Warp & Weft

By Medea

Chapter Nine

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.

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