Masters and Minions 8: Warp and Weft

Author: Medea

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
 

warp (n). - The threads that run lengthwise in a woven fabric, crossed at right angles to the weft.
weft (n). - The horizontal threads interlaced through the warp in a woven fabric.
 
 

"And is not time even as love is, undivided and paceless? But if in your thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons. And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing."
---Kahlil Gibran, 'The Prophet'

~Part: 1~

FLASHBACK ALERT: Present date is 2034. There will be numerous flashbacks throughout the story, indicated by earlier dates and set off by // marks.

Los Angeles, 2034

Dusk brushed its shadows across rooftops and streets in the sprawling metropolis. Despite recurrent predictions about the "Big One" that would sink the California coast into the sea, the city still churned with life...and death.

The living had their rulers, although those who ruled in name were now mere performers, their election only a pale simulacrum of the democratic process. As ancient Rome had given way to successor kingdoms that arose as its wealthier citizens retired from public life to their estates, so had multinational conglomerates seized the reins of power from nations, states, and municipalities. It was they who determined the pulse of activity around the globe, from remote mountain villages to urban citadels like L.A.

But the dead, too, had their rulers.

Away from the glass and steel fortresses in the heart of the city's business district, beneath the notice of corporate barons and executive boards, in a stately, historic hotel, they stirred. Even as the rulers of the living ceased their affairs to adjourn in limousines to exclusive restaurants or members-only clubs, with the fall of night the rulers of the dead arose to tend to their affairs.

Deep in the heart of the elegant, Spanish colonial building, cloistered in a private suite, cocooned in smooth cotton sheets and a feather-light coverlet, a slender, feminine hand stroked down a length of masculine thigh.

A sturdy, masculine hand stroked up the same thigh.

The hands met, teased each other, then continued their lazy exploration of the expanse of skin over sculpted flesh. A pleased growl rumbled deep within the object of their tactile ministrations. Soon, the growl was answered by playful, gutteral purrs as sinewy limbs entangled with each other, the bed's occupants fully roused from their slumber.

Spike chuckled and stretched lazily as his Mates continued their assault.

Willow nibbled at the nape of his neck and murmured, "Like your wake-up call?"

"Mmm...nice...more where that came from?" Spike asked.

"Much more," Angel promised as he drew Spike flush against him and leaned in for a kiss. Spike arched into his elder Mate as their cocks slid against each other, the friction sending waves of pleasure humming throughout his body. Angel's lips brushed softly against his, almost shyly. Spike brought his hand up and cradled Angel's cheek in his palm. Their kisses grew deeper and more urgent as they ground their hips together.

Spike felt the light brush of Willow's hardened nipples against his back. She gripped his arm, draped one leg over his thigh and began to rock. Her tongue traced a soft, wet trail from his neck out to his shoulder. He groaned into Angel's mouth.

Angel reached across Spike and let his hand roam along Willow's side, over the gentle swell of her hips, down her flank, then trailed slowly back up. His fingers danced along her spine, summoning forth a shiver of delight, before he eased over to caress the soft curve of her breast. Willow's lips parted with an unneeded gasp and she eased away from Spike's back just enough to allow her dark Mate to toy with her nipple.

Willow trembled as pure need swelled within her. Spike's thigh grew wet with her desire as she quickened her pace and squeezed him tightly between her legs, thrusting in counterpoint to his thrusts against Angel. She felt Angel's skilled fingers ghost down her back and over her soft, smooth cheeks until one finger probed between her slick nether lips. Willow hissed her approval as he worried her sensitized nub, alternating between gentle strokes and teasing scrapes with his fingernail.

Unable to control herself, Willow groaned and bit into Spike's shoulder. He growled with pleasure and sank his fangs into Angel's tongue, seasoning their already hungry kisses with the heady tang of blood.

So good. The three Mates felt the call of each other's blood, the seductive pull of the bond that united them, and gave themselves over to the ancient, sacred frenzy.

They writhed like a nest of vipers, bodies sliding and entwining in sensual abandon. The bed, with its solid, sturdy oak frame and heavy mattress, thumped against the wall like a rickety, unhinged shutter in a windstorm.

With a final thrust, Spike tensed and felt the cool stream of his release coat Angel's groin. Moments later, Willow shuddered against him with a deep moan. She was soon followed by Angel, who bit hard into Spike's lip as he came. A satisfied purr rumbled from the younger vampire's chest as Angel nursed the wound, savoring his blood.

Angel, Willow, and Spike snuggled contentedly, enjoying the aftermath of their nightly awakening routine.

After several moments, Spike felt the dampened sheets, wet with spent passion, and muttered, "We really need to get a minion to handle our laundry and other chores."

"We've been over this before," Willow chided, rubbing her cheek affectionately against his back. "Ruling the clans will be stressful enough without giving up our privacy. Besides, how can we train the clans away from their hierarchies, vendettas, and massacres for sport if we set up a traditional hierarchy within our own lair?"

"Fine, but it's not my turn to wash the sheets," Spike sulked. "Did 'em last night."

"It's my turn," Angel acknowledged, pushing himself off the bed and onto his feet. Turning toward his Mates, he shook the mattress and said, "Everybody up. We have people coming over and business to tend to in less than forty-five minutes."

Spike rolled over and pinned Willow beneath him. "Sod off. I've got Red right where I want her."

Willow yelped with laughter as Spike growled playfully and nibbled at her neck. Hands on his hips, Angel rolled his eyes impatiently at his Mates, then seized the mattress and gave it a mighty heave. With startled shouts, Willow and Spike tumbled onto the floor.

Before they had the chance to protest, Angel started toward the shower and taunted over his shoulder, "First one to the shower gets a massage with the jasmine oil."

In a flash, Willow and Spike scrambled to their feet and raced after him.

*****

Subject: For the archives or my personal gratification?
Date: 5 June 2034
From: Rupert Giles <gilesr@preservation.society.co.uk>
To: Willow Rosenberg <redwillow@aurora.net>

Dear Willow,

As always, it is good to hear from you. I'm glad to know you, Angel, and Spike are well.

I must admit that the news of your new status in Los Angeles was rather unexpected. However, your motives are admirable. I hope it will not prove too trying for you. Do rely on your ties to your coven if you need to, as this old Watcher is presently unavailable to return the gracious gift of emotional blackmail you bestowed on me years ago. There are indeed yet things worth caring about, and worth protecting, in this world.

On a professional note: how much may I record of your situation in the Council's archives on North American Vampires? You three have already filled an entire volume.

Give my best to everyone there. Wesley sends his greetings.

Fondly,

Giles

*****

Five silent figures walked along a cracked sidewalk on a darkened street in the South Gate neighborhood of Los Angeles. Broken glass crunched beneath their feet as they sidestepped the varieties of human litter strewn across their path: fast-food containers, aluminum cans, empty cigarette packs, and a vast array of paper scraps.

They were sullen with hunger. Alert, restless eyes scanned the barren streets for scarce resources which could mean the difference between survival or starvation...

...Scanned for any signs of life at all.

As they passed beneath a freeway overpass, one of them noticed a set of legs stretched along the ground behind a massive, concrete support column. He growled, directing the gazes of his companions toward the find. A sleeping transient, if they were lucky.

But all too soon, the grim truth was revealed.

Transient or no, it no longer mattered what the man had been. His skin had a familiar, grayish-blue tint that signaled a ruthlessly efficient removal of blood. Crouching down, a member of the group tugged the corpse's shirt up, exposing the telltale Y-incision on his abdominal cavity.

Agitated growls rumbled throughout the group and faces shifted to their demonic aspects. From his crouched position, the vampire examining the body looked up and snarled in frustration, "Another one."

"That makes seven this week," observed one of the others.

"Think we should bring this to the Trinity?" asked a third.

A bulky vampire, clad in leather and sporting an array of tattoos on his shaven head snorted, "And starve in the meantime? We'll let them know, all right, but we need blood tonight. Claims in the Inglewood territory are still fuzzy; we'll hunt there."

"What about Branson and his clan?"

The tattooed vamp curled his lip in a cruel sneer. "We can take them."

*****

The lobby of the Hyperion churned with the steady cadence of eight heartbeats. To Willow, the rhythmic wash of blood through human veins was at once distracting and soothing. It had only been a year since her return to Los Angeles. Her travels had made her a solitary creature. Moreover, keeping the company of demons had afforded few opportunities for contact with humans other than for feeding purposes.

Now she sat with the coterie of humans that she and her Mates held most dear: Cyrene, Hannah, Loïc, and their daughter Willow, who had just turned eighteen a few weeks ago; Tara and her partner, Zoe; Jesse Harris; and Cordelia and her husband. Willow was serenaded by the vital thrum of their hearts. It was a little dizzying.

Not to mention seductive. Willow drew upon her memories of the close bond she'd shared with her coven to keep herself from eyeing her friends' necks too obviously. She wasn't really worried about her ability to resist temptation, but she did think it would be bad manners to be caught salivating.

Or staring blankly while Cyrene was talking to her.

Oops.

Willow blinked. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Cyrene smirked and exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Hannah, who sat next to her. Though time and experience had traced their faces with lines and dusted their hair with a few, soft streaks of gray, lively warmth still danced in their eyes.

"I *said*," Cyrene intoned with mock severity, "that a short attention span is the first sign of sexual deprivation."

"Don't you mean depravity?" Hannah countered with a sly grin.

Willow narrowed her eyes and muttered peevishly, "I'm so glad you didn't lose your sense of humor while I was gone. No, really, what were you saying?"

"We were just hoping this surprise you called us over for is an excellent vintage and has robust, cherry overtones," Tara offered, squeezing Zoe's hand.

"Oh, maaaaaayyyyybe," Willow answered, with an innocent lift of her eyebrows.

"Cryptic vampire business," Cordelia sighed impatiently. "Gee, *that's* a new one." Ignoring Willow's frown, she continued, "Can we get on with it already? If you and Angel have a good reason for dragging us down here and ruining a perfectly good, vision-free weekend, I would love to hear it. I mean, it would be nice to enjoy one night away from the office, like normal people."

Jesse, whose resemblance to his father, Xander, still brought a lump to Willow's throat, snorted dismissively. "Yeah, right, Mrs. *Pearson*... all of us enjoying a nice, quiet, normal evening. First sign of the Apocalypse."

Willow caught Jesse's emphasis on Cordelia's married name, and merely rolled her eyes at his attempt to use the fact that she happened to be married to a re-materialized ghost to taunt her about normal life. It was a story Willow wanted to hear from Cordelia, though. Angel and Spike had given her their accounts of how Dennis had regained his corporeal -- if not living -- status. But Willow was curious to learn Cordy's side of the story.

"What of it?" Cordy fired back, wholly unimpressed by Jesse's barb. "Big whoop, an Apocalypse. Do you know how many of those I've been through in my lifetime?"

"Fourteen," two voices replied simultaneously.

The response came automatically to Jesse, who had heard Cordelia's war stories numerous times in the few years since he had started working for Angel. He grinned at the approach of his employer, who had chimed in out of familiarity with Cordelia's litany.

Angel carried an elegant, wooden jewelry box, which elicited a mercenary smile from Cordelia.

"If that surprise is what I think it is, this might be worth it after all," she said.

Spike, who trailed behind Angel with a box of gauze pads and a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, mused coyly, "Oh, it'll be worth it. Can't wait to poke *you*."

Zoe, who was still adjusting to the return of Tara's former lover, fidgeted awkwardly and prompted, "Uh...poke?"

Willow regarded the slender, curly-haired woman with interest. She'd hardly expected to return to find Tara still unattached after twenty years, but Zoe wasn't quite who Willow would have imagined with Tara. Certainly, she was attractive, with the smooth, tanned complexion and dark hair characteristic of her Greek ancestry. But she wasn't Wicca -- indeed, Willow had heard her express skepticism about magic and the supernatural in general. Yet there was a subtle passion to her, especially when she was negotiating the complex, underground activist networks that had evolved since Willow had last been involved in human society.

Knitting her brow slightly, Willow realized that Zoe wasn't like her...and that she had no right to assume that Tara would have moved on to somebody who was.

"Poking is on the agenda this evening," Willow confirmed, offering Zoe a reassuring smile. "Hopefully, it won't hurt too much, but it's in your best interest."

Angel dispelled any further speculation by setting the jewelry box on his desk, raising the lid, and lifting out a velvet-lined tray that held a myriad of elegant, ruby studs.

Jesse peered closely at the studs, glanced at the first-aid kit that Spike had set down, and groaned, "Oh, great. What is it with vamps, anyway? Does everything have to be about blood?"

Spike arched an eyebrow at him, looking profoundly unimpressed, and drawled, "Yeah, what of it?"

Jesse was poised to retort when he sniffed, tilted his head curiously and asked, "Is that jasmine I smell?"

Spike pursed his lips but said nothing.

"In this case, Jess, there does have to be blood, but only a little," Angel acknowledged. "There have been some...changes...in the vampire community. They'll affect all of you."

"Why do I not like the sound of this?" Cordelia asked warily.

"Because it's not very likely that these changes involve them going into the wholesale jewelry business," Dennis murmured, draping his arm across her shoulder and pulling her closer.

Willow rose from her seat and moved to stand beside her Mates. "We've made a choice. Two nights ago, we survived a ritual known as the Cup of Death, which made us the reigning clan among L.A.'s vampires. We know it won't be easy, being drawn into vampire politics, but we thought it was the best way to protect the city's innocents from a full-scale clan war."

An uneasy silence fell over the group, save for the heartbeats of the living. Willow noted the slight increase in her friends' heart rates -- with the exception of Cyrene.

With her characteristic serenity, Cyrene prompted, "Go on."

"Effectively, this means our word is law for as long as the clans remain under our dominion," Willow continued. "We're hoping it will last for at least fifty years, but we can't be sure."

"What do you mean?" Hannah asked, cocking her head to the side. "You'd just give it up after a few decades? Or are there term limits or something?"

Shaking his head with resignation, Spike gave her a conspiratorial wink and lamented, "Just wait, luv. Here comes the really nauseating part."

"We've issued some decrees that aren't likely to sit well with most of the city's vamps -- restrictions on how they can hunt. We're going to do what we can to protect the human population," Angel explained. Plucking one of the ruby studs from its resting place, he held it before curious mortal eyes and added, "Starting with you."

Amid the perplexed frowns and tilted heads, Jesse proved he was indeed his father's son. "Okay, wild shot in the dark -- tiny wooden stakes hidden in the studs? Goin' for the secret spy stuff in those hokey old Bond films?"

Spike rolled his eyes disdainfully and drawled, "Different kind of protection, junior git."

"It's within vampire tradition to lay claim to certain mortals," Angel continued. "Usually, these were servants, concubines, agents for daylight business. Absolute obedience was demanded in exchange for full protection--"

Before Angel could finish, Zoe stood abruptly and murmured coolly, "Tara, I told you this would be a bad idea. Count me out." Glaring at the three vampires, Zoe noted grimly, "You're as bad as the suits."

As the others sat in stunned silence, Zoe stalked out of the office. Tara flashed an apologetic look at Willow before following Zoe, calling after her, "Sweetie..."

After an awkward silence, Cyrene said, "They'll be back. Why don't you continue?"

Angel nodded. "We don't intend to make pets of you -- maybe I should have made that clear before going into the old ways. But if you'll let us mark you, it will mean absolute protection for you from all vampires in the greater Los Angeles area."

"I don't get it," Hannah piped up, furrowing her brow. "Why now? We've known you for...jeez, *thirty* years, Willow!" Hannah's eyes flared slightly at the realization, which provoked grins from Cyrene and Willow alike. Hannah shook her head. "Thirty years...Why do we suddenly need protection? And besides," she pulled her shirt collar aside and fingered the faint scar of Spike's occasional bites, "doesn't something like this mean you've already marked us?"

"Sure, luv," Spike leered at her, "Tho' you've not been too keen on givin' me a go with the old Master and Pet fun."

Hannah leaned forward and smiled coyly. "Any time you'd like to be my Pet, just let me know..."

Spike's leer broadened into a mischievous grin. Then he sobered and added, "'S better for everyone if the other vamps know to steer clear without gettin' close enough to see a bite."

"Not to mention an earring is more discreet and raises fewer questions from humans than would a pair of prominent puncture wounds," Willow pointed out.

"And I, for one, did *not* sign a consent form for bitey action from my boss when I filled out all that social security and tax withholding paperwork," Jesse huffed, feigning indignation.

Keeping a straight face, Angel blinked at him and countered, "I'm sure it was in there. Want me to get your file?" Frowning in mock concentration, he added, "I think we even have a parental consent form...somewhere..."

Willow snickered into her fist, knowing just how much Xander would NOT approve of his son sporting Angel's fang marks. Jesse lost the battle of wills with his employer and laughed.

"Children," Spike broke in impatiently, "can we get on with it? We've got witnesses coming over in twenty minutes."

"Witnesses?" Loïc asked, his smooth voice gilded with a light French accent. "You mean other vampires."

"Our liaisons with the clans," Angel confirmed. "Don't worry, you'll be completely safe. There will only be two of them."

"Now...who goes first?" Spike asked with a wicked grin. He plucked a stud from the jewelry box and waggled it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Hey, don't we even get to get drunk first?" Jesse protested. "I thought that's how it happened...you know, drunken frat parties, waking up the next morning with a pierced ear, not remembering any of it...."

"That's tattoos," Hannah's daughter, Willow, countered with a wink.

Cordelia rolled her eyes and stood up, releasing Dennis's hand. "Jeez, what's the big deal, people?" She strode toward Spike, fiddling with the earring already in her left ear. Once she'd removed it, she swiped the ruby stud out of Spike's grasp and inserted the new stud in place of the old. Turning to Angel, she chirped, "There. How's that?"

"Spoil sport," Spike muttered.

"It's fine, Cordy," Angel assured her. To the entire group, he explained, "A single ruby stud in the left ear will be the sign that a mortal is under our protection. The clans have already been informed. Our liaisons will just be here tonight to witness." Grimacing apologetically, he confessed, "There's a lot of ritual to vampire political hierarchies."

"Well, that's easy enough," Hannah shrugged, removing the small gold hoop from her left ear. Her daughter, Loïc, and Cyrene likewise took out their current earrings. Spike scowled, denied this tiny spot of bloodshed, and handed them each a ruby stud.

"This sucks. This is so totally unfair," Jesse grumbled, nervously fingering his very UN-pierced earlobe.

Spike arched an eyebrow and grinned. "Chin up, mate. It won't hurt...much."

"Yeah, bi-iii-te...screw you," Jesse retorted sullenly. "You're not coming anywhere near me with that." Turning to his employer, he grunted in resignation, "Angel, you do it. I've gotta think this is some weird, karmic payback for every slam my dad ever made at you."

Angel struggled unsuccessfully to keep from smirking, but ever since Jesse had started working at Angel Investigations, he'd managed to make Angel laugh as much as Xander, as a teenager, had managed to irritate him. The dark vampire rubbed some alcohol on Jesse's ear and deftly plunged the stud through his earlobe. Wincing, the youth let out a sharp hiss and pressed a gauze pad over his ear to stop the bleeding.

"Guess that leaves me," said Dennis. Spike approached him with stud in hand.

"You're at least lucky enough that you don't really feel pain," Jesse sulked.

Dennis grinned apologetically and shrugged. "What can I say? Dead guy."

While Spike did the honors, Angel leaned toward Willow and murmured, "There are still Tara and her girlfriend to consider. Murdoch and Nadia will be here soon."

Willow plucked two ruby studs from the jewelry box and said, "I'll check up on them."

She found Tara and Zoe seated on a stone bench in the courtyard. They held hands and murmured softly, their heads inclined toward each other. Willow hated to disturb them, but it was almost time.

As she approached, her sensitive hearing picked up Zoe's fervently whispered words, "--not about compromise! I've worked hard to model resistance, and it's helped people in my network preserve their independence."

"Hey," Willow tentatively broke in. Tara smiled awkwardly at her while Zoe's expression remained carefully guarded and stern. Gesturing toward the lobby, Willow explained, "Everyone's finished inside. We'll be breaking out the wine in just a bit, but there's some company coming over first. Um...other vampires, actually. And we were kinda hopin' you'd...be willing to put these on."

Willow held out her hand, revealing two ruby studs.

Zoe turned away. "No can do."

Willow heard the woman's increased heartbeat and felt the jump in her body temperature, clear signs of anger. She hesitated and looked questioningly at Tara.

Her honey-blond, erstwhile lover shook her head with a sad smile, but reached out and took one of the studs for herself.

"Left ear," Willow explained. "It'll let the city's vamps know you're off-limits."

Tara nodded and inserted the stud into one of several piercings on her earlobe. She then leaned toward Zoe and asked, "Are you sure you won't change your mind?"

"Angel didn't express himself well," Willow added. "We won't expect anything from you. We're not demanding service or obedience. This is strictly about protection."

Zoe released a curt laugh and shot Willow a defiant look. "That's how it starts. It's the same with the suits." Feigning solicitous concern, her voice dropped into sing-song, mocking the manipulative rhetoric of corporate PR. " 'It's all about what we can do to serve *you*, to make *your* life more convenient, more fulfilling. Why work so hard when we can do so much *for* you?'." Shifting back to her own voice, Zoe spat, "That's how they get people, get them to sell their freedom. Sorry, I've worked too hard to stay clean. People count on me. I won't let them down, not even for this."

Willow gazed at her appreciatively, admiring Zoe's depth of commitment to her cause even if she thought the mortal woman was stubbornly taking it to an extreme. However, Willow had no desire to force her into anything, even if it could save her life. Willow's own journeys had taught her that staying safe and sheltered from harm wasn't always what someone valued most. And since Tara, likewise, seemed unwilling to pressure Zoe on the matter, Willow bowed her head in acquiescence and stepped back.

"Things will get started soon," Willow said, waving Tara and Zoe after her. "C'mon, why don't we open a bottle of Merlot?"

"Thanks. And thanks for respecting my wishes," Zoe replied, leaning against Tara, who placed an affectionate kiss below her ear.

Willow smiled. Zoe was definitely different, and very passionate about what she did. All that mattered, though, was that Tara seemed happy.

Although Zoe's vigorous opposition to anything even remotely associated with hierarchy or authority made Willow curious. It had been a year, now, since she walked back into the Hyperion lobby to find a restless, disheveled Angel who had been dreaming of her just as she had been dreaming of him. In that year, while she'd eagerly renewed her ties to all the human friends she'd left behind, she hadn't really paid much attention to changes in society at large. She began to wonder what had been going on in the human world during her travels...

*****

A half-empty bottle of Absolut vodka sat on the kitchen table in a cramped, Los Angeles apartment.

The apartment's occupant, Edgar Lytle, downed another shot, then returned his stupefied gaze to the company memo he'd received at work that day:

May 17, 2034
FROM: Genomix Corp. Legal Division
TO: All Genomix Employees With Genetic Designation N-4210
CC: Genomix Benefits Division

This is to inform you of the re-classification of Genetic Designation N-4210 from 'Inactive' to 'Marketable Materials'. Genomix expects to patent the DNA sequence from base pairs 11 to 19 within six weeks.

Pursuant to the terms of your employment, should you elect to continue with Genomix, your DNA will become company property upon approval of the patent.

The Benefits Division will calculate the increase in your employee deductions for medical insurance (between 35% and 50%, estimated). Any and all organ donor cards must be surrendered to the Genomix Legal Division. Each N-4210 employee shall also make provisions for genetic resequencing upon termination of employment, in accordance with the property rights of the Genomix Corporation.

All further inquiries on this matter may be directed to the Legal Division.

_________

In despair, Edgar dropped his forehead against his fist and fought against the hot tears that stung his eyes. He was just a lab technician! He'd barely made rent last month as it was.

He couldn't afford higher insurance rates. But all the legislation on genetics and intellectual property rights that had piled up in recent years was against him. If the company's patent went through, Genomix *would* own the rights to a segment of his DNA sequence. Protecting those rights meant the company was entitled to restrict him to confidential health care facilities, where special care would be taken not to compromise the company's "interest" in his genetic material -- which, of course, cost a fucking fortune. Hence, the jacked-up insurance rates.

He felt like the goddamned secret formula for a bottle of cola or 'special' sauce.

For Pete's sake, he'd been *born* with this DNA!

But the thought of quitting and undergoing genetic resequencing...

Edgar shuddered.

He'd met someone once who'd been through the procedure. The woman had been a walking pharmacy, her purse stuffed with a cocktail of at least twelve different drugs to treat the infections her body seemed unable to fend off.

Rising from the table, he grabbed his bottle of vodka and shakily managed the five steps from the kitchen table to the makeshift, milk-crate desk where his outdated laptop sat. He slumped onto a scratched, metal folding chair, logged on, and started surfing the web.

Maybe a second job. If there were any of Genomix's allied partners in the area, he might be able to pull a night-shift job. That is, if his manager authorized it.

He scanned through a few job listings, then paused, his expression grim. After a deep, mind-numbing draught from a now nearly empty Absolut bottle, he stood and crossed three steps to the one, dingy window in his studio apartment. Through the glass, he looked down on the deserted street.

It was chillingly still.

There had been strange happenings lately, Edgar knew.

Bodies harvested for parts and bled dry.

Clenching his fist, he stretched his arm up along the window, leaned against it, and mulled over his bleak future. There didn't seem to be any good choices. He didn't like the idea of taking a night job and having to be out on those streets after dark. But because of the sheer bad luck that his DNA group had something useful about it -- useful enough for Genomix to be interested in research and marketing -- he would need the money.

Jesus.

His whole, fucking life gone to hell because of one memo.

~Part: 2~

Andrew Murdoch entered the spacious foyer of the Trinity's lair, his childe, Nadia, on his arm. So strange that the city's ruling clan elected to remain in such modest accommodations when all was theirs to command. However, he quickly banished the random musing from his mind. He hadn't achieved his enviable position by passing judgment -- or, at least, by getting caught at it. He was a businessman, and he knew when to stick to business.

He noted approvingly that the humans had hushed when he and Nadia had arrived. Willow rose from her seat beside a dark-haired woman to greet him. "Murdoch. Nadia. Thank you for coming."

Murdoch nodded. "So, these are the Favored Ones," he observed, sweeping his arm before the entire group. As he surveyed the humans, his gaze landed upon a male seated beside the dark-haired woman near Willow.

Curious.

Murdoch's eyes narrowed slightly. It wasn't vampire, but...no heartbeat. Not living.

He cocked his head to the side, but was jarred from his scrutiny by Angelus. "Convey it to the clans. These mortals wear our sigil, a ruby on the left ear, just above the pulse point. They are not to be harmed."

"As you command," Murdoch acknowledged. He sensed Nadia beside him, still staring at the strange, unliving man, and acted quickly to cover her indiscretion. "My lords, there are a few, small matters of business...if you are so disposed..."

Spike arched an eyebrow, then gestured toward a recessed doorway on the far side of the lobby. "In our office," he assented. To the assembled humans, he added, "Start the party without us; shouldn't take long."

With a gentle tug on Nadia's elbow, Murdoch said, "Come, my dear."

She started, so intently had she been fixated on the lifeless man -- or so Murdoch thought. He was corrected in his assumption when his childe leaned toward him and whispered, "The dark-haired woman...she is familiar. I knew her before."

*****

As Willow waited for Murdoch and Nadia to cross toward her, she caught Cordelia staring at Nadia.

"I know her from somewhere," Cordy murmured.

Willow spied the same, intense concentration in Nadia's eyes and hoped Cordy hadn't seen Nadia slaughtering someone in one of her visions. Saying nothing for the moment, she guided the two vampires downstairs to the newly outfitted council chamber she and her Mates had created once they'd resolved to govern the clans. She, Angel and Spike had agreed that it would be wise to keep clan business separate from Angel Investigations -- thus, no sharing of office space. Moreover, the chamber itself was part of their display of power.

The walls were smooth concrete, part of the hotel's foundation: utilitarian, but far from drab. In a thin band that wrapped around the entire room about shoulder height, Willow had etched a series of protective runes to prevent any sabotage or attacks. Attuned to her magic, they glowed red and gold in her presence, like embers in a fire.

Punctuating the runes at regular intervals were smooth, black stones, twelve in all, embedded in the wall: an extra bonus from her decades-long tour, which had included several hellmouths. At the final one in Hadar, Ethiopia, she'd discovered a clutch of faroe stones that were remarkably accessible, and helped herself to several handfuls.

Thick, black, velvet carpet lined the perimeter of the room, while at the center was a vast, circular, concrete platform that rose eight inches above the floor. On the platform, twenty Roman chairs were spaced around the perimeter of the circle. The heavy U-shaped wood of the seats was weathered and gave the impression of antiquity, as if these arched stools had once supported senators or members of Caesar's house.

Spike and Willow each took a seat and Angel gestured for Nadia and Murdoch to do likewise. After a slight hesitation at the unconventional arrangement -- there was no clear indication of primacy -- they did.

"What is your concern?" Angel asked as he eased down onto the seat to Willow's right.

"My l--" Murdoch began, before catching himself and dispensing with the traditional honorifics. "If I may be blunt, it is rather your concern -- or it has become so, since you claimed leadership of the clans. It involves the human black market."

Willow's brow furrowed. "Humans have always been dealing on the black market. What does that matter to us?"

"This isn't simply a matter of humans doing their usual trading. The trade is *in* humans," Murdoch clarified.

"There's a black market trade...*in* humans...*by* other humans?"

Willow managed to keep her voice neutral, revealing no more than the curiosity of one who had been away for a long time. And certainly, after the things she had seen in the demon communities she'd visited, there was little that shocked her any more. However, balancing her human remnant against her demon had always been a challenge, and whenever she was confronted with the reality of human cruelty and human atrocities, it just made things that much more difficult for her. In a way, although she took it in stride when humans demonstrated their capacity for evil, somewhere deep inside, she felt a small part of herself slip away.

"In a manner of speaking," Murdoch acknowledged. "The fools are forever trying to manufacture their own immortality. You knew of the spread of AIDS before you left on your travels, yes?"

Willow nodded.

"Other diseases followed: new, more resistant strains of hepatitis and tuberculosis, a host of retroviruses even deadlier than AIDS, with predictable results. The panic has been entertaining, actually," Murdoch remarked with a slight smile, before continuing. "The diseases don't affect us directly; they hardly change the taste of the blood. But they've led to shortages of clean blood in the hospitals...a situation the organizers of this black market have undertaken to remedy through 'unconventional' methods. They began harvesting in Los Angeles a few months ago. In the affected neighborhoods, people stay inside at night or travel in large groups. It makes for difficult hunting, and was already provoking clashes between clans before you claimed the city."

"And if we don't resolve the matter, it will undermine our rule," Angel concluded. Murdoch inclined his head deferentially.

"Humans trading humans," Willow murmured.

"Humans trading raw materials," Spike corrected. "I've heard about this ring. Thought they stuck to the backwaters, real isolated places -- lower incidence of disease. Must be makin' a fortune. Clean blood, uncontaminated organs -- all pretty hard to find these days. Hospitals've gotta use synthetic organs, mostly, but they break down after ten years or so. And that synthetic blood isn't much better than water."

Comprehending, Willow arched an eyebrow. "But money can buy anything."

"The wealthier humans pay handsomely for authentic, untainted blood or organs for their medical needs. The black market networks generate the supply to meet the demand," Murdoch confirmed. "In the process, they've disrupted our hunting grounds."

Spike stretched his legs out before him and folded his hands low across his lap: the picture of boredom. "So why the bloody bother? Why not just eat them?"

Angel furrowed his brow in contemplation and shook his head. "Something like this would be too organized for that. Kill some, and more show up in their place."

Locking eyes with Angel, Murdoch added gravely, "And they know about vampires. Some clans have already tried to eliminate the interlopers, but the humans come prepared. They know what destroys us."

"And we know what destroys them," Angel countered darkly enough to send a chill down Willow's spine. "But we've been at it longer than they have." After a brief pause, Angel rose to his feet, prompting the others to follow suit. Fixing Murdoch with a steady gaze, he said, "You did well to inform us. Tell the clans it will be dealt with."

Murdoch bowed slightly. "As you command."

Discerning from Angel's stance that this was something they would continue discussing later, in private, Willow and Spike gestured for Murdoch and Nadia to follow them back to the lobby. Willow was concerned for Angel. His tone held shades of Angelus, and he seemed deeply troubled by the situation, although he masked it with sternness.

Feeling protective of her Mate, Willow caught Angel's eye and frowned questioningly.

His eyes slipped shut momentarily, then he returned her gaze, acknowledging her concern with a slight nod. He lifted his chin slightly, as if to nudge her up toward the lobby.

Willow's brow furrowed and she pursed her lips, but Angel merely nodded toward the stairs once more, then turned his back.

Unwilling to make her uneasiness too obvious in front of Murdoch and Nadia, Willow resigned herself to escorting them out and leaving Angel to his thoughts for the moment. It was clear that something weighed heavily on his mind, and she could only hope that he would be willing to talk about it later.

She paused one last time by the door and traced her hand lightly over the runes etched into the wall. Compassion for her troubled Mate welled up in her. Hoping to ease his mind at least a little, Willow stirred the vortex of natural magic created by the runes and flooded the room with healing power. As one of the most basic principles of natural magic, it would continue on its own for quite some time without needing Willow's supervision.

A pleasant euphoria hit her as the laws governing magic magnified the effects threefold upon her, and she ascended the stairs to rejoin her guests.

*****

The lobby was buzzing with lively conversation when the vampires re-emerged. A few bottles of red wine sat open on the counter to the office, while one rested at Cordy's side by the elegant, velvet lounge. Jesse, Loïc and the human Willow were back in the office, thumbing through Cordy's old, well-worn rolodex, and Willow's sensitive, preternatural hearing picked up the words "Thai" and "delivery". Cordy sat on the floor, between Dennis's knees, as he massaged her neck and shoulders. Tara and Zoe weren't immediately visible, although Willow sensed heartbeats out in the courtyard. Meanwhile, Hannah and Cyrene seemed engrossed by the movie listings in the newspaper.

"Mm...right there, Dennis," Cordelia murmured. "I think you found a knot."

"What are you doing with a knot? I thought this was a vision-free weekend," Dennis teased as he kneaded her shoulder blade.

Willow grinned. They worked well together. Cordy and Dennis had a relaxed playfulness about them. Willow thought back to her human life in Sunnydale, and fought to contain a bemused sigh at how Dennis was absolutely unlike anyone she would have imagined Cordelia Chase ending up with. But, then, she supposed none of them had turned out as she'd expected when she'd viewed the world through sixteen year-old eyes.

Blinking, she snapped out of her reverie and noticed that, once again, Nadia and Cordy were exchanging curious glances. The brunette Seer pouted in contemplation, then demanded abruptly, "Ellington Agency?"

Nadia frowned in puzzlement.

Cordy shrugged. "Sorry. You remind me of a fashion photographer I met when I still thought I wanted to be a model or an actress."

With a thoughtful lift of the eyebrows, Nadia acknowledged, "Actually, I was a photographer before." She nodded toward her sire and said, "Murdoch and Associates."

"That was it!" Cordy exclaimed, slapping her hand against the floor. She reached for her glass of wine, then paused when she'd raised it halfway to her lips. Frowning, she recalled, "The agent there said I looked too sultry, whatever that means."

"Hey, don't knock sultry," Willow countered, her eyes twinkling. "There's a lot to be said for sultry."

Spike nuzzled her neck. "Luv, on you, anything looks good."

Still euphoric from the magic she'd summoned downstairs, Willow swayed a little and pulled him down for a long, sensual kiss.

Cordy rolled her eyes but said nothing.

After a pause, Murdoch, who had been quietly scrutinizing Dennis, ventured, "You intrigue me. If I may be so bold...what are you?"

Dennis lowered his eyes bashfully, although his physiology didn't really enable him to blush. "Recorporealized ghost," he explained. When Murdoch continued to stare expectantly at him, Dennis added, "Kind of a long story. I got mixed up in a spell Angel and Cordy were trying to use on a Rithpur demon."

"Ah," Murdoch murmured.

There was an awkward break in the conversation, as Dennis and Cordy were clearly unwilling to discuss their personal life with unfamiliar vampires. Willow, however, was itching to hear the tale.

Turning to Murdoch and Nadia, she said graciously, "My Mates and I thank you for keeping us appraised of clan affairs. We had slated the remainder of this evening for private matters. However, it would please us if you would join us at Caritas tomorrow evening. Eleven o'clock."

"The pleasure will be ours," Murdoch accepted smoothly. Recognizing the dismissal, he nodded in farewell, then escorted Nadia out of the hotel.

Grinning mischievously, Willow reached for the wine bottle and looked around for an empty glass. She spied several on the counter to the office. "Don't go anywhere," she said to Cordy and Dennis. "As soon as I pour a couple of glasses for Spike and me, it's story time."

"And where is it written that this is any of your business?" Cordy challenged, lapsing into the haughty, dismissive tone of voice Willow remembered from high school. "You know, Willow, you really need to get over this unhealthy fixation on *my* boyfriends."

"For your information, the fixation was mutual with Xander," Willow retorted, playfully sticking out her tongue. She sauntered over to the counter, grabbed two glasses, and rejoined Cordy, Dennis and Spike. "And my interest is strictly intellectual. I was only thinking of telling Giles about it in my next e-mail, for his Watcher chronicles."

Cordy snorted. "Giles has known for years. Scholarly my ass. Admit it: you still have no life and have to get your thrills by hearing about mine."

"Don't flatter yourself," Spike retorted as he accepted a glass from Willow and clinked his against hers. "My Mate wants a bedtime story, so spill."

"Bedtime? I thought you vamps were nocturnal," Dennis countered.

With a sly grin, Spike murmured, "Red looks good in bed *anytime*."

Dennis groaned and slumped against his wife. "Sweetheart, tell them the story so he'll shut up."

"Ooh, ooh, this is a good one!" Jesse chimed in, hurrying over to join the group. "I wanna hear it again."

Cordy rolled her eyes, sighed and turned to Willow. "Okay, you know about Wolfram & Hart, the hemorrhoid of the legal system, right?"

//Los Angeles, 2028//

Through a sluggish haze, Cordelia vaguely registered the violent pounding on her front door. She didn't even flinch when the wooden doorframe splintered under the forceful assault and the door slammed open. Immobilized on the couch, she heard the sounds but was unable to respond. It was as if she were drifting in a fog above her own body.

"Cordy?! Cordy?!" came a frantic, familiar voice.

"Angel, she's over here," Gunn called out urgently.

Her body rocked limply as Angel shook her and peered anxiously into her blank, dilated eyes. "Cordy, can you hear me? Please...please be all right..."

"What the hell happened?" Gunn demanded.

"I don't know. I got a call, but the line was dead. When I hit *69, Cordy's number came up."

"Dennis!" Gunn hollered. "Did you see something?"

Cordy felt herself slip away from her surroundings. Darkness smothered her like a heavy blanket, but she couldn't even summon the energy to feel panicked. Things were happening, but she...just...wasn't...there...

She drifted for what might have been minutes, hours, or days. Then, without warning, a feeling of agitation stirred in her mind. A sharp, prickly sensation crawled down her neck. Suddenly, pain knifed through her and she was jolted into awareness.

There was shouting and desperate activity. Furniture tipped over or hurtled at the wall. Angel was there, struggling to hold on to some kind of talisman. Gunn ducked various projectiles and shouted something at three women -- Cordy vaguely recognized them as Willow's witch friends. They were chanting something in Latin.

"Angel, you've gotta get closer! The amulet needs to be practically on top of that thing for the spell to make it solid," Gunn urged.

"I'm trying!" Angel barked in frustration. "The Rithpur is repelling me -- it's using my body mass against me."

"Well, try harder! We don't know how much longer Cordelia's got. That damn thing could've sucked her entire life away by now!"

The dark vampire threw all his weight forward and his face contorted with sheer desperation. He couldn't budge. Angrily, he growled, "It's too strong!"

Abruptly, the amulet was tugged from Angel's grip by an invisible force. Before he could protest, it flew through the air to hover near Cordy's head. As the witches continued chanting, a hideous, squid-like demon began to materialize on Cordy's face, its tentacles wrapped around her skull.

To everyone's astonishment, a dark-haired man with a boyish face also began to materialize beside Cordelia, the amulet in his hand.

He was stark naked and seemed just as shocked as everyone else.

Thrown off by the unexpected development, Angel hesitated, but only for a moment. An instant later, he lurched forward and yanked the demon away from Cordy's face. Gunn likewise sprang into action and smashed a heavy axe down on the vile creature, which emitted a long, high-pitched squeal, twitched violently, then went still.

Cordy jerked to life with a shuddering gasp. It felt like she'd been thrust back into her body. In a flash, Angel was by her side, gently grasping her hand in his. "Cordy...are you okay?"

"Yeah," she breathed, blinking in slight disorientation. "I'm good...I just need to...whoa! What the hell was that thing?"

"A Rithpur demon," Angel explained, steadying her. "They feed on psychic auras. Courtesy of our least favorite law firm."

"Feed? You mean that thing was brain sucking me?!" Cordy exclaimed.

Grimly, Angel nodded. "They're still trying to get to me through the people I care about. They summoned the Rithpur knowing that as a Seer, you'd be like blood in water to a shark."

"Eww! Mental image, Angel," Cordy protested, slowly raising herself up to a seated position. She winced and massaged her forehead. Only then did it register in her still-hazy mind that there was a naked man standing a few feet away.

He stared at his hands in shock, turning them over, curling and extending his fingers, seemingly oblivious to everyone else in the room and absolutely unconcerned about his state of undress. Slowly, he brushed his right hand along his left arm, eyes rapt with wonder. He poked his index finger against his forearm: first, a light tap, then with increasing force. At the solid resistance of his flesh, the boyish-looking man grinned in delight. Cordy, Angel, and Gunn observed him warily.

Cordy frowned in concentration as she put two and two together. Finally breaking the awkward silence, she whispered, "Dennis?"

The sound of her voice snapped him out of his awed perusal of his own hands and he blinked at her. "C-Cordelia? You're safe?"

They were the first words Dennis Pearson had spoken in eighty-two years.

//Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles, Present Day - 2034//

Cordy paused, shook her head and smiled fondly. "That has to go down as one of my weirder days, which is saying a lot." Glancing over her shoulder at Dennis, she added. "But it was the start of something pretty good."

Willow felt a dizzy grin stretch across her face and her eyes twinkled. "How does this work, exactly?" she asked, gesturing to Dennis, who was still gently massaging Cordy's back. As he pressed down on a particularly tight knot, Cordy let out a soft moan.

"Sounds like it works well enough," Spike commented with a smirk.

Cordy rolled her eyes in disgust.

"It took some getting used to," Dennis admitted. Smiling thoughtfully, he ran his hands lightly over Cordy's shoulders and down her arms. "There are definite benefits to being able to connect with solid things again." After a pause, he frowned slightly. "I *had* kind of gotten used to being able to pass through walls, though. Sometimes I miss it."

"No kidding!" Cordy blurted out. She leaned forward, with a curt, emphatic wave of the hand, and locked eyes with Willow. "Do you know what he does when he gets upset? He stomps around the apartment and opens all the doors: kitchen cabinets, closets, the medicine chest. He. Even. Flips. Up. The. Toilet. Seat. The whole poltergeist routine has got to be the most irritating habit ever."

"Hey!" Dennis protested, giving her shoulders a gentle nudge. "Do I talk about *your* bad habits in front of everyone?"

Ignoring him, Cordy continued, "It's like he's taking it out on anything remotely resembling a physical barrier."

"That mean he goes after your knickers, too, then?" Spike drawled, his eyes narrowing slyly.

"How original -- innuendo from Spike," Cordy retorted, arching an eyebrow in weary disdain.

Struggling to keep a straight face, Willow sighed, "I know. It's one of his most irritating habits."

"What?!" Spike snorted, feigning wounded pride, although Willow caught the playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That's nothing compared to your bad habits. You hog Peaches."

"Since when?" Willow challenged, folding her arms across her chest and blinking expectantly at him.

"Oh, don't think I don't notice," he declared haughtily. Leaning toward Dennis in imitation of Cordy's earlier, gossipy gesture, the blond vampire confided in a stage whisper, "Throws her leg over him when we're sleepin', plays footsies with him. Won't let anyone else so much as squeeze in."

"I do not!" Willow guffawed in protest.

"I so did not need to hear this," Jesse muttered, shaking his head and blushing fiercely. "I really could have survived without knowing about my boss's sleeping habits, or any other habits for that matter."

"Oh, you wanna hear about irritating habits?" Spike began, willfully disregarding Jesse's panicked expression as the young man raised his hand to forestall any further revelations.

Seeing an opportunity to excuse herself, since Willow knew Spike could regale poor Jesse about Angel's personal flaws for hours, Willow got up and glanced long and hard at the stairway down to their council chamber. Angel had yet to emerge. For a moment, she considered going to check up on him, but their earlier, unspoken exchange had made it clear that he wanted time to think.

So, instead, Willow wandered out to the courtyard where her coven sisters, Zoe, Loïc and young Willow were feasting on Thai food. They sat on the tiled path that wrapped around the small, central fountain, passing white cartons to each other and alternating between moans of culinary appreciation and easy conversation.

"Hey, me!" Willow's human namesake greeted her brightly.

Willow smiled back fondly. Aside from the raven-dark hair she'd inherited from her father, Will -- as she liked to be called -- could easily have been Hannah's twin. Indeed, at eighteen, she was just about the age that Hannah had been when Willow had first met her...the last night of her life. The realization prompted a twinge of regret in the red-headed vampire: for humans, this was the closest they came to immortality. Just another reminder that her friends were growing older each day, and would eventually pass away while she remained.

She suddenly missed Giles.

Brushing aside her melancholy, Willow answered, "Hey, myself!"

"Ooh, you got here just a second too late. I think we finished all the blood thai," Hannah teased with a twinkle in her eyes.

Willow snickered at the bad pun. Meanwhile, Will couldn't resist hassling her mother just a little. "Jeez, mom, show a little sensitivity. Special nutritional needs should be respected, whether they're health measures or part of a cultural or religious tradition. If Willow adheres to a sanguinary diet, that's her business."

Cyrene chuckled ruefully. "Will, don't try to out-PC your mom. You know you'll lose."

Grinning, Tara got into the spirit of the jest. "Maybe we need to start a new section in the Co-op, right next to the vegan, the macrobiotic, the kosher, and the growth-hormone-free organic sections."

Laughter rose from the entire group at the thought of a shelf devoted to vampiric needs in the coven's cooperative store. Willow, herself, chuckled at the image of leather-clad vamps strolling the aisles with shopping carts filled with pig's blood and alfalfa sprouts. She burst out laughing when a vision of Spike with sprouts stuck between his fangs popped into her mind.

"Actually, it wouldn't be so strange," Loïc remarked thoughtfully as he leaned against the base of one of the arches in the covered walkway surrounding the courtyard. "We do have a section for Wiccan supplies and mystic literature."

At this point, Zoe tensed and her expression hardened. Gazing sternly at Loïc, she reminded, "We've been over this before. We can't lose sight of the Co-op's original purpose. We're a model for resisting the corporate monsters. We could lose that focus if we start catering to the supernatural kind."

There was an awkward silence.

Will held a forkful of pad thai immobile before her mouth and gaped at Zoe. Hannah and Cyrene frowned sadly at their ill-spoken friend and co-organizer. Loïc glanced between Willow and Zoe, visibily distressed. Finally, Tara broke the silence and rebuked her girlfriend softly.

"Willow isn't a monster."

Willow had observed her friends' reactions with a sympathetic amusement. She appreciated their loyalty and sensitivity to her feelings, even if they were misguided. It was touching that they tended to forget her nature. True, she did have feelings. She could love and hate and mourn. But her demon gave her a high tolerance for insults, intended or unintended. The red-headed vampire was no jittery, fragile girl, quick to take offense. She'd walked the earth, first as a human, then as a vampire, for over half a century now. It took a lot more than a thoughtless remark about monsters and demons to get under her skin.

"It's okay, Tara. I *am* a monster," Willow assured her with a relaxed smile. Turning to Zoe, with a bemused gleam in her eyes, her voice completely void of malice, Willow continued, "Obviously, you have a problem with demons and magic. I do not, so I took no offense at the label 'monster'. I'm comfortable with what I am, so if you meant to insult me, you'll need to do better than that. I don't think you did, though. I'd like to get to know you better. We both care about Tara, so we have some common ground. I know Tara cares about you, so you can't be a bad person. You must have your reasons for feeling hostile toward the supernatural."

As Willow spoke, Zoe's eyes widened in surprise at the forthright response. Somewhat chagrined, the impassioned, honey-skinned woman nonetheless held her chin up and returned Willow's steady gaze with her own, calm, resolute stare. "It's not hostility to the supernatural," Zoe explained, taking a conciliatory tone. "And I'm sorry for coming across like that. I tend to have a strong personality. But when you've been committed to a cause as long as I have, you tend to dig in your heels."

Willow nodded, understanding completely. In her own way, Zoe was a Scooby -- she just worked in a more mundane arena. Hoping to reach her on that level, Willow agreed, "I know what you mean. When you care that deeply about something -- or someone -- you can sometimes give an impression you don't mean to."

To punctuate her message, Willow glanced at the ruby stud in Tara's ear.

Zoe and the others followed her gaze. Tara's girlfriend pursed her lips momentarily before permitting herself a small, wry grin.

"Point taken."

There was another pause in the conversation. Willow heard the symphony of heartbeats surrounding her slow down, a good sign that the earlier tension had diminished.

"So, you'll be dropping by to visit the Co-op tomorrow night, then?" Hannah ventured lightly, arching an eyebrow coyly as she began to stack the empty food containers.

Grinning broadly for a moment, Willow nonetheless sighed regretfully and begged off. "I can't. Angel, Spike and I have to do some vamp stuff. There's trouble brewing with the clans."

Cyrene frowned in concern. "Anything we should know about?"

Willow grew solemn and she realized from the slight jump in Cyrene's heart rate that her expression must look grim indeed. Will, who had been gathering all the paper cartons into a plastic bag, stopped and waited expectantly, as did everyone else. The red-headed vampire resigned herself to the fact that it would be better for them to know than not know.

She was just glad they'd already eaten. This wasn't exactly pleasant dinner conversation.

"Murdoch -- the vampire who was here earlier -- said there was concern among the clans about their hunting grounds," Willow began, navigating the issue of killing as delicately as possible. It was one thing to laugh about blood being stocked in a grocery store right beside the kosher foods. It was an altogether different matter to discuss with her human friends the reality of how most vamps procured their blood. "It seems that in some districts, hunting has been disrupted by a black market...one that deals in..."

Pausing to search for the right words, Willow was spared from having to say it herself when Zoe finished quietly, "It deals in human organs and blood."

Astonished, Willow blinked at her. "You know about it?"

To her surprise, the entire group nodded.

"It's pretty covert. We know it exists, but other than that, information is hard to come by," Tara explained.

Loïc wrapped one arm protectively around his daughter's shoulder and added, "About all we know is that the organization behind it is global, and very well connected. Isolated efforts to combat it have failed."

"The most we've been able to do is educate people through our network on how to protect themselves," Hannah added, reaching out to squeeze Will's hand.

"Network?" Willow echoed, glancing in confusion at her companions.

Zoe flashed her a proud, ironic grin. "The Co-op is more than just a health-food store. We're part of an entire alternative society. Through the internet and personal contacts, we stay in touch with all kinds of activist groups and independent producers. You brought your friends here tonight so you could look out for them. It works both ways. Let us show you how we can help you."

Their eyes locked, and Willow arched her eyebrow at Zoe's amiable, albeit aggressive, challenge. "I guess it looks like I'll be swinging by the Co-op, after all. The night after next, though -- Angel, Spike and I still have business."

"Then I guess it looks like we'll be stocking up on the O-positive, after all, too -- right next to the tofu," Tara teased with a grin.

"Uh uh," young Will disagreed. "With the ginseng. Blood is the vamp equivalent of an all-natural stress-reliever and energy enhancer."

Willow laughed with her friends and glanced in toward the lobby, just in time to see Spike head toward the stairwell down to the council chamber. A quick scan of the lobby and a tentative feel through the bond to her Mates confirmed that Angel still had not ascended to join the relaxed gathering. Willow let her relieved gratitude travel along her empathic channel to Spike. She'd give him ten minutes to check up on Angel before joining them.

~Part: 3~

As Spike descended to the council chamber, he opened himself to the emotional bond he shared with his Mates. Willow's warm affection immediately swelled within him, flooding his senses like a rose's sweet perfume. He closed his eyes briefly and smiled, as if he were indeed in a moonlit garden, surrounded by blood-red blooms. When he shifted his focus to his other Mate, it didn't surprise him to sense that Angel was troubled. If Peaches had holed up in the basement while everyone else was making merry in the lobby, it meant only one thing:

Ponce was brooding again. Probably over that business Murdoch raised about the clans earlier.

Pillock.

So there was a problem: so what else was new? So it involved feeding: a lot of the disputes they'd be called on to resolve would. Angel knew that before they agreed to this arrangement. No need to agonize over it, though. The way Spike saw it, if they managed to shut down this black market, shut it down permanently and stop it from preying on the locals for their body parts, Angel'd score points in his appointed mission to Save The Humans.

The blond vampire stood at the entrance to the underground chamber and quietly observed as Angel sat, so lost in thought that he didn't sense the presence of one of his Mates. As Spike watched, a small, wistful smile danced on his lips. Seeing Angel ensconced in a secluded corner, hunched over in deep reflection, instantly evoked a memory that was forever burned into Spike's very essence.

As he found Angel now, so Angelus had once found him...

//London, 1874//

The cold, desolate alley was the perfect place to conceal himself while he wept over this latest, bitter disappointment.

Or so William thought as he hunched over his knees, quietly sobbing, with sheets of ridiculed poetry crumpled in his fists. But unfortunately for the despondent, young clerk who aspired beyond his station, he would not enjoy his privacy for long.

Scarcely ten minutes after the dejected, would-be suitor had ensconced himself on a sturdy crate in the dank, shadowy recess, hidden from any curious passersby, a tall shadow fell across him. Through his tears, William spied a pair of elegant, black leather shoes, which suggested a gentleman rather than a pickpocket.

"I wish to be alone," William muttered bitterly, not looking up at the intrusive stranger. He realized he had been rude, but at the moment he was too distraught to make the customary pleasantries.

"Ahh, but that's not what it seems like ta me. I'd say yer cryin' because yer tired of bein' alone. Ya want to be with someone...but ya can't," the stranger taunted smoothly.

William's head snapped up and he scowled indignantly at the impertinent, dark-haired man. For a few moments, William scrutinized him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a face that ladies probably found handsome. His bearing was...well, if not genteel, it was definitely lordly. Commanding, perhaps. Yet there was something rough about him. His hands looked strong and capable, like the hands of a workman. Chestnut hair framed his face like an unkempt lion's mane, a few strands dangling over his strong, prominent brow.

The man's presence disturbed him.

In between gulped breaths, William managed to choke, "What do y-you know? I'll th-thank you not to speculate on my affairs."

"And what affairs could a man like you have?"

That voice! It was maddening...infuriating...and something else...William couldn't quite place it, but it made his blood boil. Something about the stranger's rich, lilting brawl and arrogant tone provoked him to abandon his characteristic decorum.

William rose to his feet and drew himself up haughtily. Trembling, he insisted, "That's none of your concern."

"Don't worry. From the looks of ya, I doubt there's anything ya could have done that would be much cause fer concern."

"How dare you!?!" His sorrow forgotten, William stalked angrily toward his unwelcome companion--

--who regarded him with a calm, bemused twinkle in captivating, deep brown eyes.

"That's more like it!" the stranger congratulated approvingly. "Tell me ya haven't been wanting to say that all night."

William froze. He stared in disbelief at the vexing man who'd had the audacity to intrude on a very private moment. The despondent poet was stunned to realize that the man's words struck a chord.

"Tell me this ain't better than weepin' in the dark over -- what? An insult? A slander?"

"A rejection," William whispered absently, his eyes staring vacantly into the distance.

The tall, imposing stranger slowly moved closer. "And ya wish ya could've said it ta her," he deduced with uncanny insight.

"To all of them," William admitted softly. He closed his eyes and saw all of them at the party, ridiculing him, mocking him. They had all treated him contemptibly; Cecily had merely been the one to say it. To say those horrible words.

<*You're beneath me.*>

When William opened his eyes, he was struck once again by the stranger's steady, intense gaze. As ill-mannered as he seemed, this tall, dark intruder regarded him with more interest than Cecily and her coterie had ever done. It nearly made William cry: in this man's eyes, he saw an acknowledgment of his own humanity, of his own existence -- something his peers had never shown him. William hadn't even realized what he'd been lacking until this moment.

A hesitant smile tugged at William's lips before he came to his senses and schooled his features into a suitably polite, neutral mask. "This conversation is highly irregular. I say, what do you mean by this... this inquisition? Do we know each other?"

The dark-haired man grinned devilishly. "Not as I'm aware. If it's a proper introduction ya want, my name's Angelus."

"Well, Mr. Angelus--"

"Just Angelus," the man interrupted, eyeing William with an appreciative smile that the poet found somewhat unnerving. His heart sank as he began to suspect why this man had taken such an interest in him.

William blinked and fidgeted nervously. "Yes, well...I'm afraid I'm not in the habit of discussing my private life with strangers in an alley."

"But we're not quite strangers, are we? I've introduced myself, although sadly ya have not done me the same courtesy," Angelus countered laughingly.

Stiffening, William raised his chin imperiously at the man who continued to taunt him with clever phrases and eyes that seduced. "William Sinclair. And you needn't bother -- I know what you are."

Angelus arched an eyebrow. "Ya do, do ya? What am I, then?"

"Unnatural, is what you are," William replied, peering loftily over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles. "Some people say your kind are damned for your sins against nature. You needn't bother trying to corrupt me. I'm no invert. I have no inclinations toward 'manly love'. I'm a decent man."

"Some people say?" Angelus prompted, cocking his head to the side. "What do you say? Do ya think I'm damned?"

"I...you...you're twisting my words," William stammered, blushing self-consciously. Would this infernal man never stop staring at him?

As if reading his mind, Angelus turned away, clasped his hands behind his back and gazed thoughtfully up at the sooty London rooftops. "Say I were the sort who liked to corrupt decent folks like yerself. Ya think I'd need ta work this hard at it?"

William gaped in shock.

Angelus glanced slyly at him. "Ya think I'd bother with a decent man when there're proper young ladies out there ta be had? All of 'em high an' mighty, holdin' themselves aloof -- so ripe fer the pluckin'..."

"That's...scandalous!" William sputtered. His cheeks flushed hotly, although he wasn't sure if it was because he found the man's audacity appalling -- or enviable.

Or...compelling. No! He wouldn't let himself be seduced! William knew what was happening. As a poet, words were his weakness, and this stranger, this Angelus, was obviously very artful with words. He spoke plainly, with a conviction that William envied, yet the gentle lilt of his voice made his words so appealing.

So beautiful.

"Aye, that it is," Angelus agreed with a chuckle. It rumbled from his throat like a soothing purr and, against his better judgment, William found himself relaxing.

"But, then, ya've observed yerself that I don't much care fer the rules of polite society," Angelus added.

Smiling wistfully, William murmured, "No, apparently not."

A profound sense of frustration coiled within him. This Angelus was outspoken to the point of boorishness, yet William wished he had the courage to speak as freely. How he would love to repay his peers' disdain in similar coin.

"I don't care fer propriety," Angelus repeated, "any more than I care fer cryin' in dark alleys." Once again, William gaped at him in shock, but Angelus continued unperturbed. "I'll no' let the scorn of a bunch of peacocks be the death of me. Give me scandal and debauchery any day. All the better ta let 'em know how little I value their esteem."

William shook his head, eyes downcast. "I know what you're trying to do. There's no point in trying to tempt me--"

"Are ya sayin' ya find that temptin'?" Angelus interrupted.

"Yes--NO! I don't--" William stammered. Flustered, he was unable to make himself back away as Angelus slowly walked toward him.

Angelus drew up intimately against William's body. The young poet felt overwhelmed by conflicting responses. He was both shocked at the bold gesture, flushed at how...pleasurable...the sensation was, and horrified that he found this inappropriate contact appealing. The war of his emotions paralyzed him. Angelus leaned closer, never shifting his gaze from William's.

His lips a mere hair's breadth from William's, Angelus murmured, "Bein' tempted doesn't make ya unnatural. It makes ya human. What's unnatural is the lot of rules yer fine society lords over ya ta make sure ya never feel anything -- not love, not yer own worth, not even the tiniest moment of happiness. Yer tempted, William, no denyin' it. But it doesn't mean yer damned or an invert. It means somewhere inside, ye've enough sense ta know ya deserve better than scorn."

A single tear spilled from William's eye, ran down his cheek and pooled on his lips. Angelus seemed mesmerized by the salty drop. His eyes fixed on it almost hungrily until slowly, seductively, he licked it away with his tongue. Before William had the chance to recover from the shock of feeling another man's tongue on his lips, Angelus was kissing him.

The crumpled pages of poetry, which William had forgotten he'd been clutching in his hands, fluttered to the ground as the utter sweetness of the kiss loosened his grip.

All too soon, Angelus pulled away. William couldn't prevent a whimper of disappointment at the loss, but an instant later his whimper turned into a breathy moan as Angelus boldly cupped his hand over William's groin. William's entire frame swayed and his eyes slipped shut at the delirious sensation of Angelus stroking his swollen flesh through layers of clothing, gently but firmly building a relentless rhythm. To the respectable young man's shame, he couldn't summon the strength to resist, and instead found his hips thrusting in compliance with his seducer's touch.

"Yes-ss," Angelus hissed against the soft skin just beneath William's jaw. Slowly, Angelus circled his thumb over the tip of William's manhood, sending a toe-curling bolt of pleasure through him.

Angelus teased his neck with wet flicks of the tongue and hungry yet tender love bites. Then, bringing his lips close to William's ear, he whispered, "Yer a perceptive, honest man, William. Ya were right, I do want ta corrupt ya. But as much as ya see things for what they are, ya only let yerself see so far. Ya saw plain that I wanted ya, ya saw those who mocked ya for the weak, arrogant fools they are, but ya don't see yerself for what *you* are."

William's voice caught in his throat and he gazed, cheeks flushed, lips parted, at Angelus as the darker man drew back enough to feast upon him with lust-filled eyes. Mesmerized, William lost himself in warm, sable pools. Angelus brought both hands up to William's face and caressed his cheeks. "William...You. Are. Beautiful," Angelus fervently stressed each word. "Ya deserve better than a self-absorbed *lady* who'd trample yer heart and send ya out into the street. And ya deserve ta feel more worth than ye've been granted by *proper* society."

Tears stung at William's eyes.

Here before him he beheld temptation itself. The serpent had revealed to him that longed-for, forbidden fruit. William desperately wanted to be loved as he loved, wanted the esteem of his peers. But even more, he wanted the confidence Angelus so clearly possessed. The timid poet yearned for that freedom.

Angelus bid him taste.

"I offer ya the chance ta feel, ta really *feel* for once in yer life, and propriety be damned. Polite society's shown no concern for ya, William. I say, show no concern fer them and their hypocritical morality. I can bring ya pleasure 'til ya revel in the sheer glory of who ya are. But ya have ta want it."

Somewhere deep inside his chest, something snapped. It felt to William as though he were shaking free of heavy chains that had been weighing him down.

Angelus leaned close enough for William to feel the man's eyelashes brush against his face. Whispering against William's lips, he asked, "Do ya want it?"

William's reply flooded out in a cathartic sigh. "Oh, yes...God, yes!"

So swiftly that it left him spinning, Angelus covered his mouth in a bruising, ravenous kiss. William felt like he was being devoured, but he was beyond caring. He had made his choice. All hesitance gone, he seized Angelus, gripping tightly at his long, dark hair, and pressed their mouths together even more fiercely.

His heart pounded in his chest when Angelus pulled away and held out his hand to lead William from the alley. William extended his own hand and let Angelus draw him forward. He followed his soon-to-be lover in a daze, barely noticing his surroundings as they walked through the nearly deserted streets. In no time at all, it seemed, they were entering an elegant house in an unfamiliar district.

From the foyer, William surveyed Angelus's sitting room with an appreciative eye. Heavy drapes of deep, burgundy velvet hung in front of the windows. Together with the thick, Persian rug, the damask settee and ornate, Hindoo artifacts that graced the mantel, they gave the room a sumptuous, exotic atmosphere.

William's perusal of the furnishings was cut short when Angelus pulled him close and once more began ravishing his mouth. The dark-haired man gently guided him up the stairs, never releasing his lips. When William next opened his eyes, he was in a spacious bedroom with a huge, four-poster bed that nonetheless seemed dwarfed beneath the vaulted ceiling. Angelus released him and crossed to sit on the plush coverlet draped across the bed. William's pulse raced and his stomach quivered in anticipation.

"Take off yer shirt, William," the whispered command practically floated in the air.

Timidly, William loosened his cravat and looked around for a valet or bureau, or even a nearby chair. At Angelus's amused expression, the young man paused, glanced at the epitome of respectable attire in his hand, then let it drop to the floor. Smiling shyly, but warming to the symbolic, ritual shedding of all that constrained him, William shrugged out of his suit coat and let it pile in an undignified heap at his feet. Soon, his vest followed, then his shirt.

Naked to the waist, his chest bathed in the glow of candles that Angelus had been busy lighting while he was undressing, William fidgeted self-consciously under his companion's steady gaze.

"Bring yerself out," Angelus demanded in a low, seductive voice. "Let me see ya."

A sudden flush of heat washed over William at the thought of uncovering himself in such intimate circumstances. It wasn't that he'd never been exposed to a man's gaze. After all, he'd consulted a physician before. But this was different. He hesitated for a moment. His upbringing shouted at him that this was indecent! Yet a new voice, the same one that had driven him to follow a stranger back to his home, spurred him to place his hands on his belt. William felt vulnerable and desired all at once as he fumbled with the buckle and then the fastenings of his trousers. At last, he eased his stiffened member free, then let his hands drop to his sides. He stood breathlessly as Angelus studied him with an admiring smile.

"Come ta me," Angelus beckoned.

William complied. Angelus ran his fingertip lightly along the eager flesh that strained forward, eliciting a soft moan from the nervous poet. Strong, powerful hands eased William's trousers and underclothes down his legs, then came around to cup his fleshy cheeks, pulling him closer. When Angelus closed his mouth over William's length and began to suck, the young man squeezed his eyes shut, flung his head back and let out a cry of pure, unadulterated delight. The pleasure was so intense, William felt his knees give out. Without breaking the rhythm of his suckling, Angelus steadied him, then slowly turned him and eased him back against the bed. With skillful lips and tongue, Angelus built his pleasure steadily from a slow burn to a raging fire. Finally, when William's body was taut beyond bearing, he surrendered his release to his lover, who drank him down greedily.

As William lay panting from his first completion ever by the hand -- or, rather, mouth -- of another, Angelus quickly divested himself of his own clothing, then finished undressing William. William's skin tingled at the feel of naked flesh against his own, even if Angelus did seem unusually cold.

"So, my beautiful William," Angelus purred, gazing into his eyes. "How does it feel ta be corrupted?"

William laughed. The sound warbled forth from him with ease and his entire body felt relaxed. "It. Feels. Wonderful," he proclaimed with dramatic flair, losing himself in Angelus's eyes. "Effulgent!" he added with giddy abandon.

Angelus chuckled in return, and his feral, absolutely sinful expression took William's breath away. Without a word, Angelus eased down, slid his tongue over a beaded nipple, then tugged it between his teeth. William groaned, ran his hands over his lover's broad, muscular shoulders, and gave himself up to every sensual pleasure Angelus saw fit to teach him.

Angelus coaxed him through an intimate, tactile exploration, persuading William to map the terrain of his imposing body first with hands, then with his lips and tongue. The larger man laughed at William's sputtering reaction to his first taste of semen when his naïve but enthusiastic ministrations brought forth Angelus's release. Angelus fetched a decanter of claret to cleanse William's palate and they drank together, stealing kisses in between sips.

William grew dizzy with wine and passion. He'd never felt so alive! He rested his head in Angelus's lap as his tutor in fleshly matters recounted the most vile, sordid gossip he had heard about London's elites at recent soirées. William laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks to envision such scandalous things about the very people who had humiliated him earlier.

Then, laughter was forgotten as Angelus made love to him again.

They recited poetry by candlelight.

To William's delight, Angelus was remarkably well-read. He quoted classical poetry at length, and his recitation of Lord Byron's 'Darkness' gave William chills of dreadful rapture.

Still, William was too shy to share his own writings without considerable coaxing from his new lover. After William's soft, halting recitation of a few of his original compositions, Angelus did not lie to him. They were indeed mediocre, the phrases clumsy and forced. But when Angelus spoke of the pure, beauteous sentiments that lay behind the awkward verses, like the first, fresh, tender shoots of spring straining to burst free of the earth, William broke down and cried.

He wept against his lover's neck as Angelus caressed him.

Never had anyone shown William such tenderness. It was enough to break his heart. Although, in a way, he no longer had a heart to break.

Tonight, he'd lost it to Angelus.

When his swarthy Adonis rolled him on his side and enveloped him from behind in a tight embrace, William eagerly pressed back. Utterly pliant beneath sturdy hands, William yielded as Angelus nudged his thigh between William's legs, parting them wide. At the feel of smooth, stiffened flesh sliding between his crease and along the underside of his own engorged member, William shuddered in ecstasy. His breathing grew rapid and he rolled his hips, again and again, hungry for the delicious friction. Angelus moved with him, kneading his fleshy buttocks. When a thick finger teased the tight ring of muscle, William tensed nervously.

Everything he had experienced this evening was new to him, but this...this was sordid. He hadn't let himself think of it, and now Angelus wanted to...he wanted...

A cool hand closed over William's erection. Angelus whispered reassuringly, "Relax, William. Trust me. It will be wonderful."

"I..." William began, but his voice choked.

Angelus hushed him, lulling him into complacency with steady strokes along his erection. Suddenly, the finger was pressing against him again, slowly sinking into his virgin passage. William couldn't prevent himself from tensing at the intrusion. It felt unnatural.

Then the finger crooked slightly and brushed against a wonderful, brilliant place William never knew existed. He gave a startled, though not unhappy, yelp and quivered against Angelus. Slowly, Angelus withdrew his finger, then thrust deeper, setting up a gentle rhythm. No longer resisting, William rocked against him. When Angelus removed his finger and began to ease in his cock with painstaking caution, William's fear was tempered by breathless anticipation of the pleasure he had only recently discovered was possible from this kind of contact.

There was pain, immense, excruciating pain, so much that it made him whimper. Once fully seated within him, Angelus stilled for a moment, then pulled back. William hissed in discomfort. And then something changed. When Angelus thrust forward again, he brushed that sensitive, mysterious place and what had been pain was turned to excruciating pleasure. A moan rumbled all the way up from his groin and spilled from his lips.

Through the haze of lust that clouded his mind, William could have sworn he heard Angelus respond with an animalistic growl.

"Touch yerself," Angelus commanded hoarsely before nipping at William's earlobe.

Panting, William wrapped his hand around his straining erection and began to stroke in counterpoint to the deep, pleasurable feel of Angelus thrusting within him. A firm, cool hand covered his, guiding his pace and teasing his flesh as the fingers snaked between his own. Delirious, William softly chanted his lover's name as he approached his climax. Slippery fluid leaked from the tip of his swollen member and coated their fingers. William's chants grew louder. Suddenly, as William's strokes increased to a frenzied pitch, Angelus removed his hand and brought it to the young man's chin, raising it to expose the slender length of his neck. At the precise moment that William's entire frame racked with his powerful, blinding release, he felt Angelus shudder and clamp down on his neck.

William's heart raced and for a few moments he saw stars. Then, slowly, a strange, uncomfortable sensation penetrated his addled mind. It was a dull, throbbing ache, not unlike the lingering pain he'd felt after the dentist had pulled a tooth several years ago. The soreness blossomed out from where Angelus's mouth suckled at his neck.

Concerned, William murmured, "A-Angelus?...Angelus, you're hurting me."

When strong arms tightened around him in response, William grew alarmed. "What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice rising in pitch.

Still no answer.

Something warm and wet trickled down from his neck and over his chest. Trembling, William looked down. He saw a thin trail of blood winding across his skin. It pooled at his nipple until a thick, teary drop formed, clung for a moment, then fell to stain the crisp, white linen sheets. For one, horrifying instant, William stared at it in morbid fascination. Then, throwing all his force into a desperate, mighty heave, he broke free of Angelus's steel embrace and scrambled to his feet.

In shock, William brought his hand up to his neck, felt a wetness on his fingertips, and pulled his hand away to find it stained with blood. Appalled, he turned to confront Angelus. What he saw magnified his shock a hundredfold.

Where he had expected to see the smooth, handsome face of his lover, he saw instead a hideous monster. Cruel, yellow eyes glared at him, and soft lips were now contorted in a sneer filled with jagged fangs.

"Wh-what...are...you?" William gasped.

The creature who called himself Angelus chuckled. "Didnae I tell ya, William? Ya see things fer what they are. Ya told me I was unnatural when first we met, that some would even call me damned, and ya were right. Ya let a vampire take ya ta his bed, and I must say, it's been a pleasure corruptin' ya. Such a proper little idealist -- God-fearin', too, no doubt."

As he spoke, Angelus moved toward William, a hunter stalking its prey. William retreated, desperate to find a weapon with which to defend himself, yet unwilling to take his eyes off Angelus lest a moment's distraction prove fatal. His heart thundered in his chest as he realized he had no idea what manner of weapon would even work against a vampire. He knew nothing of such beasts of legend.

Thus, it was pure impulse that caused him to seize one of the glowing candles beside the bed and thrust it at Angelus when the demon charged. The flame seared Angelus's chest and he hissed in pain, yet easily swatted away the minor obstacle and gripped William from behind in a deadly embrace.

"What's wrong, lover?" Angelus taunted over William's shoulder, pausing to sweep his tongue over the wound he'd made in the young man's neck. "Do ya not want me any more?"

"Let me go, you fiend!" William shouted, struggling against the vampire's tight hold. "Is this how it ends, then? If you wanted to kill me, why this game? Why not kill me in the alley, and have done with?"

"True, it would have been easier," Angelus agreed, shifting his grip so that he could trap William with one arm. His other arm free, he dropped his hand to fondle his prisoner's groin. To William's utter humiliation, his traitorous flesh grew hard in response to the demon's touch. "But blood tastes best when it's hot and flooded with passion...or fear. I know what yer thinkin'. Ya were hopin' that maybe, just maybe, I felt somethin' fer ya. That despite my nature, I felt love for my unhappy little poet, and I wouldnae be able to kill ya, after all." The vampire's hand tightened painfully over William's erection, causing the young man to cry out. "Naïve, pathetic fool! I'm a demon. My heart's long dead. Ya were never anything but a warm, fresh meal ta me."

As William felt the brush of Angelus's deadly mouth against his neck, a final, desperate jolt of adrenaline surged through him. Miraculously, he broke free, scrambled across the room, grabbed a wooden chair and held it before himself like a shield. Smirking, Angelus sauntered toward him.

"Stay back!" William warned.

"Ya think ya can fight me?" laughed his adversary.

The clarity of his situation descended upon William, leaving him strangely calm. Still wielding the chair, he confessed, "No. I know I can't fight you forever. But I can resist for a while."

Angelus laughed even louder. "Ya didnae want ta resist me before."

Squaring his shoulders, William proudly raised his chin, even though he guessed the gesture would needlessly tempt the demon's hunger. Fixing a resolute gaze on his vampire seducer, he declared, "You made me believe I was worth something. You awakened something in me for the first time: love. Not just carnal love...love for myself. For that, I am in your debt. But it is too high a price to ask me to pay with my life. So, fight you I will, demon. At least I will die the man I became tonight, and not the man I was."

Motionless as a statue, Angelus regarded him in silence. His features melted back into the smooth, handsome planes with which he had first deceived and tempted William.

Softly, almost reverently, Angelus said, "And that is the kind of man I'd want ta have die in my arms."

In the blink of an eye, the chair was torn from William's grip and he found himself on his knees, crushed beneath the imposing form of the demon who was about to steal his life. Humiliated that he'd not even had the chance to struggle, William nonetheless realized that he was well and truly trapped. He no longer trembled and made no effort to break free. Rather, he arched his neck back, exposing the smooth column of flesh.

"Do it!" he commanded.

Cold lips placed a lingering kiss against his skin before fangs sank deep. William stiffened against the pain until, gradually, as his life's blood drained away, he weakened and his limbs grew numb and heavy. His entire body began to tingle the way that a hand or a foot did when it fell asleep. Beneath drooping eyelids, his vision swam and darkened.

Groggily, William felt Angelus release him and shift him in his embrace. Unable to support himself, he rested limply against his killer's chest. Angelus cradled him with surprising gentleness.

"I knew ye'd fight me," the vampire murmured, stroking his fingers through William's hair. "I knew there was passion in ya, just waitin' ta be tapped."

Angelus held William away long enough to slash a razor-sharp fingernail across his pale chest, directly over his unbeating heart. Blood so dark it looked black spilled forth. The vampire brought his lover's mouth over the wound and urged, "Drink, William. Ya found yer own strength tonight. Drink, and grow stronger."

William drank until death claimed him. But soon he would rise again, for his was no ordinary death. For one night, Death had been his lover, and the Death that claimed him had a name:

Angelus.

//Los Angeles, 2034//

It had been the most beautiful night of Spike's entire existence.

And he'd had some sweet ones.

The memory of it never failed to move him. Even now, simply recalling the feel of Angelus cradling his dying body stirred a profound longing up from his very depths. So intense were Spike's emotions that Angel's head snapped up. They stared into each other's eyes.

Spike mustered a quick, lopsided grin, then adopted a thoughtful manner as he approached, head bowed and hands clasped loosely behind his back. Slowly, in rich, velvet tones, he quoted a passage that was as familiar to both of them as their own names.

"...Some lay down and hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd..."

Angel's eyes shone warmly and Spike knew he understood the reference. The dark vampire rose to his feet but remained where he was. "And others hurried to and fro, and fed their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up with mad disquietude on the dull sky, the pall of a past world," Angel answered without hesitation.

After a slight pause, Spike chided sternly, "And some hid below stairs and brooded the entire, bloody night away."

This earned him a sheepish grin.

"So, care to tell me why you're down here bein' a ponce when the fun's all upstairs? Unless..." Spike craned his neck and scanned the chamber in mock confusion. "Haven't got a naked virgin tied up somewhere, have you?"

Angel's eyebrows rose above wide, innocent eyes. He spread his arms in a vast, sweeping gesture. Save for the two vampires, the space was indeed empty. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, the dark vampire murmured, "I was just mapping out a few ideas for dealing with the problem that's arisen with the clans."

Arms folded across his chest, Spike mustered a wry, unimpressed grin. "Nice try. More like you were mopin' 'bout the idea that we might be goin' up against humans."

Angel's shoulders slumped. He said nothing for a few moments, then confessed, "I knew I'd be dusting off old 'skills' in order to manage the clans. I just didn't expect my first cause to use them would be against humans."

"You've used Angelus's repertoire on humans before," Spike pointed out. "These black marketeers strike me as bein' a lot like your lawyer fan club. They're neither hopeless nor helpless."

"I know," Angel agreed, fixing Spike with a penetrating gaze. "That's the problem."

Spike's brow furrowed, but just as a question formed on his lips, he sensed the approach of their other Mate. He and Angel both turned toward the entrance to the council chamber.

"Guys? Everyone's going to start leaving soon. Wanna be good hosts and come mingle some more before they go?" Willow suggested as she ventured into the room. She flashed a soft, mesmerizing smile at Angel and extended her hand in invitation.

"Thanks for not letting me miss the fun -- both of you," Angel replied, stepping forward to grasp Willow's hand. Angel stretched his other hand toward Spike, who joined his two Mates.

"Glad we could tempt you," Spike answered with a conspiratorial leer.

Angel's eyes smoldered in return. He raised Spike's hand to his lips and kissed it.

"Ya always have, William."

~Part: 4~

Subject: Re: For the archives or my personal gratification?
Date: 6 June 2034
From: Willow Rosenberg <redwillow@aurora.net>
To: Rupert Giles <gilesr@preservation.society.co.uk>

Hi Giles,

A whole volume, huh? Wow.

About the archives: include whatever you want about our position within the clans. Hey, we might as well shoot for two volumes, right? *g* Come to think of it, I could probably give you a detailed description of the process of claiming vampire Mates that would fill at least one chapter, if you're interested...

We don't even get to enjoy the honeymoon, though. Murdoch brought us our first headache tonight. Something about humans who trade human blood and organs on a black market. Sounds like some pretty icky things were going on while I was off scouting in demon communities and hellmouths.

No rest for the wicked, huh? *g* (I've always wanted to say that...)

You probably know what it's like. Not that you're wicked or anything, but running the Council must have its own share of headaches. Everything still hunky-dory?

Hi to Wesley -- Angel says he'll Fed Ex the copy of Wharton's Lesser Demon Anthology back to Wesley in a day or two, but Cordelia got some coffee stains on the entry for Somnambulent Howler Demons. Sorry.

Love,

Willow

*****

The guests had all departed and dawn was approaching.

Stillness and quiet reigned throughout the hotel. Its three residents had ensconced themselves once again in their private suite, sheltered in each other's embrace from newly stirring troubles.

And yet, Angel couldn't shake free of his restlessness. In the fitful, gray realm between waking and sleeping, strange images came to him. His troubled mind couldn't tell whether this was memory or prophecy foreshadowed, but the dream reached straight to his core.

A slender, graceful vision came toward him, as warm and golden as she had been in life. In his dream, Angel nearly choked.

Buffy?

When she drew near, she raised a hand and let it ghost across his cheek. He stared, mesmerized, at his lost love. Her eyes burned into his with the same, urgent passion they'd held the night of her seventeenth birthday.

That bittersweet, ill-fated...wondrous night. It was the first night of ecstasy he'd known since the curse. With Buffy, he'd tasted pure joy.

And paid dearly for it.

Slowly, he reached for her. As his fingers threaded through her silky hair, Angel was started to see her features blur, as if smudged by the hand of an invisible artist, until it was no longer Buffy he embraced, but Willow. He narrowed his eyes in confusion. Willow brought both hands up to frame his face and gazed at him as lovingly as had Buffy. His Mate's lips moved, yet when Angel strained to make out her words, all he heard was the thunderous hush of waves crashing on the shore.

Angel tried to speak, and in that moment, his dream vision shifted again to reveal Spike before him. His childe regarded him with such intensity that it made Angel shiver. Spike grinned seductively, clasped one of Angel's hands in his, raised it to his mouth and kissed the palm. When Spike teased his tongue in the tender valley between Angel's fingers, the dark vampire was unable to suppress a groan.

Without warning, Spike tightened his grip on Angel's hand and plunged it into his own chest.

Horrified, Angel watched Spike's blood pour out from the wound and run down his arm. Desperately, Angel tried to break free, but no matter how he tugged, twisted, and strained, his hand remained firmly lodged in Spike's chest. Throughout it all, Spike merely smiled knowingly and drew closer. When their bodies were flush against each other, Angel felt Spike meld with him. The dark vampire looked down to find he'd been transformed into a grotesque, surreal amalgam of himself and his blond Mate. Four arms protruded from his/their body, the hands shifting appearance from Spike's, to Willow's, to Buffy's, and any number of mis-matched combinations of all three.

A terrible pain swelled in Angel's chest. Once again, he looked down and saw a lump growing on his chest, stretching his flesh to the bursting point until a second head emerged. The face contorted from Willow to Spike, each in demon guise. This frightful, demonic head opened its mouth wide, impossibly wide like a serpent, and began to swallow Angel's own head.

Just as Angel began to panic at the warm darkness that enveloped him, he awakened and sat bolt upright.

His entire body shivered with the aftershock of the dream.

Disoriented and troubled by the bizarre imagery, Angel huddled for several minutes, completely immobile, his knees drawn tightly against his chest. He was amazed that he hadn't roused his Mates from their slumber, but decided not to press his luck. Careful not to disturb Willow and Spike, he quietly slipped from their huge, sumptuous bed, slipped on a pair of sweatpants, and made his way to the refrigerator in their suite's kitchen area. He withdrew one of several containers of pig's blood, drained its contents, then wandered out to the grand lobby.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, cutting beautiful -- though deadly -- swathes in the air and across the floor. Careful navigation allowed Angel to wander out to the courtyard, but he was obliged to stop at the shade's edge, just beneath the cloister that ringed the fountain.

Halted by the sun's fatal power, Angel folded his arms across his chest and contemplated his dream. He stood that way, gazing out at the daytime world, for several moments until he sensed the nearness of one of his Mates.

Even before slender arms wrapped around him from behind, Angel felt Willow's approach, sensing her concern through their bond. His eyes slipped shut at her touch, but what awed him more than their physical contact was the intangible yet powerful emotional connection he felt. It had been scarcely three nights since Spike, Willow and he had conjoined themselves, and the sensations still awed him.

It felt like gentle arms embracing his soul. Or, as if by enchantment, his body could now withstand sunlight and golden rays shone directly on his heart.

At times, when they were far apart or distracted, the connection was a mere presence. Constant. Reassuring. Much like air, it saturated every space without blinding his senses to everything else. Then there were moments like this one. With a slight shift of focus, he and his Mates could reach out to each other. It was so gentle, a breeze whispering through leaves, yet it had tremendous depth and force to it, plunging to his core and singing through him. In such moments, his soul resounded with sweeter strains than any human musician could breathe into a flute. Angel wanted nothing more than to drown in the intoxicating harmonies. For a vampire who had spent nearly a century as a pariah, sunk in despair over past sins, repulsed by his very nature, by all his kind, this was truly a heady blend.

All residual distress from his dream melted away.

The reassuring glide of Willow's hands along his crossed arms stirred Angel from his reverie. He caught her hands in his and gave them a gentle squeeze of gratitude, then continued to hold them loosely.

"What's wrong?" she asked, nuzzling his shoulder blade.

Softly, he replied, "Strange dreams."

"Hmm?"

Briefly, Angel recounted the images from his bizarre dream. Willow listened, frowning thoughtfully once or twice.

"You might try listening more closely next time," she suggested when he finished.

"Listening?" Angel repeated, his brow furrowing. "You think this is some kind of message, like one of Cordy's visions?"

Willow's fingers entwined with his and she drew him further back under the shaded cloister. As she eased down on a smooth, stone bench and urged her Mate to sit beside her, she said, "It's been known to happen -- you remember Buffy's prophetic dreams, don't you? You're a champion, like she was. But dreams are dialogues: some stuff comes from you, some from without. I think the message got clouded by your own fear."

Angel nodded, nibbling absently on his lower lip. "So, who's trying to reach me, and why?"

Grinning, Willow poked her finger teasingly at his lip, offering him something else to nibble on. "You won't know until you're able to listen more closely. The trick is to figure out what you're afraid of."

Arching an eyebrow, Angel held her gaze and slowly closed his teeth over her finger. For a moment, he worried her fingertip with his tongue, then released it, rose to his feet, and walked back to the edge of the sunlight. Eyes downcast in deference to the sun's piercing brilliance, he admitted, "I don't know. Maybe losing control...becoming a monster again..."

Willow looked down and fiddled with the hem of her silk robe. Her fingers toyed with a few loose threads where the fabric had grown frayed. With a light tug, she pulled one deep blue thread free and watched, intrigued, as the remaining threads unraveled further, stretching until the weave of the fabric resembled a dense cobweb more than a gleaming measure of satin.

Rolling a loose thread between her fingertips, Willow watched it flutter as she asked, "Do you remember the first time I got shot?"

Angel craned his neck to regard her over his shoulder. "When the Durjhan cult tried to raise the dead in the Holy Cross cemetery?"

Willow nodded, then frowned in amusement and muttered, "Way too much trouble just to meet Bela Lugosi." Shaking her head at the memory of how ridiculous the entire episode had been...well, except for the getting shot part...Willow continued, "I was still pretty new to all this, and you gave me some advice I've never forgotten."

//Los Angeles, 2004//

Willow winced as she leaned against her mentor, who guided her through the Hyperion's lobby toward their suite. She glanced down at the large bloodstain across her chest.

Her first gunshot wound. Definitely a high weirdness-factor. True, it couldn't kill her, but her brain hadn't quite gotten used to that idea, so it had still scared her. And knocked her down. Really, really hard.

And hurt. A lot.

Ow.

Angel had already fished the bullet out of her, although not before getting pretty medieval on the cult member who'd shot her. But even though the wound had begun to heal, Willow's entire body felt sore and fatigued. Not to mention that the front of her thin, cotton tee shirt was pretty much saturated with blood.

Her *favorite* tee shirt.

Most of the gray whale and part of the 'Save The Whales' logo was overshadowed by a large, red stain.

Once in their suite, Angel gently eased her down onto the bed. "Just rest for a moment, little one. I'll heat you some blood."

As he turned to go, Willow caught his hand. With a sly twinkle in her eyes, she pouted, "Bagged? How badly does a girl have to get hurt to get something a little more...potent?"

Angel flashed her a dark, seductive look, and enticed his red-headed minion with the subtle command of a Master vampire. Leaning in, he placed a hand on either side of her head and murmured, "I'm all yours, Willow. But first, humor me. Let's get a few pints in you before you start hitting the hard stuff."

Willow's reply was to flick her tongue across Angel's bottom lip. The elder vampire's mouth curled into a sultry grin, but to Willow's dismay, he pulled away and headed toward the kitchen.

With a purely ornamental, frustrated sigh, she carefully peeled off her tee shirt and scrutinized it. "I guess I'll have to toss this. Oh, well...it's just as well..." she acknowledged in forlorn resignation.

Angel returned with a mug of warm blood. He traded it for Willow's blood-soaked shirt and countered, "Let me see what I can do. I've been doctoring bloodstains in my clothes for over two centuries. There aren't many tricks I don't already know."

Willow shrugged and savored the restorative contents of her mug. Angel crossed back to the kitchen, draped the tee shirt over the counter and into the sink, then opened a cabinet and withdrew a bottle of ammonia. As he liberally doused the stain, he asked, "So...why 'just as well'?"

"Huh?"

Puzzled, Willow blinked at the back of his head.

Busily scrubbing the shirt beneath running water, Angel clarified, "This is your favorite shirt. Why so quick to toss it, rather than salvage it?"

For several seconds, Willow said nothing. She cradled the mug in her hands and stared down at her lap, searching her feelings.

Finally, she admitted, "I guess the joke was cute for a while, but I know it doesn't fit. Saving the whales is something that actually matters. Losing a whole species would be bad. A ten-on-the-scale-of-badness kind of bad. But what's one minion, more or less?"

Angel paused. Slowly, he set the shirt down in the sink and turned off the water. He wiped his hands on a towel. Then, turning to face Willow, he asked softly, "You don't think you matter?"

Mortified, Willow stammered, "Oh! No! No, I didn't mean...Angel, I appreciate everything you're doing for me, honest. Really, not fishing for a daily affirmation or a Hallmark moment. It's just...I don't know...some of it has made you compromise things you care about. I mean, I kill. Sometimes I wonder why you do this, when it means giving up some of what you believe in."

Regarding her with a steady, sympathetic gaze, Angel made his way to the bedside and eased down beside her. Taking her hand in his, he laced their fingers together, and rested his chin on their joined hands. Gentle, brown eyes stared into hers. He sat like this for several moments, saying nothing, until Willow began to squirm self-consciously.

"I made the choice to help you," Angel began at last, clasping his free hand over their intertwined fingers. "Any time we reach out to someone else and form a connection, we give up control. That can be scary. Sure, it's possible that the Powers will hold me accountable for sheltering a killer. It's also possible that you have something better in your future than just killing. I'm willing to take that risk."

"But I don't want them to hold you accountable for what I do!" Willow protested, her voice rising in distress. "I don't want you to have to pay for what I am. It isn't fair."

With a patient, bemused grin, Angel squeezed her hand and said, "It's not an easy feeling to deal with, is it?"

"No, it isn't," Willow pouted, searching for the right words. "I don't want you to be hurt because of my own weaknesses."

"There's an easy solution," Angel pointed out. "You could let the demon take over completely. Then, you wouldn't care. Like I said, Willow, we take risks when we open ourselves up to others. We lose the feeling of control over who we are, what we feel, what matters to us. We can be pulled in new directions. We're vulnerable."

Hearing the truth in his words, Willow's eyes shone warmly as she brought her free hand up to cup her mentor's cheek. "You're changing me for the better, Angel."

Their gazes locked for a moment. Slowly, Angel leaned forward and kissed her forehead before resting his brow against hers. A warm, soothing sense of peace flowed through her at the simple gesture.

Several moments later, Angel drew back, released her hands, and said, "Give me a minute to finish taking care of your tee shirt before the stain sets."

As he moved to get up, Willow stayed him with a light touch on his arm. "Leave it. It doesn't matter." At Angel's questioning look, she explained, "If some of the blood sinks in permanently, it will be a reminder about tonight and what really matters."

Her mentor eased down beside her, cocked an eyebrow and remarked, "You have a strange way of choosing your souvenirs, Willow."

"Hey, a little license to get sappy, here, okay? I got shot this evening," Willow retorted with mock indignation. Raising herself up on her knees, she crawled onto Angel, wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered, "Besides, all this talking has whet my appetite."

Willow's eyes gleamed gold and her fangs elongated. Responding to her aggression, Angel growled with pleasure and offered his neck. Limbs entwined and fingers wove through hair as Willow bit deep and hard to draw rich, healing blood from Angel's veins.

Crumpled and forgotten in the sink lay the beginnings of a memory.

//Los Angeles, Present Day - 2034//

Through the strange alchemy of recollection, a series of moments folded into one, single instant. A brief flash of insight. Willow thought of the stained shirt she no longer had, its fragile weave eventually unraveling from years of wear; and the intangible, but more permanent, links that bound her to her Mates. Smiling at Angel as he leaned against one of the cloister's pillars, a troubled expression on his face, Willow offered him the same advice he'd given her decades ago.

"Being connected to others can be scary. You opened yourself to Spike and me as Mates. You've also stepped into the clan system after staying out of vampire society for over a century. On top of it, you're trying to find a way to balance all that with your connection to the Powers That Be. Talk about divided loyalties! Angel, I'd be worried if you *weren't* having weird dreams."

Angel's tense, preoccupied expression relaxed and he managed a lopsided grin. "Amazing what you can work out with a little effort."

"Even bloodstains from tee shirts...well, mostly," Willow answered warmly. Angel drew near and enfolded her in his arms. He tilted his head to the side and rested it lightly atop hers in an affectionate gesture of thanks.

Willow and Angel held each other in the shadows at the edge of the waking world, enjoying their fleeting, vicarious taste of the bustling signs of life. Street sounds filtered into the courtyard. Even the nearly imperceptible scuttling of insects through the plants teased their acute hearing. Shielded from the lethal effects of direct sunlight, they felt the tingling of its energy in the warm air that surrounded them.

Yet all of it, the entire symphony of sensations, was muted at the approach of their third Mate.

"Y'know, shagging does wonders for releasing nervous tension," Spike remarked from the doorway to the lobby. Willow glanced over to see him leaning casually against the doorjamb, unabashedly naked. Unlike Angel or Willow, he was completely unconcerned about flashing any humans who might pass by the hotel. "Besides, it's damned unnatural to be up at this time of day."

Turning so that an arm remained draped over Willow's shoulder, Angel raised his chin and mused suggestively, "Why, Spike, are you offering to help me work off my tension?"

Spike snorted derisively, "There isn't a force in this world strong enough to work off *your* tension, y'brooding ponce. Soon as someone gets your head straightened out, you trot off and work up some more. But you woke me up, and I fancy a shag, so get your great, hulking arse back to bed."

Amid Willow's delighted giggles, Angel sighed dramatically, "The romance is definitely dead in this relationship."

*****

Subject: A word of caution
Date: 6 June 2034
From: Rupert Giles <gilesr@preservation.society.co.uk>
To: Willow Rosenberg <redwillow@aurora.net>

Dear Willow,

I know this black market you've described. News of their activities began surfacing in Watcher field reports about six years ago. Please, be very, very careful in your dealings with them. Their methods are ruthless, and their reach extends far beyond yours.

As for the archives, I can do quite well without any detailed descriptions of vampire Mating behavior. Let's leave that for sordid, paperback fictions, shall we?

I'll ask Wesley to compile the details we've gathered about the black market from our field reports. Hopefully, the information will be of some use to you.

Wesley will send you an electronic file, to avoid any future mishaps with Cordelia's coffee.

Fondly,

Giles

~Part: 5~

With the descent of darkness, vampires emerged throughout the city to prowl and hunt. In well-populated districts, where mortals caroused late into the night at bars and clubs, the undead mingled with their prey: flirting with them, toying with them, leading them on before leading them to their deaths.

But in the leaner districts, where the sinister impact of the black market made residents afraid to venture out, a different drama played out.

Illicit raids turned ugly. Deadly.

A dark-haired, female minion, barely a week old, stood watch at the entrance to an alley. Her sire and another vampire from her clan fed on a large, muscular man whose struggles had waned a few minutes earlier. He was a true prize, robust and brimming with vital essence. The minion desperately hoped she'd be allowed at least a few gulps.

It had been two days since she'd fed.

Since the night she'd been turned, she hadn't known a moment without hunger.

Suddenly, her senses were alerted to the approach, albeit distant, of others of her kind.

As instructed by her sire earlier, she warned in a low voice, "Sire, other vampires are coming."

Her sire acknowledged the warning by lifting his eyes briefly to hers, although neither he nor the other vampire stopped feeding. The sickening, hollow pit in her gut ached as the minion realized it was unlikely that anything would be left for her. Once again, she would go hungry.

Driven to recklessness by her maddening need for blood, the minion slowly moved toward the feeding frenzy and grasped the dying human's wrist. Tentatively, she raised it to her mouth.

The last sight she ever beheld was her sire's enraged glare, his eyes flashing dangerously and his lips smeared with blood. Before she had a chance to react, he released his kill, seized her by the shoulders, sank his fangs into her neck, and drained her.

Indifferently, he glanced down as the ashes of his own creation drifted to his feet.

He grunted to his remaining companion, "Let's go."

The other vampire released the corpse, letting it drop to the ground. It landed with a dull thud, stirring up a faint cloud of ash, which went unnoticed by either vampire.

They were already gone.

*****

For all its chaotic eclecticism, there was something Willow found familiar and welcoming about Caritas. True, there had been a number of changes while she was away on her travels. Lorne had redecorated and expanded. The karaoke stage remained, but the holiday-hued demon had added a dance floor, while in a far corner he'd put in a big screen t.v., apparently bowing to the obsession some of his clientele had for World Cup soccer. But something about it preserved the mood of earlier, more carefree days.

"A round of O-positive, lightly warmed," Lorne announced as he set five stemmed glasses on the table before Willow, Angel, Spike, Murdoch, and Nadia. "Only the best for my favorite members of the Fanged Set."

Willow saluted him with her glass. "You spoil us, Lorne."

"Oh, you're easy," Lorne demurred with a wave of his hand. "You should try catering to a Kytonen. Their bodies can house over thirty distinct psychic entities, so they're always changing what they want. Every host's nightmare."

He winked as he departed, eliciting a smirk from the bemused redhead. Her smirk faltered ever so slightly, however, when she sipped her drink and the first taste of the blood hit her tongue.

It was fresh, not the standard, weeks-old bagged variety. Which meant that more than likely, the Red Cross hadn't been the ones to remove it from the unknown donor's veins.

Willow masked her concern and listened as Murdoch and Angel discussed business.

"Have there been any new developments among the clans?" Angel asked, reclining easily in his seat and making a subtle show of savoring the dark red contents of his glass.

Soft and reassuring as a candle's glow, Willow felt an emotional nudge from Angel and knew that he must have picked up on her discomfort. At the risk that Murdoch might also zero in on her anxiety, she forced herself to relax.

The vampire entrepreneur pursed his lips thoughtfully and answered, "Little worthy of note, apart from a few border skirmishes in districts where the black market has made the hunt difficult. That, and some isolated grumbling."

" 'Bout what?" Spike prompted, seemingly mesmerized by Willow's hand as he traced random patterns across her pale skin with his fingertips. Yet though he feigned disinterest, Willow knew he was listening intently for any news of dissension.

"There were a few who questioned the protected status you conferred upon certain humans when easy prey have become scarce in certain territories," Nadia explained.

Spike's eyes snapped from Willow's hand to Nadia, silently demanding further explanation.

"We took the liberty of reminding them that your word is not to be questioned lightly," Nadia added, her tone deceptively even.

To the outside observer, she might have been describing an innocuous memo on company policy. With her spiky, gray-flecked, dark hair gelled in clean, professional lines, and her smoky blue Armani suit, Nadia easily looked the part of an executive attending to routine business matters. However, the brief flash of malevolent delight in her eyes left little doubt that the 'reminder' had been swift, brutal, and very likely fatal in some cases.

It was true to the old ways.

But not, however, in keeping with how Willow and her Mates were trying to revise the clans' conception of power.

Spike caught Willow's eye. In the barest instant, he read her as only an intimate confidant could, and in the next, he raised her hand to his lips and murmured, "Fancy a dance, luv?" Glancing toward their other companions, he said, "Got all night for business. Don't have too much fun without us, children."

With a cocky swagger, the blond vampire led Willow out to the dance floor. Ever the nostalgia buff, Lorne preferred to play swing and jazz standards, so the floor was hardly crowded. Spike drew his red goddess against him and the two began to sway to the music.

Slowly dipping his head to place soft kisses along her neck and jawline, Spike whispered, "Alright, Red, spill. Something's bothering you."

Willow shivered as Spike nibbled at a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear, but managed to reply, "It's our hold over the clans, and the methods Nadia and Murdoch are using to enforce it. It's not really *our* hold if they rely on the same old tactics, is it?" At the feel of her Mate's hands fondling the soft curves of her ass, Willow added, "And was this supposed to be a serious conversation or just an excuse for gropage?"

"Both?" Spike chuckled with a squeeze. Hearing Willow's satisfied purr, he said, "If we *must* be serious, got any ideas about how you'd like to shake things up?"

"I think it's time to hold court at the Hyperion," Willow proposed, nuzzling Spike's cheek. "But first we play up their loyalties by tossing them a bone: declare open season on all humans involved in this black market ring."

"And get the city's vamps to do a little work for us while they're at it," Spike concluded, his voice rumbling with approval.

"How better to curb the influence of predators than to unleash another breed of predators on the environment?"

Willow slipped her hands beneath Spike's black tee shirt and raked her fingernails over the small of his back. Spike shivered in response, fixed her with a heated gaze, and murmured, "My wicked little temptress...I am going to catch Angel's eye and get him over here. Then, you are going to clue him into your plan so we can have Murdoch and his chit make the arrangements. Then, my dear, you, Angel, and I are going someplace where we can *play*."

"Oooh, play rough?" Willow teased impishly.

"Play *dirty*."

True to his word, Spike discreetly summoned Angel to join them. Within a few minutes, the dark vampire excused himself from the table and cut in on Spike. Spike stepped aside with a nod and let his Mate take Willow into his arms. Smirking, the blond sauntered over to the table to keep Murdoch and Nadia company.

Even with her eyes closed and without the power of the bond, Willow could have recognized the difference between her two Mates. Where Spike's embrace had been possessive and lustful, Angel tenderly held her close, as if he cherished her above all else in the world. Willow molded herself to Angel's powerful frame, buried her face in the crook of his neck and savored his scent.

"What is it, Willow?" Angel murmured, sweeping his hands along the small of her back.

"I missed this," Willow confessed dreamily.

"What, when we were over at the table?" came the teasing reply.

Willow's lips curled into a sheepish grin. "No. When I was away. I love the feeling of being surrounded by you."

A deep chuckle vibrated against Willow's cheek. "Is that why Spike called me over? So you could tell me that?"

"Mmm...not quite," Willow admitted. Still smiling playfully, as though she were doing no more than flirting with her lover, she shared the concerns she'd voiced to Spike. Angel readily agreed with her plan, although he grew quiet at the prospect of declaring humans -- even an organization that seemed as vile and bloodthirsty as any demons he'd ever fought -- fair game.

When Willow asked if he were sure he could go along with this, he rested his brow atop her head, reflected silently for several moments, then confessed, "For a long time after I turned my back and let Darla and Drusilla slaughter a room full of lawyers, I felt guilty at the idea that I'd played God and decided their fate. It's true, I could have helped them. But their own actions determined their fate. Given the choices they'd made, sooner or later, they would have met with a similar end. I just influenced the timing." He paused, then added, "I serve the Powers to protect the innocent. Human doesn't necessarily equal innocent."

"It's hard to find one absolute rule that works," Willow acknowledged. "And things have gotten so different since I was away."

Angel pulled back slightly, cupped her face in his palms, gazed searchingly into her eyes and observed, "Something upset you at the table....the blood?"

Willow nodded uneasily. "Lorne has always kept his bar as human-friendly as possible. He's never dealt with some of the shadier suppliers. But what he served us was fresh. Too fresh." Wrinkling her brow in frustration, she admitted, "I don't know, maybe I'm just paranoid after learning about these black market operations."

"You're not paranoid," Angel assured her. "I tasted it, too. But I trust Lorne. I'm sure he has a good explanation. We can ask him when our business is finished tonight."

"Come on, then," said Willow, tugging him toward their table. "Spike wants to get out of here so we can...play..."

They rejoined their companions and spent ten or fifteen minutes in idle conversation before Willow instructed Murdoch to call a meeting of the city's most prominent clan leaders, to be held at the Hyperion two nights hence. Neither she nor her Mates were surprised at Murdoch's ready acquiescence. However, when Spike mentioned that all vampires would be given free rein over any humans discovered working for the black market, the vampire entrepreneur offered some unexpected insights based on his corporate perspective.

"As is often the case with shadow operations, this one has ties to more legitimate segments of the business world -- its public mask, if you will," he explained smoothly. "This is a world-wide enterprise, and one we can't dismantle from Los Angeles. Too many vested interests. But if you want to chase them from your domain, at least, and let them become someone else's problem, there are ways to capitalize on their weaknesses."

"What do you suggest?" Angel prompted him to elaborate.

Murdoch leaned forward, rested his forearms on the table and clasped his hands together, having shifted into negotiating mode. "Set the humans against each other. Poison the organization's relationship with its clientele, and you'll hit them where they're most sensitive: their profits." After a pause, he added cryptically, "And let the humans see themselves as they really are."

"How's that again?" Spike snapped impatiently.

Coyly, Murdoch circled the rim of his glass with his index finger before dipping it into the blood. He withdrew his finger, slick with red ambrosia, admired it and explained, "Mortals are always willing to see evil in the obvious guises. It throws them into a panic to discover how far it reaches into that which they hold sacred. Their vision is delightfully *selective* when it comes to the evils that sustain their own, comfortable way of life. And business, my friends, is the holiest of holies in this age."

Pausing once more to let that remark sink in, Murdoch concluded, "Expose the connection between the dealings of this black market and so-called 'reputable' business practices."

Having spoken his peace, Murdoch relaxed back against his seat, lifted his glass and took a long, unhurried sip.

"Stir up a little crisis of faith, eh?" Spike mused with fiendish glee. "Sounds wicked. What's in it for you, though? You've got your hands thick in the middle of the holiest of holies. Why rock the boat?"

Murdoch smirked at him.

"You mean aside from the sheer pleasure of violating the naive illusions of security that the fools cling to?"

"Touché," Spike chuckled and saluted Murdoch with his glass.

Murdoch inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. Then, his expression hardening, he continued gravely, "There are greater forces driving this black market than just a few wealthy mortals seeking untainted blood and organs. The system has grown, shall we say, intrusive? The records that companies are expected to keep on their employees have ventured into the physically intimate, which makes it difficult for those of us without any...vital signs...to record in the insurance documents." Smoothing the lapel of his charcoal suit (like Nadia's, Armani), the well-manicured vampire confessed, "The human corporate world serves me well. I like my business. I like the power it affords me. I have no interest in being squeezed out and forced to live in a crypt as our predecessors did."

Nodding slowly, Willow deduced, "What better way to get the heat off your own affairs than to discredit the practices that are making things difficult for you. I take it you already have some ideas?"

Murdoch's teeth gleamed white in his broad, feral grin. "There are a few dirty little secrets about some human executives at rival companies that I'm ready to leak to the press. The news would be more effective, however, if it coincided with breaking reports on the black market."

"When you tell the clans they're free to hunt black market personnel, mention that any vampire or clan that can extract useful information about the organization will be handsomely rewarded for it," Willow advised.

"But of course," Murdoch agreed, with a conspiratorial tilt of his head. "Torture is the best appetizer."

With the key details of the plan settled, conversation returned to civil chit-chat and pleasantries until Willow, Angel, and Spike sent subtle yet unmistakable signals dismissing their companions. Satisfied with the arrangements and eager to spread the word among the clans, Nadia and Murdoch rose and bid their rulers a good evening.

A few moments later, Lorne approached, ostensibly to clear away the empty glasses, but clearly offering himself as a sounding board should his friends need to discuss anything.

Unable to stifle her concerns any longer, Willow ventured into the awkward subject of his suppliers for blood, although it felt strange to do so immediately after she had just given her approval for a city-wide blood-letting. However, Lorne seemed unsurprised by her question, and his easy-going demeanor reassured her.

"Can't slip anything past you, can I?" Lorne observed amiably. The green-skinned demon regarded Willow with sympathy, picking up on her muted distress. Rising from the table, he gestured for the three of them to follow and said, "This is something you should know about. They started coming to me a few days ago."

After exchanging puzzled looks, the vampires followed Lorne through a maze of candle-lit tables, across the ample space where assorted demons mingled between the cabaret seating and the bar, and finally behind the well-stocked bar itself. Lorne led them through the entry to the stock room, where a myriad of colorful bottles, jars, and pots -- some of them squirming -- lined the shelves. Further back was a door that opened into a short corridor, at the end of which was another, nondescript door. However, for the vampires, it held a measure of intrigue.

Behind it, they smelled blood. Fresh, human blood.

And there were two distinct heartbeats.

Willow and Angel exchanged worried glances as Lorne ushered them inside. Spike followed, nonplussed.

What they found wasn't nearly as distressing as Angel or Willow had feared. Two teenage girls sat on a spacious, leather couch, watching television. Juice boxes and plates of cookies lay scattered on the coffee table before them. They looked up as the others entered the room, but Willow didn't meet their gazes. Her eyes were drawn to the gauze bandages in the crooks of their arms.

"They look a little young to be donors," Angel muttered to Lorne.

"No argument there," the Host agreed sotto voce, before clearing his throat and declaring more loudly, "Sarah, Alison, these are a few friends who were a teeny bit worried about our arrangement here. I thought if you were willing, it would be better for them to hear about it from you."

One of the girls, a tan, blonde waif whose clothes hung from her loosely, asked suspiciously, "They won't rat us out, will they?"

Lorne shook his head. "Trust me, Sarah, these are the good guys. They're more concerned to know that you're okay than they are with reporting you to anyone."

"Do your parents know you're here? Or any of your friends?" Willow ventured gently. At the same time, she cringed to realize that she sounded exactly like some of the concerned-but-clueless adults who had treated her like a child back in Sunnydale.

"Actually, we thought you were them. They're due to pick us up any minute," replied Alison, a petite brunette with freckles and a faded jeans jacket covered with ink pen scribbles. Much to Willow's astonishment, the answer was completely free of sarcasm. They really were expecting their parents.

"Mom and dad bring them here about once every six weeks," Lorne explained.

"Why?" Angel wondered with an incredulous frown.

Lorne remained silent, but looked sympathetically at the two girls. After an extended pause, he urged, "Go on...it's okay..."

Sarah and Alison glanced uncertainly at each other, then at Angel, Willow, and Spike. Finally, Sarah began a soft, halting explanation, her eyes frequently darting away self-consciously.

"It's kinda complicated. We, me and Alison, ran away a year ago. Things weren't so good at home back then, and we just had to get out." Hazel eyes widened anxiously, and she added, "But it's a lot better now."

"We're not from any welfare agency," Angel promised in an effort to allay their fears.

"Least, not any you'd recognize," Spike muttered ironically. Willow silenced him with an elbow to the ribs.

"Anyway, I got sick, but my parents have managed care. So, because it happened when I wasn't living at home, their insurance won't cover the treatment." A short, awkward pause. Then, in a low, bitter voice. "Not that there's a cure for what I've got."

Seeing her friend's discomfort, Alison spoke up. "Lorne pays really well, okay? This way, we can buy the meds with our own money. Our parents are trying a lot harder now that we worked everything out. Living at home isn't so bad any more. But neither of our families is real rich."

"So...you sell your blood to get medications?" Willow repeated slowly, doing her best to mask her shock.

Instantly, she regretted saying anything at all. Sarah's expression hardened, tightening the skin over her cheekbones and starkly revealing the reason that her clothes fit so loosely: she was dangerously emaciated.

Alison glared at the vampires, then turned her attention to her friend. "It's okay, Sarah," she murmured, resting a hand on the blonde's arm.

"No, it's not," Sarah protested vehemently. Her eyes were watering and her entire frame shook. It pained Willow to see such a young girl look like she could waste away at any moment. Glaring at Lorne, Sarah declared, "We'll wait for our parents outside. I'm not cool with this."

Even as Lorne protested that it was too dangerous for the girls to stand alone, outside, at this time of night, Willow could taste the panic rolling off Sarah in waves. They had obviously struck a nerve.

"Stay," Willow insisted. "You were here first. We're the ones who disturbed you. We'll go."

Lorne flashed her a half-apologetic, half-grateful look as she turned back to the corridor and led her Mates toward the bar. Once they had returned to the main area, Willow was poised to ask Lorne for an explanation, but Spike beat her to it.

"So...that's how you manage to stock human," the blond vampire observed as he searched his pockets for a pack of cigarettes.

"It's been hard for the past few years," Lorne acknowledged. "With the constant shortages, the Red Cross isn't really selling to bar owners with horns. And, present company excluded," he looked at Angel and Willow, "my blood-drinking customers tend not to care for livestock."

"But if blood is in such short supply, why couldn't those girls or their parents just donate at the Red Cross?" Willow asked, still troubled by the arrangement.

There was a brief, awkward silence, whereupon Angel noted quietly, "Sarah said she was sick. Does she have VAA?"

Lorne nodded soberly, his vermilion eyes clouding with regret. "She's dying."

"What's VAA?" Willow pressed, frowning as she glanced back-and-forth between Angel and Lorne.

"Viral anaplastic astrocytoma," Lorne explained. "It's a cancer that attacks the brain and the virus that causes it can be transmitted through the blood. Cases started popping up around 2022 or 2023 and, before long, we had an epidemic on our hands. It's just one of a host of reasons that pure blood can be so hard to come by, and why Sarah has to come to me."

"Viruses don't affect the taste of the blood," Spike deduced as he lit his cigarette and took a long, deep drag. Exhaling a stream of smoke, he added, "So you can scratch her back, and she scratches yours."

"Sarah is one of too many people who have fallen through the cracks," Lorne answered. Willow couldn't remember ever having seen him so sad. "There's no cure for VAA yet, although they've been working on one for years. The drugs that can manage the pain and maybe add a year or two onto someone's life are expensive, so insurance companies are always looking for reasons not to cover it. Besides," Lorne's expression darkened, "Sarah and Alison were about to seek out some of the shadier, vampire dens when a Good Samaritan suggested it would be safer to come to me. Then word got out, and there were others."

"Others?" Angel echoed with a frown. "How many others?"

"About two dozen. They all have different stories, but for one reason or another, they have nowhere else to turn. I know this isn't an ideal solution, but it's the best way I know how to help them."

"So, what's the other chit's story?" Spike asked, cocking his head in the direction of the back room.

To Willow's surprise, Lorne's expression softened. A broad, genuine smile lit his face. "Alison doesn't really have a 'story', in the sense of a hard-luck story. She's fine...and if I get my wish, the kid will live to a ripe old age. But Sarah is her best friend. At first, Alison just came along to hold her hand. Then, when she realized Sarah could get twice the medication if she had twice the money, she said she wanted to sign up, too."

A lump formed in Willow's throat as she thought back to her early struggles in adjusting to her vampire existence, and how selflessly her coven sisters had offered their own blood to help her. It suddenly hit her how much she had needed a reminder that human friendships could be strong and compassionate, especially after everything she had learned about the black market organization. She hadn't realized how deeply all this had shaken her.

The reassuring weight of Angel's arm around her shoulders signaled that her Mates, on the other hand, *had* sensed her inner turmoil. Gratefully, she smiled up at Angel, then at Spike, who flashed her a grin in return and stroked her cheek with his knuckle.

Abruptly, Willow fixed her gaze on Lorne and asked, "Do you know who this 'Good Samaritan' is -- the one who sent Sarah and Alison here?"

Lorne cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in an awkward effort to stall. "Well, yes, actually...she's Wiccan, and from what I can tell, fairly respected among the local covens." Seeing Willow's eyes narrow curiously, Lorne added, "Before you ask, yes, you know her. But she's asked me to keep her involvement confidential. If you'd like, I'll ask her if she'd be willing to tell you more, but she'll have to be the one to approach you."

Willow nodded, already having a couple of guesses as to who it was. "Please do."

With that, feeling somewhat reassured about Lorne's scruples, Willow, Angel, and Spike left Caritas for the evening. As she walked with her Mates toward Angel's vintage convertible, Willow caught herself brooding over a thought she'd never imagined she'd have.

For a few, surreal seconds...she was actually grateful that she'd been turned.

*****

Subject: File received
Date: 7 June 2034
From: Willow Rosenberg <redwillow@aurora.net>
To: Rupert Giles <gilesr@preservation.society.co.uk>

Hi Giles,

Thanks to both you and Wesley for all the information you sent about the black market. Cordy got Wesley's file and started going through the reports. I haven't had a chance to look at it, yet.

This is going to sound like a strange question, but I've been doing some thinking.

Are you happy? I mean, with the world, with life in general, and how everything has turned out? Do you ever wish things were different?

love,

Willow

~Part: 6~

The following evening found Willow on her way to the cooperative that Cyrene, Hannah, Tara, and Zoe ran. Still troubled by her recent discoveries about some of the developments in human society, the red-headed vampire found herself appreciating what she had more and more.

Dark, liquid night air clung to her, gentle as a mother's caress. Walking through the shadowed streets, Willow, like all the night's creatures, was in her element. She recalled how, once, she and Angel had shared a moment of longing for the sun. And part of her -- the part that was linked to the natural magic that wove through her and her coven sisters, entwining them all like roots grasping the earth -- still resonated with the desire for daylight. But she had been a demon for many years now and knew what it was to be drunk with the night.

It was for the sake of this feeling that she slowly made her way to the Co-op on foot, rather than by car. That, and she wanted to keep an eye out for trouble. Funny. It was like patrolling the cemeteries of Sunnydale, so long ago. An entire lifetime ago. Except now she was one of the monsters, policing the naughty, bad mischief of other monsters -- some of whom were human. Kind of gave her whole situation a nice, hellmouthy twist.

Across the street, a visibly fatigued woman yawned as she pumped gas into her car. Willow's hunger rose at the reminder of yet another reason she'd chosen to walk. With the practiced ease of a consummate predator, she circled around behind her target. The woman's dull, unfocused gaze remained locked on the rapidly ticking display on the gas pump. $9.70...$9.84...$10.01...So preoccupied was the woman, whether by the cost of gasoline or some other matter, that she didn't notice the lithe, elusive form emerging from the shadows.

A sharp sting on the neck.

A brief dizzy spell, followed by lingering drowsiness.

The woman clapped her hand down on her neck, then brought forth fingertips lightly smeared with blood. Frowning, Willow's latest victim waved her hand around her head as if swatting at an unseen mosquito.

But Willow was already half a block away.

Over thirty years ago, Spike had taught her to "skim" from the living. Willow had learned much since her first, inept attempts at feeding without killing -- including that there were times when she wanted a good kill, when the demon hungered for the sharp taste of death. But those moments were increasingly rare now.

A commotion in the distance caught her sensitive hearing. Strained, muffled pleas; the scuffle of shoes against pavement; bodies thudding and slapping against one another. Willow quickened her pace and rounded a corner just in time to see three large men wrestling with a fourth. A nondescript van waited nearby, the engine running.

With caution bred from years among demon communities where joining a fight too hastily could prove costly, Willow approached the struggle.

To her astonishment, one of the burly men suddenly snapped his eyes toward her. Scowling, he muttered, "vampire" and reached beneath his jacket. Willow's eyes narrowed and immediately her guard was up.

But not quickly enough.

An instant later, she was howling in pain and clutching at the blistered skin where a stream of holy water had sprayed her cheek.

She'd underestimated these humans, but although it had come at a mildly painful price, Willow understood the situation much more clearly and she was even more resolved to sabotage the attempted abduction.

One of the would-be kidnappers managed to press a cloth over the captive's face. As he did so, he barked at his two henchmen, "Dust it, already!"

Seeing that the captive's struggles were quieting, the man who had fired the stream of holy water turned his full attention to Willow. Cautiously, never taking his eyes off of her, he edged toward the van, reached in, and withdrew a crossbow fitted with wooden bolts.

Although one side of her face was still raw and smarting, Willow deflected the first shot. The second gouged her deeply in the shoulder, but nonetheless missed its mark.

A third shot never came.

The thug wielding the crossbow fell in a heap at Willow's feet, his neck contorted in a hideously unnatural angle. His cohorts dropped their captive and squared off against her, but she stood between them and the supply of weapons in their van.

Unfortunately for them, not for long. Squealing tires announced that the driver of the van had decided a retreat was in order.

Left on their own against a vampire -- an *angry* vampire -- the two men tensed and nervously backed away. Willow's senses were awash with their fear: their frantic heartbeats thundered in her ears; their skin radiated a sudden, panicked flash of heat; and their blood...

Willow could literally taste their blood. Her demon clamored for it.

She could resist, but in this instant, she chose not to.

In a blur of motion, Willow unleashed the full force of her demon. She drained the first man before he even had a chance to see her move and cast him aside. The second made a vain attempt to flee, but Willow tackled him before he'd gone ten paces. His head smacked the pavement with a sickening crack and he went limp. Willow yanked him up sharply and listened.

A heartbeat...faint, but it was still there.

Having sated her bloodlust on the first thug, Willow weighed her options. The temptation to eat this one was still great, but she knew he might prove useful alive. Decision made, she dragged his unwieldy form back toward the unconscious man he and his partners had been trying to abduct.

The cloth that one of the kidnappers had pressed over the victim's face lay on the ground a few feet away. Willow retrieved it, noting the dampness, and waved it experimentally beneath her nose. She jerked back, grimacing at the strong fumes. Chloroform.

Pulling a cell phone from her coat pocket, Willow dialed Angel's number. A few, brief statements after he answered were all that was needed: Angel understood the urgency of the situation as well as Willow. Andrew Murdoch's warnings about the black market, and their ability to deal with vampires, loomed in the forefront of her mind. If they guarded their secrecy as jealously as Loïc had suggested, the van might return soon with reinforcements.

With nothing to do but wait, Willow scrutinized the two unconscious men at her feet. The surviving thug was much what she would have expected: large and muscular. His dark hair was clipped short, but he had a somewhat scraggly moustache. A lump was swelling on his forehead and a stream of blood trickled down from his hairline.

Shifting her attention to the intended victim, Willow spared a cursory glance for his outward features. His sandy hair and smooth, boyish face reminded her a little of Riley Finn, but his physique seemed less athletic. More concerned with his survival, though, she attuned herself to his vital signs and was pleased to sense that his pulse was strong and regular. He wouldn't be out for long.

Traces of blood scented the air around the fair-haired man, prompting Willow to kneel down and inspect him for damage. She found nothing more serious than a few scratches and scrapes. More than likely, the men who'd attacked him had been trained to avoid inflicting massive blood loss or serious trauma to the internal organs before the unfortunate victim could be harvested.

Willow sighed. She'd thought she'd left this behind when her travels among the world's demon communities had ended.

Continuing her examination, Willow searched through the would-be victim's clothing and was relieved to discover a billfold with his i.d.

Edgar Lytle.

His California state i.d. card listed his address as just a few blocks away. ATM card, movie rental card, discount card for a supermarket chain...none were particularly revealing. A white pass key with a magnetic strip identified him as an employee of a company called Genomix. The fact that his i.d. cards were still with him was a hopeful sign. Given the circumstances in which Willow had come across them, she hoped that the kidnappers hadn't had time to check the identity of their victim. All the better for helping him lay low for a while, once she got him to safety.

That thought gave her pause.

The human population of Los Angeles was large and, apart from film stars and prominent city leaders, anonymous. Vampires were a different matter. Their anonymity was guaranteed in the case of most mortals who didn't even believe in the supernatural. But if this black market organization knew how to deal with vampires, odds were that they had also educated themselves about the local vampire communities.

As one of the few, red-headed, female vampires in the city, Willow was distinctive enough to be tracked.

On the other hand, her coven sisters and their co-operative had considerable experience helping people just like Edgar -- and there was nothing to link them to this man. Decision made, Willow put through a call to them on her cell phone. Hannah answered, and listened attentively as Willow explained the situation and gave her location. Hannah then assured her that someone would be sent to help immediately. Even better, one of their out-of-town couriers was still at the co-op, and his van would be difficult to trace even if anyone saw them. Relieved, Willow disconnected.

She rose to her feet and paced the sidewalk, her senses alert for the sound of car motors, the approach of heartbeats, or other vampires.

After a few minutes, Edgar began to stir. His feet twitched and, with a soft moan, he slowly craned his neck. Edgar's chest rose and fell dramatically as he drew in deep breaths. Then, his eyes fluttered open and he let his gaze roam until it landed on the deceptively young-looking redhead who crouched beside him, watching him intently. Startled, Edgar struggled to sit up. When he swayed dizzily, Willow reached out to steady him.

"W-who are you?" Edgar demanded, jerking away from her touch. "What happened?"

"My name is Willow. I was out walking and found you being attacked by three men. How much do you remember?"

Edgar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his still woozy eyes with one hand. "I was...on my way to a bar when this van pulled up," he began haltingly. "Next thing I knew, some guys jumped me. They didn't even say anything. Then one of them was smothering me with...something..."

"Chloroform," Willow supplied.

Frowning, Edgar pressed his hand over his eyes and muttered, "I knew I shouldn't have gone out."

Cocking her head to one side, Willow prompted, "What do you mean?"

Edgar glanced at her sharply. "If you have to ask, then you shouldn't be out on the streets alone at night, either. It's dangerous." His voice dropped as he leaned toward her and confided fearfully, "The police keep the details quiet. All they tell the press is that there have been 'unsolved murders'. But everyone's heard the rumors about some kind of cult -- they bleed people and carve them up. You should be careful."

With a bemused smile, Willow replied, "Thanks for the warning, but I can take care of myself. I've already called some friends. They'll be able to hide you for a while."

"Hide?" Edgar furrowed his brow in confusion. "You think those guys will come back? But why would they risk getting caught? I would've thought they'd just move on to another part of the city."

"You saw them," Willow countered gravely. She gestured toward the burly kidnapper who lay nearby, still unconscious. "I stopped the three who grabbed you, but the driver got away. And I think they're part of an organization that guards its privacy pretty fiercely -- and is well-connected enough to track down an unwanted witness."

"Whoa..." Edgar breathed in awe. Willow detected a slight increase in his heart rate and knew that her warning had struck a nerve. The sandy-haired man scanned the sidewalk and spied his would-be attackers, all collapsed in heaps. Shaking his head, he grinned at Willow in admiration and murmured, "You did that? I guess that makes you my hero. You saved my life. Thanks."

Willow's expression darkened. She averted her gaze, rose to her feet, and walked over to the man she'd drained. Staring down at his lifeless corpse, she thought back to the woman at the gas station. Under different circumstances -- if Willow had hungered for death that night -- she might easily have killed that woman, as she had so many others. When she gave into the demon's cravings, ethics ceased to be a consideration. It mattered little if the unfortunate human who crossed her path was an innocent or an evil-doer. All that mattered was the rush, the powerful burning that coursed through her veins. If the conditions had been slightly different that evening...if she'd wanted it, and Edgar had been just another anonymous human on the street...

"I'm not your hero," she replied at last, her back to Edgar. "In many ways, I'm as bad as the men who attacked you. You warned me about the dangers that roam the night..." Turning to face the confused young man, she stated bluntly, "I'm one of them."

Edgar's lips parted as if poised to contradict her, but he paused and frowned thoughtfully. He shifted his gaze from one fallen kidnapper to the next, staring long and hard at them. His attention flitted from the one unconscious man to the two who were dead, and Willow saw his eyes widen in realization as he watched the one man's chest rise and fall, while the others were utterly motionless...lifeless...

Warily, Edgar raised newly suspicious eyes to her once again. Just as he was about to speak, though, a light blue van in desperate need of a new muffler came rumbling up to the curb. Willow tensed for a fight. It could be reinforcements from the black market ring.

But when the driver hopped out and approached them, his face left Willow speechless.

And when the driver saw Willow, he froze in his tracks.

He was older, true, and there were differences in his appearance. He'd grown more muscular and his once smooth face was now framed by a short, thick beard that suggested he'd come to terms with the beast within. But his eyes were as alert and insightful as ever. When he flared his nostrils, sampling her scent, the familiar mannerism sent a pang through Willow's entire being.

"Willow?"

Even his voice was the same: relaxed, patient, soothing. Willow only hoped she'd be able to keep her own voice from shaking.

"Oz?"

*****

Spike arched an eyebrow as Angel eased the convertible up to the curb. Some of what he saw, he'd expected. Willow, naturally. A few dead blokes, yeah. A pale, bookish git whose heart was fluttering like a kid at a carnival, okay.

But the wolf was unexpected. What did a werewolf want with a vamp and a human?

Spike narrowed his eyes. Whatever it wanted, it had better move along, 'cos now it had three vamps to tangle with.

However, to Spike's surprise, Angel peered uncertainly at the wolf, frowned slightly, then sniffed and said, "Oz?"

"Hey, Angel," the werewolf replied easily.

Spike froze. He blinked, then stared long and hard at the wolf. Oz? This was *that* Oz? Spike stared intently and he sniffed, finally recognizing the man that had been Willow's first love.

Once again, Spike's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. So what was Oz doing back again, slinking around Red?

<*My* Mate,> the vampire thought to himself.

"Thanks for coming," Willow greeted them. Spike felt a momentary, warm flush as she reached out to him through their bond. He relaxed as he felt her flooding through him, claiming him. "I saved one of them for you," she nodded toward the hulking brute of a man who lay slumped on the sidewalk, his heartbeat still intact but faint. With a resigned lift of her eyebrows, she added, "Although we should probably clear all of them out of here."

"How 'bout him?" Spike asked, cocking his head toward the nervous-looking human who stood near Willow.

"Are you okay?" Angel followed with genuine concern.

"Uh, yeah..." the wide-eyed human mumbled. Spike sensed a slight increase in his pulse.

"It's okay, Edgar. They're friends," Willow assured the man gently. Then, addressing her Mates, she explained, "Oz and I are going to take him to the Co-op. They have experience helping people who need to lay low for a while, and I think he'll be more...uh...comfortable with them than with us."

Spike was about to point out that the wolf could manage just fine without her, but Angel was quicker to speak.

"Good plan," the dark vampire said with a nod. "Thanks for your help, Oz. Maybe we can catch up sometime, when the circumstances are better."

"That would be cool," Oz agreed while Willow ushered Edgar toward a nearby van.

Again, Spike was poised to speak when Willow's eyes locked with his and she mouthed a silent entreaty:

Please.

At the same time, Angel hoisted one of the fallen thugs over his shoulder and grunted, "Spike, quit standing around and give me a hand with these guys."

The driver-side door of the van slammed shut. Willow stood beside the passenger-side door and gazed intently at her possessive Mate. "I love you," she said, her soft smile a plea for understanding. "I'll be home before dawn."

Spike's expression softened. Wistfully, he returned her smile.

The van pulled away.

With a thud, Angel deposited the second corpse in the convertible's back seat. Then, he approached Spike, who was still staring after the retreating van, and rested his hand on the younger vampire's shoulder.

"She needs this," Angel explained gently.

Spike sighed and managed a half-smile. "Yeah," he acknowledged. After a moment, his expression twisted to sly, sadistic anticipation. He strode toward the unconscious, surviving thug, roughly yanked the man up, and mused darkly, "Let's get a move on. I need to work off a little steam."

*****

Faint, hollow drips of water echoed through the dark, clammy sewer tunnels beneath the Hyperion.

Angel stared impassively at the naked prisoner he and Spike had chained to the slick, mildewy wall. They hadn't remodeled any of the hotel's rooms to serve as a torture chamber, and the blood would drain away easily down here.

A hollow pit weighed heavily in his gut. The ensouled vampire knew what he had to do -- he could do this in his sleep. And a seductive voice in his head was whispering that this man had probably done as bad or worse to other human beings. The demon offered soothing assurances:

He's evil.

He's a criminal.

He deserves this.

But Angel clenched his jaw, remembering what it had cost him when he'd listened to this voice before. His entire being, everything he was, had been utterly desolate, empty. He'd known just how close he was to losing his soul...and he hadn't cared. His friends had been chilled to learn how calmly he'd left a room full of lawyers to be massacred by Darla and Drusilla. When Cordelia, Gunn, and Wesley had tried to bring him back from the abyss, he'd shoved them away and embraced his darkness with one, single-minded obsession: the destruction of his enemies.

He'd been honest with Willow: he *had* come to understand that human did not automatically equal innocent, and that the blood of those lawyers was not on his hands. But how could he -- how could anyone -- really know how and where to draw the line?

Championing the cause of the innocent was the easy part. How to handle the wicked? That was the $64,000 question.

Angel clenched his fists and continued to stare at his unconscious prisoner.

He needed to draw upon his own darkness again, but he was wiser now. If he wasn't careful, the destruction would be his own.

He wished Willow were here.

When she'd first come to him, he had helped her cultivate the remnant of her humanity that survived within her. Somewhere along the way, their relationship had grown into one of mutual support. They had given each other strength and compassion. Angel sorely wished for that now, but he understood how important Oz had been to Willow when she was alive, and knew how much it meant to her to see him again.

With a thoughtful smile, Angel wondered what they were talking about.

"Angel."

Spike's gentle, baritone voice brought him back to the business at hand. Angel turned toward him and was caught off guard by the sincere empathy radiating from his childe's eyes.

"Let me handle the real nasty stuff," Spike offered with a wry grin. Arching an eyebrow, he added, "My forte, after all. Gotta keep the old skills polished."

Angel smiled and bowed his head slightly, humbled by the gesture. In some ways, Spike was handling the responsibilities of leadership better than Angel. Giving his Mate a grateful squeeze on the shoulder, Angel countered, "I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to rule the clans, Spike. I can't hide from the parts that make me uncomfortable. But...thanks."

"Sure thing," drawled the younger vampire with a smirk. Reaching into his duster, Spike withdrew a cigarette lighter, then shrugged off his trademark leather coat. Unencumbered by restrictive clothing, he sauntered toward their prisoner, ready to go to work. "What say we wake him up and play a few games?"

A quick flick brought flame forth from the lighter. Spike held it steadily under the man's chin and stared intently at the slowly blackening spot where the skin was beginning to char.

With a sudden start, the man jerked awake. As he raised his chin, however, Spike followed with the lighter. The man's flesh began to blister and he cried out in pain. Satisfied at the sound of screaming, Spike withdrew the lighter and let the flame die out.

"Who do you work for?" Angel demanded coolly. His dark gaze pinned the disoriented man to the wall as effectively as the chains that immobilized his arms and legs.

The man didn't reply immediately, still panting from his abrupt and painful awakening. Angel studied every twitch of his face, every shrewd, calculating dart of the eyes. Drawing upon dark memories of techniques he'd used to keep captives off-balance over a century ago, Angel strode forward and, without warning, snapped the man's right wrist. The faint sound of cracking bone was swiftly followed by an agonized shriek.

"When I ask a question, you answer," Angel coolly informed the whimpering man, whose face had gone white with shock. "Names. Contacts."

"L-look, I don't kn-know--"

Before the terrified man could finish his sentence, Spike whisked a blade from his discarded duster and brought the point up to the man's abdomen. Slowly, and with sadistic precision, the blond vampire eased the blade into trembling flesh. The man cried out in alarm.

"Sure you don't know?" Spike prompted, his voice chillingly calm. "See, news on the street is there's a black market ring that cuts people up for their usable bits. 'f you need me to illustrate the point..."

Spike made his implied threat very real with a sudden, sharp tug on the knife. Another panicked shriek echoed through the tunnels.

"Don't! Please don't!" the prisoner begged. "I don't know the entire network--"

The blade sliced further. Spike gave it a light twist, opening the wound wider. Blood spilled over his fingers. With a cruel grin, Spike leaned closer to his victim and demanded, "Tell us what you *do* know, and I might think about stopping."

Angel listened, stern-faced, as the terrified, quivering man revealed contact names and phone numbers, and described the vast, cancerous network of operatives involved in the black market. It became clear that unraveling the network would be difficult. The center of the operation was hidden from the peripheral cells where most of the work was actually carried out, and shutting down one cell would simply shift activities to another locale.

But at least they had some place to start.

"Enough," Angel said.

Spike stepped back and smirked in wicked satisfaction at his handiwork. Blood seeped freely from a shallow but jagged four-inch slice in the man's gut and blended with the rivers of sweat that drenched his skin, like paint thinned with turpentine. The blond vampire arched an eyebrow at his Mate. "So, drain him or dump him?"

"Dump him," came the soft, even reply.

"You can't...th-they'll kill me," the wretched man panted, horrified.

"Yes," Angel agreed, fixing wide, pleading mortal eyes with a merciless gaze. "They will."

Angel reached into his own jacket, withdrew a cell phone, and dialed one of the phone numbers he and Spike had coerced from their prisoner. When a voice answered, Angel expressed his thanks for the helpful, informative operatives in the organization, and signed off with a warning, "You'll be hearing from us again."

Spike was looking up toward the surface. Absently, he remarked, "We've got a couple hours 'til sunrise."

Angel nodded, not yet sensing the build-up of energy that heralded the approaching dawn. "Still enough time to cut him loose far from the lair."

"No! Please--" The man's desperate pleas for mercy were cut short as Angel knocked him unconscious with a swift blow to the head.

"You know this is something that's too big for us to fix," Spike observed soberly.

Dark, troubled eyes met apprehensive blue.

"I know," Angel conceded. "I only hope Willow has made progress with her coven. In the end...we do what we can..."

Releasing their prisoner from his shackles, Angel and Spike hauled him above ground, piled him in Angel's convertible, and deposited him several miles away from the Hyperion -- and conveniently near one of the locations the man had described as part of the black market network.

A few hours later, his body was on the other side of the city, camouflaged by rubbish heaps at a dump.

A tell-tale Y-incision spanned the full length and breadth of his torso -- his skin, pale and bloodless, dipped low over his chest cavity, hinting at an ominous, eerie hollowness.

Meanwhile, Angel and Spike, their demon nature heated and restless after the interrogation, returned to the Hyperion to "take the edge off", as Spike put it. For all of Spike's brusqueness, though, Angel recognized it as an offer of comfort. Over the years since their reconciliation, Angel had discovered the profound depths of his blond childe's capacity for compassion. Tonight, he was grateful for it.

As they clasped each other and sank to the bed, Angel let go of everything except his desire to drown in Spike until their passion burned away all the killing and ugliness and evil.

~Part: 7~

As a space, it wasn't impressive.

A small, coffee nook toward the front of the store, with a well-worn, overstuffed couch and a few wooden tables and chairs. Further back, some book shelves. Far to the rear, several aisles of groceries and organic produce. Along one wall, a service counter with a computer and various papers scattered over the countertop. Behind the counter, wall shelves holding glass jars filled with what might be mistaken for simple herbs or teas, but which Willow recognized as ingredients for magic, from the most common to the extremely rare.

Near the entrance, a cluttered bulletin board.

It was such a...human space. The thought made Willow smile.

In some ways, the Cooperative reminded Willow of The Magic Box. Maybe a bit shabbier: she doubted that Giles would have tolerated the random graffiti that was scratched on the woodwork near the bulletin board. And her coven sisters seemed to have a greater fondness for potted plants than had the soft-spoken Watcher.

But there was definitely something warm and human and lived-in about the entire place. In its shabbiness and clutter, Willow could read stories about the people who passed through, who met here to exchange news or relax, who built their own community here, a haven from the dominant society without. It tugged at her memories of human life.

Of course, sitting just a few feet away from Oz also did a lot to summon up the past.

They had some serious catching up to do. She and Oz hadn't said much on the way over, for fear of alarming Edgar, who had been understandably nervous about the prospect of getting in a strange van. Hearing his two companions swap stories about mastering their demons and establishing themselves within werewolf or vampire communities wouldn't have made it any easier. But Willow was pretty sure that Oz had sensed what she was.

However, before she and Oz could sneak off to talk, the gang needed to resolve Edgar's situation.

"Tea?" Cyrene asked as she offered a warm, earthenware mug to the sandy-haired man. "You've had a rough night."

"Thanks," Edgar accepted with an awkward smile.

"It will be safer for you if you can get out of L.A., Edgar. Do you have some place to go? Anyone you could stay with out of town, and who might be able to help you find a new job?" Zoe asked. She sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair, her arm draped casually behind Tara who was comfortably ensconced in the center.

Edgar's countenance darkened. "That's not the problem. Quitting my job at Genomix would be...complicated."

Zoe froze and exchanged a silent, ominous look with Tara, Cyrene, Hannah and Oz. Willow felt a sudden jump in the collective tension.

Gravely, Cyrene voiced a shared suspicion. "Your DNA?"

Nodding, Edgar lowered his gaze and muttered bitterly, "Re-classified. It's company property now."

Zoe swore under her breath and turned away, her fists clenched. Tara, Cyrene, and Hannah lowered their eyes in grim comprehension, and Willow's sensitive hearing caught a slight growl from Oz.

"Would someone care to explain for those of us who have been out of the loop for a while?" Willow ventured, glancing tentatively from one of her friends to the next.

Edgar fixed her with a curious, uncertain gaze. Willow realized that she'd said something wrong, but she didn't know what.

"Are you a temp worker or something?" Edgar asked finally. "I mean, anyone who's worked for one of the majors knows about the genetics clauses in employee contracts."

"Not everyone is a corporate drone or a temp worker," Zoe snapped coldly enough that Edgar shivered.

"I-I'm sorry," stammered the confused lab technician. "I just didn't know...I mean..."

Tara intervened. "It's okay Edgar. Willow works independently, and for the past twenty years or so she's been traveling on a kind of...research trip."

"Yeah, okay," Edgar nodded, reassured by Tara's explanation. A forlorn sigh followed. He lowered his gaze to the mug in his hands and absently traced his fingertip around the rim. "You know, I never thought I'd feel this way, but I'm kind of jealous. I used to be so glad I was with one of the biggest genetic research firms in the business. I had job security, a future..." A bitter, derisive, snort. "And look at my future now."

Willow nibbled at her lower lip, but said nothing at first. After several seconds scrambling to think of an appropriate question, she suggested, "If you can't leave your job, how about getting a new apartment, changing your phone number...anything to conceal your whereabouts for a while?"

"I wouldn't know where to start," Edgar muttered, frowning. Then, he reached into his jeans pocket, tugged out his wallet, opened it and said, "Besides, it will be hard to hide anywhere since they got my insurance card."

"How much would they have on you?" Oz asked from across the room where he leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. "Social security? Blood type?"

Grimly, Edgar nodded and continued, "Dental records, retinal scan, fingerprints, medical history, psych profile, full genetic background, you name it. I'm with Genomix -- we're one of the leaders in genetic R & D, and all of us are team players. So I've got it all on file."

Narrowing her eyes in frustration, Willow pressed, "But why? What does it have to do with being a team player?"

Again, Edgar stared at her like she was from Mars. He hesitated, then withdrew his plastic, employee i.d. card for Genomix. Scooting forward on his seat, he held it up for Willow to see, and pointed to a long sequence of colored bars that formed a strip across the top edge. His finger stopped over a narrow, red bar at the beginning of the strip.

"This means I'm a company blood donor," Edgar explained slowly, as he would to a child. "My insurance deductions are lower if I donate for the company's reserves. Gotta put in if you want to get out, right?"

His index finger slid to the next bar. "Purple is for my kidneys. If I'm a match for someone at Genomix who needs one, I can earn ten years' salary plus stock options if I'm willing to give one up."

Next, Edgar pointed to blue. "Blue means I've signed a consent form authorizing Genomix to use my body for R & D after I die." His finger slid once more to the right. "Yellow means anything still salvagable after R & D will be donated for medical uses..."

With morbid fascination, Willow listened as Edgar proceeded through a half-dozen more bars, all color-coded for different ways that his body had come to be defined as a company resource or commodity.

The unease she'd felt after the meeting with Murdoch at Caritas returned. Briefly, Willow wondered if it was possible for vampires to get ulcers.

When Edgar finished, there was little doubt that the black market could trace him anywhere if he continued to use his current identity. Zoe thought it would also be wise to relocate him further from the heart of Los Angeles. Her search through the Co-op's database, however, didn't produce many options.

"It's easy enough to invent new identities and slip people into the temp worker population, or if we're lucky, set them up with one of the independent producers in our network," Zoe explained as Willow moved to stand behind her, scrutinizing the computer screen. "But only so long as we don't flood any one area with too many false records. Right now, most of our usual communities have a recent plant."

Willow frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then suggested, "How about Sunnydale?"

She received a dubious glance from Zoe. Tara, on the other hand, nodded from her seat near Edgar. "It might work. You're thinking of Xander and Anya?"

Willow nodded, glancing at the clock on the wall. "It's not *too* late...I'll give them a call to see if they're okay with the idea."

Tara flashed her a warm smile of gratitude. Then, glancing toward her girlfriend, she asked, "Zoe, do you think we should spread the news about what happened to Edgar?"

"Already on it," Zoe confirmed as she rapidly typed out an e-mail message.

Willow's conversation with Xander was brief. After chiding Willow for the fact that it had been nearly two weeks since she'd called or visited, her childhood friend listened patiently as she explained the situation. Xander readily agreed to offer Edgar a guest room in the dream house that he'd built for Anya and himself years ago, but said he had little experience helping people make new identities for themselves.

"Apart from one minor project involving a cute little hacker I once knew who got a bad break at a bus stop," Xander teased through the receiver.

Willow smirked and fired back, "Yeah, yeah. Thanks for your help, Xander. Oz will be there with Edgar sometime in the morning."

"OZ!?!" came the stunned reply.

"Uh huh. I can't tell you much, since I haven't had a chance to play catch-up." Turning, she saw that Oz had sauntered over to her and was waiting, patiently, with a relaxed, easygoing expression she remembered well. A slow smile spread across her face. "But it looks like life has been good to him." A slight pause, then her eyes narrowed slyly as she added, "Oh, and Xander? Jesse looks really good with an earring."

"WHAT?!?" Xander bellowed into the phone. Laughing, Willow disconnected, leaving him to stew over the thought of his son with pierced ears.

Oz grinned and tilted his head to the side, studying Willow as if he were still getting used to the novelty. "So...catch-up time?" he suggested.

Willow suddenly found herself tensing with nervous anticipation. A hesitant smile trembled on her lips as she said, "Maybe we should step outside? You know, privacy?"

With an amiable shrug, Oz followed her to the back of the Co-op.

A cool breeze filtered through the alley as Willow and Oz stepped out through the Co-op's back door. She pulled the door closed behind them, then turned to face her high-school sweetheart. A mildly awkward silence ensued, although it wasn't due to fear. Willow sensed none in him. It didn't surprise her. She'd encountered one or two werewolves on her travels and knew they could hold their own against vampires.

Not that it would be necessary to test that in their case.

Oz regarded her steadily, his hands thrust into his jeans pockets. Slowly, a hint of a grin tugged at his lips and he ventured, "Hey..."

"Hey," Willow replied, feeling her cheeks stretch into a broad, goofy smile. It was an instant flashback to her teenage years.

With a bemused twinkle in his eye, Oz asked, "So...is this one of those I'll-show-you-mine-if-you'll-show-me-yours situations?"

After a momentary smirk, Willow shifted her features to that of the demon. Oz stepped closer. Curiosity sculpted his entire expression, pressing thick eyebrows upward, slightly widening gentle eyes, a hint of flared nostril as he breathed in. And then there was his mouth. Despite the changes wrought by time, the calm, unperturbed line of his mouth was so very like the unflappable, laid-back musician Willow had loved in life.

He raised his hand to feel the ridges on Willow's forehead. His fingers mapped every bump, every contour, even the sharp points of her fangs, as Oz grew as mesmerized with her changes as she was with his familiar features.

"This is...weird," Oz remarked after a lengthy scrutiny.

"Yeah," Willow agreed. "But so was high school."

Bushy eyebrows rose again as Oz nodded in agreement.

"You're not like the vampires I remember from Sunnydale," Oz noted. "Or the few I've tangled with in San Francisco."

Willow shrugged and shifted back to her human guise. "I was kind of an accident. The vampire who made me wasn't strong enough. With Angel's help, I learned to control the demon and salvage a little of who I used to be. Then, somewhere along the way, I, um...I kind of grew a soul. Or, sort of one."

Smirking, Oz commented, "I didn't know they did that. Like Sea Monkeys or a Chia Pet?"

"I haven't quite figured it out yet," Willow confessed with another shrug. Then, her eyes dancing playfully, she prompted, "So, how about you?"

Oz stepped back, quickly shed his clothes, and narrowed his eyes ever so slightly in concentration. They flickered amber as the wolf emerged. Dark hairs sprouted over his entire body, rapidly lengthening into a thick, gray coat. His human face morphed to a canine muzzle and pointed ears, while his hands and feet became clawed paws. When the transformation was complete, he stood on all fours, his head cocked slightly to the side and tail wagging.

Smiling, Willow dropped to one knee. Oz padded forward, let out a tiny whine, then licked her on the cheek. She stroked her hands through his soft fur, luxuriating in the tactile sensation, and drawing even more pleasure from the significance of his voluntary transformation.

It made her happy to see Oz like this. She'd learned more about werewolves during her time spent wandering from one demon community to another. Most of them were peaceful and well-adjusted members of the living world. Only the inexperienced ones were enslaved by the phases of the moon. Once an individual achieved an inner balance between human and wolf, he or she could easily shift between forms at will, and in wolf manifestation was no longer vicious or murderous.

More than anything else possibly could have, seeing Oz like this assured Willow that he had finally found the peace he'd been seeking when he left her.

Slowly, Oz began to revert to his human shape. The fur beneath Willow's fingertips grew sparse until his smooth skin was covered only by light patches of masculine hair and a naked Oz knelt in Willow's embrace. Neither of them felt in the least self-conscious. As demon entities, they no longer fussed over modesty. Nonetheless, Oz retreated and pulled his clothes back on.

"So, everything's good with you," Willow surmised, beaming warmly at him.

Buttoning his jeans, Oz nodded easily. "Yeah, I'm good. So, time for the Tell segment of Show-and-Tell?"

"I think we have a few minutes before you and Edgar need to get going."

Head emerging from the neck of his tee shirt, Oz began recounting the high points of his life after Sunnydale. "I found a pack after a few years of trying to control the wolf on my own." A pause, followed by a pointed stare. "Bad idea." Oz slipped on a red jacket and continued, "I needed a community. The lone wolf thing just makes it worse. But my pack helped me understand myself better and get it all blended the right way. I stopped fighting the wolf. It's the pressure of trying to force the wolf down that makes it a monster."

"And you've been working with the Co-op?" Willow prompted, nodding her head toward the back door.

"On and off. They're part of a pretty diverse group my pack has ties to," Oz acknowledged. Crooking his finger as he walked toward his van, he said, "Wanna hear something cool?"

Intrigued, Willow followed. Oz opened the driver-side door, leaned in and turned on the radio. Something that sounded like a cross between Jimi Hendrix and traditional sitar music soared from the speakers.

Willow's eyes widened and she asked warily, "This isn't the Dingoes, is it?"

A lazy half-smile tugged at Oz's mouth. "No, this is my radio station."

Snapping her head toward the radio display on the dash, Willow squeaked with glee, "Your radio station?!?"

"Yeah. We broadcast over the internet and by satellite. It's kind of an underground operation. We mix music with a lot of news reporting that gets labeled 'subversive' these days. Not too good about paying royalties for any of the songs we play, either. The Co-op has helped sponsor us in exchange for using our site as a community bulletin board. And sometimes I run a few deliveries between San Francisco and L.A."

As Oz finished his account of Radio Dingo -- the name drew giggles from Willow -- the music set gave way to a brief news report outlining the basic details of Edgar's attack earlier that evening.

Oz arched an eyebrow. "Wow. Zoe sent that e-mail pretty fast."

At his remark, an idea took shape in Willow's mind. "Oz...would you and your pack be willing to work with vampires? If it meant helping people?"

Oz's gaze locked with hers and he grinned knowingly. "Helping, as in cracking this black market ring?"

Willow nodded. Then, clasping her hands behind her back, she glanced down at her shoes and explained, "Angel, Spike, and I kind of control all of L.A.'s vampires." Green eyes rose to catch what was probably her first, ever, sight of Oz looking surprised. True to character, he recovered quickly and gestured for her to continue.

In short order, Willow explained the impact that the black market was having on local vampire hunting grounds, as well as the steps she and her Mates were taking to shut it down.

Latching onto her train of thought, Oz concluded, "And if you could broadcast some of the details on Radio Dingo, it would really turn up the heat." His eyes flashed impishly. "We'd be glad to help."

After fishing around on the floor of the van for a few seconds, Oz found a pen and a scrap of paper beneath the driver's seat. He scribbled his e-mail address and handed it to Willow. "If you have any news you want us to spread, just drop me a line." With a shrug, he smiled and added, "Or drop me a line just because you want to."

"Sure," Willow readily agreed.

They paused and regarded each other with quiet, contented smiles.

"I should probably head home," Willow reluctantly admitted. She glanced upward, then explained, "I don't do so well in the sun, and Angel and Spike will worry if I'm not back before dawn."

Oz's brow wrinkled ever so slightly.

"Things don't always turn out the way you expect them to, do they?" he noted after a poignant silence.

Willow shook her head. Softly, she agreed, "No, they don't. Who would have guessed we'd end up like this, way back in Sunnydale when we were fighting the monsters?"

Nodding, Oz regarded her thoughtfully and said, "We still are."

This earned a grin.

"You look good...happy..." Oz added.

"So do you. Life with a pack agrees with you," Willow answered.

At this, a tiny gleam appeared in Oz's eyes. He leaned into his van once more and produced a palm pilot. Holding it up for Willow to see, he tapped the display a few times until an image appeared. Willow looked closely and saw Oz, perhaps a few years younger, with a petite, chestnut-haired woman, a little girl, and a boy who strongly resembled Oz from his high-school years.

He had a family.

Willow hesitantly placed her hands on his shoulders. In the next instant, they had enveloped each other in a warm embrace. "So, you're really happy," she whispered behind his neck.

Oz gave her a little squeeze. "Yeah. You?"

"Uh huh," she affirmed, squeezing back. "But that's a long story...maybe we could get together sometime and just talk?"

Oz stepped back and smiled. "I'd like that."

Their good-byes said, Oz and Willow returned to the Co-op. Edgar seemed a little less anxious about abandoning his life in Los Angeles, although it took little effort for Willow to read the conflict in his eyes. Still, when Oz suggested they get rolling so they could stop by Edgar's apartment and pack whatever he wanted to take, the sandy-haired lab technician approached her and shook her hand.

"Thanks for everything you've done for me. I'm not sure how I'll be able to repay you."

"I had help...more than I realized," Willow demurred with a smile, glancing at all of her friends throughout the Co-op. "Group effort. So, don't pay me back. Just help someone else out when you have the chance."

"Karma," Oz added with an easy nod. "It's a pretty cool thing."

"Although, actually...if I could ask a favor," Willow amended, glancing at a clock on the wall. "Could you two drop me off before stopping at Edgar's place? It's kind of late..."

"Yeah, and she can be a real monster without her beauty sleep," came Zoe's droll remark.

Willow's gaze flicked to the Mediterranean beauty. Zoe had managed to keep her expression almost perfectly blank, but Willow detected the faintest quiver at the corner of her mouth. Slowly, a warm glow spread through Willow's chest.

That little wench was teasing her!

A smirk danced across Willow's face. In return, Zoe's eyes twinkled mischievously. She winked at Willow. Giddy with this new turn of events, Willow was unable to suppress a giggle. Somewhere along the way, Zoe had finally decided she was one of the "good guys", and felt comfortable enough to tease her.

Chuckles soon erupted around the room, eventually blossoming into full-scale laughter from Hannah and Cyrene. Tara crossed to her girlfriend, flashed her a bemused, Well-Listen-To-You-Miss-Thang look, then gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

Poor Edgar frowned at all of them in confusion.

"C'mon, let's roll," Oz suggested with a wry grin, ushering Edgar toward the back door.

As Willow turned to accompany them, Zoe's voice halted her.

"You're dedicated, Willow."

Willow paused, glanced over her shoulder, and smiled. Zoe stepped forward and, somewhat awkwardly, offered her hand. Willow took it, whereupon Zoe clasped her other hand on top in a strong gesture of solidarity.

"I'm glad we're on the same team," Zoe added.

"Me too," Willow teased with a wink. "Because you can be a real witch when you want to."

Zoe tucked her tongue in her cheek and nodded dryly, while Hannah was unable to resist commenting, "Hey, witches everywhere resent that remark."

With that, Willow bid farewell to her friends and followed Oz and Edgar out to the van.

~Part: 8~

Soft footsteps padded across the floor. Somewhere between waking and sleeping, Spike sensed the approach of his other Mate.

About bloody time.

Angel lay slumbering deeply beside him. Both of them had been edgy after torturing that worthless sod and had tackled each other voraciously after abandoning him to the streets.

To Spike's immense satisfaction, he'd worn Angel out.

The mattress shifted slightly beneath Willow's weight.

Groggily, the blond vampire mumbled, "Howsa wolf?"

"Fine...happy...he's made a good life for himself," Willow's voice murmured soothingly in his ear as she settled in beside him. "How did you and Angel do tonight?"

Eyes still closed, a dreamy grin spread across Spike's face. "Lef'm 'pletely knackered."

A hand swatted him on the side. "That's not what I meant, silly. Did you get anything useful out of that goon?"

Growling in drowsy annoyance, Spike seized hold of Willow and draped her across himself like a blanket. "Sleep now. Talk later."

Willow returned his growl with one of her own, but resigned herself to her Mate's mood. Placing a soft kiss on his lips, she gave herself over to peaceful repose.

As she was slipping away, Spike tightened his arms around her and whispered, "Love you."

*****

Angel's dreams, however, were less than peaceful.

They weren't the ordeals that the nightmares of his time spent in hell had been. He felt nothing even remotely approaching the level of terror that had stalked him in his sleep for those first few years after his return. The reassuring presence of his Mates enveloped him in a web of comfort and safety.

But the images he saw were disturbing.

As before, Buffy glided toward him, her expression loving.

Remembering his previous dream, Angel's first impulse was to back away. Still, Buffy approached. For some reason, her steady pace triggered the urge to flee, and Angel found himself running. He raced ahead, frantically trying to make his sluggish limbs move faster, not truly understanding why he ran, but nonetheless feeling a desperate need to escape.

Suddenly, something jerked his ankle and he was falling. Angel looked down to see Buffy gripping his heel. Yet there was no menace in her expression, only love.

In his dream, Angel trembled.

Buffy's hand slowly transformed into a thick, green vine, its tendrils curling ever tighter around his ankle. Then, to his horror, a tendril pierced his skin and burrowed underneath. He felt a sharp sting in his palm and turned to see Willow there, with vines snaking from her and weaving themselves into his body. There was another sting on his shoulder. Angel glanced to the other side and found more vines stitching through him and binding him tightly to Spike.

As Angel twitched helplessly within the network of vines, he experienced one of those odd moments in dreams where he was able to will himself to calm down. He had nothing to fear from his ties to his Mates.

Slowly, the bizarre dream-images began to fade. Angel watched as Buffy whispered away into the shadows of his mind, but as she vanished, he heard soft, parting words:

"...with you always..."

When Angel awoke, he found that he was clinging to Willow, with Spike wrapped around his back. Sleepily, Willow rubbed her thumb against his hip and murmured, "We're here, Angel...it's okay..."

"Gossleep," Spike seconded, slurring his words.

Reassured by their simple words and tender caresses, Angel snuggled closer to his Mates and allowed himself to drift off.

*****

Subject: Don't lose hope
Date: 8 June 2034
From: Rupert Giles <gilesr@preservation.society.co.uk>
To: Willow Rosenberg <redwillow@aurora.net>

My dear Willow,

Am I happy with the world as it is? Well, I would say that there is room for improvement, and that I can only hope that, in my own, small way, I am contributing to its betterment.

Do I wish that things had turned out differently? I suppose that depends. Are you asking if I wish that Buffy hadn't prevented the Master from rising or stopped Angelus from unleashing Acathla on the world? Or that Glory had succeeded in sacrificing Dawn and breaking down the walls between dimensions?

You see, Willow, despite its flaws, there are many reasons I am grateful to be living in the world we have now.

I can only imagine how difficult your situation right now. I wish I could be there to help you, but at present, my responsibilities with the Council prevent me from leaving. However, my friend, know that I am there with you in spirit, now and always.

Yes, Willow, there is good in this world, and you are part of it.

Yours,

Giles

*****

In the dimly lit office, Willow sat before her computer, blinking the dampness from her lashes. Smiling with trembling lips, she reached out and rested her fingertips against the screen.

The steady rhythm of a heartbeat out in the Hyperion's lobby alerted Willow to the presence of a visitor. Quickly brushing away any stray tears with the back of her hand, Willow logged out of her e-mail account and rose to meet her guest.

It was someone she'd guessed she might be seeing.

"Cyrene," Willow greeted her with a smile.

"Hello, sister," the tall, dark-haired Wiccan answered warmly.

They drew together and kissed each other lightly on the cheeks.

"Can we talk?" Cyrene asked. She smiled knowingly at Willow and added, "I have a feeling you've been expecting me."

"Either you, Tara, or Hannah," Willow agreed. She gestured toward the courtyard. "Let's sit outside. Angel and Spike are still asleep."

They strolled arm-in-arm out through the cloister to sit on the stone ledge surrounding the fountain. The early night air was still thick with the last traces of the day's heat, but it felt slightly cooler near the water.

"Lorne told me you met Sarah and Alison," Cyrene began.

"I take it you're the Good Samaritan?" Willow surmised.

Her friend nodded. "Do you understand why?"

Willow drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms tightly around them, and sighed heavily. "Yes. It's not easy to accept. Even *I* was tempted to work a simple healing spell on Sarah. But there's a balance to everything, and if I'd given into the temptation, her misfortune might have magnified and landed on someone else."

"And then again, it might not have. It's never easy to predict," Cyrene agreed. "Which is why we have to take such care with our spells."

They shared a moment of reflective silence, listening to the fountain's soft trickle. Then, Willow said, "Thanks for steering them away from the worst of the underground dens. You have no idea how bad they can be."

Cyrene shook her head and corrected, "Unfortunately, I do." At Willow's horrified stare, she explained, "Will almost got mixed up with one of them."

It was as if a knife had stabbed Willow in the gut. She choked. It sickened her to think of Hannah's good-natured daughter in such a vile place. What the creatures in such a club would have done to someone with her innocence...

Patiently, with the kind of relief that only a parent whose children had survived adolescence could master, Cyrene explained, "Will has always known about vampires, about you. She'd seen the marks on our necks, and she knew that Hannah, Tara, and I had let you feed from us. Three years ago, when she was fifteen, she got curious." Sighing, Cyrene shook her head. "Rather than come to any of us, though, she thought it would be exciting to learn more about the dens she'd discovered existed, ones where vampires and humans could pay for all kinds of...privileges..."

"Please tell me you stopped her!" Willow begged, her voice cracking.

Cyrene chuckled, her eyes dancing with mirth. "Angel stopped her. Cordelia had a vision. And can I just say, I have *never* seen Angel act like such a *father*! You should have heard him lecture her."

Willow's distress was swiftly replaced by an irrepressible need to giggle at the image of Angel giving Will a sermon about the dangers of his own kind, like any father warning his daughter about what lecherous beasts men could be. She wondered if he'd even waggled his finger.

She was about to ask, when her senses tingled at the approach of familiar vampires: Andrew Murdoch and Nadia.

"Cyrene, as much as I wish we could stay here a little longer..." Willow began.

"Business?" Cyrene asked. Willow nodded. The sturdy, mature Wiccan rose gracefully and concluded, "I should be going, then. If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you didn't discuss the arrangement with Lorne in front of Zoe. She does know about it, but it's one of a number of things that can set her off if she's reminded of it too often."

"I understand," Willow agreed. She was about to bid her coven sister farewell when an idea occurred to her. Taking both of Cyrene's hands in hers, she said, "Cyrene, we've called a meeting of the clans to discuss the black market. I just thought of a way you could help us, if you'd be willing..."

*****

As arranged, Cyrene ushered the leaders of L.A.'s larger clans into the council chamber. Angel was gratified to see her unharmed and sense her steady, even heartbeat. A good sign that the vampires gathered were abiding by the restrictions he and his Mates had imposed, and hadn't even verbally threatened her.

Although Angel was pretty certain that these vamps would have been in for an unpleasant surprise if they'd tried to bully such an accomplished witch.

The city's vampire elite took their seats in the circle and looked to Angel, still operating according to traditional protocols, assuming that he, as the senior vampire of his clan, would command the gathering. Angel grinned slyly and rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, adopting a cool, disinterested posture worthy of Angelus.

He smirked at the momentary uncertainty among the assembled host when it was Willow who addressed them first.

"A human organization has recently been brought to our attention," she declared evenly. "One that preys upon its own kind. As you already know, this organization has grown disruptive enough to our interests that we have chosen to destroy its operations within our domain."

A slender, deceptively mild-looking vampire whom Angel recognized as Seung-Hae Kim inclined his head respectfully and inquired, "Mistress, it is true that there has been a minor disruption to hunting in some districts. Nonetheless, if the humans wish to prey upon each other, of what concern is it to us?"

"Never underestimate the power of fear," Spike remarked.

The blond vampire stared intently at Kim until the latter blinked once, slowly, in deference. Spike nodded curtly, then narrowed his eyes and addressed the entire assembly. "It's like fire: starts small, spreads quickly. Right now, there are only a few districts where mortals are afraid to go out at night. We don't snuff this, and soon it'll be the entire city, just like the bloody Middle Ages, when no pious soul cared to venture into the dark. Only there's a lot more of us now than then, right? Think the vamp population could survive if our prey went back to bein' as skittish as they were a few centuries ago?"

Murmurs of agreement circulated through the chamber. Another vampire, Daniel Njenga, whose mane-like dreadlocks cascaded over his shoulders, arched an eyebrow and observed, "I, for one, have no qualms about destroying this organization, especially if I'm free to use any and all means to exterminate them."

"Oh, we'll be using any and all means," Angel assured him. Adopting a sinister sneer, the dark vampire studiously examined his fingernails, then returned Njenga's gaze with a stare that was cold, calculating, and deadly. Slowly, Njenga and the other clan leaders began to smile. "We'll use methods you haven't even imagined."

"Including working with a network of humans and werewolves who have already allied their forces against this organization," Willow added. With an encouraging smile, she nodded toward her coven sister, who had been standing by the entryway.

This elicited a few sullen scowls.

Cyrene advanced to stand beside Willow and explained, "For a few years now, many of us have been teaching people to resist--"

Before Cyrene could proceed any further, however, a pug-nosed vampire from Burbank, Harlan Densmore, growled with obvious distaste "A human speaking in the company of vampires." Narrowing his eyes at her, he added with undisguised menace, "It wouldn't be so bold with its speech if its throat were crushed."

No sooner had the cruel taunt fallen from his lips than Densmore's eyes widened in panic and he clutched at his neck. He gurgled helplessly and spasmed as invisible hands tightened around his throat. With a final, agonized shudder, he coughed up blood, then slumped, unconscious, in his seat.

Angel's gaze was drawn to the walls, where each of the faroe stones glowed with silvery gray light. So perhaps there were a few vampires who chafed at the protection he and his Mates had extended over their mortal friends; but Willow's counter-measures had worked perfectly, and provided a valuable lesson.

"It's really not a good idea to wish harm on others present in this circle," Willow advised, looking down at the foolish Densmore with a wholly unimpressed smirk. "This space has been designed as a vortex for natural magic. Whatever you wish on someone within the chamber will return to you threefold."

A few of the vampires sitting to Densmore's right and left cast him contemptuous looks.

Assured that there would be no further interruptions, Angel, Willow, Spike, and Cyrene outlined the plans for their campaign against the black market. Low, sinister chuckles ran through the assembled host when Willow enjoined them to discover and expose any connections between legitimate businesses and the shady, nocturnal activities of the black market that so alarmed the public. The chuckles erupted into laughter at Andrew Murdoch's timely comment about turning human greed against the mortals. Then, when Cyrene proceeded to describe the network of activists who had been struggling on isolated fronts to undermine different segments of this pervasive, illicit system, something unexpected -- and to Angel, extremely hopeful -- occurred.

Angel watched, immensely encouraged, as the grudging tolerance the other vampires had shown toward the token human in the room shifted toward muted but genuine respect. A few even asked her questions with a courtesy that bordered on what was normally reserved for equals: namely, other vampires.

As the plan took shape, it was clear that all of the clan leaders were warming to the idea of a city-wide collaboration -- even with humans. They were vampires, and thus not averse to a carnival of violence. But they were also shrewd, not merely ruled by their bloodlust, and as such had come to recognize where their interests lay.

"So, who will form the initial search parties?" Seung-Hae Kim asked at one point.

"Teams of vampires and werewolves," Spike replied. "Wolves for speed, vamps for fighting in case it gets nasty. Both to track the scent of blood. We've got a few addresses, but it's a safe bet the organization will shut them down after the first few we hit."

"That's it? Just the scent of blood," Daniel Njenga asked, leaning forward and steepling his fingers.

"Blood where it might not be expected," Willow clarified. "A shoe store after hours, for example. Especially if the scent of death is strong."

"So what happens when we find one of these back-room stockyards?" another vampire demanded, a slight edge of defiance to his voice. "You're asking some of us who have fallen on lean times to follow the scent of blood."

With practiced skill, Angel masked his grim shift in mood at the turn in conversation. He, Spike, and Willow had anticipated this and knew they would have to make certain concessions. He also had faith that, ultimately, what they were about to condone would serve the greater good.

It didn't mean he had to like it.

"All we need are the details: location, facilities, how many goons they've got. Names, if you can get 'em," Spike answered bluntly. "You help us map out their organization. Any of their lot you do in the process? Bonus."

Mercenary, ruthless grins flashed around the circle.

A blonde, blue-eyed female vampire who had cynically adopted the name Barbie asked, "So, their people are fair game. If we catch them with a live prisoner, then what?"

Angel felt his insides twist even further, blossoming into a cold ache that weighed him down like chains. Yet outwardly, he maintained his mask of indifference.

"If the sorry sod they've got is still alive, go after the black market team first," Spike said with a shrug. "Then, all's fair in the hunt."

Barbie smiled, obviously pleased, amid a chorus of approving murmurs.

With most of the business concluded, Angel rose to his feet and prepared to dismiss the assembled host. There was no doubt in his mind that the clans would cooperate. Certainly, they had excellent incentive. But he wanted to impress upon them the magnitude of this endeavor. This was no mere license to wreak havoc.

"We're going to hit them hard," Angel began, walking to the center of the circle. Willow and Spike joined him, and together, the three faced outward. "They've grown comfortable with their power. We'll remind them just how mortal and vulnerable they are. By the time we're finished, no one will dare work for them; their clients will shun them like the plague; and all of them will be looking to tear out each other's throats. But only if we do this with finesse, and that means, you follow our lead."

The clan leaders rose and growled their enthusiastic assent. As one, they lifted their chins: a gesture which unschooled humans might interpret as arrogance, but which was universally recognized among vampires as a sign of deference through the exposure of one's most vulnerable flesh.

"Cyrene?" Willow turned toward her dark-haired coven sister. "Would you mind--?" she added with a sweeping gesture toward the other vampires.

"Sure, Willow," Cyrene agreed. Without so much as a skip of her heartbeat, the mature Wicca faced them and said, "If you will..."

Silently, they followed her out of the council chamber, leaving Angel alone with his Mates. When he no longer sensed the clan leaders, Angel released a mournful sigh and closed his eyes. Instantly, he felt Willow wrap her arms around him and press her cheek against his chest, while Spike draped an arm around his shoulders.

"Well done, Angel," Spike assured him in a soft, soothing baritone.

With a half-hearted shrug, Angel murmured, "Thanks."

"I know it tears at your soul," Willow whispered, lacing her fingers through his and lifting his hand to her lips. After a brief, heartfelt kiss on his palm, she continued, "Mine aches, too. But we'll do everything we can to minimize the number of innocents who get hurt in the cross-fire."

"I know," Angel acknowledged, resting his chin on her head. "I've just seen too many massacres in my time."

"Then leave the fun stuff to us," Spike suggested with a playful nip on Angel's neck.

~Part: 9~

The "fun stuff" was slow in coming, however. True to Angel's admonition, the campaign was handled with the utmost discipline and precision.

It began silently, yet with the cumulative force of a tidal wave.

In dozens of locations around the city, small teams of vampires and werewolves joined together, then fanned out through the streets. It almost took the form of a ritual. Silently, the werewolves would shed their clothes, stash them, and shimmer into their more agile, swift-footed forms. Together with their undead partners they prowled, unnoticed or ignored by the human population, focusing their acute senses on the search for the bloody traces of the black market's handiwork. Occasionally, an observant human caught a glimpse of an unusually large wolf darting into the shadows, but the sight was more often than not attributed to fatigued eyes playing tricks.

After all, no animal could possibly move that fast...

...and who'd ever heard of wolves in the city limits, leaping impossible distances from rooftop to rooftop?

In spite of these isolated sightings, L.A.'s human population remained oblivious to the initial reconnaissance missions. However, after a few weeks, outbreaks of mysterious "gang violence" soon began making waves in the local media. Reports of bodies found with their throats ripped out, or torn limb-from-limb, spread far and wide. The public was baffled by the fact that these deadly clashes occurred not in parking lots or housing projects, but in such unlikely places as dentists' offices, health clubs, even art auction houses.

Always after dark.

Even more puzzling for the police investigators and the citizens of Los Angeles were the ice chests and surgical instruments that were found with the corpses.

Inevitably, on one of the bodies there would be keys to an unmarked van, but when the police attempted to trace the registration, their efforts were frustrated.

Amid mounting public fear at this strange, underground war, Willow sent an e-mail to Oz. Her entire message consisted of only four words:

Shepherd the flock inside.

Within hours, a notice appeared on the Radio Dingo web site, commenting on the skirmishes in L.A. and advising people to seek shelter in a private residence if caught between these rival mystery gangs. Obviously, they had no qualms about carrying out their fight in public places.

At first, the suggestion was slow to be noticed, since most people assumed that crowded areas, with many other people, was the best ticket to safety.

Then, the first, thankful testimony appeared from a survivor who had been far from any well-peopled night spots and had followed the suggestion. The fortunate soul told of narrowly escaping a group of thugs in a van who had kidnapped him, then being chased by the strangely disfigured gang members who attacked his kidnappers. To his relieved surprise, the gang members had broken off their pursuit when he took refuge in a private home.

In short order, the mainstream press picked up on the story and echoed the advice.

Sitting in the office of Angel Investigations, Willow perused one such public service notice in the Los Angeles Times and smiled. It wouldn't save every innocent, she knew. Some would be unable to flee their vampire "liberators" quickly enough. Too many others would be long dead before a vampire-werewolf team discovered a particular harvesting den.

But at least it was a fighting chance.

Her smile turned sly.

Time for a little office visit.

She picked up the receiver of the desk phone and dialed the number for a clinic that several reconnaissance teams had connected to the black market. A bright, overly perky voice -- Cordelia on helium, Willow mused -- answered at the other end.

"Yes, I'm calling on behalf of my husband," Willow began, setting the trap. "He's been advised that he needs a rather delicate medical procedure, but wants it done with only pure, non-synthetic blood. Money is no object..."

*****

With one, violent heave, Spike flung open the sleek, glass doors of the upscale clinic and strode through. The panes shattered from the impact, sending a cascade of shards to the beige carpet. The blond vampire grinned with satisfaction at the sharp crunch beneath his boots.

Three vampires from Murdoch's clan stood behind him at the ready.

Bloody hell, he loved this.

A well-coiffed young woman who sat behind the receptionist's desk stared at him like a frightened bunny and shrieked with every ounce of breath she had. Frantically, she pressed a red button on her speaker phone and summoned the clinic's private security team.

Spike sneered contemptuously. Time for the party to begin. Very shortly, six strapping young lads in dark, double-breasted suits appeared. The flawlessly made-up receptionist cautiously shrank back away from the line of fire, wobbling unsteadily on her ridiculously high heels.

Coolly, Spike cocked his head toward the doctor's hired muscle and ordered, "Take them."

Instantly, his vampire subordinates rushed forward and engaged the humans in a vicious, bloody melee. To the renewed shrieks of the terrified receptionist, Spike stalked toward two, massive, mahogany doors, one of which bore a brass nameplate that read, 'Stephen Turabian, M.D.'.

Spike kicked the doors in and entered the office to find a panicked, white-coated physician wielding a small gun.

"Don't come any closer," Dr. Turabian warned, trembling.

"Aww, but I've got an appointment," Spike taunted. "Besides, mate, you've got the wrong weapon."

Flustered, the man gaped dumbly at Spike. Before he had time to process what was happening, the gun was wrenched from his grip by a very swift, menacing blond vampire.

Relishing the man's fear, Spike pressed Dr. Turabian up against the wall and braced a leather-clad arm across his neck. Slowly, inexorably, Dr. Turabian's face took on an enticing red hue and he gasped desperately for air.

"Now, doc, you're going to give me a little information," Spike explained slowly. "When a bloke like me calls up, looking for pure, 100% natural blood, ready to pay any price, how is it you're able to supply? Hospitals have trouble comin' by the stuff."

"R-red Cross--" Dr. Turabian struggled to squeak out.

"--is so chronically out of stock, they guard their hoarde for worst-case scenarios. So how does a posh little clinic like this deliver for all its rich clients?" Spike interrupted with a warning shove against the doctor's neck.

"Our...suppliers...confidential," came the stubborn, choked reply. Dr. Turabian gave a strangled yelp as Spike pressed harder against his throat.

"Not talking, eh?" Spike chuckled darkly. He sensed the approach of the vamps he'd brought with him, and the silence in the outer office told him they'd finished their work. With delight, Spike realized he had an audience. Coldly, he growled, "Well, then...I'm in the market for some blood...and if you can't be persuaded to be more helpful...s'pose I'll have to resort to other methods."

With his free hand, Spike seized the doctor's left wrist, raised it high enough for Turabian to see, and slowly pierced his wrist with a razor-sharp fingernail. The man cried out in agony as rich, scarlet blood flowed down his arm.

Spike grinned in amusement at how willingly Dr. Turabian volunteered information after that. He'd hit pay-dirt, too. This one was a real fat cat, with plenty of connections to the black market.

"You've been a naughty boy," Spike chided him. He leaned close and whispered in his captive's ear, "You know how these *suppliers* of yours get blood and whatnot, and you're still willing to deal with them."

"My clients are the pillars of our economy," Dr. Turabian insisted defensively. "They've made substantial contributions to society. They have the right to the best medical care they can afford. They earned it."

Spike snorted derisively and shifted to his demonic visage. He savored the acrid wave of fear that rippled from Dr. Turabian as the man beheld, with horror, the creature that had him trapped. Fangs bared in undisguised menace, Spike snarled, "Y'know...I kill people. Drain their blood. But, then, I'm a vampire. What's your excuse?"

Through with talk, Spike embedded his fangs in Dr. Turabian's neck and emptied him of his life's essence, condemning the prestigious physician to the same fate that had befallen the many, nameless people whose deaths had fuelled his business. Unceremoniously, Spike dropped the corpse to the floor.

Pivoting, the blond vampire faced his companions.

"We're through," he announced and strode forth. Dutifully, the other vampires followed.

*****

Several evenings later found Willow and Angel in one of the black market's storage facilities, employing a less-violent tactic against the organization, but one that had been a favorite of Angelus: mind games.

In this case, it involved far more than dead fish on a string. In their own way, Willow and Angel were challenging the masterminds behind the black market to a game of Russian roulette.

Willow stood at a sterile, white counter piled with hermetically sealed bags of blood, all certified uncontaminated. With a simple spell, she broke the seals of all bags at once, then began pouring a few milliliters of Sarah's infected blood -- obtained from Lorne in exchange for a few pints donated by Hannah and Cyrene -- into each bag. When Willow finished, she cast another spell to restore the seals on the bags.

Angel, meanwhile, placed an elegant, sinister sketch near the door where it would be readily visible to the first technician who arrived the next morning. Although tonight Willow had contaminated the blood in only one other facility, he'd left a total of six such sketches in different labs across L.A.

All of them captured with chilling realism the emaciated figure of a young woman afflicted with advanced VAA. It grieved Angel that just one encounter with Sarah had enabled his artist's eye to envision her end and reproduce it with such merciless accuracy. His only consolation was the thought that his artwork might, eventually, save lives.

At the bottom of the sketch, Angel penned in fluid script the same message he'd left on all the others:

'Your clients may not appreciate the effects of this blood supply.'

Six sketches. Two tainted supplies.

Willow and Angel slipped out of the laboratory and into the waning night. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the gambit to play out. Regardless of how the leaders of the black market might deal with the compromised blood stores, the two vampires knew that any sense of security within the operation would have been shattered.

Mission accomplished.

*****

Weeks passed, and Willow, Angel, and Spike slowly began detecting signs that the coordinated, city-wide sabotage was taking its toll. The signs were subtle, but they were there.

The alliance between vampires and werewolves had already begun faltering, since teams were finding fewer and fewer sites of black market operations -- which made for bored, restless vampires. Not the ideal partners by anyone's standards.

Vampires on the hunt also happened upon fewer attempted abductions on the streets. There was no great disgruntlement over this, though, since the city's human residents had either decided that things had gotten safer, or had been swept up in a kind of 'Take Back The Night' fervor, and begun venturing outside in greater numbers.

The three members of the Trinity also enjoyed several good laughs over news reports on various scandals in the business world, knowing that the negative media attention that speculated about a link between certain major insurance companies and the mysterious, mutilated corpses that had been turning up around the city had Andrew Murdoch written all over it.

And then, several months after they had set L.A.'s vampires against the black market, something unthinkable and wonderful occurred.

Angel, Spike, and Willow were relaxing in the office of the Hyperion, assessing the current situation and considering strategies for the future, when they sensed the presence of heartbeats out in the lobby.

That was odd.

They'd had Cordelia redirect all Angel Investigation clients to a temporary, "dummy" office for the duration of the campaign, not wanting to mix the comings and goings of their vampire forces with Angel's usual clientele.

The trio wandered out to the lobby to find Sarah and Alison, whom they recognized from Lorne's bar, gazing admiringly at the spacious interior.

"Nice digs," Sarah commented.

"Uh...thanks," Angel replied, eyebrows raised warily as he glanced from one girl to the other. "Can we help you?"

"Actually, you already have!" Alison blurted out, beaming enthusiastically. Her friend Sarah nudged her, firing her a purely adolescent, polite smile-glare that said: you're embarrassing me.

Somewhat amused, and still very perplexed, the three vampires watched this exchange when, suddenly, small, tell-tale signs hit them with the force of revelation.

Sarah's pulse was stronger, her whole demeanor more vital.

Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing full, fleshy cheeks instead of the gaunt, bony face they'd beheld when they'd first met her.

Although all of them made the connection, Willow was the first to speak. "You're getting better."

A beautiful, hopeful smile spread across Sarah's face, her eyes twinkling with something that had been missing during their first encounter: youth.

"There are no guarantees," she admitted, trying to look sober but unable to contain the joy that radiated through every gesture. "But, yeah...I'm getting better. That's why we're here."

"That's great!" Willow exclaimed, finding the teenager's enthusiasm contagious. "But...well...how?"

"You guys had a lot to do with it," Alison replied. "Lorne didn't tell us everything, but he said you'd been cleaning out a little corruption. Anyway, since you started, a lot of doctors and clinics and other people have been scrambling to get legit. That's when we got our break."

At the blank stares from the vampires, Sarah sighed and stepped in. "I was getting the doctor's signature renewed for my prescriptions a few months ago, and one of the nurses shared some gossip about a CEO who needed some major transfusion therapy and was having trouble finding enough uncontaminated blood. She said he was all pissed off about having to settle for synthetic. It turns out Ali has his type."

The two girls draped their arms around each other's shoulders and gave each other a brief, side-to-side hug.

Then, Alison added, "So we went to Lorne, and he found someone who was able to cut a deal. I've been donating to the guy's stockpile for his treatment, and he got Sarah into the clinical trials of a new, experimental treatment for VAA. Usually only people with top-end insurance and cash to spare get in, and even then, you have to have some serious connections to get to the top of the waiting list."

"And so far, so good. It's working," Sarah said with a shrug and a grin.

Willow couldn't stop herself from beaming. She'd been encouraged when their campaign had begun to produce results, but this was *tangible*, intimate evidence that the grueling, depressing battle with an invisible empire whose commanders somehow managed to shield themselves from the brunt of the attack was worth it.

"This is great! Don't you think this is great?" Willow declared happily.

"Good on you, girls," Spike agreed, cocking a half-smile.

"Lorne told you about what we've been doing?" Angel murmured, frowning. Willow rolled her eyes.

"Only after," Alison assured him. "We wanted to thank him for his help. Offered to wash glasses or sweep up or serve drinks, anything he needed. But he told us you were really the ones we should thank, and gave us the low-down."

"So, do you need any help around here?" Sarah asked. "I mean, there's no way I'll ever be able to repay you. You know, kinda gave me my *life* back, and all. But I want to do *something*."

Alison nodded in agreement. "We'll do anything you need, even clean the toilets. Just name it: we'll run errands, wash your car, do the laundry..."

Spike's expression perked up at the prospect of finally having someone to wash the sheets. He arched an eyebrow and glanced at his two Mates.

Simultaneously, Willow and Angel said, "No, Spike."

He pursed his lips, scowling crossly, but didn't argue.

"Er...um...Sarah, Alison, we're really happy for you, and we appreciate the offer, but...our business isn't really an appropriate place for younger people," Willow stammered awkwardly. Once more, she found herself cringing at how much she sounded like the over-protective adults she'd found so tiresome as a teenager.

"Look, a few months ago, I was dying," Sarah interrupted, folding her arms across her chest. "It kinda puts everything in a different perspective. Besides, we've been hanging out at Lorne's place, for Pete's sake. So, we're not squeamish about dealing with a few vampires or demons. If I was old enough to deal with dying, I'm old enough to help."

Willow clapped her hand over her eyes and shook her head.

Spike threw his hands up in the air, spun away and muttered, "Bloody great. We might as well hang a big, neon sign that say 'LAIR' on the front of the hotel."

Angel fumed, hands on hips. "That's it. Lorne and I are going to have a talk."

Alison and Sarah both opened their mouths to plead their case, but before either could get a word out, Cordelia breezed into the lobby. She made a bee-line to the office, and without so much as breaking her stride, she announced, "Angel, it's raid-the-medieval-weapons-chest time again. Vision."

The dark vampire hastened after his Seer as she stormed toward the office.

"What did you see, Cordy?" he asked. "And, don't take this the wrong way, but why didn't you just call?"

"What, I'm not welcome here anymore?" she snapped, not even bothering to look up as she rifled through the desk drawer. "Aha!" she exclaimed at last, triumphantly holding up a vial of her prescription painkillers.

As she popped two in her mouth, grabbed a bottle of water that had been left on the desk and drank some down, Angel backpedaled.

"No, I didn't say that. What I meant--"

Before he could get any further, his Seer launched into a full-blown rant.

"You know, you'd think you'd get it by now. You tried pushing us all aside before to protect us from the deep, destructive darkness that is your mission. News flash, Angel: it's not just your mission. You can't keep your friends tucked away while you deal with the bad guys. Okay, so I don't mind the earring -- it's elegant, although a matched set would have shown a little more fashion sense. But then you moved me to some tiny, hole-in-the-wall office with NO air-conditioning..."

In the midst of Cordelia's tirade, Willow, Spike, Sarah, and Alison had made their way to the office. They now stood in the doorway, staring questioningly at Angel. With a pained, helpless expression, he merely shrugged and continued listening. He knew better than to interrupt Hurricane Cordy before she'd vented the full force of her wrath.

"...but this time, the Powers are on my side, buster. Starting tomorrow, *you're* calling a moving service and having them pack up all my files and every piece of office equipment and deliver it all right back here, where it belongs."

"Cordy--"

"Angel, guess what I saw?" Cordelia cut him off sharply.

She leaned against the edge of the desk, folded her arms across her chest, and fluttered her eyelashes at him in a manner that mockingly contradicted the thin smile on her face. For all the changes the years had wrought -- lightly graying her chestnut hair, softly rounding her figure, weathering her skin -- Cordelia hadn't lost one ounce of her trademarked, Queen-C imperiousness.

"Erm...what?" Angel asked, dutifully on cue.

Willow and Spike smirked at each other as their Mate was transformed by his Seer from one of the most-powerful, most-feared vampires in the city to a humble penitent.

"A man -- oh, about fiftyish, beer belly, cheap toupee -- near the intersection of 116th and Del Mar, getting jumped by some guys in a van and eviscerated. Sound familiar?"

"The black market?" Angel murmured, frowning in mild confusion. The Powers had never sent her a vision about this before.

"Yup," Cordy nodded, arching an eyebrow smugly. "Looks like the Powers have decided to jump on the bandwagon, which makes this *my* mission, too."

"But--"

"Who are they?" Cordelia interrupted yet again, her gaze flicking toward the two, teenage girls.

"Hi! I'm Sarah."

"Alison. They helped save Sarah's life, and we came to see if they wanted any help."

Cordy slowly turned an accusing eye toward Angel. "Wait -- you sent me away because you were afraid things would get too dangerous, but you'll let *them* sign on?"

By this time, Angel was practically falling over himself to calm Cordelia down, but any apology was pre-empted by Sarah, who volunteered, "Oh, it's nothing like that. We weren't asking to help with any demon killing or anything. Just small stuff like cleaning or something."

At this, Cordelia's curiosity was instantly piqued. "Can you file?"

"We can learn," Alison offered hopefully.

"You're hired," Cordy declared.

"But--" Angel began. His protest was silenced by a stern glare from Cordelia. Defeated, Angel's shoulders slumped and he mumbled to Alison and Sarah, "You start tomorrow."

Squealing, the girls hugged each other.

Angel's eyes slipped shut as if weighted down by disbelief and resignation. When he opened then, he glanced at Willow and Spike and sighed, "116th and Del Mar, here we come."

*****

Dealing with the abduction attempt was almost effortless. Angel, Willow, Spike, and the legions of vampires at their command had perfected their strategies to the point that defeating black market teams had grown routine.

In short order, the three were back at the Hyperion. They found themselves faced with something they hadn't had in months: a quiet, uneventful evening.

They lost no time in taking advantage of it.

Willow was the first to approach her dark Mate, drawing close and working open the buttons of his shirt with nimble fingers. She slowly parted the fabric, skimming her hands over his chest, circling his dusky nipples with her fingernails, then slipping her touch down the muscular planes of his stomach. Angel groaned and his flesh twitched eagerly in response.

He hissed when her tongue followed the path mapped out by her hands.

Spike gently eased Angel's unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders, then gripped him fiercely and nibbled on the back of his neck. He sucked a small patch of flesh between his teeth, then bit down, torturously slow. Angel shuddered against him.

Tangled together, Angel, Willow, and Spike eventually made it to their bed, leaving a trail of clothing in their wake. Angel rolled Willow beneath him, hungrily devouring her eager mouth. Spike continued his assault on Angel's back, licking and nipping the contours of his sculpted shoulders. Willow wrapped her hand around Angel's rigid flesh and began stroking him, slowly at first, then steadily building in intensity. Angel shuddered and felt a surge of preternatural heat flood through him. This was nothing like the physical flush experienced by human lovers, no mere rise in body temperature induced by the crude action of a heart that no longer beat. It was the mystery of the bond he shared with his Mates, a shared energy humming through their veins as their passion mounted.

It was passion itself, made flesh, born of *their* flesh, working its will through their frenzy.

Shaking, every nerve in his body prickling with raw need, Angel threw his head back as his demonic face emerged. He growled with pleasure to see Willow beneath him, to hear her answering growl, to feel her thighs wet with desire, to savor the intoxicating scent of that desire. To taste it. With a swift thrust of his hips, Angel buried himself in her.

Willow matched his demanding rhythm with her own, ferocious ardor. She arched beneath his powerful body, angling her hips to draw him in ever further to yielding, liquid depths. She clenched her inner muscles, tightening her soft sheath around his cock and summoning moans from her dark Mate.

Not one to remain idle, Spike slowly kneaded Angel's cheeks, then pressed a slender finger into his Mate's snug channel, earning a hissed "yessss". Eyes darkening with lust, Spike crooked his finger and began stroking very gently. Angel shifted his weight to part his legs further, an open invitation. Spike removed his finger, replacing it moments later with his cock. Together, they moaned in delicious anticipation as Spike seated himself firmly within Angel, then withdrew and began to set a frenetic tempo with his thrusts.

Conjoined in carnal abandon, the three moved as one, their hunger every increasing, their need for each other insatiable. Eyes squeezed shut and lips pulled away from fangs in grimaces of ecstasy, and still their passion mounted. Finally, thunder erupted through every fiber of their beings, triggering a release that was almost painful in its intensity. They collapsed together amid a rush of sensation, going into free-fall until they felt themselves floating in oblivion.

With weak, contented hugs, Willow, Angel, and Spike nuzzled each other lovingly, shifted their bodies to more comfortable positions, and drifted to sleep in the haven of each other's arms.

In his dreams, Buffy came to Angel again.

Yet this time, somehow, Angel felt no fear. Only a sense of peace.

"Angel," she murmured, her golden face tilted up toward his.

"Buffy?" he whispered hesitantly.

"Don't be afraid...it's okay," Buffy assured him. "It's okay to be happy."

Angel stared into beautiful, hazel-green eyes, ready to lose himself in them. "I wanted to be happy with you...I'm so sorry..."

"Shhh," she silenced him with a gentle finger to the lips. "It isn't wrong. There isn't any wrong or right in this. I am with you always. We're more than what you see in the world of temporal existence. You, me, Willow, Spike. When you knew me, I was just one thread of something bigger, something that weaves through you, even now. You and Willow -- even Spike -- still run through me. If you're happy with them, I feel it."

"But..." Angel began, trembling as he delved to the root of his fear, at last experiencing the clarity that had eluded him until now.

"Say it, Angel," Buffy urged him to free himself.

"I don't deserve to be happy," Angel insisted despairingly. "I haven't earned my redemption, yet."

Buffy nodded sympathetically. Gently, she took his hand. "Redemption isn't what you think it is. Angel, there's still work for you. You took a great step: you did something because you believed it was right, not because you *had* to or to atone for your sins. The Powers that govern your realm needed you to see that for yourself. The work is never-ending, Angel; it won't stop when you've finally made amends. Which means happiness shouldn't wait. Don't put it off. Let it weave through all your moments, Angel."

With that, Buffy began to fade. Angel reached for her, but his grasp met only air. Then, he felt a gentle warmth enveloping him, whispering over his body until it slowly sank beneath his body, submerging deep within him until it settled in his chest.

He woke with glistening, salt tracks trailing down his cheeks.

Both of his Mates were sound asleep.

Gently, Angel hugged Willow to him. She stirred slightly, easily melding her body against his, and without waking she murmured, "Be happy."

Angel smiled and held her close.

~Part: 10~

Willow savored the luxury of shared peace with her Mates as the three of them strolled along the sidewalk, past restaurants and late-night bookstores, movie theaters and 24-hour laundromats, all bustling with life. This was how things were supposed to be: the tide was definitely turning.

This particular street was familiar to Willow. Indeed, there was a pattern to their meanderings this evening, an echo of a cherished night she had spent with Angel when he had been her strength and her guide, but not yet her lover. They had walked almost until dawn, sharing thoughts and memories and laughter. She was still new to the night, then, frightened and tempted by the possibilities that simmered within her. The significance was not lost on her. Willow could feel the same sense of wonder in Angel tonight. Something was suddenly *that* new for him, that frightening and tempting all at once.

"Alright, out with it," Spike demanded at last, breaking their companionable silence. He cast a sidelong glance at Angel. "You're damn near drunk on something, Red and I can both feel it. 'bout ready to throw you down right here and give the locals a show."

Willow felt the surge of Angel's happiness tingle along her senses, light sunlight dancing on water. Rather than answering Spike's question, the dark-haired vampire turned to Willow and asked one of his own.

"Is this what you feel? The connection? The completion?"

A spark of insight flashed in her mind as Willow surmised, "You had another dream."

Angel gazed back at her, the faintest traces of a smile toying with his lips and warming his eyes.

Spike, on the other hand, scowled impatiently. "What bloody dream?"

Willow chuckled softly at the blond's frustration, then listened as Angel recounted his dream conversation with Buffy. She soon understood that she could answer Angel's question with a simple "yes", but that would probably only serve to annoy Spike even further. But how could she or Angel explain what it was they felt, he in his dream, she through her ties to natural magic and in the very strength of her blood?

How to explain eternity?

"So you saw your Slayer," Spike drawled. "And she told you to be happy. What of it? Thought *we* were all the happy you needed."

They were near an alley. To Spike's surprise, Willow grasped him by the wrist and drew him into the dark, secluded passageway. Angel followed.

Sheltered from human eyes, Willow let her fangs drop and bit deeply into her own wrist. She extended her arm toward Spike and invited, "Drink."

A thin, scarred eyebrow arched curiously, but Spike needed little prompting to savor the potent elixir that coursed through her veins. His eyes slipped shut as his mouth closed over the wound and he began to draw his beloved redhead into him.

Willow smiled, then looked to Angel and gestured toward his wrist. Understanding, he offered it to her. As she sank her fangs into his flesh, he in turn reached for Spike and brought the blond vampire's wrist to his mouth.

Once they were joined, Willow closed her eyes and focused. She didn't want to overwhelm her Mates, she only hoped to help Spike understand.

Slowly, with the utmost care, she opened herself to the resonance of all things; to the living fabric of this realm that had sustained her when she was a lost, frightened minion, and that remained ever-present through her connection to the natural magic, like the ebb and flow of the tide; and to the still, small voice of ages past, which had walked with her from the moment she'd first tasted of Anubis' and Sahu's blood nine years ago.

Although her feet were firmly planted on the ground, Willow felt as though she were floating in a vast ocean. A fierce tremor ran through Spike, and a fainter one through Angel, and she knew they were feeling it, too. She let a few strains of timeless, ageless harmony weave through her and into her Mates, but eased them away from the precipice before they could be swallowed up by its boundlessness.

It had taken only a few moments.

Still, when they released each other's wrists, the three vampires were obliged to shake a little dizziness from their heads.

"That's what I feel, Angel," Willow explained, referring to his earlier question. She smiled at her blond Mate. "We feel it most strongly for each other, Spike, and we always will, but that's only the beginning, only the start of something that stretches far beyond us. Anubis and Sahu showed me while I was with them. They've been around so long, now, it's practically all they can see, all they can feel. It saturates them. And through their blood, it's crept into me -- and you."

Angel and Spike stared back at her with a mixture of strained awe, bliss, and dawning comprehension. Despite the reverance of the moment, Willow couldn't resist a slight jab at her two, sweet, *overprotective* Mates.

She grabbed Angel's chin between her thumb and forefinger and stared with stern bemusement into his startled eyes. "That's why there wasn't any reason to be worried about the Cup of Death. Did you think I'd spent those years with Anubis and Sahu without drinking from them even once?" She released Angel's chin after a final, scolding squeeze and said, "Whichever one of us went into the circle wasn't going to be alone."

"Your blood," Spike sighed somewhat woozily, "is bloody intoxicating, luv. You've gotten me drunk on it, 'cos that almost made sense."

He swayed, heavy-lidded and smiling, prompting Willow to wrap her arm around his waist to steady him. As she did so, Angel's fingers chucked her gently beneath her chin. She raised her eyes to meet his gentle gaze.

"If we sometimes forget that you don't need to be protected anymore, Willow, it isn't because we don't realize how strong you are," Angel murmured, slowly stroking his thumb along her jaw. "But once upon a time, you needed us, and old habits die hard. Then, you were gone. Spike and I love you, and now that we have you again, sometimes it's hard to fight the urge to keep you safe."

Mesmerized by Angel's words and by the truth in his eyes, Willow raised her face even closer to his, her lips a bare whisper from his, and confessed, "I'll always need you."

Angel closed the distance between them, devouring her mouth in a long, deep kiss. At the feel of Spike's hand snaking along her inner thigh, Willow broke the kiss and arched an eyebrow at her blond Mate.

Spike smirked and eyed his companions suggestively. "So...seein' as we all have *needs* we could be tending to..."

And with that, any further plans to wander the streets came to an end.

*****

No triumphant fanfare sounded to announce that they'd won the battle against their adversaries. There was no clear sign, no dramatic turning point, to signal that the black market had been defeated. Most disappointing of all, there was never a single showdown with the human power brokers who controlled the organization. As was all too often true with such organizations, those who knew little and controlled even less bore the brunt of all attacks. Those who wielded the true power remained safely anonymous, and quietly shifted their operations away from any area where operations became troublesome.

Thus, many months after Andrew Murdoch had first alerted the Trinity to the problem, the black market ceased operating in Los Angeles, fading away with a whimper, rather than a bang.

Even as they informed the clans that hunting practices could return to normal, and that there was no further need for reconnaissance missions or sabotage, Willow, Angel, and Spike acknowledged a grim truth: all their efforts had made almost no impact on the vast, global network that was the black market trade in human life. The situation might have improved in Los Angeles, but elsewhere, the abductions, the grisly vivisections, and the sale of body parts continued.

They were tiny flies who had left barely a ripple on an ocean of corruption and self-interested, profiteering carnage.

But it was something.

And even small ripples could become waves...

*****

Rupert Giles, Head of the Watchers Council, was relaxing with a glass of scotch in the small garden behind his modest home when a noise put his senses on the alert. It was faint, almost imperceptible, and any other human being might never have heard it. But he'd been guardian to not one but two Slayers, had spent the prime of his life on a hellmouth, and traveled in the company of vampires. He realized at once that he wasn't alone.

"Whoever you are, you may as well come out before you completely trample my peonies," Giles announced.

He didn't even flinch when five vampires faded out from the shadows and arrayed themselves before him in the circle of light given off by his lantern.

The leader, a brawny, fair-haired male whose wire-rimmed glasses looked conspicuously out of place on such a rugged figure, addressed him.

"Rupert Giles?"

"Yes."

"I am Philip Jones--"

"Ah, yes," Giles interrupted, idly sipping his scotch. "Your clan ranges through the West End, I believe."

The fair-haired vampire arched an eyebrow, but nodded. "And you are still the Head of the Council, are you not?"

"Yes, and now that we all know who we are...?" Giles prompted.

"We know about your connections to the ruling clan in Los Angeles. You've worked with our kind before," Jones began, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Very closely, as a matter of fact. Do you have a point?"

"A proposition," Jones countered.

Giles gestured toward a nearby chair. "Have a seat. Would you care for a scotch?" As he said this, he slowly rose to his feet, gingerly coaxing stiff, aging joints to cooperate as he made his way to the back door. When one of Jones' minions roughly intercepted him, Giles batted his hand away in irritation. "Oh, please! Do I look like I'm fleeing in abject terror to the safety of my home?"

"Scotch would be fine," Jones answered, silently ordering his minion to stand down.

Several moments later, Giles returned with another glass, which he filled almost to the rim and offered to Jones.

"Now, let's hear this proposition, shall we?" Giles said after he and his vampire guest had clinked glasses and swallowed a deep draught.

"News has been spreading about a rather...interesting...alliance between vampires and mortals that was successful in ridding Los Angeles of an organization that has started to become troublesome to the clans of London..."

*****

//Two Weeks Later//

"It's started," Willow murmured with hopeful awe as she read her latest e-mail from Giles, in which he described a tentative alliance he had forged with some local clans to fight the black market's operations in England.

Smiling, she clicked to her next message -- this one from Xander. Slowly, her smile faded and she sighed.

"Why the long face, luv?"

She looked up to see Spike saunter in with two, long-stemmed wine glasses filled with blood. He offered her one, they saluted each other, and each took a sip.

"Oh, it's Xander. Edgar is starting to grate on his nerves. The job he's in right now doesn't really offer him enough of a challenge. He's kind of wallowing in misery and dragging Xander and Anya right down with him. Xander has been trying to find him something in a lab, but Sunnydale isn't really known for its cutting-edge research facilities," Willow rambled.

Spike looked thoughtful, but said nothing for several moments.

"What?" Willow prompted.

"Oh, dunno," Spike shrugged. Once again, he fell silent and his eyes took on a sad, distant look. Willow was about to prod him again when he said, "I might know someone who can help him out."

"Who?"

A wistful smile crept across the blond vampire's face. "Old friends. And I figure I'm due for a visit."

*****

Nervously, Spike stood with Edgar on the porch of a house he knew well. Could find in his sleep. A house filled with happy memories turned bittersweet. One he hadn't visited in recent years. Not since--

"Spike?"

The front door was held open by a gray-haired woman whose familiar face summoned up a host of conflicting feelings. Loss. Regret. Affection.

"Hullo, Leah," he managed in a rough, low voice. "May we come in?"

A pained smile lit her face even as traces of moisture glistened in the corners of her eyes. "Of course you may, Spike. You're *always* welcome in our home."

The blond vampire didn't miss the significance of her stress on the word 'always'. Megan's mother knew exactly what he was, had known since their very first encounter in a barn when Megan was just a little girl. But Spike knew she wasn't referring to the fact that he'd already been invited in long before, and could cross the threshold at will.

She was reminding him that he was still family.

As he stepped inside, he gestured for Edgar to follow and explained, "This here's Edgar. He's got himself a bit of a situation. Roy here?"

"Right here, Spike."

Spike turned toward the voice of Megan's father, who approached with the slight limp he'd retained ever since his mishap with a testy Rotweiler eight years ago. Occupational hazard as a veterinarian, but it still struck Spike as ironic that with all the nasties on the Hellmouth, it had been an ill-tempered dog that had gotten its teeth into the Slayer's dad.

"It's good to see you, son," Roy greeted him, the genuine warmth in his voice tinged with sadness. "It's been too long."

Spike's gaze fell to his boots. "I know."

After a short silence, he looked up and launched directly into a concise explanation of Edgar's predicament and his need for a job better suited to his talents than what the git Xander had been able to muster.

"He's got experience in labs. Thought you might be able to use someone who knows his way 'round a microscope," Spike offered.

"Microscopes?" Roy chuckled. "These days, it's all done with computers. Just how long ago were you turned?"

At Edgar's puzzled stare, Leah broke in before her husband could make any more teasing remarks about Spike's vampire nature. "Roy, sweetheart, why don't you and Edgar go to the den and talk about your practice? You should tell him about the joys of cat urine and manic Rotweilers so he knows what he's getting into. I'll make Spike some cocoa."

With that, Mr. MacKenzie and Edgar adjourned to the den, while Leah ushered Spike toward the kitchen. The blond vampire sat at the table in awkward silence for the few moments it took her to punch a few buttons on the microwave and produce a steaming mug of chocolate comfort. He kept his eyes down, unable to bear looking around the room at the many reminders of his beloved Slayer.

"We've missed you, Spike," Leah MacKenzie's voice snapped him out of his melancholy reflections as she sat down and placed a cup of cocoa before him. "You haven't been back for a visit since the funeral."

"Couldn't. Hurt too much," Spike acknowledged. He let out a soft, sad sigh. "I know that makes me a coward."

"No," Leah corrected him firmly but lovingly. "It makes you *you*. You always did think it was your job to be strong, to handle everything on your own," she reminisced, smiling shakily even as she sniffled back tears. "I remember some of the tirades Meg would go on about how stubborn you were, how you tried to protect her -- coddle her is how she put it, I think." Chuckling softly, Leah imitated her daughter's voice, "As if she wasn't the *Slayer* and plenty able to kick your ass."

Spike's jaw clenched at the familiar phrase. He'd been privy to the same tirades. "But I didn't protect her," he gritted out in bitter self-recrimination. Raising his head, he stared helplessly at Leah and whispered, "I failed her."

A pained, compassionate gaze met his as Megan's mother gently rested her hand on his cheek. Feeling his insides crumble, Spike slowly slid from his chair to kneel before her and rested his head in her lap.

"I failed her," he repeated.

"No, Spike, you didn't," Mrs. MacKenzie comforted him, stroking a soothing hand over his head. "Far from it. You made her so happy, so very happy. Her father and I knew we'd lose her someday." Her voice choked slightly. "We hated it, but we knew. She was a Slayer, and we understood what that meant. But we also knew how lucky we were that she lived as long as she did. And that was largely due to you."

"It wasn't long enough," Spike protested vehemently.

"No, it wasn't," Leah agreed. "It could never have been long enough for us. But what time she did have was precious. Don't bury it." She gently lifted Spike's head, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "Don't bury us."

Before Spike could stammer another apology, Leah's gaze shifted toward the wall. The blond vampire followed her gaze to a familiar photograph. He could remember everything about that moment. Meg stood in front of their apartment. It was the day they'd moved in together. Her smile shone so brightly, she practically glowed, but she wasn't looking at the camera. No, her face was tilted away, over her shoulder, as she beamed exuberantly at the empty air.

Right where he'd been smiling down at her, arms tightly wrapped around her waist. Unseen to the camera.

"I'd forgotten about the problem with cameras when I took that," Leah smiled fondly as she spoke. "They don't do you justice. But every time I look at it, I know you're there. I know the absence isn't real." She clasped Spike's hand in hers. "Please don't make it real, Spike. You're part of our lives -- don't forget us."

Spike closed his eyes and smiled. A faint trickle of tears glistened down one cheek. Opening his eyes, he covered Leah's hand with his own and murmured, "I promise."

Leah's smile broadened and she kissed him on the forehead. Spike settled back into his chair and was in the middle of a deep draught of cocoa when Edgar and Roy joined them.

"I think we're all settled," Roy announced. "Edgar definitely knows more than enough to analyze stool samples from house pets. And I've been filling him in about life in Sunnydale. Figure he should know a thing or two about local survival skills."

Before Spike even had time to dread the impending drop of the proverbial other show, Edgar asked in a queer voice that would have been appropriate to Alice after her tumble down the rabbit hole, "Spike, did you and Willow know there were vampires in Sunnydale before she thought of sending me here?"

Spike couldn't suppress an ironic snort, while Leah and Roy let out a few, wry chuckles.

Edgar stared at the three of them in confusion.

Poor sod. Always seemed to be a few beats behind the joke.

*****

It wasn't until the following evening that Spike returned from Sunnydale, having spent a much-needed day with Megan's parents.

He found Willow at her computer once again, and wondered if she ever left the bloody thing. Narrowing his eyes, he realized there were tears in her eyes.

"What's wrong, luv?"

His question seemed to trigger the release of pent-up grief, and he had to steady himself as her distress flooded through their bond.

"It's Giles," she whispered.

Instantly, Spike was kneeling beside her, wrapping a comforting arm around her waist. She let out a soft, hiccuping sob. A moment later, Angel appeared in the doorway, evidently summoned by his Mate's anguish, his expression taut with concern.

"Willow, what is it?" Angel asked. Willow merely shook silently and buried her face in Spike's neck.

The blond vampire peered at the computer screen, where an e-mail message from Wesley Wyndham-Pryce lay open.

"...currently in the Council's intensive-care facilities," Spike read out loud. "He's showing some signs of recovery, but it's still too soon to tell."

Spike and Angel stared at each other in shock.

Willow raised her tear-stained face from Spike's neck.

"Giles had a heart-attack," she explained quietly. Gazing at her Mates with determination, she said, "I want to go to London."
 

THE END

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