Chapter 6: Finesse

Half awake, Buffy picked up the buzzing cell phone, at first under the impression it was her alarm going off. Turning the phone right-way up, she blinked at the lighted clock face: 5:33. When she recognized Spike’s voice before the phone was even near her ear, she knew: one of those calls.

“--all right?”

Leaning back on the pillow, Buffy sighed. “Start over, Spike, I didn’t hear you the first time. It might have something to do with its being five thirty in the morning!”

“What?”

He sounded as muzzy and blurred as she felt. The end of his day; the beginning of hers. Whoever thought meeting in the twilight was romantic never had a boyfriend who worked third shift. “Never mind, what is it?”

“Just don’t, all right?”

Buffy shut her eyes. She wished she had his neck in reach: she would have given him a thorough shaking. Not that it would have done any good. “Don’t what, Spike?”

“What? You try that and I’ll pull you to scraps and flinders! You’re--”

Dial tone. With luck, he might not have dropped the phone or flung it at someone and broken it. Again. She turned on the bedside light, squinting, and hit the #4 speed dial. It rang, so at least his phone wasn’t broken. She waited. After twenty-two rings, there was a connection, and Spike’s voice barked, “What?”

It’s not his fault, Buffy told herself, like a mantra. He doesn’t really understand phones, forgets I can’t see him, forgets everything except his own cockamamie impulses and urgencies. “Spike, I didn’t hear you the other time. What don’t you want me to do?”

“Oh. Buffy.” He didn’t think to look at the caller ID, either. “Just don’t come up here for the training today, all right? Some other time, all right? Yeah.”

Dial tone again.

Buffy shut the phone off. Sliding her legs from under the covers, she sat slumped on the edge of the bed for a minute, then made herself get up, grab a robe, and head to the bathroom for the shower she’d apparently been too thoroughly conked to take last night. She didn’t even remember getting home.

Some night. Some morning.

Leaving the bathroom, still toweling her hair, Buffy stopped when Willow popped out of her room, dressed and frazzled, demanding, “What is it?” By the look of her, Willow hadn’t been to sleep yet.

“Mystery Spike-o-gram. About a five on the hysterical scale.”

“About what?” Willow seemed to expect some dreadful revelation.

"No clue. Probably some trailing agenda item he wanted to unburden himself of before surrendering to the sweet sleep I'm not gonna get any more of, thanks a lot. But not enough to actually say it. Like to hit him with a rock--that would put him to sleep, all right. I think he's drunk. At least. Sounded like some kind of free-for-all going on up there." Buffy paused to yawn.

“You mean, at the factory?”

Buffy nodded, waiting for her jaw to unlock. “Best guess. So I better check. What are you doing still up, Will?”

Willow leaned against the wall. “That stasis. Dawn won’t tell me how to lift it.”

“Dawn? What does Dawn--?”

“Oh, you must have slept through that part. Dawn’s not Dawn. And the stasis was her doing. But she won’t tell me how to lift it, and Amy’s been like that nearly three days. Awful.” Willow shuddered, looking exhausted and haunted.

Buffy tried to take that in. It wouldn't fit. Anyway, Willow wasn't freaking about that but something else. So it was probably OK, as nonsense went. Buffy shook her head, dismissing it for later explanation, and went back to her room to dress, calling over her shoulder, "Well, see she gets off to school all right, OK?" and took Willow's indistinct mutter as agreement. One maybe-semi-crisis at a time. There was just about time to drive up to the factory and find out what kind of mess was going on up there, hopefully sort that out, and get back to the high school by eight.

Grabbing coffee at the new Espresso Pump drive-thru window, Buffy noticed a hand-lettered sign, NOW OPEN 24/7. Interesting. Maybe foolhardy, but interesting. Vamps had strange ideas about take-out.

The sky behind her was just beginning to pale when she carefully maneuvered the SUV up the potholed drive. In the bouncing headlight beams, it was clear that the factory (no surprise) was still standing in all its weedy, decrepit glory. No invasion, no pitched battle in progress. Hadn’t sounded like that anyway, but you never knew. More like Spike drunk and teed off at some minion…and wanting to keep her out of it. Like he wanted to keep her out of nearly everything, it had begun to seem to her. Well, that was so not gonna happen….

As she made her way to the annex, stepping carefully in the near-dark, she could hear Spike shouting. No other noise, though. The annex door stood open, and no sentry was on duty. That was odd and probably not of the good.

She went on through and stopped just past the inner door, waiting for her eyes to adjust so she could find out what Spike was hollering about in what otherwise was silence. Somebody had crossed him, that was plain. In full-out rant mode: berating his crew, both as a group and as individuals, by name, in language graphically foul even by his standards. With expletives, most adjectives, and body parts removed, the general gist seemed to be that they were worthless, disobedient parasites unfit to stand on the earth and he wanted to be rid of them and start over with more promising material.

Dim, indirect light came through the unpainted slit windows at the top, greying the big open space. She could make out Spike vaguely: his hair, and his motion--pacing, wheeling, coming to a tense abrupt halt to yell something, then pacing again like something caged, furious. Gesturing, of course: for an instant Buffy thought the shine of something in his lifted hand was a weapon, then realized it was a bottle when he hurled it against the cinderblock wall.

Not a rant--an explosion in progress, the sort that had wrecked Willow’s bedroom. Not much, in this bare, functional space, for him to vent the rage on. So what was he…?

In the strengthening high light, she saw them: the vamps, his crew. About a dozen, perched like so many blackbirds on one of the steel rafters at least twenty feet up, utterly still in the way only vamps could be. They’d drawn up the ropes. And Spike raging below, back and forth, unable to get at them.

They were trapped up there. And though no sunlight could reach the factory floor, Buffy wasn’t so certain about the combination of the rafters, the high slit windows, and the rising sun. But none of the vamps showed any sign of moving. Either they knew they were safe or they were more afraid of Spike than of the sun. At least going up in flames would be quick.

Sometimes, Spike was not to be approached. Sometimes, he’d lash out at anything that startled him or just whatever he found within his reach. Sometimes, he wasn’t anything approaching sane. Not aimless, frightened babbling, like when he’d first returned, freshly souled. Full-out violence. Explosions. Not for months, now; until an eruption last Saturday--the one that had reduced Willow’s bedroom furniture to splinters and scraps. Compulsive. Uncontrolled, pretty much unthinking. For no outer reason at all.

Before the sparkly powder and whatever spell it had carried. Just Spike himself, as far as Buffy could tell.

Saturday, Buffy had stayed clear until it ended on its own. Somehow she wasn’t inclined to do that now. So, big deal: he was dangerous. So was she.

The fact was, she’d have had no use for him if he wasn’t.

The fact was, she liked him that way.

Except the crazy was a problem; and the collateral breakage was hard to justify.

Assessing the situation, she hadn’t made a sound or a move in about five minutes. Except her heartbeat, when there was no other; except her breathing; except her warmth, when everything else was a steady room temperature and that on the chilly side. And then there was her smell. All things that vamps were hyper-aware of at near-incredible distances.

Buffy didn’t know which of the involuntary cues was the trigger. But out in the middle of the floor with his back to her, Spike went as still as the vamps on the rafter and she knew he was aware of her. He said, “Get out,” in his ordering-vamps voice.

Pushing away from the door frame, Buffy strolled toward him. “You said not to come after school. You didn’t say anything about coming now.”

“You got no business here. Get out.”

It was a delicate matter, she understood instinctively: the Slayer wasn’t under his orders. Yet she mustn’t make him lose face in front of the troops. Face was very important to vamps and Spike’s authority was only what he claimed and could enforce.

She mustn’t jeopardize that.

He was like a lion tamer, she thought. And he was also like the lion. He could be sudden and unpredictable.

She recalled what had happened in her bedroom. Mostly her fault, she conceded in retrospect. They'd both been taken by surprise, and he'd simply reacted. He hadn't apologized because there'd been no choice involved…except hers, to bring him there, to have his spelled sleep out; to set the stage just so; and then wake him by dumping blood in his face. Something like getting punched out by somebody in the throes of a nightmare.

This was different. She hadn’t naively blundered into it. She’d decided and come, and wasn’t backing off. And he wasn't asleep. Only fighting drunk and homicidally nuts.

She circled a little until she could make out his profile. Of course in the cellar-like gloom, he was game-faced. They all would be, to see. If she came too close, he’d flash out at her. So she kept circling--an easy, unthreatening stroll. He didn’t turn, although his eyes followed her. He was holding himself still.

Under other circumstances, she thought, he would have backed off, removed himself until he could settle. But he couldn’t afford that here. Not with an audience. Not with his demon to the fore. Staying still, she understood, was as much as he could manage.

“Looks like you’re still having Halloween up here,” she found herself saying, as if casually. She paused. “Spike, did the leftover box of smell ever get put in my office?”

He puzzled at that. “Dunno,” he said finally.

“If it’s been down in the gym all night, probably a lot of it has walked. But then, that’s the idea, right? To get it out, in circulation. If I need help with it, I guess I can get somebody to help me. Maybe Maintenance.”

That was good, she thought: dazzle with details, that he wasn't taking in but still trying to get his mind around. Like she'd tried to take in Dawn not being Dawn, whatever that might mean. Wouldn't compute, so she'd set it aside like Spike was trying to set aside the problematic location of the box of smell. Should make sense but didn't. Distract and deflect. Defuse.

It was definitely getting brighter now. Buffy resumed her circle and, when she was behind Spike's back, chanced a glance at the vamps roosting up on the rafter. They'd moved as far as they could get to the right, huddled up under the slant of the sheet-metal roof. West: into the deeper dark, away from the dotted-line strip of narrow east-facing windows. So. That question answered. The beam was gonna become real uncomfortable in a few more minutes.

Her impulse was just to wade in and slug him, be done with it, but that would have confirmed the rumors that Spike was her bedmate and no more, that the whole new order was some dire Slayer plan to rid Sunnydale of vamps altogether. That she already towed Spike around on the imaginary leash she’d threatened him with. Couldn’t do that.

There were several crude words for a woman who’d do that and Spike had called her most of them, one time or another. Not lately, though.

Mostly, they had an understanding.

Mostly, they got on just fine.

“Hey,” she said, circling back around in front of him again, “d’you have any more of those pills? Coffee just isn’t getting the job done here.” She only wanted to get him moving: out of this situation, away from his treed quarry and out of public view. But something indefinable in his expression or his body language conveyed an inner zing that said her random request had hit some unknown hot button. Watching his reaction, she pushed it a little farther. “I can see you’re having a thing here, so I don’t want to interrupt. They’re back in your office, right? I’ll just--”

So fast she didn’t even see him move, he’d grabbed her arm. “No. I’ll get ‘em.”

Good thing she was wearing a long-sleeved blouse and jacket: the finger marks wouldn’t show. “No problem,” she said, moving away but not pulling hard. Just sort of leaning. “I know the way, and I can turn on a light. In your desk, right?”

“No.”

She turned full around, and he’d shed game-face. He looked exasperated, a bit panicked, and too stupid-drunk to think of an answer. Deliberately misunderstanding his blanket No, Buffy prompted, “Then where are they?

“Just stay here, all right? I’ll get ‘em.” He released her arm and started, a little uncertainly, toward the back.

The last thing she wanted was more of those wretched pills. So she said the first thing that popped into her head: “Why don’t you want me to go back there? Have you got a girl back there, Spike?”

He wheeled around and looked at her like that was the most insane thing he’d heard in decades. “In the office?”

That was OK, she realized. That was an accusation that wouldn't make him look bad in front of the nervous, trapped audience. Given what he'd bluntly told her about vamps' common approach to sex, they'd probably think the better of him for it. Made her look like a total dork; but that didn’t concern her.

She took three strides and seized his arm the same as he’d grabbed hers. “No way you’re gonna brush me off now. Come on, show me the girl you don’t have back there.”

“What?”

“Come on. This, I have to see for myself!”

She assumed the flurry of muted thumps she heard behind her was a dozen or so vamps bailing out before they fried.

She hadn’t done it for them: she just wanted to get Spike settled in time to get to work.

Hauling Spike toward the barricade of dead machines, Buffy thought it would serve her right if he really did have a girl on the cot: she imagined Candy. She imagined Mae West (vamped, naturally) in post-coital dishabille. With some unease, she imagined Dru, which actually might be possible.

What she didn’t expect to find, when she turned on the desk light, was Mike. Fully clothed. And out cold.

**********

“Spike?”

It was Rona’s voice. The tribute. Finally.

Spike thought of calling, but she’d figure it out. Before she came through the barricade, he left Buffy in the office and headed for the west wall. Light was on in the office. She’d figure it out, Rona would.

He could hear and smell the blood coming. All the blood.

No. Not gonna do her like that. Not starved, he told his demon, only hungry. His demon wasn’t convinced. Wanted to take them both. Spike shut his eyes but that was no help because he could feel it, what it would be like.

“Spike?” Rona’s voice called someplace behind him again. She sounded pissed. She mostly sounded pissed these days. No help for it. “Spike, there’s nobody on the door.”

Oh. Right. Should see to that. They’d still be someplace inside, with the sun up. Hadn’t gone down the drain because they’d have had to go past him, and they hadn’t. So they were still inside.

Have to think of someplace to lair up. Not here. Someplace else.

Wasn’t thinking straight. So hard to think of anything, feel anything but the raging bloodthirst. He’d gotten as far as daylight, and that pretty much put paid to hunting. Could stop thinking about that now. Little flashing scenarios. Pictures in his head. The good taste in his mouth. An ache, a lack, through the whole of his body. Deep in need.

Rona asked where he wanted the tribute put and he didn’t know what to tell her. Couldn’t have her bring it to him or he’d take her first. In the office, Buffy was there and mustn’t be near her now. He thought he’d told her but maybe he hadn’t. It all swam together, and Rona was coming toward him.

“There,” Spike directed, not turning, with a loose gesture.

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. On the floor. Just leave it. And if you can come up with any more, bring it.”

“You mean, like, now?”

Spike held himself still. “Soon as you can.”

She was coming toward him. “Spike, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t. Go on now, Rona. See if you can scare up some more. If you can.”

She ordered, “Say ‘pet.’ So I’ll know you’re OK.”

He felt the shift come and go through his bones, his flesh. “Pet,” he said obediently, through fangs.

“All right, if you say. You gonna be here?”

Another thing to think out, sort. “Dunno. Leave it here regardless.”

“Or you could cell me--”

Would the child never shut up and leave? “Just leave it and go, Rona. Stat.” That was hospital jargon. He’d learned that from Amanda, who meant to be some kind of nurse or doctor or something. He was used to all the children, all the SITs. Meant them no harm. Had to remember that.

“OK,” said Rona uncertainly, moving away. “If you say….”

She only went as far as the office and was talking to Buffy, but Spike didn’t care. He was down on his knees on the cement floor, pulling open the cool box and tearing into the blood. The usual three bags. Would barely begin to supply the lack. Have to do, because that was all there was that was tolerable.

At least he’d made it through to daylight. Couldn’t hunt now, if the children would quit dropping into his lap with their puzzled, concerned voices and their thundering hearts. Wanting to talk to him as though he couldn’t drink them down in a second, and more besides.

At last, Rona was going. Her pulse became more distant and finally he couldn’t hear it at all. Nearly quiet, except for Buffy and the stronger, sweeter life in her he’d nearly taken too much of once already and wanted now so bad….

Having finished the last bag, he held himself completely motionless while it spread through him. Better. But not nearly enough. As Buffy’s heat floated toward him like a red-shifted mirage, as she walked toward him to the accompaniment of the beat of her blood, Spike thought maybe he could manage. Do this, now: enough to get her gone, anyway. Until he could get himself fed back up and be answerable for himself again.

He made himself shift aspect, to present a human face. That other, that wasn’t what they were to one another.

But he knew his mark on her, and it pulled. And permitted. It was nearly more than he could do to keep his demon from getting past him altogether, it wanted her so bad. In all ways. Regardless and indiscriminate.

Likely the liquor hadn’t helped much, in terms of control. But it had been a distraction, a blurred insulation between him and what he was in aching need of. Good enough to get him through to morning, even at the price of scaring the hell out of the crew. Those he hadn’t dusted. Anything to keep him here, keep him from going where he wanted to be, doing what he wanted to do. Keep him from flying apart in all directions, like wrecking Red’s room except with things that couldn’t be mended or replaced.

“You find the pills all right?” he asked, and added, “Pet?” because it seemed saying that was sufficient proof of normalcy.

“Changed my mind,” she said. “The being hyper part isn’t all that great, and conking out in the middle of conversations isn’t too hot either.”

“Then you should go.” Spike glanced at his watch without noting the time. “Or you’ll be late.”

“I can be a little late. I’m like a single parent, and things happen. And I should have some credit to draw on, punctuality-wise.”

“Please, Buffy--just go.”

“Two pleases in two days: you’re making me nervous now.”

Spike guessed that was supposed to be a joke.

She was close: he could feel her, smell her, sense her as sure as eyes. Her hand landed on the back of his neck and started stroking there.

But he could still do it. Hold himself still. Not take her. And eventually she’d leave, and he’d find a place to lair up and sleep, and it would still be all right.

Balanced on the edge of destroying what he loved most in the world, the most precious thing he’d known in all his long unlife, he stayed where he was and didn’t turn.

She asked quietly, “You gonna tell me?”

“Thought I had. Not a good day to start the training visits, after all.”

“No, you did tell me that. Sort of. No, I mean what’s set you off like this. This is twice in under a week, Spike. Don’t give a damn what you do with your minions, but…I think I need to understand these…explosions. And why you’re trying so hard to shove me away when you don’t even have a girl in the office.”

Another joke, likely. Or a try at one, anyway.

She wouldn’t leave until he’d said something to content her. So he supposed he had to.

“Michael needed a sign.”

A silence. Then she said, “Well, that’s real helpful. In the sense of not.”

“He needed something from me. Thought it was his death, we both did, and that made good enough sense. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t do what he wanted, neither: hunt with him. Do like vamps do, indiscriminate. Gave me my fucking watch back--with Red’s spell in it, like the lockets--so it wouldn’t be lost when he dusted, the bloody sentimental git. Couldn’t.”

“Oh: that watch. The gold pocket watch inscribed to you by your father. That one.”

“Yeah. Gave it back to me.”

“Yeah. I can see how that could be a gut-wrencher. He’s obviously not dusted. So what did you give him?”

Almost, Spike said My life. Whatever of it he wanted. As much as he needed. For a sign. But he didn’t think Buffy would have understood, and it would take too long to explain, assuming he even could.

Coldly, factually, he said, “I let him feed from me. And all I wanted…was to come to you. And I knew I couldn’t. Not then…and not now. Not until I’ve got myself fed up again. You being here…it makes everything harder, love. Damn near impossible. Let me be. I’ll be fine. In a while. Rona, she’s gonna see if she can wheedle me some more. ‘Cause this, this is all gone, y’see.”

“You didn’t hunt.”

“No. Nor Michael neither. No need, after I’d done for him. But…you can’t do for me. Not that way. S’not what I want. Except….”

“Except right now, it’s hard to remember that. I think I get it. Enough, anyway. Now’s not so important, we’ll have the weekend.” Her hand, her warmth retreated. “Call me when you wake up.”

“Right,” agreed Spike dully.

Now he just needed to think of where to lair up, since Michael had needed the cot. Yeah, and get somebody on the door. Kennedy would show up in another hour or so. She could see to it. He should leave her a note if he could remember what he'd done with the pen.

**********

Waking about midday, Spike uncurled in the storm bypass where he’d laired up and phoned an order for coffee while having his first cigarette of the day. It should be waiting for him by the time he got back to the factory. Then he called Buffy, as he’d promised. First item on the day’s agenda. Not much to talk about, really. Yeah, he was OK. Yeah, he was still hungry but not so crazy-starving as earlier, so yeah, her weekend plans were still on and he’d be where he’d said (Casa Summers) come sundown.

He didn’t think Digger (or any of the District Masters) had the wit or the equipment to monitor cellphone calls, but human services could be purchased and there was no reason to be completely dumb about things, naming places where he’d spend the night. That started him thinking about other human services, besides coffee, he might use himself, and when he reached the factory and got the computer running, he ran a couple of searches and saved the results.

Finally the coffee came--he’d hit the lunchtime crunch, the delivery kid explained, apologizing, but Spike still withheld the customary tip. It didn’t do to encourage such things, and an apology was no excuse. He expected his orders to get priority, and said so.

Settling back at the computer, he was following up on the results of the first of his searches when Kennedy came in. She’d rearranged the roster to have the door covered at all times, allowing for the shorter muster roll, taking account of the crew he’d dusted last night. He seemed to have done for about half of them but fortunately nobody he couldn’t afford to lose. He’d had that much sense, he noted with scant satisfaction.

Ken wanted to know what the culling had been about and he told her to mind her own business, whereupon she pointed out that his business was her business now, and he gave her a stare and told her only as far as she was useful, which made her back off and go away, which was good.

He didn’t feel like dealing with humans today, at least not face to face. Too many messy complications he didn’t feel like bothering about.

Michael, of course, was still asleep. Still near enough to a fledge that he wouldn’t stir till sundown. The minor dust-up with Ken hadn’t even made him twitch. Leaning back in his chair, finishing the first cup of coffee, Spike regarded the lad fondly for a little while, then went back to work, setting up appointments, and visits from those available only during the day at inconvenient places.

Emil had the day watch, and was a little nervous of Spike at first. Spike ignored Emil’s edginess, giving orders for a duty crew to complete an assignment at Casa Summers, and Emil settled down, seeing that the storm had passed. So that was all right.

Never any harm in instilling healthy terror in the minions from time to time, for any reason or for none. Couldn’t have them getting complacent or slack. Lots more where they came from, and he’d see to that first thing this evening.

Then he turned on the light, pulled up a fresh document, and methodically started on the translation. What he had in mind wouldn’t come cheap, and he was still playing catch-up on the money end. After about an hour, when the headache started, he took a break to phone Willow to tell her to expect the duty crew and let them through the spell barriers protecting the house, and no need to mention it to Buffy, it being a sort of surprise. Willow was still all wound up about that Amy, still no progress on lifting the stasis, and Lady Gates wasn’t being cooperative, no surprise, so he gave her the number of a witch he’d dealt with out of town, who might have some suggestions. The Devon coven still hadn’t got back to her.

The occasion seemed appropriate. Checking his watch and adding the five hours for London time, he called Giles, got a machine, and left a message. Giles returned his call within the hour. Watcher sounded cautiously cordial enough. Spike explained about Willow’s problem and was told the coven were on some kind of retreat tied to All Hallow’s and the run-up to the winter solstice, or some such crap. The bottom line was that Giles knew a non-telephonic way to contact the head of the coven, though she wouldn’t like being interrupted, and grudgingly promised to do so, which was all Spike cared about anyway.

“And how are things going there?” Giles inquired.

“Well enough, I suppose,” Spike replied, lighting a cigarette and resigning himself to chat, since Giles seemed to expect it and Spike was asking for a favor. Had to keep in the Watcher’s good graces, after all. Wanker. “Direct assassination attempts seem to have let up for the moment. Likely gearing up for something more general. Run into a pack on a sweep, or try to take out the factory, most like, since I’m a bit short-handed at the moment.” Changing the subject before Giles could ask why, Spike went on, “Buffy’s class is going over a treat, though. Had at least sixty, last go-around. And the first of the smell’s been distributed. So that’s started.”

“What sort of reception does it seem to be receiving?”

“Hard to tell,” Spike responded diplomatically, since saying he hadn’t seen a single vamp veer away from it so far would sound like total failure. “Early days yet. Have to bang a few more heads or something, I guess. Tisn’t a natural association, after all. Have to wade in with a hammer to get a vamp to learn anything.”

“Quite,” said Giles dryly.

“I learned phones,” Spike shot back, with more indignation than he felt. “An’ didn’t roust you out of bed at three ack emma, which is more than Buffy does.” Bloody twit..

“Point taken. And how are things otherwise?”

The SITs, all three of them, were coming through the barrier, all serious looking. “Sorry, have to tend to a deputation now, good talking to you,” Spike said rapidly, and rung off, wondering what the hell the SITs were peeved about this time, knowing he’d have to deal with it regardless, so no use conjecturing, since he was about to find out.

Amanda was leading off, the other two behind her; so they considered it SIT business. Amanda in her school clothes, the ugly plaid skirt and white blouse of the new order, which reminded him of Dawn. He put away for later the inward wince that thought gave him.

As the three came inside, but only barely, crowded in the doorway, Spike said disagreeably, “So what is it this time? I forget somebody’s birthday again?”

Amanda glanced at Michael on the cot.

“Oh, you won’t budge him,” Spike said. “Don’t worry ‘bout that. He knows I’m here, won’t let you children molest him.”

Amanda colored up, snapping mad. The impulse to come out of the chair and take her was controllable. “I’m skipping a history test for this,” Amanda shot back, “and not to listen to you being an asshole, Spike.”

“Fair enough,” Spike said, folding his hands, concentrating on her face because humans liked eye contact, didn’t have much of any other way to know about things. Also because it might distract him from their changing scents, the triple-time triphammer counterpoint of their pulsebeats. He could do this.

“Are you gonna listen, or are you gonna be an asshole?” Amanda demanded, folding her arms.

“Probably both,” Rona put in snidely.

“Shut up, Rona. We agreed, I make the running here.”

“Just saying,” Rona responded, eyes turned aside, backing off but smelling like buried laughter.

Not a one of the three of them the least frightened of him. His own fault: how he’d taught them. Likely too late to change it now without making them hate him. And he guessed he didn’t want that.

He said, “So get to it, then.”

“You don’t have any mirrors, that’s a given,” said Amanda, pulled up to her full scarecrow five-foot ten, looking at him down her nose. “So you probably need somebody to tell you, you look like shit, Spike.” That was strong language, from Amanda. She had to stop a second and brace to make herself say the S word. “You’re so pale you’re practically transparent, you’ve probably been sleeping in drains and you look it, your hair is a mess, and you have unhealed scabs on both hands. And you have them folded hoping we won’t notice they’re shaking. We notice, Spike. Rona called me, got me out of bed. Then Ken took one look at you and called me out of lunch. Do you think nobody will notice, or do you think nobody will care?”

Spike folded his hands harder, controlling the impulse to hide them, conceal the scabs. Truth was, it hadn't occurred to him they'd notice. Or care. Hadn't thought about them at all. “There gonna be a point somewhere in all this detailed sartorial abuse?”

Rona muttered, “Asshole.”

Kennedy said, “I actually know what ‘sartorial’ means, and it doesn’t include unhealed scabs.”

“Your point?” Spike said to Amanda.

“We understand why you ended the rotation, the roster. There’s not enough of us anymore to do that. And there’s the tribute now, and it’s generally enough. But not always. Not now. You’re down a lot more than a quart, the dipstick’s coming up dry and you’re right on the edge of starving, and we know what that means. You get crazy. You do things. And you can’t afford that. And we’re really insulted and angry, Spike--we’re angry!--you’d let yourself get into such a state, such severe blood debt, and not say a word to any of us.

“Are we a part of this operation or not? If we’re not, I have things I could be doing instead of showing up for Buffy’s class, to make a show of humans in the colors. I don’t need jumping jacks, or to learn how to do throws. We don’t have weapons drill anymore. You’re not teaching us anything anymore. We don’t even patrol. So what are we doing here, Spike? Are we just window dressing, your token humans you trot out to make a point and then send away until the next time you need to make some point? Which, I might add, you never explain to us! You have to choose, Spike. Are we in, or are we out? Call it. Right now.”

If they’d been minions, he’d have known what to do: just slap ‘em down so hard they’d bounce for open insubordination. But they weren’t. They were human children and required him to relate to them as such. And that was increasingly difficult. Damn near impossible, in fact. He hadn’t the patience for it. Or the insight, the common ground that would let him understand and see a problem before it’d reached boiling point.

“You’re in,” Spike said softly. “I need you in. So tell me what you need, because I don’t know that kind of thing anymore unless you tell me.”

“Without the soul,” Kennedy commented in a smug I told you so tone.

“Yeah. That’s part of it,” Spike admitted. “And the rest is that I don’t stretch that far. Something always getting past me, too fast for me to catch it before it hits. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is a good beginning. I think we had an apology coming, and that’s good enough. How about the rest of it?” Amanda still had her arms folded.

Spike shut his eyes. Already late for one of the appointments he’d set up. Have to reschedule. Put that on the agenda. “Slayer says, starting next week--Monday, I guess--she’s gonna come up here after work, after the school lets out, and train. Maybe even with my people. If you want, you come too. We have all the gear from the Magic Box. Got the weapons you used to use, still there in the chest…. By then I’ll have new crew and they’ll need to learn lead and second, flank and point, rearguard…. Could work it like that. If you want.”

“Acceptable. Maybe not every day, I’m on the yearbook committee now. But most days. And? What about the rest of it?”

“What rest of it? Lost the thread here.”

“Some agreement and mechanism for emergency feeding. As in now. Today.”

Spike shook his head, suddenly angry. “You’re not my cows.”

“If we’re in, we are. When that’s what’s needed. I’m not all that crazy about the terminology, but--”

“Kim was my cow. Marked and claimed. And she died for it,” Spike said flatly. “From it. No. And now there’s Suzanne, turned. No. Got to keep you clear of all that.”

Unfolding her arms, Amanda came forward a step and bent a little to set her long, girly hand on his rigidly folded fists. “That wasn’t your doing. Or your responsibility.”

“Happened, just the same. Don’t want that for none of you, that are left. Keep it away from you.”

“None of us are gonna let ourselves be turned. Not even Rona.”

Rona muttered sullenly, “I never really meant it. Not really. I just--”

Kennedy said acerbically, “Everybody knows, Rona. Old news. Just shut up about it, all right?”

Rona retorted, “You are a grade-A, brass-bound bitch, you know that?”

“A badge I wear with pride. I work at it. So sod off.”

Spike started laughing. He couldn’t help it. He found their company and their bitching off at each other, and him, a comfort, and he couldn’t help that either. “All right. Have Emil fetch you some cups.”

“We can do direct,” Rona argued proudly. “We’re not afraid.”

“No. Not gonna mark you, and that’s not up for discussion. One was enough. And too much.” That was a sufficient reason; no need to tell them that if he started, let the eager demon take what it wanted, he was just about certain he couldn’t stop. “No more than a cup each: you’re not Slayers, to make it back in a night.”

“We know, Spike. We’ve done this before--remember?” Amanda said, patting his hand. “We’ll call it ‘cup detail,’ and that’s what you say whenever the tribute isn’t enough. Agreed?”

“Maybe. Won’t promise. But…I won’t forget I can.”

“Not good enough: I want a promise.”

“Well, you’re not gonna get it, so get stuffed!”

“’Manda,” Kennedy put in, “you know he’s impossible when he gets like this. You’re only pushing him into asshole territory again. The point’s made. Now settle.”

Amanda insisted, “But it’s important. He has to--”

“’Manda, I see him every day. And Rona sees him first thing every morning. You think we’re not gonna notice when he looks like death, not even warmed over? Let it go. We got what we came for--enough, already.”

Grumbling and unsatisfied, Amanda consented to go in search of cups. Never happy if every T wasn’t crossed and every I dotted all precise.

He knew these children: it was frustrating that he couldn’t hold them and their ways in his mind the way he was accustomed to. Just his good fortune they were stubborn and determined enough to bridge the distance between when he couldn’t. To literally share their lives with him in the most immediate possible fashion when he was too much in need to ask.

By and large, they were good children. He should take better care of them.

**********

Since the training session had been called off, Buffy didn’t expect Spike to be home when she got there after work. Willow was on the tethered phone, sitting on the weapons chest, talking a mile a minute, enthusiastically. She acknowledged Buffy with a wave, then pointed at the phone several times and silently mouthed some word Buffy couldn’t make out. At least she was enthusiastic. That was probably a good thing.

Buffy started disarming: cell phone to its charger base on the hall table, car keys in the yellow saucer, tote under the table, jacket on the wall peg. She had to write up two evaluations on interviews with students officially “in trouble,” but supper came first, and the blessed weekend was before her. Deal with that later.

Straightening, she was startled to find Dawn watching her from the far side of the banister--sitting on the steps, looking through the spindles like something in a cage. Eerily sudden and still.

“Dawnie, you scared the crap--”

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced. You may call me ‘Lady Gates.’ For practical purposes, it would be simplest if you thought of me as Dawn’s mother.”

Buffy blinked a few times. Dawn wasn’t Dawn. Oh. No wonder Spike had gone off the deep end last night.

“You’re mistaken,” Buffy replied coldly. “Dawn’s mom was Joyce Summers. My mom. Dawn is my sister.”

The whatever-it-was smiled. It needed practice. “I’m her other mother.”

Buffy set her hands on her hips. “What kind of first name is ‘Lady’?”

Not-Dawn shrugged. She needed practice at that, too. No way was she even human. “A matter of convenience, only. It suffices.”

Willow came slinking out of the front room, standing just close enough that Buffy could hit her if she wanted. Making intense anxious-face, Willow said, “I tried to tell you.”

“Not hard enough,” said Buffy grimly. Grabbing Willow’s arm, Buffy steered her through the kitchen and onto the back porch, and shut the door behind them. “OK, spill.”

“My fault entirely. And Spike, a little, because she’s no longer anchored to his soul, except she is, really, and heaven knows where that is. But my fault, I claim the blame, because I’m the one who took her charm. The locket thingie. Like you have on, that was Spike’s.”

“Still listening. Still waiting for sense. Keep working at it, you’ll get there.”

“Dawn’s keyness is because she was made from the Powers. You know: the Powers? Like Glory, only nicer? Except if you listen to Spike, which you don’t do very often, so that’s probably OK. What semi-controls everything--sort of like an agnostic’s version of Yahweh times about 200 or so. All jostling to be Head Egg in any given place, any given time. Anyway, this one is Dawn’s: what she was made out of, split away from. Dawn called it ‘Lady Gates,’ partly because ‘Dimensionality’ is kind of abstract, not to mention hard to say ten times fast. She’s reclaimed her part. Because she could. Because I’d taken away Dawn’s protection from that sort of thing happening, not that I ever thought it would or actually thought about it at all, to be completely honest about it, which I’m trying to be! What do I know about the Powers? Jewish lesbian witch-person: I know more about the properties of saxifrage than I do about the Powers!”

“Babbling, Will. I know about the Powers That Be: they Choose Slayers. I don’t know if they vote or flip coins or what, but they do. And they send Slayer dreams. You told me so yourself, last week. As the current Chosen, unless we take Faith into account, which I’d really rather not do, my question is What the hell is she doing here? And where’s Dawn?”

Willow performed a full-body wince. “Answer number one: she doesn’t like what Spike’s doing, but she doesn’t want the Hellmouth reopened either. So she wants to sit in on things in person. I guess. Answer number two, Dawn’s still there. Lady Gates let her manifest for a few minutes last night. As a treat for Spike, to keep him happy. Which he isn’t, but. Hasn’t gone for her throat yet, either. He’s biding his time, probably trying to figure how to oust her without her coming back at Dawn about it. Because they’re connected. Always have been.”

“So, what: I’m supposed to just pretend I don’t have some kind of cockamamie demigod in my house?”

“That would be one approach,” Willow responded hopefully.

“And what’s this about the Hellmouth?” Buffy demanded, appalled at how much she’d missed. Those pills were bad, bad, bad. A major pinnacle of badness. She put on her agenda a note never to be stupid-desperate enough to do that again. Once had been entirely too much.

“She says that’s what the bunch of mages you and Spike took out were probably doing. Trying to reestablish Sunnydale’s qualifications as the go-to place for vamps, assorted demons, power in the air so thick a knife wouldn’t cut it. Power for any purpose but the worse, the better. Which sounds strange, but never mind. You know what I mean.”

Buffy flapped her arms at her sides. “Great. Just great. That’s all we needed. Spike’s coming apart at the seams, and now we have a resident Power mucking things up!”

“He replaced my furniture today,” Willow mentioned brightly. “Not exactly first-hand, probably scavenged from deserted houses all over town, but I’m not complaining. The bed is really nice, Buffy: hand-rubbed cherry, with these big spindle corner-posts, I think maybe it had a canopy once but it’s pretty even without, and this great maple wardrobe--”

“I’ll take the tour later. Now I have to start supper. Does it eat? The Lady Gates thing?”

“Seems to. She ate breakfast. Half a box of the left-over Froot Loops, that Spike used to like. Eaten by hand. Or more by fist.”

“Let me announce, officially, how much I do not care. Gonna introduce it to spaghetti a la Slayer and it can deal or starve.”

As Buffy tried to pass by and open the door, Willow said, “Don’t count me. I finally heard from the coven, and they’re gonna help me about the stasis. They’d noticed it: meddling with time makes this little pinch in the fabric of reality, and things start to get strange around it after awhile. Not approved. Very much not approved! So they’re gonna help me lift it. Got to run now. Bye!”

Supper was therefore a truly uncomfortable and bizarre experience: sitting at the kitchen island with a sardonic, sly-eyed thing that considered a lecture on noodles through the ages and dimensions to be an acceptable substitute for conversation.

Couldn’t just say, “So how was the history test?” after that and not feel like an utter moron.

It twirled spaghetti like an expert and ate without slurping even once. Definitely not Dawn!

And no Spike. Dusk became dark and still no Spike. Buffy had made garlic bread for him. Finally she said, “Excuse me,” left the kitchen, collected her cell from the charger, and hit the speed dial pacing in the front yard. Only four rings before a pick-up, which was nearly a record.

“Something came up. I’ll be along, just a few minutes.”

“You’d better,” Buffy said. “I’m all alone here with Lady Godlier Than Thou and need extensive reasons not to smash her face in.”

“Yeah.” Spike sounded resigned. “But she’s goin’ to a movie. All set up. With an escort to keep an eye on her. All taken care of, love. Now I got to see to this, here.”

End of conversation. Spike wasn’t big on hellos or goodbyes. The next second, the phone buzzed, and it was Spike again: “Forgot to say. If Red’s not there, don’t go in the basement. All right?”

“Why?” Buffy asked blankly.

“Because.”

Dial tone.

He really doesn’t understand humans at all anymore, Buffy reflected, setting the phone back in its charger as she made a bee-line to the cellar stairs.

It was a bed. Slightly smaller than a tennis court. Made up, grotesquely and endearingly, in the colors: black satinesque sheets, a big red goose-down duvet that could have served as a cover for your average VW beetle. Three king-size pillows wide. Buffy wondered where he’d found such a monstrosity but then thought it was probably better not to know. It was possible he’d even ordered it, had it custom-built, delivered, and installed: it certainly hadn’t been there Tuesday morning, when she’d done the most recent load of wash as one of the distractions, passing the time until Spike woke….

Besides the bed, he’d turned the basement into an attempt at a bower: thick but probably not sound-proof tapestries, of the stag-at-bay Wal-Mart variety, tacked up to the rafters on both sides, ceiling to floor. Another swagged up at the foot, ready to drop at the tug of a cord. Be all cozy then. He’d had something like this in his crypt, on the lower level. To keep out drafts, mostly. Because she’d complained of the cold.

Really, she shouldn’t have come down. He’d want to have a Grand Unveiling, and she’d spoiled the surprise. Have to pretend she’d never looked. Anything else would be cruel.

As she swung quickly around to go back upstairs--there wasn’t a foot of clearance between the bottom of the stairs and the foot of the bed--something caught her eye under a hanging corner of the duvet: the legs of the bed were bolted to the floor. She slowly sank down on the steps, looking at where the head of the bed was situated: out from the wall, a good foot and a half. No hanging suspended there. Mustn’t impede the shortened reach of the manacles whose slack was further taken up by the chains being wound twice around the top of the bolted-down bed frame. One manacle laid neatly at each top corner, not quite hidden enough by the pillows.

Her heart just sank. Though they’d played bondage games sometimes, by mutual consent and inclination, no way were the manacles intended for her. The bed and the hangings were only window dressing to make the bed’s position and the manacles less conspicuous and maybe marginally acceptable. They failed

She thought it was the saddest thing she’d ever seen, except her mom’s body on the couch. But that had been frightening. This was too, in its baroque fashion.

Long before she was ready, she heard the door creak. He came down maybe one step and settled there, waiting for her reaction.

“It’s very…ingenious,” she made herself say. “I can see you went to a lot of trouble for this. A lot of thought. It would have fit better in the sink end, though.”

“Didn’t trust those morons to mess around with your plumbing. Didn’t want you greeted by a flood. When you saw it. So. Bad idea, was it?”

She twisted around to see him. He was just looking down at her with no particular expression, hands dangling over his knees. The scabs were all gone from his knuckles, she noticed: he’d fed up, then, before coming. But of course he would. This was all about Tuesday…and preventing its ever being repeated.

About having sex with a man immobilized in shackles, instead.

Which was never gonna happen. Not like this. No way. Never.

Just the thought of it made her feel sick and wrong.

Not gonna nag him again about the soul. Already did that. He knew. Knew the demand. And this was his answer.

No. Not gonna think about it. She asked, “You got your bike?” He nodded. “Let’s go. I don’t care where--I’m just…sick of Sunnydale right now. Anyplace.”

“Noplace,” he said, looking at his hands. “Don’t think that would be a real great idea right now. Can’t answer…for what might come of it.”

“I trust you!”

“I don’t. An’ I’m not gonna risk it. Could I…maybe use your shower? I been informed by experts that I look like a bum. Or maybe a corpse. Corpse of a bum?” He put his hands over his face, bending into them. Not making a sound.

There wasn’t room for both of them on the step. Buffy shoved his feet aside and sat on the step below, gathering him in, holding hard, her forehead against his hands.

The shaking was too fast for sobbing. That’s what it was, all the same: she knew.

“Sorry,” he said eventually, pulling fingers down a face as empty and bleak as she’d ever seen it, “that it’s-- Sorry.” He stared straight ahead, looking at nothing. “Later. Tomorrow. I’ll send some…somebody to collect the rest of my things. What’s left. And take this--” (His hand waved vaguely bed-ward.) “--all away. Be useful for something. Sometime. Not a total….” He shut his eyes hard, swallowing words down unspoken. “Don’t know how to do this, love. Never did it before.”

Buffy said nothing. He’d left before. But it wasn’t the same. No comparison whatever.

Continuing the conversation they weren’t having, in his head, he announced abruptly, “Still turn out for patrol, and like that. An’ your class and all…. And the SITs, told them come Monday, you’d be turning up. To train, like you said, and they were gonna…. Gonna join in, they miss the weapons drill, seems like. I don’t know--” He looked at her then. Looked her straight in the eyes. “Might not be too bad. I’ve done worse. An’ had worse done to me. You were the one joking about a leash. Won’t you even try?”

“Some things, I don’t have to do even once to know I never want to do them again. And…I don’t want to tell you how it makes me feel to know you’d settle for that.”

“Settle for damn near anything you could name, pet. Not proud. Not real proud of myself just now, that’s true. Thought maybe…there was still an inch of ground that could be…. But no, ‘course you’re right, wouldn’t do, not at all. If there’s a good way to do this, I dunno what it is.”

She wondered if he realized his fingers were steadily combing through her hair. Probably not. He was as far away from himself as it was possible to get. Even the mouth was running mainly on automatic, disconnected from everything. Like getting one of his incoherent Spike-o-gram early morning phone calls, except in person.

Completely stuck. Balked. Blocked. She thought they could sit there till daybreak and he’d still be throwing out random, incomplete phrases, still not moving. Couldn’t go forward, wouldn’t go back. And unable to just disengage, leave it. He needed a push to get him out of that dead-ended rut.

“Take your shower,” she said. “Your experts were onto something. Then I’ll help you get your things together. And I’ll come Monday like I said I would. Mustn’t disappoint the SITs. Gets too complicated that way. When--”

“Could I stay here? Down here, just for tonight? Bolt the door, both sides? Be no trouble, only I can’t, don’t want to go back there just yet. Only for tonight.”

“With the door bolted. Both sides. That either of us could break down in a minute.”

“Yeah,” he said, and almost smiled. “Dunno there’s much we couldn’t get through that way. Except this.”

She took his hands and held them really hard. “You know what you have to do. When you’re ready, or when it gets bad enough, you’ll do it: put the soul back. Or I will.”

“No,” he said, like a whip crack. “That’d be worse than the shackles. Don’t even think about it. I’m not Angel. Nor Angelus neither. You do that to me and there’s nothing left. It all goes smash. If you can’t see that, believe it anyway. No coming back from that.”

“How could it be worse, putting it back, than taking it away in the first place? Something that vamps do all the time?”

“Not me. I don’t. No. Deal with it because I have to, but I don’t do it. The ones I made, was forced into turning, I did ‘em all. They’re gone. Bit, she helped me. You can ask-- No, you can’t,” he realized. And he went away somehow. Blank: eyes open, but nobody home behind them.

“Spike?”

He focused again. But slowly. And not all the way. “Lost the thread there. Sorry. No matter. Nothing that concerned you anyway. Sometime, if you want, you can have Bit tell you. Or not. Whatever you please.” He pushed to his feet and went into the hall. But not up the stairs. After a couple of minutes Buffy heard his bike start up and then recede.

Chapter 7: Contractors

“Well,” said Xander, coming into the office with a surly scowl, “what’s this about?”

“Sit.” Spike leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. In the middle stage of headache: he could still attend, make sense. Figured to work till noon, then have a kip till sundown. Audition recruits, then a sweep after to try them out.

Second week of the new order. With the big changes in place and rolling, time to try to get things on some kind of reliable schedule, not be making it up from minute to minute. Too crazy and too exhausting. The factory was fairly secure now: no more lairing up in drains, a different place every night. With a central base and a schedule, time to look to further things, get them delegated and begun.

As Xander pulled up a chair and consented to sit, smelling hostile and what Spike interpreted as suspicious, Spike went on, “We had a good patch there for awhile. Some way, that’s gone. Dunno what I done to put you off me--”

“It’s not what you do, Spike: it’s what you are.”

“That’s as may be. But Red, she values you. So do Buffy and Dawn. So that gives you a free pass from me. I’ll never let hurt come to you if I can stop it. Not from me. Not from anybody. You ask me for something I can do, you got it. No questions or conditions. Can’t be but what I am. Can’t change that, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. That aside, though you annoy the hell out of me sometimes, and I expect I’m never gonna be on your list of favorite people, I want to get on with you. Not be always sniping back and forth, trading threats and bluster. Not that it’s not fun, but it bothers the womenfolk. Our womenfolk. As of now, I quit. You win, if that’s what you want. Declare a victory, have a truce. Hope you’re willing to quit, too.”

Xander stared at him with his big brown puppy eyes for a long minute. “I don’t like it that you can say ‘our womenfolk.’ Like we’d gone partners in a herd of cattle. Don’t like that at all.”

“I withdraw it, then. Not gonna argue words with you. We both want them happy, according to whatever lets them be happy. Us at odds don’t do that. Your claim on them is older than mine, so the call’s yours. Gonna have a truce here, or more pointless bickering? ‘Cause I’m not gonna eat you, and you’re not gonna stake me. That’s fact, and we both know it.”

“You step out of line and I’d stake you in a minute!”

“Trying to mind the line here. As best I can. Trying to give you the respect you’re due for keeping faith, all these years, with Buffy and Willow and Dawn. You can throw it back in my face. Your option. Just don’t see what purpose it would serve, myself. You think about it. By what you do, I’ll know what you decided. Not why I asked you to come up here anyway.”

Xander folded his arms, so as not to show any compromise or give. His scent went more neutral, though: less outright antagonism. “Then what?”

“Got a job of work to be done. Fix up Casa Summers like it was. Better. All the busted, boarded up windows. The holes in the walls. All the doors that creak or don’t fit or close tight. All the sinks that don’t drain right. The water heater that leaks. Whatever else needs doing, that I don’t know enough to notice. Things that need replacing ‘cause they’re too old to serve.” When Xander didn’t say anything, just blinked at him thoughtfully, Spike went on, “I know you been doing what you could. But your time’s limited, and materials cost money. I figure likely you already got a list in your head, what you’d do if you had the dosh. From your work, I figure you know who’s reliable, gives good value, knows their job. I want you to be contractor, deal the parts of the job out to people you have confidence in. Not do, yourself, except as you have the time and the inclination.”

“So you can take all the credit!”

Flash of strong jealousy, outright hatred. No surprise there.

Spike shook his head. “Don’t care nothing about the credit. You say it’s all your doing, if you want. Won’t say otherwise. Say you got a bonus on your job, and this is what you’re doing with it. Don’t care. Just want it done, for them, and done right. You tell me what’s to be done and what the cost is, I’ll see it gets paid. Add on a reasonable percentage for yourself, for your time and professional expertise. Whatever the customary rate would be. I figure you know, or can find out. Won’t dispute none of the charges with you, so long as I get them in writing. Reasonable estimates beforehand, that I can OK. I got some specifications I want met, but except for that, it’s your call, in consultation with Buffy, on account of it’s her house.”

“What specifications?”

Spike pushed a paper across the desk. “There’s some new glass come out. Called ‘necro-tempered.’ Sun through it doesn’t bother me. Want all the windows made of it, starting with the kitchen and Buffy’s bedroom. Won’t need all the windows covered then, living in the dark on my account. Dunno who makes it, where it’s to be found. Kind of a specialized market, I’d expect.” Pointing at the paper, Spike explained, “That number will reach somebody who knows Oz, and Oz speaks well of. She knows where a retro-fit car place is, that used it. Refitted Oz’s whole van with it. From that, you should be able to get back to a supplier.”

“Doable,” Xander conceded. Folding up the paper, he put it in his shirt pocket.

“Next, before you start shopping for materials, I want you to get together with Red. Some materials are more magic-proof than others. And if they’re custom anyway, might be something could be added to make them stronger in that way. Or added before they’re installed. Specially the inside doors. Maybe something could be put into hollow-core, if hollow-core will do. Outside doors should be solid. But there’s a choice of woods, paint. Again, maybe things could be added to paint, to make it magic-repellant. What metal is best, magic-wise, for the window frames, hardware. Passive protection, built in. Go through it all with her, bottom line being to make the house self-sufficient. Not depend on Red renewing the spells every week or so. Make it safe against anything that could reasonably be thrown at it. Including fire. Facing fire mages now, it seems. So an escape tunnel straight into the sewer line would be a good idea, if it can be dug from below, nothing showing.”

Xander was nodding as the points were specified. “All possible. Makes sense. Except you didn’t hear me say that.”

“Like I said, I don’t care to score points with this. Just want it done, the best way it can be done. Execution’s up to you. Parts where simple unskilled labor will do, I’ll provide whatever vamps you think will be enough. Like that escape tunnel, maybe. Can dust ‘em afterwards, so no chance of the word getting out.”

“You’re talking pharaoh’s tomb security here.”

“Something like. It’s disposable labor, and I figure you got no problem with dusting vamps.”

“None whatever. I’ll keep it in mind. I haven’t yet seen the downside of this,” Xander admitted, and his scent confirmed his expression and his words.

“Good. Don’t believe there is any. And one last thing.”

“Here comes the downside.” Wariness, again; and disappointment. So he’d bought into the basic idea.

“No, just a hair personal,” Spike replied. “Down in the basement, there’s a bed. Want it unbolted, disassembled, and moved to the far side of the basement. Set up there, bolted down again. Where the washer and the sink are. Means re-plumbing that part, to move the washer and what’s there now. That part of the basement closed off with a new wall and a door. Soundproofed, like a recording studio. Fixed up nice--carpet and everything. Lights that come on, but you can dial ‘em down to next to nothing, and you can’t see ‘em.”

“Recessed.”

Spike nodded. “’F that’s what you call it. Fitted up so it’s always warm there. And a full bath adjoining. Nice tub, down in the floor. Maybe other stuff I’ll think of, along the way. You don’t consult Buffy on that. That’s mine. Best if it could all be done in a couple of days--a weekend, maybe. Bring everybody in, do the work, and out.”

He and Xander traded stares, both of them likely knowing exactly what that new room was gonna be used for.

“And if Buffy asks?” Xander said finally.

“Then you show her. That part, you’ll have to say it’s my idea. My doing. ‘F you don’t want to explain, I suggest you figure out the best way to do it when she’s not apt to notice. If you need her away for awhile, a day or two, you let me know. I expect that can be arranged.”

“Ahuh. But what if she sees it and says no?”

“That’s not up to you. You tell me, or send her to me, and I’ll deal with it.”

“All right. That seems legitimate, since it’s your money and her house.”

“Till that whole thing can be done, take the bed apart and store it someplace. Out of the way. Out of her sight. Cover it up with something, I don’t care.”

What Spike felt about the bed fiasco, yesterday, was way past disappointment. But he’d shut it away. Made it part of another job, to be dealt with in its turn. By somebody else.

It’d been the shackles, he was certain, that had put Buffy off. Except for that, it would have been OK.

He wouldn't always need the shackles and manacles to feel she was protected when his demon came out to play and got a little overenthusiastic; a little heedless of the necessary care that had to be taken with a human, even the Slayer--not well defended at such times. Not on her guard against him. Vulnerable.

Mostly, when he wasn't stressed out about twenty other things, he could manage his demon well enough. Turn loose the way he needed to and no harm done, both of them well content and at good peace with each other. So this dead end they'd hit wasn't forever. Turn away, take a different direction, and go on. Look toward a later convergence, farther along.

Everything he was doing now was for the long haul. For what, properly put in place and set going, would last. Get through the bad patches however he had to and look to final result.

He told Xander, “The tunnel, though, that comes first. ‘Cause that’s a known danger, right now. ‘F you can use grunt labor, point and say ‘dig,’ you let me know and I’ll see you get it.”

Xander drummed his fingers on the desktop. “You’re talking major money here, you know. Thousands of dollars, even if I donate my time.”

“I know. Have to cost up the parts, do it piecemeal. There’s five thousand, to start. That’s the current kitty. There’ll be more as I can get more. Do the highest priority things first, and the cheapest. Put off whatever’s optional and pricey. Stagger it out. Come back with a schedule, maybe, in a couple days, after you talked it out with Willow, and maybe I can help tick off what needs to be first and what can wait.”

Xander stood up. “All right.” Leveling a finger at Spike’s chest, he added, “Remember, I’m not doing this for you: it’s for Buffy.”

“No argument.”

“And the basement sex pit, that’s last.”

“Agreed. Get the bed gone, though.”

“With pleasure!”

After Xander left, Spike went into the desk drawers for the pain-killers, made sure that was what they were, and swallowed four. Then he lit a cigarette and went back to the translation. Stupid bit about the exact procedure for raising a fire elemental he was having trouble working out. Verb tenses were iffy in Socha, so it was hard to be sure what was done in what order. Wrong order could take out, conservatively, a city block: elementals were vain and touchy, didn't like being bothered, and would take it out on their summoner, given the least flaw in the procedure. Maybe he could find another version of the spell in the C.O.W. archives and cross reference. Sometimes there was more than one way around, instead of beating your head against the blank wall and hoping something would give.

He was content that the Casa Summers project was well begun. It had been on his mind a long time--months. And always had Harris in mind for it, a natural fit. Always good to deal with somebody who knew his job, knew more about it than you did, and was reasonably reliable. Like Willow. Should be making more use of contractors, delegate things off and let them go, only need to check on them from time to time. Not all of it depending on him. Needed infrastructure, needed a proper court, not just the vamp equivalent of a raiding party.

Should be making provision for the education of the fledges he’d been palming off on Digger as he found them. Maybe assign Mike to judge which were promising and which would be a dead loss no matter what anybody did. Good practice for Mike, and Spike would be able to judge the result. Put that on the agenda.

**********

Some while after his conversation with Harris, Spike heard someone approaching, entering.

For the first instant, getting no contrary signals, he thought it was Kennedy, and said, “Get onto Huey. Want to see him before dark. He….”

Something about the silence alerted him. He looked up, frowning to focus, and it was Dawn. She did a little finger wave, smiling. Said, “Hi.”

Pink Saturday corduroy overalls over a yellow top with stitched daisies he’d bought for her at the mall. And a fuzzy pink sweater she was carrying. All matching and proper.

For a second, he hoped. But the smell was off. And the expression of her eyes wasn’t right. And it was all, all wrong in too many ways for him to put names to. He did a quick head-shake, refusing the imposture, and irritably fished out a cigarette.

Without being invited, she sat primly in one of the visitors’ chairs and laid the sweater on the desk like a small dead animal. “You don’t greet me. Yet that’s customary.” She waited a moment, then said, “You don’t respond.”

“None of that was a question, your highnesshood or whatever the hell you like being called.” He lit the cigarette and set the lighter down on the desktop with a precise little click.

“A question was implied, however.”

“I’m a vamp. I don’t do implied. What d’you want? Notice--that’s a question.”

“What makes you think I want anything? Doesn’t Dawn come visit you from time to time?”

Spike drew in smoke, shut his eyes, and held his temper. Wouldn’t do any good to make her mad. And it was pushing toward noon, and he was in bad headache mode now: about ready to chuck it all in for today, let the headache bleed off while he slept. Didn’t matter if he wasted a little time on the bint.

“Not lately. Wouldn’t mind if she could visit now. For instance.”

“That might be permitted,” Lady Gates responded. “If you’re cooperative.”

Eyes still shut, Spike considered that very seriously. Dawn a hostage to his good behavior, released as a reward and bait for more of the same. Hell with it. He’d take anything he could get. He looked at her. “Dawn first, cooperate later. Otherwise, bugger off. ‘M busy here.”

“Rudeness,” Lady Gates mused. “How interesting. So much variety of response. Very well, I have no objection Spike! You got to get me out of this!” She flung herself around the desk at him, banging the monitor and knocking piled papers off the edge, and he didn’t give a damn either, because he was both holding on and holding off, not quite sure this wasn’t another try at imposture.

Pointing at the back of his left hand, he demanded, “What’s this?”

Barely touching, her fingertip traced the beginning of the spiral tattoo, the green verse. “Your promise. But she could know that too, so that’s no good.”

Spike pulled her in against his shoulder, swiveling the chair so she slid up onto his lap. “No, Bit. She could know what it is, but not what it means. That’s ours. May not have much time here. Is she hurting you?”

“No,” Dawn admitted reluctantly, “but I’m hella bored! You should understand that! And she’s wearing my favorite clothes! It’s awful! And why’s Buffy all snappish and weepy and miserable? What have you done now?”

“Been dumb, is all. Like always. Bit, you know anything yet of how I can keep you here?”

She turned around to look at him, her eyes bright and flashing. “Not yet, but I’m on the hunt, promise. It’s open both ways, and there’s a lot to hunt through. She’s never done this before, but I’ve always been me, so that gives me an advantage. I can skinny through better than she can cramp in. When I know, I’ll tell you somehow, promise.” Her look turned sly. “I could do a lot of damage up there if I wanted. No locks, Spike! Except I don’t dare spread too thin, or else…I might forget I’m me.”

“Don’t you do that, then. You sit small and wait. We’ll work it out somehow. Don’t you risk yourself.” He kissed her forehead and took in her good smell, coming off her. Took awhile, he guessed, for it to gather and build. And then saw her eyes and pitched her away, as violently as if he’d found a snake in his lap. The poison couldn’t hurt him, but it was still nothing you wanted to find yourself cozying up to.

“Might give a bloke some warning,” he complained, swiveling away to have a second to control his disappointment, his sense of loss.

“Why are you so attached to the child?” Lady Gates inquired, behind him. “Perhaps she has power, and she’s brought leverage to bear at least once on your behalf. Yet you’ve never attempted to call on that. Why not?”

Spike shrugged, turning back toward her, collecting the cigarette smoldering on the desktop. “Not wearing an amulet. Not blocking you from seeing whatever you please. You want to know, go ahead and look.” He folded his arms.

“Value,” she commented slowly, “is a subjective thing. It’s value in a context. Within parameters. Defined by viewpoint and perspective. I can scan what you see…but the value you put on it is…peculiar.”

Spike shrugged. “Vamps are peculiar. What with being dead an’ all.”

“Don’t be dense: peculiar in the sense of individual. Particular. What an imprecise language this is!” Changing gears abruptly, she demanded, “What are you doing about the Fire Mages?”

“Bugger all. Not my department. You want to talk magic claptrap, you cozy up to Red.”

“But you know magic is real, and effective. You’ve had it used as a weapon against you. And you yourself have used it in the past. How can you afford to be so ignorant and dismissive of it?”

Spike gave her a level look. “I pick my fights. Magic, that’s a knife that cuts in all directions. Goddam buzzsaw. An’ you have to want it. Or the results, anyway. Clear and straight and strong enough to follow all the forms precisely and to the letter. About as much fun as doing income tax. Not been many times I wanted anything that much…or that way. And what I’ve seen tells me you never use magic: it uses you. Not real keen on being used.”

“I’d noticed.”

He let that pass. “’F these mages get sat on, shut up for good an’ all, will you be satisfied? Go back where you came from and let Bit be?”

“That’s not the point. You should be as much opposed to reopening the Hellmouth as we are. After all, your little exercise in kingdom-building would collapse, and quickly, with an influx of demons with no reason to respect your authority. You must know that! But…I see you don’t care. You know it. Yet it means very little to you. Why is that?”

“I deal with the part I can understand. Know how it’s going and which way it’s likely to jump. The rest, that’s somebody else’s to see to. You want to send me dreams, pictures, lay it all out who needs killing to stop this, I’ll maybe see my way to it. Like I did before. But I’m my own. I don’t serve you or circumstances. As best I can, I choose.”

“Yes, yes, yes: non serviam. We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Not my fault we’re havin’ it again, now is it? You hear, but you don’t like it, so you don’t take it in. Like me and magic. Like Buffy an’ vamps, except she’s got a little better about that, seems like. Can hold onto a name, oh, at least a minute and a half before it’s gone again.” Then he was angry, to have said anything critical of Buffy in the hearing of this creature. Mouth in gear, head disengaged. Typical. He stubbed the cigarette out. “Right now, there’s nothing more important to me than getting Dawn back the way she should be. Would let this all go smash, like you wanted, if that’s what it took.”

“Really?” Lady Gates smiled. “If I promise to withdraw, restore Dawn, you’ll abandon being Master of Sunnydale?”

“Not promise: do. Then we’ll see.”

Lady Gates smiled even more broadly. Dawn had a good mouth for that, when it was Dawn running things. Nobody had a better smile. This wasn’t it. “What,” inquired Lady Gates, “became of the promised cooperation?”

“This is it. Haven’t chucked you out, have I? Still talking, aren’t we?”

“I already knew you were annoying. There’s no need to reiterate it.”

“Haven’t begun to be annoying. For instance: here you are, in the body of a child of sixteen. Limited to that. What if I just up and bust both your legs? Get you stuck in bed for a couple months. Casts and bedpans and crutches. Traction, maybe. How would you like that? How long would you put up with it before you bailed?”

“You wouldn’t. You’d be doing it to Dawn.”

“Bit, she’d understand. She’d tell me, ‘Go ahead and do it!’ I know Bit. Right ruthless, she is, when it’s called for. She’d chalk it up to necessary damage, and bitch at me some, but underneath she’d be purely glad to get you gone. An’ if you don’t see that, you don’t see anything at all. I been real patient with you so far. Real polite. You give me reason to be otherwise, I’ll be otherwise. And won’t be me who regrets it. No soul here: remember? So if getting rid of those Fire Mages is the key, I’d be real busy about that if I were you instead of putting me behind in my translation.”

“I could unmake you,” said Lady Gates coldly.

“Not from there, you can’t. You’re playing on my ground now, and I know the rules a hell of a lot better than you do. And so does Bit. You listen to her awhile and see if that’s not true. Now get out before you put me behind schedule.”

“Really? I didn’t realize you ran on clockwork. What’s so important, that’s on your schedule?”

Spike shut off the computer the way you weren’t supposed to, with the switch. Didn’t matter: he had everything saved down. Then he turned out the light, which would leave her blind, except for the little strip of light that came through the gap in the barricade. He pushed the chair back from the desk, rose, and flopped down on the cot, loud enough that she could hear each motion. Then, effortlessly and immediately, with the satisfaction of having set two more things running under adequate supervision, he shut himself down and was asleep.

**********

It was dumb to feel shy. It was dumb to feel blinding, murderous jealousy of Huey, who watched him warily while Spike talked to him and not to Mike. Stood there in the office like the goddam fucking bookkeeper he was, greasy fair hair tied back in a tail like a goddam hippy, face all angular and closed like he’d laugh if he dared. Dumb to feel awkward and oversized, like he couldn’t move and not knock into something, like he’d just bumped a pile of papers onto the floor and admit, yes, had to go down on his knees and pick the fucking things up, paw them into a pile, and set them back on the desk again, Spike not letting on he took any notice like he didn’t know or didn’t care Mike was standing there, glowering, in his T-shirt that read I will so fuck your shit UP! which was probably dumb too, but that was how he’d felt, waking, taking the call, hearing Spike’s voice telling him he was needed. Felt like he could fuck anybody’s shit up, stomp into the ground anybody Spike pointed him at, get the bike and roar over, and here’s fucking Huey practically laughing at him, evidently needed more, wanted more, being told what to do and nodding while Mike stood aside and waited like a goddam fucking moron in a stupid shirt.

Wasn’t Huey’s sire. Never let goddam Huey feed from him, or at least he better not have or Huey was gone, was dust. Sleek beautiful Spike, all silver and quicksilver, who’d made him take the watch back and given him the pocket phone, who Mike would never never betray no matter what Digger did or said, dust Digger first and he’d offered but Spike had said no, Digger was needed for the fledges, so Mike figured he had to let the old lizard be for this while though that was dangerous, dangerous, hell with the fledges, better to have the fucking old spider gone, with his big froggy mouth and his goddam wheedling.

“Michael.” Spike was talking to him. Had taken notice of him, finally. Mike sullenly consented to show he was listening. “Asked Huey, here, to quit over at Willy’s and be up here full time, to run this show.”

“I could do that,” Mike mentioned.

“An’ dress up in a tutu and a tiara, keep the troops amused, and if you tell me you’d do that, too, we’ll all know what a fucking idiot you are, now won’t we?”

“Tell you what I think of that. When he’s not here.”

“Need you for other things,” Spike commented easily, like the whole earth didn’t hang by that, thrummed and resounding like a touched guitar string, the one note, the one focus. Spike glanced up at Huey, the glance a question and Huey’s nod the response, all so fucking intimate like no words needed between them, everything understood when Mike didn’t understand anything except how much he wanted, now that he’d had a taste. Wanted more. Wanted all. Never could be enough that he wouldn’t want more.

As Huey left, sent off about his business, Spike smiled at Mike, still all easy. Collected. Distant. Mike wanted to hit him a good one to make him come out of that distance and truly attend. Didn’t do it because then Spike might not love him anymore, the most terrifying thought there could be. So Mike just stood there like a lump, waiting to be told what he should do so Spike would still love him. Stupid. Who’d ever want to love a dumbass stupid needy lump like he was?

Should be all cool distance, like Spike was. Tried. Failed miserably. Tried to fake it anyway, hold himself still. Spike was contemptuous of whoever couldn’t control their demon. So he’d do that, or at least not let on different, though the demon was begging, groveling for acknowledgement, approval. Didn’t mean Mike had to.

Still smiling, Spike remarked quietly, “You’re still an idiot, Michael,” and it wasn’t so bad with nobody else to hear, and it was Spike noticing him, so it wasn’t really bad at all.

“Yeah,” Mike admitted, hanging his head. “I guess.”

“But you’re my idiot and some of this will ease back for you, once the new wears off. Be easy with yourself, lad.”

Not looking up, Mike asked, “What do I need to do to earn another taste? Not much, just a taste.”

“Nothing whatever. Don’t have to earn it. Whenever you need it. Not for what you do. For what you are. Mine. Claimed and named.”

“Not marked, though.”

Spike chuckled, which at the same time made Mike furious and wildly happy. “Well now, wouldn’t that start talk. Marked you half a dozen times already, feeding from you, you loon.”

“Marks all healed smooth, you know that. Don't last. And it wasn't for me. Just on account of I’d had some of Dawn’s blood and you’d take it that way. Not for me at all.”

“Sometime, maybe. You got to grow into this. Or out of this, I’m not sure which. How’d your date with Lady Power go, tell me?”

Mike muttered, “Need it now.”

“What?”

“Need it now. Just a taste, for remembering.”

“Want’s not need. Give you awhile, you’ll know the difference. At least some of the time. Wake up now, Michael, and report. Tell me how Lady Power liked the movie.”

“Couldn’t make head nor tail of it,” Mike recollected slowly. “Me neither, but I didn’t care. You paid, not me. Popcorn tastes like nothing. No taste at all. Don’t know why anybody pays money for it. Explosions were nice, though grenades don’t go like that, with sparks and everything.”

“Poetic license.”

“No, special effects. It’s how they do because they can’t show the guts, not with that rating. Got to show something, so pretty colors and sparks. Metaphorical. She talked through the whole thing. We had to move to the back, everybody trying to shush her but she wouldn’t take no notice. Asking about the why of everything, not the what. Wondering why nobody didn’t use magic to get out of things, and not a witch in sight. Wasn’t no magic in the movie world, but she wouldn’t believe that, just thought they were dumb. Didn’t do much of a job explaining to her but the best I could. Didn’t even hit her once because you said. And anyway it was partly Dawn, and Dawn would get me after if I did. You said she’d know.”

“Expect so. She was here a little while, this morning. Bit. She’s pissed off, of course, but hopeful. It’s home to her, after all. She’s not like us. Do you begin to see that, a little?”

Mike nodded unhappily. “She didn’t come out for me. All that while. Not even on the bike, and she loves the bike, Dawn does. Why’d she come out for you, and not for me?”

“Lady Gates, she’s still angling for a good handle on me, so she hangs out the bait every now and again. Works, too: hard to see her, then lose her, between one blink and the next…. Still, I expect you had the better evening of it, of the pair of us.”

“Figured.”

Spike shot him a look. “Why?”

“About the first time I can’t smell her on you. Chains, that’s generally a bad idea, except with vamps. Could have told you that. Spooks ‘em.” Waking up, bleary as a fledge, he'd been sent to inspect, see the job was all to specifications. Wondered about it quite a bit, after--how it'd gone. Seemed more than iffy, to him; but not his call. And no chance to check back, afterward, till now. No need to ask: smell was sufficient. Mostly, you always knew who'd been fucking who recently, not that it meant much to anybody but Spike. He was peculiar that way.

“Yeah, well. You know how it is--have to find everything out for yourself, first-hand, or it doesn’t sink in proper. Telling’s no use. Got to learn everything the hard way. Me the same as you. All vamps alike, that way.”

“Just a taste.”

“No, and leave off about it. It’s embarrassing, Michael. And s’not a thing for everyday. Only for special. And the looking forward is a part of it.”

“Don’t like the looking forward. Hell with it.”

“Then you’ll just have to learn to appreciate it, won’t you? Like I'm doing," Spike added sourly, and at once changed the subject. "Got a bunch of volunteers, want to wear the colors, lined up outside.”

“Yeah. Saw ‘em. Scruffy bunch.”

“Kept ‘em waiting a couple hours now, get them up on their toes, those that are worth anything. Want you to sort through ‘em for me--which ones you figure are teachable and which ones are a waste of the space. Sheep and goats. Could use ‘em all if they all suit. Don’t want none that will be more trouble than they’re worth, have to be watching ‘em every second. Don’t want none gonna run from a fight or can’t take punishment without a grudge after. But you sort ‘em however you think is best, for what’s gonna be needed from them. Don’t dust none of the ones you don’t choose. Come back and tell me, and I’ll have a look. See how you done. All right?”

“I can do that!”

“Do it, then. And afterward, gonna take ‘em on a sweep, pass through Digger’s territory.”

Mike went all alert. “He know about this?”

“Not yet, he doesn’t.”

“Might be mistaken. For an attack.”

“Don’t think there’ll be any mistake. None that can’t be handled. Gonna consider the fledges he’s been collecting over there. They’re gonna need teaching, and not just from Digger. He don’t know but to work ‘em to starvation, then shove 'em all out into the morning before he'll let the rest feed, those that can fight their way back in before they dust. Lose a good half of ‘em that way, that might have been useful, fed up and encouraged somewhat. You know how he does: did you that way, except you were one of the lucky ones. Want my pick of the unluckies before shove time comes. You up for that?”

“You know I am.”

“Just giving you the option, is all. Get going then. Let me know when you done the sort, and we’ll go on from there.”

“Taste after, maybe? If I do good?”

Spike laughed and gave him a backhand cuff in the belly, which was what Mike had expected and wanted, and it was nearly as good.

**********

When Mike had divided the prospects, he went back and told Spike, who returned with him to the factory floor to inspect the result: eight, somewhat bruised, to one side, and a glum fourteen to the other--the rejects. Three of the fourteen flat out on the floor but not dusted, because that had been the instructions. And Amanda off to the side, well away from both groups, talking to Huey who was also keeping an eye on her in case somebody got impatient.

The rest of Spike’s crew lounging variously roundabout, in the colors, looking on.

“All right,” Spike said, “tell me how you sorted.”

Confident of his method and in fact quite pleased with himself, Mike explained. First he’d set aside all the hopeful fledges. Well, actually, first he’d called ‘Manda, who’d mostly do what he said, and her being so homely, seemed a good bet she wouldn’t have a date or anything, of a Saturday night.

Spike flashed a look to ‘Manda, sighed and lifted a hand, not exactly a wave. She nodded, all purse-mouthed and annoyed. Mike didn’t know what that was about, figured he didn’t care, and rolled on.

With the fledges set aside and the rest ordered to maintain human face, Mike had sent Amanda strolling past them a fair way off--past striking distance. Any that couldn’t hold and went for her, they were out. Also any that lapsed back to trueface, even if they didn’t budge. Then he sent her past again, closer. Same rules. A few more rejected, same reasons, but a bit more forcefully because three came at her in a bunch and Mike had to hammer them down before they could get at her too bad. And ‘Manda took out a pair with her taser, that Mike had made sure she’d brought with her. All the vamps bare-handed, of course. But no vamp could ever be truly disarmed. Even a fledge was more than a match for most humans.

SITs could be risked, up to what they could be reasonably expected to handle, but not wasted. SITs were valuable, Mike forgot exactly why. But he’d taken good care, all the same.

Spike nodded neutrally, still looking the prospects over. “Then what?”

“Roughed up the rest, told them to stand and take it. Ones that came back at me, I put down. They were out. Then told what was left to come at me. One hung back. She was out, too. So.” Mike waved at the eight, who’d come through the testing in good shape. Though Mike was certain he’d made a good sort, he was more nervous than he hoped he looked, waiting for Spike’s approval.

Spike first went and talked to Huey for a few minutes. Mike watched anxiously, wishing he knew what they were saying. Returning, Spike summoned one of the women fledges, and she came to him promptly, head high, silently waiting. A flip of Spike’s hand sent her to join the eight.

“She was at the class,” Spike explained. “Did what she was told in good order. An’ was up here every night before that, wanting to get in. Willing to do housekeeping, which we’re in sore need of. Worth giving her a try.”

Mike nodded impassively, understanding that his choice wasn’t being criticized, just adjusted on account of different information he hadn’t had.

Spike selected two more rejects, one that Huey’d seen in a fight at Willy’s and thought well of, and the other a woman, the one who’d hung back in the free-for-all. Spike picked her because she knew music and could play blues harmonica, which Mike considered bizarre, though he didn’t say so.

“Starting a court, here,” Spike commented, throwing a glance up at him. “More to that than fucking and fighting.”

“If you say,” responded Mike agreeably.

Then Spike pulled out two of the approved group and sent them to the rejects. One was a whiner, Spike said, and the other was “a mean son of a bitch” and troublemaker Spike didn’t want to have anything to do with. “Now that lot,” Spike said, lighting a cigarette and gesturing at the rejects with it, “you can leave to fend for themselves, masterless. Or you can keep ‘em. For yours. All the districts need bulking up. Fledges, they might be teachable: too soon to tell. An’ the hopeless gits, well, they’re the goats. Let the rest practice on ‘em till they’re used up. Or I might take ‘em off your hands later for a project I got running, not quite to the stage to use ‘em yet. Bit of digging. Anyway, your call.”

Mike got the strong impression Spike wanted him to take them. He wished Spike would just say so, flat out, so he’d know what to do. Putting it as a choice meant he might choose wrong. But then again, taking ‘em didn’t oblige Mike to anything, really: could always turn ‘em out or dust ‘em later. Spike had made plain that District Masters didn’t have to give account to him for internal matters. Could do as they pleased in that respect.

“All right. OK if I send Benny to show them where to go?”

“Benny’s gone.”

“Oh. Deuce, then.” Mike read that answer in Spike’s face and made a point of looking around, to see who actually was left. “Mary?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“Must have been some party,” Mike commented, after giving Mary her marching orders. “Pity I missed it.”

“Yeah.” Spike pitched the butt and stepped on it in a way that let Mike know the subject of the mass culling wasn’t something Spike wanted to talk about. Walking off, he said, “Get them kitted out, so we’ll know who’s ours and who’s not. Huey, show them the spare gear.”

“Women, too?” Mike called after him.

“Everybody. Gonna run a sweep.”

Regulars and recruits, they were twenty-two strong when everybody was set. Too many for the one car they had, the junkheap old Ford sedan that was nobody’s now. One of the newbies, called himself “Bingo,” had to tinker it to get it started, the keys having been lost when the car’s owner got dusted. Lots of subtle reminders, like the smell of the “spare” shirts the newbies were wearing and the way the regulars minded orders immediately and kept well wide of Spike. That last, likely a good thing. Mike kept close. And so was disappointed when Spike detailed him to run the newbies through the pipes to the mark while the regulars rode. Good to get them acquainted with the belowground ways, though, he supposed.

The mark was the parking lot of the Vons supermarket on Beloit, used to be a Safeway but got eaten, at the eastern edge of downtown. By the time Mike got there, the regulars had already been sent on their sweep: checking for the smell, as he and Spike had done, Thursday night. Mike wouldn’t forget that sweep anytime soon….

Spike introduced the newbies to the smell with one of the last of the tiny sample bottles. Then he passed out stakes and divided them into two groups with himself and Mike as the leads, and they made a start at teaching the newbies about lead and second, flanking, and moving together as a loose unit, on opposite sides of the street.

Skirmishers, as Mike thought of it.

A slightly different formation and attention range because they were all vamps and none of them armed with rifles or any distance weapons, so they could see and sense at a much greater range than they could take action. A lot of casting about: more like a pack of hounds seeking a trail than like a squad moving toward a known objective. No need to move from cover to cover, either. All of them right out in the open at an easy lope. Fast enough to cover ground quickly and not miss anything, not a full-out run that would draw attention in a suburban neighborhood.

But the variations were slight and the whole flow of movement and attention so habitual to Mike, from the life before, that he was at once aware of anybody falling behind or going off on their own, any departure from the set parameters, and corrected it with a word or a blow when a word didn’t bring instant obedience. Or on general principles, to enforce his authority.

Vamp dominance games, Mike thought, and smiled. He liked them. Because he mostly won. Except for Spike, and that was as it should be. Some day he’d take Spike, too; but he knew he wouldn’t be fit for another try for some time yet. A few of the deeper bruises from his last try still gave the occasional twinge when he moved wrong or reached too suddenly.

All in its own time, and in good order.

One of the newbies caught the smell and signaled with a lifted hand, like a hound going to point. Mike whistled high, and Spike’s squad veered to follow. Mike sent the newbie ahead to point position, as a scout. The smell took them to a drug store. Point and two flankers went in while the rest waited outside. When it got to five minutes, Spike named a new mark, a gas station, and took his squad on. Point and flankers came out shortly after, locked onto a woman and two teenaged-girls obliviously chatting together. Mike’s squad shadowed them to a new green Plymouth Fury. Took out a vamp who made a move on the trio--quick and clean, dusted before they’d noticed anything, still chatting. Followed the Fury on home--no problem staying with a car doing well under the 35 mph speed limit--and saw them safely inside, no further incident. A couple of vamps on the street, a little way down, but they stayed clear and Mike let them be.

He called the point man aside, asked his name.

“Len. Sir.”

“Military.” Wasn’t a question: Mike already knew.

“Yessir. Nam. Then some freelance.”

“Ahuh. Age?”

“Coming on eighteen. Sir.”

Mike took good note of the vamp’s appearance and smell. Three times Mike’s age, since being turned. Mike supposed that made him something like a baby lieutenant. “Rules are a little different, Len. You call me by my name. But when we’re on a sweep, or on the hunt, I’m God.”

Len smiled comfortably. “Got that, sir. Mike.”

“Naming you second, for tonight. You watch my signs and do well, you’ll stay there. Mess up, and you’re in with the goats, like Spike said. If I don’t get peeved and dust you myself. All clear?”

“Clear, sir.”

“Lead out, then. The mark’s the Exxon station at Grandview.” Looking around at the squad, Mike added, “Anybody catches the smell, make a sign.”

One of the squad, a woman, the fledge from the class, asked, “When do we hunt?”

“When Spike says,” Mike answered shortly. As the squad moved out, Mike moved alongside her, again noting appearance and smell. “How old?”

“Not quite a year. I was in college. Got caught--” She stopped herself, maybe realizing her history was of less than no interest.

“Name?”

“Jenna.”

“You’re on the bubble, Jenna. I culled you out, Spike put you back. You’ll be seen to in due course. Nobody will starve in this crew. Watch your mouth. Won’t tell you twice.”

“Yes. OK. Clear.”

Mike let himself drop back to rearguard position, watching how they moved, attending to his sense of vamps hunting roundabout, the abrupt sunburst flare of bloodsmell as one made a kill. He noted which in the squad reacted to it and which didn’t. Jenna nearly broke formation, then steadied. She’d need to feed tonight. Have to make provision for that. But Spike would know. No need to bother about it himself.

Mike liked sweeps. Better with an all-out fight, but good regardless. Knowing clearly what he was about, what the objective was, how to think and do. All that taken care of. Feeling that he fit, belonged. Everything simple.

Meeting at the mark, Spike asked him where Digger’s newest excavation and shoring were apt to be. Mike told him. Spike named that as the mark and they all went to it. In the open, aboveground, no attempt whatever at stealth.

Digger didn’t put out sentries, as such. But his people were on the hunt throughout the district, his own territory, and seeing a bunch of vamps moving together, in force, they’d send out an alarm. Mike caught the high, warbling signal rise and repeat, close and distant. Not the signal for a lone poacher or two but with the sudden drop-off deeper end-tone that signaled attack. Digger never changed his signals: Mike knew them all.

If he heard it, Spike heard it. Had therefore figured on it. So it must be all right. Even though the signal was repeating from many directions, roundabout.

The entrance here was in a cemetery, Shady Rest--a crypt labeled MORRIS. A bunch of vamps spilled out of it, far more than the crypt could have contained. They mostly had shovels. A few stakes, poles, sharpened baseball bats: weaponry kept by the entrance, to be snatched up at need.

Passing the graveyard entrance, Spike said, “Any with dirty hands, put ‘em down, keep ‘em down. Hurt ‘em, all right. Don’t stake ‘em.”

“Right,” Mike responded. When the squads stayed mum, Mike directed harshly, “If you heard, sing out!”

That roused a muttered, nervous chorus of “Right” from both squads.

Mike knew to take the right and moved through his squad fast to take them that way. The two groups closed. More vamps came in from behind and around but there was no signal to bring them in, so they stayed clear, sensed but not seen for the most part.

The dirty-handed fledges fought frantically. Knew they wouldn’t be allowed back inside if they didn’t. Mike took on the ones with the shovels, that had sharpened edges, could behead a vamp if you didn’t look out for them. Left the squads to deal with the stakes and other miscellaneous weaponry. If you didn’t want ‘em staked, had to get ‘em disarmed or the stakes would be used against them. There were some accidents of that sort--lost harmonica-girl that way: dusted, gone--because the fighting was completely disorganized, a free-for-all brawl, the squad not dividing into fighting units, lead and second, like they should. Hadn’t been taught that yet. Except Mike noticed Len had snagged himself a couple of seconds, was doing the fledges more methodically: take one down, leave the seconds to finish, single out another and do the same, while others were stupidly struggling hand to hand by pairs or random threes, back and forth across the ground.

Numbers had started about even, but with Spike briskly putting fledges down with a baseball bat, an economical swat to the head or face and move on as they fell, Mike doing what he was, and Len effectively putting down another every minute or so, wasn’t long before the remainder of the two squads were the only ones still standing.

“Howdy, Spike.” Digger was leaning in the crypt door, fussing at his nails with his preferred weapon, a wickedly long knife. “To what do we owe this honor?”

“Hullo, Digger,” Spike responded, turning, casually brushing dust off his thighs. “Wanted to have a look at the fledges you been collecting. Sorry lot, I must say.”

“They’re eating me out of house and home, the fuckers. Thought that was the idea, you sending ‘em to me in wholesale bunches, rile up the whole district, feeding ‘em. Presents. Like the sacred elephants get sent to enemies, bankrupt ‘em with the upkeep.”

“Oh, I dunno, we been getting on well enough, last few days, anyhow. How it goes. And I figured you’d have no problem with the upkeep. Always been thrifty about that, I’m told.”

“Howdy, Mike,” said Digger, and Mike nodded inattentively, counting heads, motioning the squads back into something like formation in case Digger called in the vamps roundabout to make a real fight of it.

“You always got a use for fledges,” Spike remarked. “And you’re short-handed. Figured you had the most need of ‘em, of the districts.”

“Not quite so short-handed as I was,” Digger replied pointedly, looking around into the dark. “Been working on that, since you cut me back to cow-tenders and the household help, ‘bout a week back.”

“Good on you, then. Wouldn’t have expected less. Now you got ‘em all broke in, culled the ones needed culling, thought I’d take a few back off your roster. Got a job of work coming up, needs extra hands. I’m not particular. Don’t need ‘em for fighting, which is a good thing, since they made a pretty pathetic show of it. Leave you the best, take the rest.”

“Got no objection to that,” Digger decided slowly, after a moment’s consideration. “Ain’t got that much invested in ‘em, by way of food. Always glad to oblige.”

Spike laughed, then sobered. “You fledges, stand up.”

Mike moved quickly to Sue, that he’d spotted during the fight. He set his hand on her shoulder and leaned hard when she tried to rise against it. She had a dent and a spreading bruise across her forehead: from Spike’s bat, most likely. Figured Spike would have taken her down first and fast, to keep her out of the general fight. Her eyes were strange, and Mike figured she didn’t altogether know what she was doing--just automatically responding to the order, doing what those around her were doing, if they were able.

Mike leaned hard again, forcing her down. Finally, covertly, he popped her one on the chin, which folded her satisfactorily. Hadn’t the sense of a pea.

A little more than half the fledges were able to waver to their feet. Hadn’t done them any severe damage, after all.

“You lot,” said Spike, surveying the standing fledges, “you go on back to what you were doing.” Looking to Digger, he added, “I’ll take the rest,” flipping a hand to indicate those that were still down.

“Fine by me. Do that,” said Digger, turning back into the crypt.

The standing fledges followed him, and the surrounding vamps faded away.

Took about fifteen minutes to get the remainder of the fledges conscious, more or less, and fit to move. Wasn’t so much the damage: most all of them were starved and showed it in their bony, skull-like faces, sticklike limbs, and dull eyes. They went as they were pushed or hauled, just like they’d been pushed into the fight. To delay things, just cannon fodder, until the adult vamps could arrive.

On his own, Len collected Sue, having noted that Mike had made sure she wasn’t in the group delivered back to Digger. A little too quick on the uptake for Mike’s tastes: have to keep an eye on him in particular.

If Spike named a mark, Mike didn’t hear it, just following along, keeping the newbies on track and together as they recovered, detailing them to keep the disoriented fledges going however they had to.

They all felt it together: prey approaching. The fledges burst forward. Uncontrollable, unless they were dusted. Spike stood in the street, calmly watching, as they took the prey down and frantically fed.

Looking around, Mike recognized the location: Mulberry and Sycamore, near the all-night drugstore. One of the preferred meeting places for drug dealers and their customers. Three, that Mike spotted right off, casual and conspicuous on the corners, under the streetlights.

Strolling nearer, Spike directed, “Squads on the fledges, two to one. Spread ‘em out. Take the buyers as they leave. Leave the dealers for bait, until last. If they’re in cars, let the cars move at least a block clear before they’re taken. Fledges feed first, then the handlers can have any left over. Clear?”

“Clear, Spike. Everybody gets well. And high, besides. You do know how to throw a party,” commented Mike, grinning.

“Yeah, well. See to it, then.” Spike moved off, rubbing the back of his neck like he was annoyed about something, Mike couldn’t imagine what, since everything had gone off pretty much without a hitch.

No matter. Just one of Spike’s moods. Mike started pairing up the newbies with the dazed fledges, setting up the ambush points in convenient alleys and behind parked cars at a suitable distance from the bait.

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