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 22


Willow watched in frozen horror as the dance figure "Mocking the Hunt" came to its inexorable end. The last dancer dropped the corpse to the floor, then turned away. Willow shuddered; a woman in transparent black gauze looked up to the balcony, met Willow's eyes, and gave her a predator's smile.

Willow felt a cold hand close on her bare shoulder and spun to face the new threat. Oh, thank God. It was Spike, face expressionless but for a muscle twitching in his cheek. They stared at one another in frozen silence.

After a lifetime or two, the invisible orchestra struck up a schottische. Spike said, "I believe this dance is mine," emphasizing the last word as if daring her to disagree.

Willow didn't even consider reminding him of the dance card. She followed Spike down the stairs to the dance floor, curtseyed, stepped into his arms, and found herself whirled once around the floor, then through the French windows onto the terrace. They were alone for the first time since they'd left the carriage.

In a low, tense voice, Spike said, "We're leaving. Now. Wait until I land, then follow me." He took three steps to the edge of the terrace, then vaulted over the balustrade.

Willow ran after him. When she looked down, Spike was standing, unhurt, twenty feet below, upturned face bone-white in the light spilling from the ballroom windows. "Spike, I can't!"

"Jump. I'll catch you." His voice was matter-of-fact, as if she shared his immortality.

The choice between the vampires behind her and the vampire in front of her was easy. She sat on the balustrade, swung her legs over the side, and slipped down, skirts billowing. True to his word, Spike caught her, sagging nearly to his knees from the impact. He set her on her feet and held out a hand. "Run!"

"I can't -- these shoes --"

He snapped, "Lose them. You're running for your life. Act like it."

Willow kicked off her evening slippers, took his hand, and ran, zigzagging to miss some broken glass on the pavement. "Where --"

"Save your breath. This way." They dove into yet another alley, skirting trash cans, and threaded their way to a Metro entrance. Spike hastily bought two passes, then dragged her into an empty car just as the doors slid shut. They subsided into the seats.

Willow gasped for breath and fought to calm herself. When she thought she had herself mastered, she turned to Spike and pleaded, "What is going on?" in a voice that was still shamefully shaky.

Spike gave her an icy stare. "I've been told to kill you."

Willow recoiled. "WHAT?"

"Remember dancing with François?"

Baffled, she replied, "Of course. He was charming, a bit flirtatious, even."

Spike's voice could have cut glass. "He's four hundred years old, he has a lot of practice being charming, and he doesn't like mortals. Especially observant mortals. He wasn't flirting, he was pumping you. Successfully."

"W-what did I say?" She could feel herself sliding into a whine.

"I expect you were showing off how much you'd learned about vampires. Not smart, Red. The Master wants you dead."

Willow swallowed her automatic defense. Then, dreading the answer, she asked the crucial question. "Why am I still alive?"

Spike's eyes flared. "I. Don't. Take. Orders."

Willow looked at his furious face. That's not the whole answer. But I think it's the only answer I'm going to get.

The train stopped.

"Off. Now."

Spike dragged her out of the train and up to the street, where he flagged down a taxi and got in. He tapped the glass partition and said, "Dorval." The driver nodded, slid the panel shut, and drove off.

Willow looked at Spike's implacable face. She was bubbling over with questions, most of which she knew he would never answer. Eventually she settled for the simplest. "Now what?"

"I'm taking you to the airport and putting you on the next plane out. If you like breathing, you won't come back. Ever. Vampires have very long memories."

"But..." She wasn't sure herself what she meant to say next. Fortunately, Spike cut her off.

"Forget the fucking tape. If I ever do come back to Sunnyhell, which is on my list of things I hope never to do again, I'll kill anybody who laughs."

Willow scanned Spike's face. As usual, he meant to give nothing away. She flicked a glance at his hands. He was drumming the fingers of the left into the palm of the right. "What about you?"

Spike shrugged. "I'll leave myself, by a different route. By the time I come back to Montreal, a hundred-odd years on, I'll be able to say truthfully that you're dead. François plays everything deep; there's a good chance that all he really wanted was you out of town fast. He doesn't give a toss what happens outside this domain. He won't bother to send anyone after you as long as you don't make yourself conspicuous." He gave her another long stare. "Don't start writing vampire novels."

Willow shuddered, then hastily said "No fear."

They rode in silence for another century or two. When they got to the airport, "the first flight out" turned out to be a red-eye leaving in an hour.

Spike dragged her up to the reservations desk. "My wife needs a ticket to Los Angeles. Lucinda Brooke." His glare forbade her to disown the name.

The ticket agent did the usual mysterious things to the computer, then asked for photo ID. Willow opened her mouth to explain, intercepted another glare, and shut it. Spike reached into his inside breast pocket, handed across a very authentic-looking passport, accepted it back, and handed it to Willow. She peeked inside; it was in Lucinda's name, had her picture, and looked valid enough.

What has he been planning? And for how long?

After buying the ticket, Spike grabbed Willow's arm and pulled her toward the security zone. They walked unchallenged through the scanners, then ran for the gate. A stewardess was announcing that boarding was open for passengers needing assistance.

Willow looked at the open jetway and let out a deep sigh. I guess it's over.

"All passengers, all rows."

Before Willow could step forward, Spike grabbed her shoulders and spun her into a hard kiss. She put her arms around him and returned the kiss, putting all her confusion and desperation into it. When Spike at last released her lips, he pulled back and looked down into her eyes.

"Willow. Do you remember what I told Martin about you, that first night at the bar?"

She looked up into his customary mask. "You said I was on trial. On trial as what?"

"I made you an offer once, in your room in Sunnydale."

She stared blankly at him. Then a sentence floated to the top of her memory. "Or I could bring you back ... to be like me." Oh, my God. Both hands flew up to the necklace; by an act of will she kept herself from stepping back. "You made me a threat."

"If you prefer."

Drawing on Spike's own lessons, she kept her voice level. "Whichever it is, the answer is still No."

"That's two, Red." He turned to go.

Willow reached out and touched his left arm; he shook her off angrily. "Spike... Thank you."

He glanced over his shoulder, face still as death. "Au revoir, witch." Then he strode away.

Willow watched his back until he turned the corner. Only when he was lost to sight did she begin walking toward the jetway and home.




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