Title: Something In Between
Author: Jonquil
Email: serpyllum@yahoo.com
Distribution: Just ask.
Rating: R (strong language, violence, sexual references)
Spoilers: Through mid-fourth season; AU after that.
Summary: What happens after "In The Company of Wolves?"
Feedback: yes, please.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to large corporations, and were created by the brilliant writers for Buffy and Angel.
Dedication: As ever, thanks to my long-suffering betas, Anastasia, Nestra, and Carrie. Most especially to Anastasia, who insisted.
Author's Note: The price I pay for waiting nine months to continue is that I've been thoroughly Jossed. So, this continues where "In The Company of Wolves" ended, in a universe almost but not completely unlike the Jossverse. Willow was kidnapped in spring 2000. The Solstice ball was in June 2000; Willow returned to LA, and eventually Sunnydale, shortly thereafter. Willow retrieved the videotape from her lawyer in spring 2001. Our story begins some time the following autumn...

Chapter 1


"Don't forget, it's at 7!"

Willow laughed. "I'm not the one you need to worry about. See you at the concert, and tell Tara she'd better be on time or else!" She waved at Julie, then bent to unlock her door and went inside. She hung her coat on the hall rack, then walked toward the kitchen. The light on the answering machine was blinking. She hit the button and opened the refrigerator door to scavenge. There was a wide assortment of interesting and/or useful herbs, but no actual food. She shut the door.

"Wills? Sorry I missed you. Can you come over for dinner Wednesday? Riley picked out this guy he wants you to meet -- no, no, just kidding, we just haven't seeen you in forever and we miss you. Call soon. Love."

Willow frowned. The last time she'd had dinner with Buffy, Buffy had tried to set her up with this "really sweet" girl who reminded Willow of Cordelia without the charm. She really wished her friends would stop trying to manage her love life. When she was ready for another man -- or woman, or furry green thing with two heads -- she'd be able to find one herself. She opened the breadbox and wished she hadn't. Now she knew where the missing afikomen had wound up...

"Someone at this number has a reserve item available for pickup at Sunnydale public library." Probably the reproduction of Culpeper's Herbal she'd asked for on inter-library loan. Giles would be so pleased.

"Willow, it's Tara. Can you stop by Julie's and my place after the concert? Julie doesn't want to admit it, but I think she's worried about Organic Chemistry, and I know you aced it last year."

"This is a message for Ms. Rosenberg. This is Lilah Morgan. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. You can return this call at any time; my number is ...." Willow scrambled for a pencil. She didn't know any Lilahs; the voice sounded businesslike enough. Lilah Morgan, 213 area code, same as Angel's, got the number. Good enough. She glanced at the clock. There was still an hour until the concert, plenty of time to return the call and still grab something to eat. She hit Rewind, then picked up the telephone and dialed.

"Wolfram and Hart, to whom may I direct your call?"

"Hi, this is Ms. Rosenberg, I'm returning a call from Ms. Morgan."

"One moment, please."

"Ms. Rosenberg? This is Ms. Morgan. How kind of you to return my call promptly! Let me get right down to business. A client of mine has asked me to set up a meeting with you about a consulting opportunity."

Willow kept her voice calm. "I'm afraid you have the wrong person. I'm a student, Ms. Morgan, and that's a full-time job."

"My client understands that; this is a limited engagement, probably no more than a weekend. He's concerned about the security of his site, and he's looking for someone who can test it -- a white hat, I believe it's called. You may not realize it, but your name is becoming quite well-known."

"Really? Wow. Um, which weekend? I could probably manage to fit this in, as long as it isn't during midterms or finals or something like that."

"My client can be flexible about date, but he'd prefer to meet you as soon as possible to finalize arrangements."

Willow frowned, caution returning. "Where is your client? If this is a computer problem, why doesn't he just send me E-mail or phone? And how did he get my phone number anyway?"

"Ms. Rosenberg, this *is* the Internet age. My client found out about you the same way you'd find out about him. His name's Philip Conway; feel free to research him on your own time. He would prefer to meet face-to-face to discuss the problem; as I'm sure you're aware, electronic communications are far too easily intercepted."

"I suppose so. Where does he want to meet?" In the daytime. In front of witnesses, if she had anything to say about it.

"He can't easily leave his business. He'd like you to come to him; he'll send his jet to pick you up."

"I suppose.... pick me up where? And when?"

"Tomorrow evening, at the local airport."

That was moving way too fast. "Let me research your client and get back to you. Can I call with an answer tomorrow morning?"

"Ms. Rosenberg, I'm sure you understand that my client is a very busy man. You're either available or you aren't. Which is it?"

"I'm afraid I'm not available, then. Good luck to your client." Willow hung up before her courage left her, then sagged against the wall.

Too weird, too fast. She didn't like people trying to push her into making decisions, and she certainly wasn't going to get on a flight to some unknown place to meet a total stranger. She'd been kidnapped more than enough for one lifetime.

It was kind of cool, though. She was a White Hat! People knew her name! People who weren't vampires, or Watchers, or paranormal -- ordinary people, whose idea of 'unseen evil' was a really clever computer hacker. Wow.

Her stomach growled, reminding her of more mundane problems, like supper. She ran back to the hall and grabbed her coat. There was just time to pick up something downtown before she met Julie and Tara at the show. She shoved a hand into the pocket: keys, cross, stake, hex bag, breath mints. Good to go. She walked out the front door, locked it, and set out for the Espresso Pump.

She was barely three steps from the front door when something hit her hard across the back of the head.

When Willow regained consciousness, she was lying on the floor of a small windowless room. Concrete floor, concrete-block walls painted institutional perky blue, recessed fluorescent light fixture, one metal door without any visible knob. Her head hurt. Again. She checked her coat pockets; they were empty.

Once, just once, I'd like to run into a stupid kidnapper. Non-vampire would be nice, too. Wait a minute. What I'd really like is to get through a calendar year without getting kidnapped.

Propping her back against the wall, she sat up. As usual on such occasions, her head hurt and she felt like throwing up. She scanned the room again. It remained empty and characterless. No weapons, no clues, nothing to do while she waited for the kidnapper to show up and announce his evil plan. If she got lucky and got a kidnapper who was feeling chatty. She sighed, leaned her head back against the wall, closed her eyes, and searched her memory for the words that would get her home safely. She had fallen into a light trance -- or possibly a doze -- when she heard the door opening behind her.

She screwed her eyes shut to avoid making contact and launched into her prepared speech.

"Spike? This isn't funny. I said "No", and I meant it."

A voice she had hoped never to hear again purred, "You appear to be operating under a misconception, mademoiselle. I am not Spike."

Willow's eyes flew open. She could see the speaker's face clearly, a face she remembered all too well from Montreal. It belonged to François.




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