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 2


Without thinking, Willow scrambled to her feet. Pointless, when a vampire stood between her and the only exit.

"Quite right, my dear. You have nowhere to run." Slowly, casually, François began to stroll toward her. He didn't bother shutting the door behind him.

Willow froze. All her preparations had assumed an attack from one of two quarters: somebody trying to annoy the Slayer through her, although word seemed to have gotten around that this was a really bad move, or Spike, whose motives, alas, were strictly personal. She shivered.

"Cold, mademoiselle?" François' face was impassive. She let the silence drag on. Whoever spoke first, lost -- she remembered that much. In two steps, before she could react, Francois closed the distance between them and a hard slap rocked her bruised head back against the wall. Blood roared in her ears. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting.

"You will speak when spoken to. Not before, but certainly afterward."

Willow swallowed twice, then spoke in a voice that she hoped didn't quaver. "No, I'm not particularly cold, thank you." She shut her mouth before she could blurt out the wrong thing. Head swimming, she scrabbled through last year's lessons from Spike. Speak when spoken to, check, be very polite, check, don't be cocky, check, head down.... oops! She hastily dropped her eyes to the floor and awaited further instructions.

"Did you know that your lips move when you're thinking? Typical human foible." His lips twisted on 'human', as if he were tasting something disagreeable. Then, without warning, he grabbed the neck of her sweater, ripped it down the sternum, and yanked the halves away from her chest. Instinctively, Willow recoiled, only to be brought up short by the wall at her back.

François' next move wasn't what she'd expected. He released the sweater shreds as if they were doused in holy water, stepped back from her, and spat, "So, you have broken faith, abandoned your oath. I should have expected no better."

There was no good response to this. "No, sir" would be admitting to an unknown crime; "What oath?" would certainly earn her another slap, and silence had proven to be a very bad idea.

"I'm not sure I understand, sir."

Another hard blow, ricocheting her injured head back against the wall. Willow slid down to the floor and succumbed to nausea. When she finished retching, she dimly realized that François had been speaking the whole time she was occupied.

"...to be removed only at your death. You breathe. Either your master tired of you, or you betrayed him. Which?"

Willow gulped; out of old habit, her right hand flew to her naked throat. The necklace. She had to answer quickly. She certainly hadn't betrayed Spike, she had no idea if he'd tired of her, and she suspected "Our deal was for a year" would neither be understood or believed. She raised her left hand and pushed her sweater down her arm, displaying the thin black chain she kept wrapped around her wrist. "N-neither... sir?"

Iron hands grasped her wrist and twisted; she gasped in pain as the chain bit into the flesh. "Explain yourself. If you broke oath, your life is forfeit. If he discarded you...." The grip tightened.

Willow gasped, "No. That's not what happened -- either one. Really. He said we couldn't escape Montreal together, and he put me on a plane home. I haven't heard from him since. I don't know what his plans were. I kept the necklace for him." Together with a sizable piece of her mind that she'd been storing up for months, but she didn't think François would appreciate that part of the story.

Her wrist was twisted again; apparently François was inspecting the necklace. Eventually he released his grip. She cradled the injured hand against her stomach, contemplating the vampire's highly-polished shoes. Wing-tips. Black.

"You may yet retain some utility." His voice remained detached, as if he were contemplating a grubby week-old newspaper, deciding whether it could still be put to use under the cat box. "Time will tell." A knife flashed next to her eyes; Willow flinched away, banging her head once more. While she fought to remain conscious, François turned on his heel and left. The door slid shut behind him.

Willow put her right hand up to her head to check the wound. It must have been a very, very sharp knife; she hadn't felt a thing. After a few pats, she dropped the hand before her eyes, puzzled. It was dry. François hadn't touched her skin. Willow felt around again. Her bangs felt weird. She looked around for her mirror, but her backpack was (of course) not there. She put both hands up, confirming that there was a jagged gap in her bangs, next to her left temple.

He stole a lock of my hair. This is so not good. I can think of six bad spells off the top of my head that start with a lock of hair. But that doesn't make any sense. He's got me. He could just kill me. Why would he bother with a curse? And why does he care what my relationship is to Spike?

I don't know what it is myself. "Oh, he's planning on killing me, or I thought he was, but he hasn't come around to do it, so I'm really hoping he's found some nice vampire and settled down to raise.... well, that bit doesn't really work, but settled down without me."

This isn't fair. I waited a year and a half before I had that necklace cut off. I was going on with my life. I only kept the stupid thing because I thought Spike might want it back.

If I hadn't kept it, I think I'd be dead now.

This is all Spike's fault.

The phone rang, followed shortly by the buzz of the intercom. Angel groaned. "Cordy, can you handle it yourself for once?"

Her voice sounded strained. "Angel, this one's for you. It's Giles."

He wouldn't call unless.... Angel grabbed the receiver. "Buffy?"

"No, Angel, Buffy's in fine health. Thriving. But nobody's seen Willow for three days. Tara had a spare key to her apartment, and she let us in. There are no signs of a struggle, no suitcases packed. She missed a concert and all her classes, and it isn't like her to vanish without a word."

That bastard Spike. He heard an ominous creak from the handset and hastily relaxed his grip. "Has Willy--"

"Thank you, that had already occurred to us. Nobody in Sunnydale -- nobody, alive or otherwise -- has seen Willow since Friday. She's vanished. If somebody had kidnapped her, we'd expect a ransom note by now."

"I'll be there..." Angel's voice trailed down as he realized it was still daytime.

Giles's voice grew tighter. "We don't want your assistance. We want information. The only clue we found in the apartment was a message from Los Angeles on her answering machine. Do you know anything about a Wolfram and Hart?"

"Damn!"

"That's not information." Giles's tone was brittle.

He must be desperate. Nothing less would have made him ask anything from me. "Wolfram and Hart are behind three-quarters of the evil done in this city, and that includes the non-supernatural. We're at war. But I wouldn't expect them to grab Willow to hurt me; I barely knew her in Sunnydale, and I don't think we've spoken twice since I left." Once. Not twice.

"Will you kindly focus on the problem? What would Wolfram and Hart do with Willow, and where would they plan to do it?"

"I don't know. But I'll find out. And pass it on."

"You'd better. This isn't your problem, Angel, it's ours. "

He hung up. "Not in my city it's not."

"Hey, Fred, the usual."

Fred didn't meet Spike's eyes. Yes, it's good to be bad! Fred bent under the counter, retrieved a carton of Marlboros, and threw it to Spike.

"Ta. See you again." He left, whistling, and ripped the carton open.

A cream-coloured envelope fell out.

Spike jumped back. Somehow, I don't think Philip Morris got the Crackerjack confused with the coffin nails. What the Hell?

He waited a minute, drawing curious looks from passers-by, then reached out a boot toe and prodded the envelope. It didn't explode, fizz, or turn green. He scanned the area for threats, then bent to pick it up.

Fred is not going to see another sunrise. I don't appreciate jokes unless they're mine. And smokes are not a laughing matter. He slit the envelope with a fingernail, upended it, then shook it over the ground, away from his body.

A lock of red hair drifted slowly to the pavement.




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