Chapter One

"Don't forget, it's at 7!"

Willow laughed. "I'm not the one you need to worry about.
See you at the concert, and tell Tara she'd better be on
time or else!" She waved at Julie, then bent to unlock her
door and went inside. She hung her coat on the hall rack,
then walked toward the kitchen. The light on the answering
machine was blinking. She hit the button and opened the
refrigerator door to scavenge. There was a wide assortment
of interesting and/or useful herbs, but no actual food.
She shut the door.

"Wills? Sorry I missed you. Can you come over for dinner
Wednesday? Riley picked out this guy he wants you to meet
-- no, no, just kidding, we just haven't seen you in
forever and we miss you. Call soon. Love."

Willow frowned. The last time she'd had dinner with Buffy,
Buffy had tried to set her up with this "really sweet" girl
who reminded Willow of Cordelia without the charm. She
really wished her friends would stop trying to manage her
love life. When she was ready for another man -- or woman,
or furry green thing with two heads -- she'd be able to
find one herself. She opened the breadbox and wished she
hadn't. Now she knew where the missing afikomen had wound
up...

"Someone at this number has a reserve item available for
pickup at Sunnydale public library." Probably the
reproduction of Culpeper's Herbal she'd asked for on
inter-library loan. Giles would be so pleased.

"Willow, it's Tara. Can you stop by Julie's and my place
after the concert? Julie doesn't want to admit it, but I
think she's worried about Organic Chemistry, and I know you
aced it last year."

"This is a message for Ms. Rosenberg. This is Lilah Morgan.
Please contact me at your earliest convenience. You can
return this call at any time; my number is ...." Willow
scrambled for a pencil. She didn't know any Lilahs; the
voice sounded businesslike enough. Lilah Morgan, 213 area
code, same as Angel's, got the number. Good enough. She
glanced at the clock. There was still an hour until the
concert, plenty of time to return the call and still grab
something to eat. She hit Rewind, then picked up the
telephone and dialed.

"Wolfram and Hart, to whom may I direct your call?"

"Hi, this is Ms. Rosenberg, I'm returning a call from Ms.
Morgan."

"One moment, please."

"Ms. Rosenberg? This is Ms. Morgan. How kind of you to
return my call promptly! Let me get right down to
business. A client of mine has asked me to set up a
meeting with you about a consulting opportunity."

Willow kept her voice calm. "I'm afraid you have the wrong
person. I'm a student, Ms. Morgan, and that's a full-time
job."

"My client understands that; this is a limited engagement,
probably no more than a weekend. He's concerned about the
security of his site, and he's looking for someone who can
test it -- a white hat, I believe it's called. You may not
realize it, but your name is becoming quite well-known."

"Really? Wow. Um, which weekend? I could probably manage
to fit this in, as long as it isn't during midterms or
finals or something like that."

"My client can be flexible about date, but he'd prefer to
meet you as soon as possible to finalize arrangements."

Willow frowned, caution returning. "Where is your client?
If this is a computer problem, why doesn't he just send me
E-mail or phone? And how did he get my phone number
anyway?"

"Ms. Rosenberg, this *is* the Internet age. My client
found out about you the same way you'd find out about him.
His name's Philip Conway; feel free to research him on your
own time. He would prefer to meet face-to-face to discuss
the problem; as I'm sure you're aware, electronic
communications are far too easily intercepted."

"I suppose so. Where does he want to meet?" In the
daytime. In front of witnesses, if she had anything to say
about it.

"He can't easily leave his business. He'd like you to come
to him; he'll send his jet to pick you up."

"I suppose.... pick me up where? And when?"

"Tomorrow evening, at the local airport."

That was moving way too fast. "Let me research your client
and get back to you. Can I call with an answer tomorrow
morning?"

"Ms. Rosenberg, I'm sure you understand that my client is a
very busy man. You're either available or you aren't.
Which is it?"

"I'm afraid I'm not available, then. Good luck to your
client." Willow hung up before her courage left her, then
sagged against the wall.

Too weird, too fast. She didn't like people trying to push
her into making decisions, and she certainly wasn't going
to get on a flight to some unknown place to meet a total
stranger. She'd been kidnapped more than enough for one
lifetime.

It was kind of cool, though. She was a White Hat! People
knew her name! People who weren't vampires, or Watchers,
or paranormal -- ordinary people, whose idea of 'unseen
evil' was a really clever computer hacker. Wow.

Her stomach growled, reminding her of more mundane
problems, like supper. She ran back to the hall and
grabbed her coat. There was just time to pick up something
downtown before she met Julie and Tara at the show. She
shoved a hand into the pocket: keys, cross, stake, hex bag,
breath mints. Good to go. She walked out the front door,
locked it, and set out for the Espresso Pump.

She was barely three steps from the front door when
something hit her hard across the back of the head.

****

When Willow regained consciousness, she was lying on the
floor of a small windowless room. Concrete floor,
concrete-block walls painted institutional perky blue,
recessed fluorescent light fixture, one metal door without
any visible knob. Her head hurt. Again. She checked her
coat pockets; they were empty.

<< Once, just once, I'd like to run into a stupid
kidnapper. Non-vampire would be nice, too. Wait a minute.
What I'd really like is to get through a calendar year
without getting kidnapped. >>

Propping her back against the wall, she sat up. As usual
on such occasions, her head hurt and she felt like throwing
up. She scanned the room again. It remained empty and
characterless. No weapons, no clues, nothing to do while
she waited for the kidnapper to show up and announce his
evil plan. If she got lucky and got a kidnapper who was
feeling chatty. She sighed, leaned her head back against
the wall, closed her eyes, and searched her memory for the
words that would get her home safely. She had fallen into
a light trance -- or possibly a doze -- when she heard the
door opening behind her. She screwed her eyes shut to
avoid making contact and launched into her prepared speech.
"Spike? This isn't funny. I said "No", and I meant it."

A voice she had hoped never to hear again purred, "You
appear to be operating under a misconception, mademoiselle.
I am not Spike." Willow's eyes flew open. She could see
the speaker's face clearly, a face she remembered all too
well from Montreal. It belonged to François.
 

Chapter Two

Without thinking, Willow scrambled to her feet. Pointless,
when a vampire stood between her and the only exit.

"Quite right, my dear. You have nowhere to run." Slowly,
casually, François began to stroll toward her. He didn't
bother shutting the door behind him.

Willow froze. All her preparations had assumed an attack
from one of two quarters: somebody trying to annoy the
Slayer through her, although word seemed to have gotten
around that this was a really bad move, or Spike, whose
motives, alas, were strictly personal. She shivered.

"Cold, mademoiselle?" François' face was impassive. She
let the silence drag on. Whoever spoke first, lost -- she
remembered that much. In two steps, before she could react,
Francois closed the distance between them and a hard slap
rocked her bruised head back against the wall. Blood
roared in her ears. She clapped a hand over her mouth to
keep from vomiting.

"You will speak when spoken to. Not before, but certainly
afterward."

Willow swallowed twice, then spoke in a voice that she
hoped didn't quaver. "No, I'm not particularly cold, thank
you." She shut her mouth before she could blurt out the
wrong thing. Head swimming, she scrabbled through last
year's lessons from Spike. Speak when spoken to, check, be
very polite, check, don't be cocky, check, head down....
oops! She hastily dropped her eyes to the floor and awaited
further instructions.

"Did you know that your lips move when you're thinking?
Typical human foible." His lips twisted on 'human', as if
he were tasting something disagreeable. Then, without
warning, he grabbed the neck of her sweater, ripped it down
the sternum, and yanked the halves away from her chest.
Instinctively, Willow recoiled, only to be brought up short
by the wall at her back.

François' next move wasn't what she'd expected. He
released the sweater shreds as if they were doused in holy
water, stepped back from her, and spat, "So, you have
broken faith, abandoned your oath. I should have expected
no better."

There was no good response to this. "No, sir" would be
admitting to an unknown crime; "What oath?" would certainly
earn her another slap, and silence had proven to be a very
bad idea.

"I'm not sure I understand, sir."

Another hard blow, ricocheting her injured head back
against the wall. Willow slid down to the floor and
succumbed to nausea. When she finished retching, she dimly
realized that François had been speaking the whole time she
was occupied.

"...to be removed only at your death. You breathe. Either
your master tired of you, or you betrayed him. Which?"

Willow gulped; out of old habit, her right hand flew to her
naked throat. The necklace. She had to answer quickly.
She certainly hadn't betrayed Spike, she had no idea if
he'd tired of her, and she suspected "Our deal was for a
year" would neither be understood or believed. She raised
her left hand and pushed her sweater down her arm,
displaying the thin black chain she kept wrapped around her
wrist. "N-neither... sir?"

Iron hands grasped her wrist and twisted; she gasped in
pain as the chain bit into the flesh. "Explain yourself.
If you broke oath, your life is forfeit. If he discarded
you...." The grip tightened.

Willow gasped, "No. That's not what happened -- either
one. Really. He said we couldn't escape Montreal
together, and he put me on a plane home. I haven't heard
from him since. I don't know what his plans were. I kept
the necklace for him." Together with a sizable piece of
her mind that she'd been storing up for months, but she
didn't think François would appreciate that part of the
story.

Her wrist was twisted again; apparently François was
inspecting the necklace. Eventually he released his grip.
She cradled the injured hand against her stomach,
contemplating the vampire's highly-polished shoes.
Wing-tips. Black.

"You may yet retain some utility." His voice remained
detached, as if he were contemplating a grubby week-old
newspaper, deciding whether it could still be put to use
under the cat box. "Time will tell." A knife flashed next
to her eyes; Willow flinched away, banging her head once
more. While she fought to remain conscious, François
turned on his heel and left. The door slid shut behind
him.

Willow put her right hand up to her head to check the
wound. It must have been a very, very sharp knife; she
hadn't felt a thing. After a few pats, she dropped the hand
before her eyes, puzzled. It was dry. François hadn't
touched her skin. Willow felt around again. Her bangs
felt weird. She looked around for her mirror, but her
backpack was (of course) not there. She put both hands
up, confirming that there was a jagged gap in her bangs,
next to her left temple.

He stole a lock of my hair. This is so not good. I can
think of six bad spells off the top of my head that start
with a lock of hair. But that doesn't make any sense. He's
got me. He could just kill me. Why would he bother with a
curse? And why does he care what my relationship is to
Spike?

I don't know what it is myself. "Oh, he's planning on
killing me, or I thought he was, but he hasn't come around
to do it, so I'm really hoping he's found some nice vampire
and settled down to raise.... well, that bit doesn't really
work, but settled down without me."

This isn't fair. I waited a year and a half before I had
that necklace cut off. I was going on with my life. I
only kept the stupid thing because I thought Spike might
want it back.

If I hadn't kept it, I think I'd be dead now.

This is all Spike's fault.

######

The phone rang, followed shortly by the buzz of the
intercom. Angel groaned. "Cordy, can you handle it
yourself for once?"

Her voice sounded strained. "Angel, this one's for you.
It's Giles."

He wouldn't call unless.... Angel grabbed the receiver.
"Buffy?"

"No, Angel, Buffy's in fine health. Thriving. But
nobody's seen Willow for three days. Tara had a spare key
to her apartment, and she let us in. There are no signs of
a struggle, no suitcases packed. She missed a concert and
all her classes, and it isn't like her to vanish without a
word."

<< That bastard Spike. >> He heard an ominous creak from
the handset and hastily relaxed his grip. "Has Willy--"

"Thank you, that had already occurred to us. Nobody in
Sunnydale -- nobody, alive or otherwise -- has seen Willow
since Friday. She's vanished. If somebody had kidnapped
her, we'd expect a ransom note by now."

"I'll be there..." Angel's voice trailed down as he
realized it was still daytime.

Giles's voice grew tighter. "We don't want your
assistance. We want information. The only clue we found in
the apartment was a message from Los Angeles on her
answering machine. Do you know anything about a Wolfram
and Hart?"

"Damn!"

"That's not information." Giles's tone was brittle.

<< He must be desperate. Nothing less would have made him
ask anything from me. >> "Wolfram and Hart are behind
three-quarters of the evil done in this city, and that
includes the non-supernatural. We're at war. But I
wouldn't expect them to grab Willow to hurt me; I barely
knew her in Sunnydale, and I don't think we've spoken twice
since I left." << Once. Not twice. >>

"Will you kindly focus on the problem? What would Wolfram
and Hart do with Willow, and where would they plan to do
it?"

"I don't know. But I'll find out. And pass it on."

"You'd better. This isn't your problem, Angel, it's ours.
"

He hung up. "Not in my city it's not."

####

"Hey, Fred, the usual."

Fred didn't meet Spike's eyes. << Yes, it's good to be
bad! >> Fred bent under the counter, retrieved a carton of
Marlboros, and threw it to Spike.

"Ta. See you again." He left, whistling, and ripped the
carton open.

A cream-coloured envelope fell out.

Spike jumped back. << Somehow, I don't think Philip Morris
got the Crackerjack confused with the coffin nails. What
the Hell? >>

He waited a minute, drawing curious looks from passers-by,
then reached out a boot toe and prodded the envelope. It
didn't explode, fizz, or turn green. He scanned the area
for threats, then bent to pick it up.

<< Fred is not going to see another sunrise. I don't
appreciate jokes unless they're mine. And smokes are not a
laughing matter. >> He slit the envelope with a
fingernail, upended it, then shook it over the ground, away
from his body.

A lock of red hair drifted slowly to the pavement.
 

Chapter Three

The room stank of vomit.  There were far worse things it could smell of. And would, if she had to stay there for many more hours.  Or days.

For the hundredth time, Willow looked around the bland blue room.  As always, she found nothing there.  Nothing to distract the eye, nothing she
could put to use, nothing she could build a plan on.

She forced the welling panic down. << Stop that.  You can't afford it. Focus on what you can do, not what you can't. >>  She had expected this
situation, or one like it.  She had made preparations, although they had been meant for a different threat.  But some of her plans could still be put
into effect. Must be, ready or not; François might reappear at any moment.

She shivered.  She had to pull the trigger now, while she had the time and the strength.  << And the heartbeat. >>

Willow curled into a ball, rested her head on her folded arms, began taking slow, deep breaths, and withdrew into her own mind.  She reached for the
white, silent retreat within herself; once there, she turned to a wall of carved walnut cabinets.

She opened one small drawer, laid away the distant whine of the fluorescent lights, and slid the drawer tightly shut.  One by one, she locked away her
other external senses: the cold concrete under her knees, the sour scent and taste of vomit, the dark red shadows behind her eyelids.  Next she laid
aside her fear, her anger, and her pain.

Finally all that remained was her will and her power.  She wrapped them around her, then turned her back to the cabinets, looking out into the whiteness.

Within her mind, Willow whispered "E luce in tenebris.  Voco.  Clamo. Arcesso."  She couldn't hear herself, of course.  Her thoughts seemed to rise up through syrup, slow and deliberate as the retreat of glaciers or the birth of continents.  Painstakingly, she envisioned a sheet of white paper before her.  She began to inscribe words on the paper, shaping each black letter in her head, holding the entire image complete.

"Angel.  This is Willow.  The Montreal vampires are holding me prisoner.  I don't know where.  Probably a modern building.  I need your help."

She paused to reread the letter.  Pathetic.  But she had nothing better to add, none of those useful details like "I smell burning rubber" or "I hear
train whistles twice a day" that would have looked so good in a murder mystery.

Oh.  Actually, there was one very important detail she'd left out.  She began adding words at the bottom of the image.

"This has something to do with Spike and the necklace."

She folded the mental letter into thirds and wrote Angel's name on the outside.  Then she whispered "Ite," and the letter vanished.

So much for the easy part. She steadied herself again, then, still wrapped in her own will, spoke one word, "Fiat".  This time, she saw nothing, heard
nothing, felt nothing.  Which might have been her own doing, or might have meant that nothing had happened.  Either way, she'd done what she could.

Reluctantly, she turned back to the cabinets and began to reclaim her senses and emotions.  She was sorely tempted to leave the fear where it was, but
Giles had warned her often enough about the risks of using magic to escape from pain.  She unlocked the last drawer, accepted the fear, then uncurled
herself and opened her eyes.

Nothing external had changed; she was still alone in an empty room with no books. Her head was pounding.  She was exhausted, cold, hungry, and
frightened.

A familiar voice echoed in her memory.   "Fear attracts predators."

Willow took a long, shuddering breath, leaned back against the wall, and reclosed her eyes.

<< Lavandula angustifolia, true lavender: antiseptic, calming, cloaks unpleasant smells.
Lavandula stoechas, French or Spanish lavender:  useless for magical purposes, looks pretty in a pot.
Solanum dulcamara, woody nightshade: can be toxic.  Do not confuse with Atropa belladonna.
Atropa belladonna, deadly nightshade: narcotic, sedative, diuretic, extremely poisonous.  Causes pupils to dilate; also used to cause
hallucinations and death.  An ingredient in traditional "flying ointment." ...>>

######

Spike pressed Fred's skull against the counter, nearly crushing bone.  "That wasn't the answer I was hoping for."  He pulled back on the
head, banged it down again, and pressed a fraction harder.  "Try again?"

Fred gasped, "Nobody told me nothing.  They just said to give you the box when you came in."

Spike moved his hand to Fred's throat, then squeezed.  "What 'they' is this, then?  And why didn't it occur to you to tell me I'd had visitors?"

Fred gurgled.  The gurgles grew more desperate.  Reluctantly, Spike relaxed his grip.

"I don't know.  I never saw them before!"

Spike reached out with his free hand and yanked Fred's thumb out of its socket.

Fred screamed, "I don't know anything!  Rich...  Suits...  Scary..."

Spike purred, "And you took their orders because...?"

"They were going to kill me!"

Spike chose another finger, then broke it.  "So am I. "

#######

Lindsey stalked off to his car.  It had been another tedious evening of meetings.  So tedious that even the ever-present threat of "up or out" had
barely kept him alert, even knowing that Wolfram & Hart's definition of "out" did not involve severance pay.  Sometimes death sounded more
attractive than a three-hour discussion of the use of alternate realities to extend the billable day.  He reached into his pocket for his keys, only to
be brought up short by an arm around his throat.

<< Again. >> He gasped, "Your point?"

"What have you done with Ms. Rosenberg?"  The voice, as always, was arctic.

"I don't know who you're talking about."

He was spun, then smashed face-first into the cement garage wall.  "Try again.  There was a message from your firm on her answering machine."

Lindsey shrugged as best he could.  "It's a big firm.  We have a lot of clients.  She's not one of mine."

Another smash, and suddenly his left arm was twisted behind his back, his remaining hand in an icy grasp, thumb bent impossibly far back.  "Last
chance, Lindsey.  Unless you're ready for matching prostheses."

He racked his brains for some scrap of information he could safely offer. Before he could speak, his hand was released, and he heard a thump behind
him.  He spun around to see the vampire on his knees, hands over his eyes.

<< Oh, for a stake.  Even if it would have ruined the line of the jacket. >> The prudent move would have been to seek the safety of the car.  He'd never
been terribly prudent.  "Soul problems?"

Angel was back on his feet before the last syllable.  There was a furrow in that Neanderthal forehead.  "You wouldn't know, would you?  This once, you
may be as ignorant -- I won't say innocent -- as you claim."  He turned his back on Lindsey and strode away.

Lindsey watched Angel's coat swirling out of sight.  << Always the dramatic exit. >>  When he was sure the vampire was really gone, he pulled out his
cellphone.  << So, our tarnished knight takes more than passing interest in the Rosenberg girl?  Not a case for clumsy hands. >> He pressed speed dial.

"Lilah.  Still in the office, I see.  I'm so glad you're making an effort to improve your productivity, because Holland was wondering why you weren't
making progress on the Meyers case."

"Oh, the Rosenberg case?  I'm sure the partners will be thrilled to hear you're putting blue-sky whims ahead of immediate needs.  I do hope I'm
present when you tell them that."

Click.

He smiled, then punched in another number.

"Ms. Jenkins?  Let me know when Ms. Morgan leaves the dead files area. Thanks so much.  No, no, really, I was glad to help with your brother's
problem.  You're part of the Wolfram & Hart family now."

Notes:

Willow's spell translates to "Out of light into darkness.
I call.  I cry out.  I summon."  "Ite" is "Go"; "Fiat" is "Let it be done."
 

Chapter Four

Spike watched regretfully as the "Welcome To Sunnydale"
sign dwindled unscathed in the rear-view mirror.  This was
supposed to be a stealth visit; in, out, nobody the wiser.
No Slayer, no Watcher, no vapid blonde vampires, please
whatever.  He'd even abandoned his ride; this trip, he
pigged it in a bland, anonymous Taurus, liberated from a
bored 7/11 clerk whose boredom had become permanent.

He nosed into a "Registrar Only" parking space, cut the
motor, and hopped out.  First things first.  The lock of
hair had smelled like the witch, right enough, but it
wasn't proof positive.  Spike stomped down a "Do Not Walk
On Grass" sign and continued to the back door.

Ah, dear trustful Sunnydale.  The so-called lock wouldn't
slow Harmony down.  A kick was as good as a skeleton key.
Easier to keep track of, too.  Spike wondered idly why the
locals remained so oblivious... perhaps the smart ones left
town. The third cubicle held pay dirt, its occupant too
lazy to log off at the end of the day.  He slid in behind
the monitor and began searching.

"ROSENBURG, WILLOW" NOT FOUND.

Had Miss Bookaholic of 1999 dropped out?   Not bloody
likely.   He slammed the side of the monitor.

"ROSENBURG, WILLOW" NOT FOUND.

<< Oh.  Sod.  >> Spike hastily corrected his error.

ROSENBERG, WILLOW, 2003,
CHEMISTRY/HISTORY, PRESIDENTIAL SCHOLAR

<< That's my girl. >>   Spike scanned the screen, then
clicked Housing.

F1999, S2000, 214 STEVENSON, DOUBLE, SUMMERS, BUFFY
F2000, S2001, 123 STEVENSON, SINGLE

<< Pining, was she? >>

F2001, OFF-CAMPUS

Fuck.  Bloody useless.  He hit the screen again. It
collapsed with a satisfying screech... and shards of glass
everywhere.  Ouch.

Thirty minutes later, when he'd picked most of the
splinters out of his hands, Spike began searching for
another logged-on computer.  << Bloody technology. >>
Eventually he remembered the telephone book.

ROSENBERG, W. 256 CHANCELLOR ST, APT. 2

Score!   And not two blocks from where he stood.  << Still
a pedestrian, Red? >>  He abandoned the car and strode off
to investigate.

Apartment 2's door was blocked by yellow "Police Line - Do
Not Cross" tape.  Spike's blood couldn't run any colder,
but it tried.  << Someone *else* killed her.  Someone is
going to die.  For weeks. >>

######

Willow was startled from her doze by the sound of the door
sliding open.  She scrambled hastily to her feet and
dropped her gaze to the floor. << Now what? >>

"Pfaugh, what a stench.  Humans.  Deal with her."  François
again.

Willow tensed.  Apparently the cavalry wouldn't be coming;
time for the death-or-glory spells.  << I wish I'd had time
to work the bugs out of that teleport....>> She wove her
fingers desperately, but, as she'd expected, she was
interrupted.  By a punch to the gut, unfortunately.  She
slumped to the floor, forcing her eyes to remain downcast,
and struggled for breath.

"Don't."  She didn't recognize the  voice. << Male,
probable vampire. >> She didn't recognize the shoes,
either, although she very much doubted they'd been
fashionable this century.  Black, glittering jeweled
buckles, red high heels.   << I've been kidnapped by Dr.
Frank N. Furter? >>

The unknown demanded, "Where is the sigil?"

<< Can't place the accent. >> Willow pushed her sweater up
her arm to display the necklace.

François replied, "Put it where it belongs, and ensure that
it stays there."

Willow obediently began to work the clasp, only to have her
hand slapped away.  << Oh. Not talking to me.  >>

The unknown ordered, "Stand up and turn around."  She
swiveled to face the wall.  Cold hands << Vampire, check >>
removed the necklace from her wrist.  She heard small
metallic noises behind her, and shivered.  She hated
blindly waiting for ... whatever ... to happen.  The hands
entered her field of view, then the necklace was around her
throat again, and there was fiddling at the nape of her
neck.  << Oh, come on, the clasp isn't that complicated. >>
There was another mysterious snap.  Then the steps
retreated.

<< I can't take much more of this.  I need information. >>
She risked a question. "What's going on?"  For once, nobody
hit her.

François replied, "Fortunately for you, you retain some
value."

As what?  Willow shuddered.

His voice mocked, "Oh, not in my eyes.  We have established
that you remain in play.  Give thanks, if you pray."
Disdain rolled off the last word.

<< In play?  What's the game, and how did I wind up a pawn
rather than a player?  >> The question answered itself.
Spike had dragged her off to Montreal, and she'd been
reacting, one way and another, ever since.  In François'
eyes, she was Spike's tool, not Willow Rosenberg, not
herself important.  << I swear, I am going to make him pay
for that, if it's the last thing I do.  >>  She refused to
clarify which "him" she meant.  Or to contemplate how close
"the last thing she did" might be.

François spoke again; her attention snapped back to his
voice.  "Get her cleaned.  We leave immediately."

#######

Snarling, Spike ripped aside the police tape, kicked open
the door, strode in ...
and found himself stretched flat against the empty air.

<< She's alive. >>

He couldn't get in.  That meant she wasn't dead.  It also
meant he couldn't search for the clues he needed ...
assuming the police hadn't already trampled them.  He
punched a fist into the barrier.  As usual, this was
utterly useless, but, also as usual, it felt good.

<< There's more than one way to break a neck. >>  Spike
strode around to the back of the building.  As he'd hoped,
each apartment had the usual glass sliding door, opening on
the usual tiny patio.  Spike walked up to the door that
should be hers and pressed his face against the glass.

He saw chaos.  Furniture had been pushed helter-skelter.
He didn't spot any blood, but every flat surface was
covered with fingerprint powder.  Clothes spilled out of
the half-open closet door and the chest of drawers.   She'd
lived here, all right.  He recognized the psychedelic-puke
color scheme and the ongoing bagginess.  << Thought I'd
broken her of that.  >>

That settled it.  This was Willow's place, she'd vanished,
and the do-gooders were worried enough to drag the police
into the problem.  << The Slayer would not have called the
rozzers for anything she fancied she could handle herself.
Which rules out the usual suspects.  >>

He stepped back and scanned the apartment walls.  There was
a tiny high frosted window to one side of the patio.  <<
Bathroom. >>  He punched the window; his fist rebounded
again, but the window shattered nonetheless.  He sniffed.
The scent trail was jumbled with strangers and Slayer, but
he could still pick out fading traces of Willow.  He pulled
the cream envelope from his inside breast pocket and lifted
it to his nose.  Perfect match.

<< So, who grabbed her, why did they send her hair to me
rather than the Slayer, and what do they want? >>  He
looked down at the envelope.   Suddenly he realized where
he'd seen its mate.  << Fuck.  >>

His epiphany was interrupted by an all-too-familiar voice
from the front room.  "Someone's been here.  Back me up."

The Slayer.  So much for stealth.  He turned on his heel
and fled.
 

#######

Whack!  The heavy bag rocked back, and Angel punched it
again.

The situation could hardly get uglier.  Thwap!  Another
Spike incident would have been trivial by comparison:
follow the trail the boy could no more avoid leaving than
he could control his temper, end his presumption once and
for all, restore the girl to her grateful (hah!) friends,
return home and contemplate how he'd let the situation get
so far out of control.

Well, he was certainly going to have time for the last part
of that plan.  Rushing into this situation half-cocked
would guarantee Willow's death, and very possibly his own
as well.  He could only hope that Spike's might be thrown
in as a bonus.

He'd been afraid of this.  Spike (and Willow) had blithely
assumed that they'd left the mess behind them in Montreal.
Naturally.  Humiliate a 400-year-old vampire in front of
the community he rules, skip town, and it's all history. He
snorted and threw another flurry of punches.  Right.
Because the Old Ones are so fond of moving on and living in
the present.

The puzzle was how to extricate Willow, while leaving Spike
to face the consequences of his idiocy.  In the Old Ones'
eyes, Willow was just as much a symbol of defiance as
Spike; to leave her unpunished would 'encourager les
autres'.  Her very existence was an insult, and an
invitation to rebellion.

Whack!  One thing was clear.  The public defiance had
occurred in Montreal; that was where the Old Ones would
expect reparations.  He picked up the phone.  "When's the
next evening flight to Dorval?"

########

After a couple of hasty sewer detours, Spike shook off the
Slayer.  When he was sure the trail was cold, he risked a
return to the administration building.  Nobody had yet
discovered his intrusion (thank you, oblivious Sunnydale!),
so he returned to the Taurus.

There was another cream envelope on the dashboard.
 

Chapter Five

Spike stared at the car, and at the envelope lying on the
dashboard.

Bloody fucking hell.

He despised symbolic messages.  Rip his head off, fine,
blow up his crypt, no problem, but spare him the mindfucks.
 He'd been worked over by experts. These berks weren't in
the running.

What was it with the over-200 set, anyway?  Couldn't just
kill the Slayer, no, had to draw menacing sketches, leave
mysterious boxes of flowers, torture some goldfish, then
destroy the world as an encore.  And the Montreal trads
couldn't kill him, or bomb the car, or sprinkle holy water
in his lair.  Oh, no.  Not subtle enough.  Not stylish
enough.  Just make it clear that he was being watched, that
they had plans, and he wasn't going to know anything until
they were good and ready to share.

He drove a fist into the side of the car.  It felt good.
Violence made sense.  Violence was the answer to any
problem he could think of, including those annoying
twelve-letter cryptic crossword clues.  He turned his back
and walked away.  Screw them.  He wasn't dancing to their
tune.  Sodding car could rot.  Never liked bloody Tauruses
anyway.

This called for bourbon.  Or tequila.  Or anything over 80
proof.

########

"Angel, what do you think you're doing?"

Angel slammed his suitcase shut and turned away from the
bed.  Keeping his voice level, he replied, "I'm leaving
town for a few days.  It's urgent."

"Who has the visions here, you or me?  *I* haven't seen a
thing."

"This is personal, Cordy."

"Oh, no, you don't.  Every time you get personal it turns
out really, really badly.  Remember--"

"Drop it.  Just don't."  He fought to suppress a snarl.

She stepped toward him, eyes pleading.  "Angel.  Honest to
God, remember the last time you didn't listen, remember
what happened  next.  Vengeance doesn't work for you."

"Why do you always assume... I'm not even going to start
this.  This isn't vengeance << I hope >>, it's a rescue.
You haven't had a vision, fine.  Sometimes the Powers That
Be aren't involved.  I don't need your help, I don't need
my soul saved, I just need you to GET OUT OF THE WAY so I
can catch my plane!"

She didn't back off.  "Promise you aren't going all no-soul
again?"

Snort. "Would a promise do you any good if I were?"

Cordy  folded her arms, lifted her chin, and stood her
ground.  "Angel.  Promise me this isn't more Wolfram & Hart
nonsense, or you'll have to hurt me to get out the door."

Angel sighed.  He was going to have to give her part of the
truth if he wanted to get out of there.  "I doubt this has
anything to do with our favorite law firm.  An old ...
acquaintance ... is in trouble.  I'll be back as soon as I
can.  If you get any visions, call Gunn and Wesley; you've
handled them without me in the past.  I wouldn't be doing
this if it weren't urgent."

She stepped aside.  "Please be telling the truth.  And
please come back in one piece."

He gave her half a smile.  "That's the plan.  Urns don't
suit me."

#########

After François and Mr. High Heels left the room, another
vampire entered.  This one was scruffy, the sort Buffy
staked by the dozen any night in Sunnydale.  He never
dropped the demon face; Willow suspected he couldn't.  The
minion escorted Willow  to a dingy bathroom, where she was
required to shower and use the facilities under his cold
gaze.  She blushed.  He didn't.

When she got out of the shower, her own clothes were gone,
replaced by a gray pile on the floor.  It proved to be
too-large sweats, the shirt with a telltale rust-brown
stain.  There was no towel. She dressed without bothering
to protest.  At least these clothes didn't smell of vomit.
Unsurprisingly, there was no mirror over the sink.   The
vampires hadn't  provided a comb, so she did her best to
tidy her wet hair with her fingers.  Before she had
finished, the minion grabbed her arm and dragged her down
the hall.  Not back to her cell, as she'd expected, but up
a flight of stairs.

"But I'm still barefoot!" Willow protested.  The vampire
tightened his grip to the point of pain.  "Speak when
spoken to."  Then he increased his pace, Willow stumbling
to keep up with him.

She was dragged into an featureless room.  The only thing
in it was a black (naturally) footlocker, lid open.  "In."

"What?"

The vampire didn't bother to reply.  Instead he twisted her
arm behind her back, forcing her down and forward.
Willow's shins banged against the edge of the footlocker;
she cried out and doubled up in pain.  Before she knew it,
she was crammed uncomfortably into the trunk, knees to
chest.  The vampire slammed the lid down. She heard clicks.
 Then the world lurched.  Apparently she was being carried
somewhere.

Her legs hurt.  Her head hurt. It was dark.  She was
starving.  She was soggy.  She tried desperately to find
something cheerful to think about.

<< I'm not dead yet. >>

########

Buffy finished her report to Giles.  "There was nobody in
the apartment, nothing had been touched.  It looked just
the way the police left it, except that the door was kicked
down and the  bathroom window was broken."

Giles's eyebrow went up.  "Where was the broken glass?"

Buffy rolled her eyes.  "In the bathroom window, Giles.  I
already told you that."

He sighed.  "Inside the room or outside it?"

"I don't know... inside, I think.  The glass crunched under
my feet."

"Buffy, think.  Nobody had entered.  The glass was broken
from the outside.  So was the door you entered through.  If
the apartment was empty, that means somebody tried to get
in and failed."

"Vampire?"  She tensed.

"Who else would break down the door without entering?"

"Then Willow's alive!"  Buffy sagged with relief.  "God,
Giles, she's not dead.  I was starting to think..."

"Not only is she alive, but someone or something is looking
for her in Sunnydale.  Our suspects must be local after
all."

Buffy threw herself into Giles's arms.  "She's alive,
Giles!  And she's here!  Which means I can kick some
vampire ass and find her!"

Giles returned her hug for a moment, then withdrew.  He
didn't seem to share Buffy's elation.  "You've already
tried that, Buffy.  Nobody's talking.  And the indications
are... disturbing. Whoever has her knows she's alive.
Which means they would know better than to send a vampire
to enter her apartment.  Therefore more than one faction is
involved.  I very much fear she's the object of some sort
of power struggle.  She has something that someone wants."

Buffy looked at him grimly.  "Or *is* something."

"It seems all too probable.  If they were holding her
hostage to influence you, they'd have contacted you by now.
 Somebody wants her for her own sake.  But not for her
benefit."  He took off his glasses, searching for words.
"There are ...uses... for a witch's blood."

"Oh, God."

######

Spike staggered back to the car.  He needed someplace dark
for the daylight hours.  If he moved the wretched
suburbmobile  away from prying eyes, he could crash in it
for the day, then get out of town come nightfall.  He
climbed in, raced the engine, and sped out of the parking
lot.  There was a railway overpass on a back road north of
town.  That should do for now.  He accelerated hard, and
the cream envelope fell into his lap.  He snarled, crushed
it in his hand, and threw it into the floor well.

Long ago, there had been a factory a little way out of
town, set on a railroad spur.   Whatever it built had gone
out of fashion years ago. Since then, it had been abandoned
to the drunks, the bums, and the randy teenagers.   Every
now and again, vampires had attempted to lair in it, but
had always abandoned it for more populous hunting grounds.
He pulled the car under the overpass and cut the engine.
The road should be undisturbed until nighttime.

He lifted the Jim Beam to his lips.   Nobody told him what
to do.  He danced to no one's tune.  He was a free agent, a
lone wolf, the master of his own destiny.

########

Willow struggled to control her stomach as the footlocker
lurched from side to side.  After too long, she felt a hard
jolt, then heard a metal slam and the roar of an engine.
Apparently, she'd been loaded into a vehicle.  In the
trunk, judging by the smell of exhaust.  << Death by carbon
monoxide?  Great.  Doesn't sound very vampiry somehow...
Stop that.  François said I still had some utility.  That
means he doesn't want me dead.  >>

<< Yet. >>

<< I hate the dark.  I hate small spaces.  At least Spike
let me have light and air... Stop that.  He didn't do you
any favors. He kidnapped you. He wasn't your friend.  >>

A lifetime later, the vehicle stopped.  Another slam,
another hideous lurch, and she was jolting through the air
again.  She smelled a nasty chemical tang.  After a few
moments, she identified it.  Kerosene.  << They're setting
me on fire?  Stop that.  They're taking me camping? >>  She
giggled hysterically, and was rebuked by a slam on the side
of the trunk.

Suddenly the trunk fell to the ground, knocking the air
from Willow's lungs.  As she gasped for breath, she heard a
voice.  "Load this in the passenger compartment."

<< Oh.  An airport. >>

"Looks like cargo to me, boss, and there's a big hold."

"Shut your mouth.  The passenger bay."

The trunk lurched again, then tilted and jolted; Willow
presumed she was being carried up a flight of stairs.
After a few moments of argument, the invisible carriers
stood the trunk on end, dropping her in a heap at the
bottom.  Head side up, fortunately.

Some time later, there was a soft murmur of voices.  She
thought she could pick François out, but the conversation
was in French and moved too fast for her to decipher.  Then
there was a whine of engines and the trunk tilted heavily
forward, landing at an angle.  She supposed it must have
collided with a seat.

<< I think I'm headed  back to Montreal.   FedEx class.  >>

########

When Spike woke, head pounding, the first thing he saw was
the damned cream envelope.  He turned away, wincing, and
grabbed the bottle of Beam from the seat.  It was empty.

He closed his eyes for a moment.  When he reopened them, no
part of the situation had improved in any way.  He had a
hangover.  He was trapped. And he was being played.  He
clenched his teeth.  There was no use putting it off any
further.  As he'd known he eventually must, he retrieved
the crumpled envelope, flattened it, ripped it open, and
yanked out the single sheet of paper, inscribed in the
flowing 18th-century hand he had grown to hate.

It read:

The Master of Montreal
Commands your presence
       Solstice
      Ten o'clock
       Tenebrae

At the bottom was written, "Fail not of your presence.  The
human's fate hangs on your obedience. "
 
 

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