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...


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Chapter 4


Spike watched regretfully as the "Welcome To Sunnydale" sign dwindled unscathed in the rear-view mirror. This was supposed to be a stealth visit; in, out, nobody the wiser. No Slayer, no Watcher, no vapid blonde vampires, please whatever. He'd even abandoned his ride; this trip, he pigged it in a bland, anonymous Taurus, liberated from a bored 7/11 clerk whose boredom had become permanent.

He nosed into a "Registrar Only" parking space, cut the motor, and hopped out. First things first. The lock of hair had smelled like the witch, right enough, but it wasn't proof positive. Spike stomped down a "Do Not Walk On Grass" sign and continued to the back door.

Ah, dear trustful Sunnydale. The so-called lock wouldn't slow Harmony down. A kick was as good as a skeleton key. Easier to keep track of, too. Spike wondered idly why the locals remained so oblivious... perhaps the smart ones left town. The third cubicle held pay dirt, its occupant too lazy to log off at the end of the day. He slid in behind the monitor and began searching.


"ROSENBURG, WILLOW" NOT FOUND.
Had Miss Bookaholic of 1999 dropped out? Not bloody likely. He slammed the side of the monitor.
"ROSENBURG, WILLOW" NOT FOUND.
Oh. Sod. Spike hastily corrected his error.
ROSENBERG, WILLOW, 2003, CHEMISTRY/HISTORY, PRESIDENTIAL SCHOLAR
That's my girl. Spike scanned the screen, then clicked HOUSING.
F1999, S2000, 214 STEVENSON, DOUBLE, SUMMERS, BUFFY
F2000, S2001, 123 STEVENSON, SINGLE
Pining, was she?
F2001, OFF-CAMPUS
Fuck. Bloody useless. He hit the screen again. It collapsed with a satisfying screech... and shards of glass everywhere. Ouch.


Thirty minutes later, when he'd picked most of the splinters out of his hands, Spike began searching for another logged-on computer. Bloody technology. Eventually he remembered the telephone book.

ROSENBERG, W. 256 CHANCELLOR ST, APT. 2
Score! And not two blocks from where he stood. Still a pedestrian, Red? He abandoned the car and strode off to investigate.

Apartment 2's door was blocked by yellow "Police Line - Do Not Cross" tape. Spike's blood couldn't run any colder, but it tried. Someone else killed her. Someone is going to die. For weeks.


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Willow was startled from her doze by the sound of the door sliding open. She scrambled hastily to her feet and dropped her gaze to the floor. Now what?

"Pfaugh, what a stench. Humans. Deal with her." François again.

Willow tensed. Apparently the cavalry wouldn't be coming; time for the death-or-glory spells. I wish I'd had time to work the bugs out of that teleport.... She wove her fingers desperately, but, as she'd expected, she was interrupted. By a punch to the gut, unfortunately. She slumped to the floor, forcing her eyes to remain downcast, and struggled for breath.

"Don't." She didn't recognize the voice. Male, probable vampire. She didn't recognize the shoes, either, although she very much doubted they'd been fashionable this century. Black, glittering jeweled buckles, red high heels. I've been kidnapped by Dr. Frank N. Furter?

The unknown demanded, "Where is the sigil?"

Can't place the accent. Willow pushed her sweater up her arm to display the necklace.

François replied, "Put it where it belongs, and ensure that it stays there."

Willow obediently began to work the clasp, only to have her hand slapped away. Oh. Not talking to me.

The unknown ordered, "Stand up and turn around." She swiveled to face the wall. Cold hands Vampire, check removed the necklace from her wrist. She heard small metallic noises behind her, and shivered. She hated blindly waiting for ... whatever ... to happen. The hands entered her field of view, then the necklace was around her throat again, and there was fiddling at the nape of her neck. Oh, come on, the clasp isn't that complicated. There was another mysterious snap. Then the steps retreated.

I can't take much more of this. I need information. She risked a question. "What's going on?" For once, nobody hit her.

François replied, "Fortunately for you, you retain some value."

As what? Willow shuddered.

His voice mocked, "Oh, not in my eyes. We have established that you remain in play. Give thanks, if you pray." Disdain rolled off the last word.

In play? What's the game, and how did I wind up a pawn rather than a player? The question answered itself. Spike had dragged her off to Montreal, and she'd been reacting, one way and another, ever since. In François' eyes, she was Spike's tool, not Willow Rosenberg, not herself important. I swear, I am going to make him pay for that, if it's the last thing I do. She refused to clarify which "him" she meant. Or to contemplate how close "the last thing she did" might be.

François spoke again; her attention snapped back to his voice. "Get her cleaned. We leave immediately."


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Snarling, Spike ripped aside the police tape, kicked open the door, strode in ... and found himself stretched flat against the empty air.

She's alive.

He couldn't get in. That meant she wasn't dead. It also meant he couldn't search for the clues he needed ... assuming the police hadn't already trampled them. He punched a fist into the barrier. As usual, this was utterly useless, but, also as usual, it felt good.

There's more than one way to break a neck. Spike strode around to the back of the building. As he'd hoped, each apartment had the usual glass sliding door, opening on the usual tiny patio. Spike walked up to the door that should be hers and pressed his face against the glass.

He saw chaos. Furniture had been pushed helter-skelter. He didn't spot any blood, but every flat surface was covered with fingerprint powder. Clothes spilled out of the half-open closet door and the chest of drawers. She'd lived here, all right. He recognized the psychedelic-puke color scheme and the ongoing bagginess. Thought I'd broken her of that.

That settled it. This was Willow's place, she'd vanished, and the do-gooders were worried enough to drag the police into the problem. The Slayer would not have called the rozzers for anything she fancied she could handle herself. Which rules out the usual suspects.

He stepped back and scanned the apartment walls. There was a tiny high frosted window to one side of the patio. Bathroom. He punched the window; his fist rebounded, but the window shattered nonetheless. He sniffed. The scent trail was jumbled with strangers and Slayer, but he could still pick out fading traces of Willow. He pulled the cream envelope from his inside breast pocket and lifted it to his nose. Perfect match.

So, who grabbed her, why did they send her hair to me rather than the Slayer, and what do they want? He looked down at the envelope. Suddenly he realized where he'd seen its mate. Fuck.

His epiphany was interrupted by an all-too-familiar voice from the front room. "Someone's been here. Back me up."

The Slayer. So much for stealth. He turned on his heel and fled.


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Whack! The heavy bag rocked back, and Angel punched it again.

The situation could hardly get uglier. Thwap! Another Spike incident would have been trivial by comparison: follow the trail the boy could no more avoid leaving than he could control his temper, end his presumption once and for all, restore the girl to her grateful (hah!) friends, return home and contemplate how he'd let the situation get so far out of control.

Well, he was certainly going to have time for the last part of that plan. Rushing into this situation half-cocked would guarantee Willow's death, and very possibly his own as well. He could only hope that Spike's might be thrown in as a bonus.

He'd been afraid of this. Spike (and Willow) had blithely assumed that they'd left the mess behind them in Montreal. Naturally. Humiliate a 400-year-old vampire in front of the community he rules, skip town, and it's all history. He snorted and threw another flurry of punches. Right. Because the Old Ones are so fond of moving on and living in the present.

The puzzle was how to extricate Willow, while leaving Spike to face the consequences of his idiocy. In the Old Ones' eyes, Willow was just as much a symbol of defiance as Spike; to leave her unpunished would 'encourager les autres'. Her very existence was an insult, and an invitation to rebellion.

Whack! One thing was clear. The public defiance had occurred in Montreal; that was where the Old Ones would expect reparations. He picked up the phone. "When's the next evening flight to Dorval?"


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After a couple of hasty sewer detours, Spike shook off the Slayer. When he was sure the trail was cold, he risked a return to the administration building. Nobody had yet discovered his intrusion (thank you, oblivious Sunnydale!), so he returned to the Taurus.

There was another cream envelope on the dashboard.


Chapter 5


Spike stared at the car, and at the envelope lying on the dashboard.

Bloody fucking hell.

He despised symbolic messages. Rip his head off, fine, blow up his crypt, no problem, but spare him the mindfucks. He'd been worked over by experts. These berks weren't in the running.

What was it with the over-200 set, anyway? Couldn't just kill the Slayer, no, had to draw menacing sketches, leave mysterious boxes of flowers, torture some goldfish, then destroy the world as an encore. And the Montreal trads couldn't kill him, or bomb the car, or sprinkle holy water in his lair. Oh, no. Not subtle enough. Not stylish enough. Just make it clear that he was being watched, that they had plans, and he wasn't going to know anything until they were good and ready to share.

He drove a fist into the side of the car. It felt good. Violence made sense. Violence was the answer to any problem he could think of, including those annoying twelve-letter cryptic crossword clues. He turned his back and walked away. Screw them. He wasn't dancing to their tune. Sodding car could rot. Never liked bloody Tauruses anyway.

This called for bourbon. Or tequila. Or anything over 80 proof.


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"Angel, what do you think you're doing?"

Angel slammed his suitcase shut and turned away from the bed. Keeping his voice level, he replied, "I'm leaving town for a few days. It's urgent."

"Who has the visions here, you or me? *I* haven't seen a thing."

"This is personal, Cordy".

"Oh, no, you don't. Every time you get personal it turns out really, really badly. Remember--"

"Drop it. Just don't." He fought to suppress a snarl.

She stepped toward him, eyes pleading. "Angel. Honest to God, remember the last time you didn't listen, remember what happened next. Vengeance doesn't work for you."

"Why do you always assume... I'm not even going to start this. This isn't vengeance I hope, it's a rescue. You haven't had a vision, fine. Sometimes the Powers That Be aren't involved. I don't need your help, I don't need my soul saved, I just need you to GET OUT OF THE WAY so I can catch my plane!"

She didn't back off. "Promise you aren't going all no-soul again?"

Snort. "Would a promise do you any good if I were?"

Cordy folded her arms, lifted her chin, and stood her ground. "Angel. Promise me this isn't more Wolfram & Hart nonsense, or you'll have to hurt me to get out the door."

Angel sighed. He was going to have to give her part of the truth if he wanted to get out of there. "I doubt this has anything to do with our favorite law firm. An old ... acquaintance ... is in trouble. I'll be back as soon as I can. If you get any visions, call Gunn and Wesley; you've handled them without me in the past. I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't urgent."

She stepped aside. "Please be telling the truth. And please come back in one piece."

He gave her half a smile. "That's the plan. Urns don't suit me."


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After François and Mr. High Heels left the room, another vampire entered. This one was scruffy, the sort Buffy staked by the dozen any night in Sunnydale. He never dropped the demon face; Willow suspected he couldn't. The minion escorted Willow to a dingy bathroom, where she was required to shower and use the facilities under his cold gaze. She blushed. He didn't.

When she got out of the shower, her own clothes were gone, replaced by a gray pile on the floor. It proved to be too-large sweats, the shirt with a telltale rust-brown stain. There was no towel. She dressed without bothering to protest. At least these clothes didn't smell of vomit. Unsurprisingly, there was no mirror over the sink. The vampires hadn't provided a comb, so she did her best to tidy her wet hair with her fingers. Before she had finished, the minion grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hall. Not back to her cell, as she'd expected, but up a flight of stairs.

"But I'm still barefoot!" Willow protested. The vampire tightened his grip to the point of pain. "Speak when spoken to." Then he increased his pace, Willow stumbling to keep up with him.

She was dragged into an featureless room. The only thing in it was a black (naturally) footlocker, lid open. "In."

"What?"

The vampire didn't bother to reply. Instead he twisted her arm behind her back, forcing her down and forward. Willow's shins banged against the edge of the footlocker; she cried out and doubled up in pain. Before she knew it, she was crammed uncomfortably into the trunk, knees to chest. The vampire slammed the lid down. She heard clicks. Then the world lurched. Apparently she was being carried somewhere.

Her legs hurt. Her head hurt. It was dark. She was starving. She was soggy. She tried desperately to find something cheerful to think about.

I'm not dead yet.


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Buffy finished her report to Giles. "There was nobody in the apartment, nothing had been touched. It looked just the way the police left it, except that the door was kicked down and the bathroom window was broken."

Giles's eyebrow went up. "Where was the broken glass?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "In the bathroom window, Giles. I already told you that."

He sighed. "Inside the room or outside it?"

"I don't know... inside, I think. The glass crunched under my feet."

"Buffy, think. Nobody had entered. The glass was broken from the outside. So was the door you entered through. If the apartment was empty, that means somebody tried to get in and failed."

"Vampire?" She tensed.

"Who else would break down the door without entering?"

"Then Willow's alive!" Buffy sagged with relief. "God, Giles, she's not dead. I was starting to think..."

"Not only is she alive, but someone or something is looking for her in Sunnydale. Our suspects must be local after all."

Buffy threw herself into Giles's arms. "She's alive, Giles! And she's here! Which means I can kick some vampire ass and find her!"

Giles returned her hug for a moment, then withdrew. He didn't seem to share Buffy's elation. "You've already tried that, Buffy. Nobody's talking. And the indications are... disturbing. Whoever has her knows she's alive. Which means they would know better than to send a vampire to enter her apartment. Therefore more than one faction is involved. I very much fear she's the object of some sort of power struggle. She has something that someone wants."

Buffy looked at him grimly. "Or is something."

"It seems all too probable. If they were holding her hostage to influence you, they'd have contacted you by now. Somebody wants her for her own sake. But not for her benefit." He took off his glasses, searching for words. "There are ...uses... for a witch's blood."

"Oh, God."


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Spike staggered back to the car. He needed someplace dark for the daylight hours. If he moved the wretched suburbmobile away from prying eyes, he could crash in it for the day, then get out of town come nightfall. He climbed in, raced the engine, and sped out of the parking lot. There was a railway overpass on a back road north of town. That should do for now. He accelerated hard, and the cream envelope fell into his lap. He snarled, crushed it in his hand, and threw it into the floor well.

Long ago, there had been a factory a little way out of town, set on a railroad spur. Whatever it built had gone out of fashion years ago. Since then, it had been abandoned to the drunks, the bums, and the randy teenagers. Every now and again, vampires had attempted to lair in it, but had always abandoned it for more populous hunting grounds. He pulled the car under the overpass and cut the engine. The road should be undisturbed until nighttime.

He lifted the Jim Beam to his lips. Nobody told him what to do. He danced to no one's tune. He was a free agent, a lone wolf, the master of his own destiny.


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Willow struggled to control her stomach as the footlocker lurched from side to side. After too long, she felt a hard jolt, then heard a metal slam and the roar of an engine. Apparently, she'd been loaded into a vehicle. In the trunk, judging by the smell of exhaust. Death by carbon monoxide? Great. Doesn't sound very vampiry somehow... Stop that. François said I still had some utility. That means he doesn't want me dead.

Yet.

I hate the dark. I hate small spaces. At least Spike let me have light and air... Stop that. He didn't do you any favors. He kidnapped you. He wasn't your friend.

A lifetime later, the vehicle stopped. Another slam, another hideous lurch, and she was jolting through the air again. She smelled a nasty chemical tang. After a few moments, she identified it. Kerosene. They're setting me on fire? Stop that. They're taking me camping? She giggled hysterically, and was rebuked by a slam on the side of the trunk.

Suddenly the trunk fell to the ground, knocking the air from Willow's lungs. As she gasped for breath, she heard a voice. "Load this in the passenger compartment."

Oh. An airport.

"Looks like cargo to me, boss, and there's a big hold."

"Shut your mouth. The passenger bay."

The trunk lurched again, then tilted and jolted; Willow presumed she was being carried up a flight of stairs. After a few moments of argument, the invisible carriers stood the trunk on end, dropping her in a heap at the bottom. Head side up, fortunately.

Some time later, there was a soft murmur of voices. She thought she could pick François out, but the conversation was in French and moved too fast for her to decipher. Then there was a whine of engines and the trunk tilted heavily forward, landing at an angle. She supposed it must have collided with a seat.

I think I'm headed back to Montreal. FedEx class.


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When Spike woke, head pounding, the first thing he saw was the damned cream envelope. He turned away, wincing, and grabbed the bottle of Beam from the seat. It was empty.

He closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, no part of the situation had improved in any way. He had a hangover. He was trapped. And he was being played. He clenched his teeth. There was no use putting it off any further. As he'd known he eventually must, he retrieved the crumpled envelope, flattened it, ripped it open, and yanked out the single sheet of paper, inscribed in the flowing 18th-century hand he had grown to hate.


It read:

The Master of Montreal
Commands your presence
Solstice
Ten o'clock
Tenebrae

At the bottom was written, "Fail not of your presence. The human's fate hangs on your obedience. "