Chapter Nineteen: Revamping

Nothing of Spike that Buffy could recognize remained.

His voice was silent. His eyes had been replaced by hideousness. His smooth ivory skin was wrinkled beige, slack and tissue-thin over apparent bones. White hair like short dead grass. No grace, no strength, no energy. No motion of any kind. Not even breath. His face was lipless, like a skull. His ears were shriveled. He looked like something that had been in a coffin in the ground for months.

She’d often thought that sleeping, he looked dead because he was still and breathed only occasionally if at all. The only time his skin felt warm was when he’d just fed, or had a hot shower, or absorbed some of her heat directly, skin to skin.

She’d had no idea.

This was dead. This was Death itself. She had only Willow’s word for it that Spike was in any meaningful way still alive in this horrible husk and still couldn’t bring herself to wholly believe it.

Dawn had held his hand. Sitting in a chair by the bed, Buffy felt a kind of panic at the thought of touching him and only stayed in the chair by force of will.

Vamps dusted so neatly. A breeze, and nothing was left. Very seldom was Buffy required to confront death’s true and commonest leavings.

He looked, Buffy thought, about the way she herself must have looked before Willow’s resurrection spell had flooded through her, plumping tissues, rounding contours. Restoring eyes, nose, lips. The pretty parts. The soft parts. The capacity for smiles, glances, expressions. Kisses. Before that, this was how she had looked.

And beyond question she knew that if she’d risen like that, Spike would somehow have known her and changelessly loved her and still impossibly believed her beautiful. Because what he mostly loved was the fact of her, not the appearance. The connection itself, that defined each of them in terms of the other.

The one unchanging fact in her world, welcome or unwelcome, these past years, had been that Spike hearts Buffy, even if she was calling him filthy names and beating the crap out of him, even when his idea of courtship was poking her with a cattle prod, chaining her up in his crypt, and threatening to feed her to Dru if she wouldn’t give him some glimmer of hope.

Ah, Romance.

They’d come such a long way to come together, even if it had mostly been like two produce trucks colliding and squawking chickens everywhere.

It seemed to Buffy she’d been presented with an ultimatum. If she couldn’t love Spike now, like this, she would never love him at all. If she kept the distance her physical revulsion commanded, she’d never break out of her isolation or truly touch him. And she’d never see anything other than this. Because this was the truth of what Spike was: a barely animated long-dead corpse. All the rest was pretty smoke and mirrors. And magic. Just as she was.

She had been such a thing as this. And still was, underneath it all. She had to somehow convince herself to feel, toward such grotesque and minimal meat, the fondness that soul owed to soul outside of time and appearance.

The prospect terrified her.

She spoke to him, hoping he’d answer, hoping for some present contact to focus on to let her try to imagine the rest in place of what she saw. No response whatever. It was all up to her.

Feeling that any moment she might faint or vomit, she began undressing. Each button in its methodical turn, each fastening undone, each garment removed, folded, and laid aside. She didn’t allow herself the cowardly separation of pajamas or a knee-length sleeping T. This was about flesh.

She stood for nearly five minutes at the far side of the bed, waiting to be ready. Finally knowing she’d never be ready. She slipped into bed, thinking Dawn touched him, held his hand: it’s possible, like a mantra. The other, more hysterical mantra was At least he doesn’t smell.

As a matter of honor, she’d left a light on, and she kept her eyes open. She made herself stroke her fingers slowly down the length of his right arm. Although she was certain he couldn’t hear her, didn’t even know she was there, she whispered, “If you can stand to be this, I can stand to be with this. You said you’d come to me when you could, and you have, and you will. There’s nothing here that’s not to love. It’s all in the learning how. And the wanting to.”

Carefully resting no weight on him, she turned on her side and gathered him close and believed as hard as she could until she slept.

**********

It had all gone away. He wondered where the other had gone who had been with him through it all. It didn’t hurt so much as before but it was lonely.

Water was sometimes and then was not. Like a very slow but steady drip in a desert. On the surface everything dry, gritty, easily blown away. Deeper though, his body sipped and diffused the moisture by tiny slow degrees. Absorbed and used every least molecule until there was no more and halted then as it was. Afterward waited through what felt like an entire season of pitiless drought until the water came again. Never much. Never enough. But always some as he waited for it, too deep in need to yet feel it as thirst, only as an undifferentiated ache that was everywhere, that was waiting.

He was accustomed and resigned and content to have life rationed to him. So when it presented itself and bade him drink in the voice that he knew, the voice that gave permission or withheld it, he changed and bit and fed, rapt in the power and the astonished sweetness of it but releasing when the voice bade him stop. Not nearly enough. He understood that he was to feed from no other, that this was the gift to him and it would be given again in the proper time.

He waited for it to be time.

**********

Dawn knew that any kind of severe submission was traumatic. She’d seen the effects in Michael, seen how long it had taken for him to begin to regain his balance, his sense of self, his initiative. And that had been under the almost constant care of a senior vamp who knew what he was doing and viewed the younger vampire with affection. And that was without the added strain of extreme starvation.

So although everybody else cleared out of the front room when Angel arrived in the twilight, literally turning their backs on the intruder, Dawn stayed quiet by the doorway and watched. And saw the tension of Spike’s blindness sag into ease, and saw how Angel offered his arm for Spike to feed from him and was quiet and gentle with him, stroking his hair, both of them silent until, at a word, Spike quit feeding and slumped back in the big armchair he’d been installed in by Willow’s directions.

Watching, trying to set aside preconceptions and see what was actually there, Dawn knew the two vamps were completely at peace with one another.

She believed Angel would have stayed longer, for Spike’s sake, if Buffy hadn’t made it clear Angel was welcome at Casa Summers strictly on a business-only basis: in and then out as soon as possible.

So when Angel came out, stern and expressionless, rolling his sleeve down over the bite, Dawn got ahead of him and said, “I’d like to understand better. Would you talk to me a little?”

He gave her a glance and kept going. But when Dawn followed, he’d stopped at the stairs, his back to her. Not friendly, but not leaving, either. Dawn put her back against the porch railing. “Nobody here really knows how to take care of a vamp. I’d like to learn.” No response, but still not leaving. “If the problem is fluids, why can’t we give him more?”

“Adhesions. Surfaces healing quick and wrong, healed tight to each other. Have to rehydrate very slowly. Let the adhesions pull away gradually or he’ll lose more to internal bleeding than he can take in. And that doesn’t mean anything to you at all.”

Dawn didn’t react to the contempt and bitterness. She kept everything very calm and on topic. “How long until he can have more?”

“Another two days. Maybe you could tell someone.” (Implication: she was nobody but might serve to carry a message to Somebody, presumably Buffy, who actually had some authority worth his notice.) “Then six twelve ounce glasses of water, two about every eight hours. Gradually. Not all at once. City water in Sunnydale has always been putrid.”

“I can get good water for him. And good blood. Live blood.”

Finally, Angel consented to look around at her. “That would be better. But he won’t feed from anyone but me. No humans.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve forbidden it.” He was frowning at the side yard now. “There’s a vamp out there.”

“I know. His minion. He’s no danger.”

In angry exasperation, Angel demanded, “Has every vamp in Sunnydale been invited in?”

“He’s not invited. He’s just waiting. When can Spike have more blood? And how much?”

“Another four days. Then, as much as he can take. Water, too. I’ll come each day and feed him until then. If I’m allowed.”

Absolutely volcanic rage but furiously and absolutely controlled. Courtesy as armor. If permission was needed, he’d ask it--to properly care for his childe, now that time for torture was done and apparently utterly put away, except for its effects, by both of them. As the torture had been, this too was a vampire matter, alien and beyond common understanding. Knowing she didn’t understand it, Dawn suspended judgment. She returned Angel’s courtesy and offered herself as ally on the basis of shared concern.

“I’ll see that you’re allowed. Spike needs to be taken care of by someone who knows how.”

“All right.” Not agreement. Just a noise of acknowledgement.

“Let him feed from vamps. When it’s time.”

Another grudged, considering look. “Vamps can’t feed from one another--”

“--unless it’s right after a kill, or the vamps are of the same bloodline, the junior feeding from the senior. Yes, I know. Tell him that’s allowed.”

“Is that minion his get?” Angel demanded incredulously, waving at the yard where Dawn could not see Mike but still knew he was there.

Apparently Angel also knew of Spike’s reluctance and then refusal to turn dinner into a companion.

“Something will be arranged,” Dawn responded with serene vagueness. “And you’ll be able to confirm that it’s done him no harm. How long will it take…for his eyes?”

“It depends. Not less than two weeks, and probably more.”

“Everything else will have healed by then,” Dawn reflected, dismayed. “He’ll be absolutely climbing the walls!”

“He’ll need to train. Get back his strength and coordination. Maybe…something could be arranged with those Potentials he’s been…working with.”

Dawn refused to speculate about what Angel thought Spike had actually been doing with the SITs. “I’m sure it could. If you think of any other way I could help while you’re shut out, I want to. I love Spike. And I try to understand.”

The near-vamp bluntness about his situation startled him: Dawn could tell. She thought it probably had been too long since he’d been around vamps: too long among humans and their self-serving pussyfooting.

“Watch out, child. Somebody might come to the conclusion you’re on the wrong side here.”

“I’m on Spike’s side. That makes everything very simple and usually prevents misunderstandings.”

“Right,” said Angel dubiously. “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Angel.”

When Angel’s big car had pulled away, Dawn went out into the yard to where Mike waited.

“It’s hard to tell,” she reported, “when he’s sleeping and when he’s not. But I don’t think he knows any of us are there yet. Except Angel. He knows when Angel comes. And he’s not afraid of him.”

“No,” Mike agreed, as though that was self-evident.

“Why not, Mike? I see it but I don’t understand it!”

“Well, it’s settled now between them. Where they stand. So no need for anybody to be afraid or mad anymore.”

“Oh.” Dawn tried to get her mind around it. “But Mike, Angel tortured him!”

“There’s a joke,” Mike said, “about a mule and a two-by-four. Don’t remember all of it. But the point is, the two-by-four is to get the mule’s attention. Spike got my whole attention by breaking a good many of my bones and busting my nose. I couldn’t see, the better part of two days, they were swole shut so bad. And knowing if I didn’t submit, he was gonna dust me, no doubt whatever about it. You saw. If they been at odds, Spike and Angel, a hundred years or more, and never settled things between ‘em, might take a good bit to get Spike’s whole attention off all the grudges and quarrels and onto now. Vamps heal, Dawn. So we play real rough, a way humans don’t. You got to take that into account. Let me go in, Dawn.”

“I’m sorry, Mike. It’s not up to me. Tomorrow night, a couple of the SITs will bring him out on the porch for awhile. Then--”

“Why not tonight?”

Dawn thought a minute, then admitted, “I don’t know why not. I know how to do tomorrow, I’m not so good at now. I don’t know any reason. Let’s go over to Casa Spike and ask them. I think we could come up with a few volunteers. I think at this point I probably weigh more than he does.”

“Good idea, Dawn. Let’s do that.”

**********

By the time four more days had passed, Spike was still mostly fogged. But there’d been visible improvement: he’d gone from looking like a zombie to looking like a ninety-year-old concentration camp survivor. He was awake more. He could respond to simple questions about his comfort if you spoke really slowly and avoided big words. But energy level was about zero: he seldom moved and never spoke on his own initiative. Lawn ornaments had more animation.

“Doesn’t smoke,” Dawn remarked to Buffy, who was on the point of leaving for work, “doesn’t drink, doesn’t gamble, doesn’t swear, doesn’t chase other women. In short, the perfect boyfriend.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and looked as if she was thinking of several other things Spike didn’t do that she wouldn’t mention. Hustling to his chair where he’d been installed for the day, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Off now, Spike. Don’t get into too much mischief. Get better.”

She didn’t wait for a response. You could grow several layers of moss waiting for that.

Dawn perched on the overturned bucket by his chair and started reading to him. She’d finished The Decline and Fall of Practically Everybody by Will Cuppy; now she was reading from The (In)Complete Book of Failures, a compendium of snippets of egregiously dumb stuff including such items as builders constructing a wall and omitting any way to get their truck out; a vet lighting a pipe while examining a flatulent cow, resulting in second degree methane burns to his face and the cow’s posterior; and selected excerpts from “English As She Is Spoke,” the world’s most incompetent phrase book. Dawn didn’t know if Spike paid the least attention but at least it kept her entertained.

In reserve remained The Stuffed Owl, containing abysmal poetry of the last couple centuries, and Thurber’s My Life and Hard Times, both excellent invalid fodder.

Pretty soon the SITs started drifting in. Each did The Greeting, which consisted of coming over to Spike’s chair, touching his hand for a moment, and saying Hi, so he’d know who was there. Leaving, they’d do the same, except the word would be Bye. Occasionally he’d react and startle somebody but mostly he didn’t. They did it anyway because Oracle Willow had delivered the revelation that he preferred people around him but undemandingly, busy with their own interests and pretending he was furniture.

Rona worked crosswords Willow had downloaded and printed out for her. Vi started a Monopoly game, the players flopped down in the middle of the floor. Amanda took up her counted cross-stitch, a picture of a sappy, big-eyed kitty cat with a necklace of daisies. Kim sharpened weapons. JoAnne read a cookbook. Kennedy tried out some new ghastly color of nailpolish on her toes.

After the lunch break, when she resumed reading a selection of really stupid reviews of classic movies, Dawn was startled and delighted to feel Spike’s fingers alighting on her hair like a flock of butterflies. Holding otherwise very still, she lifted an arm, waved frantically from the wrist, and then stabbed the air backward with her thumb until everybody had noticed, all of them grinning like maniacs, shoving one another, doing high-fives, rolling on their backs and kicking, and otherwise displaying unrestrained glee in utter silence. With some difficulty, Dawn found her place and read on.

At first dark, when Angel came to provide the evening feed, he carried in and opened a wheelchair. He motioned Dawn outside to direct in a whisper, “Don’t tell him who brought it.” When Dawn raised her eyebrows and looked a question, Angel frowned uncomfortably. “It would be awkward.” When Dawn’s question didn’t go away, he added, “He was in a wheelchair once. It…wasn’t a good time.”

“He noticed me today,” Dawn reported happily. “That’s good, right?”

“This will be the last time I feed him. I assume there’s blood laid in.”

Figuring that was a question, Dawn nodded. “About what I asked…?”

“You want to explain about that?” Angel asked sternly.

“Nope. Just an idea. Can’t hurt to try.”

“I suppose not. All right. I’ll tell him. After I leave, all the fluids he can take.”

“Right.” Dawn saluted smartly, and Angel gave her a look but also something that might have been a smile if you looked really hard and weren’t too particular.

Dawn had set herself the task of learning how to tease him. She couldn’t yet claim much of a success rate but she was nothing if not persistent.

After Angel went inside again, Dawn went to the yard, where Mike, Amanda, and Kim were playing three-way catch with a luminous Frisbee. Coming toward her, Mike pitched a cigarette, which Dawn found odd--she’d never noticed him smoking before--but not worth remarking on.

Amanda brought and opened one of the plastic lawn chairs, and Dawn sat down.

“You scared?” Mike asked solicitously. “You smell scared.”

“A little,” Dawn admitted. “Not your fault.”

“I’ll be careful. Like I promised.”

Dawn hitched a shoulder. Although they’d discussed it, there were factors involved that nobody knew but Dawn. She figured Mike would find out when he found out.

“We don’t have to,” Mike said. “I’m all fed up good.”

Dawn didn’t try to explain to him why that wouldn’t work. Not as she intended it to, anyway. She just gave him her arm. The next second, he’d gone vamp-faced and bit just above her wrist.

It felt scary and wonderful. As though everything in her had jerked into alignment with that one point of contact and burned there, waves and waves of throbbing pleasure in heartbeat rhythm bursting back through her from that point as her life was drawn away.

Then it stopped. And it hurt that it had stopped. She found herself bursting into tears.

Kneeling in the grass, still vamp-faced, Mike looked dazed and completely rattled, staring at her. After awhile he shed game face and Dawn was able to choke back to gulping sniffles, both of them still staring.

Mike scraped his wrist across his mouth. “Dawn. You should have told me.”

“Well, I didn’t know how it would be, I’ve never done this before, how would I know?” Kim stuffed a wad of tissues at her and Dawn swiped her eyes and blew hard, horribly sorry to have flashed out at Mike like that.

“Good they stopped me,” Mike said very softly. Head bent now, eyes averted.

Kim said, “Don’t think this was such a great idea after all.”

“No,” Dawn burst out, “don’t you see? That’s the power in it. So what if it scared me? So what if it scared you? Big things are scary, that’s how it is!”

“Wouldn’t say precisely scary,” Mike muttered. “Gonna have to talk about this. No use in wasting it, though. This ain’t for me anyway. ‘Manda, soon as Angel’s gone, see to getting Spike out onto the porch.” When Amanda hesitated, looking from him to Dawn in obvious concern and uncertainty, Mike burst out, “Jehosephat, girl, go on! I’ll stand off by the corner, striking distance and then a bunch. Jesus H. Christ!” He sprang to his feet and stormed off, muttering to himself, going where he’d said: clear to the far side of the house.

Kim asked cautiously, “What was that all about?”

Dawn shot back, “It’s spooky and scary and none of your business!”

“I think maybe it is, Dawn. I came that close to having to taser him. If you figure on doing this again and you want me to be minder, I need to know what’s going on.”

Dawn scrubbed at her eyes again and sniffed. “I’m sorry, Kim. It’s just really upsetting. I’ve heard of people paying to have vamps bite them. Now I know why. It’s…very scary.”

“I noticed. And that’s not all I noticed.”

“Well, it’s personal. Very personal, all right?” Dawn clasped her hands in her lap, feeling very dim and let down. “My blood. It’s the same as Buffy’s. Basically, the snack food a vamp dreams about. Slayer blood. Reportedly pretty strong stuff. I wouldn’t know, myself. I figured it wouldn’t take much…to make a difference.”

“I think you should use a mug next time.”

“But then it’s dead. Or dead-er. Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll talk to Mike. I scared him. Or whatever.”

“I think quite a lot of whatever. I’d hate to have to do him over this,” Kim remarked somberly, looking off to the porch as Angel came out and went down the walk to his car.

Dawn couldn’t bear to think about Kim’s remark.

Some SITs brought Spike out onto the porch in the wheelchair. Mike went and stood partway up the steps, one foot higher than the other and his body leaned forward--almost a pose of interrupted attack. He was saying something to Spike but Dawn was too far away to hear what or know if Spike made any response. Going the rest of the way onto the porch, Mike bent down by the chair, offering his arm. No reaction. So Mike opened his own arm and offered it again. That time, Spike latched on and began feeding. After some minutes, Mike appeared to have a certain amount of difficulty getting him to stop.

Mike came back down the steps and crossed to where Dawn was sitting. He looked, well, drained. Exhausted. He said, “I’m gonna go hunt now.” When Dawn looked up wanly, Mike said, “You always smelled real good. Now I know why…. Don’t think anything would have been different if you’d told me. No talk is anything like the thing itself. And I understand. This is because he’s yours. And I’m not. Ain’t for me, it’s for him, and that’s right. That makes the best sense. Next time, I’ll do better. Seems like a fine thing, to be somebody’s. Might think about doing that myself sometime.” His eyes warmed. “Don’t fret, Dawn. No harm done. I just was a bit…startled, is all. You mind if I kiss you on the face?”

Kim tensed, but Dawn said, “That’s OK.”

Mike bent and kissed her very lightly on the cheek. And then hard and sudden on the mouth. When he stood up, he was halfway game-faced, but that faded almost immediately, and he smiled. “Take some of that fine smell with me. Doesn’t cost nobody nothing, nobody’s the poorer for such a thing. ‘Night, Kim. ‘Night, Dawn.”

As they watched Mike head off toward the break in the hedge, Kim whispered, “He kissed you.”

“Yeah.”

“And you let him.”

“Guess so.”

“Does that mean he thinks you’re, like, hot?”

“God knows what a vamp thinks.” Dawn touched her burning cheek. And then her lips, that felt numb. “I smell nice. I have tasty blood. I may never leave the house again.”

That was the one and only time the wheelchair was used. The next day, Spike was on his feet, swearing when he bumped into things, and making himself an all-around misery to anybody who came within twenty feet of him. The only mercy was that he tired easily and slept a lot.

**********

Fucking hell.

He was gonna have to carve Michael and Dawn into tiny collops, the both of them, for what they’d been stupid enough to do. The problem was that he didn’t know how he’d ever wait until they did it again.

Everything made sense. Only it wasn’t any of it sense he liked.

Well, he wasn’t supposed to like it, was he? The new sense was walls he banged into every way he turned. The walls of Angel’s commands and forbiddings, which all were compulsions, no choice left to him whatever. He was under Angel’s hand and Angel’s word now, as he’d never been in the whole of his unlife, and that had been most of the battle between them from the start, that he’d slide off if he could or take his beating if he had to, but he would not submit, which just made Angelus try to beat him down harder, and back and forth and round and round, and it still never settled between them when Angelus disappeared, just was gone. When, Spike had learned long afterward, the cursed soul had been forced upon his Sire and him too ashamed to show his face, no wonder to that.

So now it was settled. That had been the price, and he’d agreed to it, set himself to it, and paid it. And had slowly come back to awareness to find himself duly installed, blind and helpless and useless, back in Casa Summers with nothing he was allowed to touch. Of course the whole house stank of Slayer, he’d even been sleeping in her fucking bed, not that he was yet capable of doing anything much in the usual way, there were still a score of ways he could have brought her off, pleasured her, renewed the connection. He knew she wanted him to--could smell it rolling off her, practically taste it. And not only couldn’t do a thing about it but couldn’t even truly want to. Although he could form the image in his mind, it wouldn’t spark. Would bang into that wall of forbidding and die.

And though the children were constantly around him, he could no more have fed from them or even accepted what they could bring him in a mug than he could have bitten a windowpane and taken nourishment there. Humans and their blood were behind and beyond one of those walls.

They were all safe from him. Everybody on the entire fucking planet was safe from him. Because Angel made do chaste as a eunuch and supped dead blood out of a mug and called it feeding, he figured that the world would be a much better place if everybody did the same. And in this respect--hell: all respects!--Spike’s surrendering his will to Angel meant that Angel’s incredible self-restraint restrained Spike too. Couldn’t truly want anything different, much less actually do it. Couldn’t even voice a forceful objection. That impulse, like all the others contrary to Angel’s requirements and prohibitions, would just hit a wall, fade, and die away.

Who’d have ever thought that the Scourge of Europe would end up as some kind of tight-assed ascetic Puritan who successfully fought off, every fucking day, anything with the least prospect of making him happy? The man didn’t even bloody drink, or hardly.

The only reason Angel hadn’t prohibited what Michael and Dawn had contrived was that it hadn’t occurred to him anybody would be daft enough to voluntarily feed themselves to a vamp so he in turn could let another vamp feed off him. The heavy admixture of cannabinoids, that had to be Michael’s idea. Another little surprise treat, along with the hefty dose of Slayer blood. They were both hiding out, nowhere to be found, that was plain. If there was mercy in the world, not hiding out together because Spike was certain Michael would eat her up in a flash, now that he knew what ran in her veins. Or maybe just keep her as a bloodcow, snack a little from time to time until, inevitably, it was all gone.

Nothing he could do about it, it was broad daylight. He could feel it: the presence and angle of the sun. Yet he couldn’t just leave the problem and hope for the best.

He could make it across the room if he went slow and rested a couple of hours before and after. But the stairs, he knew, might as well have been Everest. He thought of sending one of the children to fetch the witch but instead focused his mind on her and wanted her. Now.

He heard her come downstairs and stop in the doorway. She said in a smiling voice, “You yelled?”

“Who’s here besides us? Never mind: anybody who’s not Willow, bugger off.” He heard assorted feet moving, then one set approaching. “Red, they all gone?”

She settled on the weapons chest, moving the phone to make room. “Well…. Yeah, now they are. So what’s up? You’re looking a lot better today, by the way.”

“Hell with me, pay attention here. Dawn’s scarpered because she’s done something she shouldn’t. Something dangerous. An’ she’s hiding out from me ‘cause she knows I’ll call her on it. Well and good. But maybe I’m not the vamp she should be worrying about. Can you find her some way, don’t care how, and send a few of the children to fetch her?”

“I think that can be arranged.” Willow left.

One of the children, Kim, came from the hall to sit where Willow had been. “I know where she is, Spike. I’ll go get her. I know: you’re worried about Mike, and Dawn’s OK, but if you need to know that for yourself, I’ll get her.”

Kim left and other children came back in, Rona and Amanda and…Kennedy and Vi, all girlsmell, bloodsmell, and he tried very hard not to notice or let that affect him, they were past the wall, out of reach, forbidden. And after a time Willow came back, close enough that he knew who she was, saying to him pleasantly, “I gather the problem has resolved itself.”

“Not quite--” Spike broke off because Dawn had just come in the door.

She crossed the room in long swinging strides, saying, “It’s no big deal, Spike, except I was pretty sure Angel would freak. I wasn’t even anywhere around Mike, I do have half a brain, you know. If you wanted it, no need to go into panic mode, all you had to do was ask.”

And she stuck herself in his face, where Mike had set his mark on her, he knew just as clear and plain as sight, and he was tight focused there; and his demon that had been all coiled and furious within him, denied at every turn, exploded beyond his control, wild with jealousy and need, and then nothing.

His mind started working before his body could move. One of the children had tasered him: he could feel the numb-and-prickling aftereffects. And he’d been able to go for Dawn, she was right on the edge of the prohibition, because Angel had ordered him to it in the before that was all so dim to him, but he remembered that, remembered the witch shouting in his mind, and going for her, for Dawn, because he had to, no choice whatever about it, a weapon to another’s will. And his demon had known that, felt the least edge of a chance and taken it, gotten past him. And he’d gone for Dawn.

And he thought, The sleep of reason breeds monsters. Again, Blake had known what was what.

It hadn’t been Dawn worried about the wrong vamp. It’d been him.

When he had enough control back, he straightened in the chair. “You there, Bit?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded shaky. Like she was crying, maybe. Spike hung his head and breathed awhile.

“Did I hurt you.”

“Not really, I just was…surprised.”

“Well, I was surprised, too. That was in me, all the while, and I swear I didn’t know it. Red. Take from my mind what I want. Tell the children. And after that, don’t you come in my mind again.”

“All right, Spike,” Willow said, puzzled. Then she said, “Oh.”

They all went away. And presently they all came back with blood only beginning to die, fragrant and strong. And because he couldn’t so much as will to take it, Dawn came and sat by him on the chair arm and fed it to him a little sip at a time, patting his arm and gentling his demon down that was all locked in on the blood. And they all did that twice more. The next time, something broke and Spike could take the mug in two hands and drink it himself, carefully not dropping it and not choking from having his throat so tight. And then the last time, as well, when the demon had had enough and consented to settle, grumbling at the constraint.

Spike held up the empty cup until somebody took it. “’Manda. You see that everybody knows: nobody never comes within striking distance of a starving vamp. We’re not to be trusted. An’ whoever came in with her taser, good on her. Bit, I’m all fed up now for awhile. You can come back, if you will.”

There had been some of her blood, a seasoning worth all the rest, in each of the filled mugs.

He felt her settle back on the chair arm, leaned warm against his shoulder. Not hard enough or enough weight that he couldn’t keep steady against it.

“Bit, you recall my telling you how I made those fledges. An’ started killing again. Awhile back. Before the First took me. You remember that.”

“Yeah. Spike, don’t be all upset, nobody got hurt--”

“You hush now till I’m done. Bit, that’s how it was. My demon got past me and did what it does. Caught me by surprise, it did. All I knew was I was worried you wouldn’t take enough care with Michael. Never had a thought of that other till it was done.”

He felt her fingers on his face. “You’re not gonna try and do something dumb, are you?”

“As compared to what?” Spike responded, feeling on the one hand emptily destroyed and on the other, full of that really excellent food given freely and in kindness and concern for him. The two of them all tangled up and enough to undo him completely. “Bit, my demon minds me. We generally get on fine. But I’ve put it through sore trials lately an’ we’re not on good terms anymore. And it just got past me before I knew. Till I can see proper again, at least that long, nobody is to come near me except right after I’ve fed. I can’t be answerable. Can’t be trusted. I don’t mean you no harm whatever, but starving, my demon’s not particular. ‘Manda.”

“Yeah, Spike.”

“Think we’re gonna need that roster again, if everybody’s still agreeable to it. Go half and half with the pig’s blood because it’ll have to be more than once a day. And whatever you do, don’t give the least edge of clue about it to Angel. Somebody fetch a glass of water, big glass, and set it here where I can get it. Don’t believe I could manage a pitcher, but I think a glass I could handle all right…. And Bit, you keep what’s yours to yourself hereafter. Done me all manners of good, but that’s not a thing for everyday. I’m so sorry, I don’t have the words to tell you.”

“I know,” said Dawn, her breath warm against his face. Then the touch of a dry little friendly kiss. “Sick people get cranky. You were just cranky.”

“Cranky doesn’t begin to describe. How terrible do I look?”

“Really awful freakin’ terrible. I just about know it’s you. And your roots are starting to show.”

“Yeah. Well. Have to do something about that when I can…. I won’t trust nobody else to be in charge of my demon except me. It won’t mind nobody else. Shove it back, deny it, it just gets sneaky and comes back twice as hard when I’m not looking.”

“Like a fledge. Like Mike was,” Dawn suggested.

“Very like that, yeah. Gonna have to rest here soon, but if you will, I’d like to know how Michael’s been doing.”

They all told him with great enthusiasm until he slept.

Chapter Twenty: Demon Relations

When Buffy got home, about 4:00, she was surprised to find the front room empty: no Spike. A passing SIT told her to look in the basement. Laying her bag and car keys on the hall table, Buffy went down the cellar stars and found Dawn, Willow, and Giles in conversation. Spike, looking awful but much better, was sitting in a lawn chair unfolded and placed where his cot used to be. Manacles attached to chains bolted in the wall were fastened around both his forearms. His blindfolded face lifted before the others noticed Buffy’s presence.

“Hullo, love,” he said, and the others looked around. “Got a bit of a problem here.”

“It wasn’t his fault!” Dawn said at once.

Buffy folded her arms. “OK, what’s going on here?”

Spike said, “Rupert, would you do the honors? I’m up to listening but that’s about all.”

“Certainly,” Giles replied. “Buffy, this morning Spike attacked Dawn.”

“But it wasn’t his fault!”

“Now, Bit, you hush,” Spike said. “I did. And might again. Red, tell her about the geas.”

Willow nodded, wringing her hands anxiously. Buffy found it odd but reassuring that the apparent prisoner was the one calling the shots. The sight of the manacles had chilled her heart. Willow explained, “Angel has imposed a whole big set of mostly prohibitions on Spike. Commands. Psychologically, they’re binding--Spike doesn’t have any independent choice about it. If they were magical, which they’re not, they’d be called geases: magically set compulsions. But this isn’t magic, and I know that’s confusing, but it’s easier to think of them that way because they’re not just rules, not just commands. They’re things Spike literally can’t go against or cross. It seems to be pretty much hard wired into the submission process. A vamp thing.”

Buffy demanded, “Does Angel have something against Dawn? In that house, he told Spike to get her: is that still going on, then?”

“Gets complicated here, love,” Spike responded. “Short answer is no: I expect he picked Dawn that first time because he knew it was something I’d never do of my own choice.”

“To be yes,” Willow put in, nodding emphatically. Which to Buffy made no sense whatever.

“Think I’m gonna need to sit down for this,” Buffy commented, and pulled up the dryer chair.

As the four of them explained it and as Buffy understood it, anything Angel wouldn’t do, Spike couldn’t do. Like feed direct from a human. Mostly Willow and Giles explained, Dawn defended, and Spike put in a word now and then, looking wiped out and exhausted the rest of the time.

But he was aware. And back. And of course in trouble again. Normalcy, of a sort, had been restored. Buffy was too full of rejoicing over that to take any problem very seriously. She got up and took both Spike’s manacled hands and kissed his mouth. And then was worried she’d hurt him because he hadn’t responded, hadn’t closed his hands around hers, hadn’t kissed her back.

Spike said quietly, “See, love, that’s another thing Angel wouldn’t do.”

“Gotcha,” Buffy said grimly and sat down again. “I’m really interested now. So with all these great guesses in place, how could you attack Dawn? And why would you want to?”

“These geases,” Giles said, emphasizing the pronunciation, “have been imposed upon Spike. And only indirectly upon his demon.”

“And the demon,” Dawn piped up, “is getting really, really sick of all the restraints. It’s just getting madder and madder. And Spike’s mad about it too, even though he can’t do anything about it. And sometimes, when they’re both mad enough, the demon takes over and does what it pleases, not what Spike wants it to do. Something Angel has forbidden.”

“It got past me,” Spike said in a flat mutter, on almost no breath. “An’ it went for Dawn.”

As though by signal, Dawn picked up a half full glass of water from the floor and helped Spike drink a couple of swallows. Looking around at Buffy, Dawn said, “He’s still starving, mostly. And I was handy, all full of tasty blood. So the demon figured I was brunch. Right, Spike?”

“About. Thanks, Bit.” Spike lifted his face toward Buffy. “If Angel don’t lift these geases, by the time I’ve got my strength back, my demon’s gonna be so fed up with me and so furious at being caged in, choked back, it won’t mind me at all. It’ll be looking for every least chance to get out an’ hurt somebody. My own personal version of Angelus.”

“And the principal difficulty,” Giles commented, “is that to Angel, this is the normal state of things. On no account is the demon to be allowed any freedom. He believes it to be utterly evil, utterly destructive. And for him, it is. But apparently not for Spike. At least until now.”

Willow chipped in, “Because it’s not magical, just personal, I can’t just wave my hand and make the geases go poof. And because Spike’s demon is an entity in its own right, an animus, I can’t do much magically to affect it--any more than I could with Angelus. Vamps are pretty magic resistant, like we found out when Dawn was withdrawn and nobody but Spike remembered. So there’s not much I can do. Spike’s demon is still more a chaotic collection of impulses, a repository and conduit of spiritual energies, than an actual personality. But the more it’s repressed, the more it will coalesce in trying to resist and rebel. Needing to be stomped down harder, repressed completely. Fighting back harder. Becoming more coherent. I agree: we’re talking about another Angelus, different only by the differences between Spike’s dominant personality and Angel’s.”

“So what it comes down to,” Buffy formulated slowly, “is convincing Angel that Spike’s demon is one of the good guys.”

Giles said, “Yes, I’m afraid so.” His tone made it clear that, like Buffy, Giles knew that had the proverbial snowball’s chance in hell.

“’Tisn’t good,” Spike contradicted. “’Tisn’t specially evil, neither. It just wants a few basic things, and to be let alone, and if you do that, ‘tisn’t too hard to manage. But if it doesn’t get what it needs and what it wants, and if you’re all the time chaining it up and beating it, then yeah, it’s gonna turn savage. And once that happens, not a whole lot of ways of goin’ back.”

“But wait a minute,” said Dawn, waving both hands energetically. “You couldn’t ask for the blood in a mug, and couldn’t drink it yourself. And then you could, and did. Could we, like, wear a geas out?”

“Can’t talk about that, Bit.”

“Got it. Then I’ll take the parts. Am I right that you couldn’t ask for it?”

Willow said, “Right. He had me take it out of his mind.”

Dawn went on, “And you couldn’t drink it, unless I hand fed you. Or was the cup just too heavy?”

Spike said, “Wasn’t too heavy.”

They were, Buffy thought, like a bunch of people playing obscure charades.

Dawn’s turn again. “But then you did hold the cup and drank for yourself. So something changed. What?”

Spike just shook his head.

Willow asked him, “Do you know? Should I look for it?”

Spike’s face, when he turned toward Willow, was fanged.”

“Oops!” Dawn cried. “Time for another feeding. I’ll see to it.” She ran off up the stairs.

Given the discussion, nobody was at ease in the presence of Spike’s demon.

Giles said, “Well, we seem to have arrived at an understanding of the problem. I think we’ve tired Spike quite enough for one day.”

“Yeah, I’ll try to look into….” Willow broke off, staring at Spike, who quite calmly had reached across, held a manacle, and slipped his arm and skeletal hand right out of it. Before he could free the other arm, both Giles and Willow were headed for the stairs.

Buffy had never given Spike’s demon much thought. He’d seldom spoken to her of it. But the current description had made her think of an animal--a big cat, maybe: reasonably good-natured if well cared for but capable of being savage and malevolent if mistreated. Feeble now and angry, but getting stronger by the day, practically by the hour. And she found she wasn’t in the least afraid of it.

Again, she took both Spike’s hands in hers. While Giles and Willow fled up the stairs, Buffy said fondly, “Hey. Dawn’s getting your food. Nobody’s mad at you.”

Spike leaned forward. His cool cheek was against her arm. His fangs were a couple of inches from her skin. His head turned slightly. Without the blindfold, he would have been looking at her.

It was a question, and she knew what the question was. She even knew what the answer had to be.

“It’s OK. Go ahead.” She thought, If Angel can do it, so can I.

But the bite she expected didn’t come. Only breath, fast and effortful, against the skin of her forearm. “Save that,” Spike said. “For sometime.”

It wasn’t at all the occasion she might have imagined. But it was true and it was time. Buffy released his hands to clasp him around his frail, stubborn shoulders. “I love you. And we’re gonna be all right. Lousy timing, huh?”

He was shaking, shuddering. Trying to force past the prohibitions that wouldn’t let him do what he wanted.

Buffy held him carefully tighter. “It’s OK. I know…. No more manacles. I’ll see that nobody gets hurt. And I understand: you can’t ask, can’t take. But you can accept. That can be arranged. I’m not letting go of you. Get stronger. I want to see your eyes.”

Dawn came trotting down the stairs with the first mug. Buffy took it and helped Spike drink, freeing Dawn to go back for more.

Between sips, Spike said hoarsely, “Wish I could tell you--”

“I know,” Buffy said gently, smiling. “Sometime.”

“Again. What you said.”

“About sometime?”

“No.”

“About loving you?”

“Yeah. That.”

“I love you. Buffy hearts Spike. Anyway you come. Anyway at all. Gonna make your demon so happy, it’ll just lie down and purr. You won’t have to ask or take. I know pretty well what you like. All you’ll need to do is stay awake enough to enjoy it.”

“Again.”

**********

Only Dawn had all the pieces and therefore saw it all. But the more she thought about it, the more she knew it shouldn’t come from her but from Giles and the Scoobys, who’d known Angel the longest. Who had history with him--some good, some really hideous.

The last piece was about the dream visions, like the one about the pendant, and that had come out only today, from Giles of all people, down in the basement. And Spike had added the one nudge that set that piece as a capstone, holding all the others together: his idea about why such dreams were coming to him at all. “On account of it was Dru who turned me.” The idea of inheritance through the blood.

So in the meeting before the meeting in the front room, that evening, Dawn laid it all out for them with the clarity only an outsider, kindly disposed toward them all, could bring to bear. She ended tartly, “And if you ever took the trouble just to talk to each other once in awhile, you wouldn’t need me to point out the obvious.”

Giles said, “Yes, quite.”

And Buffy, holding Spike asleep on the couch, said quietly, “Poor Angel.”

“The hell with ‘poor Angel,’” Xander snapped. “Poor Jenny, and poor you, and poor us, and poor everybody else whose life that bastard ever touched.”

“I’ll get the materia,” Willow said, and went off upstairs.

Anya, surprisingly, said nothing. And Spike was asleep. Which was all of them accounted for.

Dawn got on the phone to Casa Spike and Amanda, to set up what would be needed there.

When Angel arrived for the meeting, they were all waiting. Having gone to the door to greet him, Dawn steered him to the big armchair in the corner, that was mostly Spike’s, and perched on the weapons chest beside it. Lowering himself into the seat, Angel was frowning at Buffy and Spike on the couch: obviously not one of his favorite sights in the world.

Before Angel could make any comment, Buffy put an arm--protectively, possessively--around Spike, lying with his head pillowed on her lap. “He’s where I want him. And where he belongs.”

“No,” said Angel, starting to rise again.

“He’s mine, Angel. I claimed him first. And I claim him now. Nobody’s permission signifies except his, and mine.”

“Hear, hear,” said Giles, drawing Angel’s incredulous glance.

“I assume you’ve noticed,” Angel said to Giles coldly, “he’s a vampire.”

“That had come to my attention, yes. Apparently Buffy likes vampires. And the Slayer apparently requires a vampire as consort. This Slayer. This vampire. I’ve resigned myself to it, over time.” Giles composedly drank tea.

They all looked at Angel. And he looked back, taking in the plain fact of their unanimity. After awhile, fixing on what he figured was the weakest link, Angel said, “Xander.”

“Oh, I don’t like any of you fangboys,” Xander responded. “But arguing hasn’t gotten me anyplace except the doghouse. And people can be really peculiar in their choices about who to love.” He looked wistfully at Anya, indicating they still hadn’t officially made up and had probably had an argument about this, going by Anya’s very thin, very tight lips at the moment. “And very stubborn with friends who insist on giving them good advice they don’t want to hear and aren’t gonna take. Spike hasn’t killed a single person I like and hasn’t threatened to murder me in several weeks. By me, that’s good enough. So I’m with the program. What Buffy wants, Buffy gets.”

“Love,” Angel repeated, starting straight at Buffy.

“Yeah.” Buffy bent and kissed Spike’s cheek, then looked up at Angel again. “I guess so. Finally figured it out. Thanks for helping me.” She gave Angel a small and rather tremulous smile. “Anybody who’d go through what he’s gone through for me, well, you got to love that. And any two people it takes practically an act of God to keep apart, I guess they’re supposed to be together.”

“Spike!” Angel was on his feet and shouting. Spike came abruptly awake. Sitting up, he turned his head blindly, trying to figure what was wrong. Angel left him in no doubt: “Get away from her. Now!”

Spike obeyed. Because he had to. He wavered upright, holding to the end of the couch, and turned there, facing Angel. Waiting for the next command.

Buffy hadn’t tried to hang onto him because that would have only made it harder for him. She hadn’t moved her eyes from Angel. “Is it just jealousy? I could understand it. But really, I thought better of you than that.”

“He’s…a pollution. A desecration. If you’ve all gone insane here, if I have to draw the line, then I will. Do you know what he’s done?”

“Not all of it, Peaches,” Spike remarked in a sardonic drawl. “Could give them chapter and verse about some of what we’ve got up to, over the years. Last week or so, even. Don’t think you’d like it much.”

“Shut up!”

Spike obediently offered no further details. His wavering became a sway he tried to brace against. In another minute, he was going down. Dawn went to him fast and helped him sit on the floor, leaned against the side of the couch. She was still under Angel’s radar: he didn’t forbid Spike to accept her help.

Willow said fiercely, “He deserves better from you than this. He made it through the Supplice d’Allégance. He put himself through hell to make things right with you. If you take away his choices, then you have a responsibility toward him!”

Buffy demanded, “Is it the fact that it’s Spike? Or is it the fact that he’s a vampire? That he has a demon inside him?”

Angel said, “That should be reason enough. You of all people should know, Buffy, how cruel such a demon can be!”

Setting down his teacup, Giles said, “Ah, but Spike’s demon is a different demon. I believe both Willow and I have mentioned he’s been having visionary dreams, of late. As an inheritance of sorts from Drusilla, it would seem. Quite accurate ones, too. As concerning the pendant, the Eye of Ra, for example.” He gestured, and Anya poked in her bag and drew it out: a medallion of silver metal with a clear jewel inset.

Anya commented, “The chain’s not original. But that shouldn’t make any effective difference.”

Willow asked Anya, “The dealer in Alexandria?”

“E-Bay,” Anya replied. “Sorry, I outbid you. At least I think it was you.”

“Then you overpaid. But Yea, us! anyway.”

Xander repeated incredulously, “The Eye of Ra?”

Anya shrugged. “Even Steven Spielberg gets things right occasionally, even if it was the wrong artifact. The name’s been banging around for centuries. Just applied to the wrong object.” She slid the medallion back into her bag.

Giles commented, “The available sources are unclear about the exact nature and use of the object. And our researchers are simply superior to Mr. Spielberg’s. We have a bit more at stake. Now, if we may return to the matter at hand. Spike’s finding himself gifted, or afflicted, with prescient dreams, he attributes to the fact that it was Drusilla who turned him. Is this not correct, Spike?” He looked at Spike, who naturally said nothing, and then in sharp annoyance at Angel. “Angel, for heaven’s sake, don’t be petty. Please allow Spike to confirm my summary.”

Scowling, Angel consented to sit down again and lift his forbidding that prevented Spike from saying anything.

Spike’s contribution was a nod, which hardly seemed worth all the trouble. But it was one geas lifted. Dawn approved.

Giles continued, “That suggests something heretofore unsuspected concerning vampires: that the actual inhabiting demon, the same demon, is transferred in the initial transfer of blood; and that the demon in question has been affected by its previous host. Drusilla’s powers predated the demon. And to some degree, Spike has demonstrably inherited them, having shown no abilities along those lines before his turning.”

“So?” said Angel. “Dru is a monster. We’re all monsters. That’s why a Slayer is needed. Why she’s called. And why her only rightful business with us is conducted with a stake!”

“Ah, but now we begin to approach the point,” said Giles, and gestured at Dawn.

Dawn hopped up and went to the phone on the weapons chest. Dialing Casa Spike, she waited three rings and then hung up. Returning to sit by Spike, she and Willow passed each other. Willow sat on the weapons chest, showing Angel a map with two fiery red dots a little distance apart. After Angel had a moment to look at it, Willow pulled out a capped X-acto knife and a tissue out of her pocket.

She asked, “I need a little blood, Angel. For the demonstration.”

“Why.”

Giles said, “It’s something you need to know, Angel. No trickery. I give you my word.”

Angel considered a moment, then uncapped the knife and pressed the blade into his palm below the thumb. Willow blotted the blood with the tissue.

Willow said, “All right, time to reconvene outside.”

Giles took his teacup, Willow collected some more equipment on a tray, and everybody started filing out onto the front porch, Angel trailing along nearly last, except for Dawn helping Spike.

Going out, Spike asked her, “You got your taser, Bit?”

“Yeah. Not gonna use it.”

“You seen him, since?”

“No. It will be all right.”

“He comes at you, you use it.”

Dawn shook her head. “That would spoil the demonstration.”

“Hell with the demonstration. You look out for yourself.”

“Shut up, Spike,” Dawn directed gently, guiding him to a seat on the steps with the end-post of the porch rail to lean against.

She left him there because the demonstration was her part. And Willow’s too, of course. But mostly hers.

Mike, Amanda, and Kim were coming from the break in the hedge, from Casa Spike. The SITs stopped at the corner of the house, letting Mike come on alone. He flicked a glance at everybody watching from the porch, then ignored them and continued to where Dawn was waiting.

“Hi, Mike.”

“Hi, Dawn. What’s this about, then?”

Dawn took his arm and turned with him to face the porch. “Everybody, this is Mike. Spike’s minion, at the moment. Mike, has anybody told you what to do or not do here?”

“Nobody’s told me nothing whatever, Dawn. You know that.”

“Well, this is a kind of a test, but it’s not your test. I just want to show something. And you just do what you think is best, all right?”

“All right.”

“Show me your demon, please, Mike.”

Mike gave the porch another quick glance, maybe looking to Spike for instructions, but of course didn’t get any. He looked at Dawn again, checking that she meant it. Apparently deciding that she did, he went to game face, with a subtle change of balance as other, less obvious things changed within him.

“Mike, do you want to hurt me?” Dawn asked. “Just say what’s so.”

“Not this minute, no.”

“Are we friends, Mike?”

“I surely hope so.”

“You know what my blood tastes like, don’t you.” Mike nodded slowly. Dawn asked, “Would you like more of it? Would you like it all?”

Mike backed a step and changed to a wary balance. “You saying I should? Or you just asking?”

“Asking.”

Mike considered. “Well, that ain’t for me. And it’s not for me to say. And not all, no way to that.”

“Why? Why not all?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway. Please, Mike.”

“’Cause then you’d be dead. Gone forever. And I’d feel real bad about that. No Dawn, never no more. And Spike, he’d do me for sure, was I to do that. And he’d be sad always, missing you. You recall. He said. What’s this all about, Dawn? I don’t like talking about this.”

Walking to the porch, taking the uncapped knife Willow handed her, Dawn asked, “Do you have a soul, Mike?”

“Not that I know of. Now Dawn, don’t you do that--” Mike turned his head hard away, a full-body wince, as Dawn cut a small thin line across where he’d bitten her before: his mark. “Shouldn’t hurt yourself like that.”

“This time, it’s for you,” Dawn said. “For a taste. To show something.”

“Be a pity to waste it,” Mike reflected, and then, vampire fast, he was right beside her and bent his head to her arm. He licked the cut once: sealing it. He released her arm, looking straight down into her eyes. “That what you wanted? To see if I could stop? Well, I can. But don’t you ask me like that twice. Don’t like to be played with.”

Dawn wanted to tell him it wasn’t a game, he wasn’t being played with. But not yet. “Mike, are you mad at me?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“Do you want to hurt me now? With the taste of my blood in your mouth?”

Mike shook his head, shook himself. Shook off game face, frowning down at her with wide, dark eyes. “Maybe like to rattle your bones up a little, thinking it’s a good idea to tease a vamp. But then I never knew you to be a tease before. So I expect I’ll wait until you tell me.”

From the port, Willow said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you--Angelus.”

Even louder, Angel said, “No.”

“He is, though,” Willow shot right back. “Or his demon is, anyway. The same demon, Angel!”

“No!”

Mike muttered to Dawn, “Spike’s there, everybody all around him. OK if I take a try at him now?”

Knowing it was Angel Mike was itching to take a try at, Dawn said, “Let them do it. He has to listen to them. Because of the soul.”

“Glad I ain’t got one, then. Wouldn’t want to have to put up with that. You gonna tell me what this was for?”

“To give Angel a lesson in demonology. To show him all demons aren’t monsters. That sometimes they can choose not to be.”

Dawn looked up and found Mike regarding her very seriously. “I’m a monster, Dawn. It don’t do to forget it.”

“But not all the time. And I don’t forget it. But we’re friends, and you have a choice. And neither you nor your demon wants me dead.”

“That’s true. Also true I’m not hungry right now, neither. Don’t you figure I’m some tame pet you got here.”

Dawn smiled, realizing that like Spike, Mike was proud of being a vampire and the demonstration of his forbearance, right out in front of everybody, had come dangerously close to injuring his pride.

She told him, “I’ll never ask you where you hunt. Or how.”

“Best that way.” Mike looked critically up at the porch. “Looks like they’ll be at that awhile. Could play Frisbee.”

“Good idea. Let’s do that.”

**********

Spike listened some of the time while they bludgeoned Angel with it: came at him from all sides, beating down all his denials and arguments. That Michael was Angel’s get, made during that turn Spike had taken in the wheelchair and Angel had taken as Angelus on account of the curse, and Buffy, provable by the two new dots on the map set off by the dab of Angel’s blood. That was the connection, made plain on the map: Angel’s blood was Michael’s, no difference. Therefore Michael’s demon, that he could control, was the same animus as Angel’s demon, that was the cruelest creature ever to slash a throat. Leading to the conclusion that Angelus was finally what Angel had made of him: by renouncing the demon, by denying it, by a century of hating and punishing and forbidding what already had been pretty savage to begin with. A souled wasted century of eating rats, when he could catch them, and bumming around in alleys, or so the tale went. Even worse than pigs’ blood. Spike knew, having eaten a few rats in his time in the school basement. Rats would do, when there was nothing else. There always were rats.

Which made Spike realize he was hungry again, and that could become a problem. But before it was, Kim had come out with a mug he couldn’t take. And she knew enough to square off against Angel, still arguing with the Scoobys, and demand, “Is it OK if I give him this?”

“It’s human,” Angel said flatly.

“Yeah, partly. So? Does he have your kind permission to drink his food?”

“All right,” Angel said in a resigned, disgusted what does it matter voice.

And that single prohibition was lifted. All of it. Spike was free to go to game face and take Kim, that brave little fire-plug of a girl with his mark already on her, bent close to hand the cup to him, and he almost wanted to because he was starving and just to prove he could. But he didn’t have to, which he figured was pretty much the point at the moment. He drank the blood in about three swallows and passed the mug back for more. Kim was a fine brave child, they all were, and Spike very seldom wanted to do them any harm and even then didn’t. Because it was his choice to make, each time. And except in extremity, Spike’s demon minded pretty well, most of the time.

Angel hated his demon. Which was something Spike had known all along. Never in a way to gain any leverage from it, though. So he supposed this whole production might be worth doing if it got the prohibitions lifted, made Angel agree that doing to Spike’s demon what he’d done to his own might not be all that great an idea.

It was Angel who’d corrupted his demon, not the other way around. Most of the meanness and the cruelty had belonged to whatever man Angel had been before Darla had turned him. The demon had just let it out, let it free, given it power. And then taken all of the blame and a good part of the punishment.

Whether the Scoobys had thought it out that far, or whether Angel ever would admit to it, wasn’t Spike’s concern. Let the Watcher and the witch and the Slayer see to arguing Angel into lifting the geases. Spike, once he’d fed, was too tired to care much or pay any attention.

When Spike woke it was much later. Nobody was left on the porch except himself and Angel. It was all quiet, everywhere around, except for crickets and the shrill, small cries of nighthawks hunting insects over the streetlights.

Spike straightened, feeling himself stronger, maybe even a bit clearer in his head. After each feed and each rest, it was a little better. He got out a cigarette and lit it.

“So how did that all go?” he asked after awhile.

“Do whatever the hell you please.”

Spike thought of a couple of things he might have said and kept them to himself. All the geases, lifted. So that was all right, then.

“How are the eyes coming?” Angel asked presently in a slightly less surly tone.

“Slowly. Be awhile yet.”

“So what was it all for, Will? The damn supplice, and all of it? Was it all some kind of a damn game you and the Scoobys cooked up--”

“Didn’t lose my eyes for a game. You know what it was. What you always wanted: for me to admit you were stronger, and my sire. Even though it was Dru who turned me. For me to submit. So you got it. You have the power to forbid and command. That still stands. Regardless of all this….” Spike waved vaguely, meaning the whole raft of arguments they’d all assembled to hammer at Angel with, to make him let go. “I’m here because I wanted to be here. Because I thought I could be some use to the Slayer. And you’re here, the same. An’ you call it, and this time, I’ll do it. Soon as I can. Soon as I’m healed. What the fuck, Angel. We’re still what we were. Just a bit clearer about what that is, is all. Without a century of grudges to get in the way.”

“Without Dru,” said Angel.

“Yeah. And that, too. How’s she doing, by the way?”

“Up in Washington state, the last I heard. At least the massacres sound like Dru…. Darla’s gone.”

“Yeah. Heard about that. But not how.”

“It was strange,” Angel said in a quiet, distant voice. “A couple of months back. She dusted herself, Will. So…so her child could be born. In an alley. All our important transactions seem to take place in alleys….”

Spike thought for awhile, because Angel was never one to come at a thing straight on. Always make you guess for it, reach for it. And then, half the time, slam you down for guessing or for asking, either one. But maybe they weren’t gonna do that anymore. Cautiously neutral, Spike said, “Unusual for a vamp to have a child.”

“Even more unusual for two. My child, Will. My son. Connor. It was prophesied. He’s gone now. You remember Holtz?”

“Certain sure. Right bastard, that one.”

“Took him. Took Connor. Into Quar’toth. No way to get to him. Get him back. So when Buffy called, I figured I had nothing better to do.”

Spike let that alone for now. Thinking about Quar’toth, the doorless dimension. And about Dawn, who maybe knew everything there was to know about doors. Or, if she didn’t, maybe could find out. He wouldn’t say anything until he was sure. Didn’t want Angel going after Dawn, the way he sometimes did.

“Holtz,” Spike said eventually. “He’d be what: hundred and sixty some? Lively, for that age, sounds like. Or did he get himself turned?” Given Holtz’s rabid hatred of vampires in general and Angelus in particular, Spike considered that highly unlikely.

“No, he jumped through time, some way. I do hate magic!”

“Not too fond of it myself. But I figure it’ll have to be that, if we’re to close the Hellmouth. If the witch finds a way. Sounds like they got the pendent. The one I saw….”

“Yeah. How does that come into it?”

“Not a clue. I expect she’ll find out. Or I will. Been getting some heavy hints that’s to be mine. All bright, everywhere. Dreamed that a few times now.”

“The hell you did.”

Spike shrugged. “Next thing, I expect the stars will start talking to me. But not so far.”

“You really believe that? That you caught visions from Dru?”

Again, Spike shrugged. “Dunno where else they’d have come from. Writing wretched bad poetry to whatever bint wouldn’t have me wouldn’t account for it. Which is about my only claim, along those lines.”

That was awkward, because it brought up Buffy by implication. It produced a silence long enough that Spike pitched the butt of the cigarette into the yard.

Angel asked, “What do you intend to tell Buffy. About private matters. Between us.”

Spike smiled quietly. “Don’t worry, Peaches. Believe it or not, when Buffy and I are together, your name hardly ever comes up. She’s not real interested in ancient history and I wouldn’t want to bore her.”

Angel considered that and apparently was satisfied because he asked, “You need help getting back inside?”

“I can manage that far. Be awhile before I can take on the stairs, though.”

Let Angel take whatever satisfaction he could from the implications of that. As in the wheelchair, so with the blindness: Spike had some discretion about what fights he picked and which he let alone for a better time. Especially fights he’d already won.

Angel said heavily, “All right. Good night, then.”

“’Night.”

When the sounds of Angel’s departing car had completely gone, Spike stood up and checked the angle of the step to know the direction of the door. He found the latch and let himself in. He’d figured to go to the chair in the front room but stopped, hearing feet descending the stairs. He smiled because it was Buffy.

“Won’t be much good to you, love. Might as well leave me to the chair.”

She came and kissed him. “I can be all kinds of good to you, even if all we do is sleep. Unless you’d rather.”

“Not hardly.”

“Come on, then.”

Slowly, and with some difficulty, they went up the stairs together.

SECTION VI: INTO THE LIGHT

Chapter Twenty One: Slights, Sights, and the Fate of Cleveland

Hearing the approach of the motorbike, Spike rolled out of bed, dressed, and was downstairs by the time the tone changed to quieter idling. The bike’s noise, the calls of wakening birds, and the beginning stir of traffic on more traveled streets provided a complete and accustomed soundscape in which Spike oriented himself, going down the porch steps and across the front yard.

“Morning, Michael.”

“Morning, Spike.”

As Spike mounted pillion, Michael let the bike pull out.

Fifteen minutes later, retrieving the hidden key let them into the back annex of the Magic Box. Spike turned his head, noting Angel’s presence off to his right, at the street side of the training room. Probably doing those infinitely slow moves of his: about as stirring as watching a glacier melt. Moves you could probably do in your average sized closet. Spike didn’t know why Angel bothered leaving his hotel, unless for some reason he wanted to watch Spike’s progress in the unarmed drills.

The scent of coffee meant Anya was also up early. She liked to keep an eye on the merchandise when anybody else was here, no matter who.

While Spike sat on the back bench to pull off his boots, Mike dragged all the pads into a pile near the outside door. They met, both barefoot, out in the middle of the floor. Mike tapped Spike’s shoulder, and they began.

It was a little like wrestling and a little like the tether fighting once popular in France. Pretty much continuous contact, a medley of blows, holds, and throws, going at it full speed, full force, but minimal footwork. No need for any warm-up, no need to hold back.

Spike had tried training with a few of the SITs but had found it too difficult to keep from hurting them because they weren’t consistent in their moves and sometimes leaned in closer than they should. Blows that should have been quick, pulled jabs instead connected solidly and the SIT knocked off her feet, unprepared. And the SITs needed for protection the pads whose edges were a tripping hazard for Spike. Better working out with Mike on the bare floor. Just go at it, all out.

Mike’s fighting style, like Spike’s, was an eclectic hodgepodge of unarmed combat moves and streetfighting. Normally Spike would have thrown in more aerial stuff--backflips, drops, sweeps, flying kicks and the like--but his blindness denied him accuracy, and losing contact put him at a further disadvantage. Regretfully he left the flying flourishes--the little extras that could startle an opponent and make people like Huey think he “fought pretty”--to some other time.

Buffy would have worked out with him, had in fact offered a couple of times, but Spike didn’t want to show her anything less than his best form. Bad enough to have Angel watching, assuming he was.

Thinking about being watched distracted him enough that Mike had him down and into a headlock, bang done. Enough of that then. When Mike let him up, Spike went over to the weight bench and worked there awhile. Didn’t need anybody’s help doing that. He pushed himself mercilessly because he knew what he expected of himself and was still way short of that. Strength decent, maybe, but endurance was terrible and he was still stiff and awkward by his own standards from having to contain motions within a limited range because of the blindness. His measure was the Slayer: her supernatural strength, agility, and skill. Still be awhile, he judged, before he’d be fit to dance with her.

At the first signs of shaking exhaustion he continued a little longer, then quit and rested. Mike brought him a cold quart of bottled water. He drank some of it, then all of it, Didn’t have to feed a dozen times a day now but the water still was good and he went through considerable of that.

The idea of having to pay for water offended him. Being idle and useless and kept on charity offended him. He keenly felt the difference between working, stealing, or extorting/finagling/gambling to provide for his own needs, all of which he considered sensible, and being a dead drag on Buffy’s skint economies. And now there’d be leavegeld for Michael to get together and how was he to do that?

Spike made himself shut down that line of thinking. When he was healing, he always did that: got into cycles of aimless depression and worry. No sense to them. It was worse this time because he wasn’t inclined to drink himself into a blank interval, since that would have rendered him completely helpless; and his confidence in his own ability and resources to deal with any challenge were pretty much at an all-time low. Because he’d submitted. To Angel. Couldn’t claim the head bloodied but unbowedsodding rot anymore. In Angel’s presence, Spike always had an ear halfway cocked. Attending. Waiting for direction. Vaguely anxious for notice and approval that consciously he was indifferent to.

He’d been willingly owned a long while now. Given pieces of himself away freely, without calculation, beginning with Buffy and Dawn. All sorts of people now had a claim on him: Willow, all the SITs, the Watcher, Anya, even that git Harris, some ghosts like Joyce and Tara, and Michael too, of course. All that rested light on him. It was different, acknowledging Angel’s ownership.

Despite all the thinking Spike had done about it before and since, despite intending and accepting it, it made him feel less than he’d been. Less in every way. Made him feel fragile and unsure.

He bestirred himself for a session hitting the large heavy bag and the suspended smaller one, working toward a sustained staccato rhythm, thinking that if he wasn’t anymore the weapon he’d been accustomed to and expected himself to be, he was still sufficient to the mission of closing the Hellmouth. Nothing much signified beyond that.

Mike coming up. And Angel behind him. Spike kept up the rhythm of striking the light bag as though he didn’t notice because he didn’t want to notice.

All grave and approving, Angel said, “Well, you’re beginning to have some meat on those bones,” and Spike’s memory replayed, Well, you’re almost fit to beat up a nun, said in exactly that tone, from other, lesser recoveries, followed by that same swat on the shoulder. He’d expected it and therefore held his balance and his rhythm against it. He wondered if Angel had the same old soundtrack playing counterpoint in his head but not enough to ask.

We are what we were. Spike was getting his strength back, enough to prod Angel into reasserting dominance. Same old tune, just new and more guarded words. Meant pretty much the same.

Angel proposed, “Why don’t we do a couple of turns. Test your speed, not go easy on you and wait for you like your boy here.”

Spike reached out and stilled the bag, realizing it was Mike Angel was after. Michael, come all watchful, guarding him. “Michael, go home.”

Mike said, “Don’t want to.”

“That wasn’t a question, and you ain’t got your leavegeld yet, so you mind. Go on home. I’ll be along presently. Michael.”

Michael didn’t respond. The lad thought he knew well enough what was what but still fancied his chances. Didn’t know how jealous Angel was in his ownership. Didn’t know that the restrictions Angel imposed on himself in regard to humans didn’t extend to vamps. Still played rough and pretty much the same as always, in that respect.

Angel commented, “You don’t keep that boy in line. You can’t put him down, so he’s lost respect for you.”

“Michael,” Spike said one last time.

“Not gonna leave you here,” Mike said stubbornly.

So Spike hit him before Angel could. Hit him hard and unexpected, and put him down, and set an elbow in his throat, wrists crossed and hands in neck-breaking position. “Michael, you’re embarrassing me in front of my Sire. Now you get home like I said.”

There were a couple of ways Mike could have broken free, but Spike trusted the lad not to and he didn’t. Maybe Mike understood the attack and maybe he didn’t, but he accepted it anyway. Spike let him up and listened for the sound of the door, that would mean Mike was clear. Then he faced around to Angel.

“If you want to play, I’m here.”

A cuff to the head, hard enough to break Spike’s stance, but just the one, and Angel’s amused, sardonic voice commenting, “I expect more from you, considering all that good girl blood you’re getting. Are you sure you didn’t inherit thrall from Dru, not dreams?”

Spike shrugged. “Can build up strength and get hard on pig blood. Just takes longer.” He expected another smack for that, but probably just got a scowl, which didn’t signify. So he added, “The children and I understand each other well enough.” Which probably was annoying too but not as bad as bringing up the Slayer directly, so Angel let it pass.

“You’re their mascot,” Angel said, turning, moving away. “Pet vamp. Well, I suppose it’s good somebody finally found a use for you.”

So this game was apparently over: no fun without Mike to play the angles, the connections. Not worth the play just for Spike, that he could have at a word. Spike broke stance and went slowly for his boots.

Except at midday, the alley behind the Magic Box received no direct sun so it was simple enough for Spike to locate and lift the storm grate that let him drop into the big sewer pipe below. Stepping up onto a wall cleat let him reach and slide the grate back into place.

Along the route between here and Casa Summers were other grates the sun did shine through. So Spike untied the blindfold and tried out his eyes.

Got general dark blur, so he wasn’t certain if he’d be able to notice the sunfall spaces or not. The first of the exposed grates was a couple of hundred paces on, so he started walking, blinking and squinting, trying to discern any detail that would give him a basis for comparison. Presently he felt there was a vamp up ahead and halted, pulling out the piano wire garrote from his back pocket.

“Michael?”

“Yeah. There’s sun here. Thought you might need…want to steer around it.”

Spike put the garrote away and continued on. He could make out an area of increased warmth but couldn’t see the light at all, which answered that.

They walked on together for awhile. Then Spike decided, “You take the bike for leavegeld.”

“You already gave it to me. You taking it back to give it to me again?”

Spike shook his head. “Forgot. Dunno what else I’d have. I’ll think about it. I’ll think of something. It’s time, Michael.”

“No need of that. And ain’t going anyway, I hope you know that.”

“You should, though. Gonna get real ugly here pretty soon now. You should get gone. Use the damn bike, since it’s yours anyway.”

“I still want in, Spike. That ain’t changed.”

“Different game now. ‘Tisn’t my call now. Never was, actually. An’ you’d just have the whole thing to go through again with Angel, if he didn’t just dust you for lack of the time to sort you proper. According to his notion of proper. Best you stay clear now.”

“Another thing you forgot,” Mike said. “You gave me away to the children. It’s their say now, not yours. So whatever leavegeld I’ve got coming, it’d be from them. I know what I’d ask for.”

“What,” Spike responded with misgivings in his voice.

“What you got: an arrangement. If they go up against Turok-han again, I’d sort of like to see that. Take a hand. With an arrangement, I wouldn’t need to hunt. Dawn don’t like my hunting. She hasn’t said so, but I know.”

“You’re trying to be on too many sides at once. You’ll only get grief from that.”

“No, that’s you,” Mike contradicted composedly. “It’s still real simple for me. Want to dust a whole bunch of Biters. All I can get at, anyway. When that goes down, I’ll be in the middle of it. And whoever is around me there, that’s what side I’m on.”

“Then fine: since you got it all figured out, it’s plain you don’t need me or my advice anymore. So you just go your ways hereafter. I got more than enough to keep track of without bothering about you.”

“Fine,” Mike shot back. “I will, then.”

“Yeah. You do that.”

They walked along in prickly silence until Mike pulled Spike aside, explaining, “Grate.”

Spike made an annoyed face but didn’t say anything.

Presently Mike said, “You think he’ll try to go after Dawn next?”

So he hadn’t fooled the lad at all: Mike had figured out the brush with Angel. Spike answered frankly, “Hell if I know. He can’t hardly go after Buffy, as I expect he’d like to. Warned her, Dawn, but would she listen?”

“No, shouldn’t think so. Be interesting to watch him try, though.”

“I expect. Maybe.”

“You still want me to come by for you, tomorrow morning?”

“No, Michael. That’s done.”

**********

An hour or so before that evening’s Scooby meeting, Spike could distinguish between the extremes of light and dark. He could make out the bare bulb in the basement as a pale white fuzziness, but nothing beyond that. Resuming the blindfold, he went to the top of the stairs and shouted for Dawn. When she came, he led her back down.

“Need to know,” he told her, keenly self-conscious, “how awful this looks. Now don’t you ‘eek’ or be tiresome: just tell me.”

He removed the blindfold and let her see whatever there was to see.

In a very tiny voice, she said, “Eek?”

“Oh.” Spike started doing up the scarf again, but she pushed his hands down and told him to wait. A faucet was turned on for a moment at the far side of the basement. Then Dawn returned and told him to bend down and shut his eyes.

“Some ooky gunk,” she explained, patting at his eyes carefully with a bit of wet cloth, then finishing with the dry end. “That’s moderately presentable.”

He blinked. “What’s it look like?”

“Sort of like cataracts. Your eyes, but hazed over. Can you see anything?”

“See the bulb.” Spike pointed, to prove it.

“And?”

“And the bulb.” Spike pointed again, smiling small when Dawn made a vexed noise at him. He wrapped the scarf around his hand. “Better with or without, you think?”

“With,” Dawn decided judiciously. “Everybody’s used to it so nobody will notice. And better to show less than you actually can do, not more.”

Admiring her wise sneakiness, Spike refolded the scarf and tied it back in place across his eyes, around his head. “Bit, what kind of terms are you on with Lady Gates?”

A silence. Then, brightly, “What size answer do you want: small, medium, or large?”

“Specific. Angel’s got somebody--well, his baby son, actually--kidnapped into Quar’toth. I wondered if there might be a way to get the baby out.”

“Short answer for that: no. Angel’s in communication with the Powers, Spike. If he hasn’t done anything about it, it’s because he’s already asked and been turned down.”

“Do you know that? Or can you know that?” Spike pursued quietly.

“Is this really important? Because I’m really, really not supposed to be talking about this.”

“Just asking what you know, Bit. Not how you know it.”

“If it’s something to do with you, I’ll find out. Either that or get the door slammed in my face. There’s still a connection, if that’s what you mean. What I see, Lady Gates sees. What I know, She knows. As much as She cares to, anyway. If She wants to at all, which I don’t know for certain. But if I were to really annoy Her…really put Her on the spot, the way we did…. I don’t think I’d get away with it twice, Spike. The Powers don’t like being messed with. And what They don’t like, They’re quite capable of grinding into powder or unmaking altogether. It’s always best to stay out of Their notice.”

“That’s what Anya said,” Spike allowed. “But I kind of think they’re messing with me, Bit. Things falling somewhat too neat and convenient to be accident. I don’t necessarily mind, but I like to know where I stand. Whether I’m imagining things or there are other players in the game beyond the ones I know.”

“There’s always other players, Spike. Hanging around the vicinity of an impending apocalypse, that’s always a safe assumption. Imagining what, for instance? What’s too convenient?”

Spike thought about mentioning how that dream vision of the pendant, the amulet, had come so pat, together with the strong conviction it some way was tied to the Hellmouth--produced aptly just before Angel’s arrival. How easy the amulet had been, once sketched and identified, to find and secure. But as he’d said, he actually didn’t much mind the laboriously obvious Destiny for the Terminally Stupid approach so long as it seemed to be tending in the direction he wanted to go anyway. That he was being used, that none of this was for his benefit, was to him a given; the only question was whether the use was toward a purpose he approved.

So long as their plans ran together, he saw no reason to risk jeopardizing Dawn’s position with her chief patron. No, he wouldn’t involve her in it.

So he said instead, “Oh, like how Angel’s Champion get-up doesn’t seem to fit all that well and has this big long zipper in the back,” (His hands measured it out.) “and a tag that says Acme Rentals. And how I don’t get any fancy stuff like that for leavegeld despite all my good service given gratis.”

“You got paid, Spike: you got me!”

“Oh, was that the prize? Thought that was just something I’d signed up for on the telly. What d’you think, Bit: should we sign Angel up for one of those free home trials of a floor waxer or really posh exercise equipment? Or those lonely ladies with asthma or something and that real interesting line of patter offering to call a poor bloke at home at his expense and just chat the night away? He could even get those right at the hotel. Add it onto his bill. Bet he’d like that, all so simple and all done on the phone lines.”

Dawn giggled. “You have a wicked, nasty mind. One of the main qualifications for membership in the Me club, of which I am naturally the president. How do we get the number to call?”

“Oh, I have that memorized. Was an internet address, and I know that, too.”

“Wicked and depraved,” declared Dawn admiringly.

“Well, got to earn my way as a child’s pet, here, don’t I?”

“Absofuckinglutely. I’ll get something to write the numbers down. You can do the phone, you can sound reasonably respectable when you want, and I’ll do the internet sign-up when Willow’s off the laptop.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Spike agreed.

**********

For meetings, the armchair had become Angel’s because Spike now sat beside Buffy on the couch. To her left, because he was left-handed and she, right: a fighting arrangement that meant they could easily reach and clear a circle some twelve feet across, plus the length of whatever weapon each wielded, and not get in one another’s way. What Buffy liked about that arrangement, Spike always and reliably to her left, was that it had become automatic. She’d changed her fighting style knowing that arc would always be covered, didn’t need attending to, freeing her to extend her own effective arc several feet farther and to the rear.

She’d also changed her side of the bed. She therefore always nearest the window, where light might attack; he nearest the door, where an intruder might come. Not that she seriously expected her bedroom to be invaded. Just how they were, how they did. Spike always to her left and again solid there. Ivory skin of biceps, against her own arm, comparatively cool and therefore always noticed. Forearms below all smooth and tight over muscle, bones decently clothed, the slight fuzz of hair more easily felt than seen. Strong hands with tendons showing, typically clasped or laid close below his waist in an unconsciously sexy way that both guarded and called attention whenever he gestured, which was pretty much whenever he spoke. Not often: in company he preferred to listen and then maybe comment or discuss afterward. He seldom said much while a wider discussion was going on. Head typically raised and face lifted attentively, turning toward whoever was talking. His face remained more a flavor and specific kinesthetic memories to her than something seen, interrupted as it was by the blindfold and all expressions therefore masked and incomplete for lack of his quick-changing and expressive greyblue eyes.

Buffy missed his eyes and how they always found her first in every gathering; how they’d flick to someone and dismissively away, no further comment needed; the x-ray feeling of their steady attention; how they went wide and stormy in passion. She tried to set aside her awareness that it was Angel who’d taken them from her: Spike had told her emphatically that the ordeal and its tortures were necessary, agreed, and customary things, vamp business that had little to do with her and much to do with their long and troubled history together, he and Angel. Not for her to approve or disapprove or be wildly indignant about. So she set those feelings aside as best she could.

As Spike had recovered, the tension and antagonism between him and Angel had returned and increased in proportion. It was like being able to sense magnetic fields swirling between them in repulsion and in influence. Or the flow of ambient magic Willow said was all about, powerful and unseen. But all civil and carefully indirect on Spike’s part and heavily jovial and occasionally sarcastic on Angel’s. Never erupting into outright hostility anymore. The ordeal had set limits on that, as it was apparently designed to do. They could be in the same room for an hour without raising their voices or coming to blows. Which Buffy supposed was an improvement, though one only doubtfully worth the price.

That level of ruthlessness, she still wouldn’t condone or tolerate no matter what Spike said. Whatever moral authority Angel had held over her in any respect was gone.

Willow was going around the room passing out the newest try at an anti-First charm: two hardened beads of dough or clay with a string threaded through to make a necklace.

Willow was saying, “I know the last one gave some of you headaches, but I’ve been wearing this one all day and no headache, no throwing up, so give it a try, all right?”

She gave Buffy two rather than face the awkwardness of trying to hand Spike anything, which was either thoughtful or chicken, depending on how you looked at it. Buffy put hers on, then tapped Spike’s hand and gave him the other one. He smelled it, made a slight face, and put it on. Buffy lifted a bead and smelled it but couldn’t notice anything worth a grimace.

“The good news,” Willow said, nervously wringing her hands in the middle of the floor, “is that they do seem to work. Xander, I’m gonna try to read you, OK?”

“Fire away,” Xander invited, holding both hands out wide.

Willow made a show of shutting her eyes and squinching up her nose in concentration, then opened her eyes and beamed. “See? Nothing. Or only a mishmash. This one doesn’t block: it scatters. Throws everybody’s thoughts onto two different wavelengths and mixes ‘em all up and lowers the volume, too. So picking out individual thoughts is just about impossible. So I think this one works!”

“The bad news,” prompted Angel, who never lost a topic.

Willow spread her hands. “The other good news is that they’re cheap and real easy to make. Because the bad news is, they’re really, really fragile. The beads are gonna crumble in just ordinary wear and tear. I’m working on a way to harden them. But so far, protection spells won’t layer on top of the thought-Cuisenart-enabling spells. Clear nailpolish doesn’t work either. However, I’ve made up a whole bunch of ‘em, and I’m putting them in a bowl on the hall table. So if you roll on it in your sleep or take a shower or something and they go all crumbly? Just get yourself a fresh one. Because guys, you gotta keep this on 24/7 for it to be much good, see? Without it, your mind’s wide open and you might as well have been using nothing at all.”

Having looked around for comments, Willow took a seat in one of the straight chairs.

Angel hunched his shoulders and leaned forward, taking back his chairman/general authority. “What’s the progress on creating a barrier around the school grounds?”

Willow replied, “Well, the last idea was a flop, sorry. Whatever works for Bringers doesn’t work for vamps, and whatever works for vamps not only doesn’t work for Bringers but makes our vamps have to keep their distance, too.”

Spike commented, “Lots more Biters than Bringers. Don’t worry about ‘em. Just stop the Turok-han, let the Bringers through. We can take care of ‘em from that point on.”

“Stages,” commented Angel, and folded his hands. “That’s something we need to explore more. Split the opposing forces, deal with them separately by different means. How about fire of long but finite duration? No vamp’s going into that. But the Bringers could. And fire doesn’t require much equipment or much to keep it going, once you have it started.”

Giles said, “I would think containment by fire would produce the same problem all our other ideas about containment have: there’s nothing to prevent the First and its forces from simply waiting it out. Whatever they need by way of supplies, they evidently have in sufficiency because the raids into Sunnydale appear to be only by way of nuisance. Not foraging sufficient to provide for the needs of an army the size the First is evidently building according to Buffy’s visions.”

When Giles looked over at her for confirmation, Buffy waggled a hand and then rubbed her eyes in weary discouragement. “Confirmation here, oh yes. Imagine a bathtub full of roaches. Then imagine the roaches are about seven feet tall. That’s the kind of density I’ve been seeing.”

Angel decided, “Deal with the containment as a separate issue. We’ll worry about how to make them want to come out as an issue in its own right. Giles and Xander, the containment’s still yours. Willow?”

“Got it,” said Willow, busily taking notes on a spiral pad.

“Anya,” Angel said, changing focus. “Any luck yet with theories of what the First’s timetable is?”

“Well, given how long it’s been putzing around,” Anya responded, “it certainly doesn’t seem date-related. In the sense of calendars, not in the sense of dating. Other than the Hellmouth getting more Hellmouthy, affecting the residents and the students in particular, dropping property values to record lows, and I’ve decided to remove my investments from Sunnydale entirely, the Chamber of Commerce running around and trying to organize a Richard Wilkins memorial festival for heaven’s sakes, other than that, there’s been next to no interaction between the First and the population. Local population of vamps and other demons is way up, though, according to Willy and my other knowledgeable sources.”

Knowledgeable sources had come to mean those with knowledge of the Hellmouth and its effect as a demon magnet, magic existing, coming apocalypse, yada, yada.

Anya continued, “So I don’t think the First’s timetable has anything to do with what happens in Sunnydale. Or California. Or the United States, and so forth. It apparently doesn’t care if the place is populated or relatively empty when the balloon goes up. It’s making no attempt to keep people here or force them out, either one. As Giles said, the raids seem more of a nuisance it doesn’t bother restraining than any kind of deliberate attack. Flea bites. As far as I can tell, we’re still with the watched pot theory: when the First has the kind of numbers it wants down there, they’ll all come boiling out.”

Finishing a note, Willow added, “What I’ve gathered from the geological, meteorological, and astrophysical networks and databases doesn’t yet suggest any natural occurrence we should be taking account of. No fault activity, volcanic eruption, catastrophic mudslide, tsunamic activity, or near-approach asteroids or meteors to factor in. All normal. Nor do we have the power to call one up, unfortunately. Because I would really, really like to see a crustal implosion and a fuming calderon of magma welling up to suck that whole high school into Dante-Land. Used to fantasize about that in gym, actually. But we don’t have the mojo for that without repercussions on the scale of uplifting the equivalent of Mt. Everest under Cleveland and disrupting the whole of the Great Lakes system, and that would be bad. Very bad to produce consequences on that scale. We’d be punished. So even if we could do that, we wouldn’t want to. Because it would be bad.” Willow fell silent, grimly regarding her hands, the corners of her mouth pulled down tight.

“Willow?” Buffy prompted gently.

“Sometimes I scare me, that’s all,” Willow blurted. “Willow Rosenberg, Destroyer of the Great Lakes. My uncle has a vacation cabin in Michigan. All the birds and the fishes. Woodchucks. Elk. And the Canadians would be soooo pissed!”

Anya commented briskly, “Well, there’s no use angsting about that because we’re not going to do it. And about the vamps. I didn’t mention that they’re coming in, all right, but they’re also leaving. Transient population. Tourists. Have a few beers, buy some souvenirs, eat a couple of locals, and then gone again, pfft. Patrolling is still productive.” Anya looked to Buffy for confirmation.

“About average numbers, yeah.”

Anya went on, “So although current population is at least stable and probably up, there’s no cohesion. No established hunting territories. Strictly catch-as-catch-can, as the phrase goes. Complete anarchy, in other words. Just the way demons like it. Or so I’m told. That would affect recruitment, I’d think. Assuming we’re still planning to try to involve the general demon population in this. Short of putting a FREE FOOD ALL YOU CAN EAT BUFFET sign out by the highway, I can’t think of anything we could offer that would interest them. They have, pardon, no stake here. No reason to risk their unlives for Sunnydale.”

Angel said flatly, “I’ll take care of that. Next thing: what about the amulet?”

Recovering from her brood, Willow said, “Well, it checks out OK. It’s definitely magical and is a multi-use implement. In other words, it’s been used, and could be used again. I can’t really assess its power without trying it out. And I think Spike would object to that.”

“Why?” Spike asked.

“Well, we talked about that, but…maybe I need to explain again, now that you’re…better.” Which was Willow’s awkward way around saying they’d discussed it and either Spike had forgotten or hadn’t been sufficiently compos mentis to take it in.

Spike’s small smile suggested he heard the subtext well enough. “S’pose you do that, then.”

“Maybe you remember me telling about your aura? How it’s gone ginormous,” (Willow spread her arms wide.) “and all colorful and streaky since whatever you and Dawn did, for her to come back?”

“Nope. But I’m listening. From the little I recall, vamps don’t have much by the way of an aura.”

“Well, generally, that’s true. Very low natural energy output, most of it’s supernatural. But not for you. Not anymore. Not that you’re like a freak or anything, didn’t mean that. Just really unusual. It was damped down some while you were hurt and healing, but it’s about back to full spread now. Fills about a third of the room.” Eyes gone wide and blank, Willow gestured, sketching in the air the extent of Spike’s aura. “And since we don’t happen to have a high priest of Amon Ra on hand, they’re pretty scarce on the ground, and haven’t yet made much headway in determining the exact ritual attached to this amulet, it’s really frustrating, then the qualifications for somebody to use this thing is how much energy they can channel. And with that aura, you have everybody else here beat by a waaay margin.”

Another small, tight smile from Spike. “An’ testing it out would involve what, precisely?”

“Your putting it on and going out into the daylight. About noon, ideally.”

“Ahuh. Sort of thought so. Like to take a look at it. Never seen it except in my head.”

Anya pawed in her bag, then lifted a closed fist. Holding the fist before her, she asked, “Willow, is there apt to be a problem if he makes contact? Touches it? Because I don’t want to be here if there is.”

Willow looked at her watch. “At nine o’ clock at night? I think we’re pretty safe on that one at the moment. And incandescent light’s not gonna affect it at all. Go ahead.”

Anya let the amulet fall, dangling from its chain, and rose to hand it to Spike. Holding the chain in one hand, he casually stripped off the blindfold and blinked a few times. Everybody was leaning forward, Buffy included, looking at him: at his eyes.

That they were there at all was a huge improvement. They looked cloudy and vague, as if he wasn’t focusing very well.

“It’s bright,” he remarked, seeming unaware of everybody’s attention. “Shines.” He brought up his other hand to hold the pendant quietly for a moment. “Hums. It’s awake. Is it doing anything?”

Willow said, “No hum detection here. And no shine I can see.” Her eyes going vague again, she added, “But your aura does. Shine, I mean. No color, if you don’t count white as a color. Clear bright white.” She shut her eyes as though what she saw was bright enough to be painful.

“Yes,” said Anya, “I can see it, a little. It’s flared out from…. Spike, I think it’s attached to your soul.”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” Spike responded calmly. “Figured something like that. Wouldn’t be tidy, otherwise.” He let the chain drop onto the amulet and closed his hand around it. “I’ll just keep this now, all right? ‘Cause I figure it’s mine.”

Angel got up and held out a palm. “I’ll take it. You’re not careful enough. Hand it over.”

There was a moment when they were looking at each other. Then Spike let the amulet and chain slide into Angel’s hand, that immediately fisted around it. Angel turned to Willow, who had a hand covering her eyes. “Willow.”

She roused and peeked, then smiled a little. “All better now. It’s gone back to normal. Normal for Spike, anyway, that is.” When Angel kept looking at her, obviously waiting for more information, she told him, “No, it’s not doing anything now. All normal. For you, that is. Ordinary vamp aura. Maybe a little brighter on account of the soul,” she ended diplomatically, which made Buffy think there was probably no effect but Willow didn’t want to say so.

Buffy asked, “Any humming?”

“No,” Angel admitted. “Nothing at all.”

Spike said, “So if somebody can contrive a way for me to get inside the high school in daylight, we might see something interesting.”

“No,” said Willow quickly, “we’d have to figure some way to fireproof you first.”

“Don’t trouble about that,” Spike responded. “It will go how it goes. Think maybe we might close down the Hellmouth an’ no major effect on Cleveland.” He smiled.

Buffy took Spike’s hand and gripped it quite hard. “But you can’t.”

“Maybe not. But I can try.”

Willow burst out, “Why you? I mean I know, but--why would you want to?”

“Because I opened it.”

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