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Part 45

The first thing Willow noticed upon entering the lair was the
clutter.  She made a slow turn in the center of the room, taking
stock of what she could see from there.  Things weren't so very
different: some furniture overturned, some clothing scattered across
the floor.  Then she noticed the dust.  Patches of it, almost
puddles, were scattered here and there around the room, along with a
few lost, random stains of blood.  Next was the almost utter
stillness in the warehouse, something that was out-of-place even in
the middle of the day.  There were no voices, no laughter, not even
from the TV.  (What the _hell_ happened here?)

She reached her hand up to rub the back of her neck, wishing she had
even the slightest idea of what she was looking at, of what to look
for.  Most of what David had told her she didn't understand.  He'd
been scared to the point that he didn't make much sense.  But one
thing had.  Aaron.  It seemed he'd somehow entered the lair and just
started staking people.  How? Why?  She didn't know, and it seemed
he'd gotten away with it, too.  From the way David described him, it
sounded as if Aaron had been knocked off his rocker, as if he was one
beer short of a six pack...or maybe he was just missing the little
plastic thingy holding them all together?  She sighed.  Her head hurt.

There was a soft click of the door opening behind her and she
turned.  Eric had come in.  "How many people are dead?" she asked,
her voice tense with the effort of staying calm.

He didn't look at her, instead studying the room much as she had
moments before.  "More than half the number that lived here," he
answered quietly.

Willow couldn't help the cold iron that layered her voice.  "Were the
guards doing their job?"

Eric turned from his inspection of their surroundings, regarding her
with a pale, keen gaze.  She stood, her back stiffly straight in a
proud, confident manner.  He couldn't tell what she was thinking; her
expression was half hidden as she faced away from him.  "Of course
they were," he said.

Willow nodded jerkily.  "Of course," she whispered.

"We're going to have to leave here, to find a new place."

Willow snorted softly.  "You wanna go check into a hotel?"

"No. But you're at risk, Mistress.  And part of my charge is to
ensure your safety."

Willow faced him.  "Says who?"

"You did, Lady," Eric answered calmly.

She felt a deep anger  rise from inside, it wasn't really directed at
Eric, but more at being forced to retreat.  Someone had dared to
touch, and not only touch, to _kill_ that which belonged to _her_ and
it felt like she was running away.  She reacted with a low growl from
the back of her throat, not even realizing what she'd done.

Eric didn't bat an eye.

Willow paced up and down the room, sorting out her thoughts and the
implications of what had happened.  The more she thought about it,
the more she realized that Eric was right.  They did need to move,
though not necessarily for _her_ safety.  If Aaron could get in once,
who was to say he wouldn't come back?  Or someone else?  _Who_ didn't
matter.  It was possible.  That was all she really needed to know.
Willow hugged herself tightly as an awful thought occurred to her.
(What if Aaron tells the Master where we are?  Oh, Goddess.  Why
didn't I just stake him when I had the chance?)  "Where would we go?"
she asked aloud.

"There's an old mansion on Crawford Street that I think will be
perfect after a few repairs.  But, first...Willow?"  He waited until
she stopped and looked at him, stared at her intently, and said, "I
think we ought to kill Aaron."

Willow hugged herself as best she could as she went back to pacing.
She suddenly wished that she'd let Xander come, wanting the smart-ass
remark that she knew could take the edge off the diciest situation,
wanting the sounding board that she trusted enough to bounce the
silliest ideas and notions off.  She should have Aaron killed.  She
should kill him or have someone else kill him.  Either way, he really
did deserve to be dust.  He deserved to be dust she could walk on,
stamp her feet on, and then sweep out the door!  She really, really
ought to...

"No," the Mistress said abruptly, making no effort to be polite.
Eric was her second and she treated him as such.  But she also
trusted him like a brother.  She usually told him what was going on
in her mind so that he would know her intentions.  But not this time.
This time, he would just have to trust her, because she didn't know
the reasons herself.

Eric remained silent, aware as no stranger could be that orders were
coming.

Willow straightened without warning.  "Have someone find Aaron and
_watch_ him.  He's up to something, and I want you to find out what
it is."

*****

Sydney entered quietly after Eric left.  She gave the room a
disdainful glance, smiling shyly as she caught Willow watching her.
(She's too tense, and I'm betting it's because of that boy, Aaron.
His scent's all over the place. Girl's gonna make herself sick with
all this worrying.)  "Lady? Willow?"

Willow sighed.  "What is it, Sydney?"

"Master Angelus said I was to take care of you.  And, well, the sun's
almost up...don't humans need to sleep?"

"I'm not really tired anymore."

"He said, if anything happened to you, he'd stake me."

Willow frowned. "He did, did he?"

Sydney nodded solemnly.

"I guess I better sleep then."

*****

Willow lay back against the headboard of her bed at the lair as she
tried to answer Sydney's questions.  The dark-haired vampire had
insisted that she get some sleep, but once they'd settled down, the
girl kept her talking.  Not that Willow minded.  She wasn't looking
forward to actually falling asleep.  She wasn't sure if she feared
what she'd see next, or if she feared that she was looking forward to
it too much.

The memories - for she was now certain that they were not merely
dreams - gave her insight into what Angelus had really been like.
And since he wouldn't talk to her, they were the next best thing. The
intensity of them though, layer upon layer, the bits and pieces were
leaking together, running into one another, blurring and losing
precise definition as they seemed to fix themselves onto her psyche.
They were becoming all too real.

"You met Angelus when you were five?"

Willow smiled at the memory.  "I found him out in the rain one
night.  Boy, was it storming!  I was about ready to go to bed when
things let loose.  It was just an accident that I chanced to see him
through the window.  I was scared of getting into trouble so I didn't
exactly bring him inside."  She flushed.  "I kinda kept him in my
treehouse."

Sydney chuckled.  "I see."

Willow blushed harder.  "I was just a child," she defended.  "It just
seemed the right thing to do, to keep him.  But lately, things just
seem to be...it's like we're distancing ourselves from each other,
keeping secrets.  We're not even talking like we used to.  It started
when he left...and then he came back, but nothing is the same.  He
kissed me!  And ever since, things have been so strange!"

"He kisses that bad, then?" Sydney asked, her eyes dancing.  She was
still getting over the fact that the Scourge of Europe had lived in a
treehouse.  It kinda gave blackmail a whole new meaning.  Angelus
would be a laughingstock.  She watched as the girl got a faraway
look, as her lips curved into a soft smile.   Too cute.  No
blackmail.  Sydney laughed, "Ahhh!  That good!"

Willow hadn't thought it was possible to blush any harder,  but she
managed it.  She tried to sputter out a denial, but Sydney just
laughed harder.  Willow glared at her, but the vampire just kept
laughing, and the witch had to join in.

When the redhead caught her breath, she glanced down at her
companion.  "You are silly," she smiled.

Sydney snorted.  "So says the young witch who kept a vampire in a
treehouse."

"You aren't gonna drop that anytime soon, are you?"

"Nope," the other grinned.

Willow sighed.  "Didn't think so."
_____________________________________________________

Part 46

...  "William, my sweet," Drusilla spoke to her chestnut-haired
companion, stating his name and asking a question all at once.

"What is it, luv?"

"The stars are dying," she told him, the disappointment obvious in
her voice.

Will smiled at her gently, holding back a sigh.  He refused to treat
her like their Sire had.  She was all he had left to love.  He took
her hands, kissing in turn, the palms, the strong and slender backs,
the seemingly fragile wrists; they were icy cold even as he brushed
his lips over each delicate finger. He tucked one of her hands in the
crook of his arm as they continued down the street, heading back
home.  And should he be annoyed, like Angelus would have been at her
strange talk?  She was right.  The stars were fading, the dawn
approaching.

"Why so they are.  What of it, princess?"

"The mean cat is chasing all the yummy mice away."

It took him a while to figure that one out.  "Are you still hungry?
Dru, darling, what about those three children you ate earlier?"

"I'm still cold," she pouted.

"Their parents?" Will asked her.

She shook her head emphatically, dark curls tumbling around her
shoulders.  "Cold!"

William stopped and scooped her up into his arms, grinning down at
her with a rakish smile.  "We'll just have to do something about that
then, won't we?" ...

Spike woke with a start and growled, low and dangerous.  These dreams
that plagued him, they just wouldn't _stop_ , and nothing he did
seemed to help.  Reliving all the precious moments with his dark
princess and his once-loved Sire, it felt as if he were slowly going
mad, and always there seemed to be a red-haired ghost that lurked in
the background, watching.  He was beginning to think he was possessed.

Spike shook off his thoughts with a snarl.  What he needed was a
distraction, and he knew just the thing.

*****

He ran his fingers absently over the railroad spike that hung from
his wrist on a chain.  A long-sleeved scarlet shirt covered the
cotton of his black T-shirt, which was tucked into the black jeans
buckled tightly over his lean hips.  Fine, straight chestnut hair
nearly brushed his shoulders and his angular features set off his
piercing blue eyes perfectly as he gazed for a moment at his
prisoner.  The male before him was the latest of a long line of ...
diversions as he waited for Philip to report back with news of
Angelus.  Spike hated waiting.  He always got bored.

The vampire that hung in the chains against the wall had been the
Master of this area of France.  Well, he had been before Spike had
decided to stay for a while, and why should he work his way up when
he could start at the top?

The prisoner, although he was chained to the wall, was relaxed, still
casually defiant.  When he saw what he thought was Spike's
hesitation, he grinned.  "I'm not afraid of a little pain."  But then
he saw Spike's eyes, and the grin slipped.

One corner of the master vampire's mouth turned upward in a smile
that only a few of his minions had survived seeing.  The prisoner
swallowed.

Spike set the sharp tip of his spike against the male's shoulder.
The prisoner's eyes shifted, looking away, then back, widening.  "You
wouldn't dare..." he whispered, but the certainty that he wouldn't be
touched had disappeared.  The vampire would dare anything.  There was
nothing to stop him.

Spike saw the moment the other believed, and pushed.  He pulled it
out and dragged the tip down the bare stomach in front of him,
creating a fine tracery of thin bloody lines.  "This time, pet, pain
isn't the point."

The prisoner was breathing in long shuddery breaths that escaped his
throat in low moans.  A pale bloody hand dragged the tip lower, and
impaled him again.  A ululating scream echoed through the room.

Spike stepped closer, face to face with his victim.  He raised the
railroad iron again, and the prisoner recoiled, bashing himself into
the wall behind him, unable to retreat.  Spike touched the bloody
point to the man's lips, silencing his harsh sobs to gasps.

"Scream for me," he whispered.

*****

"Master Spike!"

Spike turned his back on the pitiful excuse for a vampire that
huddled in his chains.  The poor thing had lost all voice about an
hour ago, but Spike had been having such _fun_ that he hadn't
stopped.  Now, it looked as if his prisoner might bleed himself out.
(Oh, well.)

"What is it?" the master scowled.

"Philip's on the phone."

*****

"What news?" Spike snapped into the line.

"Master," Philip replied.

Spike smiled, almost hearing the other bow across the line and
moderated his tone.  "What news do you have, Philip?"

The voice in his ear sighed, and Spike braced himself for
disappointment.  "Sir," it continued, "I may have a lead, but there
is a small problem."

"Explain," came the order.

"I started out from New York, and caught a few whispers of the
vampire you're looking for, sir.  But he isn't at all like you
described, sir," the voice held the barest hint of reproach.

"Go on."

"Well, I followed the trail to Chicago, and I have been here for the
past two nights.  There are some very strange rumors being told
around here, sir."

"What are they, Philip?" Spike asked patiently.  His servant was
halfway across the world.  There was no way he could shake the man
until he told Spike what he wanted to know, so there was no point in
yelling.  That would only put Philip in a huff, and he'd never get
the information.

"Yes, sir.  It's about California, sir.  That's the problem, you
see," Philip paused.

Spike ground his teeth and waited for him to go on, to get the hint
that his master certainly did _not_ see.

"The area around Sunnydale - that's in California, sir - it seems to
be taboo.  Vampires here in the city all say it's off limits, to
everybody, sir."

"Why?" Spike forced out through gritted teeth.

"Do you have a cold, sir?  You should have Jean get you a nice hot
cuppa, if you don't mind my saying, sir."

Spike tried again, his voice lowered to keep from screaming, "Why?"

"Well, sir, it might just clear up your throat, once I had..."

Spike snarled.

"Oh.  Did you mean California, sir?  I think it's because the Master
of the City has slain every vampire and minion that has entered the
vicinity for the past fifteen years.  The rumor was, that Angelus was
Master, but that's old news.  Now everyone is saying that there's a
big war between some new upstart wanting to be Mistress there, and
some really old fossil that nobody's heard of for nearly seventy
years," his voice lowered conspiratorially, "and _both_ of them are
killing outsiders," he said with satisfaction.

"Philip," Spike growled.

"Y..yes, sir?"

"Didn't I say to find Angelus?  Not rumors of Angelus, or some war
going on in the colonies!  Didn't I say that?"

"Y..yes, sir!  B..but, sir..."

"Find him!" Spike roared, and slammed the phone back on the cradle.
There was a small crunch as the plastic case cracked.  Dreams weren't
the only thing driving him crazy.
_____________________________________________________

Part 47

Darla sat, her face blank as she watched her newest acquisition pace
around her chambers, ranting and raving.  It was disgusting.  Twice,
he'd disobeyed her.  She had ordered him to stay away from that
irritating redheaded girl. He didn't.  Instead, he went into her
territory and started dusting his own kind, never even setting eyes
on the witch.  She had ordered him to show proper deference to the
Master. He didn't.  Laughing and taunting, the idiot had come within
inches of getting himself killed.  In some ways he reminded her of
Angelus, but in others...the comparison was not in his favor.  Where
Angelus had been arrogant, almost taking her breathe away, this
youngster was merely insulting.  She'd had to drag him forcibly from
the Master's presence, with him protesting all the way.  As if she
cared what he wanted.  Darla was, in fact, beginning to believe that
Aaron was a mistake.  She stood, picking up a fine silver basin
filled with water, and flung it full force into Aaron's pretty face -
bowl and all.

"Control yourself!"  She replaced the slightly dented basin with
perfect composure and sat back down.

The shock of it brought sudden quiet to the room.  Trembling, Aaron
wiped his face dry with a sleeve.

"Kneel before me."

Slowly, he did so.

"Do you know what happens to those who displease me?" she asked
softly.

Stubbornly, he did not reply.

Darla hissed in annoyance, then smiled as she watched with pleasure
as a shiver of fear ran through his body.  He was staring at the
floor, one hand tightly fisting his dripping shirt.  But he still
didn't reply.

She slapped him.  "Answer me!"

His head lowered, he growled.

Darla extended a leg, catching him under the chin with her bare toe,
and tipped his head back so that he had to look at her.  "You've gone
crazy," she commented. She lowered her foot and stood.  "I won't
speak of this again, but if you _dare_ humiliate me again!"  For a
moment, her voice shook with restrained rage, but she stopped.  "Go,
get out of my sight."

The light of the flickering candles dappled Aaron's face, mottling it
with shadow and light and the discoloring bruise. His expression,
almost empty after all the rage from a few minutes before, became
almost anxious as Darla bent the full force of her will upon him.  A
shudder shook though his body and he collapsed at her feet.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Please forgive me, my Mistress."

Darla pulled him up by his hair.  He looked back at her, his face
strangely empty once again.

"Do not fail me again.  Obey, and you will have what you desire."

He watched her, expectantly.

"Her death."

He envisioned it.  He would have it.  Her blood.

Aaron smiled.

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