrapped like a hotdog in her sheets. The sheets themselves had been a godsend: Wright hadn't known the hotel to have extra accommodations, though he reckoned that Cordelia had snagged them from Angel's room. No one had approached the Hyperion's missing caretaker's quarters with any means of getting rest there. Zack knew for a fact that Spike had avoided it the night before, and he, while he conventionally lacked the same reasons, had followed suit. Perhaps it was silent suggestion. Despite his knowledge on the Aurelius family, Angelus himself was a face left to text rather than experience, his encounter the previous night notwithstanding.

Wright figured, aside the obligatory abhorrence for vampires, that he disliked Angelus because he had gotten himself a soul. In a roundabout way, had the monster remained the monster, he never would have registered as a twinkle in Darla's eye. Sure, people would have died. Many people would have died, but Amber would have lived. She would have lived, and he would never have known about vampires, demons, or other uglies that went bump in the night.

Purely selfish reasoning, of course.

At least, that had been the consensus. The people he knew now had given him something back. Wesley and Gunn, even Spike. His thoughts drifted to Cordelia downstairs. The idea of not knowing her did not rest well with him. He didn't know if he had been out of the loop too long, if he was merely reaching for a connection that had been sorely missing from his life, or if he was seeing something that wasn't there, but that didn't change the radical dive his feelings had taken. Slowly at first. Little things.

Seeing her sobbing like that had been one of the single most horrifying moments in his life. Not quite tying with two others, but he had long since stopped counting. After all that had happened, all that had led him here, he couldn't stand it if another one of his girls got hurt. Rosie was all right. Nikki was all right. Cordelia was not, even if she attempted to deny it. She was a pillar of strength, he had to admit. Even Amber at her best couldn't have witnessed and done the things that the Seer had with such a cheery, open-minded disposition.

And still, the thought of moving on in that regard sickened him. Thoroughly sickened him. As though there was some clause that demanded he remain faithful, body and soul, to a dead woman. He didn't know whom to resent: her or himself.

Better to get downstairs. Apart from everything else, he didn't want to leave her for too long. The girls were fine: that was all he needed to know.

Wright found Cordelia in much the same state that he had left her. She had moved to one of the sofas in the middle of the lobby and was sipping at a cup of hot tea. He smiled. A tower of strength. Even towers had their off days. She was visibly worn, fatigued from an emotional outburst, and more than slightly disturbed to have been caught in such a state.

A flicker and she glanced up.

"Hey."

The smile on his face broadened. She spoke as though he was a friend visiting for the weekend.

"Hey."

"Girls all right?"

"Yeah. Sleeping."

A shadow of a smirk crossed her face. "Told yah."

Wright's grin remained but he didn't reply; instead completed en route down the staircase and assumed a seat in the chair opposite her. They sat in companionable silence for a few seconds—enjoying the art of not speaking—before acknowledgement that discussing what had happened was inevitable, and more than needed for the refinement of understanding.

Things grew serious before a syllable could be uttered. He didn't know that that had ever happened to him.

He was glad she was the first to speak. The last thing he wanted was to coax her into submission without rightful prompt. And yet, her words chilled the already cold air around them, and rendered him thoroughly frozen.

"She was pretty."

Such a small statement. Three little words. Nothing specific, and yet he knew what she was talking about. Wright wasn't aware that he was staring at her until Cordelia shifted uncomfortably and averted her eyes with a note of the same.

Then she was rambling, and that was never good.

"Really, from what I saw, Rosie looks just like her. Well, you got the blonde thing going. Where did the blonde come from? Brown plus brown equals blonde? Maybe it was something on your parent's side. But totally—the eyes. The eyes are, like, the same. I can—"

Zack grasped her wrist suddenly, his own eyes seeking hers. "You saw her."

A trembling breath slipped passed Cordelia's lips, and she nodded, gaze fogging again with the shimmer of unshed tears. "I saw her," she replied hoarsely. "Oh God. I...there was...over and over again. So much pain. So much...so much rage. I hadn't felt anything like that since...well, last year, when the visions wouldn't stop and I felt like my head was about to explode. It was so vivid. I felt it. I felt everything that bitch did to her." A sob rattled her system, and she caressed her mouth with the back of her hand. "I can't...it was...and then you. I felt what you felt, and I..." It didn't take much: her entire body gave way to the tremors it could not prevent, and sank slowly against the cushions of an unmade haven. "I'm so sorry," she gasped. "So...so..."

"You have nothing to be sorry about."

"But I felt it, Zack. You don't understand. I felt it. I felt everything." She shook her head and tried to turn away, but he wouldn't let her. It was important to maintain a form of eye contact, even if it wasn't wanted. "Everything. Her. You. Even Rosie, I think. On a level. It was...and I don't know why! It's not like it's something I can get everyone on. It's not like I can tell Wes and Gunn to pile up the car with stakes and crosses so we bust a cap to go save her. It happened, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I feel helpless, and I...I'm never helpless. It's—"

That struck a chord he did not wish to investigate, even if it was for the better. "I know."

"Sensory overload. God, it's never been like that before. I've never felt everything before." She shook her head. "And it was tearing me apart. It didn't last long, but it felt like forever. It felt like—"

"I'm sorry we didn't get here sooner."

There was a cold pause and her gaze met his again, once again cascaded with tears that she did not want. And then, anger. Random but real anger. She jumped to her feet and wiped at her eyes irately. "Would you stop already?"

Wright frowned. "Stop what?"

"This! Stop...stop just pretending that you're concerned about me, all right? I know now. I know everything. I get why you're here. Why you want Darla dead so much." Her hands fisted. "God, she was right here. Right fucking here and Wes and I didn't just...kill her like we should have. 'Cause Angel had to go on his all holy quest only to find out that—hey—she couldn't be saved. She was gonna die and there was nothing his redemptive ass could do about it." Cordelia stopped again, anger subsiding in waves. "There are only so many lines a person can cross before redemption's not listed under the options section of the How To Live As A Dead Person guidebook."

Zack rose to his feet. "I wasn't pretending."

"That's swell. But I can't make it stop." She clutched at her chest. "I can't make it stop. I just keep seeing it over and over and over again. I can even..." A painful pause. "I can even hear her laughing. Darla laughing as she...as she butchered—"

That was too much. He held up a hand and closed his eyes tightly.

"I'm sorry," Cordelia whispered after a minute.

"I am, too. Sorry you had to see that. Go through it." He shook his head and glanced away. "It was hard enough the first time. Doesn't get any easier, either. Turning into who I am. Doing what I do."

A thoughtful pause. "You do good, though. You've done a lot of good."

"I've done my fair share of bad, too."

"I think that comes with being human, sweetie. Just the way things are." A sigh coursed through her lips. "Though I can definitely see why trusting Spike was a big for you. Hell, I was there for the entire 'Angel goes bonkers, take one' and I still...I forgave him. Came and worked for him. Saved him from being hot-pokered to death by Spike."

Wright quirked a brow. "Someday, you're gonna have to tell me that story, start to finish."

"It was before he was a good guy." She shrugged.

"You call Spike a good guy?"

"Despite my new and improved position against all things vampy? Yeah." Cordelia smiled thinly. "He's one of us. Besides...you were able to see passed the fangs."

"Took me a while."

She gave him a skeptical glance. "It's only been a few days."

"Felt longer. And I haven't given him a clean bill of...whatever you give vampires." Wright frowned. "But I see...sometimes I see so much of me in him. What he's doing for this chick."

"Buffy."

He made a face. "Horrible name."

Cordelia chuckled in agreement. "I think her real name's Elizabeth or something normal like that. I dunno. The girl was always on the wrong side of weird back in high school. Of course, she had the slaying thing and the typical 'whoa is me, my boyfriend's a bloodsucking fiend from beyond the grave' thing going for her. The Angel and Buffy show. Really wish we'd had a mute button."

"And now she's Spike's girl."

"Well, Spike wants her to be his girl. There's a big difference." She frowned. "I hope he knows what he's doing, or realizes it, anyway. Buffy and I were never close for the obvious reasons, but I do remember her being a little on the high and mighty side when it came to vamps."

Wright gave her an obvious look. "Well, she is the Slayer. From what I've heard about those the past few days, it's sorta her duty to not allow vampires clemency."

"Even with what Spike is doing for her? Risking for her?"

"Spike's said he doesn't expect anything in return."

"And you believe that?"

"Yes." He held up a hand in clarification. "But that doesn't mean he doesn't want anything in return. He just knows he's not gonna get it. And I see myself in that. More so than I wish I did."

Cordelia pursed her lips thoughtfully. "This is purely on a Seer level," she said after a minute. "But...I think you two were in the same state before you met. And despite however little you like it; you're bringing out the humanity in each other, because you can see where it needs to go. You said you see yourself in him. Maybe he sees himself in you, too. Maybe he sees what will happen to him if he...if he can't save her."

There was a pause. Wright smiled ironically. "He'll turn into some self-loathing demon hunter who can't see but from kill to kill, and doesn't stop even when he knows it's destroying him?"

"No." She took several bold steps toward him, gaze steady and intent. Another odd whim. He had never known a woman who could go from crying one minute to looking so damned courageous and determined the next. He had always boasted Amber's strength and independence, but he didn't know now if he had seized the full grasp of his own initiative. "Instead of doing all the saving, he'll become someone who needs to be saved just as badly. And he'll be too proud to admit it when he needs help."

What followed remained perpetually in a blur. Wright felt something warm brush against his lips—soft, pliable, and aching with as much wrought tension and liberation as he had ever thought to give or receive. It was delicious. Bold. God, it was another first. The girls of his past had usually been too shy to make such an audacious move, even if it was birthed from friendship rather than sensuality. New, boisterous, and wonderful, and gone too quickly. Cordelia smiled at him warmly with kindness he reckoned she didn't even know she possessed and made to pass him with a note of the same. "Good night."

Only, somehow, he couldn't allow it to rest at that. Not after being given a sample of something he had denied himself for the better part of a decade. Before he could gouge the consequences of his actions, he had grasped her by the arm and drawn her mouth back to his. Needing, hot, and relentless. A surge of cool relief flooded him when she did not challenge him, rather sank in with the same note of surrender. Whatever battle he had thought to come to blows with tonight was over. And after years of denying himself anything that could be regarded as a human touch, he was ready to drown.

She understood. Fully. Of everyone that had tried to break down his wall, she had succeeded. Because she felt it just as real as he did.

Too soon it was over. They pulled apart gasping.

"Wow," she breathed.

"Yeah," he agreed, a little dazed. "Sorry, it's...it's just been so long."

"I didn't mean to...that wasn't what I was trying—"

"I know."

They were silent for a few more minutes. Heaving needlessly and studying each other without trade. Something there that neither wanted to approach. Something to be saved for another time.

"Well," Cordelia said, clearing her throat and stepping aside. "I'm...ummm...going to go to bed. Use...well, I guess Angel's room is the only room that's all bed-ready."

"I can take you home, if you like."

"No. I'd rather...ummm...stay here." She offered a weak smile. "Little late to be going out again. Besides, your girls'd be all by themselves."

He nodded. "Yeah. They would."

Another moment. Another nod. And a look of affability. "Goodnight, Zack."

Cordelia made it halfway up the stairs before he stopped her.

Wright looked perplexed by his own request for a minute, wrestling with thoughts and words until they met on a similar axis. And when he spoke, it was more than heartfelt. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being one to save me." He grinned slightly. "For being that damned stubborn."

A pause before she smiled. Zack made a note then to get her to smile as often as possible.

"Anytime," she replied with a wink. Then disappeared into the darkness of the upper chambers. Up with the others. Nikki and Rosie.

His girls.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Bleeding From Yesterday

The day started on an early, almost serene note. Naturally, this led to general apprehension. The phone refused to ring, the doors refused to admit customers, and there had been no word from Spike in nearly thirty-six hours. None that anyone could attest as tangible. His concerns about being discovered by Angelus and the others had yet to be determined. Wright ventured to Caritas alongside Gunn half a dozen times to establish if any word had come in, but the lines of communication remained intensely and indefinitely severed.

There was one thing the four shared in spades: the communal abhorrence for being sitting ducks.

Tedium at Angel Investigations was something that hadn’t been a major concern for quite some time. Cordelia shared a few tales of similar boredom with Wright over another nutritional McDonalds breakfast, earning a grin or two to coincide with the unabated awe on his face. It was different, she knew. After having been on the road for so long, following lead after lead of new information, hearing of people who spent entire days—and weeks, pending—without anything to go on seemed damn near impossible. Especially in a city like Los Angeles.

There were other things to discuss. She shared over coffee several interesting Buffy-related stories from Sunnydale. The Graduation incident in which the entire senior class banded together to destroy a giant snake-shaped mayor. He heard of her adventures with someone named Xander Harris—on particularly eyebrow-raising story about a man made of bugs and serious smoochies in the Slayer’s basement that led to subsequent smoochies wherever dark area was located. He laughed when she told him about battling Buffy for Homecoming Queen, only to lose full count. He provided false sympathy when she related the story of finding Xander and someone named Willow involved in serious kissage while being held Spike’s prisoner, and consequentially ignored the dirty smirk she gave him in turn. He even listened to the dull-as-dust stories involving the ‘Cordettes’ and their various extravaganzas. It was all riveting. Amazing. As though something he remembered vaguely, but from a long while ago.

“You’re still very young,” he observed.

“I turned twenty last month,” she retorted with a shrug. Then her look became suspicious. “Why? How old are you?”

Wright smiled. “Well, I was married in college, was widowed three years after, and Rosie’s almost nine. You do the math.”

Cordelia made a face. “Have I mentioned that math wasn’t my best subject?”

“Only a thousand or so times.” There was a pause. “It’s considerable…the age difference.”

“What, give or take ten years?” She looked unimpressed. “Honey, Buffy and Angel were separated by centuries.”

He flashed a cheeky grin. “Comparing us to the infamous ‘star-crossed lovers’? For shame! Were you thinking of something else?”

“Don’t call them ‘star-crossed.’ Spike’d have your head for that. Besides, I don’t think that applies when one of the aforementioned lovers is torturing the daylights out of the other.” She frowned and shook her head. “And hey—buddy—you’re the one who brought it up.”

“Just wanted to let you know, in case you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

Cordelia stuck out her tongue. “Perv.”

Wright smirked, completely unashamed. “Yup. Color me one dirty old man.”

“You’re not old. Well, not really.” There was a sigh and an inevitable shrug. “Okay, so a little, considering. If you sit down and do a serious contrast and compare. But still. No big. Age wasn’t really a huge deal for me. Never was. I mean, hello. As I’ve said, Angel’s had a freakin’ bicentennial, and Spike’s gotta be way up there.”

“He’s a hundred and twenty seven,” Wright replied automatically. He ducked his head at the amazed look she gave him in turn. “Sorry. I do my homework.”

“Obviously.” Cordelia snickered. “What? Did you not have some brainy friend to copy off of?”

“I did, but he was much too honest to let me cheat. Had to make the grades, myself.”

“You see, when you live on a Hellmouth, cheating doesn’t exactly strike as a deadly sin.” She shrugged. “Ah, well. Willow never really helped me, anyway. She was always more Buffy’s friend than mine.”

“You sound like you were a very different person in high school.”

“I was a total bitch in high school.”

Wright shrugged. “Knew me a few of them.”

“Well, at least I’ve grown enough as a person that I can admit that now.”

He grinned. “Yes you can.” There was a brief but complacent silence as they considered each other—then Zack jolted to a start and flashed a glance at his watch. “Ah, fuck. I gotta run. The boys and I are gonna swing by Caritas, then do a sweep of the territory the vamps covered last night.”

“You’re going by Caritas again?”

A shrug. “Gotta at least try to keep the lines of communication open.” He was suddenly leaning over the check-in counter, scribbling something down on the first scrap of paper his fingers touched. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone—” he began absently.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Because of my spaz-fest last night? Really, I’m—”

“—but seeing as I have no choice, here’s my pager number.” He glanced up, all tease from his eyes having vanished. “Don’t blow it off like that. A ‘spaz-fest’. It was more to me than that. It was more to you than that. Right?”

There was an intense moment of introspection. She was too lost in his eyes to reply at first. Then a sharp jerk and a corresponding nod. Offering something more than the volume of her voice could attest. “Yeah…erm…yes. It was. I just…my defense mechanism is to make everything—”

“I know.” He smiled. “Mine, too.” Another brief minute of silence. “I mean it, Cordy. Page me if you have another fit.”

“Hey! It wasn’t—”

“And watch the girls for me. Don’t let Nikki give you any shit.” Before she could register what happened, Zack had leaned far across the counter to give her a brief, however evocative kiss before he bolted across the lobby. It left her winded for seconds after he disappeared, and forced her down another spiral of self-analysis that she wasn’t sure she was ready for.

The reflective silence she was going for didn’t last long. Within five minutes of solitude, the entry doors swung open again. Cordelia plastered on a smile and peeked into the hallway, witty retort about pagers and obligation curled and waiting on her lips before she caught the face of the man in the lobby.

A face so foregone, she nearly didn’t recognize it.

“…Lindsey?”

The lawyer from Wolfram and Hart—the very same she had come to loathe on principle given the events of the past year—blinked at her dazedly before realizing he had been addressed. While they weren’t terribly acquainted, give or take a haphazard alliance in the past, she knew him well enough to gouge the look on his face detailed more agony than any expression she had seen him adorn before.

“Cordelia,” he muttered. “I…I need help.”

Before falling in love with the Slayer, Spike wagered he had never spent more than five minutes in the course of his unlife worrying extendedly about anything or anyone. Everything had fallen at a general give-or-take level of acceptance. He couldn’t bear the thought of anything more. Even with the saga that was Drusilla, he hadn’t lost much sleep over it. Her infidelity, while it dug trenches, was nearly a part of the general acceptance. He had known that from the start—Angelus made very certain that he understood that while the insane vampire had chosen him, her daddy would always be the preferred lover.

A century could do wonders to one’s perception. Angelus had only been with them for two decades before he got himself all souled up and rat-happy. From there, it had been easy street. Killing and fucking all the livelong day. Getting into messes only to assuredly get out of them. Prague presented the first problem that he couldn’t readily talk himself out of, but once they escaped, he hadn’t worried too much. True, he had spent his every waking minute hunting for the cure to his beloved’s ailment, but there wasn’t much worrying involved. Just tedious research and nonstop wanking, seeing as Drusilla was in no condition to readily solve his sexual urges every time he got them.

Falling in love with Buffy had turned his world upside down in more than the obvious ways. For days, he had tormented himself with thoughts of her. Debated once even taking a drill to his head as to bore the seemingly random affection out of his head. Never his heart, of course, because it wasn’t really there—and he had never been wholly serious, even if he had taken comfort in that. At very first. Until it became abundantly clear that he was indeed in love with her, and so helpless was his case that he had remained blind to it even as it had obviously been there since their general acquaintance.

After admitting his impossible feelings to himself—and similarly after surpassing the phase where he bumbled stupidly outside her house, debating and fighting the urge to storm in like a madman and demand she hand over his unlife, please—Spike had experienced something a century could not have prepared him for. All out concern. The knowledge that Slayers were creatures of a limited lifespan. That she had already surpassed her due date. And yes, she was the best of the best. She was fucking poetry itself, but even that failed to comfort. So he watched her. And loved her; worried himself a little more dead each day that his own words would come to pass. That some grizzly night thing would have itself one good day, and she would be taken from him forever.

It astonished him how deeply his feelings ran. How strong his love had become after its acceptance into limelight. He had spent a century with Drusilla—a fucking century—and never come close to this sort of agonized bliss. From the looks that crossed her face when he touched her, to the bittersweet taste of her mouth when they kissed. It was impossible to compare, impossible to believe there had been existence before her. That he had lived without this mammoth love swallowing his insides. The want of purity above death. The weight of tears he felt depressed upon his nonbeating heart when he thought of her. When her voice echoed her relief that he was there, that he was real, when nothing else could possibly ring as true.

Spike still wasn’t thoroughly convinced that she believed him when he vouched for his own tangibility. The idea that she could have dreamt of him while having no reason to was beyond vexing, even if he relished its taste. But God, the pangs he felt now were unsurpassable by any other feat he had known. Angelus had made no mention of her yet, even when he thought he would. Even after he disappeared and reappeared hours later, Slayer smell rank on his clothing, he offered no explanation and similarly made no move to conceal himself. He also didn’t comment on the potential of the peroxide vampire’s presence in that very death chamber during his disappearance at their hunt. Oh no, the Cockney had made quite sure of that. He had showered himself thoroughly, fed off a few more townspeople without killing them, then proceeded to get himself thoroughly pissed at some low-ranking pub. There was no doubting that smell, or the telling wobble in his stride.

But Buffy smelled of him. He knew that. She smelled of him, and her quarters were drenched in the heat of her unquenched arousal. He hadn’t had the courage to push her over that threshold, and perhaps it was for the best. A climax was certainly more telling on the nose.

At least, as was per his experience.

It was difficult business not staking Angelus outright when Spike saw him next. Knowing what he knew. Having felt her blood between his fingers, and knowing why it was there. Knowing whom had tainted her precious body with his calloused, hateful presence. Knowing whom had made her bleed.

Knowing that he had hurt his girl.

His girl.

There were several truths to be reckoned with. His worrying was going to drive him out of his mind if his fury did not beat him to it. And there had to be a way to get access to Buffy’s manacles without attracting attention to himself. Were it anyone else, Spike would bump into his grandsire at random and snag the key the old-fashioned way. But it wasn’t anyone else, and there was no way the great billowing sod would fall for that. Didn’t bloody matter how good the peroxide vampire was at petty theft. Didn’t matter that he had paid for more than his fair share of drinks without paying for them at all. Didn’t matter that Xander Harris had served as his steady income months long after his relocation into the Restfield Cemetery.

No. None of that mattered. Because this wasn’t some glorified carpenter. This was Angelus. And he would know.

He always fucking did.

There was only one foreseeable option tight now. He had to return to the Hyperion and consort with the others. Let them know what he knew. Let them know what was happening to her. Demand resolution until they had an acceptable answer. An acceptable variation of the more grim reality.

The happenings around Wolfram and Hart seemed to be on a very give and take basis. Angelus and Darla had spent most of the day basking and fucking and eating whatever they could find. On occasion, some lawyer bint named Lilah Morgan would send down an impressionable intern to be made into a hearty snack. Under different circumstances, Spike suspected that he might like Lilah: it wasn’t often that he encountered a modern human woman with the morality of a politician. And while it was more than obvious that her actions were modeled for self-benefit rather than any notion of appeasing his enemies, their status alone separated them on the greater spectrum of things.

Time to go back to the Hyperion. Definitely. To the others.

They would get her out.

It amazed her that after everything she had seen, and more importantly done, that Cordelia still managed to be captured by the propensity in which little things could progress from bad to worse.

Lindsey had been in the lobby for two minutes, disheveled and more than a little defeated, when the doors flew open once more and Kate Lockley paraded inward. She wore an expression that could freeze Hell, though the determination on her face looked more prone to raise it.

“I’m having trouble with this,” she said sternly as means of salutation. “You want to know why?”

Cordelia frowned and fought the temptation to bang her head against the desk. “Because those shoes really don’t match your top?”

That didn’t seem to help. Lockley brushed passed a dumbfound Lindsey without tossing him a second glance and slammed what looked to be a police file on the front desk. “I’m having trouble with this, Ms. Chase. Twelve reports from different victims with distinguishing marks on their necks. Notice anything familiar?” She didn’t give her time to explain. “A man with peroxide hair and a notably Cockney brogue? You assured me that he was safe!”

“He is!” the brunette snapped, leaping to her feet. “Else those twelve would be dead and not filing police reports.”

“So you’re telling me that it’s all right that a loose vampire feeds on people as long as he maintains that they don’t die. Let’s not count how much blood loss was sustained. How many hospital bills are piling on innocent victims without insurance.” She slammed her open palm to the clement surface. “These are still assault charges, Cordelia. Innocent people—”

“If I may intervene,” Lindsey volunteered. “As a lawyer, I can attest that while some are better than others, the term innocent people is—”

“Shut up,” both women snapped.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. My interest is piqued.” Lindsey glanced to Cordelia with a quirked brow. “Spike? What’s your connection with Spike?”

“And that falls under the category of ‘questions I am least likely to answer,’” she retorted with an unpleasant smile. “Especially to the right-hand man of Evil Incorporated, who, by the by, kidnapped the Slayer.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh really?”

“You ought to know. I was the one who informed you of Angel’s transformation, wasn’t I?”

She frowned. “Yes. You were also the one who initiated said transformation.”

“I was never in favor of it. That was Holland’s idea.”

“And what a fantastic idea it was.”

“He’s dead now, if it’s any consolation.”

“Because of a party I let Angel break in on,” Lockley added irately. “If I had kept him in custody—”

“You and everyone else would have been killed,” Lindsey finished. “Trust me, Detective, you don’t know Angelus half as well as you think you do. The books you’ve piled through? The facts you’ve memorized? Words on paper. That’s all they are. They can’t begin to measure up to what he is. What he’s done.” His voice quieted. “The things I’ve seen him do.”

“The things you’ve let him do, you mean,” Kate snapped.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh. Rich. Didn’t have a choice except to allow him to instate chaos all over town. Do you have any idea how many people lost their lives last night?” The cool blonde turned her icy gaze back to Cordelia, blazing with contempt. “For every person that your friend didn’t kill last night, your boss killed double. That doesn’t account for the multiple reports that compile what Darla and Drusilla did with their…do you have any conception of—”

“Your friend?” Lindsey demanded, again cutting through uncaringly. “You put him there, didn’t you? Spike. There’s no other—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There was no way he was falling for that. Cordelia was an expert liar even if she wasn’t a keen actress, but the remark itself fell flat between the convenient woes of both parties. Instead, his eyes narrowed and he appraised her with a disbelieving glance. “Yes you do,” he said softly. “I…God, I wish I’d known sooner.”

That was it. The brunette’s eyes went wide with conspiracy. “What?” she demanded, monotone. “What did you do?”

“I haven’t done anything,” he said. “Not as of the recent. But I did send a small group of mercenary vamps to take care of the problem. They’re dust, just so you know. He and some rogue killed every one, according to…I just wish I’d known.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Well, you know now. Live with it.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been putting myself through,” he snapped, suddenly embittered. “Watching…oh God. Watching what he’s done to her!”

“Spike?”

“No, Angelus.” Lindsey started pacing, a trait that looked odd on him, even if it was needed. “The things I’ve seen him do…because he’s bored. Because it’s fun. Because it’s her.” He shook his head. “I had a half mind to do something myself if I didn’t think it end up killing us both. It’s not…”

The undeclared conviction of right hung over them like a cloud ready to burst. It was conductive notice. Despite however much McDonald’s disposition seemed and likely was legitimate, marking his motives as right was far and beyond anything that Cordelia was openly comfortable with.

“You’ve been video monitoring everything that Angel does?” Kate asked softly.

“Yes.”

“Does he know?”

Lindsey’s eyes widened comically. “Know? Are you kidding me? You really think I’d be standing here if he knew?” He sighed and shook his head. “If Spike is really—”

“He’s really,” Cordelia intervened resolutely. “Trust me.”

“I don’t have a choice but to.” He glanced to the ground, to Lockley, and to the ground again. “We’ll have to figure out some way to get her out of there. He has better access than I do, even if I don’t believe Angelus has told him about her yet. That she’s still alive.”

“So you don’t know if he’s found her yet?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t looked at last night’s tapes from the security feed. It didn’t seem necessary, with all of them out on the town.”

“Murdering innocents,” Kate muttered under her breath.

Lindsey’s hands came up and he gave her a narrowed look. “You want to try and stop them, Detective?” he asked rhetorically. “Be my guest.”

“They’ll just kill you dead,” Cordelia agreed with a shrug.

Lockley glared at her. “Ms. Chase, with all due respect, there’s every possibility that I will be ‘killed dead’ every day on this job. That doesn’t change the description much, does it? I refuse to stand idly by while people are out there being maimed and murdered and god-knows-what-else. I don’t have time for this.”

“Neither do I,” the lawyer said. “Whatever you and yours are planning to do needs to be done quickly. Angel is…while his torment of her is as active as ever…he—”

She held up a hand. “Fine. Right. Whatever. Listen Lindsey, you came to us. All right? You want in, you’re gonna have to play by our rules. That means no staking my friends, especially when they’re there to help you. That also means no changing your mind once the deed is done, like some have done in the past. See if you can talk to Spike or something. I know for a fact that he’ll have more than one idea on how to get her out of there. The guy talks of nothing else.” She turned to Kate. “You. I don’t care what you do. Just stay out of our way.”

“Is your friend going to continue biting innocents?”

Lindsey coughed. Loudly.

Cordelia, in turn, offered a falsely sweet smile. “Hon,” she said. “It’s better than what Angelus would do. Remember that. And yes, he is, if it means getting the Slayer out. You don’t understand—Spike’s on a one-track street. Biting people means trust by crazy family means access to Slayer means saveage and hopefully much-deserved smoochies.”

“He’s really in love with her?” Lindsey asked, astonished.

“That’s none of your business, buddy. Just get back to Wolfram and Hart and see if you can dig up anything useful.” The brunette sighed deeply and shook her head, gaze averting to the ground. “Just…do it, okay? Whatever’s going to be done needs to be in the now.” She paused, the first hint of worry that she had thought to betray since the situation flew so drastically out of hand pouring through her eyes. There. Calm. Resolute. More than tangible: stressed and far from defeated. Cordelia refused to concede defeat; it was in her nature. She reckoned she would be fighting until long after the battle had concluded.

Either way, that did not stop or alter what was already known. A fact strained with more calamitous consequence than any she thought to convey.

“We’re running out of time.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Kiss The Flame

The last thing he expected upon arrival was to be greeted with a hearty dose of aversion, and yet it was received in spades. Firstly by the less-than-amiable look delivered by the woman he recognized to be Detective Kate Lockley, and next for the groan that slipped through Cordelia’s lips as her head collapsed wearily on the front counter.

“Let me guess,” she said in manner of greeting. “You didn’t talk to Lindsey.”

Spike arched a brow. “Lindsey? Yay tall? Lawyer type with a baby face an’ a poncy name? Nope, can’t say that I have. Not since the operation, anyway.”

“Great. Just great.”

“Ummm…jus’ for the means of curiosity, but why?”

“He was just here,” Lockley intervened, her tone cold but moderate. “Evidently, the two of you have been playing at a crossroads.”

The peroxide vampire stared at her blankly. “Whassat?”

Another low moan perturbed Cordelia’s disposition, whose features were still buried in her arms. “This thing,” she said, muffled. “Lindsey’s on an all out rescue-Buffy warpath. And he’s been having a major wig about it ever since…ever.”

There was a pause. Spike arched a brow coolly, calm and determined to remain reasonable. “’S that so?” he demanded. “Funny, ‘cause I coulda sworn he was one of the prats who set this entire thing up in the bloody firs’ place. Guess life’s a li’l ironic like that, huh?”

At that, Lockley’s eyes widened with blazes of unkempt fury that he hadn’t noted before. A fire burning with a low enough glow to remain unnoticed until the final sparks were close enough to set the world alight with a thousand torches. “You wanna talk irony?” she spat. “Like, how you say you want to protect your Slayer, and yet I somehow wind up with a dozen assault reports that match a man of your description?”

Cordelia cleared her throat, attention stirred again. “Ummm, that’s not irony, Kate,” she corrected. “It’s hypocrisy. And didn’t we already cover this?”

Spike scowled. “I am not a bloody hypocrite. I did what I had to.”

“Yeah, what you had to,” Lockley agreed snidely, planting her hands on her hips. “Funny how that just happened to coincide with sinking those fangs of yours into the necks of civilians all across town and the destruction of ten thousand dollars in public property.”

Cordelia frowned. “You didn’t mention that.”

“I’m mentioning it now.”

“Oh.” Her brow furrowed in consideration before turning to Spike with a flash of incredulous awe. “Ten thousand dollars? What did you do last night?”

He shrugged. “Li’l of this, li’l of that. The usual.”

There was an irritated snicker from Lockley. She did not look impressed. “Well, that usual’s going to cost you.”

A darker scowl befouled his features at that; one that he could not prevent if he tried. “Listen, you ignorant bint,” he snarled. “Considerin’ my record, you oughta be glad that’s the worst that happened. Remember me? Dangerous vampire here. The same I distinctly I recall you sayin’ you’d read up on. Gave me a li’l lecture on the basics of my own sodding kind. I’m here for one purpose only: get the Slayer out. ‘F a few bystanders ‘appen to get knicked in the process, so bloody be it. I couldn’t give a lick.”

The brunette woman snickered at that. “I suppose it’s too late to tell you not to take anything that Kate says personally,” she advised. “She just hates vamps.”

“Yeah, I do,” the detective agreed. “And this one’s not climbing on my list.”

Spike leaned forward provocatively, eyes widening with a bit of the same dynamism. “Not my problem,” he growled. “Listen, I wager you have some tragic sob story to account for your vamp aversion. Guess what: not the bloody firs’. I know me quite a few blokes who’ve had a bit of the same over the years.”

There was an uncomfortable rustling from Cordelia at that. He glanced up and met her eyes. One fleeting glance was all it took. One glance on mutual territory, and they knew each other.

“This has nothing to do with me,” Lockley spat.

“You’re right. It doesn’,” Spike agreed, snapping back to attention. “Give us a ring when you’ve figured it out.”

“Kate can help us,” Cordelia offered softly.

“She was our link to Wolfram an’ Hart. That job’s been passed on to me. She can leave.”

“No, she really can’t.” The brunette stood at that and navigated around the desk, ignoring his skeptical expression. “I know it’s not exactly a position to be desired, Spike, but let’s face it. Our options, our allies…kinda running on the low side, wouldn’t you say? We need all the help we can get.”

The peroxide vampire’s gaze did not alleviate. “Not from tarty bints who think themselves so bloody better than the lot of us.”

“And—ehm—excuse me, but it is Buffy that we’re saving, isn’t it?”

He frowned. “Not funny, pet.”

“But oh so true. And admit it: if she wasn’t Miss Waiting To Be Saved, you’d be the first to say so.” Cordelia appraised him with an expectant glance, but her grin faded almost instantly at the look on his face—her eyes going wide with horror. “Oh God. I’m sorry. Was it something I said? I—”

Spike held up a hand, blinking to the realization that while he had drifted, the moment had been fleeting and it was likely a wonder that the brunette had caught on at all. “’S all right,” he said. “’S jus’…I saw her.”

A dump truck full of pins wouldn’t have registered a peep in the room.

“What?” Lockley demanded, astonished. She didn’t recognize her own voice for its bewilderment until it tainted the air. Knowledge of the Slayer’s status hadn’t previously presented much room for attention, but it was safe to say that her interest was piqued.

“You saw her?” Cordelia repeated. “And she…and you…well, where the fuck is she? Is she okay? Is she hurt? Did—”

The defeat waving across Spike’s features was heartbreaking. The same confessed time and time again for the strains of his own incompetence in the matter. This bloody not knowing of where to go. What to do, if only to refer to the mission statement that something had to be done before everything was lost. “She…” he said, voice growing distant and hoarse without suggestion. “God, he’s…he’s all but butchered her.”

“So, why is she still there? Why didn’t you—”

The vampire’s eyes narrowed. “You honestly think that we’d be havin’ this conversation ‘f that’d been a bloody option?”

“Well, no. But—”

“They’ve got her fixed in these shackles that can’t be broken. Very posh. Somethin’ every decently evil law firm needs lyin’ around.” A sigh broke his body and he collapsed into one of the armchairs in the foyer. “An’ wha’s best…guess who has exclusive access?”

There was no need to guess. “Angel.”

“The one an’ only.”

Lockley pursed her lips. “Is she…is the Slayer going to be all right?”

Spike’s scowl darkened once more “Bloody right she is.”

Cordelia looked at him sympathetically. “Did she know you were there?”

He nodded. “I…I couldn’t walk away. She was jus’ danglin’ there an’…I couldn’t…” His eyes fell shut painfully, fighting the losing battle to keep his emotions to himself. Despite his liking for these people, bearing all with no thought to consequence was still something he wasn’t entirely familiar with. Regardless of implication. “She…what they’ve…I couldn’t leave without doin’ somethin’.”

Evidently, there was something in the suggested tone that Lockley didn’t like. Her arms crossed and she leaned against the front counter with a perked brow, studying him a bit too close for comfort. “Oh really?” she retorted. “And what did you do?”

The vampire looked at her with masked surprise. Well, didn’t that beat all? Of course, the one licensed detective in the building caught onto whatever he wasn’t making much noise to hide. Still, it was irritating—and furthermore—it wasn’t her business. What had occurred between him and the Slayer was very much that: between him and the Slayer. He didn’t need the opinion of an outsider to offer comfort to the girl he loved, and he certainly didn’t need the tacit approval of someone so wholly unrelated to him that she might as well be a stranger.

“I helped,” he said. And that was that.

“Oh, I’m sure you did.”

“Spike…” Cordelia ventured. “What is she talking about?”

The last was something that fell distinctly to the void; he was too infuriated by suggestion to think to respond to the brunette. Instead, the peroxide vampire leapt to his feet and stalked forward with undisguised rage. It was both irritating and commendable when Lockley refused to flinch. The chit had stones, he had to admit. But the raw insinuation in her tone was unforgivable. The notion, the slightest hint of what she was saying…

It was enough to make a bloke do something he would only inevitably regret.

“I din’t hurt her,” he snarled, eyes blazing with the threat of transformation.

“Right.”

“Hey,” his companion intervened sharply. “If Spike says he didn’t hurt her, he didn’t. Sorry Kate. Just one more vamp that doesn’t fit your ideal stereotype. And on that note, The Bias Line is closed tonight. Please see yourself out.”

She looked at the other woman askance. “Didn’t you just say a minute ago—”

“Yeah, I know. Changing my mind. Well, you pissed me off. Get lost and don’t come back unless you have some information from Lindsey or Wolfram and Hart or something that does not resemble a threat to my friends. All right?”

Spike stared at her, awe and bewilderment flooding his insides. She pointedly ignored his gaze and instead crossed her arms, waiting for Lockley to take the aforementioned leave.

There weren’t any words exchanged. Any pleasantries to be had. Nothing more than a roll of the eyes and a sigh of exasperation as the detective turned and made her way out the doors, closing them behind her with an effective slam. It wasn’t until they were alone that Cordelia finally glanced to her vampiric colleague and offered a weak smile.

“So? Spill! Details!”

Spike frowned suspiciously. “About…?”

“You and Buffy. I want the full.”

He looked at her blankly. “Uhhh…pet—”

“Don’t even give me that ‘nothing happened’ bull crap,” she threatened. “You have something-face. Any woman knows it. Why do you think Kate was all bug-up-her-ass?” She held up a hand. “And, let me clarify, I mean ‘more-so-than-usual’ and her radar isn’t nearly as good as mine. Hello. If I had actually gone to college instead of working for my lame not-boss, I likely would’ve majored in dating.”

The vampire grinned in spite of himself. “Yeh, you’re a right natural.”

Cordelia’s eyes widened expectantly. “So talk! What happened?”

He shook his head and held up a hand. “Ah, ah, ah. I’m not one to kiss an’ tell.”

“Since when?!”

“Since now. An’ for the record, luv, you an’ I ‘aven’t been chums for long.”

She growled her discontent, even if there was a smile on her face. “Bah! I hate not knowing things. This is so unfair.”

Spike merely smiled.

“Tell me!”

“It wasn’ like that,” he replied cryptically, shaking his head. Then his eyes glossed over heavily—the weight of burdened emotion clouding his senses. “It was…she was in pain. She…what ‘e’s done to her. An’ she was bleedin’. She was bleedin’ ‘cause of what he…an’ she begged me not to leave her. She din’t even think I was real until the end.”

The tease in Cordelia’s gaze had fallen completely. She stepped forward and touched his arm with sympathy. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “We’ll get her out.”

“Bloody right we will,” he retorted gruffly. “I jus’ don’ know how. ‘S why I came here. ‘S why…” He shook his head. “These things that they’ve got her tied up in…Peaches is the only wanker who can—”

“I know. You mentioned it before.”

“’F it were anyone else, I’d knick it the old fashioned style. But I don’ know what I’m lookin’ for. ‘F ‘s in key-shape or what all.” A sigh depressed his shoulders, and he collapsed again into the lobby sofa. “But whatever we do, pet, ‘s gotta be soon. I’ll be dust before I before I jus’ stand aside an’ let him hurt her like that.”

Cordelia followed him and took his hand into hers, patting its back in an almost sisterly fashion. “We’ll figure something out,” she reiterated, earning a weak, however grateful grin.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“You’re a bit of all right.”

She smiled. “Naturally. You, too.”

Spike plastered on a pert grin and quirked his head cheekily. “Naturally,” he retorted in the same tenor.

“Very funny.”

“You seemed to think so.” He offered a complimentary appraisal before rising to his feet once more, countenance betraying all business. “So, where are the mates?”

“Zack and the others? Oh, they went by Caritas to see if you had decided to contact us again. Seemed kinda presumptuous to me. I mean, the Host called us last time.” She shrugged. “I think it’s because they’re bored, and being of the sitting duck clan, I can’t say I blame them. They also might’ve gone out to see if the Order’s hunting again.”

Spike nodded. “An’ the girlies?”

“Upstairs. I don’t think Nikki likes me.”

He snorted inarticulately. “You an’ me both. I can see why.”

“Hey!”

“Well, if Zangy’s been updated in your book so that the others aren’ given proper names when you talk ‘bout the lot of them.” He arched his brows. “Bloody interestin’ development, by the way. The chit’s prolly worried about him, given all that ‘appened. Either that or bloody resentful.”

Cordelia frowned, not following. “Huh?”

There was an insolent shrug and a secretive smile. “Nothin’.”

“They’ll probably be back soon if there’s no new info. Then we’ll figure out what to do.”

Spike sighed longingly. “Yes, we will,” he declared with fierce determination. The fire in his eyes remained, changing tones only when it was suggested that he return to the grim reality that surrounded them. Constricted so that he felt he couldn’t breathe if he tried—and despite the absence of necessity, the notion bothered him greatly. “God, I can’t take this. I see her every time I close my eyes. She begged me not to leave her, Cordy. She begged me not to let him take her again. I can’t bloody stand this.”

There was a solemn nod that did not know to whom it was owed. “We’ll get her out,” she declared needlessly.

He nodded. “Bloody right.”

They had had this conversation a thousand times. It was time to do something about it.

A few minutes passed, filled with uncomfortable silence. Then Cordelia smiled and took a step toward him with an obvious attempt to sooth and improve his temper. “Actually, it’s going to be kinda sad,” she mused with falsely jovial thoughtfulness, however genuine her sentiment. “I mean, I’ve gotten used to you being around. And really, with as much as I like brooding Angel, you have a lot more personality.”

Spike sighed dramatically, a glinting smile coloring his eyes. He knew perfectly well what she was doing but took the bait anyway. It was the best option in such circumstances. “Cordy, ‘f you’re madly in love with me, jus’ say so.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh. Right. That’s it. You caught me.”

“Bloody knew it,” he replied cheekily. Whatever the motive, her method had worked. He was smiling again, not completely distracted, but enough to merit a lighter temperament. “Though, by the smell of things, Zangy’s lucky I got my heart all given to someone else.”

There was a long pause and—for whatever reason—an adapted deer-in-headlights look. “What? I—”

Spike deftly pointed to his nose. “Nothin’ incriminatin’,” he assured her with a grin. “Jus’ enough to know you two have been spendin’ some quality time together. Though honestly, pet, I thought you had better taste. You really fancy that arrogant wanker?”

“Who are you to be calling anyone arrogant?”

A pause. “Touché. Relax, I’m jus’ teasin’. ‘Sides, he’s an all right bloke.”

“Yeah,” she agreed with a little smile.

“Hope it works out,” Spike said honestly. “The git needs a li’l happiness.”

“Well, don’t book the church just yet. There’s not gonna be a wedding anytime soon.” Cordelia shook her head. “Really, it’s just a little flirtation. You’re blowing everything out of proportion.”

“Right. Does he know that?”

“Of course. You’re really jumping the gun on this, buddy.”

“Yeh,” the platinum Cockney agreed, clearly not believing his own declaration. “Here’s hopin’, though.”

“Either way,” she said, reiterating carelessly. Anything to get the topic off herself, which was—granted—highly unusual. If nothing at all, it was a sign that the matter was personal enough not to constitute the limelight. For now, anyway. And that was rather telling. “They’ll be back soon.”

Spike nodded, spark fading from his eyes at mention of the unhappy truth abound them. Sent spiraling down a web of reality. He hoped beyond hope that she was right. The Slayer was counting on them—on him—and he would be dust before he let her down. Before he stood aside and watched without comment.

There wasn’t a moment to spare.

Lindsey McDonald couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He remained prostate—frozen—cemented firmly in his seat as the images unfolded beat by beat on screen. He had heard testimony enough to verify what his eyes were telling him with factuality; heard and disbelieved its weight with callous concentration. And yet, here it was. The proof he had so desperately needed. Nothing more to compare.

The look on Spike’s face betrayed him for everything he had tried to hide. The unbridled flashes of rage and lament. The unmistakable façade that foretold his self-loathing and guilt. Guilt that suggested beyond reason that he had put her there. That his very being was responsible for what had happened—what had become of her. There was no denying it. No twisting reality to mend a diluted version of a more perfect truth. The past few days had verified more of the same temperament where that came from.

No. The depth of feeling that the peroxide vampire revealed with a mere glance was all and more of what Lindsey had experienced. He knew it well. That rattling in the pit of his stomach. The weary grinding at his heartstrings. The pain that greeted him every morning, knowing he was about to get ready for a job that had lost its flare. A company he had once believed in for reasons that now seemed, despite the cause, beyond ridicule. It was a frightening thing. Waking in the middle of the night to realize that, yes, this was his life. Yes. He did work for a notoriously evil corporation that loved nothing more than dancing over the scatterings of church collapses. Yes. He was likely forever damned for things he had not done, things he would never do. Things that were tied to his name through association. Through the contract he had willfully signed before solidifying his end.

Oh God.

Frightening indeed. Lindsey had no idea what had brought him here. Prompted him this far. He would like to have argued that his actions of the past seemed like a good idea at the time, but it was far from the truth. He would like to have stated that he didn’t know what he was getting himself into, and yet he had all but drafted the disclaimer himself. He would like to have confirmed his status as a man of principle, someone who would never allow themselves to sink this far into avarice. And yet here he was. On top of the fucking world. So far elevated that all were deaf to his screams.

The vampire he was watching was not so different from himself. Spike. The demon that had no reason other than the hope of divinity and kindness to persuade him to take that defining step. It was true. Everything that McDonald had campaigned against was true. True and there for witness.

He loved her. Spike loved the Slayer. Loved Buffy Summers. The very same Buffy Summers that Lindsey had all but tortured himself over in regard for her well-being. He loved her, and he was here to help.

And if the pictures before him revealed anything, Buffy was glad.

Very glad.

There had been tears, of course. Tears and blood. Tenderness. When Spike touched her, he did so with reservation. His own yearning manifest but unsatisfied. He would demand nothing of her in such a state. He could not. But he had comforted her, best to his ability. He had found solace within her presence, soothed his rage only to be rekindled once more.

Fascinating what video could surrender.

The image fizzed and died as the tape matched its reel. Lindsey sat in encased silence for long seconds after, pondering what to do next. There was no telling whom of the Wolfram and Hart personnel had viewed what he had just witnessed. No noise of it was circulating in the hierarchy of the Special Projects committee, and while he was a proud standing member, his ignorance of such things did not mean anything.

However, with the way things were going, McDonald banked on Wolfram and Hart support. Not in the full way. The way that would guarantee the Slayer’s release—they couldn’t stand for that, especially with the apocalypse that Holland Manners had described on the waiting list. No, the firm worked wholeheartedly for every immoral fiber the world could construct, even if things didn’t always go their way.

Angelus, Darla, and Drusilla hadn’t gone their way. In fact, they were something of a dangerous asset. Dangerous but too powerful to rid of. It was a bizarre standing. And thus, while Wolfram and Hart would never consent to liberate Buffy Summers, he wondered if they would contest to her mysterious disappearance, should it occur.

Either way, it was too dangerous to risk. The video had to be kept secret. That shouldn’t present much of a problem, he reckoned. Though it was only secret to the Order of their recorded torture sessions, Lindsey was the only associate that made cold study of their dealings. One tape shouldn’t make any difference.

Of course, in this building, one could never be too sure.

No. Resolved at that. It didn’t matter.

Things had gone far enough, and he was through waiting at the sidelines, ducking his head to be avoided. Time to throw himself into the thick of it. And the wisest way to do that would be an alliance with the very vampire he had wrongfully resented. To ask Spike’s assistance in the Slayer’s rescue.

There. While the burden was hardly lifted, Lindsey took the first breath of air that did not taste entirely tainted. And it was wonderful.

He was determined then. No more waiting. No more idle twiddling.

Together, he and the vampire would get her out. Maybe then he would know some form of rest. All the truths and logic in the world and he was boiled down to innate understanding. One reason beyond all others. Something he had ignored for years—something fresh and liberating beyond the expression of pain and amorality he had so long exploited.

He had to try. He had to help. He had to get her out. He knew this.

Because it was right.

It was right.

And that was all that mattered.