GHOSTS

Disclaimer: Most of the characters here belong to Joss Whedon. I don't own them. Would be nice though. ;)

Author's note: I know it's been a while since I last posted anything. I've been pretty busy these past few months. Anyway, here's the long overdue sequel (first chapter, anyway) to "Soul Mates". Hope you like it. I've gotten really nit-picky and find that it takes me ages to write stuff now. Please be patient with me and I'll deliver.

Acknowledgements: Much thanks to my "oh so very wise" beta reader "Saka" from Jamesmarsters.com. You've helped me tremendously!

Feedback: Aw c'mon, you know it's what we all live for!

Chapter 1 - The Call

Patience. Not exactly a quality Spike was known for. Yet there he sat, mouth zipped, fidgeting checked, and feet firmly cemented to the ground. Not a toe did tap.

Good boy, Spike.

Remember. This vacation's for her.

And he was determined not to spoil it-say or do the wrong thing and ruffle her feathers-like he usually did.

So there he sat, silently, watching Buffy pack. And bloody hell could she pack!

Spike could swear that every blouse, skirt, dress-all of it-had at one point spent a decent chunk of quality time in her expensive Italian luggage before being yanked and replaced with the next midriff-exposing, white cotton top or dark denim Capri pants in line.

She was a poltergeist on speed, until finally-she reached the end. Standing next to a crumpled mountain of clothes, she threw up her hands and gave him a look that reminded him of a overindulged little girl.

"I've got nothing to wear!" she complained, then added mischievously, "guess we'll just have to do some shopping when we get there."

Grimacing, Spike looked at his watch and the whites of his eyes expanded as he realized the time. Time to go.

Still, he was determined to be chivalrous. Biting back the caustic remarks that came to mind, he picked up Buffy's ten-ton suitcase and followed her down the stairs to the car. With each precarious step, he thanked the Powers that Be for his vampire-like strength-a remnant of his past existence.

He then hoisted his hefty cargo into the trunk, slammed it shut, and slipped into the driver's seat, shooting the Slayer a strained smile before starting the engine.

They were off.

Well, not quite.

After they'd driven halfway to the airport, Buffy casually looked his way and asked, "Now, you've got the tickets, right?"

His head snapped sideways as if pulled by a lasso.

"Uh...." The shiny black Desoto lurched to a stop.

Sticky palm hit sweaty forehead. He turned the car around.

* * *

Spike searched the main level of his two-story beach house before bounding up the stairs two-by-two and hurrying into his sparsely furnished bedroom. He looked around the room, his head jerking this way and that as if he were front-and-center at a heated tennis match.

Not on the queen-sized futon bed, or the maple nightstand. Not under the furniture, or.

Ah! He spied them lying on the dresser-in plain view. Funny that despite his eagle-like vision, he'd failed to see them in such an obvious place. But of course he'd had a lot on his mind. Important stuff.

He strode over to the dresser, snatched up the tickets and proceeded to stuff them into the inner breast pocket of his leather coat. Hand still resting over his chest, he stopped. An image, translucent and rippling like hot air rising up from burning pavement, caught his attention. His head swiveled forward and he stared straight ahead-into the mirror.

His eyes narrowed. Strange, for a split-second he'd thought he'd seen something other-worldly-like a specter.

But it was just his reflection.

A hint of a smile crossed his face. Handsome devil, he thought, studying the man in the mirror. He ran his fingers through his tousled brown hair. It'd been about a year now since he'd been able to see more than just empty space when he gazed into a looking glass. The sight of his own image still made him stop, and stare, and marvel.and admire-according to Buffy he'd become a bit vain.

Had it only been a year? Mad rush suddenly forgotten, his brow furrowed as he quickly calculated the exact number of days that he'd been human. Three hundred and seventy-four. Was that it?

He shook his head and then tried to calculate the number of days he'd been a vampire. Too many, he thought. He'd been a vampire for a hundred and twenty-two years. That came out to too many days-and nights-as a bloodthirsty, remorseless killer.

Spike sighed. No looking back, he reminded himself. He'd left the past behind, moved on. He wasn't a monster anymore.

The Slayer had turned him around. And finally, he found himself headed in the right direction. Up. Hopefully.

With both hands, he patted down the front of his coat until he felt something. A small lump in his pocket. He pulled out a black velvet box and gazed at it for a second. Then, almost reverently, he opened it.

The brilliant shard glittered up at him. The setting was simple. Buffy liked simple. But the stone was breathtaking. And it made him catch his breath. He hoped it would cause the Slayer to catch hers. Or perhaps take it away for a second.

He'd carefully planned this event for over a month now. And in his heart, for over a century. A moonlit stroll on a deserted beach: they'd stop and admire the clear night sky, or listen to the tireless murmur of the ocean, he'd squeeze her hand, drop down on one knee, and.

The phone rang.

Bloody Hell! The shrill noise gave him a start.

He picked up the cordless phone in front of him. Just a dial tone.

It rang again. He patted down the front of his coat for a second time. Another lump-a much bigger one this time.

He pulled out his cell phone. Not many people knew this number; just two- only one of whom actually ever called him. And this particular person was downstairs in the car waiting, none too patiently it seemed. Well, he'd taken much too long. She was probably ready to leave without him by now.

He flipped open the phone and cleared his throat, readying himself to be berated by the Slayer.

"Yeah," he said, trying to sound cool and collected. Maybe it would rub off on her.

His eyes narrowed.

"Em?" It was his sister. But she hated using the phone. She much preferred tapping directly into his head-a Wiccan form of 'mental trespassing' that he absolutely detested.

He stood quietly for half a minute, cell phone pressed close to his ear. His shoulders tensed visibly and his jaw tightened.

"Yeah," he said finally, then muttered: "The wankers."

He was silent again for several more seconds as he listened intently to his sister's voice. Tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention one- by-one as he took in her words and noted her uncharacteristic tone. Her voice was tinged with anxiety-and for Emily, who never lost her cool, this meant something was terribly wrong.

"Don't worry," he said, his own voice a bit shaky. "I'll be there in a few hours."

* * *

Buffy sat in the passenger side of the newly restored Desoto. Spike's vintage car was now in mint condition; its black paint gleamed under the mid-day sun. She shifted her position and the smooth leather upholstery seemed to grumble; bare skin revealed by her too-short skirt clung to the seat as if held there by tiny suction cups.

In the last fifteen minutes, her mood had gone from happy excitement, to peevish impatience, to raging annoyance.

Damn, she thought, sticking her head out of the car window and peering up at the former vampire's modern-style beach house, what the hell was taking so long?

Okay, so maybe it was partly her fault for taking a few extra minutes packing, but.

It was her birthday-well, in a couple of days it would be-and she had so looked forward to this vacation for like forever. He'd promised her exotic, black sand beaches. He'd promised her beautiful, tropical sunsets. He'd promised her seven days in paradise-and damn it, there was no way in hell that they were going to miss their plane!

Although the two of them had spent most of their waking hours together during the past year -after all, he wasn't just her boyfriend now, he was also her Watcher-she longed for some one-on-one quality time not spent worrying about killing monsters or saving the world.

Was that too much to ask?

She thought not.

And he'd delivered. One night, when she was tired and cranky and covered in green goop from a newly deceased slime demon, he'd casually mentioned that he'd talked to a travel agent that day about taking a little trip to Hawaii. Then he pulled out a pamphlet filled with pictures-pretty, colorful ones of a place where she definitely wanted to be.

Needless to say, she'd slimed him-with a big gooey hug.

She glanced at the steering wheel and thought about honking. Should she do it? Time was of the essence here. Time was running low. Time was ticking away. Time was.

She had her hand poised over the horn just as he emerged from the front door.

When she saw his face, she immediately forgot about time, or the lack thereof. His skin, normally tan from his daily sun-basking, appeared almost white. He looked pale, drawn-worried.

He approached the car and met her gaze. Her expression now mirrored his.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I've got to go to L.A," he said.

"L.A.? Now?"

"Yeah. Emily's there."

"Is she okay?"

"I don't know."

Chapter 2 - The Living Dead

New York City One month earlier

The city was almost quiet. Almost calm.

A steady flow of cars, a homeless man muttering, a drunken trio singing in the background: to Faith's ears, these sounds and others combined to produce little more than a low murmur. White noise-it could almost lull a baby to sleep.

Sighing, Faith stopped walking and kicked an imaginary pebble on the sidewalk in front of her. She looked up and stared at the sky, which from her vantage point was framed by the tall, looming buildings surrounding her. No stars, no moon, no clouds. All she could see was a dark, murky gray. A dull feeling came over her.

It was lonely being dead.

She'd been living in the city for almost a year now-the city that supposedly never slept. Even at god-awful hours like the present, there was always someone trudging about. At the moment, that someone happened to be herself. But she wasn't trudging.

She was hunting.

Well, she figured as she resumed walking, someone had to do it. New York had a disproportionately large population of vampires. Smart ones, too. They kept their numbers hidden. They blended in well with the living. Heck, most of them had more fashion sense than she'd ever had-even now.

They hung out at the trendiest nightclubs, dined at the finest restaurants. Some of them even had jobs. Many of them were well-to-do. Like that Emily chick. Faith recalled meeting Spike's sister in London. She'd been like them-loaded and sophisticated.

And now in New York, Faith sought out the local vampires. Tracked them down. When she found herself a likely target, she followed the unsuspecting victim around for a few nights, learning their routine, their habits-and getting an idea of their net worth.

Okay, so she wasn't doing this for purely altruistic purposes, but she was doing the city a service. And if she happened to pick up some extra cash, a Rolex watch, a tennis bracelet, or some other valuable item in the process-so be it.

After the money that Giles had given her in London had run out, she'd tried her hand at several jobs-all minimum wage. Giles had given her a new identity and-a fresh start.

She could do anything. Be anyone.

But what was that, really?

Slaying vampires wasn't exactly a skill today's employers were looking for. If she'd been smart, she would've fabricated a glowing resume and wowed interviewers with her impeccable 'qualifications.'

But she couldn't do that.

Funny. Lying had always come naturally to her. One of the few things she actually did well.

But that was before. Before she'd decided to turn her life around; seize the chance she'd been given.

Before she'd died.

Now lying was hard. Especially when it involved answering all sorts of questions about degrees she'd never obtained and past jobs she'd never held.

After a month in the city, she'd ended up bussing tables, washing dishes, and even wrapping presents during the holidays. Her paychecks hadn't exactly been enough to live on, so.

She'd decided to prey on the predators.

Technically, the city already had a Slayer: Hope Mason was the newest girl called up to do the Council's dirty work. But Faith figured that there were enough vamps here to go around. And besides, from what she'd seen, this new girl didn't appear to be much of a fighter.

In fact, she kind of fought like she had a death wish. Faith had seen the signs. The empty look in her eyes, the zombie-like gait, the 'ho-hum' approach to slaying. The girl was clearly 'going through the motions.' It was just a matter of time until she'd get her wish.

Too bad.

Faith bit her lip. Maybe she could help the girl. After all, it was a subject she was familiar with. She'd been there once.

Well, maybe.

But it was risky. Although Faith often shadowed Hope on the girl's nightly patrols, she was always careful to keep her distance-to maintain her anonymity.

The Council believed her dead. She was a ghost. If she wanted to stay alive, she needed to remain a ghost. If they ever discovered the truth, they'd come after her with their so-called 'elite' squad-Assassins.

She was sure of it.

Faith stopped and stared across the street at a popular nightclub. Although it was twenty minutes before closing time, there was still a long line of hopefuls standing in front of the modern, glass and granite building. She surveyed the people in front of the establishment. As she'd expected, her intended victim was not one of them; he never emerged before closing.

Glancing at her watch, she retreated into the shadows of a nearby alley.

* * *

Minutes away, in an overpriced flat on the twenty-fifth floor of a stately Manhattan apartment building, the newest slayer awoke with a start, springing up to a sitting position like a child's pop-up toy. Her hands immediately went to her neck, feeling to make sure that-it wasn't broken.

No, it was just a dream. The dream. Again.

Hope exhaled slowly. Was it relief or disappointment that she felt? She couldn't be sure.

The images still lingered in her mind. Shadows flickering like the erratic, cold lighting of the subway car from her dream. On and off. Again and again. Until.

She recalled the man-or Thing. He hadn't been human. She knew that now. He'd been one of them. Those creatures she now spent her evenings fighting; now that she was a Slayer.

In her dream, he'd smiled, held out his hand and asked her to dance. And she'd gazed into his eyes-clear blue like the sky-and felt herself become weightless. Her feet left the ground as she began to float. Up, up, up. Until she closed her eyes and felt herself come crashing down.

Then, lying on the hard floor of the subway car, she'd looked up at him, seeing him again-this time as he really was. The smile was now a sneer. The eyes now clouded. And she wasn't dancing. She was fighting.

And still, although exchanging blows with a monster, she continued to stare at his face. The even perfection of his features appeared carved from stone.

They continued to battle in slow motion, as if underwater, until the lights went out again. In the darkness, she felt herself trapped in the vampire's cool, vice-like grip. She felt his hands at her throat. His fingers tightening.

The lights came back on and she found herself lying beneath him, his face looming just inches above hers. She looked into his eyes and again was reminded of the sky-clear blue. She felt herself floating again; letting go.

The hands at her throat tightened once more.

And then she'd wake up, feeling scared, but serene; light-headed and shaky.

Shivering, Hope slid out of bed. The sheets felt cool and almost clammy. She went to the window and looked down at the city that, in spite of the late hour, was still full of life.

She decided to go out for a walk-to shake off the dream. She padded over to her closet and pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweater.

Although she knew it wasn't necessary, she dressed herself as quietly as possible. Her efforts though, were more for her own benefit than anyone else's. Her mother was a sound sleeper-compliments of a nightly dose of Valium and vodka. Hope could've marched through the apartment banging a big bass drum and her mother wouldn't have so much as rolled over.

But it gave Hope a sense of normalcy. Of being a regular teenager with a regular mother-one who cared. One who'd notice if her daughter were out late every night, or covered with blood and ashes when she came home.

Sighing, the newest slayer slipped on her sneakers, tiptoed through her living room and carefully unlocked the door. She stepped out into the red- carpeted hallway and felt a chill as a blast from the building's central air conditioning hit her.

The corridor was always too cold. Almost supernaturally so. Hope made her way to the elevator, pressed the down button, then hugged her arms around her chest as she stood waiting.

She recalled the dream and let out a shaky exhale. She pictured the man- the vampire-with his bleached blonde hair and fathomless blue eyes; his sneering smile and cat-like grace.

She reflected on her own struggles and fears. And then thought about peace.

She thought about walking. No, searching. Her heart beat faster.

Searching for him.

* * *

Standing in the dark alley, Faith shifted her weight from left foot to right, rolled her shoulders back a couple of times then bounced lightly on the balls of her feet. God, how she hated waiting!

She glanced down at her watch for the fifth time in the last few minutes. Finally! Three o 'clock.

No more waiting.

She stared across the street and scanned the crowd of predominantly human patrons filing out of the club. Not him. Or him. Not that one. Or.

Ah, that's my boy! Her lips curved upward into a predatory smile. She surveyed his tall, broad-shouldered form; his dark hair, perfect features. He was almost angelic. Or Angel-like. He reminded her of Angel. They could've been brothers.

Faith had watched this particular vampire for almost a week now-longer than she usually did. She'd rather enjoyed stalking him and was almost sad to have to end it tonight. But she would. She was almost out of cash.

The vampire stuck his hands in his dark trench coat and headed down the sidewalk alone. He was always alone.

She had wondered what his story was. She guessed it was complicated. He so reminded her of Buffy's vampire ex-boyfriend. Right down to the whole brooding bit. Of course, he was probably just brooding about having drunk a nasty glass of A negative blood that didn't agree with him or something similar-she doubted it could be anything more. More than likely, he didn't have a soul. Angel was pretty unique that way.

Walking briskly, the vampire headed away from the club. Faith knew the routine by now. He was going to his uptown flat. She didn't have much time. It was just a couple of blocks away. She quickened her pace- planning to catch up to him at the next block-there was an alley on the way that was always pretty deserted, and dark.

She cut the distance between them in half and was quickly gaining. The alley would be coming up soon. She had to move just a little faster.

He stopped.

Faith slowed her approach to almost a standstill. Two small creases formed between her brows as she stared at her prospective prey. There was a girl in front of him, blocking his path. He tried to step around her, but she moved to stop him. He took a couple of steps back and gestured for her to go first. A gentleman vampire.

The girl just stood there. He stepped back and to the side, giving her even more room. And this is when Faith got a clear view of her. She immediately recognized her. Skinny, short, lank brown hair.

Hope Mason.

Damn, Faith hoped the brat slayer wouldn't ruin her plans. The vampire was no good to her dusted. He had to be 'stripped' first-of his belongings. Everything, especially the thick wad of green and white paper rolled up and kept in his coat pocket, would turn to ashes if he were prematurely staked.

Now that just wouldn't do.

Faith gritted her teeth and started walking toward the vampire and Slayer.

Chapter 3 - Lost in L.A.

Spike's knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel of the rented Ford Taurus. Inhaling deeply, he attempted to keep his cool as he navigated through heavy traffic. It was six o'clock on the L.A. freeway. Rush hour.

Their flight from Sunnydale had been delayed for several hours. What bloody awful luck! While waiting to board the plane, he'd fidgeted in his seat like a schoolboy with attention deficit disorder. This had made Buffy and other nearby travelers nervous.

"What's going on?" the Slayer had asked.

He'd growled a response. Emily had been strangely cryptic. Annoyingly so. She was supposed to fill him in when he got there.

And now they were moving at a slug-like pace, surrounded by thousands of angry motorists who were rushing home to eat their frozen dinners and watch the evening news. Spike gritted his teeth. Of course they'd only hear about the latest mass murderer terrorizing the suburbs, or corrupt CEO who'd cooked his company's books, leaving its stock worthless.

The former vampire was feeling a tiny bit cynical at the moment.

Sitting next to him, Buffy squinted as she tried to read the road map they'd gotten from the car rental place. It was badly crumpled around the edges from her gripping it too tightly-a sign of her agitation. Her furrowed brow and extended lower lip were further evidence of her troubled state of mind. She turned the map around several times before finally giving up.

"Hope you know where you're going," she muttered. "Don't think I'm gonna be much help in the navigation department." Sighing, she folded the map into a crude square and stuck it on the dash. "You may want to think about adding map reading to my Slayer training," she added.

Breaking his concentration from the freeway ahead of him, Spike glanced over at the Slayer. She reminded him of an inflatable beach toy that had leaked out most of its air. One side of his mouth tugged upwards into a half-smile.

"Don't worry, pet," he said. "Emily told me that there'd be signs. Laid them out somehow-you know, using some of that black mojo of hers."

Buffy looked impressed. "She can do that?"

"Apparently," he replied, returning his attention to the seemingly endless line of cars in front of them.

"Hmm." A look of skepticism crossed the Slayer's face. "If she's such a powerful wiccan and can do all kinds of magic."

"Yeah?"

"Well," Buffy paused again, "why does she need us?"

"Good question." He'd wondered the same thing ever since his sister's call, playing out many different scenarios. She'd mentioned the Council, but had failed to elaborate. Had those grumpy old men found her? And if so, how?

Surely, they couldn't have traced her through him? He'd been very careful whenever he contacted her. They'd spoken in code and he'd never referred to her by name.

But if the Council had found Emily.

Spike knew that the old wankers had witches working for them; covens at their disposal. If they'd tracked Emily down, caught her by surprise, would she have been able to escape?

She was a powerful witch, having practiced magic for over a century, but she did have her vulnerabilities: sunlight, holy water, and of course, a stake through the heart.

Though she was able to compensate somewhat for these weaknesses through magic, she wasn't invincible.

Her real weakness though, in Spike's opinion, was her humanity. What little she had left. She clung to it as an Alzheimer's patient did to his memories, slowly slipping away into fog.

But with humanity came weakness, and feelings one couldn't suppress.

Loneliness, for example.

Up ahead, an exit sign appeared to glow like a Chinese lantern, rousing Spike from his thoughts.

"Ah, here's the exit."

Buffy looked at the sign and frowned. "How do you know?"

Spike turned to the Slayer, eyes narrowed. "Don't you see.?"

Buffy shook her head, confused.

"Emily," he replied softly, "she's leading the way."

Spike then cut across several lanes, nearly colliding with a silver Mercedes and red Cabriolet. Both drivers shot their middle fingers up at him and cursed profusely. Oblivious to the road rage he'd caused, Spike concentrated on the off ramp in front of him. The street sign to the right lit up with neon-like brightness. He turned right and continued going straight, heading for the rolling California hills, which were partly obscured in brownish tinged wisps of smog. To Spike, the smog seemed to glow as if it were radioactive. The soft pulsing light was a beacon, guiding him to their destination.

* * *

The road ahead of them wound up and around the gracefully curving hills. They were getting closer. The surrounding trees appeared fluorescent green and the road shone like polished stone. The signs, trees and street were getting progressively brighter. Soon they would be almost blinding.

Spike squinted as he focused on the road ahead of them. His eyes hurt as if he'd stared at the sun too long. They were now in a very exclusive L.A. suburb. The estates were large, with long driveways, and grounds that reminded him of national parks. The houses themselves were barely visible from the road: huge mansions tucked away behind stately trees and carefully planted shrubbery, peeking through the lacy green foliage.

To his right, a signpost and mailbox shone like a spotlight. The surrounding trees and bushes lit up at full wattage. Spike turned into the long, winding concrete driveway that seemed to gleam almost like gold.

"The yellow brick road," Spike commented with a quick, bitter laugh. "We're off to see Dorothy." He turned to the Slayer, noting the puzzled look on her face.

"The driveway-it's." he started to explain. But his mouth fell open as he looked up at a large, Mediterranean style mansion with white stucco walls and a rust colored roof and trim.

It almost blinded him.

"We're here." He turned off the engine and as it died, the glare from the home quickly faded. He took a deep breath, hoping that they weren't too late.

* * *

Their footsteps echoed through the house. The tentative clip of their shoes on the white and gray marble floors bounced up to the high wood- beamed ceilings, sounding hollow and strangely spectral.

No one appeared to be home. The door had been left wide open. When they had reached it, Buffy had called out from the entryway, but the only response had been her own voice echoing back to them.

Spike had then stepped over the threshold and cautiously looked around. The house was almost entirely white. Its walls and many of its furnishings were devoid of color-only the bright splashes of red on the Asian rug in the foyer and the deep mahogany of the entry table deviated from the color scheme. A vase filled with flowers caught his eye.

Calla lilies. Emily's favorite.

They scoured the first floor, room by room, without coming across anyone. The house was immaculate. Furniture tastefully chosen from all over the world-most in hues of white, cream, and ivory. But in every room, there'd also been dark woods and splashes of red. Spike was reminded of spilt blood on white satin.

They'd headed up the graceful marble staircase, which led up to the second floor. A large crystal chandelier swayed above them, tinkling like a wind chime. Spike gripped the banister, his head craning up to the chandelier.

Strange.

A whisper of wind blew past him, tickling his cheek, as he hurried up the stairs. At the top, he scanned the long banister-lined, corridor overlooking the foyer. At the west end was an open door. Instinctively, Spike knew it would be Emily's. She'd want to enjoy sunset upon awakening.

He strode down the corridor, stopping short at the doorway. Peering in, his eyes told him that the room was empty-devoid of life. Buffy brushed past him and started to look around.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone he-" Already on the other side of the room, she stopped suddenly and looked down. "Wha-"

"What is it?" Spike rushed to her side. His eyes turned down to the spot on the floor that had caught the Slayer's attention. He dropped to his knees, as if forced down.

With shaking fingers, he combed through the pile of gray powder that blended in with the marble floor. He stared at his hand covered in the pale dust, then looked up at Buffy, eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

* * *

Spike sat hunched forward on a king-sized, four-poster bed that seemed almost dwarf-like in the large sleeping chamber. He brushed his hand against the cream-colored chenille bedspread, leaving five brushstrokes of soot.

Buffy sat down and put a comforting arm around his shoulders.

After five minutes of painful silence, she finally spoke.

"We can't be sure she's dead," she said. "Those ashes."

"She's dead," Spike replied. His voice was firm as if he knew what he was saying was true.

"You don't know-"

"No." He inhaled deeply and shrugged off the Slayer's arm. "I do know. She's gone. I can feel it."

"But-"

"Something's happened. Those bleeding Council wankers! They're responsible!" He turned to Buffy, the look on his face showing pure venom- a throwback to his days as a vampire.

Buffy drew back slightly, eyes widening. "Spike, let's not jump to conclusions here. Maybe Giles knows something."

Spike scoffed. "A clueless nit if I ever knew one. I doubt if old Rupert would have even the faintest idea-"

"Maybe," Buffy said softly, then paused, biting her lip.

Spike arched an eyebrow. "Maybe what?"

"Maybe we need to stop for moment. Take a deep breath and get calm."

"I bloody well am ca-"

"We need to calm down, so we can think straight and figure out what happened here."

"I already kno-"

"No you don't, Spike. You're crazy mad-a...and sad right now. I don't blame you. If anything ever happened to Dawn, I don't know what I'd do. But we have to keep our heads. Let's search the house, see if there's anything that can help us figure out what happened here."

"We've already been through the house. There's nothing here."

"Let's go through it again-thoroughly this time. There's got to be something here."

Spike exhaled with frustration. "So you're saying you want to play detective. Look for clues. Is that it?"

Buffy nodded.

"Sorry, luv. Detective work just isn't up my alley. I've already got a pretty good idea of who's responsible here. I say we nail-"

"No. No nailing. Not yet, anyway. We need to look for clues-and if detective work isn't your thing."

"Yeah?"

"Well, then I can think of one person who might be able to help us."

Spike's brow furrowed. "Someone?" He paused and scratched his chin. A look of understanding crept over his face and he scowled at the Slayer. "No bleeding way!"

But Buffy was already reaching for her cell phone.

"I'm calling Angel."

Chapter 4 - Surfacing

Faith squinted at the two figures battling in the dark alley. She was almost there. Just a few more steps.

She had to move fast. Hope Mason was faring surprisingly well against the Angel look-alike. Exceptionally well-for a slayer with a death wish. But then again, Hope's opponent didn't seem to be fighting back.

The younger slayer had started with an off-balanced roundhouse kick to the vampire's solar plexus. She'd landed on her heels, nearly falling backward. Such a mistake could've been costly. But the vampire failed to respond. He stood there as if frozen. This gave Hope time to steady herself and hit the demon with a series of tentative jabs to the jaw, causing his head to jerk back in a staccato-like motion.

He backed away from her, toward Faith, his hands raised to chest level, indicating surrender.

Despite herself, Faith was a little disappointed.

She would've expected more from him.

He was two steps ahead of her. She stepped forward. He stepped back. She had him.

Her arms tightened around his chest. He started to struggle, fighting to get out of her grasp. She held firm until he shifted his weight suddenly, causing both of them to lurch to the side and fall to the ground.

They continued to wrestle on the cement sidewalk. Keeping one arm secured around his chest, Faith lowered her other hand in the vicinity of the vampire's coat pocket. Her hand came into contact with a thick roll of bills. Her fingers tightened around the money and she plucked it out of the vampire's pocket.

'Got it!'

She released her hold on the vampire and sprung to her feet. He leapt up with matching agility. They faced off and she looked into his face, meeting his eyes for the first time.

They were almost black. Sinister. Evil.

Despite herself, Faith took a step back. She stared at the vampire, fully expecting him to attack. But he didn't.

He took off running, disappearing around a street corner.

Surprised, Faith turned to Hope Mason, who was standing on the sidewalk five feet away from her. Clearly, the girl was equally astonished.

Faith wasn't sure if it was the vampire's cowardice or her own actions that caused the young slayer to gawk at her like a retired waitress who'd just seen Elvis. She was guessing that it was the latter.

* * *

"Who are you?" Hope's words sounded braver than she felt. The woman standing in front of her had just taken on a vampire-and would've bested him if he hadn't fled.

"I'm." Faith looked uncertain. Her eyes darted back and forth, and her muscles tensed, giving her the appearance of a cornered animal getting ready to bolt. She glanced at Hope, meeting her stare for a split-second before turning away.

"Who are you?" Hope asked again, adding a threatening tone to her words that almost hid her fear; deep-down the fifteen-year old slayer was shaking.

Faith shifted her weight from side-to-side then squared her shoulders. She scanned their surroundings before settling her gaze back on Hope. Her lips curved up into a tight knowing smile.

"I'm like you," she said finally.

Hope frowned and took a step back. "You're."

"I'm like you," Faith said again. Her stance seemed to relax a bit with the admission and she let out a deep breath. "I'm a Slayer-like you."

"But." But there was only supposed to be one. Besides Buffy Summers-who was a fluke, really-there was only supposed to be one slayer. The Chosen One. And that was her. Or was it?

Faith snorted derisively. "Thought you were the only one?"

"I.They told me."

"They told you wrong. Obviously!"

"But-"

"Slayer lesson number one-" Faith paused and licked her bottom lip. "The Watchers' Council is a bunch of lying, old men who can't be trusted."

Hope was silent, digesting Faith's words. She thought about the man who had first approached her about being the Slayer: Cameron Grey, her Watcher. He was the new vice principal at her high school. That was his cover. But as it turned out, he was, in her opinion, probably one of the best V.P.s that Lincoln High had ever had.

He was smart, understanding, level-headed-and he kind of looked like Ewan Macgregor. She trusted him completely.

"I don't know who you are," Hope said quietly, "But-"

"Listen," Faith said, looking the girl in the eye, "I've been watching you. You're not going to last long-the way your going."

Hope eyed her warily. "What do you mean?"

"The way you fight. Like you wanna die."

Hope shook her head. "I don't-"

"Yeah, you do. It's pretty obvious-you're looking to get killed. It'll happen, too-before you know it. Unless, you do a complete three-sixty."

"You're wr-"

"Look, I know what you're going through. I was there once. But I got over it. I can help you."

Hope took a step back. She knew there was some truth in what this girl was saying, but she didn't need help. She didn't want it.

"I can help you," Faith repeated.

"No." Hope continued backing away, then turned and fled.

* * *

Faith's hands were shaking as she fumbled with her keys and unlocked the door to her apartment.

Stupid! That's what she'd been that night. To let Hope see her. To talk to her. What had she been thinking?

The Council was sure to find out now. Put two and two together.

She took a deep breath. At least she had the cash. Hopefully, it would be enough to get her out of the city and sustain her for a while; until she set up shop somewhere else. There were vampires to rob in every major city in America. She could take her pick.

Faith tossed her keys on the small wooden table next to the door and shrugged off her coat, letting it fall carelessly onto the floor. She pulled the thick wad of bills out of her jeans pocket and dropped herself onto a worn, brown sofa. Carefully, she unfolded the money and began to count it. They were all big bills: mostly hundreds, some fifties, and a few twenties. There had to be at least three thousand dollars there.

Why had the vampire been carrying around so much money?

A small piece of paper wedged between the bills slipped to the floor. Frowning, Faith bent over to retrieve it. She held it up to the light, reading a phone number and a name she'd never heard of before.

She traced the name with her finger, whispering it softly.

"Cameron Grey."

Chapter 5 - Peaches and Pudding

The silence was the thick icky kind that stuck to the back of your mouth like molasses. You'd try to swallow it, but it just slid slowly down your throat, leaving a bitter trail. Buffy was desperate to cough it up, spit it out. Spit something out. This silence had to end.

"Tapioca?" she asked, peering from behind the door of the industrial-sized, stainless steel refrigerator. After spending the last few hours searching Emily's mansion for clues, she'd declared it snack time. Dinnertime had long come and gone with no takers. Her stomach was now turned inside out with hunger.

Foraging through Emily's kitchen, she'd found a large supply of blood, but little in terms of food. There was some caviar, a hunk of Brie, a bottle of wine, and a big bowl of homemade tapioca pudding.

A vampire and a man who used to be one sat at opposite sides of a large, rectangular stainless steel table. Both looked at her with blank stares.

"No thanks, pet," the former vampire replied, a tired edge to his voice. "Tapioca was always Em's favorite. Couldn't stand the stuff myself." He turned to the vampire across from him. "Maybe Peaches, here. He looks likes the lumpy pudding type if you ask me."

Angel glanced at Buffy, not meeting her gaze. He hadn't looked her in the eye once since he'd arrived at the house.

"None for me, thanks." His voice was stiff and quiet, and Buffy noted that her ex-boyfriend appeared even more tortured than usual.

Well, what did she expect? This was the first time he'd seen her since she and Spike.

She blew several untamed wisps of hair away from her eyes. Bad idea. Bad. She should never have called Angel. He looked forlorn, like a young boy who'd just found out that there was no Santa. She wanted to give him a bear-sized hug and lay a neat little peck on his forehead.

"Don't worry," she'd say. "Everything's going to be all right." Caring, nurturing Buffy to the rescue.

And then there was Spike. Her gaze went to the man who was now her watcher, her boyfriend and possibly even her soul mate. He looked tired, uneasy-and jealous. His eyes continually shifted from Angel to her and back as if he were looking for something, a connection of some sort that still tied them together.

Of course there wasn't any. Angel had been her first love, true. But it was over. Way over. She'd stopped pining long ago. Sure, she cared about him-loved him even.

But as a friend.

She'd realized a while ago that she was over Angel when, upon mention of his name, she hadn't gotten that awful constricted feeling in her chest she'd always had in the past.

It wasn't meant to be. She'd told herself this so many times, over and over. After a while, she'd finally realized it was true.

* * *

So, Spike thought, trying desperately to maintain the appearance of calm, of casual-of not caring. His eyes moved from Buffy to Angel in a quick, covert motion, he hoped no one noticed. So she'd called Angel. So what?

Did he feel threatened by the overgrown poofter?

Hell no!

He glanced from Buffy to Angel again.

Well.

More eye darting.

Maybe a little.

It was just that. The way the sodding peach boy looked at her-all glazed over with tortured wanting. Mr. Could've Been.

At least Buffy didn't have that look. He was pretty sure, anyway. His eyes rested on the Slayer, who was sitting across from him at the kitchen table eating a bowl of tapioca. She glanced up at him, creamy goo covering her top lip, and held his gaze. She looked uncomfortable, like she was sitting on a pile of pine needles.

Well, it was her fault-for calling Angel. They were doing just fine on their own, before detective boy showed. Spike picked up a napkin from the table and handed it to her, tapping his upper lip with his finger when she shot him a puzzled look.

"You've got some."

The tip of her tongue darted upward, sweeping away nearly all traces of pudding, then she patted the area dry with the napkin.

Angel cleared his throat and two sets of eyes turned to him in unison: one wide and brown, and the other narrowed and blue.

The dark-haired vampire looked at Spike then Buffy, never raising his gaze above cheek level. "I'm going back up to the master bedroom-to make sure we haven't missed anything," he said, his tone business-like.

Spike scowled. "I've already spent well over an hour in that room. Went over it with a fine-toothed comb. There's nothing there."

"Yeah well, it doesn't hurt to be thorough," Angel said, rising from his chair.

"Suit yourself," Spike muttered as the tall vampire disappeared through the kitchen door. "But your wasting you time."

* * *

Now that they were alone again, Spike felt like a mute. He could think of the words to say. Lots of them, really. But when he opened his mouth. Nothing.

He stared at the Slayer, feeling helpless. She glanced at him between tentative spoonfuls of tapioca. Her eyes were large and doe-like, filled with apprehension. The silence was an invisible barrier, separating them like a wall of soundproof plexi-glass.

There were two ways he could approach the situation. He could be the understanding, supportive boyfriend. The perfect gentleman. She was all torn up here. Any idiot could see that. He could be selfless, sacrificing.bleeding stupid.

Or he could take the other road: the one less traveled-except, of course, by him. He often found himself on this route. The one filled with bumps and cracks and large boulders blocking his way. You needed an all-terrain vehicle to travel that road. It was suicide, really.

Spike opened his mouth, pausing for a split-second before speaking.

"Bloody Angel hasn't changed a bit now has he?"

The doe-like eyes narrowed, becoming wolf-like.

"What do you mean?"

Spike leaned back in his chair and smirked ever so slightly.

"I mean, Luv, that he's still the big poof carrying a sappy high school crush on the prom queen."

"What are you talking about?" Her voice was clipped, cold. Spike could almost hear the rumblings of the impending avalanche. 'Okay, now you've done it.'

The smirk wavered a little. "I.uh." The mute was taking over again. "I." His voice sounded tiny.

"Well?" The wolf stared at him, menacing, baring her teeth.

He sat straighter and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. 'Don't back down now,' he told himself. 'Don't forget who's the alpha here.'

There was a chilled silence, giving the former vampire goose bumps. A cold arctic breeze passed between them.

'Alpha male, remember?'

The smirk returned, a little over-exaggerated.

"Oh c'mon, Slayer," the idiot using his voice said, "you can't be that stupid-"

'Balls! Bad choice of words there.'

The she-wolf's eyes flared, causing Spike's mental tail to tuck between his legs.

'Bloody bad choice of words.'

She opened her mouth, ready to attack. He cringed in his seat.

'Bloody, bloody stupid!'

She paused, and her mouth hung open. The angry look left her face, replaced with a new expression. Shock? Surprise? Spike wasn't sure.

"What is it, luv?" His voice was low and apprehensive.

"You're." Her eyes widened and she caught her breath.

"What is it?" He sounded urgent now.

"You're." She reached across the table for his hand. He looked down and saw the cause of her concern. He lifted his hand in front of him, staring straight through it, at the Slayer.

"Oh my god, Buffy," he said, sounding strangely fuzzy and unclear. "What's happening to me?"

Chapter 6 - Shades of Grey

Faith fumbled through the pockets of her leather jacket in search of her cell phone. Both the jacket and the phone had been "acquired" from her last undead victim, a stockbroker turned vampire with sandy-hair and a brilliant smile.

She recalled the pearl-like teeth he'd flashed her after she'd approached him in a bar. He'd been a perfect gentleman: offering to walk her home, and lending her his coat when she appeared to be cold.

A perfect gentleman.

Until they passed a dark, deserted alley. Then he'd grabbed her shoulder and pushed her to the ground. Game face on, he'd leered down at her.

They were all the same. Monsters.

It made her "work" a lot easier. She easily jumped to her feet and pulled a stake out of her coat pocket. The vampire's yellow eyes had widened for a half-second. Then they'd narrowed as he grinned for the last time.

Faith flipped open the cell phone and paused for a moment. What was she doing? She should've been on a bus out of the city by now. Why linger?

It was just.

She had a weird feeling. Something about the dark-haired vampire. Something wasn't right.

She walked over to the coffee table and picked up the crumpled slip of paper that was lying amidst the clutter of magazines and discarded wrappers.

Something wasn't right.

She punched in the numbers neatly written under the unfamiliar name. Cameron Grey.

The phone rang and she thought about hanging up.

Not too late.

It rang again and she almost flipped the phone closed.

Then there was a click and a man's voice came on.

"Hello?"

Faith froze. The voice was silky smooth and she thought she detected an accent. English?

There was a pause.

"Hello?" He repeated.

Faith's fingers curled tighter around the phone but she remained silent.

There was a longer pause.

She heard him let out a long, even breath as if he were trying to be patient. He spoke again, his voice quieter this time, almost urgent.

"Hope?" She nearly dropped the phone.

"Hope? Is that you."

Faith flipped the phone shut.

* * *

Hope had been walking for most of the night, barely aware of where she was going. The sky was growing light and people were already on their way to work. She'd be late for school if she didn't hurry.

The doorman to her building nodded to her and smiled knowingly as she entered the marble-floored lobby.

"All-nighter, Miss Mason?" he asked conversationally.

Hope barely glanced at him. She stuck her hands in her pockets and hunched forward.

"Yeah," she replied quietly.

In front of her, the elevator door opened and an older woman with a large poodle stepped out. She glanced at Hope but didn't say anything.

Hope entered the elevator and pressed the button labeled "40".

She thought about skipping school and curling up in bed and going to sleep- maybe permanently.

She was tired and confused. She felt alone.

Still.

"I'm a Slayer-like you, " the stranger had said.

"Like you."

She wanted to believe it. Someone like her.

"I've been watching you."

The elevator stopped with a slight lurch and the brass doors in front of her opened. She stepped into the hallway and took out her keys.

"The way you fight. Like you wanna die."

She opened the door to her apartment and stepped inside. It was quiet, as she knew it would be. Her mother was still asleep, blissfully unaware of what was going on in her daughter's life.

Hope peeked at her mother through the sliver of open door and saw her sprawled out on the king-sized bed, clutching her pillow, satin sheets kicked to the floor.

"I know what you're going through."

Hope withdrew and closed the door.

"Nobody knows," she whispered.

"I can help you."

She entered her room, grabbed some clothes out of her dresser and went to the bathroom. She ran the water and undressed. Steam filled room and she stepped into the shower.

The water was hot, almost scalding. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the warm vapors.

"I can help you."

She covered her face with her hands and leaned against the shower wall.

"I can help."

She sank to the floor and huddled in the corner. The tiny droplets stung her skin, leaving red blotches.

"I can."

"No," Hope said, head down, hugging her knees to her chest.

"I."

"No," she repeated. "No one can help." She squeezed her hands into fists and pressed them to her cheeks.

"No one."

* * *

The sound started off soft, then grew louder and clearer. A ringing.

Hope tried to ignore it. She was tired. Sleep. She needed to sleep.

But the ringing wouldn't stop. Her mother had trashed the answering machine months before. She'd flung it against the wall after hearing a message she hadn't liked, one from Hope's father.

Hope buried her head beneath her pillow. It felt damp and cold like a mossy rock beside a stream and her hair clung to her face like seaweed.

The caller was relentless and the ringing continued. Who would be calling at this hour? Who?

Hope glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was four in the afternoon.

Cursing under her breath, she reached for the phone and picked up the receiver. Finally, the ringing halted.

Hope was tempted to hang up or pull the cord from the wall, but the man's voice stopped her.

She held the phone to her ear and listened.

"Hope? Hope are you there? Hope?"

Somebody, it seemed, actually cared about her.

She bit her bottom lip before speaking. "Mr. Grey?"

There was a sigh of relief. "Thank God." murmured her Watcher. "Hope, you really had me worried. When you didn't show up for school and then missed our training session."

"I'm sorry," Hope said. "I guess I overslept. I, uh, had a rough night."

Grey paused before speaking. "Well," he said, his voice now even and composed. "I'm glad you're all right. What happened last night?"

"I, uh," Hope began. She thought about the girl-the Slayer. Could it be true? "I-"

She recalled what the girl had told her: "The Watchers' Council is a bunch of lying, old men who can't be trusted."

But surely she could trust Mr. Grey.

"Hope?" her Watcher asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Surely.

"Are you still there, Hope?"

"Yeah," Hope answered, "I'm here."

Grey sighed. "Why don't you take the day off. No patrolling tonight, okay? I'll see you tomorrow at our usual time and we can talk then."

Hope nodded absently and mumbled her agreement. "Okay."

She hung up the phone and curled up into bed.

* * *

The phone rang two, three, four times before the answering machine picked up. For a half-second, Faith thought about leaving a message then slammed the phone shut.

She stood, shoulders slumped in the middle of her studio apartment, angrily chewing on her thumb nail. He wasn't there. She glanced at her watch. But of course he wouldn't be home. It would be mid-morning in London. He'd be at the office.

She picked up her leather address book and looked up the number for the Watchers' Council Headquarters. She'd try Giles there.

* * *

Giles took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. The liquid was barely tepid. He sighed quietly and made a mental note to buy a thermal mug during his lunch break. These Council meetings tended to be rather long.

He stifled a yawn. And boring.

They'd spent over forty-five minutes talking about the upcoming Watchers' retreat. It was going to be in Wiltshire again, near Stonehenge. Not the most original location. But then Watchers weren't exactly known for their originality.

He wondered what they were known for these days and yawned. Dullness?

The most interesting bit of information he'd learned at the meeting so far was that Quentin Travers wouldn't be attending the retreat this year. It was the office scuttlebutt that Travers was headed for early retirement. Ever since his mishandling of the situation with Faith and Emily eleven months before, he'd been in the hot seat.

Giles looked across the table at his long-time colleague. Travers' loyalty to the Council and the cause was without question. But his methods.

Sadly, Travers still didn't feel he'd done anything wrong. The attempt on Faith's life had, in his mind, been a success-and warranted. No, the only failing he'd admitted to was letting Emily Pierce, the witch and vampire, escape. Travers still claimed to have a plan-something in the works-to right the situation.

Giles wondered what that plan might be and who...

He glanced around the long, mahogany table, scanning the faces of the twenty men and women considered the Council's 'top brass'.

He wondered who else knew.

* * *

Forty minutes later, Giles lumbered back to his office, cold coffee mug in hand. As he sat down at his desk, he immediately noticed that the message light on his phone was blinking.

"I wonder who." he mumbled as he reached for the receiver.

As if on cue, the telephone rang, causing the Watcher's hand to recoil in surprise. He straightened in his seat then answered the telephone.

The voice on the other end was familiar and sounded urgent.

"Giles," Faith hissed, "I've been trying to get a hold of you for over an hour. I-"

"Faith?" Giles cut in. "What it is? Is there something wrong?"

"I don't know." Faith responded. "I. Giles?"

"Yes?"

"Who's Cameron Grey?"

Chapter 7 - Without a Trace

"Armani. Armani. Armani." Angel mumbled to himself as he sorted through the sea of dark suits that filled the large, walk-in closet. "Calvin Kl-" He paused and studied a charcoal gray pantsuit. "Nope. Armani." He reached for the next garment and frowned.

"That’s funny," he said, pulling out a black trench coat. Judging from the rest of the clothes in the closet, Emily Pierce was a petite woman-probably no taller than Buffy. He held the coat up to his chest. It appeared to be his size. Definitely too long for Spike’s sister.

"Hm. Maybe she had a boyfriend…" He searched through the pockets and pulled out a roll of money and a crumpled bit of paper with a name and number neatly written on it. "Boys and girls," he said with satisfaction. "I think we’ve found a clue."

He put the money and note in his pocket and headed downstairs to tell Buffy.

* * *

"Spike?"

Buffy stared at the chair across of from her in disbelief. Just a second before it had been occupied-by Spike. She leaned over the table and waved her hands over the seat, but the only thing left of the former vampire was his jacket slung over the chair’s back.

They’d been talking, then he’d started to fade, his body becoming mist-like. He’d looked at her alarmed and confused-and then he was gone-like in a magic show.

Only this hadn’t been done with mirrors, slight of hand or trap doors. This wasn’t a trick.

But how? Why? Buffy had no idea.

She stood up and scanned the kitchen, turning around and around, making herself dizzy. "Where did you go?" she demanded, her voice shaking. "Where did you go?"

* * *

"I’m right here!" Spike yelled, his face just inches from Buffy’s. He tried grabbing her shoulder, but his hand passed right through her. "What the…?" He stared at his hand and then down at his body. He looked transparent, like a hologram.

He turned back to the Slayer. "Buffy!" But she couldn’t hear or see him. She was heading for the door, calling Angel.

The dark-haired vampire nearly collided with her as he entered the room.

"What’s happened?" he asked, looking around warily and noting the Watcher’s absence. "Where’s Spike?"

"He’s gone," the Slayer replied, her eyes glistening with tears. "I don’t know what happened. He just…" Buffy covered her mouth, suppressing a sob and stared wide-eyed at Angel, who put a comforting arm around her shoulder and guided her to a chair.

"He just disappeared," Buffy continued. "One second he was sitting right there and then he started…fading. Right in front of my eyes."

Angel pulled a chair close to Buffy’s and seated himself next to her. Tentatively, he put a hand on top of hers. She looked at him in surprise, but didn’t pull her hand away.

Standing behind them, Spike glared at Angel and took a swipe at him. "Get your bloody mitts off my-" But Spike’s hand passed ineffectually through the vampire’s body and both Angel and Buffy remained completely unaware of his presence.

Angel’s brows knitted in thought. "Maybe he was teleported somehow. You said his sister was a witch. Maybe she…"

Buffy looked up at him, hopeful. "Maybe."

"Or maybe not!" Spike said angrily. "I’m right here! I didn’t go anywhere. Peaches is dead wrong with the teleportation idea. C’mon, Buffy, you’ve got to feel me here…sense me…"

"But the ashes we found earlier," Buffy said, sounding doubtful. "We assumed that they were Emily’s."

Angel looked contemplative. "From what you told me, this Emily was pretty powerful. She’d be tough to kill. Those ashes could’ve been from another vampire maybe…or an ashtray for that matter."

Buffy nodded silently.

"I’m just guessing, of course," Angel continued. "I don’t know for sure what happened here, but if he was teleported somewhere, we could probably find him-"

"With a location spell!" Buffy finished, looking up at him with shining eyes.

"Right." Angel smiled at her. "We can go to my place and work on it."

Spike rolled his eyes with irritation. "Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!" he muttered, then stopped to think.

Did location spells work on ghosts? Or whatever it was he’d become…

Maybe the poofter wasn’t such a daft bloke after all. If they could at least be aware of his presence. That would be a start, he supposed.

Buffy stood up, then noticed Spike’s coat hanging on the chair he’d been sitting on. She walked over to it and ran her fingers over the smooth leather. "We’ll find you," she whispered. She picked up the coat, draped it over an arm and carried it with her as she followed Angel out of the room and to his car.

* * *

Standing in the driveway with his arms crossed, Spike watched the taillights of Angel’s car fade into the darkness as the vampire and Slayer drove away. He’d tried to go with them, but lacking substance, his body had passed right through the car.

If only they could hear him, he thought angrily. If only ‘somebody’ could hear him! What he would’ve given to find somebody that he could talk to!

Without warning, the air at his feet began to stir, gusting around him and sweeping him up, up, up over the treetops toward the midnight sky.

"Oh bloody hell! Now what?"" Spike muttered as he found himself being swept away.

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