Title: In The Company Of Wolves
Author: Jonquil
Email: serpyllum@yahoo.com
Distribution: Just ask.
Rating: R (strong language, violence, sexual references)
Spoilers: Fourth season, post-Oz, pre-Tara
Summary: Willow has re-fanged Spike, and must deal with the consequences. Sequel to "Blinded By Science".
Feedback: reinforces the desired behavior.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to large corporations, and were created by the brilliant writers for Buffy and Angel.

Chapter 21


Willow followed Spike down the stairs, carefully holding her skirts up to keep them clean and unstepped-on. When he opened the front door, she was shocked to see a horse-drawn open carriage waiting in front of the door. How romantic! I didn't think Spike had it in him.... She glanced at Spike, whose jaw was clenched. Uh-oh. He doesn't. One more "We know where you live" message. So much for romance.

Spike handed her into the carriage, grim-faced; she managed not to catch her skirt on the step or the door. She started to sink into the forward-facing seat, intercepted a frown and head-shake from Spike, and sat down with her back to the driver, settling her skirts around her. Spike sat facing her, his eyes on the driver, who clucked to his horses and started off. She scanned his face.

Willow had thought she had all Spike's moods catalogued by now: his natural sardonic volatility, the manic gaiety that meant somebody was about to die, the surface stillness that meant he didn't want to betray emotion. This was new. For the first time since she'd met him, Spike betrayed no expression at all, not even the attempt to conceal expression. His face was as empty as the corpse he wore. She shivered. Stop that. Fear attracts predators.

During the drive, Spike said nothing; he sat still as a statue, hands clenched on his knees. When she opened her mouth to speak, he glared at her. After that, Willow kept her eyes dutifully lowered. She did steal the occasional glance to see if passers-by were impressed by the vehicle, but apparently horse-drawn carriages were routine in this quarter. The cobblestones made for a very bumpy ride. Eventually the carriage pulled up into a scrum of similar carriages waiting in front of a grey stone mansion. I guess traditionalists don't like the internal combustion engine.

Spike took one look at the tie-up and called to the driver, "We'll get off here. No need for you to waste your time."

The driver responded over his shoulder, "No problem, sir, I'm paid for the entire evening; doesn't matter to me if I wait here or elsewhere."

Spike's impatience broke free. "I said we're getting off. Now do you stop the carriage so the lady can get down, or do I have to break your sodding neck?"

The driver stopped. He didn't offer to let down the step; Spike put his hat on at a rakish angle, opened the door, vaulted to the street, and held up his arms. "Down you come, luv."

Willow stood, walked to the door, and stepped out into the air. Spike caught her easily and set her on her feet. He met her eyes. "Company manners from here, pet. Stick next to me."

She cast her eyes down. "Yes, sir."

He offered his arm. She took it. They walked together up the black stone steps, over which someone had scattered crimson rose petals. The petals looked uncomfortably like drops of blood. Willow suspected that wasn't an accident.

When they passed inside, Willow gasped. The entry hall was floored in black marble; a single broad staircase spiraled unsupported to a balcony. Candles blazed on the walls, casting a warmer, yellower light than electricity. She and Spike took their place in the line proceeding up the stairs. She looked around under her lashes.

It was almost like a costume party. The vampires around her were dressed in a kaleidoscope of historical fashions -- everything from knee breeches to hoopskirts to modern clothes like hers and Spike's. However, unlike any costume party she'd ever attended, the vampires looked completely comfortable in their alien clothes. She shivered, realizing that those clothes weren't alien at all to their wearers. The weight of changeless age stopped her breath.

At long last they reached the top of the stairs and passed through the archway into the ballroom. A powdered servant flicked a disdainful look over them and announced "Spike," and they were free to enter the ballroom.

Willow felt as if she'd stepped into a movie. They stood on a balcony that continued around the sides of the ballroom; before her was another staircase leading down to the dance floor. The ballroom itself was at least forty feet high. The floor was intricate wood parquet, forming a pattern Willow couldn't make out, but that smacked of magic to her. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling. Tall French windows on each side of the floor opened onto a stone balcony overlooking the city. The vampires were doing some dance Willow didn't recognize. Willow scanned the ballroom in vain for musicians. She wondered if the traditionalists had stooped to using recordings; eventually she spotted a curtained gallery from which the sound seemed to come.

A tug on her arm reminded her of her companion; she hastily lowered her eyes and walked down the stairs with him. When they reached the dance floor, Spike nudged her with an elbow; she looked at him. "That --" he nodded toward an archway underneath the staircase "-- is the supper room. Don't go there under any circumstances."

Willow thought about what -- or who -- was likely to be served for supper and nodded emphatically. Then a thought struck her, and she scanned the partygoers. As far as she could judge, she was the only human present. That's weird. They don't like Spike, and they don't like humans -- so why did they invite the pair of us?

Willow had always thought 'My dance card is full' was a metaphor. Now she had one. Or, rather, Spike did. People -- vampires -- didn't ask her to dance; they asked Spike, and he consented, or made excuses. The card itself was plain white, with silver letters and a small silver pencil attached by a twisted cord. The card listed each dance by name; Spike wrote down the partner's name beside each. She kept her eyes modestly down and watched Spike's hands. She'd noticed that they sometimes gave away more than his face, especially when he was trying to appear calm.

To Willow's surprise, Spike's friends Martin and Lew appeared, immaculate in white tie. Martin claimed a polka; Lew demanded something called a redowa, and settled for a schottische. Spike reserved most of the waltzes for himself. Doesn't trust me out alone, does he?

Willow slowly realized that the only vampires taking any notice of Spike or herself wore modern evening dress; those in frock coats, panniers, and hoops stayed aloof, scorning even to look at them. After a little while, Willow and Spike stood alone, an island among the mingling partygoers. Spike occupied himself with doodling along the edge of the dance card.

Willow took advantage of the lull to whisper "What's a b-r-a-n-s-l-e? And why didn't you teach me a pavane?"

"Before my time. Or the Poof's. Or anyone's here, for that matter. Pretentious bastards." He drew a firm line through the bransle, the pavane, a minuet, the cotillion, and a Lancers.

"I thought that was a kind of wine?"

"It's a kind of soldier, luv. Hence the wine, and the dance. Enough talking."

A vampire Willow didn't recognize strolled up to Spike. He was straight out of Gainsborough in a blue satin suit finely embroidered with silver frost-flowers, his white hair drawn back into a queue. "My dear cousin, how's the hunt?"

In a bland and chilly voice, Spike replied, "Tolerable. And yours?"

"Never better. In fact, I've just spotted an hors d'oeuvre escaped from the supper room. You won't mind if I collect it?" He grabbed Willow's wrist, yanked her toward him, and twisted her arm behind her back, straining the material of her bodice. She met Spike's eyes in a silent plea for rescue.

Spike grabbed both Willow's shoulders and spoke over her head. "Release her this instant."

The intruder growled; the two vampires leaned into one another's faces, trapping Willow between them.

An arctic, and all-too-familiar, voice broke in. "The truce of the Hall, gentlemen."

Willow hastily returned her eyes to the floor.

Spike glared at François. "I didn't break it."

"How wise of you." The voice dropped another couple of degrees. "Raoul, your presence here is no longer required. Indeed, your presence in the City becomes wearisome. Be gone before dawn."

Raoul snarled, then released Willow's wrist and strode for the doors. She let out a long breath, then returned to Spike's side. Boy, traditionalists may be sticklers, but they're just as rude as regular vampires. They're just rude politely.

François did not, as Willow had hoped, vanish. "May I have the next dance?" She froze, staring at François's diamond-buckled shoes.

"Unfortunately, she is unfamiliar with it. I am devastated to be forced to decline." Spike sounded anything but devastated.

"The next waltz, then. No, no, I insist. Until then, mademoiselle." He took Willow's hand, brushed his lips over the back of her glove, then left.

Willow turned to Spike for an explanation. His hand was clenched around the card, which meant no answers would be forthcoming. She sighed and held her tongue.

The next dance proved to be a minuet. Willow watched in wonder as the vampires solemnly bowed, curtsied, and orbited one another, poised as perfectly as ballet dancers, the ladies gliding as if their full skirts hid wheels rather than legs. She noticed that the dance floor was at least half-empty; a hasty glance around the perimeter showed that most of the vampires in modern dress were standing this one out.

It's a bit like West Side Story -- the Jets hate the Sharks. In this case, the Jets hate the Carriages. I wonder why the non-traditionalists even bother to come? Are they all under threat of death?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a cheerful voice saying, "I believe this next one's mine." Spike put her hand into Martin's. Willow dropped him a curtsey then followed him to the dance floor as the minuet ended and Mozart was replaced by Strauss.

To her surprise, Martin was a wonderful dancer, steering her expertly through shoals of vampires while maintaining an amiable flow of chatter. After the third "Yes, sir", he said, "Drop the act, chicken. Save it for the trads." After that, the conversation flowed somewhat more easily. Martin talked blandly of the conveniences offered by a city with a well-stocked underground, with Willow contributing an occasional comment. Spike's lessons had paid off. Willow could follow both the conversation and the dance.

Willow was glowing when the dance ended; she looked up at Martin, laughed, and said "Thank you!" Martin arched an eyebrow, said "My pleasure," and returned her to Spike.

The next dance was a waltz. Willow looked sidelong at Spike, hoping that François had found another partner. No such luck; he appeared, bowed to Spike, and said "May I?" Spike nodded, face blank. Willow curtsied to François, then sailed off into the dance.

Sod. François would rather drain her dry than exchange two words with her. What the hell game is he playing?

Spike maintained his façade, even chatting with Martin about something, he had no idea what. All the time, he watched the girl. She started out well enough, eyes down, lashes dark against her cheek, lips set in a social smile. Then François said something or other, and she burst into spontaneous laughter. He's playing charming. The ninny's falling for it. Before long she was chattering along as happily as she had with Martin.

That girl has no discrimination at all. She'd cuddle the first lame puppy that came along, never caring whether it was a pug or a wolf. Martin said something; Spike shrugged.

Martin punched his shoulder. "I said, Manchester United are a bunch of bloody tossers who couldn't hit the goal if it were surrounded by hair. Pay attention, man! Take your mind off your pretty little bedwarmer for five whole minutes."

Spike grimly pretended to care what Martin thought about football, covertly watching the redhead whirl around the room with the vampire who was the Master's eyes and ears. She shouldn't be enjoying herself -- certainly not that much.

When the music ended, Willow swept François a graceful curtsey, then took his arm to return to Spike's side. François said nothing, simply bowed and returned her arm to Spike's. Willow smiled up at Spike; when he did not return her smile, she hastily looked down and composed her face to a social blank. Slamming the barn door a trifle late, pet.

The next dance was a cotillion. Spike led Willow off the dance floor and up to the balcony, where he and Martin argued the respective virtues of the Clash and Patti Smith. Willow stood to one side, silent, and watched the dancers below.

To Willow's eyes, the cotillion was more of a mixer than a proper dance. A master of ceremonies announced figures, then the dancers walked through complicated patterns in time to the music, or sometimes played games to determine who danced with whom. In the first figure, "The Cushion," a tall, graceful woman in brilliant blue carried a red velvet pillow; she offered it to a gentleman, then pulled it back when he tried to take it. She swayed two steps away, offered it again, then pulled it back, while the rejected vampire feigned sorrow. She dropped the pillow before a third gentleman; he knelt on it, she kissed him, and they danced a few steps before she left him. He then picked up the cushion and the figure continued.

One of the waiters came up to Spike. "Your presence is requested." Spike turned to Willow; before he could speak, the waiter said, "Alone."

Spike growled, "I'm not leaving her unattended."

"She will be safe until you return."

To Willow's shock, Spike didn't argue further. The waiter escorted her to a gilt-backed chair. She sat and watched the dance, the waiter a silent sentry behind her.

The master of ceremonies announced the next figure, "Mocking The Hunt." Willow froze. A servant walked out, escorting a human woman dressed in scarlet, mouth gagged, eyes wide in terror, wrists tied behind her. Oh, my God. She began to stand, but a cold hand clamped down on her shoulder.

"You will stay until called for."

She sank back into the chair, dropped her eyes to her lap, and concentrated on breathing. The hand was removed. The music tinkled on as if nothing horrible were happening.

Spike walked into the presence chamber. The decor was predictable: high vaulted ceiling hung with banners, tapestries on the walls, a flagstone floor. What, no rushes? He bowed, then sank to one knee. The servant who had escorted him left, closing the door behind him.

"Rise."

Spike obeyed. The Master was sitting in a high-backed carved walnut chair. Playactor. François was posted just behind him. Like most ancient vampires, the Master could no longer pass for human; his mouth was scarred and distorted, and his black velvet robes hid bulges that hinted at joints in unusual locations. His voice was cold. "You brought a mortal."

Spike shrugged. "You invited a mortal."

"You brought a mortal into my domain."

"Last I checked, Montreal's full of them."

The Master ignored his flippancy. "Enough. You brought a mortal among my people. You have allowed her to see what she should not have seen. François says that she is not blind, nor yet stupid."

Spike clenched his hands. "François can mind his own bloody--"

"She has seen too much. Kill her. What you do afterward is up to you." He raised a hand. "The audience is over."

Spike bowed, turned, and left the room. Fuck.




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