All About Spike - Blood Rites by Nan Dibble

All About Spike - Print Version
[Back to Main Site] [Back to Story Page]

Blood Rites
By Nan Dibble

Sequel to The Blood Is the Life

AU, continues from The Blood Is the Life. As Spike and Buffy try to hold onto their partnership and their love, recently unsouled Spike tries to secure his position as self-proclaimed Master Vampire of Sunnydale...against the wishes of The Powers That Be and the Slayer's ancient mandate. Magic, new arrivals, old friends (and enemies), dreams, visions, e-Bay, tribute blood, and cookies all play a part in the tense give and take between vampire priorities and human necessities.

Disclaimer: All is Joss's. None is mine. No profit. Just more Spikejoy for everyone.

Chapter 1: Good Order

Since Buffy was at work and Dawn at school, that Monday, Spike had taken on the chore of setting up the going-away party for Rupert Giles for that evening. It might be years before the Council of Watchers was fully functional again, building back from its destruction and the death of nearly all its senior members. So it might be years before the responsibilities Giles had taken on would free him for a visit to Casa Summers. Party had to be a total blowout, therefore, to be proportional to Buffy’s loss and, to a lesser degree, Rupert’s.

They’d surely meet again, but never again as Slayer and assigned Watcher. Buffy was in no more need of such, and what need did remain, Spike performed under his self-chosen mandate of “watching her back.” So as Giles’ de facto successor, Spike felt it important that it all be planned and seen to properly. He could plan, when he had to. He could make an agenda and keep to it, stage by stage. If that meant thinking everything out, setting it all going, and checking that it all was accomplished, he could do that.

The new-minted Master Vampire of Sunnydale putting together a proper send-off for Sunnydale’s last serving Watcher. There seemed a symmetry to it.

Somnambulating through the morning, Kennedy at his shoulder as help and correction, Spike made lists and made calls, ordering up the necessary and the whimsical, alerting the people…and others…who should be there, arranging deliveries through his crew, through the sewers and tunnels, when no other means could be found. The three SITs--Kennedy, Amanda, and Rona--collected the belowground deliveries, hauled them indoors, and Kennedy checked them off the lists. No Slayer strength there, but they were willing, able, and young. Good enough.

By noon, Spike was asleep, leaned back in the door arch of the front room. Still on his feet, available to sort whatever hang-ups Kennedy needed a ruling on, braced enough to hold. Returning from her morning classes at the university, Willow poked cautiously at his shoulder until he roused and blinked at her.

“You’re food,” he told her.

“What?”

“You’re in charge of the food. What gets made, what’s delivered. Ken.”

“Yeah, Spike.”

Looking around, Spike found Kennedy seated crossways on the stairs, bent over the clipboard, inspecting the contents of a box.

“Give Red a list of all that’s still to do by way of food,” Spike directed. Looking back to Willow, Spike went on, “See if I’ve forgot anything. Remembered ice, that’s coming. Mostly take-out or catered, but I put you down for cookies. Thought that’d be a good thing. That OK by you?”

Letting her dangling purse and bookbag slide to the floor, Willow nodded. “I have a class at two, but I can take over here until then. Why don’t you get some rest?”

“I’ll do.”

“But you don’t have to,” Willow persisted--eyebrows wrinkling, smiling. “Yesterday, let’s see: you were under a deathwish curse, got yourself blind drunk, nearly got caught by sunrise, made a foul wreck of my bedroom, had…how many fights? three? four? And I guess no sleep since. At least sit down before you fall down.”

Kennedy came then, clipboard tucked under her arm, holding out the list for Willow to take. Some way, Willow didn’t want to: stood looking at her feet, then at the list, and only last and reluctantly at the SIT’s impassive face. For a moment Spike didn’t get what the hold-up was. But before he’d said anything dumb, he recalled that they’d been an item and now weren’t, and people found that kind of history an awkwardness afterward and didn’t know how to behave anymore. He knew such things if he stopped to think them out. Even without the soul, he could still puzzle out what he needed to. That was all right then, he thought, reassured.

“Sorry,” Willow was saying to her former lover, uncomfortably. “About Isadora.”

Offering condolences on account of the SIT’s new playmate getting dusted last night. He understood that. Was still tracking all right.

“Yeah,” Kennedy responded flatly, eyes downcast, still holding the list. Finally, Willow took it, and Kennedy went back to the stairs and the chore of ticking off the paper plates and plastic cups and tableware in the box.

Child was doing fine, Spike thought. Not demanding to be let off work for personal things that didn’t signify. Seeing to the task at hand. She was shaping into a good second: he made a mental note to remember to tell her so. People needed praise, not just correction--more important to them than to vamps. So he needed to remember.

Nothing like as good as Bit, of course, but that wasn’t to be helped. Dawn had her own concerns: keeping up with her classes and her homework, having sister-time with Buffy. That had to take precedence. Couldn’t just expect her to be hanging about to help him, even though that was what they both liked, and missed when her proper priorities kept them apart. Had to get rid of the habit of looking for her to be there. Wasn’t fair to Kennedy, to always feel she was second choice, even though she was. Had to be sensible, responsible about such things, not just want what he wanted.

Willow’s presence reminded Spike of an unaddressed agenda item. “Red,” he said, and waited until she looked up from the list. “Something I need you to do.”

“What?”

“It’s about Bit. Dawn. Need you to get together with her, figure out some different way to keep her here. Anchor her, like.” Spike rubbed his eyes, trying to think how to put it. “She’s anchored down to this dimension with a piece of my soul.”

No need going into the fact that said soul was magically contained inside a suitable Orb, wherever Dawn had hidden it, at his request. Shouldn’t signify, he thought. No need for the witch to know, even though Buffy now did--not where it was, just that he’d set it aside to free him for what he had to do. Or maybe not. Maybe that would matter. Couldn’t be sure, the one way or the other. Was for the witch to decide. Have to remember to tell Bit, then, that it was OK to admit that much. Not like it was a particular secret anymore, since Buffy knew. He made a mental note.

“Anyway,” he continued, “s’not right, her being tied to me that way. If I was to go, she’d be gone too, and that’s not right. So you two get together, figure out some different way, some different anchor that’s more reliable. Instead of me. Have I said it right, that you know what I mean?”

Willow continued to regard him with wrinkle-browed friendly concern. “Are you figuring to go poof, then?”

“Just want Bit clear of it, if it happens, is all. Clear of me. Dunno how to do that myself because I expect it would have to be magic. So I hoped you could take that on. Not tonight, necessarily. What with the party and all. Only soon. First chance you get, to talk it out with her.”

“You do realize,” Willow countered, “there’s more than Dawn gonna be pretty upset if you manage to get yourself dusted, right? You should be talking to Buffy about this.”

“She knows. Can’t be helped. Gonna be a target awhile yet. That’s the risk of starting this, and she knows. Trying to be sensible about it, is all. So you see to that, all right? And the cookies.”

“Yeah. And the cookies. Sure, Spike.” Willow pushed him, not very hard, nodding toward the far side of the room. “Take the chair. Have a nap while I get lunch. I’ll call you before I leave for class: promise.”

Spike set his back harder against the door arch. “’M fine. Keeping track of everything.”

“Sure you are. No pills, even.”

Spike shook his head. “They don’t help. Just make everything worse, after. Not doing that no more.”

“Right. That’s probably best.” She waved the list. “I’ll take care of the cookies and double-check all this. Consider it deputized.”

That was fine: Spike allowed himself to forget about everything to do with food, accepting it as seen to, handed off in proper fashion. Willow would take care of it. She was reliable. He trusted her.

He was days behind on the translation now. There’d been no time, no chance. And tonight, after they got the Watcher out the door and to the airport in good order, there’d be the downtown sweep to be attended to, though the Slayer would probably let the usual Monday patrol slide on account of the party and all. So he wouldn’t have to back her on that. Still, he couldn’t see any way to get caught up on the translation before week’s end, at the soonest, without dropping some other necessary chore like checking that Digger wasn’t up to any new tricks or that some other District Master, of the new ordering, wasn’t aiming something at the enormous target Spike now had on his chest, like the scars of the runes with which the First’s Bringers had marked him.

Not enough hands. Not enough time to attend to everything. But couldn’t let anything go. Had to keep the Slayer as clear as possible: this was his to see to. Vamp business. And Michael wasn’t ready yet to take on much more than his own little patch, the district Spike had assigned him. And Spike’s own crew, up at the factory, still needed considerable supervision. Needed training, like he’d trained the SITs, to come and go and do to his word, reliably, with minimal losses and dumb fuck-ups.

Spike missed Dalton. Useless in a fight, half blind, but a good scholar and translator, Dalton had been. Pity he’d got himself dusted. Spike had no help at all with the Council of Watchers translation, though the pay for that funded all the rest. Couldn’t let it get behind.

Put the word out, he thought. Shop for a replacement for Dalton, offer a finder’s reward. Yeah, that needed doing. Other specialists he needed. Time he set about ordering a court like the one he’d inherited, years back, from the Master-that-was, that Buffy had done for. All scattered or dusted now, have to begin fresh; and anyway, his needs were different from those of a standard vampire court. Should make up a whole agenda for that by itself, get it started.

Comfortably braced against the arch, eyes drifting shut, Spike made a note.

**********

Having private business, they’d withdrawn to the kitchen, leaving the party to proceed for awhile without them in the front room and the den. Buffy set about making a fresh pot of tea, talking over her shoulder to Giles--listening to him, mostly--about his immediate plans, trying to pretend the prospect of his going didn’t scare her down to the bones.

She was trying hard not to let the desertion scenario kick in. Trying not to feel young and overwhelmed and abandoned. Trying to at least act grown-up and sensible no matter how she felt.

Spike helped. Just by being there. By knowing perfectly well all her reflexive emotional hang-ups and reminding her with a word or a touch to her arm that it wasn’t abandonment, that she wasn’t facing the scary future all alone, that Spike never truly left and always had her back. That Giles leaving was now and necessary but wasn’t forever. That he’d left before and would again, and she’d managed. Survived. Endured.

That she therefore should and could be upbeat to Giles about his own anxieties, the challenges and opportunities of reestablishing the council and setting it on a better, truer path. Be encouraging, not needy. Give, not take. Be supportive, not a black hole of suckage. Not start an argument just to vent, ease the emotional tension, or let Spike do it either. Nor Giles, for that matter. They were all three of them wound up about doing the good-bye thing and trying not to let that matter.

Buffy alternately babbled and had gulping intervals of silence. Giles polished his glasses every five seconds. Spike leaned on the refrigerator, blinked sardonically, and tried to pretend he wasn’t smugly aware that when Giles was gone, he’d still be here, so nothing Giles said was worth getting upset about. Coping mechanisms.

She knew perfectly well: it was time. In some ways, it would even be a relief when Giles was gone. Not have to explain and defend her choices and decisions anymore. Not have to know that some of those choices--like her decision against college, like her partnership with Spike--were things Giles would never fully accept or be reconciled to, despite his seldom voicing actual criticism or opposition anymore.

They all knew it was time.

Pouring hot water into the teapot, Buffy asked, “When you get it all put back together, when there really is a council again, what do you think they’ll make…of us? Of what we’re doing now?”

Spike drawled, “Not like there was a whole lot of love to be lost there, pet. On either side.”

Giles commented, “Well, you’ve been very rash, Spike, and the council’s bound to take notice,” in a tone somewhere between annoyed, exasperated, and resigned. He already had his glasses off and produced a handkerchief to clean them.

“Gonna peach on me, are you, Rupert?” Spike inquired, amused.

“You know better than that. But eventually, they will know. In the present muddle of reconstitution, it may be some while before they both have the knowledge and act upon it. And I and others spent some considerable effort enlisting your services. Rewarding your exemplary behavior in regard to closing the Hellmouth. The council made a good faith attempt to reach an accommodation which you’ve now implicitly thrown back in their faces by this new move. Master of Sunnydale, indeed. You might have waited until I’d actually left before rendering it all a complete mockery. Then I’d have at least been able to claim ignorance.”

“Events dictate, Watcher. Couldn’t wait.”

“Well, I’ll provide you with what warning I can. Before the blood delivery is stopped. There’s no longer any point, of course, in my pressing for your appointment as Buffy’s de facto Watcher: that would, I’m afraid, only affect Buffy’s own position adversely. In fact, these present developments virtually eliminate any chance there might have been for arranging a stipend for her.”

“Why?” Spike shot back, finally touched, stung. “S’got nothing to do with her. Put it together all on my own. Kept it clear of her. Why--”

“Spike,” said Giles wearily, “we’re not children here. You’re in residence. You’re her acknowledged…”

As Giles tried to choose a sufficiently sexless word, Buffy put in, “Consort.” Then she lifted her chin. “Lover.” She stuck her right hand back and felt Spike clasp it in both of his. Glancing around, she saw him settling his temper, retreating again to his aloof distance. Turning back to Giles, Buffy made a sharp, dismissive gesture with her free hand. “There never was much chance anyway. It’d set a bad precedent, actually admitting Slayers were worth anything. I wasn’t holding my breath, Giles. We’ll manage.”

“It’s not right,” Giles declared, unreconciled.

“It matters that you tried, and I love you for trying. Don’t give up. It’s groundwork. Maybe a few Slayers down the line, without my awkward attachments…” She didn’t look at Spike. “Or my refusal to take the Boogey Man Credo as gospel or my dislike of being dictated to by a bunch of…dictators. Somebody who’s died a few less times performing her goddam sacred duty. Somebody who hasn’t saved the world a few too many times to expect any thanks for it, much less a salary. Maybe there’ll be a better chance then to push it through.”

“But not in my time. Nor in yours. I’m truly sorry, Buffy.”

“We’ll manage,” Buffy said again, squeezing Spike’s hand because she knew it galled him to have anything denied her, withheld from her, on his account. She wasn’t all that happy about it herself. But as Giles had said, they were none of them children, to expect life to be fair. Everything had a price. Or a cost. Consequences.

“And the translation?” Spike inquired, as if it didn’t matter or he didn’t care.

Pouring tea into his cup and then sipping it, Giles allowed himself a small, pursed smile. “Oh, I expect that will survive the revelation. That’s something they actually do need, after all. I don’t imagine they’ll let their principles impede the practicalities. In that one regard, your being a vampire, and a linguist, gives you the leverage of the unique. Your new title might even impart a certain cachet, like that of obscure expatriate Russian nobility in the age of the Euro. No, I imagine they’ll still be clamoring for results long after you’re sick of spells in otherwise forgotten demon languages, filtered through Babylonian cuneiform and assorted glyphs.”

Spike nodded sharply. “That’s all right, then. That, I can do. Whatever else gets cut off, if that stays, we can manage.”

“So,” said Giles, and brought a thick envelope from an inner pocket of his jacket. He slid the envelope toward Spike along the kitchen island. When Spike made no move to take it, his hands still occupied with holding Buffy’s, Giles explained, “The last of your paperwork.” Opening the envelope, Giles enumerated each of the papers as he laid them out. “Passport, suitably stamped. Birth certificate, with joint nationality, and please note your parents’ names and your birthdate: 5th November, 1976.”

Spike was startled into an abrupt bark of laughter.

“Yes,” said Giles, without glancing up, “you’ve been made one with gunpowder and treason. A little anarchy for the Guy. You wouldn’t specify, so I assigned you a memorable date and a bicentennial you have yet to earn, also memorable.”

“What?” asked Buffy, looking between them.

Spike hitched a shoulder, mouth wryly downturned. “He’s assigned me a holiday, pet: Guy Fawkes’ day. Notable traitor, burned in effigy each year.”

The date was less than two weeks away. Buffy had never given any thought to a vamp’s birthday. “What’s your real birthday, then?” she asked.

Spike shook his head, releasing her hand to fold his arms across his chest--a stubborn, defensive stance.

“Why?” Buffy persisted.

When Spike continued silent, Giles commented, “Public records, I expect. A means of identifying his actual antecedents. Spike, I’ve wondered: are members of your family still alive?”

“Did I leave any alive, you mean. ‘Course not. What all vamps do, innit?”

Giles sighed. “Spike, your reputation for being the worst liar extant is in no danger. What possible difference--”

Spike put his arms around Buffy from behind--folding her into his refusal to provide details. “What’s mine, I keep.”

Buffy leaned into him just enough so he’d feel it, and Giles looked away.

“Yes, quite.” Giles resumed enumerating the papers. “Social Security card. Driver’s license. Transcripts of your purported schooling: please memorize the dates. Copies of various diplomas. A verifiable resume. Medical records establishing a severe allergy to sunlight, possibly even fatal, in case you’re ever thrown in jail.” Gathering up the papers, Giles squared them tidily, then returned them to the envelope. “Nothing as wholesale as the creation of Dawn, but this should survive even intense scrutiny. Should anything else be required, let me know. The council may be decimated, but we still have the resources to produce quite a cast-iron false identity. As much as I could, I dealt with different departments, reliable outside suppliers. Various pretexts. So even the council itself would find it difficult to retrace my path in creating these.” Tapping the envelope, Giles gave Spike a level, sober look. “Don’t rely on them any more than you must.”

“Yeah. I know. Should do for awhile, though. Thanks, Rupert.”

Giles attended to his tea. “Spike, we’ve had our differences, but I’d like to think we’ve come to an understanding. Unless you force it, I will never willingly be your enemy, or act to harm you. And not only for Buffy’s sake. Should either of you--”

Leaning in from the hall, Amanda blurted, “Spike. You have to come.”

As Spike let Buffy go and slid behind Giles, responding to the summons, Buffy followed right behind.

Counting Spike, six people stood in a tense group in the front hall. Dawn, the three SITs…no, four SITs. Buffy recognized the fair-haired girl standing just inside the open doorway as Suzanne.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, Dawn was saying tightly to Spike, “I let her in. I didn’t realize--” She had her taser in her hand, as did Amanda. They were all staring at Suzanne for no reason Buffy could see: in jeans, thick hiking shoes, a blue sweatshirt, and a yellow down vest, dusty-blonde hair in a braid down her back, a rucksack slung over her shoulder, she was looking around comfortably, no different than when she’d left, barely a month ago.

Suzanne said, “Hi, Spike. I’m back.”

Then her face changed. Went golden-eyed and fanged. With no change of pose, no change of expression.

Fingers lifting to touch her forehead, Suzanne said softly, “Oops. Guess I did it again, huh?”

**********

Spike took it all in: the SITs waiting for him to call it, appalled, horrified. And Bit the same, except she was still wound up over having let the fledge in. And Buffy was gone back to the kitchen. Didn’t take thought to know she’d be back in a second with a stake.

Would ruin the party.

Spike was perplexed and annoyed.

With no hesitation he went at the fledge and boosted her back through the open door, hard enough that she cleared the steps and half the front yard before she hit. Spike paused in the doorway long enough to level a finger at Dawn. “Tell Red to do a disinvite. Right now.” Without waiting for an answer he spun, took the steps at a bound, and was off after the fledge, fleeing away down the dark street.

She was going a good clip, straight ahead. It would take him a while to overtake her if she didn’t jink, if he couldn’t cut an angle, cut her off. Seeing where she was headed, he waited to see if she’d go inside. Could corner her there, no problem. But she barely slowed, realizing Casa Mike was empty now, and kept racing in long, easy strides.

Couldn’t be above two weeks turned and could already shed game face, though she couldn’t maintain human countenance very long. Already had enough control of her senses that she could pass a house, know if a vamp was inside or not. Though Spike was running quiet, she’d know he wasn’t but about six strides back and except for the running, he got no sense of fear from her. That was confirmed when she glanced around at him, grinning, and commented, “How come you never said how much fun this was? Did you figure if you didn’t tell, nobody would guess?”

“Something like. What you doing here, Sue?”

She faced front again but kept talking. “Did you know something like 90% of female fledges don’t make it through their first year?”

“Never counted, pet. Though that seems a fair enough figure.”

“You’re going to help me beat the odds.”

“I am, am I? Now why would I bother about what a fledge wants?”

“What do you want, Spike?”

Spike had been scanning driveways, looking for something suitable. Spotting it, he bent to scoop up a baseball-sized rock and threw, all in the one motion. Didn’t try for her legs, knew his aim wasn’t that good. Went for the broadest target, caught her right between the shoulder blades, knocked her tumbling. She was up the next minute, but he was there and backhanded her across the face. The second time she sprang up and he put her down, she had the sense to stay down, crouched, watching him.

Strolling up and down a driveway, he kept between her and Casa Summers. If she bolted, she’d have to head away. And though she’d be hard to take in a foot race, there were other stones to hand and he’d just bring her down again. And no way was she gonna outfight him--with weapons or without. He took his time, lighting a cigarette.

“Got better things to do tonight than chase you across the landscape, moron.”

“Then why did you?” she shot back. “And why’d you call me a moron?”

“Well, that’s plain, innit?” He tipped a hand at her, crouched on somebody’s lawn, against a hedge. “You did this on purpose. That makes you a moron.”

“Then you’re a moron, too--right?”

“That I am, pet. But I’m a bigger, stronger, older moron than you, and I could rip your head off just like that. An’ you know it. So what’s this all in aid of, tell me?”

“I thought….” she began, then shook her head hard, shutting herself up. When she lifted her head again, she’d forced game face away. Looked almost like the child he’d known, except for the preternatural stillness. No pulse. No sweet girl bloodsmell. Except for the being dead. “I didn’t think you’d be like this,” she said softly, as if to herself.

“Oh, is that so. How’d you expect me to be, then? Figure I’d be all concerned, little SIT gone and made herself a monster, want to look out for you, like? Teach you the error of your ways?” Fast, he was down on his knees, shouting in her face. “It’s too late for that! That child is dead, and you’re what murdered her! Are you so stupid you don’t even know that?”

She turned her face away, pulling fretfully at her braid, fallen across her shoulder. “It’s hard to know what I’m showing. It wants to change. It’s like trying to hold my breath. Like it used to be, anyway. Because, well, don’t need to breathe anymore. Except to talk. It’s so strange, Spike. Like I thought it would be…and yet not. But…I still want it. Want the power and the speed and everything so bright. The smells….”

She moved slightly, changing balance, reacting to what Spike had caught at least a minute before: slow, unhurried footsteps, and the quicker patter of a dog. About a block away, approaching, opposite side of the street.

Spike said, “You budge an inch, I will put you down.”

“But I want….”

“Don’t give a damn what your demon wants. All demons want the same. You make it mind or I will.”

She was trying to hold herself still. Trying to obey. He could tell. But she wasn’t but a fledge, and as the dog-walking woman came level, the fledge lunged upright and forward. So Spike hammered her. Caved in her cheekbone, likely broke her jaw. Still had to close a hand around her wrist to lock her down and hit her twice more before her demon quit fighting to get free, get at the oblivious food.

But once he’d done what she couldn’t, deflected her demon, she stayed down, making no noise at all. Not whining or complaining. She’d always been good that way, he recalled.

“Now you listen,” he said finally. “This is my town now, and you can’t hunt without leave. Mine…or somebody’s.” He thought a while more--the time it took to smoke another cigarette, since the first got lost before he’d barely finished half of it. “You don’t go within a five block range of Casa Summers again. You got that?”

She bobbed her head. Likely couldn’t talk all that well at the moment.

Spike considered and discarded two more alternatives. “All right, the mark is the theater downtown. You be there before midnight. I’ll tell you where to go from there. You see any other vamps, you keep still, keep hid, till they’re gone. Situation’s…touchy right now. Setting borders, setting limits. If I don’t find you at the mark, you’re on your own. None of my concern. Not anymore. There’s a reason most vamp bints don’t survive their first year. First month, even. If you don’t want to be a statistic, you do what I say. You fucking mind.”

Again, she nodded.

Pitching the butt, Spike turned on his heel and started pacing back toward Casa Summers. At least wasn’t likely she’d hunt, not with her jaw like that.

He’d settle her later. Too tired to think about any non-agenda problems at the moment. The important thing was seeing Rupert had a proper send-off, getting him gone. Then he’d deal with the rest.

**********

Coming back from the airport, everybody was yawning and subdued. Well, nearly everybody, Dawn corrected: although Spike had managed to stay intermittently awake on the outward leg, as soon as Giles’ luggage was pulled out of the back, Spike tumbled over the bench seat into the vacated space and totally conked.

Inside the uncomfortably bright terminal, after the baggage was taken care of, Dawn pulled out of the group hug and the goodbyes as soon as she decently could and went outside where she could keep an eye on the SUV, parked in the yellow-striped pick-up/drop-off stretch near the doors. Pulling off the silly cardboard party hat, she pitched it in a convenient bin.

The past two days, at least four attempts had been made on Spike’s life. Dawn wanted to be uber-vigilant against another. Nobody had appointed her to sentry duty. Nobody had forbidden it, either. Hand in the pocket that held her taser, elbows pulled tight against her sides in the chilly air, Dawn paced the curb and watched.

Eventually everybody came out--Xander and Anya splitting off from Willow and going to Xander’s truck, Buffy and the SITs visibly dragging. They hadn’t gotten any sleep last night either and probably none through the day.

Noticing Dawn, Buffy said, “You shouldn’t go off like that.”

Falling in behind Willow, Dawn shrugged. “I’m not a Scooby or a SIT.”

“Then why did you come?” Buffy asked crossly, triggering the door locks.

Dawn only shrugged again. She slid the back door open and climbed in. She felt cranky, guilty, and anxious, all of the feelings combining as a sulky withdrawal she didn’t want to inflict on Buffy, who was enough on edge already.

Dawn was supposed to have planned the party but had blown it off in the upset of Spike’s marking her and refusing afterward to be anywhere around her. So Spike’d had to do the party set-up himself on top of all the rest of the crowbars, anvils, and knives he was juggling. All her fault--just like everything else.

That the mark had been...invalidated by another set over it, by a vamp who’d then been dusted, meant that things were supposedly back to normal now. Only they weren’t. Although present, Spike was more distant than ever. Shutting himself off, shutting her away. She'd barely been able to exchange two words with him since returning home from school or during the party and she doubted he'd really heard even them. Too distracted. Too focused on Buffy or Giles or all the invisible spinning hardware. And then Sue showing up, on top of everything: another concern added. Another piece of phantom hardware. Dawn could feel a crash coming.

Maybe, she thought hopefully, it was only that he was so totally wiped out in the aftermath of all that had happened. That hope lasted about two seconds because this hadn’t begun last night or even last week.

He didn’t move except when a turn rolled him to one side or the other. Facing backward, chin on arms folded on the bench seat, Dawn watched him worriedly, feeling a smothered, sad anxiety.

They dropped off Amanda at home, then Kennedy and Rona together at the boarding house. Finally Buffy pulled up in front of the theater marquee, turned off the engine, and twisted around in her seat, looking for Spike.

“He’s out of it,” Dawn reported quietly, pointing with a thumb.

In the front seat Willow asked Buffy, “What d’you think: just go home?”

Dawn shook her head. “He has the sweep still to do.” Not waiting for any more discussion, Dawn leaned over the seat back and poked and shook him a few times. “Spike. Spike, wake up. We’re at the mark.”

He went tight and startled for a second. Then he pushed up on an elbow, looking around, rubbing his eyes. “Right. Next to last on the agenda.” Abruptly unwinding, he popped the rear hatch and slid out, holding a sack of stakes. As he shut the hatch solidly, Dawn was down on the curb and back beside him.

“What’s this, then?”

“I’m staying. At least until it’s time to start the sweep.”

“You and whose great aunt? None of that nonsense, Bit. Back in the van.” He pushed, trying to turn and steer her, but she set her feet and grasped the curve of the SUV’s rear corner. And of course he wasn’t gonna outright shove her.

“I was good about last night,” she argued. “Played good soldier, stayed home like you said. But we have to talk.”

“And get home how? I’ll be out here till nearly sunup.”

“Buffy will come back,” Dawn proposed indifferently.

“Buffy will go home and have her beauty sleep. And so will you. School day, work day tomorrow, Bit.”

Willow lowered her window enough to lean out. “What’s the problem?”

Spike came up onto the sidewalk. “No problem. Just saying goodbye to Bit.” Looking around but past Dawn, not meeting her eyes, Spike added softly, “Don’t want to have a thing about this here. You go home now.”

“Spike, please. It’s important.”

“No. Got no head for more chat anyway. We’ll talk. Tomorrow…or the next day, maybe. Soon. Call you, maybe. Something.”

She was making it worse. She could see him trying to sort through the descending hardware, all the concerns backed up and overdue, trying to find a gap to slot her into and not finding any. She could imagine and feel his frustration. And she hadn’t the heart to push or insist anymore.

She patted his arm. “Be careful. Take a pill.”

“Trying not to do that no more.” He lifted his head, looking blankly at the sky. “Maybe. If I have to. Gonna be all right here, nothing for you to worry about.”

Willow called, “Dawn?”

“All right, all right!” Dawn yanked the rear door and flung herself inside far enough to draw it shut. The locks clicked. She watched Spike turn and head slowly toward the alley as the SUV pulled away.

From the front, Buffy directed, “Seat belt,” and Willow inquired, “What was that all about?” Neither of them sounded angry or impatient.

Facing forward, Dawn did up her seat belt.

Willow persisted, “Dawnie?”

They waited out a red light. When the SUV went forward again, Dawn said abruptly, “I don’t like this. I’m worried about him. He’s not connecting well or right anymore. No matter how he tries, or I do. I’m afraid it’s the soul: setting it aside. Afraid he’s coming unstuck and drifting and I can’t reach….” The image in her mind was of helplessly watching an untethered boat moving slowly farther from shore with the pull of the tide.

Which didn’t matter because Willow’s remarking to Buffy something about the Devon coven told Dawn nobody had heard her anyway.

**********

Finishing a cigarette and pacing the alley to stay alert, Spike checked his watch: 11:16. Watcher would be off, then. So that was done and hadn’t gone off too badly except for Clem startling Red considerable by showing some bumpies, wrinklies, and sudden visual nastiness as the punchline of an interminable joke. Doing a Beetlejuice, Dawn had called it, when she could stop laughing.

Important to have a few of the more harmless demon types present, party like that. Remind Rupert not all demons had nothing on their minds except eating the citizenry and trying to end the world from some combination of malice and boredom.

Snacks Clem had brought had been popular too. And the Angharan had been fine in the charades. Didn’t think anybody had noticed anything off about the punch or twigged to the actual nature of the crisp meat on skewers, with various dipping sauces. Spike had never been partial to kitten himself, but most kinds of demon liked it. Not as if it’d been human, after all: Spike had checked and slid the other away before anybody else had a chance to try it, had a word with Gregor afterward. Actually, several words, a shove, and poke in the eye.

Cookies had been good, though. Went well with the punch.

So that was accomplished and all right. He could forget about it now.

Vamp approaching. Several. He watched as they came into range of the streetlights: Emil, Mary, Kehoe, Strait. All in the colors, the black and the scarlet. All walking in the open as though they owned this town, which they did, when the sun was gone. Proudly game-faced, looking purposeful and dangerous. And from behind him, up the alley, another group coming: Bitter, Liz, Carlos, and then Huey, leading off from behind.

As the latter group came into talking distance, Spike directed, “Huey--coffee.”

Not like Spike didn’t have the pills, had some right in the duster pocket, but didn’t want to be relying on them so much. He’d be frazzled and flying all night and his judgment wasn’t the best at such times. And then the crash afterward, when the strangest of the dreams got in and occupied him like a conquered territory with no hope of escape. If coffee would do, he’d stick to that.

As Huey sent Carlos, the current junior, running the errand, the squad gathered around Spike to get their directions for the night.

Spike leaned his shoulders against the alley wall beside a dumpster, lighting a fresh cigarette. “All right, looking tonight for anybody trolling for druggies. One squad. After last night, whoever’s defying the schedule will likely be out in packs of three or four so as not to get caught on their own. So you stay together too. Anything you run across that’s out of your league, too many or too well armed, whatever, fall back, send a runner to the mark to tell me, and I’ll call it. Don’t want to get in a pitched territorial battle yet. All clear so far?

Strait raised his hand, and Spike nodded. “Who leads off?” the young vamp wanted to know. Had about twenty visible piercings: currently fascinated with pain and vamp healing.

“Huey. And Mary to second.” Huey wasn’t even close to the best fighter, but he kept a cool head, wasn’t easily rattled, and right now, Spike considered that the most important consideration. He stopped, reviewing what he’d said and what therefore remained to say. “Right. Druggies. Start at Sycamore, work around from there, east to west. Dust any vamps you find. Dealers are fair game too, if they’re not too wasted. Share ‘em around if you do, though. Don’t want nobody incapable on a sweep.” Not much of the designated protective scent yet in circulation: do as many of the dealers as possible until it was, when feeding on ‘em would have to be regretfully prohibited. “Let the druggies be. And drunks and so forth that you come across. Pass ‘em by. Stick to vamps and the odd dealer for now. Any questions.”

Again, Strait lifted a hesitant hand.

Spike said, “What.”

“Haven’t fed.”

“Then you’ll have to go hungry, won’t you?” Spike flicked a glance to Huey, who nodded. Huey would see that the lad had sufficient chance at the night’s first prey. Otherwise, underfed and desperate, the boy’s demon might push him into doing something dumb.

“Keeping Carlos as a runner for awhile,” Spike said. “So go on. Back here to report at five.”

He distributed stakes from the bag, and the squad headed out in good order. So that was sorted and all right. Presently Carlos came with the coffee--double espresso, triple sugar, Spike’s current favorite. Uncapping the cup, Spike sent the boy to mind the back of the alley, to warn of anything coming up from behind. In a couple of days, Spike would have to change the gather mark from the theater--any point, used too often, was asking for an ambush. But for now it was convenient and handy to the Espresso Pump, that now kept all-night hours because of the recent increase in nighttime business. Mainly Spike’s doing. He ran a tab there now for himself and those of his crew who had a taste for the stuff.

The concentrated caffeine hit his system almost like the first gulp of good whiskey but with opposite effect: awakening prickles everywhere and a wash of stronger alertness, jumping the reach of his perceptions almost to those of sight.

A vamp hiding under a parked van, opposite side of the street. With a little concentration, he could smell her, though vamps didn’t have much scent.

Having downed about half the remaining coffee, Spike said quietly, “Coast’s clear now. Come on.”

As Sue emerged from under the van, dragging her carryall, Spike checked his watch: ten to midnight.

“All right,” he said as she stood in front of the dumpster, “let’s see the damage.” He set thumb and finger on her chin and turned her head, inspecting. Looked to be about halfway healed, still plenty showing. Good enough. “Here,” he said, fishing in a duster pocket, and produced the two bags of tribute blood delivered for his evening meal. He figured he was fed up good enough not to need them and anyway he was used to going quite awhile without. Not as if he was a fledge, needed feeding every night. He watched her tear into the bags and gulp the blood with ravenous haste.

“It’s cold,” she complained, but pitched the empty bags into the dumpster, obedient to his nod.

“Ain’t got the time,” Spike said, “to be lumbered with a fledge. So I’m sending you off to somebody who has. District Master, old enough to have trained up a thousand fledges, knows what he’s about. Long as you mind him as best you can, he won’t just lose patience and dust you, on account of he’s a bit short-handed at the moment. He’ll have other fledges around, most likely. Train you all. Name of Digger.”

“Want you,” Sue objected. “Came back here for you.”

Ignoring the comment, Spike went on, “Digger wants me gone real bad. Had a couple of tries at it and I don’t expect he’ll quit now. You take notice of what you can. He won’t know you, doesn’t know you were a SIT. You see it stays that way. You’re just a local fledge, got turned here, just before the Hellmouth was closed. He’s not apt to ask you much--nobody cares where a fledge came from, who they used to be, nothing like that. You just sing small, do what you’re told, keep your eyes and ears open. I’ll set up some way to check on you, swap news and like that. You come on something interesting, you pass it along.”

“Spy,” Sue remarked, liking that.

Finishing the coffee, Spike nodded. “Digger’s current fuck is a bint calls herself ‘Star.’ You stay wide of her. Don’t give her a reason to dust you. ‘Cause she will if she thinks you’re a threat, getting too cozy with Digger. You pick somebody else, somebody you figure is a good fighter, to get cozy with. Fledge needs a protector, a partner, specially bints. Digger’s not for you, though he’ll likely fuck you from time to time. Try you out, keep you in line. When--”

“Didn’t come back for that,” Sue interrupted sullenly.

“Well, that’s just your bad luck and bad judgment, innit? Told you, I ain’t got the time. An’ I’m not the toy surprise in your box of sweets, just reach in and take. Part of what you gave up in letting yourself get turned. S’not up to you anymore, you’re not the queen of the May, you’re maybe one step up from a dog bitch in heat and a bloody liability till you can get your damn demon under some sort of control, and nobody’s gonna give you any slack whatever until that happens. Until you can mind. Until you can choose and not just let yourself get flung around by whatever wind that blows. Might be years. Might be never.” He pitched the coffee container into the dumpster.

“I’ll learn,” Sue declared. “Didn’t pick the first vamp I bumped into, to turn me. The plane had a layover at O’Hare and I got my gear and left--big city, lots to choose from. I hunted every night. Quizzed ‘em, dusted all that didn’t suit, until I found one who remembered the First World War. Nearly a century. Bribed him to turn me and keep watch till I rose, not just become another forgotten meal. Jeffrey. Dusted him after, of course. Chicago’s OK, easy hunting there, but I always planned to come back here. To you. So you’d teach me how to survive. Like before.”

“And I’m passing you along to Digger,” Spike replied, mildly annoyed by her ignorant arrogance, thinking he’d give a fraction of a damn about her history, her stupid choices. Thinking her priorities were all that mattered. “Where maybe you can be some use to me, but likely not. At least you’ll be out of my hair.”

She fiddled with her braid, frowning. “Send me to Mike, then.”

“No. Michael’s hardly past a fledge himself, you know that. He’s got enough on his plate without you. And you’d be no use to me there.”

She didn’t argue, which meant she was planning to go hunt Michael anyway. And therefore would be blundering into some other District Master’s territory, trespassing, and likely gone before daybreak. Feeling his eyes go yellow, Spike was tempted to dust her himself, except he was too tired to bother.

“Michael won’t take you on.”

“Maybe he would.”

“Not if I tell him No. Unlike you, Michael knows how to mind.”

That finally got through to her. She bent her head, lowered her eyes--at last assuming a submissive pose.

Spike said, “When you can shed game face ten minutes at a go, maybe I’ll listen to what you want. Until then, you’re just a nuisance and a chore. Better Digger’s than mine. You do what I say or I’m done with you, right here.”

“All right, Spike,” Sue said softly. “I’ll be good. You’ll see.”

“You better be, or else you’ll be gone. Digger won’t put up with your nonsense any more than I would. Except he needs numbers and has a reason to want to keep you standing, which is more than I have.”

She sniffled, which made him look at her. Tears were rolling down her ridged, fanged face. “Why are you being so mean to me?”

“Fuck off,” said Spike, and whistled up Carlos from the far end of the alley. “She’s one of Digger’s,” Spike explained. “Only a fledge, ain’t quite caught on to the new rules. Gonna give her a pass, this once. See her to the edge of his territory, point her toward the lair. Don’t touch her--don’t want Digger to smell us on her or we might as well not bother. Come back here after.”

Carlos nodded smartly and led her away. Carlos was fairly reliable. Should go all right unless she decided to feed along the way. Well, that was gonna happen, Spike knew. Had to expect it. Nothing he could do about it. Couldn’t control everything and it’d be stupid even to try. Maybe could moderate the numbers, night by night, but only an idiot would try to alter or suppress fundamental vamp nature. Had to work within what was possible, accept the limits.

Spike didn’t expect much. Figured about an 80% chance Suzanne would get all caught up in the new place, new way of thinking and being, get caught up in the always-shifting interlace of allegiances and enmities that was life in a vampire pack, and forget the rest. Forget whatever tie she’d imagined she had to him. Likely sell him out, if the chance came, to win favor from her new master. He didn’t intend to trust her. But she might survive. He’d done the best for her he could think of. And she’d known enough to choose a vamp of some age to turn her. Inherited an old, experienced demon. The results were plain: still only a fledge, but more control and awareness than most who were many times her age. She might have a chance. No going back now to what had been before.

Last agenda item for tonight was deciding where he’d lair up to sleep, come sunup. Still be awhile before he’d risk returning to Casa Summers or his factory, either one, on anything like a regular basis. Be the same as extending the invisible target on his chest to cover those places, each of them, like a tent. An invitation to mass attack and firebombs--the sort that had reduced Casa Spike to smoking rubble. Nor was Spike stupid enough to believe Digger, and a few others, didn’t have or couldn’t get minions who could be abroad during the day, poking and looking. He could consider nothing safe until he’d made it safe, shut out all avenues of attack. Until he’d done that, he had to stay unpredictable, elusive. And thoroughly wipe out whatever came at him, till the opposition left off trying.

Last he’d heard, the bounty Digger had set on him was $ 10,000; after last night, it was likely up at least by half. Doing Spike had become a valuable commodity, ripe for speculation. The bounty, and the current odds, were up on the board at Willy’s, quoted for all to see. Were he not involved, Spike would have liked the odds and taken a chance on collecting. Only natural.

A vamp was most vulnerable asleep. So Spike had to make himself scarce and hard to find. Never the same place twice. Anyplace would do so long as it was away from the sun, away from anybody he cared about or wanted to protect, and big enough to curl up in.

Sorting among the alternatives, he jerked, realizing he’d been dozing on his feet again. He smacked a fist hard against the edge of the dumpster. The pain brought him back to alertness, but that would fade fast. Even the dumpster was starting to look good to him: enclosed dark space once the lid was shut. Quiet. Smell didn’t matter. Great way to find yourself falling toward an incinerator at high noon, out at the rubbish tip. Stupid even to consider it.

No more coffee until Carlos got back to fetch it.

Reluctantly, resignedly, Spike reached into the duster pocket for the vial of pills.

Chapter 2: Components, Influences

At breakfast Tuesday morning, Willow woke up enough to notice Dawn and they spun together, each gripping the other’s arms, both saying, “We have to--” and then shutting up. Willow realized Dawn must have had a blinking-strange incoherent early morning phone call from Spike too.

So they both said simultaneously, “Later.”

“Espresso Pump?” Dawn asked.

“Magic Box,” Willow counter proposed, and Dawn considered, then bobbed a nod.

Then they whirled away into their separate preparations for the day.

There was no need to set a time because Willow know Dawn got out of school at three. So they convened at the big table at the Magic Box in the familiar nose-twitching mélange of smells, with the implicit consent of Anya, busy with customers since it was only two days to Halloween.

Setting down a cappuccino and a cold can of Dr. Pepper, Willow commented, “Guess he’s taking those pills again.”

“He can handle it,” Dawn defended, sliding her backpack off and depositing it on a chair. Then she settled and popped the top of her soda.

“Sure,” Willow responded skeptically. “Like Dr. Franklin and the stims. Maybe he’ll go walkabout soon.”

Dawn shook her head hard enough to make her hair fly. “Not on the agenda. Too much backed up to take a break.”

“Yeah. That’s what Dr. Franklin said. Before he freaked, collapsed, and admitted to Sheridan there was a problem.”

“It’s not like that, and anyway, Franklin wasn’t a vamp.”

“You think? So.” Willow poked the straw into her cup and bent it at exactly the right angle. “About the soul.”

Dawn shook her head again. “That’s his agenda, not mine. Sure, he called to say I could talk about it--everything except where it is. At least I think that’s what it was about. A call like that at six in the morning, from Loopy Land, some interpretation is required. No, that can wait. What I’m worried about is Digger’s Plan B.”

While Willow sipped her cappuccino, Dawn explained that when Digger had taken her as a pax bond, a kind of formal hostage to secure a meeting, and Spike had come for her, Digger had ended up throwing a big handful of sparkly powder at Spike. It had kind of sizzled, gone into a glowy field at contact, and then vanished.

“Spike said it was nothing,” Dawn commented, elbows on the table and head low, hair falling curved onto its surface, “but I don’t like it. Plan A, the deathwish, was pretty bad. I’m not gonna assume Plan B was just a bust and a waste of whatever Digger paid for it just because Spike says so.”

“Everything seems pretty normal. New normal. Never would have thought Spike would need chemical help to get even more hyper.” Willow rolled her eyes expressively. “He seemed OK yesterday. For Spike.”

“He didn’t drink the tribute blood: there were no empty bags in the trash.”

“It was a party. Everybody around. He’s shy.”

“I checked the basement trash too.”

“Oh.”

“I think he gave it to Sue. I don’t think he dusted her. He wouldn’t give me a straight answer.”

Willow thought about that, drawing small circles on the table with a fingertip. They both knew he’d dusted Kim, another SIT who’d been turned. “Why wouldn’t he?” Willow asked finally.

“Don’t know. It’s not as if he answers his frelling cell phone. Or will stand still long enough for me to actually ask him something anymore. I tried to get him to talk to me about Plan B last night but oh no, it’s a school day, have to stuff the Bit back in the van, no time for idle chit-chat.” Dawn’s mimicking of Spike’s accent and cadences was deliberately bad and sour.

So that had been what the little drop-off hiccup had been about, Willow thought. “It wasn’t a good time. He was busy.”

“When isn’t he busy? Back to topic: what do you think the sparkles were? A spell, sure--but what kind of spell?”

“No good answer to that. That was just the delivery method. It would be like looking at smoke and trying to know what kind of wood was burning. Or paper, or….” Willow frowned, considering, and Dawn kept still and watched, letting her. “He was wearing my locket by that time. That would block most kinds of…. No, he wasn’t: he’d given it to Buffy. So, no: he didn’t have any magical protection when he went in. And the dust reacted.”

“Bad sign?”

“Could be. No immediate, obvious effect…. Was Digger wearing gloves, handling it?”

Dawn looked for the answer in the ceiling. “Nope.”

“And no kind of chanting or visible preparation?”

“Nothing. Just grab and fling.”

“And it reacted on contact.” Willow paused to sip. “I don’t like the sound of that either. There’s two things I can do, Dawn. One is test him for magical influence. See if anybody has…handled him, magically, in the last few days in a way that still has effects. The other is to go to the source and find out.”

Dawn’s eyebrows arched high. “You expect Digger to be chatty?”

“Not Digger. The one who made the spell. My sometime roommate cum pet: Amy the Rat. Or at least that’s my first guess. She’s gone into the spells-for-hire line lately. And she’s not too particular about what she whips up. Or for who. If I test Spike, I can try to get a magical signature off him in the process. All magic has…the flavor of its maker. Because nothing’s mass produced. Each spell is individual, hand-crafted. Full of the will and intent of its maker, that shaped it. I think I know the work of all the resident mages and witches in the area. Aren’t that many. Most left when the Hellmouth started to get all rumbly, flare-y. Contrary to popular belief, there is such a thing as too much power.” Making a wry face, Willow sipped and swallowed. “But the Hellmouth is shut now, so it’s possible somebody’s come back and has been laying low, or some stranger has come on the strength of Sunnydale’s reputation as a power well, power just for the reaching out and grabbing. It’s not just vamps that are attracted. Or were.” Willow twisted around in her chair. “Anya?”

At the register, inserting a purchase in one of the new Harry Potter themed bags, Anya said to the customer, with bright enthusiasm, “Thanks for spending your money here!” Waiting until the customer left, Anya cast a suspicious glance toward two teenagers fumbling with the candle display, then hustled within talking distance of the table. “What is it? I’m really very busy.”

“I can help out until five,” Dawn volunteered, and got a surprised look and a wide grin from Anya.

“For free?”

“Usual rates.”

“Oh, all right. Very well. Go watch the candles, then.” Anya settled on the edge of the chair Dawn vacated, still watching the store.

Willow said, “I need some spell components. I’ll make up a list, but since you’re so busy, I’ll collect them myself. Will that be OK?”

Anya considered, then said, “Go ahead. You haven’t stolen anything in several months. Perhaps I should consider you reformed. Like Dawn.”

“Thanks a lot. Actually, it will be charged to Spike’s account.”

“Then fine--I always add a 10% service charge. For carrying the account. I want to see the list, though. Any component over $ 10, I want to see and verify.”

Willow sighed. You had to take Anya as you found her or not at all. Anya didn’t especially mean to be rude--she just was. As rain wasn’t intentionally wet. It just came that way.

“Nobody’s yet met the reserve on the Chaos Stone,” Anya mentioned. “But the bidding’s come within $ 10,000.”

“Better than last time,” Willow responded. “Maybe e-Bay’s not the best place.”

“To sell it, no. Of course not. But nothing like it to spread the word that a rare artifact like that is on offer. I’ve had much more interest from the major European dealers since the first time I put it up. And raised the price accordingly.”

“Oh? What are you asking now?”

“It’s at sixty thousand dollars at the moment. But that the bidding is even coming close makes me think it’s still underpriced. I don’t think I’ll let it go for less than a hundred thousand.”

Willow whistled silently. “Major moolah. Aren’t you worried about burglary?”

Anya shook her head--a brisk, tight little motion. Her hair at the moment was a burnished chestnut. Willow thought last week it had been champagne blonde, but it was easy to lose track. Generally, the dark colors were expressions of Anya’s confidence; the lighter colors were demands for attention, reassurance, brittle and hesitant.

Anya said, “I’ve given it to Olaf to guard. Few burglars can do a dimensional jump. And then, well, Olaf.” She spread her hands, indicating the matter was self-evident. Which maybe it was, since Olaf was a troll, about eight feet high and broad in proportion, and Anya’s ex.

Willow winced. “You sure that’s a good idea? I mean…Olaf.”

“Once I’ve had my vengence, it’s redundant to carry a grudge.”

“But are you sure that’s the way Olaf looks at it?” After all, Olaf hadn’t been a troll residing in another dimension until Anya had made him that way--the start of her career as a Vengeance Demon. “I mean, he wasn’t all that happy, the last time you saw him.”

“Oh, piffle. That doesn’t mean anything. And I’ve seen him since. Popped over for an afternoon. To make sure there were no hard feelings. Besides, Olaf gives excellent orgasms. He’s quite large, you know. If he’d just been content to confine himself to giving them to me, we never would have had any problem. Not that orgasms are everything, I don’t mean that. Pretty close, but not everything. After all, there’s also money. And in that department, Olaf leaves a lot to be desired. Zip,” Anya reported smugly, then followed with a sad headshake. “He never would save and has no concept of compound interest. To say nothing of high-yield bonds. However, that means I can pay him a pittance and have him think it’s a fortune. So it all comes right in the end.” Birdlike and sudden, Anya looked at Willow directly. “What are the components for: more smells?”

“I’ll need more of that soon, but no. Magical influence check-up. On Spike.”

“Good! Because I thought yesterday he didn’t look at all well. Allowing for his being dead, of course. Vampire, naturally. But beyond that.”

“Well, there’s that deathwish, of course: really takes it out of somebody, that does. You don’t just bounce back in a day, afterward.” Willow frowned, reflecting that shrugging off Anya’s remarks probably wasn’t wise: Anya saw a lot. Anya was the first to notice Spike’s soul, when nobody else had a clue. “Did you notice anything in particular?”

But it was too late: reacting to the dismissal, Anya had gone all stiff and huffy. “If there’s nothing else, I’m very busy, as I said.”

As Anya stood, Willow set a hand on her wrist. “Anya, I’m sorry. I always want to assume everything’s OK. But if it’s not, I need to know. And, after all, well…Spike,” she said, in the same tone as Anya had invoked the surly awfulness of Olaf. Calling up the whole gestalt of a person, and all their history and nuances of relationship.

Willow knew Anya had a soft spot for Spike, even if she did charge him an extra 10%.

Anya settled back, allowing herself to be mollified. “Of course he was tired, and radically overpeopled, and ready to punch out any interference with the smooth unfolding of the party, and twitchy toward Buffy and prickly to Giles, and blah, blah, blah. Just what you’d expect, of course. But…he seemed abstracted. Not completely there somehow. Like somebody with headphones, and you’re talking to them, and they’re not hearing you at all or barely because they’re actually listening to something completely different. Not music, because he likes music. Whatever he was hearing was something he didn’t like. And it’s not like Spike not to be present. Except when he’s drunk, of course. Which he wasn’t. Not last night. And it wasn’t like that, anyway. More like headphones, as I said.” Describing her impressions, Anya had been frowning, thoughtful. Concluding, she brightened, pleased to have chosen an apt analogy. Then her expression changed completely: closed, blank, secretive. She shot Willow a sly, assessing glance.

“We know,” Willow said quietly, uncapping her cup to get at the last of its contents. “About the soul. That he’s shut it away someplace.”

The tightness in Anya’s face relaxed. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell. This time.” She shrugged. “His business, after all. How has Buffy….”

“Under negotiations. Nobody’s happy. He claims it’s necessary.”

“Well, of course. Dealing with vamps, opposing the Powers, how’s he to do that tripping over a soul every two minutes? There’s a reason vamps don’t come equipped with souls, after all, just as there’s a reason vultures don’t have feathers on their necks. Why, they’d collect decay, all kinds of diseases, no good way to get them clean. Vultures, not vamps.”

Willow nodded to show she’d understood.

Turning thoughtful again, Anya remarked, “That’s not the problem, if there is a problem. I’ve known Spike soulless for years and years. That’s just normal. This was different…and possibly magical. I hadn’t considered that. You think of vampires as pretty impenetrable, magically speaking. But they’re not. Quite a lot of spells involve vampires…as part of the components. Because they’re intrinsically magical, I suppose. Their innate magic, just being what they are, generally sheds any outside magic that tries to affect them. So I don’t like the sound of that deathwish. Not at all. Somebody’s found the right angle, the right deflection to hit him. So it’s good you’re going to check him out. Get your components, Willow. This time, this once--it’s on the house.”

**********

Parking at the foot of the weedy, potholed drive, Buffy checked nervously that everything was straight and tucked in. Patted carefully at her hair. Then she lifted her chin and marched up toward the factory that wasn’t as abandoned as it looked. All the windows were blackened and the doors boarded over with plywood that would have looked suspiciously fresh if she hadn’t already known why it hadn’t yet had time to become weathered. Taking her best guess, she veered toward an annex, stomped up to the door and yanked it open, surprising what was almost certainly a vamp sitting at a desk, reading a magazine.

Confronting the woman, Buffy started tightly, “I’m coming in, and I don’t want--”

Rising, the woman had a definite oh, shit! expression. Turning only her head, the she-vamp elbowed open the inner door and shouted, “Emil! Get Spike. Now!”

From inside, a male voice replied, “He said--”

“Slayer’s here!”

Faintly, the voice responded, “Oh, shit.”

Well, that was one way to make an entrance. Buffy stomped past the sentry, through the door. She was looking at a vast dim open space, part of which was set up as a training area with weapons on the wall, pads on the concrete floor. Three vamps in motion there, turning to stare at her like cows watching a passing car. In the other direction, to her right, she saw the back of a big vamp disappearing through a gap in a barricade wall of dead machinery. Figuring that was probably the oh, shit! guy, she followed him, watching in all directions. Any vamp that so much as looked at her crosseyed, she’d put down, hard and fast.

Beyond the barricade, no problem figuring where to go. The whole space was bare, floor to high ceiling, with a bright, glassed-in cubicle freestanding in the middle. The big vamp was leaning in the doorway but he turned and backed off as Buffy approached. Buffy didn’t bother to notice where he went, intent on Spike, standing up behind a computer desk filled with things she didn’t understand.

“’Lo, love. Thought you weren’t coming up here.”

He looked really terrible, Buffy thought. Slow and awkward and used-up. He wasn’t looking exactly at her, only in her general direction--as though his eyes weren’t focusing but he hoped she wouldn’t notice. Which made her feel even more nervous, considering the favor she’d come to ask him.

He was pushing papers off an ugly pink molded plastic chair, to clear it for her. Then he changed his mind and started working at the strewn cushions of a Morris chair, pitching off a pizza box, some beer bottles that clanged on the cement. In the middle of that, he just ran down, bent with his forehead against the top of the back cushion.

“’M fine,” he insisted automatically, when she clasped him around the chest and laid her cheek against the back of his head. “Jus’ come over a bit dizzy, it’ll pass, always does.”

He sounded in the last fading stages of drunk, but she could tell he wasn’t: the smell was wrong. She asked him softly, “Didn’t you get any sleep at all?”

His shoulders hitched. “The odd minute, here and there. Couldn’t. Wasn’t time. An’ by then, might as well come back here, take a run at the translation. Nearly got a piece done. But noplace near caught up, noplace….”

Spotting a cot, she turned away from him to fling off trash until she’d uncovered a pillow and a threadbare blue blanket. She walked him over to it and made him lie down. Not hard, considering he was weaving and unsteady on his feet--in no shape to resist effectively. It took no more than a spread hand on his chest to keep him flat.

He pulled an arm up across his eyes: what he did when he was hiding. “Can’t do this, love. It’s all way behind.”

Buffy paid no attention. He was always cool to the touch. But his lifted arm, when she touched it, felt ice-cold. She pulled the blanket up, then knew that wouldn’t be much help: blankets only kept warmth in. They were no help in generating it in the first place. And from experience she knew cots tended to collapse when asked to support two.

She wanted to get him home. Get him into a really hot shower for awhile, then tumble him into bed. Get him to feed from her: what he needed. What he wouldn’t willingly do anymore. Put it in a cup, then. Not as good, but if he didn’t take it, it would be wasted. That was a lever she hadn’t used yet….

Except it was 3:30 in the afternoon on a bright, sunny day…and the SUV wasn’t sun-proofed and had no trunk.

While she considered, Buffy heard running feet. Straightening, turning, she found Kennedy leaning in at the door, wide-eyed and wary. Chosen, obviously, as the go-between, between a bunch of nervous vamps and the Slayer.

Buffy asked curtly, “Does this place have hot water?”

“For tea, yeah, or--”

“In quantity? Like a shower?”

The SIT shook her head quick, like a shudder. “No. No heater. Buffy, he’s OK. He said--”

“I don’t give a damn what he said. Is there….” Buffy paused, thinking some more. “You said tea. Is there any cocoa?”

“Yeah. Willow brought it, for housewarming.”

Buffy remembered saying to Willow, How come you know, when I don’t? And Willow had replied, with awkward gentleness, I ask. Or something along those lines.

Housewarming. Right.

“Fix some, then. Kennedy,” Buffy added, calling the SIT back. “I’m sure there’s something around by way of liquor. Bring that, too.”

“Not a good idea, pet,” Spike slurred, from the cot. “Don’t sit all that well with the pills. I try not to do ‘em both at the same time. Mostly.” Scraping the blanket aside, he pushed to sitting: leaned forward, forearms on thighs, hands loosely clasped, head bent. “’F I knew you were gonna come calling, I’d have straightened up the place. And myself. Sorry. What was it, you were looking for?”

Buffy dragged the ugly chair around, so they were sitting knee to knee. “I tried calling,” she mentioned. “Phone--”

“--was turned off. Yeah. Hard to skulk, pet, with this loud buzzing thing in your pocket. Rather spoils the mood.”

“And after skulking?” Buffy asked pointedly.

His shoulders sagged a little more. “Yeah. Forgot. Didn’t expect you. Said you wouldn’t set foot here. To train, or anything.”

“I lied.”

“Yeah, right.” That got a chuckle.

“I wanted--” Buffy changed her mind. “I want to ask a favor. Notice the hat in hand.”

He was enough out of it that he actually looked. “No hat.”

“Figurative hat.”

“Yeah. Got that now. So what could be so dire to make you fetch your figurative hat up to the Forbidden Fanged Menagerie, then?”

“If it’s something you can do on maybe four hours of sleep. Assuming you get started right away.”

Spike finally lifted his head and shut his eyes. “Get right started. ‘F I don’t die of the suspense. Name it.”

“You remember Principal Doty approved my self-defense class.”

Spike was quiet a moment. “Yeah. Recall you said that. Now that you remind me.”

“The first class is tonight. Eight o’ clock. In the gym. For an hour. Fourteen people have signed up. And I’m supposed to show them exercises when what I want to show them is how to dust vamps. I was OK, mostly, with the SITs. They knew what the score was. But what am I gonna do, facing Ms. Happy Homemaker, Chatty Cheerleader, Nora Nerd, and at least one guy, and babble about the benefits of regular exercise?”

Spike thought some more. “You’re not scared, are you, Slayer?”

“Frickin’ terrified. And I want you there so bad my teeth started aching. It will be fine, if you’re there. Everybody will be looking at you. Nobody looking at me. And we could show them a few simple throws, and make touching your toes look sexy, and nobody there will even know you’re a vamp, and please come, please. I know it’s an imposition, I’m taking advantage, but I don’t care. I can’t face it otherwise. Please.”

Still with his eyes shut, he opened up his hands, and she set hers in them. “Yeah. All right.”

“You don’t have to. I mean, if you just can’t. I can always--”

Buffy’s babbling cut off when Spike opened his eyes and she fell into them.

“You don’t get how it goes, pet. After three ‘pleases,’ you’re not allowed to argue me out of it again. I got your back. Even facing Chatty Cheerleader and her chums. Maybe I could roust out some SITs for the demos. Ken!”

“Yeah, Spike. Coming!” came the reply from out of the dim, big space. A moment later, Kennedy came hustling into view at a flat-footed glide, balancing a very full mug of cocoa. She watched the floor, coming from the door. Holding out the mug, she warned, “Careful. It’s hot, and it’s full.”

The transfer was made. Spike inhaled the steam with apparent rapture. “Ken, get hold of ‘Manda and Rona. What time’s it got to be?”

“You have a watch now, Spike,” responded the SIT, with a small, knowing smile.

“Tell me anyway. Not convenient to look.”

“If you mean, is ‘Manda home from school yet, the answer is probably. Post school, pre tribute delivery.”

“Right then. Get onto them, tell them the mark’s the school gym, eight o’clock. Doin’ demos for Buffy’s new class. Not optional.”

“Me too?”

“You too. New thing. Have to back her up. Lots of flourishes, so nobody notices when I fall down.”

“Ha! Got to see this!” The SIT ran out.

“You know what?” Buffy remarked thoughtfully, looking after her.

“No: what?”

“Sometimes, she’s almost human. I nearly liked her, there for a minute.”

“You can’t have her: you’re taken.”

Buffy felt herself blushing. “Not like that, you idiot!” She almost shoved him but remembered in time about the cocoa. Which, she realized, was already gone: Spike handed over the empty mug, then let himself tip back onto the pillow.

“You see Red and Bit get their suppers all right. You, too, of course. An’ I’ll have a bit of a kip here. Tell Mary, wake me up seven thirty, even if she has to use a cannon. Have a car ready. An’ we’ll all come together at the appointed place.”

Buffy didn’t ask how she’d know Mary from the other vamps. She’d work it out. Some things, she could manage just fine on her own. Just not the really scary ones not involving the supernatural.

When she took his lax hand, she thought it was a little warmer. Less chill. Better, anyway. And she decided she wasn’t gonna push the feeding issue now: he needed the sleep more. She sat, quietly holding his hand, until she was certain he was asleep, which didn’t take very long. Then she kissed him, let go, and steeled herself for the challenge of identifying Mary.

**********

Sitting beside Willow about midway up the otherwise empty indoor bleachers, Dawn leaned a little to grab popcorn from the bag and catch Willow’s explanation of shadenfreude: unholy glee at someone else’s misfortune.

“That’s not French?” Dawn whispered, trying not to spit popcorn. Willow was taking French.

“Nope. German. And universal.”

“Huh.” Trying to keep a straight face, Dawn thought a moment, swallowed the rest of the popcorn, then whispered, “It’s a very vamp concept.”

Willow nodded noncommittally: she was having a hard time keeping a straight face, too. Holding off the giggles by biting her lip and looking anyplace except where Buffy was doing a terrible job of cajoling a dozen or so assorted townies, most of them teenaged, female, and overweight, into doing jumping jacks. About every two minutes, Buffy would forget herself and go all sergeant major on them, single out some slacker and chew her out, as though they were SITs, to the conspicuous non-improvement of either morale or performance. One had already run off, red-faced and crying. Afterward Buffy tried to make it up to the rest with insincere compliments and perky wheedling that didn’t improve things either.

And that was only the newest misfortune.

To start off with, there’d been no lights on in the gym and everybody poking and groping around near the door trying to find the light switch. That was how Dawn had found them, arriving with Willow. When somebody at last located the lighting control panel, cleverly concealed in its shut box on the wall where no sensible person would ever look for it, much less recognize it when they found it, Dawn had winced aside with a protesting whisper of, “My eyes! My eyes!” because the attendees were revealed in all their ragbag day-glo glory. Outfits ranged from extreme denim through unremarkable baggy sweats to shorts and halter tops and, at the pinnacle of bad taste, bulging skin-tight lycra aerobic togs with what appeared to be thongs and bras worn on the outside, in a variety of vomit-inducing colors, all satin-finished and shiny.

Even Buffy had stared and gulped. Then she’d launched abruptly into her opening greeting speech, introducing herself, glaring steadily at the shut doors that led to the corridor as though she’d presently remove them by bodily attack and meanwhile declaring that personal fitness was the necessary first step to self defense, and Dawn had settled onto the bleacher seat with a happy sigh, feeling herself recompensed for every Friday night Slayer State of the First harangue she’d had to suffer through.

Because the attendees weren’t terrified SITs and didn’t have to be polite. Dawn thought a girl’s interrupting, “Can we just get to the sweating part?” was about the best.

The two guys present had plainly come to check out the chicks and couldn’t decide whether to stay in back, with the best view of the ample assets, or to move in front to put their own assets on display. So they wandered tidally, back to front, then back again, doing about five jumping jacks to every one the girls performed, so nobody could get into or maintain a rhythm.

Then the double doors whacked back and Spike and his entourage made their entrance, checking out everybody’s assets. Three flanked out to either side: the three SITs to the left, and Emil, Mary, and Mike on a mirroring diagonal to the right. All in the colors. All doing the slo-mo-looking power walk thing with just the hint of a catch and hang between strides, that really only vamps could do right but the SITs were making a respectable try at imitating, all of them in stride, anyway. And Spike, with controlled energy, grace, and arrogant amusement absolutely crackling off him like rug static, with a slight, speculative smile that was pure predator as he surveyed the attendees as if deciding which was first up on the menu, half a step in front of the others, duster swinging to his stride.

Gazing raptly, Dawn whispered, “I think the one in the puke green, with the outside underwear, is gonna have an aneurysm.”

Willow whispered back, “Redefines making an exhibition of yourself. Long time since I saw that. Not since the chip.”

“Never saw that,” Dawn replied. “Always knew he could if he wanted to, though. Just never wanted to, I guess, when I could see him. So that’s the Big Bad.”

Then they concluded together, “Pills,” and Willow added, “Lots and lots of pills. Hate to think of the crash.”

“Worth it,” Dawn decided. “At least, he won’t get a heart attack.”

Perversely she was a little peeved that Mike paid her not the least attention. Sure, she was still furiousfuckingmad at him for taking pot-shots at Spike as a rough vamp prank, and sure, she still wasn’t speaking to him. That didn’t alter her disappointed surprise at being ignored altogether when she positively knew he’d have recognized her smell right away. The gentlemanly thing would have been to show her some sign so she could loftily ignore him.

Then she froze because Spike noticed her. The blazing blue eyes locked a second and a nod acknowledged her. And because Spike had looked, everybody else looked, all the eyes on Dawn, and to her chagrin, she Eeped, swallowed hard, and tried to hide behind Willow.

She hoped Spike hadn’t seen, because he’d halted before Buffy, who had her arms folded and was glaring up at him the way she’d glared at the shut doors.

“You’re late,” Buffy accused.

“Oh, are we? Thought we were right on time.” Gazing around again, he said, “Introduce me to these fine folk, pet.”

Caught flat-footed, Buffy dove for a sheet of printout and began reading names. Spike went and greeted each one as he detected a reaction to the name. But it looked as though hearing the name, he knew at once who it belonged to by some magic of recognition. He took and clasped their hands, even the guys (who were welcome to consider it a handshake if they liked, although Spike did them all exactly the same), then paced back to Buffy, waiting for her to do the honors.

Buffy said, “Everybody, this…is my boyfriend: William.”

Willow made a fizzing noise, choked off almost instantly. And Kennedy twitched.

“Well, thank you Elizabeth Anne, for inviting us,” Spike drawled, lingering over the name. “What’s the first order of the evening? Warm-ups, or go right to the attacks?” He rubbed his hands together briskly, a gesture of anticipation.

Dawn confronted the awful prospect that Spike was gonna do something. In a fey mood with the brakes off and the clutch released, he had a fairly gruesome sense of what was funny. His own personal version of schadenfreude, except he got to cause the misfortune, not just gloat from the sidelines.

Apparently Buffy had the same misgivings because she went up on her toes to whisper something fierce directly into his ear. Spike spread both hands slightly, protesting innocence of any such dire intent. There was a moment of locked glances: Buffy tense and mistrustful, Spike all happy affability. Except for the second his eyes flashed gold, which none of the Desperate Dozen plus behind him could see.

Sort of like a wink, Dawn decided. Except one just short of showing fangs.

First order of the evening was, predictably, exercise. More jumping jacks, the vamps and SITs just like clockwork so the whole of the group actually managed to achieve something like a unanimous rhythm in imitation. Except a pair in the back: standing leaned forward, gaping in forlorn adoration at Spike, who’d lit a cigarette over Buffy’s hissed protests, showing her his boot soles in turn and clearly making the point that the gym-shoes-only rule wasn’t one he was honoring either so why all the fuss about a sodding smoke? (Dawn made out the final phrase by lip-reading.) But he was only being provoking because the next minute, he’d pitched the smoke and stepped on it, then made a bee-line to the yearning pair in back, taking them by the shoulders and walking them away, chatting them up, then giving them private instruction in how jumping jacks were properly done, the three of them off everybody else’s pace, but in gradual synch with each other because Spike patiently kept to a slower rhythm they could match. And they would obviously rather have died now than give up or stop and thereby cease to be the focus of his attention.

Dawn sniped to Willow, “And he claims he can’t do thrall. He’s just mocking them. Making them look even sillier.”

Willow leaned close. “The one on the left. In the stupid pink print. Remind you of anybody?”

Dawn looked, but it was just a chubby, badly-dressed girl, maybe sixteen, in droopy sweats: dark hair flopping as she panted open-mouthed, flinging her arms wildly up and down as she jumped with her feet apart, then together, eyes riveted on Spike. “I don’t--” she began, and then saw it and said softly, “Oh.” Because if the girl were a SIT, she’d have been Kim. And what Dawn had taken for mockery was therefore a kind of wistful courtesy, and sincere. There was more to Spike than snark. She should have known better.

Dawn deducted points from herself because Willow had seen it--the resemblance and what it meant--and she hadn’t.

Dawn asked, “How’s his aura?” In response, Willow’s eyes went unfocused and distant.

“About what you’d expect,” Willow reported calmly, after a minute or two. “Ginormous and blazing white. Putting out energy like a blast furnace.”

“Oh.” Dawn had never been able to make herself see an aura but could imagine them, from Willow’s descriptions, just fine. “So--no sign of magical tampering?”

Willow shook her head, but it wasn’t No. “Can’t make out anything through that. No use trying until he settles. A lot.”

They’d gone to the factory in Willow’s second-hand chugging green Fiat, seen the parked SUV, and met Buffy partway up the drive. Buffy had listened to their concerns but forbade their waking Spike for anything short of actual apocalypse, and they’d trailed the SUV obediently home. But over supper, Buffy had explained about the class, and asking Spike to come, so Dawn and Willow had decided to tag along and do the testing afterward. Willow still had the spell components in her bag. The one that didn’t contain popcorn.

After the jumping jacks there were toe touches: first straight down, then fingers to opposite feet, each arm reaching high, then down, in turn. At that point, Buffy decreed everybody sufficiently warm and waved Spike in to enact a mugging scenario. He left the two thoroughly enthralled girls with a small bow and a twinkle, then came sauntering across the floor, shedding his duster and collecting it in a bundle. Bypassing Buffy, he stepped up the tiers of bleachers, six rows in two steps, and held the duster out to Dawn.

“Keep this for me, will you, Bit? Don’t trust one of those yobs not to nick it when I’m not looking, except it’s guarded.”

“Sure, Spike,” Dawn gulped, uncomfortable again to have everybody looking at her. As she gathered the bunched duster into her lap, Spike drew a knuckle down her cheek.

He murmured, “Missed you, Bit.”

“Missed you too, Spike.”

“Red, you havin’ a good time?”

“So far,” Willow agreed. “Want to talk to you awhile, after.”

“That’s all right, then. Ta.”

He wide-stepped back down the tiers of seats, landing on the floor with a bounce. He was in the full mall regalia: the black shiny kidskin pants, studded belt, broad studded watchband, skin-tight black T and scarlet button-down loose over it, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. At a distance, with the duster over it all, Dawn hadn’t been sure. On his left forearm she could see part of the spiraling green tattoo he'd gotten for her: a line of poetry that meant "Dawn."

“So,” he said, and got the first syllable of Slayer out before he caught himself and corrected to, “Elizabeth. Who’s to be the mugger, and who’s the muggee?” Another brisk rubbing of palms.

“I’ll mug you, the poor helpless creature that doesn’t know how to defend himself,” Buffy declared in a tone that suggested she thought he was having entirely too much fun.

Apparently Spike took mugging literally because he made dire faces of fear and dismay when, strolling peaceably, he was accosted by the short pony-tailed blond in white halter top and satin-finished, slinky black slacks and moderate heels, who blocked his way demanding his money or his life. When he attempted to hit her, a slow, telegraphed blow that a crippled grandma would have had no trouble dodging, she grabbed his wrist and flung him over her back. The gym wasn’t padded. Sprawled on the floor, Spike made a horrible fuss, declaring himself ruined for life, refusing to budge until Buffy consented to come give him a hand. Grimacing, she did, and he allowed himself to be pulled up. Dawn had suspected he’d throw Buffy in turn but he didn’t, standing clear and working his shoulders, gentling and bending his back, checking for plainly non-existent damage.

When the giggling and laughter from the audience finally died down, Spike said hopefully, “My turn to be the mugger, pet?”

There was an exchange of suspicious and blandly innocent gazes. Then Buffy said, “Oh, all right. Your turn.”

Buffy became the incautious pedestrian, whistling and kicking away imaginary stones until confronted by the Big Bad, jumping into her way with a loud thud of boots. For the sake of variety, Spike demanded her virtue and proceeded to try to steal a kiss, breaking off in the middle and ignoring Buffy’s feebly slapping hands to explain to the audience, “Kiss mugger. Run into ‘em all the time, where I come from.” Then he reacted as one of Buffy’s hands apparently did something much less feeble. He stood on the toes of her shoes with the toes of his boots and she couldn’t get him off. She smacked him, hands and then elbows, and he smacked her back, leaning in to plant quick, chaste kisses on whatever part of her face he could get at, in between swats. Then she gave him a good one and he went into a back handspring and onto his feet again, pointing to the laughing audience and warning, “Stunt being performed by professional molesters. Do not try this at home.” When charging Buffy spun into a roundhouse kick at his chest, he wasn’t there, clapping and exclaiming, “Oi, good one! That would’ve hurt!”

Then they got into it, at speed. Almost too fast to see. Dawn had seen them spar a few times, and this wasn’t it. This was something else. Every time she caught sight of Spike’s face, he was grinning, generally with his tongue showing. Every time she could see Buffy’s face, it was grim and intent. Most of the time, neither was actually touching the floor.

After a few minutes, Spike called, “These are the paying customers, love: let ‘em see the moves.”

Pausing, Buffy shook her head hard, shaking off the fighting trance, or whatever it’d been. And they began the slo-mo sparring--every blow prolonged, every kick impossibly slow, barely poised on the toe of the other foot; every fall a gymnastic demonstration of how long it could take to actually touch the floor and then fold into a flip or extend into a handstand or cartwheel.

The audience had started in laughter, then fallen silent when things went fast and scary. When Spike consented to take a tumble, every individual joint striking the floor separately, ending in the same unlikely, artistic sprawl as before, the civilians erupted in applause as Buffy scuffed over and assisted him back to his feet, consenting finally to smile and let him drape a casual arm across her shoulders.

Making a winding gesture overhead with his left hand, Spike called, “By pairs. My lot, find yourself a partner, simple wrist throws. You don’t throw them, they throw you. Warn you: this floor is fu-- very hard. Not like that fine, bouncy concrete you’re used to. All right, have at it. Ten minutes.” Then he stabbed a finger at each of the two guys, who eyed each other and him nervously. Disengaging from Buffy, Spike said to them, “Come on, nobody’s gonna hurt you here. Fine strong blokes like yourselves, no mugger in his right mind would come at you, right? So a little practice footwork here. See if you can put me down. All good sport.”

Then he proceeded to trip them, over and over, no matter what they did or tried to do. He’d hook a knee or an ankle, from the front, behind, or either side, and dump them again. “Soccer moves,” he explained, and dumped them some more with sudden sweep kicks and scissors clamps, balanced on the palm of one hand, his body parallel to the floor. The few attendees not practicing throws with a vamp or SIT partner were watching and giggling.

When Spike felt he’d frustrated los guys sufficiently, he stopped and started showing them moves. How to hook a heel. How to go after the rear foot, the balance foot unless your opponent was really stupid, and push it aside so the body couldn’t help but fall, losing that key support. The beginnings, Dawn recognized, of the fine and subtle art of stance.

She’d seen him drilling the SITs on that.

When Buffy ended the first round of practice by observing each pair and making suggestions, corrections, and adjustments, Spike still instructing in stance by the far wall, was when the vamps burst in.

**********

Immediately Dawn’s taser was in her hand and she was thinking how to get it to somebody who could do more damage with it than she could. Because, no stakes. No weapons of any kind.

But before she could come up with any sort of plan, she heard Spike call, “Here!” and “Bit--Lights!”

And Dawn knew where the lighting box was: directly in front of her, at the other end of the gym. Since the lights were on, that must mean Spike wanted them off. She didn’t try to work out the sense, just sprang to her feet and started running, paying no attention to anything except her footing on the narrow boards. Not even when they reverberated and bounced, warning of someone in pursuit. She’d visualized it in her mind: the instant she reached the wall, she banged the box open and started pushing the switches (or breakers or whatever they were called) efficiently with the side of her hand, clicking them down by rows. The next second, the gym was pitch black.

But not to vamps.

The boards were still bouncing under her. Visualizing the structure of the bleachers, she dropped flat and slipped through the space between rows, wriggled around until she was swinging by her hands, then let herself fall. She had the distance pretty much right: she landed prepared and started retreating, one arm sweeping behind her and the taser in front, intending to put her back against a wall or better, in a corner, to limit the ways a vamp could come at her. But the back of her head banging into a riser told her she’d turned in the drop or the landing and was in fact backing toward the small end of the wedge, the lowest tiers, not toward the wall. Discarding Plan A, she went to Plan B: curl up small and put a good shock into the first touch she felt.

“Dawn,” said a voice right beside her, and she jabbed reflexively. Didn’t make contact, which probably was just as well, because it was Mike. He’d seen the strike coming and dodged.

She blindly offered the taser on a palm. “Here.”

She felt a brief touch on her palm, but the taser wasn’t collected. “Just watching out for you,” Mike murmured. “Wasn’t but six of ‘em. Two, maybe, left. Nothing we can’t handle. You just sit tight. Better, come around behind me.” A hand closed over her arm and guided her, duck-walking, then let go. “I can’t get into a tiny little space like that, like you can. But somebody could reach through, grab.” Something in his voice told her the words were pushed through fangs. Game-faced: a no-brainer, really, in the dark. They all would have shifted aspect immediately, to see.

There’d been a lot of confused, frightened yelling, at first. Now it was so quiet that Dawn caught the distinctive crackle/hiss of a vamp dusting. A moment later, it was repeated.

“Spike,” Mike whispered, “he’s got his garrote. All tidy. Nothing left to see. That the light box, up there on the wall?”

“Yeah,” Dawn whispered back. “But you can’t slide through the risers. Boost me through.”

Although she waited, crouched with her hands gripping the inside of the long bench seat, Mike made no move to touch her until somebody gave a very high-pitched whistle. Then he helped her align herself horizontally and skinny through the gap. She swung her feet around, stood, and groped forward until she found the wall. Patting until she found the lighting box, she reversed all the switches: bang, bang, bang. All the lights were restored.

Blinking in the sudden stark brilliance, Dawn looked at once for Spike and Buffy and found them: Buffy with the SITs in a semicircle, the civilians herded into the corner behind them--relaxing now, breaking the protective formation--and Spike walking toward Buffy at a deliberate pace across the open floor, stowing something away in a pocket. Mary and Emil together near the doors, talking together idly as though nothing at all had happened. Mike appearing from between two assemblages of bleachers and converging with Spike, merely waiting but claiming pride of place at Spike’s right hand as Buffy and Spike exchanged a few words. Nothing but human faces showing now, of course.

The finesse of particular position was also claimable by Willow: still sitting calmly exactly where she’d been, munching popcorn, quite untroubled. Which brought home to Dawn that Willow was now a powerful enough witch that not even a vamp attack constituted a particular threat.

Willow’s taking no action also implicitly stated her confidence in the people on the floor to handle it without her intervention, which struck Dawn as a hair optimistic. But the determining factor was that not a single sign of the intruding vamps remained. All tidy, as Mike had remarked.

Laughing unconvincingly, Buffy was offering the explanation that it was a stupid pre-Halloween prank staged by a few students in masks, trying to frighten them by turning the lights out. Then she offered the more paranoid explanation that certain unspecified persons didn’t want this new class to succeed, and she hoped she’d see them all back on Thursday.

On that note, the attendees grabbed jackets and left, chatting, nobody seeming much alarmed. The two guys at the rear were trying to trip each other up as the doors closed behind them.

Everybody that remained drifted together, most perching on the first and second rows of bleachers--some with legs dangling, some with feet on the bench below and knees tucked up tight. The atmosphere changed, now that the ignorant civilians were gone.

“Well,” said Buffy, leaning wearily back, “to what do we owe that little visitation?”

“Parked cars,” commented Spike, dropping crosslegged onto the floor and lighting a cigarette--this time without anybody objecting. “Lot’s generally empty this time of night. Bunch of cars, and then the building standing open, unlocked. So a few vamps figured they’d come up lucky--meeting or something. Big empty building. Easy feed.” Putting his lighter away, he added, “Not 100% certain but best guess.”

“Not aimed at you,” Buffy interpreted, still half a question.

“Don’t think so, no. Just the usual Sunnydale nightlife on the hunt. Feed and get gone before midnight, before the sweep. Their bad luck that they run into us. Most of them fledges. Hardly a shred of a brain among ‘em. No.”

“Just a fluke,” said Buffy.

“Yeah. I think so,” Spike responded, and Buffy nodded, accepting it.

“Then put it to the test,” she proposed. “Come back Thursday for the next class.”

Spike sighed, hung his head, and didn’t answer. The fight in the dark seemed to have used up all the manic energy and exuberance. Pills wearing off, Dawn thought: exhaustion washing back in fast. Sliding toward an awesome crash.

“Tell you what,” Buffy said. “I’ll offer you a swap. You help me with the class and you can have all the training gear from the Magic Box, that you wanted.” When there was again no response, Buffy added, “And I’ll come train there. And help train your people. Run them through the drills. We trained the SITs to dust vamps, kill demons, stay alive. As best I can see, that’s what your sweeps are about. No difference. So I’ll help. If you want.”

From the way Buffy’s offer slowed and backed, she was puzzled and disappointed by the lack of rah rah reaction at the concessions she was prepared to make for a repeat of the Buffy-and-Spike show.

Dawn remarked, “I don’t think there’s much rah rah left, Buffy. The show and the fight burned it all off. He’s crashing now.”

“Oh.”

“Not a real great time for negotiations. Or linear thought. You got all there was.”

“Oh,” Buffy said again blankly.

Willow came stepping down the rows, clasping the bag and Spike’s duster. Declining Dawn’s silent offer to take something, she continued down to the floor and knelt by Spike. She said to him, “Don’t want to do anything unwanted or high-handed, here. There’s a little test I’d like to run. Is that OK?”

Spike was concentrating on stubbing out the cigarette against his boot sole. “Cold,” was his blurred response. He wrapped his arms around himself.

“All right,” Willow muttered, “not a great time for informed consent, either. Spike.” She waited until she got some minimal reaction. “Want to rest?”

“Oh, yes, please.” The voice didn’t sound like Spike at all. Startling. Creepy. As if he was channeling Giles.

Placing a hand on his forehead, Willow said, “Sie schlafen,” and Spike toppled over with the duster as a pillow. “Don’t know why German’s best for boring someone senseless, but there it is. One of the lesser mysteries.” Willow looked up at Buffy. “I think it’s time for everybody to go home.”

The SITs left without fuss; the vamps, not so much, until Mike dismissed them. Arms calmly folded, Mike then made wordlessly plain he was staying unless somebody wanted to dispute it with him and probably after, too. Considering Mike’s size, that would have been a major dispute.

“It’s OK,” Dawn told Willow. “Spike wouldn’t mind.” From Willow’s dubious glance and Buffy’s completely ignoring him, Dawn was startled to realize neither of them had the vaguest idea of who Mike was, except another vamp in the colors. He just didn’t register with either of them as a person. Whereas to Dawn, he was completely, unmistakably himself--just as Spike was. Or Mary. Or Huey. Or the little odd guy with all the piercings, whose name she hadn’t been told.

Sue, they might have recognized, she thought…for a minute at least, before the mind-blinds came down.

Mike commented, “Not hunting no trouble. Know he’s safe with you.”

Nobody but Dawn took any notice whatever. She was embarrassed for them and lifted her eyes to his in mute apology.

He came and sat beside her on the bottom bench. Looking straight ahead, he asked, “You talking to me again? Don’t care whether or no. Just want to know where I stand, what I’m s’posed to do.”

“I trusted you with my taser, didn’t I?” Dawn responded crossly.

“Don’t know what that means and didn’t take it anyway.”

“Means I trust you. Doesn’t mean I like you much, but I guess I trust you. So I suppose I’m talking to you, anytime it would be real dumb not to. Like in the middle of a fight.”

“Not in a fight now,” Mike pointed out. “Still talking, sounds like to me.”

Dawn ignored him. But in a personal, specific sort of way. Quite different from what Buffy did.

Mike was breathing. Ostentatiously. Smelling, actually. Back when they were still talking, he’d ride miles just to smell her. Bask in it, claiming no more was needed to be perfectly content. And how fucking freakazoid was that?

Dawn ignored him harder.

While the non-conversation and the non-breathing had been going on, Willow had been earnestly explaining to Buffy about Digger’s sparkly powder and the influence test. Buffy looked appropriately frowny and concerned. She’d settled on the floor, holding Spike’s hand and absently playing with his fingers.

“I’d ask him,” Willow went on, “but now he won’t be awake for at least a day, and he’s turned real hard to catch up with or get hold of.”

“Yeah. I’ve noticed,” Buffy commented dryly. “Really, really noticed.”

“And it’s already been two days. So I don’t think it’s a good idea to wait. I’d do it on your OK. On a scale of risky, it’s about a minus three. Not even the juice of a locator spell. Still kind of nosy, though, so consent is required. Somebody’s. Not really apt to ask Angel. Nor Dru, may she already be dust. So that leaves you.”

Immediate family. Next of kin.

“Yeah,” Buffy responded, very softly. Then she looked around. “Dawnie, you have any problem with it?”

Dawn colored, surprised and uber-pleased to be consulted. “My idea in the first place.”

“Then fire away,” said Buffy. “We seem to have a quorum.” Fondly, she ruffled Spike’s hair, adding, “One abstaining.”

Nobody consulted Mike. As was right. Mike had no say. He didn’t seem to mind, just watching placidly. And breathing, of course.

Willow laid out the spell components with her usual meticulous fussiness. Most, ground to powder, she poured out of a zip bag into a small stone bowl with indecipherable symbols carved around the outside. Adding a thick, glurping liquid from a squeeze bottle, Willow stirred the mixture vigorously with the point-end of a feather. Then she dipped the feather end, using it to dab the runny paste onto Spike’s wrists and throat.

“Pulse points?” Dawn asked.

Willow shrugged. “Like I’ve said before, there’s almost no magic designed for vamps. And mostly it doesn’t work. This may not, either. I’ve made what adaptations on the fly I could. So I may get a false negative. But I don’t think there’s any chance whatever of a false positive.” She dabbed Spike’s forehead and, with a soft “S’cuse me, Spike,” opened the scarlet overshirt and pulled up the black T to add a final splotch over his heart. Setting the soppy feather back in the bowl, Willow looked up. “It’s not required for the spell, but there’s always extra mojo for any sort of Earth magic in threes. So maybe if we held hands…?”

Buffy offered her hands, but Dawn didn’t, her fingers knotting together. “What…if one of the three isn’t…precisely human?”

“Oh, right: the scary blood magic, that went all wildfire. Good catch, Dawnie. I’d almost forgotten that. Better not, then.” Holding spread fingers over Spike’s forehead and heart, not quite touching, Willow began muttering. Once, she winced, commented, “Later,” and went on.

Spike greyed out. A foggy haze rose slowly from him and enclosed him. It gradually turned black and opaque. It tried to climb up Willow’s arms but she shooed it off with a couple of snapped words. As if angered, it curdled--thick, heavy, and roiling--then dissipated with a sudden flash and pop.

Willow pulled her arms in, rubbing them as if she’d been stung.

Buffy started patting Spike all over--reflexively checking for damage. “I think I speak for us all when I say ‘What in hell?’”

Wringing her hands, Willow commented, “No false positive there, no siree!”

“What is it?” Dawn asked anxiously.

“No clue, except it obviously wasn’t intended for his well-being. The next step is an intimate tête à tête with our skanky but stylish rat witch, Amy Madison.”

Chapter 3: Contacts

“So they didn’t get him?” Digger asked, looking up from lighting his pipe.

Mike shook his head.

“Incompetent fuckers!”

“Fledges.” Mike shrugged, emptied his glass, and set it back on the table. Wasn’t a hint: he knew Digger would refill it when the old vamp poured another for himself.

Digger wasn’t obvious about such things.

Digger could outdrink him and would send him home incapable, with an escort, as often as Mike was willing to accept Digger’s calculated hospitality. Which he did, two or three times a week. Unless he passed out, of course, and by default accepted the further hospitality of one of Digger’s many beds. With Digger for company. Sometimes Star, too.

Mike added, “If they’d held off another ten minutes, would’ve been a different story: would’ve found him passed out cold on the floor and nothing between them and the food but the Slayer.”

Digger chuckled, puffing smoke. “Drunk, was he?”

“No. Just trying to push himself past what he could do. Slayer calls ‘frog,’ he’ll hop or bust himself trying. He loses that patronage, it all comes down. So I’m running the sweep tonight. His people and a couple of mine, test ‘em out. He’d expect that.”

That was one of the reasons Mike had swung by Digger’s lair--to tell him that before the fact instead of learning about it later, as he surely would. Digger would rather the sweep be abandoned on account of Spike not being able to stretch himself that far. Have that part of the new ways falling down when it was barely begun.

“That’s right, boy,” Digger surprised him by saying, refilling both glasses. “Get him to depend on you, then pick a good time and let it come down smash.”

“I expect.”

“Get him to hunt with you. Nothing makes a couple of vamps easy with one another like sharing a kill. Except maybe sharing a bed!”

“Leave off,” Mike said without heat, batting away Digger’s hand. “Not goin’ out there stinking of you, you putrid old coyote.” He sipped his drink, shut his eyes while it went down. “I’ve asked. He’s never taken me up on it. Always ‘Some other time.’”

“Thinks he’s too good for you.”

Mike opened his eyes, gave Digger a stare. “He is too good for me. Gave me a district, named me his get and his ‘Favored Childe’ in front of God and everybody. Told you, not gonna cross him, Digger, till I got my own patch locked down tight, till I can last out the disruption on my own. Hold onto what I got.”

“You know I’d see you through any bad times. Like I always done.”

Mike looked lazily around the big earth-walled room and its rickety, mostly hand-made furnishings. “Yeah, you and your four soldiers, dozen minions, half dozen raw fledges. That’d be such a help.”

“Building back, boy: building back. Sometimes you win, sometimes the bear wins. Ain’t forgot who sided, last time, with the bear.”

Mike shrugged. “Wasn’t hard to see who was gonna come out on top. Real dumb, Digger, yanking that child for a pax bond, no dickering or agreement beforehand, when she’s his particular pet.”

“Child? Pet? He’d marked her!”

“Doesn’t signify, except to get him mad. Mad, he’s worse than a bear: come through a wall, come through fire to get at you, and you didn’t have anything like the troops there to even slow him down. You’re damn lucky I could talk him out of leaving you in an ashtray. And look what it got me in return. A territory and a name: Michael of Aurelius. You played it dumb, Digger. I played it smart.”

“Sure, sure, he gives you things. Gives you the chance to face off against those damn Turok-han, may they all rot forever in whatever hell they gone back to. Gave you a beat-up old motor-whatsis--"

“Motorcycle, and she runs fine, and I ride while he walks.”

“Don’t care if he goddam crawls, and won’t that be fine to see,” said Digger with a wolfish smile, and took a drink. Then he scowled again. “Named you to a territory, gave you a name you don’t rightly own, and don’t think I don’t know what a load of horse shit that is ‘cause he ain’t never sired nobody except those few when he was drunk or something, and then turned around and hunted all of ‘em down again. Too fucking nice to raise up food as an equal or see to a fledge like it should be done, raise ‘em up right!”

Mike spat on the floor. It was an old rant. He’d heard it lots of times. Didn’t interest him. He wasn’t yet old enough to interrupt a kill, rein in his demon to that extent. No felt pleasure in stopping, feeding himself back to near-dead prey. He accepted that it happened but couldn’t understand, with true body understanding, why a vamp would bother or want to, except for expediency, extra hands for the work or the fighting.

Digger went on, “Gives you all manner of toys and gimcracks: everything except the only one that matters: himself!”

“I’ve had his blood,” Mike mentioned mildly. He didn’t add that Spike had also had his because except for Dawn’s blood mixed in, that wouldn’t work. And now that Dawn bore no living vamp’s mark, she likely wouldn’t let Mike feed from her anymore, to mark her fresh. He’d lost that claim, that connection. It was a sadness to him. And a confusion.

“You had that, and more, from me,” Digger shot back, his lined, froggy face somewhere between a scowl and a pout.

Mike held up his glass. “And very fine it was, too.”

Digger slapped the glass out of his hand. Mike shoved out of his chair, out of reach, pointing, declaring, “Told you, ain’t gonna carry your stink on me all night. Stink up Star, if you’re that desperate. Told you: not gonna lose that patronage.”

“While it lasts.”

“Yeah: while it lasts. And your little schemes around the edges ain’t gonna affect things one way or the other, you pitiful old fart.”

Digger smiled like a shark. Like he knew something Mike didn't. “You’d best be gone then if you’re gonna manage that sweep.”

“Plenty of time. Got the bike,” said Mike, and headed out through the tunnel handiest to where he’d left it.

He never asked Digger directly about his schemes. Just stay skeptical, keep assuming none of it could amount to anything, and eventually Digger would start bragging to prove him wrong. Mike only hoped that it would be ahead of time, to give him a chance to decide what to do about it. Decide what he wanted to do about it.

Digger’s lair was an extensive warren running miles, in three dimensions. Mostly under some tract housing but also back into the hills that were Sunnydale’s southern boundary, the founding site. Digger had been excavating and extending the passages, shoring them up with timber, for well over a century. Originally a silver mine, by Digger’s account. Now long forgotten and appearing on no maps except in the minds of those who’d learned their ways. Nobody knew all their ways except Digger himself. No finer interlace of caverns, shafts, and reinforced passages in town except those that had radiated from the hub of the Hellmouth. And they were now mostly collapsed and dead-ended.

So in one way of thinking, Digger had the finest territory to be had: made by and for vampires, with long sheer drops and climbs no human could negotiate without dragging in a whole lot of gear; tunnels near the central chambers that could be collapsed with an inhumanly strong tug on a rope; multiple exits where no sunlight could intrude. No invasion or pursuit would ever find Digger in this maze, or corner him in it.

No electricity. Just the occasional lantern or candle. No heat. Never warm here. Nothing clean or wholly dry. No books or television or music, which anyplace Spike settled into for even a day had to have for him to consider it minimally habitable. And now the computer, up at the factory, that Spike was half blind from, most days, staring at, and the continual headaches Spike still refused to connect or blame on it. Working for pay. Not even tangible money but numbers on a screen. Theoretical money. From the Watchers Council that was behind the Slayer--the ultimate and absolute enemy of all vampires. Not hunting anymore. Instead, having dead, cold blood delivered twice a day and joylessly feeding--again, from the Council. Pacing the same dull round like a tiger at the zoo.

Though Mike found it disturbing, he understood it well enough: it was the price of Spike’s partnership with the Slayer: there was nothing Spike wouldn’t do to preserve that. And old though he was, Spike had a hankering for the new things. Anything that kept the boredom at bay.

Spike took real and obvious satisfaction in being a vampire. But he still wanted what he wanted, even when those things were incompatible with the needs and limits of being a vamp. Wanted Buffy, wanted to fuck her and fight her, feed on her and mark her (which was all fine) but also wanted her content with it. Trying to give, when all that was natural for a vamp was to take, use up, move on. Not try to stay, keep…. Wanted Dawn, but only her company: hoarding that jealously, but taking nothing else of her nor allowing anybody else to have it neither. Wanted Willow’s friendship and the support of her power but didn’t turn her, which would have given him control, and her obedience, besides. Instead, he left her free to turn on him anytime she took the notion.

Mike didn’t think that would go well for him in the end.

It was, he’d come to think, as if Spike wanted the sun. Digger was content with the dark and would likely be mooching around this old dirty warren long after the rest of them were dust, with their alien dreams and hungers.

Mike wasn’t sure what he wanted but he was prepared to wait and find out.

He lifted his head, catching a smell. Different, but he still knew it. He said favorlessly, “Hi, Sue.”

The fledge came out of a cross-passage. She was dirty, muddy, wiping broken-nailed hands on her hips. “Look,” she said, “you know where I can get a shower? A bath? Anything?”

“Shoring up passages is dirty work,” Mike commented neutrally.

“I’m so sick of being dirty! Do you have a shower at your place?”

Well, that wasn’t subtle. “You allowed out?” Mike asked, knowing she wasn’t.

Mike knew Digger’s rules, having been a fledge here himself. Taken in for his broad back and his willingness to accept orders, but given a place to be, something reliable in all the confusion after he’d risen, alone and terrified and deep in his demon’s bloodthirst, as most fledges did. He still owed Digger for that.

Sue twisted a bare foot in the dirt. “I could if I was under you. Instead of Digger.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Spike!” Sue spat venomously.

“Not just that. Wouldn’t have taken you on anyway. Got too much to do, working up a new territory, to bother about a fledge.”

Her game face was uglier than most. He didn’t tell her so. Only make her feel worse, she couldn’t help it. And she might flash out at him, and he didn’t have the time or the inclination to hammer her down the way pushy, uncontrolled fledges needed.

Mike continued down the passage. Sue trailed along like an importunate pup. Mike said, “You’re lucky to have any place at all. Get used to it. Get to where you can shed game face ten minutes at a time, Digger will let you go out. Still lots of abandoned houses: likely you could find one with a shower.” Reluctantly, not sure it was a good idea, he added, “There’s water at Casa Mike. You could use that, if you want. No matter to me, I don’t lair up there anymore.”

She looked up with human features and a sad/angry expression. “Can’t. Spike told me I couldn’t go within five blocks of Casa Summers.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Ten minutes--that’s what Spike said.”

“The usual thing. You’d best get back to your work crew before you’re missed. And punished.”

With a harsh laugh, she dragged up a sleeve, displaying bruises. “Yeah, punished,” she said scornfully.

She considered a few bruises as punishment. Well, no point telling her. She’d find out.

Sue complained, “I’m supposed to be a spy. But nobody’s contacted me! Unless…. Are you my contact?”

Mike belted her then, knocked her back into the wall. She rebounded, fell onto her knees. Mike said sternly, “Don’t know what arrangement you got going with Spike. Don’t want to know. And if you had an ounce of brains, you wouldn’t talk about it--ever. Don’t you know how far vamps can hear? Idiot.”

Slowly standing, again game-faced, sullen, she said, “How am I supposed…to do that when nobody tells me anything?”

“You figure anybody’s gonna trust you with a secret? When you blab out whatever comes into your head? You listen. Watch. Figure out until you can make some sense of what’s going on.” Like I do, he added, in his mind. “Then, maybe, you’ll be worth something. Long as you’re bleating, you’re not listening. Now get back to where you’re s’posed to be.”

He gave her a shove and continued on, to get to where the bike was parked, thinking maybe when she’d developed decent control, he’d take her out: to the Bronze, and then hunting.

She’d never been his favorite among the SITs--that was Amanda--but things were different now, and being around somebody known and familiar had its appeal. Somebody he could actually talk to, be at ease with. Missed that, since Dawn had pulled away, shut him out. Might not be bad. A change, anyway.

**********

Buffy had known it was a risk to put Spike in her own bed to have out his forced sleep. Last Sunday, after a similar long sleep, he’d come awake and then gone totally berserk, rendering Willow’s bedroom down to flinders and scraps. Willow was still grumbling, even though all the furniture had been Buffy’s.

But in the gym, she’d seen what she wanted: what she’d been frustrated, lonely, and desperate without. That muggers pretense could easily have turned into something X-rated, right there on the gym floor in front of everybody, and she’d hit him hard when he’d flashed his eyes at her and grinned, well aware of what she was going through. And then his eyes had changed a different way, wide and wanting…and then the fledges had burst in.

Damn. Double and triple damn.

So she’d made sure that when he woke, he’d be right where she wanted him: in her bed. With no goddam agenda, nothing to distract.

She’d tried to think of everything. She’d spent the morning putting lamps and other breakables in boxes and storing them safe in the hall closet. She had the morning’s cooler of bagged blood handy at the side of the bed because it was minimally a day and maybe two since he’d fed: he’d be hungry that way, too. And she’d pottered around all day unshowered because, however eww to her, that was a turn-on to him--the concentrated smell of her. Wearing a tatty bathrobe she didn’t care about…and nothing underneath. Her hair loose, the way he liked it. Aching with pent-up passion and he’d know that too because he always did.

She felt a little weird, setting up a knock-about, anything goes, grope and shag session in cold blood. But then she’d look at him and be certain he was as starved for her as she was for him, and go lay her heated face against his cool cheek, give him a hopeful kiss, then shiver and retreat, hugging herself, when he didn’t stir. Blood not so cold, after all. Then she’d find some other way to make the time pass.

Finally in mid-afternoon she ran out of patience and didn’t retreat. Almost twenty hours should be enough for anybody, right? Dropping the robe, she pushed back the covers and began petting him. When he did it, he called it “starting without her”: she’d sometimes wake with him already inside her and moving, his eyes gone dark and blank and intent, as they did at such times. And she’d smack him and he’d give her one of those slow, sunrise smiles, all happy at her waking, with the least edge of mischief to have surprised her, and usually she would have been dreaming it, aroused by his attentions, so to wake and find it real was even more wonderful and she’d forgive him his mischief and just let the gladness pour in.

My turn, she thought, to surprise him.

It took longer than usual to get him hard and intermittently breathing: must be real deep down. Sliding onto the bed to straddle him, she nipped and pinched and tickled, seeking out his most sensitive spots. Though she got some twitches and deeper responses, he still didn’t wake. (Don’t, don’t, don’t think about fucking a dead body. That’s a whole ‘nother thing, and don’t think about it!) As a last resort she fumbled in the cool-carrier for a bag, opened a corner with the nail scissors she’d put handy on the bedside cabinet, and attempted to feed it to him.

She didn’t expect the bag’s seal to give way, dumping its entire contents. She didn’t expect him to come up in roaring, bloody game-face, drawn like a magnet to the mark and biting down hard, tumbling her over backward and driving into her convulsively. Suddenly being ferociously taken was a detonation in her mind and body. Everything seized up, whited out in astonished sensation. She spasmed, aimlessly flailing, wholly caught up in being simultaneously drained and explosively filled. Everything violent and immediate gradually went floaty and faded.

And she was gone.

**********

Willow had prepared carefully for her meeting with Amy. She’d reviewed a few familiar short spells--she could hold only so many ready in her mind, and the longer ones were no good: she’d be flamed or immobilized before she could finish--but mostly she’d put in some serious time considering how she felt about Amy. Because Amy was a power junkie, just as Willow was. Amy also liked the “my will be done” kind of spells for the rush of safety/control, even if it was illusory and ended up making everything worse, with a side order of guilt cookies coming right up.

Amy had introduced Willow to the wonderful world of direct power drains: every square millimeter of skin tingling with it, barely able to contain it, flashing out with it on the smallest whim because there was always more. And no possible retaliation except for her own eventual disgust, fear, and remorse. Which for months, until her blow-up after Tara’s death, hadn’t been enough to keep Willow from going back to it, having that wonderful feeling again.

Amy owned magic. Amy was magic. And Willow found that perilously appealing.

That was one of the reasons she’d made arrangements to pick Dawn up after school and bring her along.

“You’re a conduit,” she told Dawn, wrenching the old Fiat around a corner. With magic, or even power steering, she could have maneuvered the car more smoothly. But she’d deliberately chosen a manual shift car without assisted anything to make herself remember. To make her deliberate and careful. “If she whips out something I can’t handle right away, I can draw on you to resist, counter-attack.”

“I don’t know, Willow.” Dawn sat hugging herself in her red cardigan, over her school clothes, looking straight ahead. “The last time I went along with you on something like this, I got my arm broken.”

“You won’t get hurt,” Willow assured her for about the sixth time. “I have much better control now: all that time with the coven. Breathing exercises, floating a pencil or spinning a ball for hours until I was totally sick of it. Learning all the therapeutic herbs. I’m humble: I know I need the back-up, can’t do everything on my own just because I want to. And if she’s the one who’s been bombarding Spike with malign spells, I have to find out what they are before I can do anything about them!”

“Yeah, all right,” Dawn responded without enthusiasm. “I said I would. I don’t have to like it too. Can I get a sandwich after? Buffy forgot to pack my lunch.”

“Yeah, sure, sweetie,” Willow agreed abstractedly.

“All I had was potato chips and some extremely vanilla yogurt. Blecch!”

In the pause after shifting gears to stop at a red light, Willow held out a hand. “Give me your locket.”

Looking around with her face screwed up indignantly, Dawn clutched the necklace defensively. “No!”

“It’s only for an hour or so,” Willow argued. “If you’re wearing it, I can’t draw on you. And that’s the whole idea here.”

“Not my whole idea. So, fine, if I’m not a key, I’m a battery. But I’m not giving up my locket: that would leave me open to an-y-thing!”

Willow needed her hand to run through the gears again as the light turned green. “How’s Spike doing?” she asked, dragging the car around another corner.

“How should I know? I’ve been at school all day.”

“I just thought you might have called,” said Willow, fiercely enforcing patience on herself, keeping her tone mild and level.

They both knew Buffy had taken a sick day to stay home with Spike. Who was almost certainly still asleep but might get rowdy when he woke, finding he’d lost a whole day. Fine, Willow thought rancorously: let him wreck her bedroom this time! Her turn to do penance for having a vampire boyfriend!

Then she muttered a mantra that was supposed to enhance calm and serenity. She could see the white clapboarded side of Amy’s house ahead. Pulling up against the curb, she set the hand brake but left the engine running. She was really, really tempted to erase Dawn’s reluctance, enforce her cooperation, with a Bidding; but she couldn’t have, even if she wanted to. Not as long as Dawn had the locket containing the most powerful influence-deflecting talisman Willow had been able to devise. Not enough to completely shunt aside a really powerful spell designed and tuned to Dawn’s own nature, as the deathwish had been tuned to Spike, latching onto his weaknesses and uncertainties and launching itself from that secured beachhead. But the talisman was enough to hold even such a spell at bay, unable to inflict its full effect, long enough for an equally focused counterspell to be assembled and set running to dissipate the attack.

Willow had one like it. So did Buffy. And a few others Spike had thought in need of such protection.

Hold me harmless of all hurt, Willow recited in her mind, grimly determined to be calm. Hold me in the Light, to do what is in accordance with the Earth, and the Goddess, and all benevolent Powers.

“Dawn, I’ve told you, promised you, that you won’t get hurt here. I’m trying to do what you asked: find out who’s been getting at Spike, with what, and why. But if you won’t give me the locket, there’s no point. If Giles were still here, I could draw on him. But he isn’t. Potentially, you’re an even better reservoir than he was, because of your residual keyness. But if you won’t let me tap into it, it might as well not be there.”

“Isn’t there another way?” Dawn asked in a small voice. “Can’t you scry him some way, find out--”

“No, baby. I can tell that it’s there, but not what it is or how it’s affecting him. It’s been absorbed: it’s part of him now. I can’t disentangle it until I know what it is. How it was made. It’s a custom job: not something I can just go look up in a book. But if you’re that scared, I’ll just take you home and try to think of another--”

“What about Halloween?” Dawn interrupted, sounding rather desperate. “Isn’t there power in that, you could draw from?”

“Not for me,” Willow answered grimly. “It will be around, all right. Samhain: the Sabbat night. Feast of All Souls. You’re right: it has power. But nothing I would dare touch. Whatever’s done has to be done before sundown.”

Willow found herself thinking, If Tara was here, she would have lent me her power. Which just started her thinking about Tara, which was still so painful, in so many ways, it made her want to throw her head back and scream.

“Or Anya,” Dawn blurted. “If Amy’s the one who’s hurt Spike, couldn’t he do a wish against her? Makeher tell?”

Willow pulled her thoughts away from the sucking black hole that was Tara’s absence. “Vengeance wishes tend to yield torn viscera, not information. And I don’t know if Anya’s Vengeance Demon status is on or off at the moment. Do you?”

Dawn shook her head, flinging hair. “I owed her a wish, but she used that,” she muttered. “I don’t have any other…. I’m sorry, Willow. I didn’t realize it would mean taking the locket off. I’m still connected to the Powers, except the locket keeps them out of my head. Keeps them from knowing whatever I know. And some things I know…are none of their business.”

“Like where Spike’s soul is,” Willow suggested, and Dawn bobbed a tight nod.

“If I took it off…I don’t know what would happen. What they’d do. They really, really don’t like being shut out. I think. I don’t know. I don’t want to find out.” Dawn’s fingers plucked at the air as though trying to grasp alternatives. “Maybe…maybe we should just go home. Phone Giles, we could do that! Maybe he’d have some different idea? Don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” Willow responded without interest, releasing the parking brake, grimly working the gear shift and the clutch, then hauling at the wheel, to pull away from the curb.

Consulting Giles, long distance, on handling Amy the Rat had less than no appeal. All Willow knew was that the confrontation with her once-friend had been derailed, averted. She couldn’t easily decide if she was more disappointed or relieved.

**********

Buffy blinked. Her head felt like a dizzy pumpkin balanced on a straw. Her mouth was dry and tasted foul. Then she remembered, jerked, and shoved herself to sitting, seized with the fear that she was too late, that Spike would have freaked and broken out a window and the sunlight and….

And he was sitting on the floor, finishing off a blood bag. Naked. Face and chest covered in blood. The stuff that had erupted from the bag, probably. Mostly. Still in game-face. And she…was on the floor. Just sprawled, limbs leaden. Not even a pillow.

Glancing around, Spike remarked affably, “Made a proper mess of me, didn’t you? And yourself. And the bed. Fifteen sorts of sticky.” Dropping the empty wrapper, he collected a fresh bag and bit into it, his throat working as he swallowed it down.

Buffy blinked some more, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

He’d bitten her. Soulless, and he’d still bitten her. Damn near drained her. And fucked her while he was doing it. She’d passed out. And then…he’d calmly pulled away, leaned around, and pitched into the contents of the cool box.

She felt a shaking inside as her heart tried to speed up, pump what wasn’t there. The dizziness got worse and fog began to gather at the periphery of her vision. Maybe it was a good idea to lie flat. Staring blankly at the ceiling, she tried to relax, control the shaking. Not black out.

Spike slid in next to her, leaning on an elbow, nuzzling at her neck. “Ready for another go, are you?” he purred into her ear.

She couldn’t find the breath or the words to say No. It was taking all her concentration to keep the fog at bay. And he didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. Was quite ready to start without her, indifferent to her lack of response. Was kissing her, tasting her, with that blood-fouled mouth. And she couldn’t move, couldn’t….

“Pet? Buffy? Something wrong?”

She found herself drawing in a really huge, huge breath. Until her lungs and her chest ached with it, until she felt as if she’d burst. “Get away! From me!”

Her arm swung randomly, forcelessly, and bounced off him somewhere. She breathed a second, recovering from the effort, then swung again. This time met nothing. The motion flopped her over onto her side. She lay panting. Heat flashed through her, followed by cold achiness, as her body tried to recover.

He’d always been more afraid of this than she had. Because he’d known it could happen. Now it had. And she supposed it meant something, that in the full intoxication of bloodthirst, he’d still stopped and left her alive. Something…but not much. Not enough.

She rolled her head enough to see, and he’d backed off, obedient to her command. Looking at her. Concerned. Perplexed, she thought. Though it was hard to tell under the blood mask. She shut her eyes as the deep shuddering got stronger.

“Spike: shower. Hot!”

She couldn’t have stood, much less made it to the bathroom on her own. But that was all right because he gathered her up and carried her. She could still depend on him for things like that.

Still held in the shower, she tipped her head back and opened her mouth to let the water run in. It seemed forever before the blood taste was washed away and another forever before she'd swallowed enough to appease her thirst. Eventually the water’s heat banished the chill, and she felt herself break into a full-body sweat the water washed away. Slayer healing going into high gear to repair the damage, replace the lack. She didn’t know how long he held her like that, cradled passively against his chest, except it wasn’t an hour: the hot water would have run out. Long enough for her fingers to go pruny, though. She studied them in vague bewilderment as he put her down on the toilet to get her dry. Then he wrapped the towel around her shoulders and continued to sit on his heels before her. Knees all knobby. Head bent, not looking at her. Waiting for her verdict.

He’d been thinking too.

“Dressed,” Buffy decided: she couldn’t face that sodden, sticky bed. Couldn’t stand remembering the smell.

He thought a minute, then left, shutting the door behind him. The room was warm with steam, and the towel was large, soft, and comforting. When he came back, he was wearing an old pair of jeans and had brought clothes for her, so she wouldn’t have to go back into the bedroom for them. Silently, he helped her dress, then assisted her downstairs to the front room. When she was settled in the big chair, she said, “We have to talk.”

Spike shook his head and left without replying, turning kitchenward at the hall. With only time to go and come, he returned with a mug of warm onion soup in one hand and a glass of cooking sherry in the other. He set both on the weapons chest beside her.

“Oh, I couldn’t--”

“Drink the soup. You need the salt,” he said curtly, turning away.

He must have opened the can and started the soup heating before he’d brought her clothes. And the cooking sherry because, well, he couldn’t find anything else.

Lifting the mug carefully in both hands, Buffy took a tentative sip and then gulped until the soup was gone. He was right: she was desperately hungry for salt. Well, he should know. The sherry was faintly salty, too. She felt better when she’d finished it.

Sitting on the floor, he reached up a bare, hard ivory arm for the empty mug: he’d lit a cigarette and wanted somewhere other than the floor to tap the ashes. Buffy seized his wrist a moment, then let go, let him take the mug. Cigarettes were forbidden anywhere except in the basement. He wasn’t going to the basement and really needed the cigarette. Nothing there to be discussed.

“You put up,” Buffy said softly, “and put up, and put up. And then you explode.”

“Yeah. Seems like.”

He looked so grim and forlorn. Buffy patted the front of the chair. “C’mere.”

A pause while he thought about it. Then he slid himself so his back was between her knees, facing away from her. Maybe it would be easier to talk and not see each other’s faces. She began working on the muscles of his shoulders and the back of his neck, under the damp ends of his hair. Everything predictably rigid, bunched up.

She said, “No apologies?”

“It’s way past sorry this time. Tried to keep it all clear of you. Didn’t work very well.”

“You have to put the soul back.”

He bent his head. “Can’t.”

“We can’t go on this way.”

“Yeah. Well, then.” He pulled away, stood. Blue eyes blank, face expressionless. “Marked Bit. And now this. Can’t be doing things like this, love. Best let you both be, then. Till this is over.”

“No!”

He made a sudden, aimless gesture with the mug. “Got no goddamn fucking choice! You know what I am. You want--” Breaking off, he hauled open the weapons chest, heedless of the sherry glass smashing against the wall, and came up with a stake he forced her to close her hand around. Bent over her, arms braced to either side, he said, “You want to stake me, go ahead. Be done with it. What the hell am I supposed--”

Wrenching her hand free, Buffy grabbed his neck and pulled his head down into a frantic series of gnawing kisses. When she had to stop to gulp air, he yanked himself away, took two wandering steps, and dropped down on the floor again. Back bowed, head bent: all folded into himself. When the chair creaked, he said, “Don’t. You wouldn’t like…what would come of it. ‘M right on the edge--” She could see his back move with breathing. “It didn’t. Feel wrong. Felt all sorts of good.” He shuddered: maybe a head-shake. “Always…feels all sorts of good. Can’t take care with you anymore. Not without I think it all out beforehand, can’t….”

She waited, but he didn’t finish the thought. “You have to put the soul back.”

“No.”

“I’ll find out where it is and do it--”

“No!”

Noise at the front door. Willow and Dawn came in, arguing, then stopped in the doorway, staring.

Dawn said, “Are you two having a thing? Because if you are, I don’t--”

“Bit,” Spike interrupted, unfolding to stand. “Get the soul.”

“You mean--?”

“Get it.”

Dawn stared to be sure he meant it, then dropped her backpack and hustled away down the hall.

Willow asked, “What’s going on? Did your room get wrecked?”

Buffy and Spike both ignored her.

Thumps and bumps from the basement. Then Dawn returned with a different backpack, holding it carefully before her.

Saying anxiously, “I’ll have to refresh on the ritual,” Willow reached for the backpack but Dawn avoided her, continuing past to present the backpack to Spike. When he didn’t take it, she set it on top of the TV and unzipped it, removing from it an Orb of Thessula glowing with its contents. Scooping it one-handed, Spike hurled it against the nearest wall. He’d flashed into game-face. He glared at Buffy for a moment, then turned on Willow, who looked startled and appalled, leveling a finger at her.

“You try to undo that, Red, and I’ll finish what I started in your bedroom.”

“Is it back?” Buffy asked.

“No,” said Willow, “it’s gone.”

“I guess,” Dawn said shakily, “that means we can visit Amy after all.”

**********

Dawn pinched herself and said softly, “Ow.” She guessed that meant she was still here.

It also apparently meant Spike’s soul wasn’t gone gone: not like he’d dusted or anything. No longer contained in the smashed jar, it had been released to the air, or the aether, or wherever souls went when they weren’t attached to anybody.

She wasn’t attached to anybody. Only to an untethered soul. Majorly shiversome.

Spike’s sudden glance told her he hadn’t thought about that side of it until now. He told Willow, “What I said before. About fitting up some different anchor for Dawn. See to it.”

Dawn burst out, “I don’t want that! I never wanted that! Stupid vampire, it wasn’t so you’d be my anchor: it was so I’d be yours! So you wouldn’t do something dumb, get yourself dusted. So you’d know it wasn’t just you, that you were risking! So you’d show a little sense sometimes about what you let yourself get into. And now you’ve thrown it all away, let it go smash, you idiot! Moron! Fool! Jerk!” She found herself pounding on Spike’s chest, doing no damage whatever, and he didn’t even hug her or anything, just stood and let her do it. She couldn’t reach him. Not really. This time, he’d gone too far away: inside himself. She couldn’t reach, and he wouldn’t.

Willow dragged her away, saying, “There’s no time for this.” She tried to steer and push Dawn out the door.

Dawn didn’t care, and said so, yanking free of Willow, glaring at Spike. “You don’t care. You never cared. Got what you wanted--Buffy--then got rid of the soul the first chance you had. Are you hunting now, Spike? Feeding on people yet? Because the bagged blood is only second best, we all know it, and now there’s nothing to stop you doing it direct again. You--”

Willow shook her, interrupting, “We have to get there before dark!”

Spike asked Willow, “What’s all this, then? Who’s Amy? What's she got to do with anything?”

Buffy stood up behind Spike, hands hovering as though she wanted to touch him but had the nasty suspicion he was red hot, blurting, “Spike…?”

Still tugging on Dawn, Willow told Spike, “I’ll explain later.”

“Won’t be here later. Explain now.”

In a commanding, spell-y voice, Willow declared, “Confutate,” and everybody shut up. Dawn had words to think in, but they wouldn’t come out of her mouth. Not even an indignant Ahh ahh, like when your tongue was impeded by a thermometer and you couldn’t say the truly devastating thing you were thinking. Not that Dawn was thinking anything that devastating. Or, she thought, looking at Spike being all irritated and detached, like he was around his vampire crew but never with them, because they were freaking family, maybe she was.

Her stomach was all knotted up: they hadn’t stopped on the way home and she hadn’t had anything since breakfast except the horrible vanilla yogurt and the potato chips except that now she didn’t want anything anyway, wasn’t even hungry, would probably just barf if she tried, she was so upset because nobody was doing anything about Spike. Not even Spike. And she couldn’t get the words to come.

Pointing demandingly at her mouth, Dawn let Willow drag her back toward Willow’s car.

“Locutate,” Willow said wearily, making a gesture that required her to release Dawn’s arm as well as her words, and bent to unlock the passenger door because she had to: the Fiat came equipped with power nothing. Dawn threw herself miserably into the seat.

Getting in on the driver’s side, Willow said crossly, “If you want to do something about Spike, help me identify the spell that’s making him this way.”

“Yeah, sure: it’s not any spell, Willow. He’s always been like this. Except…not around us.” Dawn folded her arms hard and scuffed at a curved-up edge of the floor mat, muttering bastard; idiot; git; freakin’ numbskull under her breath. As Willow got the car started and yanked through the gears (one pained screeeech!) to get it moving, Dawn demanded, “Where’s his soul now?”

“Some kind of limbo, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, it isn’t as if I read up on it lately, Dawn! But…there seems to be something like the Law of Conservation of Souls: as long as the owner’s alive, they don’t just dissipate, or I couldn’t get them back. The way I did with Angel.”

Angel was undead too, so Dawn judged that a fair comparison. “How do you know you got his soul back? His very own? Not just one that happened to be floating past when you grabbed?”

Willow sighed, frowning at the road.

Dawn added, “And don’t tell me ‘It’s complicated,’ because I frelling know that, all right? I’m asking you to uncomplicate it! So how do you know you got the right soul?”

“There’s a mystical connection. Between the soul and the person,” Willow formulated slowly, possibly through gritted teeth. “That keeps it waiting, wherever it is, until that person really, completely dies. Or dusts, as the case may be. When you invoke the soul, you’re also invoking the person you’re putting it back into. Because typically, that person isn’t present. So it’s the right soul. Nobody else’s would respond. I think.”

“Oh, great: you think!”

“It’s complicated! And I’m only just beginning, Dawnie! Give me a break here, all right? There’s lots of stuff I don’t know, and I know that. All humble about that, the way I’m supposed to be. Now please, please keep quiet: I have to review my defense spells. I didn’t think I’d have to remember them this long. And I can’t do that while you’re talking!”

“That was a red light,” Dawn mentioned sullenly.

“Rule two: don’t distract the driver. And do you have your seat belt fastened?”

Dawn attended to it. Geez! Like it was her fault Willow had run that red light! And Spike had promised to teach her to drive, except the DeSoto was someplace up on blocks, and maybe now he never would, all detached the way he was, and she’d been so happy for him at first, that he’d set aside the nagging soul that ruined everything, made everything so hard for him, and he’d assured her nothing important had changed, everything still fine between them. Sure, fine. The disconnected drift only begun then. Undetectable.

Stopping the spell wasn’t gonna solve the problem because the problem predated the spell. What had only been simmering had come to a full rolling boil: she wondered delicately exactly what sort of a thing Buffy and Spike had gotten into, between them, to set off the full withdrawal. Probably something about S-E-X. Or feeding. Or both, because he still wasn’t feeding right, or enough, even though the bagged blood was human.

She didn’t truly believe what she’d accused him of: hunting, feeding, the way ordinary vamps did. Mike, for instance. But if Spike detached himself from all human connections, if he no longer had them to anchor him tight, tether him close and safe, he probably would, sooner or later. Because, what was to prevent him? And what was the alternative?

And if he did…and if Buffy found out about it….

Bad, Dawn thought. Could be very bad.

“Dawn,” Willow said, shutting off the engine, “I need your locket now.”

Looking around, Dawn saw that the car had stopped about the same place as it had before. Taking what Tara would have called “a deep, cleansing breath,” she slipped the chain of the locket over her head and surrendered it.

And instantaneously felt, knew, she was no longer alone. Not exactly the “eyes on the back of her neck” sensation--more like an awareness of eyes behind her eyes. A mutter of thoughts that weren’t her thoughts almost like background voices in a polite restaurant. Nothing she could actually overhear, but still there. Lots of them. They hadn’t said or done anything yet but she knew they could.

She wondered if this was how people felt when they were possessed. Or dispossessed, if it came to that. Or maybe it was like having fleas and therefore referring to oneself as “we.” Just the thought made her feel itchy all over.

She trailed along behind Willow to the door and dispiritedly inspected the half-dead foundation shrubs (knowing it was the cement leaching into the insufficiently acidified soil that was killing them, without knowing how she knew: she just did) while Willow rang the bell, waited, and rang again.

The shadows of the opposite houses were long, stretching all the way across the street; and the remaining light was reddish and anything but warm.

The door was opened by a tallish, dark-haired woman about Willow’s age. Amy--assuming that’s who she was--leaned diagonally in the doorway, blocking it. Her eyes looked somehow both surprised and sly. “Oh, hi, Willow. You decide you want to go clubbing again? It was fun the last time, so I’m still game if you are. It’s been awhile since we went out. Together.”

The clear sound of insinuation was there, even for Dawn and her auditors. Dawn didn’t know what Amy was insinuating. Her auditors did, and also judged it untrue.

Not a good omen, meeting someone for the first time and the first thing out of their mouth was a lie.

Squaring herself up, showing resolve-face, Willow said, “I came to talk about Spike.”

“Oh, is he still around? Still drooping around after Buffy, I think you said?”

“They’re a bit past droop. And there’s been some problem--”

“With a vamp? Why am I not surprised?”

“--with spells,” Willow continued, ignoring the interruption. “Being sold to a vamp called Digger.”

“‘Digger’? Really? How totally quaint! And how’s your girlfriend--is it ‘Thea’? ‘Farah’? I’m real bad now with names. Maybe because of all that time I was kept as a rat--!”

Other than mouthing off at each other, Amy and Willow weren’t doing anything. Except they were. Just nothing visible. But Dawn’s auditors and watchers--hell, just say it: the Powers--were aware of it and didn’t care whether Dawn knew or not.

It was like a shoving match: push and counter and push, like two people holding metal garbage can lids. Variously weapon, shield, and deflection depending on how they were angled, how hard they were pushed. Nothing complex or targeted yet--just assessing raw magical force and determining who had more.

Amy smiled: a real nasty, toothy smile. “Tara. Of course that’s it, and how appropriate! Like the house in that old movie. Overblown, overdressed, and…over, I see. Shot by accident, hey? How excessively dumb. But typical.”

Practically crackling with fury, Willow reached out and closed fingers around Dawn’s wrist. Dawn stumbled forward from a sense of push. Amy fell backward through the doorway. Willow advanced into the house, towing Dawn behind her.

Dawn could feel the power drain. Not very strong yet. Barely a trickle gathering, running through her, and away. Something like the feeling she got when Mike had fed on her, without the nice parts. Apparently energy and blood felt much the same.

She remembered Xander joking one time about how, in an alternate universe, he and Willow had been vampires. It had been a different Willow, a whole different universe; but maybe this Willow remembered. Except, of course, that she needed no invitation to go inside.

One way or the other, Willow was feeding on her. And Dawn's occupants were letting it happen.

Amy was tumbled on her back, one knee bent. If Dawn had been someone else, she could have looked up her skirt. Very undignified. Amy scuttled back until she hit a tall cabinet that held china. The standing plates rattled as she pulled herself upright against it.

“You’re crazy,” she accused, swiping hair out of her face. “Everybody knows spells don’t work on vamps!”

“Some do,” Willow replied, still advancing. “A deathwish, that’s not too hard to adapt. Because, after all, well, dead. I can see how the one in Gingrich’s Apothecarium Malorum could be modified. Or did you use Morris’s Arcanum? Yeah: the Arcanum--spiteful little twerp, Morris. Always reminded me of Principal Snyder. I thought it might be, when I made the counterspell. Nice to know I was right. So what was the flashy powder for, Amy? Something lingering, with poison? Play with his head, or play with his body? Because he doesn’t seem to be sickening just yet, but something’s definitely off in that quarter. You see, I’ve come to regard Spike as not only a sort of weird friend, not just my best friend’s boyfriend, which makes him a sort of boyfriend-in-law, but as an actual business partner, and it’s my professional rule never to let anybody mess with my business partners.”

Willow’s smile, though less toothy, was worse than Amy’s: at the same time genuinely happy and genuinely malevolent. And the rate of draw was increasing.

Willow continued implacably, “I’m gonna give you one chance to tell me what you did and how you did it. Your own secret, private recipe for hurting a vamp--for money.”

“Not money,” Amy blurted.

“What, then?” Willow didn’t sound really interested.

“A chance. At real power. Not the feeble, sucky residue, that’s all that’s left. Real power to draw on and use. Maybe I could cut you in…for a share--” Amy said, with effort, as though all the breath were being squeezed out of her.

Willow laughed. It was not a nice laugh. “Power? Please! I have all the power I need, nearly all the power I can use. Freely granted, not stolen or coerced. You want to find out what a brain suck is like, Amy? I might even be merciful: not the capacity, just the contents. I don’t have to ask, you know. I could take! And if you tell me right now, I might not turn you back into a rat. Keep you in the little cage, cute little wheel to run around in, great food every day--all the comforts of home. Except for, well, being a rat. It took me over five years to figure out how to undo your spell, turn you human. Turn you back into a rat, I could do it just like that.” Willow snapped her fingers.

Dawn couldn’t see much in the hallway anymore except the shine of Amy’s frightened eyes. The power draw was fierce…and the Powers were amenable. Shoving Dawn aside, a still point of awareness, just an onlooker, the Powers fed a rush of force through the contact. And Amy burst into flame like a vamp on a sunny afternoon.

“I didn’t do that!” Willow exclaimed, flinging Dawn’s wrist away. “I didn’t spell her to burn!”

(While Amy shrieked and contorted.)

“Yes, you did,” Dawn heard her own voice saying. Except not her voice. The Power she was most attuned to and mostly a part of, the Power she’d taught Spike to call Lady Gates, had assumed control…and residence. Dawn was a frightened observer in her own head.

“I didn’t!” Willow protested, and said a Word that held Amy and her flames still, in a sort of freeze-frame, except it was still happening. Just stopped. “I mean…I didn’t mean to!”

“You’d better do your brain suck now, while she’s available,” Lady Gates (through Dawn) recommended calmly.

“I can’t do that! I just said that. Being all blustery and everything. I can’t just insert fingers in people’s heads and take their minds away! I’m not a fricking god!”

Lady Gates considered saying, I am, but decided it was unnecessary and possibly rude. Good manners were important when among the creatures, though less so than among her peers. Instead, she said, “You should have remembered that before, then. You shouldn’t threaten what you can’t deliver. I believe it’s called ‘bluffing.’”

Looking back and forth between Dawn and flaming Amy, Willow flung up her hands and wailed, “I don’t know what to do!”

“Go home. Call Giles,” Lady Gates suggested, secretly sardonic. “I’m sure he knows some way to get Amy un-flamed and back to something like her original condition. Such as it was. Repulsive little creature. But that’s a nice, solid stasis you’ve created: it should last for…oh, at least a week. I’m sure you’ll have something figured out by then. And then you can ask her your questions again. I’m sure she’ll be more receptive.”

“But I didn’t do it!” Willow insisted, wandering back to the car. “I don’t have the power to do a stasis. I’ve barely read about them!”

“Beginner’s luck,” suggested Lady Gates, with a sweet, Dawnish smile.

Chapter 4: Trick or....

Spike returned to the factory in a really foul mood. Paying no attention to the vamps variously sleeping or performing disorganized hand-to-hand fight moves, he tramped directly back to his office, booted up the computer, and plowed into the neglected translation, which gave him the usual eyestrain headache. Blinking hard, he grimly kept himself at it until he’d finished the bit he’d been working on, carefully zipped it with the notes he’d made, and transmitted it to the Council of Watchers with an attached invoice and a request for confirmation of receipt.

Ten hours, all told. A thousand dollars. Would go maybe halfway toward the first batch of the smell, not including Willow’s consultant’s fee. Not counting payment to the bloke at Oxford whose hobby was Droit, an extinct demon language, except that the bloke mistakenly thought it was a variant of Chaldean. He’d done an article on his hobby, which was how Spike had turned him up. A few of the translation passages had Droit cognates in them, and Spike only knew enough to identify the source language, not enough to read the bloody stuff. And the context had been completely mystifying without them.

Turned out, one had been local slang equating whores with pomegranates: a compliment, if you please; another had been a cognate implying a rival was full of shit. All so very edifying.

Anyway, that bit was finally done.

Eyes shut, Spike slumped in his chair for a few minutes, vaguely hoping something might lift or change. When it didn’t, he leaned to pull a half empty bottle of JD out of a bottom drawer and washed down some painkillers from a top drawer. Smoked about half a pack of cigs waiting for the pills to douse the headache or the liquor to allow him not to care.

Pills finally took effect. He’d only been working four hours or so--not enough for the headache to crank itself into an all-nighter.

Checking his watch, he figured it was time to put tonight’s sweep together and returned to the main area, calling, “Here!”

When his crew had gathered, he started naming off those he’d take with him. He was astonished when they started refusing. The reason? It was Halloween, and vamps didn’t hunt on Halloween. Not even other vamps.

“It’s traditional,” Emil protested.

“And that’s when the really big fuckers are out,” skinny, be-pinned Stait put in nervously. “Stuff that could make a mouthful of a vamp and not even chew.”

Spike didn’t appreciate being reminded that vamps were the red-headed stepchildren of the demon world: regarded as impure halfbreeds, barely to be distinguished from the humans most demons preyed upon. And he certainly didn’t appreciate the suggestion there existed monsters that vamps should rightly be afraid of. He appreciated least of all being refused.

He broke Emil up considerable and dusted Strait, who hadn’t really been working out anyway, and it wasn’t as if there weren’t a dozen more queued up to fill any vacancy, showing up in the sentry anteroom each evening snarling at each other, putting on a huge show of how fierce they were, hardly any of ‘em able to shed game face ten minutes at a time, damn fledges, but there was no lack of volunteers eager to be accepted to the top of the current local food chain and who the hell cared anyway. But it didn’t do any good: the rest were as adamant as before. Spike reluctantly realized he could dust them all and still not get his way.

They wouldn’t see that it was vital that the sweeps happen, and be seen to happen, each of the four nights each week that the downtown was interdicted to vamps from all other territories. To them, it was just another hunting night, except that the designated prey was inedible vamps, not humans. That far, he could push them. But not beyond.

And if he wiped out this current batch, he’d only have a new and even less experienced batch to train up afterward so there was no point in it whatever.

“Fine!” he shouted. “The hell with the lot of you!” and tramped back to the office to stock up on weapons. Hell with it: he’d go it alone, then. He really really felt like killing something. For a long time and messily.

Some son of a bitch was still turning out fledges, against the new orders, given the rate at which they continued to pop up. Some maybe were out of towners, like Sue. Certainly not all of them. And the penalty for unauthorized turning was protracted torture: demonstrations of technique for the edification of current legitimate fledges. Spike wished he had the fucker trussed up and ready to start on right now: might have been able to get a good hour in before he had to turn the doings over to somebody else, and that was another thing his court lacked--an expert torturer. Because beyond a certain point, Spike got bored and itchy inflicting pain on a helpless victim. No contest in it. No satisfaction. And, if he admitted it, a significant amount of ewww. Anyway, that was Angelus’ thing, not Spike’s. Never had been, never would be.

And Buffy expected him to take that on with a soul, that'd want to sick up or faint at the first smell of burnt flesh. Want him to nag Michael to cut loose, once and for all, from that wily old wanker Digger: force Michael to choose and maybe lose him, and for what--so they could be friends?When Michael was so useful just the way he was and maintaining some kind of watch over Digger was so important? Want Spike to give up blood altogether, fucking starve, on account of the soul didn't think feeding was nice?

Soul had no more notion of vampire realities than Buffy did, and with less excuse.

Be disastrous to have the fucking thing stuffed back in him now, and he’d damn well skin Red if she tried it, Spike thought, having a final few gulps of whiskey to see him through the sweep.

But, he thought, after he’d dropped through the floor hole in the back corner and started trudging through the main storm drain toward downtown, none of that changed what he felt for Buffy or for Dawn. Gave him hellishly bad judgment what he did about it, how he read or misread their signals. But didn’t change the feeling at all. Doing without was already like trying to do without…. Not air, because he didn’t need that. Not even blood, because he could pretty well ignore that too for quite a long time. He couldn’t think of any lack he could compare it to. The love and the connection hummed in him every second: the context that gave his unlife the only meaning that it had for him. Without that, nothing made sense and everything was dust in his hands, ashes in his mouth. Denying that, staying away from them, was gonna be the hardest thing of all to enforce on himself. ‘Cause give him one unguarded moment and he’d be there, trying to be to them what he couldn’t, not soulless; wanting from them what they couldn’t give and he had no right to ask. Doing to them things that would maybe end their answering love for all time. Things they could find no way to forgive or overlook. Things he no longer knew to guard against or might do reflexively, with no thought, when he was taken by surprise and simply reacted; when his familiar demon was running the show.

Like today.

Buffy had good reason to be upset. Spike knew that, in his head. He just couldn’t feel it because what he’d done was natural to him. He’d had to think and plan and guess at reactions and impose strict rules on himself to keep from doing it, over the past months. Since he’d first fed from her with her consent. Because both impulses, fucking and feeding, arose from the same place and were locked onto the same mark. It was unnatural to try to hold them separate or to give in to them only in moderation. They weren’t moderate. They were the sort of thing you forgot yourself in completely. Done timidly and only within limits, keeping a watch on yourself every second, they were hardly worth doing at all.

Impossible not to want more. Impossible not to want all.

So he’d make do with nothing. Somehow. Because there was no alternative.

That didn’t mean he had to like it or accept the limits graciously. He’d take out his fury and frustration on any vamp unlucky enough to cross his path tonight and enjoy the hell out of doing it.

He found only fledges, and few enough of them, and ripped them apart for not putting up a proper fight. For being on the wrong ground at the wrong time and too stupid and new to even know it. He’d stop and shake them and demand, “Who turned you?” and they’d gawp at him as though he were speaking Demotic Greek, which he’d actually had to brush up on lately. Fortunately there now were dictionaries online to refresh coursework done over a century ago. Fortunately Greek didn’t change much. Dead things normally didn’t.

Vamps didn’t. Only him….

He ran across a Cygnos, a Face-eater, in a parking lot, and it gave him a halfway decent fight before he got in a fatal axe-swing to the spine. He cleaned the axe on its belly fur and left it, limping, looking for another good go-round with something worth the time.

Because things worth fighting were abroad: he could feel them. Sometimes even smell them. That little skeezicks, Strait, had the right of it: Halloween generally brought out the biggest of the bads. Spike could feel a charge of extra power shivering in the air--almost like a dim echo of the Hellmouth. It drew. And it empowered…at least those able to make use of it. And it seemed a fair number, human and otherwise, had gathered in Sunnydale tonight to take advantage of it--nostalgia, maybe. Ignorance, more like. Expecting the Hellmouth to be churning out disruptive energy full-bore, to assist and power their workings. Instead, finding a quiet little suburban backwater where the streets were almost safe after midnight.

Spike cast about in different directions, trying to localize the sensation, but found nothing more remarkable than a big, bearded biker dealing grass, hash, and some highly diluted cocaine on a corner. Fairly nice bike. A Honda Shadow, maybe two years old, screaming red, covered with chrome. Nice detailing of a fiery skull on the housing, just behind the logo. Saddlebags; LA tag. Spike circled around and watched and thought for nearly an hour while the customers came and went. He’d declared dealers fair game until the smell was ready and available. But he hadn’t decided for himself whether to move beyond demons to humans. The next step, inevitably, would be hunting, and he hadn’t made up his mind about that yet.

While he was watching and considering, two scruffy guys passed in a late model Cadillac, also with LA tags, and blew biker-san into eternity with a double-bore shotgun out the window.

It was a bit messy retrieving the key, and the wad of small bills would need washing before they’d pass, but Spike was pleased to have the matter of the bike resolved so simply. He stowed stakes in the saddlebag and hung the other weapons from convenient thonging, retaining only the axe, that rested well enough under his leg, blade braced on a foot peg. Then he turned the key, stamped the bike into life, and was cruising.

On Wilkins he spotted a fledge doing a bint in an alley and gave chase, but the fledge skinnied through a break in a fence and Spike couldn’t locate him afterward. When he swung by to check, bint had scarpered too, so no joy there either. Nothing much doing anywhere, at least that he could find. All gone to the mall, maybe--do their big mojo there. Biggest parking lot in town. Lots of room. Except he wasn’t covering the mall tonight.

So he turned right onto Main, just a walking pace. Listening to the engine, feeling out the bike’s balance, checking stability in braking. Getting acquainted. Flash of metal caught his eye, and there she was: Slayer in patrolling togs, with the big two-handed broadsword, pacing by the theater. Not clued by the engine’s throaty purr, didn’t associate that with him anymore.

Spike didn’t question it, didn’t think back or forward. Was simply glad. Cut the engine and coasted right up to her, within touching distance before she jumped and spun, saw, and settled back onto her heels with a glare, like she did when he surprised her, caught her right out.

“Vamps on bikes,” she said. “Is that gonna get to be a thing around here? Am I gonna need a bike now to chase ‘em?”

“Not while I have one,” Spike said easily, setting a foot on the pavement to balance the bike steady.

“Had that awhile, have you?” she asked, knowing better.

“Tonight.”

“Sure: lots of motorcycle stores are open after midnight, right?”

Spike bent his head, smiling, getting out a cig. Saying nothing. He knew the drill.

“Where did you get it, Spike?” she challenged.

“Not where, how. And the answer is, the usual way. An’ before you ask, no. Didn’t do the chap myself. Some humans drove past, did him for me. Shotgun. Didn’t stop to collect the motorbike, strange to tell. So I thought I’d try her out, see if she was worth keeping. Dreadful expensive, these motorbikes. High maintenance an’ all.”

“Even worse when you actually buy them!”

“Expect so.” He got the cigarette lit, drew in smoke. “Wouldn’t know about that, myself.”

Slayer, she scuffed her toe on the pavement. Not to actually put marks on the leather, just one of her ways of showing hesitation, uncertainty. Not gonna give him more grief about the bike, then. Have to find something else to rag him about.

“It’s Wednesday,” she said.

“Thursday, actually.”

“Wednesday’s patrolling night. But you didn’t come.”

Spike studied his hands. Said nothing for awhile. Finally, “SITs would turn out if you asked ‘em.”

“I wasn’t expecting them. I was expecting you.”

“Said I’d keep your back, didn’t I,” Spike reflected.

“Yeah. Often, even.”

“All out of ‘orphan’ jokes.”

A silence.

Suddenly all bright and perky, she asked, “So how’s your sweep going? Where’s your crew?”

Spike gave her a look and admitted what she’d clearly figured out for herself, which was more than he would have expected of her. “Yeah,” he said, pitching the smoke. “Sort of quiet. Didn’t need anybody extra.”

“They wouldn’t come. Because, Halloween. And vamps don’t do Halloween.”

“Yeah. Nothing but fledges abroad. Did a few. And a Face-eater, in a parking lot on Evans. Don’t know what it was doin’ there. Just the one, though.”

“Earlier, I saw a good couple dozen trick-or-treaters, checked ‘em out. All genuine, far as I could tell. No present danger, except hyperglycemia. Cavities.”

“Let ‘em pass, did you?”

“Seemed the best thing. Though quite a few wanted to touch my sword.”

“I get that a lot, too,” Spike couldn’t help saying, though he managed to keep a straight face.

Eyes meeting, they considered the insinuation.

Taking a stance, Buffy said, “You really can’t help it, can you? Give you an opening, you’ll walk right in, every time.”

“You’re the one started it, Slayer, with the filthy innuendo. ‘Touch my sword.’”

“At least it’s a clean sword!” Then she gazed off down the alley, so as to be looking in some other direction. “So,” she said. “You gonna patrol with me or not?”

“Still thinking about it. Might do. Tradition an’ all. Good for your blood pressure.”

“And you gonna come home, sleep in a bed like a normal…person?”

Not looking at her either, Spike shook his head. “Thought that out already. Doesn’t seem such a good idea right now. Stay to the sewers, the odd dumpster and such till the factory’s fitted up against flame-throwers, rocket launchers, cannon. Then I can settle down proper up there. For the duration.”

“And how long is the duration, you think?”

“Couple months. Six at most. Unless it all goes smash first, of course. Then…I dunno.”

“Can’t you change your major or something? To Landscape Design or Small Pet Management with a minor in hamsters?”

“Can’t do it, love. Got to see it out. See it through. Take my best try at it, anyways.”

He waited for the bleat of Why, that he knew he couldn’t answer any way she’d understand.

What she asked was, “Gerbils? And they say weasels make good pets. If you’re into weasels.” More boot scraping.

So she was gonna leave him some room, still. Not come down with an ultimatum or a stake. Bear with him a little longer, even though it was like to tear them both apart. Accept his word that it was necessary, like he accepted her Slayer’s necessities.

Like he was a person.

Spike bent his head and breathed. “Suppose you’re gonna want to patrol on my fine new bike.”

“I thought you’d never ask!” she said, sliding on behind.

**********

The third time Spike slowed the bike to a barely-balanced crawl and went into search mode--head lifted and turning: looking, listening, smelling, sensing, with the intent beginnings of a frown or maybe just his forehead slightly thickened but well short of full game face--Buffy attended too. Came up with nothing. As he apparently did, rolling the bike a little faster again, with enough momentum to keep them upright if she moved.

Although Buffy frankly didn’t care if their joint sweep turned up anything fightable--scrunching up behind him on this bigger bike, arms around his waist, cheek against his back when they went fast, feeling the easy, automatic balance and motion like a dime set on edge and rolling, never quite wobbling or falling, was so familiar, happy, and good--she tapped his shoulder. When he turned to see her out of the corner of his eye, she leaned out a little and gave him a What? look. He hitched a shoulder and lifted his chin in unconscious belligerence.

Something, that conveyed to her, that he was picking up on but couldn’t quite locate or put a name to.

She held up three fingers, pointing out how many times he’d caught that indefinite signal, whatever it was. He replied with a spread hand: more than three, then. Something that’d been itching at him awhile.

Leaning close to his ear, she suggested, “School?” In response he bent the bike around the next corner and opened up, the quiet suburban street smearing by, streetlights flashing overhead and gone like a heartbeat. Outrunning their own echo: nothing to hear but wind and the muted growl of the motor.

Bumping across the construction-rutted ground behind the school, weaving among the tractor-trailers and double-wides doing service as temporary classrooms, everything starkly lit by high sodium lamps, Spike halted the bike on the concrete apron that fanned out from the rear door of the gym and cut the engine. Buffy stepped down, asking, “Warmer?”

“Dead cold,” he responded, automatically fishing for a cigarette. "Nothing."

The high school was always worth checking out: with archeological logic of the insane-o variety, this third incarnation of Sunnydale High was being constructed on the rubble of the previous ones. Right on top of the multi-dimension portal, the Hellmouth--once Sunnydale’s major attraction for tourists of the demonic sort, now buried and silenced.

Spike had already swept the downtown; the local cemeteries and hot-spots that usually yielded repeat business Buffy hadn’t checked in her patrol, they’d done a drive-by on the bike. So if the mystery tingle wasn’t here, it must be someplace else. And if vamps stayed home and cozy on Halloween, must be somebody else, too. Or something.

Buffy dug in the drawstring stake bag hitched at her waist, found her cell phone, and hit the #3 speed dial. After seven rings, the call was answered by a sleepy, cranky Willow.

Pacing, phone tight to her ear, Buffy reported, “Spike’s picking up on the edge of something. But we can’t localize it. Can you--”

“Geezul Pete, Buffy, it’s past three o’ clock in the--”

“Now, Will,” Buffy interrupted patiently, “what is the point of having a resident witch if you don’t consult her? Deep breath. D’you notice anything odd? I mean, odder than usual?”

“You’re with Spike?”

“Yes, Will, I’m with Spike. He’s got another bike, and we’re trying it out.”

“Neat-o! You two coming home together, then?”

Trust Willow to put a hopeful, romantic spin on anything. “Negotiations are proceeding,” Buffy reported. “News at six. Meanwhile: this disruption in the Force?”

“What’s the bike like?”

“Topic, Will.”

“What color is it?” Willow asked, unquenched.

“Well, it’s red. Lots of chrome. Big ol’ flaming skull on the front whatsit.”

“Bigger or smaller than the former breadbox?”

“Not much bigger,” Buffy guessed, eyeing the bike appraisingly. “Heavier, though. And more back seat room.”

“Seat vinyl or leather?”

“Who can tell, anymore?”

From the bike, idly smoking, Spike supplied, “Leather,” and Buffy dutifully reported it, reflecting on spooky vamp hearing. She also relayed his answer to Willow’s next question about the make: Honda. Shadow. By Willow’s appreciative reaction, a Honda Shadow was evidently a good thing to be. So Spike was a discerning thief: swiped only the best he could get his hands on. Though to be fair, he’d been uncomplainingly afoot for over a month. Not like he’d been actively shopping for a replacement. The new bike was just serendipity in action, supply meets demand. Abandoned, it’d followed him home.

“Better Spike than the police auto pound,” Buffy conceded, “fondly known to teens as the Parking Lot of Doom.” Before Willow could ask about the bike’s miles-per-gallon, Buffy again recalled her to the topic.

“Can’t tell,” Willow replied, following an audible yawn. “I put the mouth on automatic ‘cause I was checking. Nothing’s sending up red signals, at least for me. But, Buffy? That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Aetheric planes are all roiled up tonight. On account of Halloween. Something ungood would have to be right in my face before I’d notice. Did you check the school?”

“We’re there now. No joy.” Buffy absently pushed hair off her face. “Well, thanks, anyway. We’ll probably check around a little more, then call it a night.”

“G’night, then.”

“G’night, Will.”

Stowing the phone, Buffy strolled sideways to the bike, her eyes on the gym doors. Spike said, “Yeah,” and she looked around at him.

“You’ve gone in for mind reading?”

“You’re not hard to read, love. I cover your back. An’ I show up for your class, I guess. Have some pattern to the days.”

Buffy made a decision. “And every day after work, I come up to the factory for an hour or two and train. With anybody there willing to get knocked around a little.”

Spike said only, “All right,” but she could tell he was pleased. “I’ll send somebody down to the Magic Box, collect the gear. Might call Demon Girl, tell her it’s all right.”

“I’ll remind myself.”

“And the weekends?” he asked.

Buffy smiled. “They’re for us. And for resting. Major snog: long and slow. Feed you up good beforehand, though.”

Spike held out an arm, and Buffy let herself be gathered in. For once, nothing urgent. Just together and touching, and the quiet happiness of being in each other’s close company. He bent his forehead against her shoulder--against the mark--and just stayed like that, and she felt it as the apology he’d seen no point in making for what’d happened in her bedroom. She rubbed his back to reassure him it was OK, or not OK but past, anyway, and all still good between them. Dumb stuff happened sometimes, and if nobody died, then obviously it wasn’t life or death. Both of them still here, still together.

He was being extra careful, she thought, and extra gentle with her now in compensation. Holding back. He’d get over it. Below the surface storms and upheavals, down deep there was an unchanging steadiness she always believed in even when she couldn’t feel it. She didn’t have to touch it often but whenever she tried, it was still there, comfortable and serene.

What let them last out the rough times…that always came. And always passed.

They had a joint sigh. Buffy always found that weird when it happened, considering he didn’t need the air. It was an ending, an unspoken OK.

As she slid in behind, he started the bike. It had a lower, quieter note than the aggressive blat he’d teased and tinkered out of the other one, that he’d given to his vamp pal Mike as…leavegeld, she thought, retrieving the alien word with dutiful effort as Spike heeled the bike sharply around and sent it on a twisty course back among the double-wides.

It was as hard as…algebra, or some other very hard thing, to hold a place open in her mind for vamp words, vamp concepts. They didn’t want to stick, or else she reflexively shut herself against them so they bounced off, gone the next second, leaving no lasting imprint. It was hard to take in the differences, his differences, instead of dismissing them and insisting that only the commonalities were real. An inner gatekeeper was continually on guard against the foreign, the ambiguous. And especially against the demonic.

A Slayer thing, maybe, she thought sleepily. Should ask Giles….

Whether or not, she was now consciously at war with the gatekeeper: trying to dismantle it, slay it, beat it down. Revoke its mandate to hold her shut against Spike and everything associated with him. Everything important to him, that Willow easily thought to ask him about and Buffy somehow seemed determined to stay pig-ignorant of, stupidly and willfully blind to. Willow was open and interested; Dawn was even geekishly avid, spouting Vamplore 101 even when actively discouraged. So why Buffy had always felt compelled to keep herself pristinely shut, pure, untouched by such things was a mystery to her. But she at least recognized it now and wanted consciously to end it. Because however it arose, its effect was to distance, reject, and refuse Spike. Feeling the distance more keenly in these days and nights of his absence and in his soullessness, that made everything more complicated and difficult, Buffy wanted to let him in. Hold him always as tight as her arms around his waist, never farther than her cheek against his back in the rush of wind. Always be welcoming him home….

“Slayer.”

Spike’s voice roused her, made her sit straight and realize she’d been drifting. The bike was halted, softly purring, by the curb in a stretch of darkened fast food outlets. She recognized the currently empty six-lane thoroughfare as the Mall Extension: the new road that led to the mall, the airport bypass, and the interchange to the main north-south highway a little past the west edge of town. This far from downtown the stars were visible, high and chill, and the breeze bore the salt tang of the ocean.

A few blocks ahead, slightly uphill and on the right, a bonfire lit the sky.

Large, open bonfires were not common or encouraged in Sunnydale. A definite clue, Buffy thought.

“Been itching at me all night, no reason,” Spike commented. “So I thought, what the hell, come take a look. I can feel it plain now: some gits doin’ a Working, up there. Big enough, they need lots of open space, to duck or deflect any reflux coming back at ‘em or in case they raise what they can’t handle. Don’t want to start something like that in your basic closet. Blood magic, most like: dire stuff--got that feel to it, anyway.”

“Hey, when did you get all expert on matters chanty and spell-casty?”

“Been reading up on it lately. So: how do you want to play it?”

The way he said it meant he already had an opinion. So she responded, “Gee, I don’t know, Ollie--what d’you think?”

He scratched the scarred eyebrow, which meant he knew she wasn’t gonna like his suggestion. She could generally read his body language just fine, she thought smugly; only the peripherals she had problems with. He said, “Well, thought you might want to stop here while I had a look-see. Has some advantage, bein’ farsighted. Get a bit of a look at what’s up beforehand, not just go barging in blind….”

Buffy showed him a bright, perky smile. “Barging’s quicker. And has the new wonder ingredient, Surprise. I like that better.”

“Barge it is, then.”

They unshipped weapons--Spike reversing the axe so it was blade-up, the haft securely under his knee, Buffy dangling the broadsword low on the right, just high enough so its tip wouldn’t drag on the pavement.

Spike said, “One pass through, then back, plow into ‘em, ditch the bike, and go for the center.”

“Definitely hot,” Buffy agreed, and braced as the bike took off.

**********

Slayer wanted sudden, he could give her sudden. But a moment’s longer lead time would give him a sense of the whole, where to hit first. With Buffy hanging on with one arm, behind, Spike took the bike to the entrance at the opposite end of the parking lot, rolling slow and soft, seeing what he could see.

A few hundred feet off, silhouetted against the bonfire, were a bunch of blokes in monkish garb except colorful, reds and yellows and greens in the flickering light. Half a dozen or so, gesturing and chanting: their voices reached him faintly. Bloke toward the front, that would be the head Mage, was in black, with silver trim: easy to mark him, then. Take him out first, demoralize his chums, do them after.

Next to the fire, trussed up to poles, were the sacrificial victims. Blood magic: stood to reason there’d be victims. Two poles were empty, surrounded by heaps of coals. Two gone, then. Three still alive, all dressed in white ankle-length tabards or rectangular ponchos or whatever the hell people were calling that sort of laundry-wear at the moment, except that the head Mage was bending to light the kindling around one’s feet. Goddam: virgin sacrifices. Spike wouldn’t have thought it possible to corral five virgins past the age of twelve in any mid-sized American town, let alone Sunnydale, whose working motto seemed to be Live fast, before you die young. Not counting Dawn, of course.

Must be a major Working, to require the shedding of five virgin sacrifices. Spike wondered idly what the spell was intended to accomplish, not that it mattered since he and the Slayer were gonna bust it up. Five virgins. Even Jem-Har-Reesh, a pompous arsehole who claimed to have overseen the erection of the Tower of Babel, hadn’t needed but three to properly anoint the dedicated foundation stone, if his lackey’s account was to be trusted.

Failing to find any switch to turn the bike’s headlight off, Spike reached with the butt-end of the axe and smashed the bulb. No need to give more notice than they had to. Pity to damage the bike so soon and all, but there you were.

Do the Archmage first, he decided, then concentrate the second pass on getting between the colorful monk Mages, Acolytes, whatever the hell they were, and the sacrifices. Stop the thing from going forward, and Slayer would likely be pleased to rescue the remaining virgins, so that was second priority.

Rescuing virgins always sounded good, even though it wasn’t in Spike’s present job description. He’d even let them go, if he had to: the bike was spoils enough for one night.

He patted the Slayer’s knee to warn her, unlimbered the axe one-handed, and let the bike show him what it could do.

Halfway to the target, they were doing sixty and still accelerating. Couldn’t manage a lot by way of finesse at that speed, but Spike braced the butt of the axe haft under his right arm, guided it with his left, and took the Archmage through the face with the blade. Let the haft drop crossways, after, to hold the bike steady through whatever cleavage Buffy was doing to the right, and then they were past and he was braking hard, pulling the bike into the tightest whip-about he could manage, all but standing it on its nose. As the bike straightened and the rear wheel caught, grabbed, and started to push again, he saw a fireball coming right at his head.

Bloody hell.

He leaned, shouting, “Down!” and laid the bike skidding on its side, Buffy springing clear and running past, bringing the big sword around to lay into the remaining rainbow monks. Spike heaved the bike off and started for the sacrifices, gathering in the axe and choking up the haft, limping pretty bad because his right knee and leg had been torn up fairly thoroughly in the skid, but he was still on his feet and moving, so it didn’t matter.

The nearest girl, the one that’d been set alight, was too fully engulfed to have much hope of, and he’d only catch fire himself if he tried. Went at her anyway because the other two were safe, just needed cutting free. Squinting against the heat, he saw a clear spot--rope, post, no flesh--and whacked it hard. Rope was cut through. The burning girl toppled toward him just as something hot hit him square in the back.

He did something, bled the heat off somehow. Didn’t think about it, just laid the horribly injured girl down and limped on to the next, freed her, and likewise with the third. Then he swung around to find out how Buffy was faring with the rainbow contingent.

They were all down and Buffy had her phone to her face--calling Emergency Services, most like, for the burned girl. Looking, all the while, straight at him.

All sorted, then. Bonfire seemed to have gone out some way: big fuming pile. Odd.

Spike dropped down on the pavement to take a moment’s breather, rest the leg, have a cig before he had to right the bike and get them gone. No rush: Sunnydale Emergency Services were not paragons of haste on calls late at night, more’s the pity.

Ex-virgins…no, ex-sacrifices, they were presumably still virgins--had run to Buffy and they were all gabbling shrilly together. Fine, so long as it wasn’t him. He felt strange and couldn’t seem to get his lighter to stay lit. Flame would take and then immediately snuff out. Healing was kicking in, though: pain in his knee was abating, and the whole leg felt as though some cool, numbing salve had been poured over it. Probably do well enough by the time he had to stand on it again.

He was still working on the lighter when Buffy came up, asking with odd hesitancy, “Are you all right?”

The lighter chose that moment to quit being balky, and he finally got the cig lit and took a drag. Needed it, somehow, more than usual. Still felt strange. At last exhaling, he responded, “Nothing that won’t mend. Hope I’ve not wrecked the bleeding bike.”

Using the axe haft for support, he stood and went back to the bike, still buzzing like a toppled locust. Heaved it back upright and got it on its kickstand, to check it out. Some chrome on the pipes scraped and the right side mirror cracked, but otherwise no great harm he could see. And it was still running. Good enough.

As he patted it approvingly on the gas tank, his sense of unease flared into alarm. He finally registered the brightening sky to the east. Bare minutes to sunrise.

Not enough time to get Buffy home, but enough to reach the factory, he thought.

Swinging onto the bike, he said, “Sun’s coming. Stay, or come with?”

Her answer was to slide onto the bike behind him.

They tore off, racing the deadly light.

**********

When Spike hopped off the bike and dove for the alcove, he’d already started to smoke. Buffy turned off the bike and took the keys, following more slowly, trying to think through what had happened, what she’d seen.

Apparently there wasn’t gonna be a repeat of the phenomenon in daylight; but in daylight, she probably couldn’t have seen it anyway.

The sentry had the sense to move clear, so Buffy barely noticed him, continuing into the interior of the factory. Spike was headed toward his glassed-in cubicle in back--no longer smoking and not limping so plainly. Remembering her, he wheeled and waited for her to catch up, setting his hands on her shoulders when she did.

“You look to be all in one piece.”

“Yeah. And you’re not all dusty.” She patted his face, unable to shed the anxiety she’d felt when a red-clad mage had hurled a fireball at his back and there’d been nothing she could do to prevent it hitting him. Whatever had happened, it certainly wasn’t her doing.

“’M fine,” he responded predictably, turning with her toward the back, right arm across her shoulders. “Long night for you, though: want me to send out for some coffee?”

“No time. I’d accept one of your crazy-making stims, though.”

“Yeah, still got a few.”

While Spike pawed through his desk drawers, Buffy dialed Xander, whom she considered her best bet at retrieval, construction work apparently being a dawn-to-dark business. If she hadn’t already missed him….

Xander’s voice greeted her, “I refuse to believe there are now sunrise apocalypses.”

Reading the caller ID first thing, obviously.

Buffy responded, “No apocalypse, just me stuck out at the factory with no transport. Can you swing by, get me home?”

A thoughtful pause. “Would it be indelicate--”

“Xander,” Buffy said wearily, “don’t be a poop-head. Just come get me, all right?”

“One rescue from sinister factory coming right up. I was just on my way out the door anyway. Ten minutes.”

As she put the phone back in the stake bag, Spike was out by the gap in the barricade, shouting for water. In a glass.

She’d now seen him as Dawn once had, in the last moments of the Hellmouth: an Elf lord revealed in his wraith, Dawn had called it afterward. Or less fancifully, Buffy’d seen what Willow reported seeing when she bothered to look--his aura. Enormous flaming wings blazing against the dark, sucking in the flung fireball, sucking every lick of flame out of the bonfire and the burning sacrifice, before going to a bright shimmering web of spangles, and then vanished, all in maybe two seconds.

She’d heard it, known it: how he’d survived closing the Hellmouth, after all, and kept the inferno heat off those there with him, too: Dawn, and Anya, and Mike. Knowing it was one thing. Seeing it…that was definitely something else.

When he came back with the glass of water and offered her a pill on the flat of his hand, Buffy asked, taking them, “Do you know what you did, when that fireball hit?”

"Didn't hit: dodged it."

"No, the other one. Afterward. When you were freeing the burning girl."

“That what it was.” He didn’t seem interested. “Didn’t do nothing. It just went off, some way. Fizzled.”

“No,” Buffy said, and gulped down the pill, shaking her head. “You did it. I saw you. Went all blaze-y. Like big wings. You channeled it.”

“Huh. Well, convenient, I guess.”

“Has it ever happened before?”

He got a cigarette out. His lighter, she noted, was now working properly, on the first flick. “Not that I know of. Except the once, of course. Hellmouth, and all.”

“You’re still doing it,” Buffy said, wanting a reaction proportionate to the vision--Spike as an angel of Light. Lacking only a flaming sword.

He was checking his watch and made an annoyed face. “Two hours before Ken shows up. Want to have her roll the bike inside, so I can look it over proper.”

He just wasn’t getting it at all.

“I can do it,” she offered, puzzled and frustrated by his lack of interest.

“That’d be fine. Ta, then. Give the whelp my love and I’ll see you tonight. At the gym,” he added, when she continued to stare at him blankly.

“Right. The gym.”

"Skip the training today: you'll need the rest. Don't forget, though, about calling Demon Girl, that I'm gonna have the gear picked up."

"Right. I'll remember."

His mental checklist complete, Spike dropped onto his cot and was asleep, just about instantaneously. Buffy took another sip of water, wondering how long it took the mental-alertness non-sleepy pill to kick in. Leaving the glass on Spike’s desk, she wandered outside just in time to meet Rona arriving with the morning delivery of tribute blood. The SIT was annoyed to have again been given no directions where to bring it. “I mean, he’s all over the frickin’ map, different every day, and he never bothers to call, and how does he expect me--”

“He has a lot on his mind,” Buffy cut in soothingly, accepting the handles of the styrofoam cool box and passing the box smoothly off to the sentry, still taking no note of him except as an anonymous presence to her left. She was trying to decide whether to ask Rona for a lift home or wait for Xander, since she’d already called him out here anyway.

Pointing, Buffy said, “Rona, Spike’s got another bike. Give me a hand getting it inside?”

“That’s Spike’s? Cool! Mike see it yet?”

"Maybe. I don't think so. I don't know." Despite his odd courtship of Dawn, around in the yard or on the porch every night for months, Buffy wasn't sure she'd know Mike unless he stood before her with a big sign.

"He'll be green! Maybe they'll have a race."

"Why?" Buffy asked, inserting the key and turning it until the handlebars unlocked.

"Oh, they're always doing stuff like that. Dominance games. Like all vamps do."

"Oh."

The problem wasn’t the weight, it was the balance. With Buffy steering and Rona pushing, they bumped the motorcycle up the single step into the anteroom. Not knowing how the kickstand worked, Buffy leaned the bike against a bank of file cabinets lining the far wall. Spike could have somebody take it from there. One of his crew. Maybe even this sentry, whom she still hadn’t looked full in the face.

With a sense of Aha!, she recognized it as an instance of gatekeeper-enforced selective blindness. Caught herself at it!

She turned and confronted the sentry. In human face, he looked about twenty. Brown hair, brown eyes, no visible marks or scars; taller than she was, perhaps 5’ 10”, weight maybe 180. Wearing the colors, of course. Buffy demanded, “What’s your name?”

The vamp gulped, nervous and surprised to be addressed. “Called Deuce, Miss. Slayer.”

“Get the bike inside where Spike can look at it.”

“Sure, Miss.”

“‘Slayer’ will do,” Buffy responded dryly, then made herself add his name: “Deuce.”

“Right.” He didn’t seem quite sure if he was supposed to salute.

Idiot, Buffy thought, without rancor, and went back down the step into the sunlight to wait for Xander, since he’d be peeved to arrive and find her already gone.

Chapter 5: Safety Through Fitness

When Buffy opened the gym door, she gulped: wall-to-wall people.

If Spike didn’t show up, she’d definitely murder him.

As she was releasing the door, she heard the basso purr of the approaching bike. Jerking a sudden, hysterical smile at everybody looking at her expectantly, she spun back outside and fled to the bike, looking over her shoulder as if at a pursuing bear.

“Spike--there’s people in there!”

“Yeah. And?”

“I mean, like, thousands of ‘em! I can’t talk to thousands of people!”

She finally looked and found him regarding her quizzically. “Stage fright? Never would’ve taken you for that, pet. Think as though they were vamps: still think they’re thousands?”

Buffy frowned and probably pouted. “Well, no,” she admitted, replaying the one terrifying glimpse she’d had. “Maybe sixty. If they were vamps.”

“Sixty’s still a lot. We’ll just take it like you’d eat an elephant: cut ‘em up in bite-size pieces.” Sliding spread fingers into her hair, he pulled her down into a lingering, reassuring kiss. Releasing her, he stepped off the opposite side of the bike, remarking, “Reinforcements coming, be here soon. I just been on with Red, they’re fetching something. Meanwhile, you just go on, get them warmed up--”

“Oh, no. Oh, no. No way, Jose. You have to go in too. Now. It’s your fanclub!”

Buffy grabbed his wrist and dragged him, laughing and protesting, to the door. She shoved him in first, for good measure.

When she edged in behind, the gabble of conversation had shut up and Spike, perfectly self-assured and composed, was eating the whole elephant up with his eyes, deciding where to make the first cut.

“Well, hullo again,” he said. “Glad the word’s spread, ‘bout this fine class. For you new folk, this is Miss Elizabeth Anne Summers,” (He dragged her around in front, so she could give them all a glazed, demented grin.) “your instructor in ‘How to Stay Alive in Sunnydale.’ That was the course title, wasn’t it, pet?”

“‘Safety through Fitness,’” Buffy responded, adding hastily, “but I like yours better.”

“That’s fine too. Just so long as you people didn’t show up for macramé, tatting, pet care, ‘cause we don’t do none of that poofter stuff here. Who has a notebook?” About five were wildly waved in the air. “Fine: some folk knew to come prepared. Mindy,” he said, with the barest frowning pause to call up the name, which was grounds for murder all by itself, “you tear out a page and pass it around. And you first-timers sign it, so we’ll know who-all you are. Write so it can be read, please.”

Before he could go on, Buffy rose on her toes to whisper, “That’s the first time I ever heard you say ‘please.’”

He looked around. “Well, have to have my public manners on, don’t I? And don’t say you never heard me beg, because that’s a filthy fib.” Looking back to the crowd, he went on, “An’ I’m William, known to my friends and many enemies as ‘Spike.’ Where’s my two tripping blokes? Andy and…George? Yeah, see you. All right, you know from jumping jacks. Get the group divided in two and lead off. Got some setting up still to do here.” To Buffy, he said quietly, “My lot, and the SITs, they’ll be along momentarily. Divide up the herd in smaller bunches when they get here. Meantime, you figure out what’s next. Got some culling to do.”

Buffy hung onto his elbow, holding him place. “What d’you mean?”

“Vamps,” Spike replied tightly.

“If they behave,” Buffy surprised both of them by saying, “they can stay.”

“Don’t think that’s such a great idea, pet.”

“What are you gonna do: dust ‘em? Right in front of everybody, and the lights on?”

“Nooo…escort ‘em outside. Then dust ‘em. Or give ‘em a boot in the rear if I’m feeling kindly. You don’t want vamps in here, pet.”

“It’s my class. I get to say who can stay and who can’t. Steer ‘em over in some corner and I’ll talk to them.”

“Your call,” responded Spike, with a dubious glance and a shrug, and went off to separate the visiting vamps from the other attendees. About half the nearest group, beginning jumping jacks with their appointed pro-tem instructors, turned heads to watch Spike pass.

And he wasn’t even wearing the flash tonight--just the usual well-worn jeans and black tee. Not even the duster. Didn’t matter. Moving, intent, Spike still looked like raw sex on legs.

No sweep and no patrol tonight, Buffy reflected. Hmmm.

It took Spike very little time to cut out the vamps. A tap and a point toward the rear corner was all it took. Then Spike gave Buffy the high sign and they both closed in on the uneasy little group. Doing something like an impression of Principal Snyder viewing a bunch of boys caught cherry-bombing a toilet (only looking a whole lot better, undead, than Snyder ever looked alive) Spike stood with his arms folded, leaving the call to her.

Buffy looked them over: six vamps, probably all fledges, two of them already lapsed to game face. Buffy didn’t take that as hostility or imminent attack: she knew they couldn’t help it, and they certainly looked miserable and embarrassed, features twitching, trying unsuccessfully to recall a more human appearance.

“All right,” she said coldly, “why are you here? Figure it’d be easy pickings?”

All the heads shook emphatic No’s. One of the human-faced girls said bluntly, “Heard Spike would be here. I’ve been up at the factory every evening this week and he wouldn’t even look at me, much less talk to me. Thought maybe this would give me a chance. Spike,” she said, looking straight at him, “I’m volunteering. I can fight, and I can housekeep. By the look of that place, you need somebody--”

Spike said, “Shut up,” in a tone Buffy’d never heard him use before. The girl vamp volunteer immediately shut up but kept looking at him.

Another vamp, one of the game-faced guys, blurted, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s happened. I was coming home from class, and then bang, something jumped me. And I wanted--”

Spike cut in, saying to the first girl, “You know where Digger’s territory is?”

“Yes. It’s--”

“Him, and the rest like him, you take ‘em there when we’re done here. Tell Digger they’re a present.” When the girl nodded, Spike did a point-point directing those in game face (now three) to go stand to his right.

That left two, both still maintaining human face. When Buffy looked at him, the one on the left flashed a look at Spike, then bent his head and contemplated the floor. He was blond (Buffy forced herself to notice), on the skinny side, and looked in his mid-twenties. “I’m Digger’s. I’m a spy. See what’s going on here. Digger heard what happened Tuesday and told me to say it was none of his doing. I can take those fledges back. If you want.”

“Talk to the lady,” Spike responded, in that flat, curt tone. “She’s in charge here.”

“Slayer,” said the vamp, politely bobbing his head, eyes downcast. “I won’t make any trouble. My orders are to watch and report. I would have cleared it with Spike first, but there wasn’t time.”

Buffy delayed a ruling on that one: she’d never had to deal with an admitted spy before and wanted Spike’s opinion before she decided. So she turned to the one on the right. A woman, maybe thirty; short brown hair and a pleasant expression. The woman offered, “I’m Bea, also of Digger’s district in the new ordering. Not sent, just came. I was curious. I’ve been talking to that new fledge, Suzanne. She says she knows you. Both.”

“How old?” Spike asked her abruptly.

“Coming on six years now. About the same as Mike.” Bea’s glance shifted, and the SITs and three vamps (in the colors) were coming in the door, two of the vamps carrying middle-sized cartons they stacked on the lowest tier of the bleachers. The other vamp and the SITs were tossing down long blue tumbling pads--from the Magic Box annex, Buffy realized.

One vamp was Deuce, and another was a black woman--a surly Amazon Buffy would never confuse with Rona. So the third, Buffy figured, the tall one talking with Amanda, had to be Mike. He looked vaguely familiar. Buffy thought she recollected him from a challenge fight with Spike. Maybe.

Buffy drew Spike a few steps aside, asking, “Is the spy gonna be a problem?”

“Not as such. ‘Less he loses his head and goes for somebody.”

“I’ll risk that. What about Bea?”

“Oh, she’ll be all right. Know her a bit, actually. Gut somebody as soon as look at ‘em, good knife fighter for a vamp.”

Buffy gave him a look. “That’s not much of a recommendation for a social gathering.”

“She can hear us, you know,” Spike mentioned, scratching an eyebrow. “Think I’m gonna insult her, say she’s all fuzzy and safe?”

“Right,” Buffy admitted, and turned back to the pair, asking the spy his name. He claimed to be called “Bud.” “OK, Bud and Bea, you can stay on the condition you behave the same as everybody around you.”

“I planned to,” Bea said, and Bud nodded, commenting, “I already said. Slayer.”

“Next time,” Spike said, “anybody figures to show up, no fledges can’t shed game face for the whole hour, and get themselves fed up first, right? This is a class, not a hot lunch line. And you fledges: who sired you? Who turned you?” Despite the explanation, all Spike got back was blank looks. The one who’d been jumped on his way back from class offered feebly, “It was dark,” and one of the others nodded hard, agreeing nonsensically, “Me, too.” The other two looked too slack-jawed, dim, and frightened for speech, being confronted with a contemptuous Master Vampire wanting answers, and Spike didn’t pursue the matter, waving the off disgustedly with their escort--directing them out through the school rather than back through the class, that just might have noticed something peculiar about them--those not too locked in on Spike.

All right,” he called louder, crossing the floor, holding an arm up straight to get everybody’s attention, as though he needed to. “Andy and George got you all warmed up, right? And all the new folk signed the paper?”

Various voices and pointing hands indicated it was on the lowest bleacher seat, all complete.

“Fine. Gonna do something different now. Sort yourselves into six groups, about even. Started last time with easy throws. Tonight, we’re gonna do ‘em for real. Got pads now to cut down on the breakage. You got something pointy or breakable on you, might want to store it on the bench. Sitting this one out, myself,” Spike said, doing so. “Michael, you go at…Miss Elizabeth. Buffy, here. She’s gonna demonstrate a throw on you.”

And Buffy found herself standing near the end of a long blue pad, facing a brown-haired, hazel-eyed vamp at least a foot taller, and at least double her weight. He didn’t look at all nervous and just stood there…waiting, she realized, for her to take a balanced stance. When she did, he nodded slightly and came at her, vamp-fast, arms wide, ready to bowl her over with sheer weight and momentum. Buffy turned aside, bending with the impact, coming up under him while catching one of his elbows in both hands. She lifted with her back, heaved down on the elbow, and he sailed over, landing flat on his back on the pad. He rolled to his feet, looking around a bit shyly to find his demonstration greeted by wild applause.

Buffy understood: Spike wanted the contrast between her size and the much bigger vamp, to show it could be done. However, two could play at that, and more than size and weight to be factored in. “Mike,” she said, halting the vamp, and turned the sweetest of smiles on Spike. “Throw Spike.”

“All right,” Spike decided, getting up leisurely. “The lady says. Get yourself set, pup.”

Buffy ceded her place at the foot of the pad, and Spike made the predictable big show of loosening his shoulders, getting ready. Then he went at Mike…and cheated: grabbed Mike’s shoulders as he went over, hauling Mike with him. With his legs up and bent as he landed, Spike boosted Mike a good fifteen feet onto bare floor, face-first.

Bouncing up, Spike gave Buffy a pleased smirk, then waggled a hand at Mike, inviting him to come at him. Mike tipped his head a moment, considering, then smiled and came: two long running steps, then a full-out dive at knee-level there was no avoiding…unless Spike kicked him in the face. And it was still a social occasion, a class, with lots of civilian onlookers. Not a challenge fight at Willy’s; not a street brawl. Mike apparently had a nice sense of the occasion: Spike was taken straight down on his back. They slid, Mike on top, all the way into the bottom of the bleachers. Straight-faced, Mike offered Spike a hand in getting up. Spike batted it away, then took it and was lightly pulled to his feet, to the applause and slightly nervous laughter of the class.

“Fun and games,” Spike said sourly, loud enough for everybody to hear. “Everybody has to have their little joke. Let me know when it’s my turn to toss you, Buffy.”

“Some other time, Spike. Like never.”

“We’ll discuss that. Some other time. Looks to me like certain people don’t know when they’re well off. All right, people: everybody sorted? All sharp points and breakables put away? False teeth? All right, then, each group line up at the far end of one of the mats and we’ll work you into the act.”

For awhile, everybody was scattered and busy easing the civilians into the fine art of throwing an attacker over one’s back. Buffy was advising Bea not to hit the humans so hard when she caught sight of Spike backed against a wall by a total blonde menace, hair held in a vertical tuft, groping as much of Spike’s anatomy as she could reach and Spike not doing his utmost to dislodge her, either. “Excuse me,” Buffy said, not recollecting she was talking to a vamp, and made her way extremely quickly to the wall. “Excuse me,” she said again, in a much more menacing tone. “Something you need help with?”

“Hi,” said the girl. “I’m Candy, and you were awesome too!”

“She’s a virgin,” Spike explained.

“I certainly hope so!” The blonde looked barely Dawn’s age, though quite a bit curvier in her shiny purple spandex outfit. Or maybe it was paint.

“One from last night,” Spike clarified further. “Sacrifices? Post? She wanted to say thanks…personally.”

“I can see that.” Buffy also could see Spike was having a really hard time keeping a straight face. “You’re welcome,” Buffy told Candy, with hard-eyed civility. “It’s a service we perform. Sometimes. In our off hours.”

“But you really, really were,” Candy told Spike, obviously continuing the adoring gush Buffy had interrupted. “With the wings and everything. Are you positively certain you’re not an angel?”

Spike sputtered. “Absolutely positively certain. Not a name I’d have anything to do with.”

“Oh,” cried Candy, dismayed, “I didn’t mean-- I mean, if it’s secret or something--”

“You weren’t to know. Now be a pet and don’t let yourself get caught like that again.” Spike turned her around and gave her a firm push toward the nearest group. To her back, he muttered, “Silly cow.” Then he met Buffy’s angry eyes and did a take.

“You’re too old for her.”

“Love, I’m too old for everybody, with the possible exception of Mae West. Not my fault here. Got mugged.”

“Yeah, sure. Do I need to get you a leash?”

“Oh, and there was this collar, studs like the belt, maybe a whip, just a small one, and--”

Spike was smirking again, and Buffy felt her face heating. She bounced him against the wall, still smirking, and stomped back to the group she was supervising.

The class finished out with all participants having been thrower and throwee at least once apiece with no casualties except some bruises and the nose-piece of one set of glasses cracked, and none of the remaining assorted vamps going game-faced where anybody could see them. Good enough, Buffy figured wearily, watching them scatter to collect their jackets and belongings while the vamps and the SITs took up the pads and started carrying them outside.

“One last thing,” Spike called, holding his arm up, and apparently everybody knew that as an order to gather around him in a semicircle in front of the bleachers. “See, this here,” he said, pulling up one flap of a carton, then displaying a plastic bottle about the right size for shampoo, “this is Sunnydale mugger repellant. I have this consultant who’s a witch, and she magicked it for me. And you’re absolutely, positively not to tell anybody else about this, right?” He looked around for all the solemn nodding. “Now we’re testing this out, and the trial samples are free. But only if you’re really gonna use it, see, because these cost us a fair chunk of change, plus the consultant’s fee, to get this first batch out. So if you’re not gonna use it, don’t take any. Right? This is about a year’s supply: don’t want to use much, you’ll stink up the place. Just a dab on the finger, then under the ear, both sides.” He demonstrated: right over both carotid arteries. “Specially at night, when you’re goin’ out--works best then. You try it a week, let me or Miss Elizabeth know if it’s working right: see somebody you think might be a mugger, they should veer right off, not come near you. If that doesn’t happen, we want to know about that too,” he added, like that was likely, a vamp victim coming back afterward to report the attack. Buffy restrained herself from snorting.

“Candy,” Spike said, waving in the blonde, “dramatic moment here: first smell test. So, tell everybody: is it awful, pet?”

Slinky, purple spandex virgin Candy wasn’t at all averse to getting her face right into Spike’s neck and breathing deeply. “No!” she reported happily. “It’s nice! Smells a little like lilies! Mmmm!”

Spike was not quite mobbed and bowled over by civilians eager to get their hands on the free samples…because Buffy dragged him out of the crush with the comment, “Leash.”

“Only if you get the collar, love. And all the trimmings. Might have to go to a different store for that, though.”

“Pig.”

“Not if I wear the collar for you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Buffy challenged.

“Try me,” Spike replied smugly. “All right if we park the leftovers in your office, for when the thundering hordes descend on you tomorrow?”

“But you said they had to keep it secret!”

Spike looked even more smug. “That’s just to guarantee it’ll be all over the school by morning. Children that age, keeping a secret? Never happen. You test, pet: Red still got it too flowery?”

Buffy gave it a good, thorough test. It wasn’t the overwhelming, funereal odor of the previous test batch. She could separate out a trace of vanilla and a tiny bit of lily, but the impression was…darker, somehow. It smelled…like aroused male. It smelled like sex.

Buffy pulled back, wide-eyed. “We’re giving that away to a bunch of high school kids?”

“Have to make it appealing, love, or they won’t use it,” Spike commented quietly. “Which would you sooner have--the occasional wild orgy, or children with their throats ripped out?”

“Whooh!” Buffy said, waving her hand before her face. Most of the civilians were trying out the scent, and the result was pretty overwhelming. Following the departing class, making way for the crew stuffing the pads into the trunk and rear of an ancient, sagging blue Ford sedan, Buffy gulped air scented only with exhaust fumes. Drifting out behind her, Spike lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall, narrow-eyed against the smoke.

“Cousins have had the best part of a month to get acquainted with it,” he remarked, using what Buffy recognized as a common term for vamps, among vamps. “Guess we’ll see how well they remember it. And if they recall what I told ‘em would happen if they don’t.”

“You gonna do a sweep tonight?” Buffy asked, disappointed.

He nodded. “Just me, on my own again. ‘F they leave the smell alone, I’ll leave them alone. Have to begin the way you mean to go on.”

Passing by, the big vamp, Mike, said, “I’ll help. If you want. Be around anyway.” He continued by without waiting for an answer. Spike’s eyes followed him thoughtfully.

Buffy said softly, “He means hunting. Doesn’t he.”

“I expect. Buffy, I called a meeting for after the class. A lot happening now. Time to compare notes, make sure everybody’s got it all straight. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“No. Meeting’s good, I guess.” Scuffing her foot, Buffy added, “And I noticed how quick you changed the subject.”

“They’re vamps, Buffy. Not gonna change that. Just spread the damage a little different, maybe.”

“I have trouble with that part of it.”

“Know you do. Knew you would. And it’s still to be seen if it’s gonna work anything like I mean it to. But what would you put in its place? Patrol the cemeteries, take out a few fledges each week?”

Buffy shook her head slowly. “At least it’s not a compromise.”

“Not about to argue with you, Slayer. You do what you feel is proper. And so will I.”

“I don’t know, Spike. The idea still bothers me.”

“You don’t have to know about it. Any more than you choose to.”

“That’s part of what bothers me. Not knowing’s not an acceptable choice, either.” Buffy gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then went back inside. The smell had thinned out considerably. But it was still there. Like a ghost of passion and regret.

**********

Willow and Dawn were a little late for the meeting because Willow had to stop for the munchies and drinks that were traditional at Scooby meetings. Actually, just the drinks: she'd ordered the pastries ahead and picked them up after her last afternoon class, but you couldn't do that with mochas, lattes, and cappuccinos, which were no good, stale and cold. Parking at the school, Willow collected the two pastry boxes--each almost the size of a pizza box because after all, you didn’t want the jelly donuts getting on the bear claws or the donuts covered with confectioner’s sugar getting on the Danish--while Dawn went sedately ahead balancing the first cardboard tray of drinks.

Surprisingly, the gym doors stood open, so kicking on them wasn’t required. Everybody was variously sitting on the floor and perched on the bottom tiers of the bleachers. Dawn set the first tray down a little distance away and turned back for the second while Willow made Anya budge to have a central place to open the boxes and display their contents.

“I got jelly,” Willow announced, “I forgot Giles wasn’t here, but that’s OK, Xander likes the jelly, too, and then there’s the usual….” She started enumerating and pointing until Spike interrupted quietly, “Sit down, Red.”

“Oh,” said Willow, surprised and a bit flustered, because after all, having Spike call a Scooby meeting was a bit flustery, and what was Mike doing here for that?

Before Willow could think of a tactful way to ask, Dawn came back with the second drink tray and Buffy asked sharply, “Dawn, do you have your homework done?”

“As much as it needs to be done,” Dawn responded with a private smile, setting the tray down next to the other one, and everything went chaotic while everybody stirred around collecting the pastry and drink of their choice, and Dawn was taken care of but Willow hadn’t brought anything for Mike, no way she could have known and she didn’t know his preferences anyway, or if he even liked human food, like Spike did, and how could anybody expect her to be responsible for things when they didn’t give her sufficient information. Then she noticed the smell, and stood taking it in, smiling.

Still a little strong: an explanation why the doors were left ajar, to let the gym air out. But pleasant, attractive, and damn sexy, just as she’d intended. Good batch, she decided. They could proceed with that.

“Sit down, Red,” Spike directed again, but she hadn’t collected her drink but that wasn’t hard--the only milkshake, it was the only cup left in the tray--but Mike’s hands were still empty, he hadn’t collected anything for himself--

Interpreting her distressed dithering, Mike told her, “I’m good.”

“Oh,” Willow responded, greatly relieved, and took a seat and tried to look attentive, licking powdered sugar off her fingers.

“Dawnie,” Buffy asked in a slow, thoughtful way that made Willow think she’d crash soon, after being wildly hyper all day, apparently been into Spike’s pep pill stash, and that never lasted, “what are you doing here?”

Willow blurted, “She wanted to come, and, and, I needed help carrying the drinks. Also…something’s happened. With Amy. And maybe Dawn noticed things I didn’t, and it’s pretty awful, actually, and shutting up now until it’s my turn.”

Buffy’s eyes tracked from Dawn to Willow as though she had to push them manually, like a cart on rails. “Willow, have you been into Spike’s pills?”

Willow shook her head hard and emphatically. “Just coffee, honest. Lots and lots of coffee! Hence,” she added, displaying her tall cup as proof, "the milkshake."

“I believe it,” Buffy commented solemnly. “Well, suppose you tell us what happened, then.”

Having inserted her straw through the cap, Willow took a big sip of non-caffeinated chocolaty reassurance and then swallowed a few times. “Well, we went out yesterday afternoon to see if I could get some information out of Amy about the spellcasting on Spike. I tried to get in and out before dark, Halloween and everything, but I couldn’t quite manage that because of, well, you know. Anyway, I took Dawn, she came along, as a power source. That I could draw on, if I needed to. All that latent keyness, you know, and that she’s, well, you know.”

Crosslegged on the floor, as usual, Spike leaned his head back, commenting, “More virgins.”

Willow slid an apologetic glance to Dawn, who showed no sign of minding having her qualifications to be an extra strong power source itemized. “Anyway,” Willow resumed, “I pretty well confirmed Amy had composed the deathwish, so it seems likely she also made the sparkly powder. But I can’t be 100% sure.”

Buffy asked the obvious question: “Why not?”

Willow poked her straw into the cup a few times uncomfortably. “Well, it got dark, I hadn’t noticed, and I suppose I wasted a little time in, you know, bragging and gloating and making threats, it’s traditional--”

“Noun, Will,” prompted Buffy.

“She caught fire, I didn’t mean to, just all of a sudden I had all this power--!” (Willow’s hands sketched its dimension in the air, arm’s length around.) “--and I guess it sort of got away from me some way. And then it stopped, with her all flamey and everything, it just stopped, and some way I’d made a stasis to hold her like that though I don’t even know how to make a stasis, just know one when I see one but what else could it be, after all? I’ve been researching it nearly all day, in the C.O.W. database mostly, it’s really lucky that didn’t get blown up, and I have a call in to the coven, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet, probably the time difference. Or something.”

After a minute of total silence, during which Willow completely wanted to sink into the floor, Buffy asked in an unconvincingly neutral tone, “And you took Dawn. And sucked power out of Dawn, to do all this.”

Staring at her knees, Willow nodded miserably.

“I’m all right,” Dawn volunteered cheerily. “Just fine.”

“And this Amy,” said Spike, “this other witch, hanging there burning all this while.”

“Pretty much,” Willow admitted, chancing a quick glance, and was surprised (and relieved) to find that Spike’s cold eyes weren’t on her, but on Dawn, who seemed to take no notice, busy pulling apart her bear claw with tiny pinches.

“Right,” Spike drawled, finally breaking that intent inspection to light a cigarette.

They were all heavily into displacement activity tonight, Willow noticed. Except for Mike, who sat perfectly still to Spike’s right, quietly watching it all.

“All right,” Spike continued, “so that’s one thing. Buffy and me, we have another. Broke up a Working just before sunrise, out at the mall parking lot. Blokes had five virgin sacrifices to be shed to power it, all lined up, trussed up to poles. Blood magic, it felt like, to me: catching twinges of it clear across town, from about midnight on, though not strong enough for me to home in on. Just twinges. Anyway, these girls, they weren’t gonna shed their lives with knives, the usual way: gonna burn ‘em. Two already gone, and one set alight, when we got there. So, spaced instead of all together, which is not the usual thing, either. And the mages, monks, whatever, were in colors--different colors. Red, green, yellow. No blue. An’ the leader, the Archmage, in black with silver trim. Not usual, for them not to be uniform. Sometimes the leader a different color, or special trim, but not the troops. Victims, they were in the usual white. S’how I knew they were virgins: can’t tell by just looking at ‘em, of course. Buffy,” he asked, turning to her, “how many, all told?”

Jerking, wide-eyed, Buffy responded, “How many what?”

Spike’s face went all shuttered and soft. “No matter, love. Come down here.”

“Why?”

“Come on. You’ll be more comfy down here.” Spike patted his leg.

Like a sleepwalker, Buffy rose from the bleacher seat, stumbled the few yards between, and flopped down across Spike’s lap, head pillowed on a bent arm. Smiling. Spike gathered her in like a whipcord-thin, wrong-gender, peroxided Madonna, solemn and loving.

“Crashed,” Willow stated wisely.

“Seems so,” Spike agreed. “Guess she didn’t catch any rest, after all. Well, I know how that goes…. Anyway. There were about a half dozen of these mages, give or take. Couldn’t say for sure if the number was even or uneven, if that matters. Busy at the time. And like you, Red, I spent a good part of the afternoon poking through the Watchers’ archives. Couldn’t come up with a match for the colors. Figure they had to be fire mages of some sort or other, since they didn’t shed the children direct. Used fire as a weapon, too. Thought if I could get a handle on what they were, I might be able to get an idea of what they were about: what the Working was. Something major, with that many sacrifices…. Haven’t got any farther than that, though. So I thought I’d hand it off to you, Red. See if you could make any more of it than I did.”

“Can’t deal with that now,” Willow responded, and sucked hard at her milkshake. “Have to figure out what to do about Amy. Before the stasis fails.”

“These man-witches,” Xander put in, from the second row of bleachers. “Were they human?”

Spike visibly closed down, and that drew a glance from Mike, as though Spike had said something. What Spike did say was, “Possibly. Slayer, she mostly dealt with them. I was getting the virgins clear, so they didn’t all burn up.”

“Were they human, Spike?” Xander persisted.

“Expect so. Yes.”

“And you killed them.”

“Yes. We did, Slayer and I. You have a problem with that, Harris?”

“I don’t know, Spike,” Xander replied, saying Spike’s name with particular distinctness in response to the Harris. “Maybe. Just wanted to be sure. And was that the same day you threw your soul away? Or was it later?”

“Next night. All yesterday,” Spike confirmed wearily. “Your point?”

“Just that apparently nobody saw fit to tell me you’d had a soul-ectomy until you’d actually thrown it away!”

Willow winced at the anger in Xander’s voice. He was right: somebody should have told him.

“I don’t send out the memos,” Spike said.

“No, but you call Scooby meetings, to which you summon me, and let children in,” (A glance at Dawn, still picking at her pastry.) “and also vamps not of my personal acquaintance. So the question occurs to me, What the hell is going on here?”

“I’m not the one to ask. Just thought enough had been going on, it was time to compare notes, is all. If you don’t approve….” As if automatically, Spike’s hand smoothed Buffy’s hair. “Well, you never have, so no change there, is it.”

“I’m sorry, Xander,” Willow blurted, hoping to deflect an explosion. “My fault. Last time we all got together was the party for Giles, and that didn’t seem like the best time to drop the bombshell that Spike had de-souled himself. And since, well, I didn’t think of it. Spike, you gave out the smell tonight, right? How did it go? How did they react?”

While Xander glowered, Spike seemed more than willing to accept the change of subject. “Well enough, I guess. Can still smell it, can you?”

“Good penetration and endurance,” Willow agreed, nodding. “And the fragrance: not too lily-ee, this time?”

“Seemed fine.” Spike seemed distracted. The next minute, he made clear what he was distracted by: staring straight at Dawn, he demanded, “Who are you, and what have you done to Bit?”

Not looking up, Dawn produced a slow, catlike, and perfectly alien smile that set Willow’s weird receptors going too. “I’m Dawn. Who else could I be?”

Willow focused with other sight and reported to Spike, “No aura. None at all. That’s not Dawn.” Willow was chagrined that Spike had noticed first, when Dawn had been wafting around, nearly under Willow’s nose, all day, except for the time at school. Asking pointed questions. Offering no answers. And it hadn’t been Dawn!

“Fuck, she doesn’t even smell the same,” Spike snapped, and got an agreeing nod from Mike. “Knew since she came in, something was wrong. Anybody ever know Bit to keep her mouth shut this long at a time?”

“I believe I have a name for you,” not-Dawn announced composedly. “For the monks: The Brotherhood of Lucifer.”

Everybody stared at her.

She continued, “They conform to the elements, hence the colors. And you’re correct, Spike: blue was missing. That would have been your Amy, I imagine. Unavoidably detained…. Correlating all the information available to me, I’ve formed a tentative conclusion about the purpose of the Working: they were trying to reopen the Hellmouth. And if that be the case, I’m willing to set aside lesser differences in preventing that. For the time being.”

Spike cut a glance at Willow, demanding, “Where’s her locket?”

“I took it, I had to, to draw on her-- Oh!” Willow nearly collapsed at the realization that, as usual, this disaster was all her fault. Jamming a hand in her bag, she came up with the dangling chain and concealed ward, announcing frantically, “I can give it back!”

“Too late,” said Spike, contemplating the calm expression of whatever wasn’t Dawn, looking right back at him. “Want to talk to Bit.”

Long silence, waiting. Then not-Dawn responded, “Very well.” Then her tone of voice changed utterly. “Oh, Spike!” she cried, springing up, and threw herself into Spike’s arms, practically squashing Buffy, who didn’t wake. “I was so scared nobody would know it wasn’t me, that I’d be gone and never come back and nobody would even notice--!”

“Now, Bit,” said Spike, and tapped his arm. “I’ll always know. You all right? She hurting you any?”

“She who?” demanded Xander, and was ignored.

“No, not really,” Dawn said in a small, unhappy voice. “If it helps to have me out of the way, have her here and helping, I don’t mind, not really. I hear everything, see everything. Just can’t do anything! In case I don’t get another chance to say, I love you. Anyway.”

“Love you too, Bit. And don’t you be scared, you know better than that. Gonna get her gone, get you back, soon as anybody can figure out how. Nothing more important than that. Not to me.”

“Liar,” Dawn accused softly and with certainty. “You know what’s important, what the priorities are and should be. I’m third-ish. I don’t mind….” Then her expression and her voice changed again, and she settled herself fussily on the floor at Spike’s knee, right in front of Mike, whom she ignored. “The priority is the Hellmouth, and what forces are arrayed to reopen it. I know everyone, all the players so far identified. But I suppose you should introduce me.”

“Don’t exactly know how to do that,” Spike said as though he didn’t want to, either.

“Then I’ll introduce myself. Spike and Dawn are accustomed to think of me as ‘Lady Gates.’ I am a sufficient portion of what some call one of the Powers That Be: the ruling powers of the multiverse--this universe and all others. We seek order, harmony; dynamic peace, gradual evolution. Despite what our more stubborn instruments may claim, we are not the enemies of humanity…or of any of our creatures. If this is too difficult a concept, you may regard me…as Dawn’s mother.”

Anya, silent through the whole meeting thus far, put on her biggest, widest smile. “And we’re all so honored by your presence and attention, Lady! I never suspected I’d actually meet one of the Powers in person! Honored, I’m sure! Bye, everybody!” Anya promptly hot-footed it out the door.

**********

Leaving the gym, Mike said, “There any rule we got to do this dry?”

“Guess not,” Spike admitted carelessly. “My credit ought to stretch that far.”

So they mounted their bikes and rolled the short way to Willy’s, where they’d first met. Spike went inside, and Mike continued to consider the new bike, and the stars, and Willy’s, and the night ahead. Not really ahead, though: it was all around, thicker and darker than nights generally seemed to him. Didn’t bother him, not really. He’d thought it through and decided how it should go.

Spike was gonna kill him tonight.

And that was all right, Mike had decided. It was what he’d do in Spike’s place, with a junior who’d never once been able to keep his mouth shut when he was mad, or drunk, or careless, or just ignorant of the stakes. Who’d never once looked past the present to the consequences.

Likely Digger was inside, and Digger knew how to get things out of him. Push at him and wait and push some more, or praise him, or give him another drink--whatever Digger figured would serve best at the moment--and anything Mike knew would come reliably spilling out. And of course Mike would be sorry afterward, but that was no good, didn’t count for anything.

He’d done it a dozen times, and he was sick of it. Bone weary of being played, being dumb, feeling regret. He thought he maybe understood a part of what had driven Spike to get the soul in the first place: vamps weren’t made to regret what they did. Had no way to deal with that sick feeling of desperately wanting the choice back and knowing at the same time they couldn’t have done any different, it was just how things were. How they were.

Here’s Digger, playing around with magic and wizards, witches, and such. And here’s one of the Powers, way beyond magic, stuck itself in Dawn, that power could be drawn from. And here’s some bunch of mages, the Brotherhood of Lucifer, trying to reopen the Hellmouth, that would put the power back into the air, attract and bring in hordes of vamps, strangers, who knew nothing of Spike’s new order and cared less--more than Spike could hope to organize or contain or even dust. And it would all come apart. Exactly what Digger wanted. And here’s big-mouth Mike, who knew it and wished he didn’t because he didn’t think it was in him to hold something like that still within himself.

In at the ear, out at the mouth. Except if he was stopped. And only one sure way to do that. He’d caught Spike’s eye, and he figured they both knew well enough what the answer to that riddle was.

Six years and a little: not a bad run, for somebody who by rights should be dead and not have known any of it. Been some good times--and only better since he’d run into Spike and known what he wanted. To take a side. To understand a little better what this strange unlife was. How to be, how to do. Even if he couldn’t finally be or do it right. Not Spike’s fault, that Mike couldn’t come along faster, see consequences better, and act accordingly. Spike had given him every chance. Claimed him, named him his get even though he wasn’t, given him an independent part of the thing Spike was trying to make out of Sunnydale’s chaos. Tried his best to teach him though most of the time Mike didn’t listen or even recognize the teaching for what it was until he’d messed up some way. Again.

Spike came back with a couple of bottles, one apiece, which was nice of him, considering. Wasn’t Willy’s cheap stuff, neither. Suitable to the occasion. They each had some, waited for the warm to hit and spread out nicely, then started the bikes again, rolling slow, cruising the places where high school aged children were to be found past ten in the evening on a week night. The movie theater; a few tame bars; the big chalk-smelling auditorium on the college campus where there were sometimes concerts and plays. Picking up those with the designated smell, then shadowing them on their way home or to their cars or their next destination. When they spotted a vamp also shadowing the designated protected prey, getting ready to make a move, they left the bikes and pulled the vamp apart in some discreet alley. With the two of them, wasn’t much of a fight, but it served to pass the time.

Only sensible to get the night’s work out of him before taking care of the other agenda, Mike figured. Thrifty.

After they’d accounted for five or six that way and when, by the turning of the star-clock, it was past midnight, the night went quieter. Fewer people abroad, and it was a school day tomorrow for most of those who’d been in the class, gotten first crack at the smell. They’d mostly gone home. Vamps who hadn’t had a chance to hunt the downtown much in four nights were out in force, really hungry. Mike observed some fights breaking out between different district’s vamps, between those whose authorized night this was and others who were poaching, hoping not to get caught. He and Spike stayed out of those: it was the District Masters’ business to keep their own people in line, enforce their own territorial prerogatives.

They’d stopped by the theater, waiting for the last show to let out. A good dozen vamps hovering roundabout, waiting for the same thing. Sitting comfortably sideways on his bike with the kickstand down, Spike had a cigarette lit; Mike was concentrating on drinking: pity to let it go to waste. His head was buzzing pleasantly, and not just with the rattle and vibration of the bike.

Spike was going on about accepting a few more people, maybe even a few fledges, so as to be able to field dusk-to-dawn sweeps in another couple of weeks. Keep a close eye on the fledges, they should do all right, Spike thought. Wasn’t as if they had to be presentable--just fight. And if they got themselves dusted, no great loss. The problem would be keeping them from eating the people they were supposed to be protecting. “No impulse control,” Spike commented sourly.

“Fledges are like that,” Mike agreed.

“Vamps are like that.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Mike turned off his bike and stowed the bottle away: he could hear the last show crowd approaching the doors.

“Need more stakes?”

“Could use some.”

Spike passed over a handful from his saddlebag. Then they stepped down from their bikes and were ready.

The first few came out. Nothing of interest. The humans wandered past, to take their own oblivious chances with the hovering vamps. Then both Mike and Spike locked onto a pair of teenagers, one wearing the smell, one not. And also a woman behind. Spike nodded Mike at the pair, taking the woman himself.

Mike eased up close. They’d made good use of the time and the dark: he could smell them on each other, enough that he wasn’t positive right away which one had the faint but distinct lily reek. Then the girl looked up and he recognized her: Candy, although in street clothes now, not the purple skin-tight get-up. Mike had to concentrate to keep his trueface from emerging: he would have enjoyed eating them both after a little play, scaring them enough to bring out the stronger flavor in the blood. They smelled delicious. But he wasn’t a fledge anymore: he could do this. And it would be awkward, after, to eat the boy and leave the girl. He supposed he had to leave them both breathing.

“Hi…Mike?” said Candy, and the boy with her was annoyed and trying not to show it. Boy was also a bit nervous, since Mike was a lot bigger and looked older. Would really have felt good to scare a scream out of him.

“Hi, Candy,” Mike responded. “Which way you headed?”

“Just over--”

As Candy pointed, a couple of vamps stopped loitering, having chosen their night’s prey. Also a couple, male and female. Mike gave his charges a push in the direction Candy had pointed and turned to intercept the vamps, giving each of them a good shove.

“That’s the smell,” he warned. “You got one chance--”

It had been stupid to try to warn them. The male vamp came up with a stake, and dealing with him let the female get past. She had the boy down and her teeth in his throat in under a second, which was how long it took Mike to stake her. Boy was bleeding considerable, and Candy screeching, but she hadn’t been touched, so that was all right. Mike herded them into what smelled like the boy’s car, Candy behind the wheel and the doors locked, so Mike didn’t have to think anymore about finishing the boy off, though he could have ripped the door off if he’d really tried. It’d been four nights since he’d had a proper feed. He put it out of his mind.

A few vamps had collected their prey and dragged them away from the street lights to feed, so although the small dispersing crowd was uneasy, there was no general panic. Took quite a lot to start a general panic in Sunnydale, Mike had noticed. He spotted Spike ambling along between the two tripping boys, companionably talking and gesturing and having no trouble: vamps might not yet respect the smell or the colors, but most knew Spike by sight and knew enough to stay clear of him. The two boys also had a car, and when they were in it, Spike came back quick and started his bike. They followed the car to one of the frat houses and saw the boys safely inside. Mike passed back the extra stakes and only then noticed that somebody had swiped his unwatched bottle. That was annoying. He should get saddlebags, like Spike’s bike had. Then he realized it didn’t matter and was vaguely amused at himself.

“What?” Spike asked. “Somebody pinched your liquor? Here.” Spike held out his bottle. After a moment’s thought, Mike took it, meanwhile standing to get his hand in his jeans pocket. As good a time as any, he thought, extending the fist to Spike.

“What?” Spike asked again, frowning at the stem-winder gold watch Mike had passed to him.

“Figure I’ll go hunt now, and back to Willy’s, after. Come along if you want.”

“Yeah,” said Spike quietly, putting the watch away. But it wasn’t agreement, unless by way of confirmation of something in Spike’s own head. “Or just Willy’s: make up for the loss of your bottle.”

Mike shook his head at the counter-offer, finishing the last of the liquor. No warmth left in it. Only a stronger sense of the dark--endless and unchanging. He pitched the bottle into the street. “Need to hunt, Spike. Wasn’t time to have anybody brought in, and we’re not that organized yet. Not to worry: I'll stay clear of downtown. And the smell. In my own district and you're invited.”

Someone turned off the outside lights at the frat house. The night went thicker. Constricting. It wasn’t gonna be later, Mike realized. Not in a hunt, not taken with the hot, good blood in his throat. It was gonna be now.

“Always wished I could hunt with you,” Mike said absently. “Share the hunt, share the kill. Would have been good.”

“Wait,” Spike said. “Wait till morning, when Rona brings the tribute blood. I’m fed up fairly good. You can--”

“Doesn’t work like that,” Mike said sadly, tired of the pretext. Hunting was only what they were talking about, not what was. Wasn't about hunting: was about Digger, and what Mike knew. Wasn’t like Spike to be so coy, run on about the edges when they both knew what was at the center, what had to happen. Why not just get on with it? Trust Spike to make even death annoying. “Can’t be but what I am…. Good thing, me and Dawn are on the outs. And with that Lady Gates shouldering her aside, no trouble there. Won’t bother Dawn none, when she comes to know.”

“No.” Spike's voice was harsh, angry. Disappointed in him, Mike supposed: not what Spike had planned or allowed for.

“No blame to you, I see the sense of it well enough.”

“No.” The bike jerked because Spike was strangling the hand grips. Controlling the lurch, he said, “If I’d known what was gonna come out at that meeting--”

“--you wouldn’t have had me there. I know. Can’t look ahead, know what’s gonna come. Just bad luck, things coming together the way they have.” Setting the kickstand and stepping down from his bike, Mike added, “I’ll make a fight of it, if that’s what you want. Come out the same regardless.”

“No. I need you where you are.”

If Mike had still had the bottle, he would have flung it at him. “You need somebody you can depend on! How many times you told me that? So you don’t get what you want. I don’t fit your plan. I ain’t your get, you’re not my sire. So why make a great thing about it?”

“Because you’re an idiot, that’s why! And you haven’t fucking done it yet!”

“You know I will. And you’re the goddamned idiot if you tell yourself different! What’s to keep me from it? I always have, I always will!”

“No! Fuck it to hell, no!” Spike turned the key and came down from his bike, sliding into trueface, glaring golden-eyed. “We don’t have to do it like that. You don’t need to hunt, Michael. I can do for you.” He set his hands on Mike’s shoulders, fingers digging deep, holding hard. “Go ahead.”

“What--?” demanded Mike, bewildered.

“You goddam fucking moron, I said I’d do for you! I’m not your bloody sire, but I still can. Go ahead: do it!”

Mike’s buzzing head rocked to a hard backhand, and there was no mistaking: Spike had tilted his head aside, offering his neck, the rich, strong blood of an elder in the bloodline. Mike lunged, and bit, and fed, drawing in great ravenous gulps.

Chapter 6: Finesse

Half awake, Buffy picked up the buzzing cell phone, at first under the impression it was her alarm going off. Turning the phone right-way up, she blinked at the lighted clock face: 5:33. When she recognized Spike’s voice before the phone was even near her ear, she knew: one of those calls.

“--all right?”

Leaning back on the pillow, Buffy sighed. “Start over, Spike, I didn’t hear you the first time. It might have something to do with its being five thirty in the morning!”

“What?”

He sounded as muzzy and blurred as she felt. The end of his day; the beginning of hers. Whoever thought meeting in the twilight was romantic never had a boyfriend who worked third shift. “Never mind, what is it?”

“Just don’t, all right?”

Buffy shut her eyes. She wished she had his neck in reach: she would have given him a thorough shaking. Not that it would have done any good. “Don’t what, Spike?”

“What? You try that and I’ll pull you to scraps and flinders! You’re--”

Dial tone. With luck, he might not have dropped the phone or flung it at someone and broken it. Again. She turned on the bedside light, squinting, and hit the #4 speed dial. It rang, so at least his phone wasn’t broken. She waited. After twenty-two rings, there was a connection, and Spike’s voice barked, “What?”

It’s not his fault, Buffy told herself, like a mantra. He doesn’t really understand phones, forgets I can’t see him, forgets everything except his own cockamamie impulses and urgencies. “Spike, I didn’t hear you the other time. What don’t you want me to do?”

“Oh. Buffy.” He didn’t think to look at the caller ID, either. “Just don’t come up here for the training today, all right? Some other time, all right? Yeah.”

Dial tone again.

Buffy shut the phone off. Sliding her legs from under the covers, she sat slumped on the edge of the bed for a minute, then made herself get up, grab a robe, and head to the bathroom for the shower she’d apparently been too thoroughly conked to take last night. She didn’t even remember getting home.

Some night. Some morning.

Leaving the bathroom, still toweling her hair, Buffy stopped when Willow popped out of her room, dressed and frazzled, demanding, “What is it?” By the look of her, Willow hadn’t been to sleep yet.

“Mystery Spike-o-gram. About a five on the hysterical scale.”

“About what?” Willow seemed to expect some dreadful revelation.

"No clue. Probably some trailing agenda item he wanted to unburden himself of before surrendering to the sweet sleep I'm not gonna get any more of, thanks a lot. But not enough to actually say it. Like to hit him with a rock--that would put him to sleep, all right. I think he's drunk. At least. Sounded like some kind of free-for-all going on up there." Buffy paused to yawn.

“You mean, at the factory?”

Buffy nodded, waiting for her jaw to unlock. “Best guess. So I better check. What are you doing still up, Will?”

Willow leaned against the wall. “That stasis. Dawn won’t tell me how to lift it.”

“Dawn? What does Dawn--?”

“Oh, you must have slept through that part. Dawn’s not Dawn. And the stasis was her doing. But she won’t tell me how to lift it, and Amy’s been like that nearly three days. Awful.” Willow shuddered, looking exhausted and haunted.

Buffy tried to take that in. It wouldn't fit. Anyway, Willow wasn't freaking about that but something else. So it was probably OK, as nonsense went. Buffy shook her head, dismissing it for later explanation, and went back to her room to dress, calling over her shoulder, "Well, see she gets off to school all right, OK?" and took Willow's indistinct mutter as agreement. One maybe-semi-crisis at a time. There was just about time to drive up to the factory and find out what kind of mess was going on up there, hopefully sort that out, and get back to the high school by eight.

Grabbing coffee at the new Espresso Pump drive-thru window, Buffy noticed a hand-lettered sign, NOW OPEN 24/7. Interesting. Maybe foolhardy, but interesting. Vamps had strange ideas about take-out.

The sky behind her was just beginning to pale when she carefully maneuvered the SUV up the potholed drive. In the bouncing headlight beams, it was clear that the factory (no surprise) was still standing in all its weedy, decrepit glory. No invasion, no pitched battle in progress. Hadn’t sounded like that anyway, but you never knew. More like Spike drunk and teed off at some minion…and wanting to keep her out of it. Like he wanted to keep her out of nearly everything, it had begun to seem to her. Well, that was so not gonna happen….

As she made her way to the annex, stepping carefully in the near-dark, she could hear Spike shouting. No other noise, though. The annex door stood open, and no sentry was on duty. That was odd and probably not of the good.

She went on through and stopped just past the inner door, waiting for her eyes to adjust so she could find out what Spike was hollering about in what otherwise was silence. Somebody had crossed him, that was plain. In full-out rant mode: berating his crew, both as a group and as individuals, by name, in language graphically foul even by his standards. With expletives, most adjectives, and body parts removed, the general gist seemed to be that they were worthless, disobedient parasites unfit to stand on the earth and he wanted to be rid of them and start over with more promising material.

Dim, indirect light came through the unpainted slit windows at the top, greying the big open space. She could make out Spike vaguely: his hair, and his motion--pacing, wheeling, coming to a tense abrupt halt to yell something, then pacing again like something caged, furious. Gesturing, of course: for an instant Buffy thought the shine of something in his lifted hand was a weapon, then realized it was a bottle when he hurled it against the cinderblock wall.

Not a rant--an explosion in progress, the sort that had wrecked Willow’s bedroom. Not much, in this bare, functional space, for him to vent the rage on. So what was he…?

In the strengthening high light, she saw them: the vamps, his crew. About a dozen, perched like so many blackbirds on one of the steel rafters at least twenty feet up, utterly still in the way only vamps could be. They’d drawn up the ropes. And Spike raging below, back and forth, unable to get at them.

They were trapped up there. And though no sunlight could reach the factory floor, Buffy wasn’t so certain about the combination of the rafters, the high slit windows, and the rising sun. But none of the vamps showed any sign of moving. Either they knew they were safe or they were more afraid of Spike than of the sun. At least going up in flames would be quick.

Sometimes, Spike was not to be approached. Sometimes, he’d lash out at anything that startled him or just whatever he found within his reach. Sometimes, he wasn’t anything approaching sane. Not aimless, frightened babbling, like when he’d first returned, freshly souled. Full-out violence. Explosions. Not for months, now; until an eruption last Saturday--the one that had reduced Willow’s bedroom furniture to splinters and scraps. Compulsive. Uncontrolled, pretty much unthinking. For no outer reason at all.

Before the sparkly powder and whatever spell it had carried. Just Spike himself, as far as Buffy could tell.

Saturday, Buffy had stayed clear until it ended on its own. Somehow she wasn’t inclined to do that now. So, big deal: he was dangerous. So was she.

The fact was, she’d have had no use for him if he wasn’t.

The fact was, she liked him that way.

Except the crazy was a problem; and the collateral breakage was hard to justify.

Assessing the situation, she hadn’t made a sound or a move in about five minutes. Except her heartbeat, when there was no other; except her breathing; except her warmth, when everything else was a steady room temperature and that on the chilly side. And then there was her smell. All things that vamps were hyper-aware of at near-incredible distances.

Buffy didn’t know which of the involuntary cues was the trigger. But out in the middle of the floor with his back to her, Spike went as still as the vamps on the rafter and she knew he was aware of her. He said, “Get out,” in his ordering-vamps voice.

Pushing away from the door frame, Buffy strolled toward him. “You said not to come after school. You didn’t say anything about coming now.”

“You got no business here. Get out.”

It was a delicate matter, she understood instinctively: the Slayer wasn’t under his orders. Yet she mustn’t make him lose face in front of the troops. Face was very important to vamps and Spike’s authority was only what he claimed and could enforce.

She mustn’t jeopardize that.

He was like a lion tamer, she thought. And he was also like the lion. He could be sudden and unpredictable.

She recalled what had happened in her bedroom. Mostly her fault, she conceded in retrospect. They'd both been taken by surprise, and he'd simply reacted. He hadn't apologized because there'd been no choice involved…except hers, to bring him there, to have his spelled sleep out; to set the stage just so; and then wake him by dumping blood in his face. Something like getting punched out by somebody in the throes of a nightmare.

This was different. She hadn’t naively blundered into it. She’d decided and come, and wasn’t backing off. And he wasn't asleep. Only fighting drunk and homicidally nuts.

She circled a little until she could make out his profile. Of course in the cellar-like gloom, he was game-faced. They all would be, to see. If she came too close, he’d flash out at her. So she kept circling--an easy, unthreatening stroll. He didn’t turn, although his eyes followed her. He was holding himself still.

Under other circumstances, she thought, he would have backed off, removed himself until he could settle. But he couldn’t afford that here. Not with an audience. Not with his demon to the fore. Staying still, she understood, was as much as he could manage.

“Looks like you’re still having Halloween up here,” she found herself saying, as if casually. She paused. “Spike, did the leftover box of smell ever get put in my office?”

He puzzled at that. “Dunno,” he said finally.

“If it’s been down in the gym all night, probably a lot of it has walked. But then, that’s the idea, right? To get it out, in circulation. If I need help with it, I guess I can get somebody to help me. Maybe Maintenance.”

That was good, she thought: dazzle with details, that he wasn't taking in but still trying to get his mind around. Like she'd tried to take in Dawn not being Dawn, whatever that might mean. Wouldn't compute, so she'd set it aside like Spike was trying to set aside the problematic location of the box of smell. Should make sense but didn't. Distract and deflect. Defuse.

It was definitely getting brighter now. Buffy resumed her circle and, when she was behind Spike's back, chanced a glance at the vamps roosting up on the rafter. They'd moved as far as they could get to the right, huddled up under the slant of the sheet-metal roof. West: into the deeper dark, away from the dotted-line strip of narrow east-facing windows. So. That question answered. The beam was gonna become real uncomfortable in a few more minutes.

Her impulse was just to wade in and slug him, be done with it, but that would have confirmed the rumors that Spike was her bedmate and no more, that the whole new order was some dire Slayer plan to rid Sunnydale of vamps altogether. That she already towed Spike around on the imaginary leash she’d threatened him with. Couldn’t do that.

There were several crude words for a woman who’d do that and Spike had called her most of them, one time or another. Not lately, though.

Mostly, they had an understanding.

Mostly, they got on just fine.

“Hey,” she said, circling back around in front of him again, “d’you have any more of those pills? Coffee just isn’t getting the job done here.” She only wanted to get him moving: out of this situation, away from his treed quarry and out of public view. But something indefinable in his expression or his body language conveyed an inner zing that said her random request had hit some unknown hot button. Watching his reaction, she pushed it a little farther. “I can see you’re having a thing here, so I don’t want to interrupt. They’re back in your office, right? I’ll just--”

So fast she didn’t even see him move, he’d grabbed her arm. “No. I’ll get ‘em.”

Good thing she was wearing a long-sleeved blouse and jacket: the finger marks wouldn’t show. “No problem,” she said, moving away but not pulling hard. Just sort of leaning. “I know the way, and I can turn on a light. In your desk, right?”

“No.”

She turned full around, and he’d shed game-face. He looked exasperated, a bit panicked, and too stupid-drunk to think of an answer. Deliberately misunderstanding his blanket No, Buffy prompted, “Then where are they?

“Just stay here, all right? I’ll get ‘em.” He released her arm and started, a little uncertainly, toward the back.

The last thing she wanted was more of those wretched pills. So she said the first thing that popped into her head: “Why don’t you want me to go back there? Have you got a girl back there, Spike?”

He wheeled around and looked at her like that was the most insane thing he’d heard in decades. “In the office?”

That was OK, she realized. That was an accusation that wouldn't make him look bad in front of the nervous, trapped audience. Given what he'd bluntly told her about vamps' common approach to sex, they'd probably think the better of him for it. Made her look like a total dork; but that didn’t concern her.

She took three strides and seized his arm the same as he’d grabbed hers. “No way you’re gonna brush me off now. Come on, show me the girl you don’t have back there.”

“What?”

“Come on. This, I have to see for myself!”

She assumed the flurry of muted thumps she heard behind her was a dozen or so vamps bailing out before they fried.

She hadn’t done it for them: she just wanted to get Spike settled in time to get to work.

Hauling Spike toward the barricade of dead machines, Buffy thought it would serve her right if he really did have a girl on the cot: she imagined Candy. She imagined Mae West (vamped, naturally) in post-coital dishabille. With some unease, she imagined Dru, which actually might be possible.

What she didn’t expect to find, when she turned on the desk light, was Mike. Fully clothed. And out cold.

**********

“Spike?”

It was Rona’s voice. The tribute. Finally.

Spike thought of calling, but she’d figure it out. Before she came through the barricade, he left Buffy in the office and headed for the west wall. Light was on in the office. She’d figure it out, Rona would.

He could hear and smell the blood coming. All the blood.

No. Not gonna do her like that. Not starved, he told his demon, only hungry. His demon wasn’t convinced. Wanted to take them both. Spike shut his eyes but that was no help because he could feel it, what it would be like.

“Spike?” Rona’s voice called someplace behind him again. She sounded pissed. She mostly sounded pissed these days. No help for it. “Spike, there’s nobody on the door.”

Oh. Right. Should see to that. They’d still be someplace inside, with the sun up. Hadn’t gone down the drain because they’d have had to go past him, and they hadn’t. So they were still inside.

Have to think of someplace to lair up. Not here. Someplace else.

Wasn’t thinking straight. So hard to think of anything, feel anything but the raging bloodthirst. He’d gotten as far as daylight, and that pretty much put paid to hunting. Could stop thinking about that now. Little flashing scenarios. Pictures in his head. The good taste in his mouth. An ache, a lack, through the whole of his body. Deep in need.

Rona asked where he wanted the tribute put and he didn’t know what to tell her. Couldn’t have her bring it to him or he’d take her first. In the office, Buffy was there and mustn’t be near her now. He thought he’d told her but maybe he hadn’t. It all swam together, and Rona was coming toward him.

“There,” Spike directed, not turning, with a loose gesture.

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. On the floor. Just leave it. And if you can come up with any more, bring it.”

“You mean, like, now?”

Spike held himself still. “Soon as you can.”

She was coming toward him. “Spike, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t. Go on now, Rona. See if you can scare up some more. If you can.”

She ordered, “Say ‘pet.’ So I’ll know you’re OK.”

He felt the shift come and go through his bones, his flesh. “Pet,” he said obediently, through fangs.

“All right, if you say. You gonna be here?”

Another thing to think out, sort. “Dunno. Leave it here regardless.”

“Or you could cell me--”

Would the child never shut up and leave? “Just leave it and go, Rona. Stat.” That was hospital jargon. He’d learned that from Amanda, who meant to be some kind of nurse or doctor or something. He was used to all the children, all the SITs. Meant them no harm. Had to remember that.

“OK,” said Rona uncertainly, moving away. “If you say….”

She only went as far as the office and was talking to Buffy, but Spike didn’t care. He was down on his knees on the cement floor, pulling open the cool box and tearing into the blood. The usual three bags. Would barely begin to supply the lack. Have to do, because that was all there was that was tolerable.

At least he’d made it through to daylight. Couldn’t hunt now, if the children would quit dropping into his lap with their puzzled, concerned voices and their thundering hearts. Wanting to talk to him as though he couldn’t drink them down in a second, and more besides.

At last, Rona was going. Her pulse became more distant and finally he couldn’t hear it at all. Nearly quiet, except for Buffy and the stronger, sweeter life in her he’d nearly taken too much of once already and wanted now so bad….

Having finished the last bag, he held himself completely motionless while it spread through him. Better. But not nearly enough. As Buffy’s heat floated toward him like a red-shifted mirage, as she walked toward him to the accompaniment of the beat of her blood, Spike thought maybe he could manage. Do this, now: enough to get her gone, anyway. Until he could get himself fed back up and be answerable for himself again.

He made himself shift aspect, to present a human face. That other, that wasn’t what they were to one another.

But he knew his mark on her, and it pulled. And permitted. It was nearly more than he could do to keep his demon from getting past him altogether, it wanted her so bad. In all ways. Regardless and indiscriminate.

Likely the liquor hadn’t helped much, in terms of control. But it had been a distraction, a blurred insulation between him and what he was in aching need of. Good enough to get him through to morning, even at the price of scaring the hell out of the crew. Those he hadn’t dusted. Anything to keep him here, keep him from going where he wanted to be, doing what he wanted to do. Keep him from flying apart in all directions, like wrecking Red’s room except with things that couldn’t be mended or replaced.

“You find the pills all right?” he asked, and added, “Pet?” because it seemed saying that was sufficient proof of normalcy.

“Changed my mind,” she said. “The being hyper part isn’t all that great, and conking out in the middle of conversations isn’t too hot either.”

“Then you should go.” Spike glanced at his watch without noting the time. “Or you’ll be late.”

“I can be a little late. I’m like a single parent, and things happen. And I should have some credit to draw on, punctuality-wise.”

“Please, Buffy--just go.”

“Two pleases in two days: you’re making me nervous now.”

Spike guessed that was supposed to be a joke.

She was close: he could feel her, smell her, sense her as sure as eyes. Her hand landed on the back of his neck and started stroking there.

But he could still do it. Hold himself still. Not take her. And eventually she’d leave, and he’d find a place to lair up and sleep, and it would still be all right.

Balanced on the edge of destroying what he loved most in the world, the most precious thing he’d known in all his long unlife, he stayed where he was and didn’t turn.

She asked quietly, “You gonna tell me?”

“Thought I had. Not a good day to start the training visits, after all.”

“No, you did tell me that. Sort of. No, I mean what’s set you off like this. This is twice in under a week, Spike. Don’t give a damn what you do with your minions, but…I think I need to understand these…explosions. And why you’re trying so hard to shove me away when you don’t even have a girl in the office.”

Another joke, likely. Or a try at one, anyway.

She wouldn’t leave until he’d said something to content her. So he supposed he had to.

“Michael needed a sign.”

A silence. Then she said, “Well, that’s real helpful. In the sense of not.”

“He needed something from me. Thought it was his death, we both did, and that made good enough sense. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t do what he wanted, neither: hunt with him. Do like vamps do, indiscriminate. Gave me my fucking watch back--with Red’s spell in it, like the lockets--so it wouldn’t be lost when he dusted, the bloody sentimental git. Couldn’t.”

“Oh: that watch. The gold pocket watch inscribed to you by your father. That one.”

“Yeah. Gave it back to me.”

“Yeah. I can see how that could be a gut-wrencher. He’s obviously not dusted. So what did you give him?”

Almost, Spike said My life. Whatever of it he wanted. As much as he needed. For a sign. But he didn’t think Buffy would have understood, and it would take too long to explain, assuming he even could.

Coldly, factually, he said, “I let him feed from me. And all I wanted…was to come to you. And I knew I couldn’t. Not then…and not now. Not until I’ve got myself fed up again. You being here…it makes everything harder, love. Damn near impossible. Let me be. I’ll be fine. In a while. Rona, she’s gonna see if she can wheedle me some more. ‘Cause this, this is all gone, y’see.”

“You didn’t hunt.”

“No. Nor Michael neither. No need, after I’d done for him. But…you can’t do for me. Not that way. S’not what I want. Except….”

“Except right now, it’s hard to remember that. I think I get it. Enough, anyway. Now’s not so important, we’ll have the weekend.” Her hand, her warmth retreated. “Call me when you wake up.”

“Right,” agreed Spike dully.

Now he just needed to think of where to lair up, since Michael had needed the cot. Yeah, and get somebody on the door. Kennedy would show up in another hour or so. She could see to it. He should leave her a note if he could remember what he'd done with the pen.

**********

Waking about midday, Spike uncurled in the storm bypass where he’d laired up and phoned an order for coffee while having his first cigarette of the day. It should be waiting for him by the time he got back to the factory. Then he called Buffy, as he’d promised. First item on the day’s agenda. Not much to talk about, really. Yeah, he was OK. Yeah, he was still hungry but not so crazy-starving as earlier, so yeah, her weekend plans were still on and he’d be where he’d said (Casa Summers) come sundown.

He didn’t think Digger (or any of the District Masters) had the wit or the equipment to monitor cellphone calls, but human services could be purchased and there was no reason to be completely dumb about things, naming places where he’d spend the night. That started him thinking about other human services, besides coffee, he might use himself, and when he reached the factory and got the computer running, he ran a couple of searches and saved the results.

Finally the coffee came--he’d hit the lunchtime crunch, the delivery kid explained, apologizing, but Spike still withheld the customary tip. It didn’t do to encourage such things, and an apology was no excuse. He expected his orders to get priority, and said so.

Settling back at the computer, he was following up on the results of the first of his searches when Kennedy came in. She’d rearranged the roster to have the door covered at all times, allowing for the shorter muster roll, taking account of the crew he’d dusted last night. He seemed to have done for about half of them but fortunately nobody he couldn’t afford to lose. He’d had that much sense, he noted with scant satisfaction.

Ken wanted to know what the culling had been about and he told her to mind her own business, whereupon she pointed out that his business was her business now, and he gave her a stare and told her only as far as she was useful, which made her back off and go away, which was good.

He didn’t feel like dealing with humans today, at least not face to face. Too many messy complications he didn’t feel like bothering about.

Michael, of course, was still asleep. Still near enough to a fledge that he wouldn’t stir till sundown. The minor dust-up with Ken hadn’t even made him twitch. Leaning back in his chair, finishing the first cup of coffee, Spike regarded the lad fondly for a little while, then went back to work, setting up appointments, and visits from those available only during the day at inconvenient places.

Emil had the day watch, and was a little nervous of Spike at first. Spike ignored Emil’s edginess, giving orders for a duty crew to complete an assignment at Casa Summers, and Emil settled down, seeing that the storm had passed. So that was all right.

Never any harm in instilling healthy terror in the minions from time to time, for any reason or for none. Couldn’t have them getting complacent or slack. Lots more where they came from, and he’d see to that first thing this evening.

Then he turned on the light, pulled up a fresh document, and methodically started on the translation. What he had in mind wouldn’t come cheap, and he was still playing catch-up on the money end. After about an hour, when the headache started, he took a break to phone Willow to tell her to expect the duty crew and let them through the spell barriers protecting the house, and no need to mention it to Buffy, it being a sort of surprise. Willow was still all wound up about that Amy, still no progress on lifting the stasis, and Lady Gates wasn’t being cooperative, no surprise, so he gave her the number of a witch he’d dealt with out of town, who might have some suggestions. The Devon coven still hadn’t got back to her.

The occasion seemed appropriate. Checking his watch and adding the five hours for London time, he called Giles, got a machine, and left a message. Giles returned his call within the hour. Watcher sounded cautiously cordial enough. Spike explained about Willow’s problem and was told the coven were on some kind of retreat tied to All Hallow’s and the run-up to the winter solstice, or some such crap. The bottom line was that Giles knew a non-telephonic way to contact the head of the coven, though she wouldn’t like being interrupted, and grudgingly promised to do so, which was all Spike cared about anyway.

“And how are things going there?” Giles inquired.

“Well enough, I suppose,” Spike replied, lighting a cigarette and resigning himself to chat, since Giles seemed to expect it and Spike was asking for a favor. Had to keep in the Watcher’s good graces, after all. Wanker. “Direct assassination attempts seem to have let up for the moment. Likely gearing up for something more general. Run into a pack on a sweep, or try to take out the factory, most like, since I’m a bit short-handed at the moment.” Changing the subject before Giles could ask why, Spike went on, “Buffy’s class is going over a treat, though. Had at least sixty, last go-around. And the first of the smell’s been distributed. So that’s started.”

“What sort of reception does it seem to be receiving?”

“Hard to tell,” Spike responded diplomatically, since saying he hadn’t seen a single vamp veer away from it so far would sound like total failure. “Early days yet. Have to bang a few more heads or something, I guess. Tisn’t a natural association, after all. Have to wade in with a hammer to get a vamp to learn anything.”

“Quite,” said Giles dryly.

“I learned phones,” Spike shot back, with more indignation than he felt. “An’ didn’t roust you out of bed at three ack emma, which is more than Buffy does.” Bloody twit..

“Point taken. And how are things otherwise?”

The SITs, all three of them, were coming through the barrier, all serious looking. “Sorry, have to tend to a deputation now, good talking to you,” Spike said rapidly, and rung off, wondering what the hell the SITs were peeved about this time, knowing he’d have to deal with it regardless, so no use conjecturing, since he was about to find out.

Amanda was leading off, the other two behind her; so they considered it SIT business. Amanda in her school clothes, the ugly plaid skirt and white blouse of the new order, which reminded him of Dawn. He put away for later the inward wince that thought gave him.

As the three came inside, but only barely, crowded in the doorway, Spike said disagreeably, “So what is it this time? I forget somebody’s birthday again?”

Amanda glanced at Michael on the cot.

“Oh, you won’t budge him,” Spike said. “Don’t worry ‘bout that. He knows I’m here, won’t let you children molest him.”

Amanda colored up, snapping mad. The impulse to come out of the chair and take her was controllable. “I’m skipping a history test for this,” Amanda shot back, “and not to listen to you being an asshole, Spike.”

“Fair enough,” Spike said, folding his hands, concentrating on her face because humans liked eye contact, didn’t have much of any other way to know about things. Also because it might distract him from their changing scents, the triple-time triphammer counterpoint of their pulsebeats. He could do this.

“Are you gonna listen, or are you gonna be an asshole?” Amanda demanded, folding her arms.

“Probably both,” Rona put in snidely.

“Shut up, Rona. We agreed, I make the running here.”

“Just saying,” Rona responded, eyes turned aside, backing off but smelling like buried laughter.

Not a one of the three of them the least frightened of him. His own fault: how he’d taught them. Likely too late to change it now without making them hate him. And he guessed he didn’t want that.

He said, “So get to it, then.”

“You don’t have any mirrors, that’s a given,” said Amanda, pulled up to her full scarecrow five-foot ten, looking at him down her nose. “So you probably need somebody to tell you, you look like shit, Spike.” That was strong language, from Amanda. She had to stop a second and brace to make herself say the S word. “You’re so pale you’re practically transparent, you’ve probably been sleeping in drains and you look it, your hair is a mess, and you have unhealed scabs on both hands. And you have them folded hoping we won’t notice they’re shaking. We notice, Spike. Rona called me, got me out of bed. Then Ken took one look at you and called me out of lunch. Do you think nobody will notice, or do you think nobody will care?”

Spike folded his hands harder, controlling the impulse to hide them, conceal the scabs. Truth was, it hadn't occurred to him they'd notice. Or care. Hadn't thought about them at all. “There gonna be a point somewhere in all this detailed sartorial abuse?”

Rona muttered, “Asshole.”

Kennedy said, “I actually know what ‘sartorial’ means, and it doesn’t include unhealed scabs.”

“Your point?” Spike said to Amanda.

“We understand why you ended the rotation, the roster. There’s not enough of us anymore to do that. And there’s the tribute now, and it’s generally enough. But not always. Not now. You’re down a lot more than a quart, the dipstick’s coming up dry and you’re right on the edge of starving, and we know what that means. You get crazy. You do things. And you can’t afford that. And we’re really insulted and angry, Spike--we’re angry!--you’d let yourself get into such a state, such severe blood debt, and not say a word to any of us.

“Are we a part of this operation or not? If we’re not, I have things I could be doing instead of showing up for Buffy’s class, to make a show of humans in the colors. I don’t need jumping jacks, or to learn how to do throws. We don’t have weapons drill anymore. You’re not teaching us anything anymore. We don’t even patrol. So what are we doing here, Spike? Are we just window dressing, your token humans you trot out to make a point and then send away until the next time you need to make some point? Which, I might add, you never explain to us! You have to choose, Spike. Are we in, or are we out? Call it. Right now.”

If they’d been minions, he’d have known what to do: just slap ‘em down so hard they’d bounce for open insubordination. But they weren’t. They were human children and required him to relate to them as such. And that was increasingly difficult. Damn near impossible, in fact. He hadn’t the patience for it. Or the insight, the common ground that would let him understand and see a problem before it’d reached boiling point.

“You’re in,” Spike said softly. “I need you in. So tell me what you need, because I don’t know that kind of thing anymore unless you tell me.”

“Without the soul,” Kennedy commented in a smug I told you so tone.

“Yeah. That’s part of it,” Spike admitted. “And the rest is that I don’t stretch that far. Something always getting past me, too fast for me to catch it before it hits. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is a good beginning. I think we had an apology coming, and that’s good enough. How about the rest of it?” Amanda still had her arms folded.

Spike shut his eyes. Already late for one of the appointments he’d set up. Have to reschedule. Put that on the agenda. “Slayer says, starting next week--Monday, I guess--she’s gonna come up here after work, after the school lets out, and train. Maybe even with my people. If you want, you come too. We have all the gear from the Magic Box. Got the weapons you used to use, still there in the chest…. By then I’ll have new crew and they’ll need to learn lead and second, flank and point, rearguard…. Could work it like that. If you want.”

“Acceptable. Maybe not every day, I’m on the yearbook committee now. But most days. And? What about the rest of it?”

“What rest of it? Lost the thread here.”

“Some agreement and mechanism for emergency feeding. As in now. Today.”

Spike shook his head, suddenly angry. “You’re not my cows.”

“If we’re in, we are. When that’s what’s needed. I’m not all that crazy about the terminology, but--”

“Kim was my cow. Marked and claimed. And she died for it,” Spike said flatly. “From it. No. And now there’s Suzanne, turned. No. Got to keep you clear of all that.”

Unfolding her arms, Amanda came forward a step and bent a little to set her long, girly hand on his rigidly folded fists. “That wasn’t your doing. Or your responsibility.”

“Happened, just the same. Don’t want that for none of you, that are left. Keep it away from you.”

“None of us are gonna let ourselves be turned. Not even Rona.”

Rona muttered sullenly, “I never really meant it. Not really. I just--”

Kennedy said acerbically, “Everybody knows, Rona. Old news. Just shut up about it, all right?”

Rona retorted, “You are a grade-A, brass-bound bitch, you know that?”

“A badge I wear with pride. I work at it. So sod off.”

Spike started laughing. He couldn’t help it. He found their company and their bitching off at each other, and him, a comfort, and he couldn’t help that either. “All right. Have Emil fetch you some cups.”

“We can do direct,” Rona argued proudly. “We’re not afraid.”

“No. Not gonna mark you, and that’s not up for discussion. One was enough. And too much.” That was a sufficient reason; no need to tell them that if he started, let the eager demon take what it wanted, he was just about certain he couldn’t stop. “No more than a cup each: you’re not Slayers, to make it back in a night.”

“We know, Spike. We’ve done this before--remember?” Amanda said, patting his hand. “We’ll call it ‘cup detail,’ and that’s what you say whenever the tribute isn’t enough. Agreed?”

“Maybe. Won’t promise. But…I won’t forget I can.”

“Not good enough: I want a promise.”

“Well, you’re not gonna get it, so get stuffed!”

“’Manda,” Kennedy put in, “you know he’s impossible when he gets like this. You’re only pushing him into asshole territory again. The point’s made. Now settle.”

Amanda insisted, “But it’s important. He has to--”

“’Manda, I see him every day. And Rona sees him first thing every morning. You think we’re not gonna notice when he looks like death, not even warmed over? Let it go. We got what we came for--enough, already.”

Grumbling and unsatisfied, Amanda consented to go in search of cups. Never happy if every T wasn’t crossed and every I dotted all precise.

He knew these children: it was frustrating that he couldn’t hold them and their ways in his mind the way he was accustomed to. Just his good fortune they were stubborn and determined enough to bridge the distance between when he couldn’t. To literally share their lives with him in the most immediate possible fashion when he was too much in need to ask.

By and large, they were good children. He should take better care of them.

**********

Since the training session had been called off, Buffy didn’t expect Spike to be home when she got there after work. Willow was on the tethered phone, sitting on the weapons chest, talking a mile a minute, enthusiastically. She acknowledged Buffy with a wave, then pointed at the phone several times and silently mouthed some word Buffy couldn’t make out. At least she was enthusiastic. That was probably a good thing.

Buffy started disarming: cell phone to its charger base on the hall table, car keys in the yellow saucer, tote under the table, jacket on the wall peg. She had to write up two evaluations on interviews with students officially “in trouble,” but supper came first, and the blessed weekend was before her. Deal with that later.

Straightening, she was startled to find Dawn watching her from the far side of the banister--sitting on the steps, looking through the spindles like something in a cage. Eerily sudden and still.

“Dawnie, you scared the crap--”

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced. You may call me ‘Lady Gates.’ For practical purposes, it would be simplest if you thought of me as Dawn’s mother.”

Buffy blinked a few times. Dawn wasn’t Dawn. Oh. No wonder Spike had gone off the deep end last night.

“You’re mistaken,” Buffy replied coldly. “Dawn’s mom was Joyce Summers. My mom. Dawn is my sister.”

The whatever-it-was smiled. It needed practice. “I’m her other mother.”

Buffy set her hands on her hips. “What kind of first name is ‘Lady’?”

Not-Dawn shrugged. She needed practice at that, too. No way was she even human. “A matter of convenience, only. It suffices.”

Willow came slinking out of the front room, standing just close enough that Buffy could hit her if she wanted. Making intense anxious-face, Willow said, “I tried to tell you.”

“Not hard enough,” said Buffy grimly. Grabbing Willow’s arm, Buffy steered her through the kitchen and onto the back porch, and shut the door behind them. “OK, spill.”

“My fault entirely. And Spike, a little, because she’s no longer anchored to his soul, except she is, really, and heaven knows where that is. But my fault, I claim the blame, because I’m the one who took her charm. The locket thingie. Like you have on, that was Spike’s.”

“Still listening. Still waiting for sense. Keep working at it, you’ll get there.”

“Dawn’s keyness is because she was made from the Powers. You know: the Powers? Like Glory, only nicer? Except if you listen to Spike, which you don’t do very often, so that’s probably OK. What semi-controls everything--sort of like an agnostic’s version of Yahweh times about 200 or so. All jostling to be Head Egg in any given place, any given time. Anyway, this one is Dawn’s: what she was made out of, split away from. Dawn called it ‘Lady Gates,’ partly because ‘Dimensionality’ is kind of abstract, not to mention hard to say ten times fast. She’s reclaimed her part. Because she could. Because I’d taken away Dawn’s protection from that sort of thing happening, not that I ever thought it would or actually thought about it at all, to be completely honest about it, which I’m trying to be! What do I know about the Powers? Jewish lesbian witch-person: I know more about the properties of saxifrage than I do about the Powers!”

“Babbling, Will. I know about the Powers That Be: they Choose Slayers. I don’t know if they vote or flip coins or what, but they do. And they send Slayer dreams. You told me so yourself, last week. As the current Chosen, unless we take Faith into account, which I’d really rather not do, my question is What the hell is she doing here? And where’s Dawn?”

Willow performed a full-body wince. “Answer number one: she doesn’t like what Spike’s doing, but she doesn’t want the Hellmouth reopened either. So she wants to sit in on things in person. I guess. Answer number two, Dawn’s still there. Lady Gates let her manifest for a few minutes last night. As a treat for Spike, to keep him happy. Which he isn’t, but. Hasn’t gone for her throat yet, either. He’s biding his time, probably trying to figure how to oust her without her coming back at Dawn about it. Because they’re connected. Always have been.”

“So, what: I’m supposed to just pretend I don’t have some kind of cockamamie demigod in my house?”

“That would be one approach,” Willow responded hopefully.

“And what’s this about the Hellmouth?” Buffy demanded, appalled at how much she’d missed. Those pills were bad, bad, bad. A major pinnacle of badness. She put on her agenda a note never to be stupid-desperate enough to do that again. Once had been entirely too much.

“She says that’s what the bunch of mages you and Spike took out were probably doing. Trying to reestablish Sunnydale’s qualifications as the go-to place for vamps, assorted demons, power in the air so thick a knife wouldn’t cut it. Power for any purpose but the worse, the better. Which sounds strange, but never mind. You know what I mean.”

Buffy flapped her arms at her sides. “Great. Just great. That’s all we needed. Spike’s coming apart at the seams, and now we have a resident Power mucking things up!”

“He replaced my furniture today,” Willow mentioned brightly. “Not exactly first-hand, probably scavenged from deserted houses all over town, but I’m not complaining. The bed is really nice, Buffy: hand-rubbed cherry, with these big spindle corner-posts, I think maybe it had a canopy once but it’s pretty even without, and this great maple wardrobe--”

“I’ll take the tour later. Now I have to start supper. Does it eat? The Lady Gates thing?”

“Seems to. She ate breakfast. Half a box of the left-over Froot Loops, that Spike used to like. Eaten by hand. Or more by fist.”

“Let me announce, officially, how much I do not care. Gonna introduce it to spaghetti a la Slayer and it can deal or starve.”

As Buffy tried to pass by and open the door, Willow said, “Don’t count me. I finally heard from the coven, and they’re gonna help me about the stasis. They’d noticed it: meddling with time makes this little pinch in the fabric of reality, and things start to get strange around it after awhile. Not approved. Very much not approved! So they’re gonna help me lift it. Got to run now. Bye!”

Supper was therefore a truly uncomfortable and bizarre experience: sitting at the kitchen island with a sardonic, sly-eyed thing that considered a lecture on noodles through the ages and dimensions to be an acceptable substitute for conversation.

Couldn’t just say, “So how was the history test?” after that and not feel like an utter moron.

It twirled spaghetti like an expert and ate without slurping even once. Definitely not Dawn!

And no Spike. Dusk became dark and still no Spike. Buffy had made garlic bread for him. Finally she said, “Excuse me,” left the kitchen, collected her cell from the charger, and hit the speed dial pacing in the front yard. Only four rings before a pick-up, which was nearly a record.

“Something came up. I’ll be along, just a few minutes.”

“You’d better,” Buffy said. “I’m all alone here with Lady Godlier Than Thou and need extensive reasons not to smash her face in.”

“Yeah.” Spike sounded resigned. “But she’s goin’ to a movie. All set up. With an escort to keep an eye on her. All taken care of, love. Now I got to see to this, here.”

End of conversation. Spike wasn’t big on hellos or goodbyes. The next second, the phone buzzed, and it was Spike again: “Forgot to say. If Red’s not there, don’t go in the basement. All right?”

“Why?” Buffy asked blankly.

“Because.”

Dial tone.

He really doesn’t understand humans at all anymore, Buffy reflected, setting the phone back in its charger as she made a bee-line to the cellar stairs.

It was a bed. Slightly smaller than a tennis court. Made up, grotesquely and endearingly, in the colors: black satinesque sheets, a big red goose-down duvet that could have served as a cover for your average VW beetle. Three king-size pillows wide. Buffy wondered where he’d found such a monstrosity but then thought it was probably better not to know. It was possible he’d even ordered it, had it custom-built, delivered, and installed: it certainly hadn’t been there Tuesday morning, when she’d done the most recent load of wash as one of the distractions, passing the time until Spike woke….

Besides the bed, he’d turned the basement into an attempt at a bower: thick but probably not sound-proof tapestries, of the stag-at-bay Wal-Mart variety, tacked up to the rafters on both sides, ceiling to floor. Another swagged up at the foot, ready to drop at the tug of a cord. Be all cozy then. He’d had something like this in his crypt, on the lower level. To keep out drafts, mostly. Because she’d complained of the cold.

Really, she shouldn’t have come down. He’d want to have a Grand Unveiling, and she’d spoiled the surprise. Have to pretend she’d never looked. Anything else would be cruel.

As she swung quickly around to go back upstairs--there wasn’t a foot of clearance between the bottom of the stairs and the foot of the bed--something caught her eye under a hanging corner of the duvet: the legs of the bed were bolted to the floor. She slowly sank down on the steps, looking at where the head of the bed was situated: out from the wall, a good foot and a half. No hanging suspended there. Mustn’t impede the shortened reach of the manacles whose slack was further taken up by the chains being wound twice around the top of the bolted-down bed frame. One manacle laid neatly at each top corner, not quite hidden enough by the pillows.

Her heart just sank. Though they’d played bondage games sometimes, by mutual consent and inclination, no way were the manacles intended for her. The bed and the hangings were only window dressing to make the bed’s position and the manacles less conspicuous and maybe marginally acceptable. They failed

She thought it was the saddest thing she’d ever seen, except her mom’s body on the couch. But that had been frightening. This was too, in its baroque fashion.

Long before she was ready, she heard the door creak. He came down maybe one step and settled there, waiting for her reaction.

“It’s very…ingenious,” she made herself say. “I can see you went to a lot of trouble for this. A lot of thought. It would have fit better in the sink end, though.”

“Didn’t trust those morons to mess around with your plumbing. Didn’t want you greeted by a flood. When you saw it. So. Bad idea, was it?”

She twisted around to see him. He was just looking down at her with no particular expression, hands dangling over his knees. The scabs were all gone from his knuckles, she noticed: he’d fed up, then, before coming. But of course he would. This was all about Tuesday…and preventing its ever being repeated.

About having sex with a man immobilized in shackles, instead.

Which was never gonna happen. Not like this. No way. Never.

Just the thought of it made her feel sick and wrong.

Not gonna nag him again about the soul. Already did that. He knew. Knew the demand. And this was his answer.

No. Not gonna think about it. She asked, “You got your bike?” He nodded. “Let’s go. I don’t care where--I’m just…sick of Sunnydale right now. Anyplace.”

“Noplace,” he said, looking at his hands. “Don’t think that would be a real great idea right now. Can’t answer…for what might come of it.”

“I trust you!”

“I don’t. An’ I’m not gonna risk it. Could I…maybe use your shower? I been informed by experts that I look like a bum. Or maybe a corpse. Corpse of a bum?” He put his hands over his face, bending into them. Not making a sound.

There wasn’t room for both of them on the step. Buffy shoved his feet aside and sat on the step below, gathering him in, holding hard, her forehead against his hands.

The shaking was too fast for sobbing. That’s what it was, all the same: she knew.

“Sorry,” he said eventually, pulling fingers down a face as empty and bleak as she’d ever seen it, “that it’s-- Sorry.” He stared straight ahead, looking at nothing. “Later. Tomorrow. I’ll send some…somebody to collect the rest of my things. What’s left. And take this--” (His hand waved vaguely bed-ward.) “--all away. Be useful for something. Sometime. Not a total….” He shut his eyes hard, swallowing words down unspoken. “Don’t know how to do this, love. Never did it before.”

Buffy said nothing. He’d left before. But it wasn’t the same. No comparison whatever.

Continuing the conversation they weren’t having, in his head, he announced abruptly, “Still turn out for patrol, and like that. An’ your class and all…. And the SITs, told them come Monday, you’d be turning up. To train, like you said, and they were gonna…. Gonna join in, they miss the weapons drill, seems like. I don’t know--” He looked at her then. Looked her straight in the eyes. “Might not be too bad. I’ve done worse. An’ had worse done to me. You were the one joking about a leash. Won’t you even try?”

“Some things, I don’t have to do even once to know I never want to do them again. And…I don’t want to tell you how it makes me feel to know you’d settle for that.”

“Settle for damn near anything you could name, pet. Not proud. Not real proud of myself just now, that’s true. Thought maybe…there was still an inch of ground that could be…. But no, ‘course you’re right, wouldn’t do, not at all. If there’s a good way to do this, I dunno what it is.”

She wondered if he realized his fingers were steadily combing through her hair. Probably not. He was as far away from himself as it was possible to get. Even the mouth was running mainly on automatic, disconnected from everything. Like getting one of his incoherent Spike-o-gram early morning phone calls, except in person.

Completely stuck. Balked. Blocked. She thought they could sit there till daybreak and he’d still be throwing out random, incomplete phrases, still not moving. Couldn’t go forward, wouldn’t go back. And unable to just disengage, leave it. He needed a push to get him out of that dead-ended rut.

“Take your shower,” she said. “Your experts were onto something. Then I’ll help you get your things together. And I’ll come Monday like I said I would. Mustn’t disappoint the SITs. Gets too complicated that way. When--”

“Could I stay here? Down here, just for tonight? Bolt the door, both sides? Be no trouble, only I can’t, don’t want to go back there just yet. Only for tonight.”

“With the door bolted. Both sides. That either of us could break down in a minute.”

“Yeah,” he said, and almost smiled. “Dunno there’s much we couldn’t get through that way. Except this.”

She took his hands and held them really hard. “You know what you have to do. When you’re ready, or when it gets bad enough, you’ll do it: put the soul back. Or I will.”

“No,” he said, like a whip crack. “That’d be worse than the shackles. Don’t even think about it. I’m not Angel. Nor Angelus neither. You do that to me and there’s nothing left. It all goes smash. If you can’t see that, believe it anyway. No coming back from that.”

“How could it be worse, putting it back, than taking it away in the first place? Something that vamps do all the time?”

“Not me. I don’t. No. Deal with it because I have to, but I don’t do it. The ones I made, was forced into turning, I did ‘em all. They’re gone. Bit, she helped me. You can ask-- No, you can’t,” he realized. And he went away somehow. Blank: eyes open, but nobody home behind them.

“Spike?”

He focused again. But slowly. And not all the way. “Lost the thread there. Sorry. No matter. Nothing that concerned you anyway. Sometime, if you want, you can have Bit tell you. Or not. Whatever you please.” He pushed to his feet and went into the hall. But not up the stairs. After a couple of minutes Buffy heard his bike start up and then recede.

Chapter 7: Contractors

“Well,” said Xander, coming into the office with a surly scowl, “what’s this about?”

“Sit.” Spike leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. In the middle stage of headache: he could still attend, make sense. Figured to work till noon, then have a kip till sundown. Audition recruits, then a sweep after to try them out.

Second week of the new order. With the big changes in place and rolling, time to try to get things on some kind of reliable schedule, not be making it up from minute to minute. Too crazy and too exhausting. The factory was fairly secure now: no more lairing up in drains, a different place every night. With a central base and a schedule, time to look to further things, get them delegated and begun.

As Xander pulled up a chair and consented to sit, smelling hostile and what Spike interpreted as suspicious, Spike went on, “We had a good patch there for awhile. Some way, that’s gone. Dunno what I done to put you off me--”

“It’s not what you do, Spike: it’s what you are.”

“That’s as may be. But Red, she values you. So do Buffy and Dawn. So that gives you a free pass from me. I’ll never let hurt come to you if I can stop it. Not from me. Not from anybody. You ask me for something I can do, you got it. No questions or conditions. Can’t be but what I am. Can’t change that, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. That aside, though you annoy the hell out of me sometimes, and I expect I’m never gonna be on your list of favorite people, I want to get on with you. Not be always sniping back and forth, trading threats and bluster. Not that it’s not fun, but it bothers the womenfolk. Our womenfolk. As of now, I quit. You win, if that’s what you want. Declare a victory, have a truce. Hope you’re willing to quit, too.”

Xander stared at him with his big brown puppy eyes for a long minute. “I don’t like it that you can say ‘our womenfolk.’ Like we’d gone partners in a herd of cattle. Don’t like that at all.”

“I withdraw it, then. Not gonna argue words with you. We both want them happy, according to whatever lets them be happy. Us at odds don’t do that. Your claim on them is older than mine, so the call’s yours. Gonna have a truce here, or more pointless bickering? ‘Cause I’m not gonna eat you, and you’re not gonna stake me. That’s fact, and we both know it.”

“You step out of line and I’d stake you in a minute!”

“Trying to mind the line here. As best I can. Trying to give you the respect you’re due for keeping faith, all these years, with Buffy and Willow and Dawn. You can throw it back in my face. Your option. Just don’t see what purpose it would serve, myself. You think about it. By what you do, I’ll know what you decided. Not why I asked you to come up here anyway.”

Xander folded his arms, so as not to show any compromise or give. His scent went more neutral, though: less outright antagonism. “Then what?”

“Got a job of work to be done. Fix up Casa Summers like it was. Better. All the busted, boarded up windows. The holes in the walls. All the doors that creak or don’t fit or close tight. All the sinks that don’t drain right. The water heater that leaks. Whatever else needs doing, that I don’t know enough to notice. Things that need replacing ‘cause they’re too old to serve.” When Xander didn’t say anything, just blinked at him thoughtfully, Spike went on, “I know you been doing what you could. But your time’s limited, and materials cost money. I figure likely you already got a list in your head, what you’d do if you had the dosh. From your work, I figure you know who’s reliable, gives good value, knows their job. I want you to be contractor, deal the parts of the job out to people you have confidence in. Not do, yourself, except as you have the time and the inclination.”

“So you can take all the credit!”

Flash of strong jealousy, outright hatred. No surprise there.

Spike shook his head. “Don’t care nothing about the credit. You say it’s all your doing, if you want. Won’t say otherwise. Say you got a bonus on your job, and this is what you’re doing with it. Don’t care. Just want it done, for them, and done right. You tell me what’s to be done and what the cost is, I’ll see it gets paid. Add on a reasonable percentage for yourself, for your time and professional expertise. Whatever the customary rate would be. I figure you know, or can find out. Won’t dispute none of the charges with you, so long as I get them in writing. Reasonable estimates beforehand, that I can OK. I got some specifications I want met, but except for that, it’s your call, in consultation with Buffy, on account of it’s her house.”

“What specifications?”

Spike pushed a paper across the desk. “There’s some new glass come out. Called ‘necro-tempered.’ Sun through it doesn’t bother me. Want all the windows made of it, starting with the kitchen and Buffy’s bedroom. Won’t need all the windows covered then, living in the dark on my account. Dunno who makes it, where it’s to be found. Kind of a specialized market, I’d expect.” Pointing at the paper, Spike explained, “That number will reach somebody who knows Oz, and Oz speaks well of. She knows where a retro-fit car place is, that used it. Refitted Oz’s whole van with it. From that, you should be able to get back to a supplier.”

“Doable,” Xander conceded. Folding up the paper, he put it in his shirt pocket.

“Next, before you start shopping for materials, I want you to get together with Red. Some materials are more magic-proof than others. And if they’re custom anyway, might be something could be added to make them stronger in that way. Or added before they’re installed. Specially the inside doors. Maybe something could be put into hollow-core, if hollow-core will do. Outside doors should be solid. But there’s a choice of woods, paint. Again, maybe things could be added to paint, to make it magic-repellant. What metal is best, magic-wise, for the window frames, hardware. Passive protection, built in. Go through it all with her, bottom line being to make the house self-sufficient. Not depend on Red renewing the spells every week or so. Make it safe against anything that could reasonably be thrown at it. Including fire. Facing fire mages now, it seems. So an escape tunnel straight into the sewer line would be a good idea, if it can be dug from below, nothing showing.”

Xander was nodding as the points were specified. “All possible. Makes sense. Except you didn’t hear me say that.”

“Like I said, I don’t care to score points with this. Just want it done, the best way it can be done. Execution’s up to you. Parts where simple unskilled labor will do, I’ll provide whatever vamps you think will be enough. Like that escape tunnel, maybe. Can dust ‘em afterwards, so no chance of the word getting out.”

“You’re talking pharaoh’s tomb security here.”

“Something like. It’s disposable labor, and I figure you got no problem with dusting vamps.”

“None whatever. I’ll keep it in mind. I haven’t yet seen the downside of this,” Xander admitted, and his scent confirmed his expression and his words.

“Good. Don’t believe there is any. And one last thing.”

“Here comes the downside.” Wariness, again; and disappointment. So he’d bought into the basic idea.

“No, just a hair personal,” Spike replied. “Down in the basement, there’s a bed. Want it unbolted, disassembled, and moved to the far side of the basement. Set up there, bolted down again. Where the washer and the sink are. Means re-plumbing that part, to move the washer and what’s there now. That part of the basement closed off with a new wall and a door. Soundproofed, like a recording studio. Fixed up nice--carpet and everything. Lights that come on, but you can dial ‘em down to next to nothing, and you can’t see ‘em.”

“Recessed.”

Spike nodded. “’F that’s what you call it. Fitted up so it’s always warm there. And a full bath adjoining. Nice tub, down in the floor. Maybe other stuff I’ll think of, along the way. You don’t consult Buffy on that. That’s mine. Best if it could all be done in a couple of days--a weekend, maybe. Bring everybody in, do the work, and out.”

He and Xander traded stares, both of them likely knowing exactly what that new room was gonna be used for.

“And if Buffy asks?” Xander said finally.

“Then you show her. That part, you’ll have to say it’s my idea. My doing. ‘F you don’t want to explain, I suggest you figure out the best way to do it when she’s not apt to notice. If you need her away for awhile, a day or two, you let me know. I expect that can be arranged.”

“Ahuh. But what if she sees it and says no?”

“That’s not up to you. You tell me, or send her to me, and I’ll deal with it.”

“All right. That seems legitimate, since it’s your money and her house.”

“Till that whole thing can be done, take the bed apart and store it someplace. Out of the way. Out of her sight. Cover it up with something, I don’t care.”

What Spike felt about the bed fiasco, yesterday, was way past disappointment. But he’d shut it away. Made it part of another job, to be dealt with in its turn. By somebody else.

It’d been the shackles, he was certain, that had put Buffy off. Except for that, it would have been OK.

He wouldn't always need the shackles and manacles to feel she was protected when his demon came out to play and got a little overenthusiastic; a little heedless of the necessary care that had to be taken with a human, even the Slayer--not well defended at such times. Not on her guard against him. Vulnerable.

Mostly, when he wasn't stressed out about twenty other things, he could manage his demon well enough. Turn loose the way he needed to and no harm done, both of them well content and at good peace with each other. So this dead end they'd hit wasn't forever. Turn away, take a different direction, and go on. Look toward a later convergence, farther along.

Everything he was doing now was for the long haul. For what, properly put in place and set going, would last. Get through the bad patches however he had to and look to final result.

He told Xander, “The tunnel, though, that comes first. ‘Cause that’s a known danger, right now. ‘F you can use grunt labor, point and say ‘dig,’ you let me know and I’ll see you get it.”

Xander drummed his fingers on the desktop. “You’re talking major money here, you know. Thousands of dollars, even if I donate my time.”

“I know. Have to cost up the parts, do it piecemeal. There’s five thousand, to start. That’s the current kitty. There’ll be more as I can get more. Do the highest priority things first, and the cheapest. Put off whatever’s optional and pricey. Stagger it out. Come back with a schedule, maybe, in a couple days, after you talked it out with Willow, and maybe I can help tick off what needs to be first and what can wait.”

Xander stood up. “All right.” Leveling a finger at Spike’s chest, he added, “Remember, I’m not doing this for you: it’s for Buffy.”

“No argument.”

“And the basement sex pit, that’s last.”

“Agreed. Get the bed gone, though.”

“With pleasure!”

After Xander left, Spike went into the desk drawers for the pain-killers, made sure that was what they were, and swallowed four. Then he lit a cigarette and went back to the translation. Stupid bit about the exact procedure for raising a fire elemental he was having trouble working out. Verb tenses were iffy in Socha, so it was hard to be sure what was done in what order. Wrong order could take out, conservatively, a city block: elementals were vain and touchy, didn't like being bothered, and would take it out on their summoner, given the least flaw in the procedure. Maybe he could find another version of the spell in the C.O.W. archives and cross reference. Sometimes there was more than one way around, instead of beating your head against the blank wall and hoping something would give.

He was content that the Casa Summers project was well begun. It had been on his mind a long time--months. And always had Harris in mind for it, a natural fit. Always good to deal with somebody who knew his job, knew more about it than you did, and was reasonably reliable. Like Willow. Should be making more use of contractors, delegate things off and let them go, only need to check on them from time to time. Not all of it depending on him. Needed infrastructure, needed a proper court, not just the vamp equivalent of a raiding party.

Should be making provision for the education of the fledges he’d been palming off on Digger as he found them. Maybe assign Mike to judge which were promising and which would be a dead loss no matter what anybody did. Good practice for Mike, and Spike would be able to judge the result. Put that on the agenda.

**********

Some while after his conversation with Harris, Spike heard someone approaching, entering.

For the first instant, getting no contrary signals, he thought it was Kennedy, and said, “Get onto Huey. Want to see him before dark. He….”

Something about the silence alerted him. He looked up, frowning to focus, and it was Dawn. She did a little finger wave, smiling. Said, “Hi.”

Pink Saturday corduroy overalls over a yellow top with stitched daisies he’d bought for her at the mall. And a fuzzy pink sweater she was carrying. All matching and proper.

For a second, he hoped. But the smell was off. And the expression of her eyes wasn’t right. And it was all, all wrong in too many ways for him to put names to. He did a quick head-shake, refusing the imposture, and irritably fished out a cigarette.

Without being invited, she sat primly in one of the visitors’ chairs and laid the sweater on the desk like a small dead animal. “You don’t greet me. Yet that’s customary.” She waited a moment, then said, “You don’t respond.”

“None of that was a question, your highnesshood or whatever the hell you like being called.” He lit the cigarette and set the lighter down on the desktop with a precise little click.

“A question was implied, however.”

“I’m a vamp. I don’t do implied. What d’you want? Notice--that’s a question.”

“What makes you think I want anything? Doesn’t Dawn come visit you from time to time?”

Spike drew in smoke, shut his eyes, and held his temper. Wouldn’t do any good to make her mad. And it was pushing toward noon, and he was in bad headache mode now: about ready to chuck it all in for today, let the headache bleed off while he slept. Didn’t matter if he wasted a little time on the bint.

“Not lately. Wouldn’t mind if she could visit now. For instance.”

“That might be permitted,” Lady Gates responded. “If you’re cooperative.”

Eyes still shut, Spike considered that very seriously. Dawn a hostage to his good behavior, released as a reward and bait for more of the same. Hell with it. He’d take anything he could get. He looked at her. “Dawn first, cooperate later. Otherwise, bugger off. ‘M busy here.”

“Rudeness,” Lady Gates mused. “How interesting. So much variety of response. Very well, I have no objection Spike! You got to get me out of this!” She flung herself around the desk at him, banging the monitor and knocking piled papers off the edge, and he didn’t give a damn either, because he was both holding on and holding off, not quite sure this wasn’t another try at imposture.

Pointing at the back of his left hand, he demanded, “What’s this?”

Barely touching, her fingertip traced the beginning of the spiral tattoo, the green verse. “Your promise. But she could know that too, so that’s no good.”

Spike pulled her in against his shoulder, swiveling the chair so she slid up onto his lap. “No, Bit. She could know what it is, but not what it means. That’s ours. May not have much time here. Is she hurting you?”

“No,” Dawn admitted reluctantly, “but I’m hella bored! You should understand that! And she’s wearing my favorite clothes! It’s awful! And why’s Buffy all snappish and weepy and miserable? What have you done now?”

“Been dumb, is all. Like always. Bit, you know anything yet of how I can keep you here?”

She turned around to look at him, her eyes bright and flashing. “Not yet, but I’m on the hunt, promise. It’s open both ways, and there’s a lot to hunt through. She’s never done this before, but I’ve always been me, so that gives me an advantage. I can skinny through better than she can cramp in. When I know, I’ll tell you somehow, promise.” Her look turned sly. “I could do a lot of damage up there if I wanted. No locks, Spike! Except I don’t dare spread too thin, or else…I might forget I’m me.”

“Don’t you do that, then. You sit small and wait. We’ll work it out somehow. Don’t you risk yourself.” He kissed her forehead and took in her good smell, coming off her. Took awhile, he guessed, for it to gather and build. And then saw her eyes and pitched her away, as violently as if he’d found a snake in his lap. The poison couldn’t hurt him, but it was still nothing you wanted to find yourself cozying up to.

“Might give a bloke some warning,” he complained, swiveling away to have a second to control his disappointment, his sense of loss.

“Why are you so attached to the child?” Lady Gates inquired, behind him. “Perhaps she has power, and she’s brought leverage to bear at least once on your behalf. Yet you’ve never attempted to call on that. Why not?”

Spike shrugged, turning back toward her, collecting the cigarette smoldering on the desktop. “Not wearing an amulet. Not blocking you from seeing whatever you please. You want to know, go ahead and look.” He folded his arms.

“Value,” she commented slowly, “is a subjective thing. It’s value in a context. Within parameters. Defined by viewpoint and perspective. I can scan what you see…but the value you put on it is…peculiar.”

Spike shrugged. “Vamps are peculiar. What with being dead an’ all.”

“Don’t be dense: peculiar in the sense of individual. Particular. What an imprecise language this is!” Changing gears abruptly, she demanded, “What are you doing about the Fire Mages?”

“Bugger all. Not my department. You want to talk magic claptrap, you cozy up to Red.”

“But you know magic is real, and effective. You’ve had it used as a weapon against you. And you yourself have used it in the past. How can you afford to be so ignorant and dismissive of it?”

Spike gave her a level look. “I pick my fights. Magic, that’s a knife that cuts in all directions. Goddam buzzsaw. An’ you have to want it. Or the results, anyway. Clear and straight and strong enough to follow all the forms precisely and to the letter. About as much fun as doing income tax. Not been many times I wanted anything that much…or that way. And what I’ve seen tells me you never use magic: it uses you. Not real keen on being used.”

“I’d noticed.”

He let that pass. “’F these mages get sat on, shut up for good an’ all, will you be satisfied? Go back where you came from and let Bit be?”

“That’s not the point. You should be as much opposed to reopening the Hellmouth as we are. After all, your little exercise in kingdom-building would collapse, and quickly, with an influx of demons with no reason to respect your authority. You must know that! But…I see you don’t care. You know it. Yet it means very little to you. Why is that?”

“I deal with the part I can understand. Know how it’s going and which way it’s likely to jump. The rest, that’s somebody else’s to see to. You want to send me dreams, pictures, lay it all out who needs killing to stop this, I’ll maybe see my way to it. Like I did before. But I’m my own. I don’t serve you or circumstances. As best I can, I choose.”

“Yes, yes, yes: non serviam. We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Not my fault we’re havin’ it again, now is it? You hear, but you don’t like it, so you don’t take it in. Like me and magic. Like Buffy an’ vamps, except she’s got a little better about that, seems like. Can hold onto a name, oh, at least a minute and a half before it’s gone again.” Then he was angry, to have said anything critical of Buffy in the hearing of this creature. Mouth in gear, head disengaged. Typical. He stubbed the cigarette out. “Right now, there’s nothing more important to me than getting Dawn back the way she should be. Would let this all go smash, like you wanted, if that’s what it took.”

“Really?” Lady Gates smiled. “If I promise to withdraw, restore Dawn, you’ll abandon being Master of Sunnydale?”

“Not promise: do. Then we’ll see.”

Lady Gates smiled even more broadly. Dawn had a good mouth for that, when it was Dawn running things. Nobody had a better smile. This wasn’t it. “What,” inquired Lady Gates, “became of the promised cooperation?”

“This is it. Haven’t chucked you out, have I? Still talking, aren’t we?”

“I already knew you were annoying. There’s no need to reiterate it.”

“Haven’t begun to be annoying. For instance: here you are, in the body of a child of sixteen. Limited to that. What if I just up and bust both your legs? Get you stuck in bed for a couple months. Casts and bedpans and crutches. Traction, maybe. How would you like that? How long would you put up with it before you bailed?”

“You wouldn’t. You’d be doing it to Dawn.”

“Bit, she’d understand. She’d tell me, ‘Go ahead and do it!’ I know Bit. Right ruthless, she is, when it’s called for. She’d chalk it up to necessary damage, and bitch at me some, but underneath she’d be purely glad to get you gone. An’ if you don’t see that, you don’t see anything at all. I been real patient with you so far. Real polite. You give me reason to be otherwise, I’ll be otherwise. And won’t be me who regrets it. No soul here: remember? So if getting rid of those Fire Mages is the key, I’d be real busy about that if I were you instead of putting me behind in my translation.”

“I could unmake you,” said Lady Gates coldly.

“Not from there, you can’t. You’re playing on my ground now, and I know the rules a hell of a lot better than you do. And so does Bit. You listen to her awhile and see if that’s not true. Now get out before you put me behind schedule.”

“Really? I didn’t realize you ran on clockwork. What’s so important, that’s on your schedule?”

Spike shut off the computer the way you weren’t supposed to, with the switch. Didn’t matter: he had everything saved down. Then he turned out the light, which would leave her blind, except for the little strip of light that came through the gap in the barricade. He pushed the chair back from the desk, rose, and flopped down on the cot, loud enough that she could hear each motion. Then, effortlessly and immediately, with the satisfaction of having set two more things running under adequate supervision, he shut himself down and was asleep.

**********

It was dumb to feel shy. It was dumb to feel blinding, murderous jealousy of Huey, who watched him warily while Spike talked to him and not to Mike. Stood there in the office like the goddam fucking bookkeeper he was, greasy fair hair tied back in a tail like a goddam hippy, face all angular and closed like he’d laugh if he dared. Dumb to feel awkward and oversized, like he couldn’t move and not knock into something, like he’d just bumped a pile of papers onto the floor and admit, yes, had to go down on his knees and pick the fucking things up, paw them into a pile, and set them back on the desk again, Spike not letting on he took any notice like he didn’t know or didn’t care Mike was standing there, glowering, in his T-shirt that read I will so fuck your shit UP! which was probably dumb too, but that was how he’d felt, waking, taking the call, hearing Spike’s voice telling him he was needed. Felt like he could fuck anybody’s shit up, stomp into the ground anybody Spike pointed him at, get the bike and roar over, and here’s fucking Huey practically laughing at him, evidently needed more, wanted more, being told what to do and nodding while Mike stood aside and waited like a goddam fucking moron in a stupid shirt.

Wasn’t Huey’s sire. Never let goddam Huey feed from him, or at least he better not have or Huey was gone, was dust. Sleek beautiful Spike, all silver and quicksilver, who’d made him take the watch back and given him the pocket phone, who Mike would never never betray no matter what Digger did or said, dust Digger first and he’d offered but Spike had said no, Digger was needed for the fledges, so Mike figured he had to let the old lizard be for this while though that was dangerous, dangerous, hell with the fledges, better to have the fucking old spider gone, with his big froggy mouth and his goddam wheedling.

“Michael.” Spike was talking to him. Had taken notice of him, finally. Mike sullenly consented to show he was listening. “Asked Huey, here, to quit over at Willy’s and be up here full time, to run this show.”

“I could do that,” Mike mentioned.

“An’ dress up in a tutu and a tiara, keep the troops amused, and if you tell me you’d do that, too, we’ll all know what a fucking idiot you are, now won’t we?”

“Tell you what I think of that. When he’s not here.”

“Need you for other things,” Spike commented easily, like the whole earth didn’t hang by that, thrummed and resounding like a touched guitar string, the one note, the one focus. Spike glanced up at Huey, the glance a question and Huey’s nod the response, all so fucking intimate like no words needed between them, everything understood when Mike didn’t understand anything except how much he wanted, now that he’d had a taste. Wanted more. Wanted all. Never could be enough that he wouldn’t want more.

As Huey left, sent off about his business, Spike smiled at Mike, still all easy. Collected. Distant. Mike wanted to hit him a good one to make him come out of that distance and truly attend. Didn’t do it because then Spike might not love him anymore, the most terrifying thought there could be. So Mike just stood there like a lump, waiting to be told what he should do so Spike would still love him. Stupid. Who’d ever want to love a dumbass stupid needy lump like he was?

Should be all cool distance, like Spike was. Tried. Failed miserably. Tried to fake it anyway, hold himself still. Spike was contemptuous of whoever couldn’t control their demon. So he’d do that, or at least not let on different, though the demon was begging, groveling for acknowledgement, approval. Didn’t mean Mike had to.

Still smiling, Spike remarked quietly, “You’re still an idiot, Michael,” and it wasn’t so bad with nobody else to hear, and it was Spike noticing him, so it wasn’t really bad at all.

“Yeah,” Mike admitted, hanging his head. “I guess.”

“But you’re my idiot and some of this will ease back for you, once the new wears off. Be easy with yourself, lad.”

Not looking up, Mike asked, “What do I need to do to earn another taste? Not much, just a taste.”

“Nothing whatever. Don’t have to earn it. Whenever you need it. Not for what you do. For what you are. Mine. Claimed and named.”

“Not marked, though.”

Spike chuckled, which at the same time made Mike furious and wildly happy. “Well now, wouldn’t that start talk. Marked you half a dozen times already, feeding from you, you loon.”

“Marks all healed smooth, you know that. Don't last. And it wasn't for me. Just on account of I’d had some of Dawn’s blood and you’d take it that way. Not for me at all.”

“Sometime, maybe. You got to grow into this. Or out of this, I’m not sure which. How’d your date with Lady Power go, tell me?”

Mike muttered, “Need it now.”

“What?”

“Need it now. Just a taste, for remembering.”

“Want’s not need. Give you awhile, you’ll know the difference. At least some of the time. Wake up now, Michael, and report. Tell me how Lady Power liked the movie.”

“Couldn’t make head nor tail of it,” Mike recollected slowly. “Me neither, but I didn’t care. You paid, not me. Popcorn tastes like nothing. No taste at all. Don’t know why anybody pays money for it. Explosions were nice, though grenades don’t go like that, with sparks and everything.”

“Poetic license.”

“No, special effects. It’s how they do because they can’t show the guts, not with that rating. Got to show something, so pretty colors and sparks. Metaphorical. She talked through the whole thing. We had to move to the back, everybody trying to shush her but she wouldn’t take no notice. Asking about the why of everything, not the what. Wondering why nobody didn’t use magic to get out of things, and not a witch in sight. Wasn’t no magic in the movie world, but she wouldn’t believe that, just thought they were dumb. Didn’t do much of a job explaining to her but the best I could. Didn’t even hit her once because you said. And anyway it was partly Dawn, and Dawn would get me after if I did. You said she’d know.”

“Expect so. She was here a little while, this morning. Bit. She’s pissed off, of course, but hopeful. It’s home to her, after all. She’s not like us. Do you begin to see that, a little?”

Mike nodded unhappily. “She didn’t come out for me. All that while. Not even on the bike, and she loves the bike, Dawn does. Why’d she come out for you, and not for me?”

“Lady Gates, she’s still angling for a good handle on me, so she hangs out the bait every now and again. Works, too: hard to see her, then lose her, between one blink and the next…. Still, I expect you had the better evening of it, of the pair of us.”

“Figured.”

Spike shot him a look. “Why?”

“About the first time I can’t smell her on you. Chains, that’s generally a bad idea, except with vamps. Could have told you that. Spooks ‘em.” Waking up, bleary as a fledge, he'd been sent to inspect, see the job was all to specifications. Wondered about it quite a bit, after--how it'd gone. Seemed more than iffy, to him; but not his call. And no chance to check back, afterward, till now. No need to ask: smell was sufficient. Mostly, you always knew who'd been fucking who recently, not that it meant much to anybody but Spike. He was peculiar that way.

“Yeah, well. You know how it is--have to find everything out for yourself, first-hand, or it doesn’t sink in proper. Telling’s no use. Got to learn everything the hard way. Me the same as you. All vamps alike, that way.”

“Just a taste.”

“No, and leave off about it. It’s embarrassing, Michael. And s’not a thing for everyday. Only for special. And the looking forward is a part of it.”

“Don’t like the looking forward. Hell with it.”

“Then you’ll just have to learn to appreciate it, won’t you? Like I'm doing," Spike added sourly, and at once changed the subject. "Got a bunch of volunteers, want to wear the colors, lined up outside.”

“Yeah. Saw ‘em. Scruffy bunch.”

“Kept ‘em waiting a couple hours now, get them up on their toes, those that are worth anything. Want you to sort through ‘em for me--which ones you figure are teachable and which ones are a waste of the space. Sheep and goats. Could use ‘em all if they all suit. Don’t want none that will be more trouble than they’re worth, have to be watching ‘em every second. Don’t want none gonna run from a fight or can’t take punishment without a grudge after. But you sort ‘em however you think is best, for what’s gonna be needed from them. Don’t dust none of the ones you don’t choose. Come back and tell me, and I’ll have a look. See how you done. All right?”

“I can do that!”

“Do it, then. And afterward, gonna take ‘em on a sweep, pass through Digger’s territory.”

Mike went all alert. “He know about this?”

“Not yet, he doesn’t.”

“Might be mistaken. For an attack.”

“Don’t think there’ll be any mistake. None that can’t be handled. Gonna consider the fledges he’s been collecting over there. They’re gonna need teaching, and not just from Digger. He don’t know but to work ‘em to starvation, then shove 'em all out into the morning before he'll let the rest feed, those that can fight their way back in before they dust. Lose a good half of ‘em that way, that might have been useful, fed up and encouraged somewhat. You know how he does: did you that way, except you were one of the lucky ones. Want my pick of the unluckies before shove time comes. You up for that?”

“You know I am.”

“Just giving you the option, is all. Get going then. Let me know when you done the sort, and we’ll go on from there.”

“Taste after, maybe? If I do good?”

Spike laughed and gave him a backhand cuff in the belly, which was what Mike had expected and wanted, and it was nearly as good.

**********

When Mike had divided the prospects, he went back and told Spike, who returned with him to the factory floor to inspect the result: eight, somewhat bruised, to one side, and a glum fourteen to the other--the rejects. Three of the fourteen flat out on the floor but not dusted, because that had been the instructions. And Amanda off to the side, well away from both groups, talking to Huey who was also keeping an eye on her in case somebody got impatient.

The rest of Spike’s crew lounging variously roundabout, in the colors, looking on.

“All right,” Spike said, “tell me how you sorted.”

Confident of his method and in fact quite pleased with himself, Mike explained. First he’d set aside all the hopeful fledges. Well, actually, first he’d called ‘Manda, who’d mostly do what he said, and her being so homely, seemed a good bet she wouldn’t have a date or anything, of a Saturday night.

Spike flashed a look to ‘Manda, sighed and lifted a hand, not exactly a wave. She nodded, all purse-mouthed and annoyed. Mike didn’t know what that was about, figured he didn’t care, and rolled on.

With the fledges set aside and the rest ordered to maintain human face, Mike had sent Amanda strolling past them a fair way off--past striking distance. Any that couldn’t hold and went for her, they were out. Also any that lapsed back to trueface, even if they didn’t budge. Then he sent her past again, closer. Same rules. A few more rejected, same reasons, but a bit more forcefully because three came at her in a bunch and Mike had to hammer them down before they could get at her too bad. And ‘Manda took out a pair with her taser, that Mike had made sure she’d brought with her. All the vamps bare-handed, of course. But no vamp could ever be truly disarmed. Even a fledge was more than a match for most humans.

SITs could be risked, up to what they could be reasonably expected to handle, but not wasted. SITs were valuable, Mike forgot exactly why. But he’d taken good care, all the same.

Spike nodded neutrally, still looking the prospects over. “Then what?”

“Roughed up the rest, told them to stand and take it. Ones that came back at me, I put down. They were out. Then told what was left to come at me. One hung back. She was out, too. So.” Mike waved at the eight, who’d come through the testing in good shape. Though Mike was certain he’d made a good sort, he was more nervous than he hoped he looked, waiting for Spike’s approval.

Spike first went and talked to Huey for a few minutes. Mike watched anxiously, wishing he knew what they were saying. Returning, Spike summoned one of the women fledges, and she came to him promptly, head high, silently waiting. A flip of Spike’s hand sent her to join the eight.

“She was at the class,” Spike explained. “Did what she was told in good order. An’ was up here every night before that, wanting to get in. Willing to do housekeeping, which we’re in sore need of. Worth giving her a try.”

Mike nodded impassively, understanding that his choice wasn’t being criticized, just adjusted on account of different information he hadn’t had.

Spike selected two more rejects, one that Huey’d seen in a fight at Willy’s and thought well of, and the other a woman, the one who’d hung back in the free-for-all. Spike picked her because she knew music and could play blues harmonica, which Mike considered bizarre, though he didn’t say so.

“Starting a court, here,” Spike commented, throwing a glance up at him. “More to that than fucking and fighting.”

“If you say,” responded Mike agreeably.

Then Spike pulled out two of the approved group and sent them to the rejects. One was a whiner, Spike said, and the other was “a mean son of a bitch” and troublemaker Spike didn’t want to have anything to do with. “Now that lot,” Spike said, lighting a cigarette and gesturing at the rejects with it, “you can leave to fend for themselves, masterless. Or you can keep ‘em. For yours. All the districts need bulking up. Fledges, they might be teachable: too soon to tell. An’ the hopeless gits, well, they’re the goats. Let the rest practice on ‘em till they’re used up. Or I might take ‘em off your hands later for a project I got running, not quite to the stage to use ‘em yet. Bit of digging. Anyway, your call.”

Mike got the strong impression Spike wanted him to take them. He wished Spike would just say so, flat out, so he’d know what to do. Putting it as a choice meant he might choose wrong. But then again, taking ‘em didn’t oblige Mike to anything, really: could always turn ‘em out or dust ‘em later. Spike had made plain that District Masters didn’t have to give account to him for internal matters. Could do as they pleased in that respect.

“All right. OK if I send Benny to show them where to go?”

“Benny’s gone.”

“Oh. Deuce, then.” Mike read that answer in Spike’s face and made a point of looking around, to see who actually was left. “Mary?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“Must have been some party,” Mike commented, after giving Mary her marching orders. “Pity I missed it.”

“Yeah.” Spike pitched the butt and stepped on it in a way that let Mike know the subject of the mass culling wasn’t something Spike wanted to talk about. Walking off, he said, “Get them kitted out, so we’ll know who’s ours and who’s not. Huey, show them the spare gear.”

“Women, too?” Mike called after him.

“Everybody. Gonna run a sweep.”

Regulars and recruits, they were twenty-two strong when everybody was set. Too many for the one car they had, the junkheap old Ford sedan that was nobody’s now. One of the newbies, called himself “Bingo,” had to tinker it to get it started, the keys having been lost when the car’s owner got dusted. Lots of subtle reminders, like the smell of the “spare” shirts the newbies were wearing and the way the regulars minded orders immediately and kept well wide of Spike. That last, likely a good thing. Mike kept close. And so was disappointed when Spike detailed him to run the newbies through the pipes to the mark while the regulars rode. Good to get them acquainted with the belowground ways, though, he supposed.

The mark was the parking lot of the Vons supermarket on Beloit, used to be a Safeway but got eaten, at the eastern edge of downtown. By the time Mike got there, the regulars had already been sent on their sweep: checking for the smell, as he and Spike had done, Thursday night. Mike wouldn’t forget that sweep anytime soon….

Spike introduced the newbies to the smell with one of the last of the tiny sample bottles. Then he passed out stakes and divided them into two groups with himself and Mike as the leads, and they made a start at teaching the newbies about lead and second, flanking, and moving together as a loose unit, on opposite sides of the street.

Skirmishers, as Mike thought of it.

A slightly different formation and attention range because they were all vamps and none of them armed with rifles or any distance weapons, so they could see and sense at a much greater range than they could take action. A lot of casting about: more like a pack of hounds seeking a trail than like a squad moving toward a known objective. No need to move from cover to cover, either. All of them right out in the open at an easy lope. Fast enough to cover ground quickly and not miss anything, not a full-out run that would draw attention in a suburban neighborhood.

But the variations were slight and the whole flow of movement and attention so habitual to Mike, from the life before, that he was at once aware of anybody falling behind or going off on their own, any departure from the set parameters, and corrected it with a word or a blow when a word didn’t bring instant obedience. Or on general principles, to enforce his authority.

Vamp dominance games, Mike thought, and smiled. He liked them. Because he mostly won. Except for Spike, and that was as it should be. Some day he’d take Spike, too; but he knew he wouldn’t be fit for another try for some time yet. A few of the deeper bruises from his last try still gave the occasional twinge when he moved wrong or reached too suddenly.

All in its own time, and in good order.

One of the newbies caught the smell and signaled with a lifted hand, like a hound going to point. Mike whistled high, and Spike’s squad veered to follow. Mike sent the newbie ahead to point position, as a scout. The smell took them to a drug store. Point and two flankers went in while the rest waited outside. When it got to five minutes, Spike named a new mark, a gas station, and took his squad on. Point and flankers came out shortly after, locked onto a woman and two teenaged-girls obliviously chatting together. Mike’s squad shadowed them to a new green Plymouth Fury. Took out a vamp who made a move on the trio--quick and clean, dusted before they’d noticed anything, still chatting. Followed the Fury on home--no problem staying with a car doing well under the 35 mph speed limit--and saw them safely inside, no further incident. A couple of vamps on the street, a little way down, but they stayed clear and Mike let them be.

He called the point man aside, asked his name.

“Len. Sir.”

“Military.” Wasn’t a question: Mike already knew.

“Yessir. Nam. Then some freelance.”

“Ahuh. Age?”

“Coming on eighteen. Sir.”

Mike took good note of the vamp’s appearance and smell. Three times Mike’s age, since being turned. Mike supposed that made him something like a baby lieutenant. “Rules are a little different, Len. You call me by my name. But when we’re on a sweep, or on the hunt, I’m God.”

Len smiled comfortably. “Got that, sir. Mike.”

“Naming you second, for tonight. You watch my signs and do well, you’ll stay there. Mess up, and you’re in with the goats, like Spike said. If I don’t get peeved and dust you myself. All clear?”

“Clear, sir.”

“Lead out, then. The mark’s the Exxon station at Grandview.” Looking around at the squad, Mike added, “Anybody catches the smell, make a sign.”

One of the squad, a woman, the fledge from the class, asked, “When do we hunt?”

“When Spike says,” Mike answered shortly. As the squad moved out, Mike moved alongside her, again noting appearance and smell. “How old?”

“Not quite a year. I was in college. Got caught--” She stopped herself, maybe realizing her history was of less than no interest.

“Name?”

“Jenna.”

“You’re on the bubble, Jenna. I culled you out, Spike put you back. You’ll be seen to in due course. Nobody will starve in this crew. Watch your mouth. Won’t tell you twice.”

“Yes. OK. Clear.”

Mike let himself drop back to rearguard position, watching how they moved, attending to his sense of vamps hunting roundabout, the abrupt sunburst flare of bloodsmell as one made a kill. He noted which in the squad reacted to it and which didn’t. Jenna nearly broke formation, then steadied. She’d need to feed tonight. Have to make provision for that. But Spike would know. No need to bother about it himself.

Mike liked sweeps. Better with an all-out fight, but good regardless. Knowing clearly what he was about, what the objective was, how to think and do. All that taken care of. Feeling that he fit, belonged. Everything simple.

Meeting at the mark, Spike asked him where Digger’s newest excavation and shoring were apt to be. Mike told him. Spike named that as the mark and they all went to it. In the open, aboveground, no attempt whatever at stealth.

Digger didn’t put out sentries, as such. But his people were on the hunt throughout the district, his own territory, and seeing a bunch of vamps moving together, in force, they’d send out an alarm. Mike caught the high, warbling signal rise and repeat, close and distant. Not the signal for a lone poacher or two but with the sudden drop-off deeper end-tone that signaled attack. Digger never changed his signals: Mike knew them all.

If he heard it, Spike heard it. Had therefore figured on it. So it must be all right. Even though the signal was repeating from many directions, roundabout.

The entrance here was in a cemetery, Shady Rest--a crypt labeled MORRIS. A bunch of vamps spilled out of it, far more than the crypt could have contained. They mostly had shovels. A few stakes, poles, sharpened baseball bats: weaponry kept by the entrance, to be snatched up at need.

Passing the graveyard entrance, Spike said, “Any with dirty hands, put ‘em down, keep ‘em down. Hurt ‘em, all right. Don’t stake ‘em.”

“Right,” Mike responded. When the squads stayed mum, Mike directed harshly, “If you heard, sing out!”

That roused a muttered, nervous chorus of “Right” from both squads.

Mike knew to take the right and moved through his squad fast to take them that way. The two groups closed. More vamps came in from behind and around but there was no signal to bring them in, so they stayed clear, sensed but not seen for the most part.

The dirty-handed fledges fought frantically. Knew they wouldn’t be allowed back inside if they didn’t. Mike took on the ones with the shovels, that had sharpened edges, could behead a vamp if you didn’t look out for them. Left the squads to deal with the stakes and other miscellaneous weaponry. If you didn’t want ‘em staked, had to get ‘em disarmed or the stakes would be used against them. There were some accidents of that sort--lost harmonica-girl that way: dusted, gone--because the fighting was completely disorganized, a free-for-all brawl, the squad not dividing into fighting units, lead and second, like they should. Hadn’t been taught that yet. Except Mike noticed Len had snagged himself a couple of seconds, was doing the fledges more methodically: take one down, leave the seconds to finish, single out another and do the same, while others were stupidly struggling hand to hand by pairs or random threes, back and forth across the ground.

Numbers had started about even, but with Spike briskly putting fledges down with a baseball bat, an economical swat to the head or face and move on as they fell, Mike doing what he was, and Len effectively putting down another every minute or so, wasn’t long before the remainder of the two squads were the only ones still standing.

“Howdy, Spike.” Digger was leaning in the crypt door, fussing at his nails with his preferred weapon, a wickedly long knife. “To what do we owe this honor?”

“Hullo, Digger,” Spike responded, turning, casually brushing dust off his thighs. “Wanted to have a look at the fledges you been collecting. Sorry lot, I must say.”

“They’re eating me out of house and home, the fuckers. Thought that was the idea, you sending ‘em to me in wholesale bunches, rile up the whole district, feeding ‘em. Presents. Like the sacred elephants get sent to enemies, bankrupt ‘em with the upkeep.”

“Oh, I dunno, we been getting on well enough, last few days, anyhow. How it goes. And I figured you’d have no problem with the upkeep. Always been thrifty about that, I’m told.”

“Howdy, Mike,” said Digger, and Mike nodded inattentively, counting heads, motioning the squads back into something like formation in case Digger called in the vamps roundabout to make a real fight of it.

“You always got a use for fledges,” Spike remarked. “And you’re short-handed. Figured you had the most need of ‘em, of the districts.”

“Not quite so short-handed as I was,” Digger replied pointedly, looking around into the dark. “Been working on that, since you cut me back to cow-tenders and the household help, ‘bout a week back.”

“Good on you, then. Wouldn’t have expected less. Now you got ‘em all broke in, culled the ones needed culling, thought I’d take a few back off your roster. Got a job of work coming up, needs extra hands. I’m not particular. Don’t need ‘em for fighting, which is a good thing, since they made a pretty pathetic show of it. Leave you the best, take the rest.”

“Got no objection to that,” Digger decided slowly, after a moment’s consideration. “Ain’t got that much invested in ‘em, by way of food. Always glad to oblige.”

Spike laughed, then sobered. “You fledges, stand up.”

Mike moved quickly to Sue, that he’d spotted during the fight. He set his hand on her shoulder and leaned hard when she tried to rise against it. She had a dent and a spreading bruise across her forehead: from Spike’s bat, most likely. Figured Spike would have taken her down first and fast, to keep her out of the general fight. Her eyes were strange, and Mike figured she didn’t altogether know what she was doing--just automatically responding to the order, doing what those around her were doing, if they were able.

Mike leaned hard again, forcing her down. Finally, covertly, he popped her one on the chin, which folded her satisfactorily. Hadn’t the sense of a pea.

A little more than half the fledges were able to waver to their feet. Hadn’t done them any severe damage, after all.

“You lot,” said Spike, surveying the standing fledges, “you go on back to what you were doing.” Looking to Digger, he added, “I’ll take the rest,” flipping a hand to indicate those that were still down.

“Fine by me. Do that,” said Digger, turning back into the crypt.

The standing fledges followed him, and the surrounding vamps faded away.

Took about fifteen minutes to get the remainder of the fledges conscious, more or less, and fit to move. Wasn’t so much the damage: most all of them were starved and showed it in their bony, skull-like faces, sticklike limbs, and dull eyes. They went as they were pushed or hauled, just like they’d been pushed into the fight. To delay things, just cannon fodder, until the adult vamps could arrive.

On his own, Len collected Sue, having noted that Mike had made sure she wasn’t in the group delivered back to Digger. A little too quick on the uptake for Mike’s tastes: have to keep an eye on him in particular.

If Spike named a mark, Mike didn’t hear it, just following along, keeping the newbies on track and together as they recovered, detailing them to keep the disoriented fledges going however they had to.

They all felt it together: prey approaching. The fledges burst forward. Uncontrollable, unless they were dusted. Spike stood in the street, calmly watching, as they took the prey down and frantically fed.

Looking around, Mike recognized the location: Mulberry and Sycamore, near the all-night drugstore. One of the preferred meeting places for drug dealers and their customers. Three, that Mike spotted right off, casual and conspicuous on the corners, under the streetlights.

Strolling nearer, Spike directed, “Squads on the fledges, two to one. Spread ‘em out. Take the buyers as they leave. Leave the dealers for bait, until last. If they’re in cars, let the cars move at least a block clear before they’re taken. Fledges feed first, then the handlers can have any left over. Clear?”

“Clear, Spike. Everybody gets well. And high, besides. You do know how to throw a party,” commented Mike, grinning.

“Yeah, well. See to it, then.” Spike moved off, rubbing the back of his neck like he was annoyed about something, Mike couldn’t imagine what, since everything had gone off pretty much without a hitch.

No matter. Just one of Spike’s moods. Mike started pairing up the newbies with the dazed fledges, setting up the ambush points in convenient alleys and behind parked cars at a suitable distance from the bait.

Chapter 8: Powers and Persuasions

“But the Hellmouth is a badness. Major badness!” protested Willow earnestly, picking pills off her sweater sleeve. Important to do that or you could become all pill-y.

“But think of it,” Amy insisted, sitting even farther forward on the yellow couch, as if she’d launch herself at Willow any minute. For somebody who’d been in frozen flames until half an hour ago, she hadn’t missed a beat in her transparent attempt to drag Willow into the badness too. Willow wasn’t buying it, not a bit. Willow was all about the topic.

“We’re talking about Spike here,” Willow pointed out, as forcefully as she could with her hand full of fuzzy sweater pills.

“Hell with Spike, he doesn’t matter,” Amy came back at once. “What’s one vamp, more or less? You have to screw the spell practically sidewise to get magic to take any notice of vamps at all. They’re nothing. Magic-null. Practically magic sinks, black holes of power suckage. I’m embarrassed every time I have to open the Arcanum, it’s so baby it practically has training wheels, you know? And those terrible invocations! Geez!”

Willow had to smile a little because the invocations in the Arcanum were particularly dumb. Every noun dangling five or six adjectives, practically gasping for breath it was so smothered, like the sort of really hideous, embarrassing romance novels she didn’t read anymore, except on Valentine’s Day, and that was only to give herself a cheap chuckle.

“Somebody who can create a solid stasis, stop Time in its tracks, what does she want with a training-wheels text like the Arcanum?” Amy rolled on like a river in flood, that would terrify all the small furry animals but probably not the birds, that could watch, perfectly safe, from their perches in high trees, except of course if they’d nested too low and they’d be worrying then, all right, all those little downy chicks peeping away for worms and icky stuff like that except there wouldn’t be any, with a flood. Willow wondered if worms could drown. Frogs would probably like it, though--big ol’ flood like that. Willow didn’t like frogs.

And sure it was great to talk magical shop with somebody who really understood, who could make jokes about the stupid, out-of-scale woodcut illustrations in Branham’s Afrits, Imps, and Malign Spirits, like offering a picture of an actual horse to accompany the text on nightmare, at least it was supposed to be a horse but it looked more like a deformed goat and Tara had always giggled over that one when they hit it looking for the footnotes about incubi, succubae, that directed the reader to the really useful sources, but no, no, no, Willow was sticking to the topic here, with no digressions.

“The sparkly powder--”

Amy made a big get-out-of-here brush-away disdainful gesture, like waving off a bad smell. “Vamps won’t believe anything works if they can’t see it working. So you got to build in all these stupid special effects, flash and whistle, or they won’t believe it’s any good. The more flash and noise you give ‘em, the more powerful they’ll think it is. Utter savages. It was a bitty little nothing spell. The deathwish, that was solid and should have got the job done all on its own. So the follow-up, that was nothing because no more should have been needed and wouldn’t have been, if you’d let things run their course. Never thought you’d stoop to defending a vamp against High Magick!”

“Well, he’s my business partner--” Willow began defensively.

“Oh no! The mutt’s got you, too! And here I believed you really were down and sincere with the gayness--”

Really put out, Willow threw a Silence at her with a snapped word and a gesture, and Amy couldn’t break it. Couldn’t say the release-spell because, well, Silenced. Opening and closing her mouth like a guppy. That should teach her better than to question the sincerity of Willow’s gayness! Hadn’t even re-connected with Oz when she’d had the chance, despite Oz being so cute and sweet, but she’d said, “Oh, no, I’m gay through and through and nothing more to do with the likes of you, buster!” Or at least words to that effect. So what, if she’d gotten all upset when Spike had kissed her, right in front of Buffy and everything? Anybody would be upset and all indignant, promiscuous vamp kissage like that, it just wasn’t right and she’d told him so in no uncertain terms, too, once he’d put her down. Spike wasn’t the hulk and hover type: more compact and sinewy, a little like Oz that way, and it was easy to forget how freaking strong he was, lifted her up and twirled her around like she was nothing, a feather, and it was just being so surprised that’d kept her from exerting Force and making him put her down, right that very instant! And she could have, she really truly could have, but Buffy wouldn’t have liked that, nobody allowed to beat up on ol’ Spike but the Slayer, and you always had to keep that in mind.

“Vamps are not mutts,” Willow declared haughtily, picking sweater pills, “just because other demons look down on them. And the Order of Aurelius is nothing to sneeze at, either: an ancient lineage. And you wouldn’t call him a mutt if you’d ever seen his aura: it’s ginormous. Three times normal size, at least. And he deals with the Powers direct, and is practically an ancient even though he isn’t even 200 yet: he can channel! Yes! It’s how he closed the Hellmouth. Of course the amulet helped, you always have to have a focus, I mean a catalyst, to get things properly started, but he took it from there, burned out practically three whole city blocks and several stories down, huge crater, and now he’s Master of Sunnydale and everything. So he’s a perfectly respectable business partner to have and anybody that says different is just ignorant!”

Willow waited for Amy to admit her mistake, but Amy didn’t say anything, just making those dumb fish faces. Oh. Willow spoke the Release.

Amy made a few experimental noises, like ummm and ah, then said, “Well, no wonder the incendiary spell didn’t set him afire, then, if he can channel. I don’t know what anybody expects if they don’t tell me these things!”

“So it was an incendiary--? You gave a vamp an incendiary spell to throw at another vamp, no gloves or anything, at close quarters? And nobody went up? Flamed out? What kind of incompetent--”

“Oh, no, no,” Amy cut in hastily, “that was just the sparkly flash effect and who knows, it might have caught him, vamps are so freakin’ flammable, after all. But that was just the decoration, the, well, fireworks.” Amy smiled broadly at her play on words, which Willow considered pretty lame and didn’t smile at even a little. So Amy sobered, frowning anxiously, and ran on, “Not the main effect, just the decoration, the delivery packaging, like I said before. And shouldn’t even have been needed, like I said. The deathwish should have been enough, all by itself, and would have been, if you hadn’t interfered. It was never made to stand up against the powers of a witch of your stature. Just one of those silly Keystone vamp feuds, after all, everybody running around, bumping into things, big poof, dust everyplace…. And like that,” Amy concluded meekly, seeing that Willow was not prepared to be amused.

“So what was it?”

Amy knew she wasn’t gonna get away with any more dancing around the topic, going everyplace except to the center. Not around Willow, nosir. Amy hung her head and folded her hands. “Nothing much. I didn’t think it would even be used. A Be as you were, is all.”

“A regression spell?” When Amy bobbed her head affirmatively, Willow asked incredulously, “On a vamp? What were you trying to do: turn him human again?”

“Oh, no, really, I know it would be no use against a major transmogrification, like being a vamp. Can’t undo that. But all vamps start out as fledges, you know? All grrr and uncontrolled and dumb. A fledge could never put together an empire or, well, a town. It’d have trouble stacking two bricks. Never have the patience, and nobody would listen to him anyway. After all, a fledge, for cripe’s sake! And Digger seemed to like it, he’d have no problem putting a fledge in its place, even though with a vamp as old as Spike, it would naturally take a while to unspool and have any effect anybody else could notice. Digger’s patient, for a vamp. Unusual that way. And he pays right up in advance, well, a little held back for completion and satisfaction, but since I’d already quadrupled the price over the cost of the materials, I don’t mind that, you know? Vamps have no idea of what things cost. They make ideal customers that way. Except they don’t much have any money, either. So pretty much a niche market. But with business so bad, and me with start-up costs and all, you have to take some pretty dismal commissions just to get the business off the ground. Like you and this cockamamie smell. Not even remotely worthy of your gifts.”

Although Willow was rather proud of concocting the smell, somebody who didn’t realize how complicated and detailed it was, layering a smell, working out the release, persistence, and sublimation rates, could think it sounded pretty piddly. Learning the basics, and even many of the subtleties, of the perfumer’s art in a couple of weeks when it generally took lifetimes was no small achievement. Even if it didn’t sound like much, viewed from outside.

Willow shrugged. “Like you said: it was a commission. Passes the time between classes. I’m in college now, you know.”

“That’s what I heard. What’s your major?”

“Double major: communications theory and chaos theory. I suppose sometime I’ll have to change schools, study with a major Chaotician, but--”

“Communications theory and chaos theory? But isn’t that the same thing?” Amy waited eagerly for Willow to see her joke. “Like a redundancy?”

“Tautology,” corrected Willow aloofly. Not funny. And Amy was trying too hard.

“And here I am still working on my GED. I really missed out, all that time as a rat.”

“Well, the mayor’s commencement speech would have been a happy miss,” Willow reflected. “And I could have done without the time I tried to destroy the world. But overall--”

“You did?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

"Of course. I understand. Tell me about that girl you had with you before, then. The tall one with no shape and the mop on her head. How could you pull all that power out of her? I mean, I assume she's a virgin, but geez!"

Amy’s nose was twitching. Habit, probably.

**********

Sunday mornings were generally a good time to get hold of people, have meetings. If they were churchgoers, they likely weren’t the sort of people Spike would be dealing with anyway. Those accustomed to late rising would have to learn to adapt to his schedule.

Sunday’s agenda was packed to bursting, if Spike was to get to sleep at a decent hour in the afternoon. The first appointment was shortly after the sunrise delivery of the tribute blood ration. Spike made a point of being extra polite to his visitor, thanking him for coming out so early and offering him morning food, coffee and pastries, that humans seemed to find suitable, before going to the gap and yelling for Huey. Needed some sort of paging system, intercom, something like that, he thought, walking back.

When Huey came in, Spike introduced them. “Huey, this is Rudolph Murchison. He’s a lawyer, represented that nest of Harnish by the bowling alley on that trespassing and unlawful deprivation of enjoyment and what-all case a couple of years back. Unlike most people in Sunnydale, he pretty much knows what’s what, has no problem dealing with demons.”

Huey nodded. When the human set down his cup, stood, and offered his hand, Huey shook it, faintly surprised but agreeable. Then they both sat down.

Spike went on, “He’s agreed to act as my agent for daytime things. Mr. Murchison, Huey’s my castellan. Would translate as something like major domo. Takes care of internal arrangements, procurement, personnel maintenance, that sort of thing. Anything Huey says will already have been cleared with me, so you won’t need a separate go-ahead. You’ll be dealing mostly with him. Want you two to get acquainted, rough out what we’re gonna need done in the next few months, what contacts need to be set up, and like that. A reliable car is first, to start the airport pick-up. Huey, Mr. Murchison will arrange for that today, till we get a regular courier who can move around in the daytime. Not gonna lumber Rona with that. All right?” When both nodded and made noises of agreement, Spike left them to it.

In the southwest corner of the factory, there was a hatch in the floor. Pulled open, it revealed a descending stairwell where Spike understood the cheerleader, that Cordelia, had contrived to fall and get herself impaled on a piece of rebar one time. All cleared out and fixed since then, of course. The steel staircase led to a large, windowless open space: once the factory receiving/shipping area, now designated as the dormitory. The space was completely dark: Spike had to change aspect to see.

On a cluster of mattresses laid on the floor, about two dozen vamps slept, mostly in tangles of two or three, completely motionless. Predictably, the new fledges had bedded down together toward the rear, feeling more secure that way, with the mature vamps between them and any intrusion.

It took awhile--the advent of daylight took fledges down like a hammer-blow--but Spike managed to get Sue something like awake and led her to the empty freight elevator shaft, where three picnic tables, the sort with built-in benches, had been put. Yawning, she braced her elbows on the table and sagged against Spike’s arm, saying blurrily, “My hero. You came for me.”

Shaking her arm made her chin fall off her fists. “Wake up, Sue. Listen here.”

“Yeah. Listening.”

“Can’t take credit for you getting picked up in the sweep. You hear me?”

“Yeah…. All right. Glad all the same. That place, it’s a hell-hole.”

She’d never seen a hell-hole. But no use to tell her that. And no good telling her she’d only been picked up because Mike had made a point of collecting her, whereas Spike had left it to her whether she’d stay down or stupidly stand and be returned to Digger. She’d want to think it was rescue and meant something, some special favor and concern, and it was no good giving a fledge notions of her own importance. Only meant trouble, and fledges were enough trouble as it was.

She was filthy. She stank. Her hair hung in dull, matted tangles. Exposed skin was livid with bruises. Have to do something about getting shower facilities set up. Had water, though only cold; had drains. Spike made a mental note to have Huey see to it. Friday night, he’d showered at vacant Casa Mike, but that was hardly convenient. And the condition of his people reflected on him.

“Since you’re here,” Spike went on, “there’s something I want you to do. Wake up when I’m talking to you.”

Jostled, she yanked her head up, staring wildly. “Listening. Really.”

“All right. Want you to chat up the new fledges, see what you can find out about who turned ‘em. Any description, any detail. Smell, approach, where they were taken, anything. Gonna get that fucker. You hear me?”

“Yeah. Got it. Hungry,” she whined.

All the fledges were in desperate need of feeding up. Enough that they’d always feel hungry, even after a full feeding. Be awhile before that would let up.

“That’s being seen to. But you’ll all have to earn your way. Lose half the day to sleep, then eat the other half, if you could. Bunch of babies.”

“Yeah. Babies,” she said with a drowsy, dopy smile. She leaned, her cheek tipping onto his shoulder. Like she trusted him or something. Didn’t mean anything, except she couldn’t stay awake two minutes at a time.

Spike sat a minute or two, deciding what to do. No harm to just leave her to have her sleep out where she was. Vamps could and did sleep anyplace they’d fit, so long as it was away from the light. He’d slept on a bare sarcophagus for years. But she hadn’t. Didn’t yet know the half of her strengths or vulnerabilities. Didn’t begin to understand what she truly needed, beyond the impulses of the moment.

So he sighed and gathered her up and replaced her among her moveless fellows. With a fledge, some allowances had to be made.

Then he went back up to check in with Buffy by phone, at the start of her day, then catch up with e-mail, deal with responses to certain recruitment initiatives, until it was time to leave for his next appointment, out at the mall. He'd already missed and rescheduled it three or four times. Putting it off, he admitted. So past time to finally get it seen to.

**********

Willow spent the rest of the morning researching spells, then phoned a very annoyed Anya to open the Magic Box so Willow could pick up the needed materials.

Groping in boxes and canisters, Willow remarked snappishly, “I don’t know why your nose is all out of joint, since you were here anyway.”

She’d found Anya in overalls, her hair wrapped up in a scarf, diligently sweeping the floor of the annex around display cases relocated there with the clear intention of exploiting for retail purposes the space freed by its being vacated as Buffy’s training room. Shelves, in different stages of construction, were being built to line the walls. With the appropriation of the annex, the shop had nearly doubled in size. Chivying the dust and scraps from various angles and herding the pile toward some designated point known only to herself, frowning intently, Anya replied, “It’s a distraction, and I don’t need distractions. I have all of one day to prepare this area and set out the stock attractively.”

Separating a tangle of dried asters on a countertop, Willow said over her shoulder, “I’ll come back and help, after I’m done at the factory. And maybe Buffy could put in an hour or two. She has no plans today, at least that she’s told me.” Getting no reply, she looked around. “You did ask Buffy if it was all right to coopt this space, didn’t you?” Her question grew softer and more uncertain as it progressed, and she suddenly knew Anya had done no such thing. “Or even Giles?” she added hopefully.

“Giles sold his interest to me before he left. Since he’s resident abroad now, it’s much simpler that way: with any degree of foreign ownership, the paperwork is appalling.” Grabbing a pump bottle, Anya crouched down to spray the front glass of a display case with the same intent vigor as she’d attacked the floor. “I’m the sole proprietress. Why should I ask anybody how to set up my displays?”

Not wanting to get in a brangle with Anya, especially when they both knew she’d been high-handed and wasn’t going to admit it, Willow said brightly, “Here’s a list of what I’ve taken. Do you want to ring it up now, or wait till I--”

Anya swooped past, collecting the list on the way to the register. So Willow muttered, “Guess deferred payment is not an option here.”

Making grudged change of a twenty, Anya asked tartly, “And how is the Power settling in?”

“I don’t know,” Willow admitted. “I mostly don’t see her much.”

“You mean you avoid her,” Anya corrected. “Wise choice.”

“It makes me a little nervous trying to research how to get her to leave,” Willow admitted, putting the change and the materials away in her tote.

“Don’t,” advised Anya, passing by to resume her cleaning. “She’ll leave when she’s good and ready and not before. Try to interfere with her, you’re liable to end up in the cornfield. Like in that story?”

Willow shivered and took her leave.

It was what vamps might consider a nice day, Willow thought, looking up through the windshield: solid overcast sliding in from the west, threatening rain. No sun to be seen anywhere. The factory, on its desolate rise, looked particularly unwelcoming against the gunmetal sky. Mostly, Willow admitted, the place gave her the creeps, though short of a full wiggins, since she knew any vamp attacking her would be severely disciplined. Afterward. Which wasn’t all that reassuring, now that she thought about it….

Bustling up to the sentry room, she was disappointed that the vamp wasn’t anybody she knew. “I’m here to see Spike. I’m his business--”

“He ain’t here.”

“Oh.” Willow looked at her watch, confirming that it was past noon. “When is he coming back?”

“Didn’t say.”

Willow started to ask if she could wait here, then thought better of it. The vamp didn’t seem much for small talk, and she hadn’t brought a book. Backing out, she said nervously, gesturing, “I’ll just wait in my car. Over there. Would you let me know when he gets back?”

The vamp just looked at her.

Returning to her car and locking all the doors made her feel marginally more secure, even though with the overcast, any vamp could walk right up and rip off a door. She reviewed spells, trying to choose which would be best to try in that scenario. Or the other six she promptly came up with.

When half an hour had passed, she dug out her cell phone and punched in Spike’s number. Half the time he had it turned off and the other half it was dead because he’d forgotten to recharge it, but he was getting better about that, she thought contritely. On only the eighteenth ring, the connection was made, and she had Spike’s voice in her ear, demanding, “What?”

“Spike, it’s me, Willow. I’m up at the factory. Where are you?”

“What’s up?”

“I found out what the sparkly dust was. A regression spell. I’ve brought what I’ll need to dispel it.”

Silence.

Willow offered, “Would it be better if I met you someplace?”

More silence. Then, “No. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. If you can’t wait--”

“Oh, no, I’ll wait,” Willow assured him. She was quite willing to help out Anya but certainly wasn’t in any hurry about it.

“Oh. All right, then.” With his usual abruptness, he ended the call.

After half an hour fiddling with her radio, trying to find anything but sermons or bluegrass, Willow hoped she’d waited long enough and made another try at the sentry post. The vamp opened the inner door for her without comment, so she concluded he’d had fresh instructions. She hustled through the factory, which seemed utterly empty and deserted until something made her look up and she saw a vamp perched on a cross-girder, looking down at her like a gargoyle. That spooked her. Clutching her tote against her breasts, she hustled a little faster--back to the barricade and through. The office was as dark as the surrounding space. As she approached cautiously, the desk light was turned on, and Spike straightened, looking toward her. That was much better.

Plunking her tote down on a chair, she started getting the materials out, commenting, “It’s an insidious thing. Slow and insidious. Pushing you back to earlier and earlier mind-sets, and--”

“Appreciate your concern,” Spike broke in, leaning against the back wall, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon not.”

“Excuse me?”

“To be blunt, let it alone, Red. Keep your stuff. Maybe later. Some other day.”

“You don’t want me to lift it? But why?”

Spike took his time lighting a cigarette. “I know what a regression does. How it acts. Nothing like fatal. A nuisance, at best. But…I been finding it handy, like. Things clearer for me.” He smiled at her ruefully. “Maybe I used to be smarter than I am now. Dunno. Just not in any rush to get it lifted. No harm in waiting, is there?”

“Well, probably not for a day or two, I guess. I wouldn’t put it off longer, though. Spike, it’s influencing you: how you think, how you react to things. It wasn’t made for your benefit, you know.”

“That Amy, she make it?”

“Yeah. She admitted it.”

“So she’s out of the stasis?”

“Yeah.”

“On fire, you said. Burned real bad, was she?”

“Well, no. Not even singed.” That was odd, now that Willow stopped to think about it. An effect of the stasis?

“Ahuh. What’s her last name?”

Willow stared at him, puzzled. “Madison. Amy Madison.”

“An’ am I recalling right, she was one of your old chums? High school? Pre rat?”

“Well, not so much chums, but we knew each other, yes. Traded spells, talked about what we’d managed to accomplish. Just starting out then. Part of the time I knew her, she was her mother. It’s complicated.”

“Ahuh. And she’s been de-ratted, what--about a year?”

“A little more, but about,” Willow agreed.

“Come on fast, then, hasn’t she. Considering all that time she missed. Went right for the strong stuff, didn’t mess about with levitating pencils and such. Adapting spells an’ all, casting a deathwish…that worked.”

Willow didn’t see what he was getting at. Awkwardly, twisting the tote handles, she admitted, “She introduced me to Rack.”

“Oh: Rack! Big time power-sucker. I’m all sorts of impressed,” Spike commented sardonically.

“Yeah, well, he’s dead.”

“Ahuh,” Spike said, as if he knew she’d killed him. “But before that, Rack introduced her around, I think. Made herself some connections, back when the power was free for the taking. When the Hellmouth was still blaring at 2,000 decibels on the dark mojo scale.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Just curious, is all. I got a witch, Digger’s got a witch. Trying to size up the opposition. She got more power than you, Red?”

“No way!”

“You sure of that?”

“Absolutely positive!”

“She got more usable magic than you? ‘Cause a lot of things, you won’t do. You hang back from the strong stuff. Probably sensible. But if she uses all she has, and we’re always playing catch-up, reacting to something she’s already done, and you’re being dainty about what you’ll touch or catch hold of….”

Willow felt wounded. “Don’t you have confidence in me, Spike?”

“Don’t like magic,” he said abruptly, frowning toward the cot. “Don’t like messing with it. Don’t even like thinking about it, though that’s mostly what I do, nowadays…. With the translation, an’ all. Like to get the magic out of the equation altogether. Keep things to what I have good hold of, myself. What I know.” He looked up, straight at her. “I know my limits. Don’t know yours. Don’t want to catch you in an awkward spot, where you’d have to go past what you’re willing to do, what you think is right, to get the job done. You have scruples, and I respect that. Don’t believe this Amy puts quite the same restrictions on herself. Catch up with her eventually…but maybe not soon enough to do me any good.

“Have to think it out a bit more, Red, before I decide how to play this part of it. The magic part. No criticism of you. None whatever. But I knew this was gonna get ugly sooner or later. Why I thought it’d be a real bad idea to have the soul along. Built-in limits, y’see. I’m more of Amy’s cast of mind, now, than I am yours. So I need to think it out some more. Sorry I made you wait. Had something to see to. And to me, now, it’s like three in the morning would be to you. Not a real great time for deciding things.” Stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray on the desk, he came and tucked back into her tote the few things she’d gotten out of it, then took her arm and started steering her toward the exit. “I’ll think about it and let you know. I’ve put it on the agenda.”

Just past the barricade, Willow spun and threatened, “I’ll tell Buffy!”

“You do that, if that’s what you think is right.”

“No,” Willow admitted, deflating. “But Spike--”

“It will all be fine. Just clears the air, clears the decks a little further. Don’t you worry about it.” Turning, he started back toward the office, adding over his shoulder, “’F Rubio--that’s who’s on the door, Rubio: means ‘red’ in Spanish--if he gives you the least lip, you have my permission to turn him into a porcupine. Gerbil. Whatever you please.” A wave of his hand dismissed the matter.

Since he’d refused, there was nothing Willow could do. But she wasn’t happy about it. Decidedly not happy.

**********

By Spike’s watch, it was 2:03 in the morning. Looking at the dark window from the sidewalk, he pushed the #2 speed dial. After two rings, he got a cautious, “Who’s there?”

He said, “Come down to the porch. Bring a coat, it’s nippy,” and ended the call.

A light came on.

She’d come, he thought, because she was curious. Like tying a bit of rag to your rifle’s reamer, poking the reamer upright in the ground, and retreating back behind a rise to wait for the pronghorn to come investigate the flutter. Or so Digger, who should know, had told him, upon a time. When Spike had first come to Sunnydale, there’d been no pronghorn in the folds of its land, only a Slayer who used much more direct methods.

He put down his bag of doings and settled on the glider. Before a cigarette’s worth of time, she came tip-toeing out, bundled up good and warm in her borrowed body. Spike didn’t say anything, just pitched the remainder of the cigarette and took from his bag the knife and the length of branch that were the beginning of it.

Opening the knife, he started. Green wood, but winter wood: it had left off growing for the season. The bark was stripped off easily by the sharp blade. Then he set about working on the bulges, to smooth them out, gradually sharpen the angle from butt to tip. Never make a perfect round but didn’t need to. In the past year, he’d cut thousands of stakes. His hands knew their work without need of eyes.

He told her about the winter wood, how it wasn’t seasoned and would warp with time, but that was no problem if not given time to do so. She settled warily on the far end of the glider, watching his hands.

“The tricky part,” he continued, “is finding the right tree. The right age. Sunnydale has a gardening club, plants a few trees each Arbor Day. That’s a holiday they have here, out of guilt for so many forests leveled, trees cut, so the erosion sets in. And not a proper holiday, just one of those made-up ones, like Secretary’s Day. Anyway, they’re a proud bunch: got their own website and put their back records on there. What tree planted where in what year. Each a year-old sapling. So wasn’t hard at all to find the right one. Had the choice of a Bradford pear, a pin oak, and a maple. Oak is always good, strong wood, so I picked that and took this bit, clean against the trunk, not leave an unsightly nub. A tree of her years.”

“They don’t talk to me,” said Lady Gates in a sudden burst. “They’re afraid of me. Even without looking into their minds, I know. They’re also angry.”

Steadily working, Spike responded, “Well, that’s not to be wondered at. You’re powerful and unknown. That pretty well kills casual conversation. And you’re keeping shut away someone they know and love and feel protective toward. Imprisoned, like. I’m a bit angry with you on that account myself.”

“You don’t fear me. Why not?”

Spike hitched a shoulder. “What difference would it make? You’ll do what you please, regardless. An’ you’ve known what I was from the beginning, yet considered I’d make a useful instrument. Smooth to the hand. Like this instrument here. ‘F you meant to end me, you’d have done it long since.”

Having finished the preliminary rounding, he passed the stake across for her inspection.

“It feels slippery,” she mentioned, touching it with a cautious fingertip.

“That’s because it’s green wood, love.” The endearment slipped out reflexively. “Only a couple of hours from living. Hold it. Test it out. Tell me what you think.”

She closed her hand around the thick end and made a couple awkward stabbing motions. Then she went away within herself a moment and changed her grip: underhanded, stabbing up. More confident. Drawing on what her other, smaller self knew.

Though he couldn’t smell or feel her, Bit was here. An onlooker.

Passing the stake back, she touched one place with a fingertip. “It’s weak there. A lump, deep inside. Too deep to be cut out.”

“I’ll allow for that. Thanks.” He got a marker out of the bag and began the sigils, the stake braced against his knee.

Lady Gates watched him inscribe it around and down its length. She asked quietly, “Do you imagine this to be a weapon against me?”

Spike laughed. “Didn’t even occur to me you’d think that. No, ‘course not. Bit of a problem here, you see: I can’t get in ‘less I’m invited. And she, having half a brain, won’t invite me. So she has to be brought out to where I can get at her.”

“Wood from a tree of her years. Yes. I see now. But you’re no mage: how will you power it?”

Spike finished the markings and lifted the stake by the tip so the writing could dry completely. “All I’ve ever had is myself. Red, she tells me now that I contain magic--silly little regression spell I been hexed with. This will give some teeth to it. One tooth, anyways. Bite deep, this will. Trick is getting it from me out into this.”

Laying the stake aside on the glider seat, he pulled from the bag a small brass bowl into which he poured the ingredients he’d swiped from the Magic Box. Not hard: he had a key to the back door. Demon Girl had asked for it back, but Spike wasn’t yet ready to give up that access. If she noticed her stock was down, he’d pay her full value.

“Has to burn hot,” he explained, “to make up for the green wood, that will want to smoke and smolder, not burn.” Setting the bowl on the metal glider seat, he dug out his lighter and lit its contents. It sprang up into white, intense flame. When he was sure it was well caught, he quickly dropped the bark and shavings from the stake on top. The flame hesitated a second, then accepted the fresh fuel.

As he applied the knife to the thick of his right palm, below the thumb, she reached out reflexively, crying, “No. Don’t!”

“Power’s in the blood, love. Has to come from someplace. Won’t come out of the air, except for those made a study of it.” When the flame accepted the blood, too, Spike stuck his bleeding hand into it.

It was painful, of course. Waves of pain running up his arm, old impulses making him want to flinch away. But that didn’t signify. He’d closed that hand around molten metal and burned it to the bone. A little pain was no deterrent. His hand obeyed him, not the pain. Felt a little strange, but he’d expected that.

When the blood broke through the surface of the skin, he figured that should be enough. Pulling his hand back without haste, he forced it shut around the stake, methodically coating it. Just enough. Not wet or thick enough to smear the sigils.

“People got this idea,” he said, “that vamps burn real easy. But it’s just the sun, something in the light, that hates us and does us harm. Regular fire, it doesn’t burn us any more than other folk. No less, but no more.”

Holding the stake, he put his hand back into the flame. There was a threshold, he’d found. Had to be at the point of actually kindling to set off the reflex. Couldn’t do it otherwise. As he felt the flex, he took the pain, and whatever might be of magic within him, and pushed.

Fire was gone, just like that. Every spark. Setting the stake aside a bit awkwardly, he drew ointment and a roll of gauze out of the bag with his good hand. Holding them out to her, he commented, “See, that’s what I needed you for. Miserable trying to wrap one hand with the other. And knots are a bitch.”

Slowly and with great care she spread the ointment over his hand, front and back, and then wound it around with the gauze, attending closely that the wrap was even and laid smooth. “I’ve seen mummies wrapped.”

“Have you now.”

“And in other places, other rites. It’s charged,” she reported, with a small nod at the stake.

“Good to know that.” With his good hand, he got out a cigarette. After a tap to settle the tobacco, that cigarettes didn’t need anymore, what with the filters and all, he put the end in his mouth and passed her his lighter. She got it open, consulted within, and got it lit. “Ta,” Spike said, pulling in smoke and accepting the lighter back from her.

“May I have the knife, please.”

He passed that to her and she divided the gauze, to have two ends to wrap in opposite directions and then tie in a neat knot, cutting off the excess afterward.

She asked, “How long will it take to heal?”

“Be fine by morning. Surface, is all. But the salve takes away some of the sting in the meantime. And the wrap holds it there.”

Having slid closer to bandage his hand, she pulled away again and tucked her bent legs up close beside her, sitting as small as she could, as far away as she could get and still be in the glider. “I take your point,” she said abruptly. “You’re not afraid of pain if it serves your purpose. Is that how you think of me? As pain to be endured?”

“Haven’t given me much reason to think of you otherwise. And you’re no good swap for Bit.”

She stood, lanky long-legged and sudden, brushing her hair from her face in a very Dawnlike gesture. “You can’t force me.”

“Know that. Hope you’ll decide you don’t want to keep her much longer. When you done what you came for. Enough, anyway, to begin it. ‘Cause this is not your place. Not what you’re for. And we miss each other, Bit and me. She would have had fun tonight, and wanted to come along to see the end of it. But that’s not what you want at all.”

“No,” Lady Gates said softly, hugging her coat tight against her. “No.”

“Get yourself back to bed then.” He put everything back into the bag. “Shank of the evening, to me: got places to go, people to do. Good night.” Stepping down the stairs, he added, “Good night, Bit.”

“G’night, Spike,” Dawn’s voice responded behind him.

**********

Spike’s right hand was sore and seeping through the gauze when he set the kickstand and left the bike near Amy Madison’s house. Necessary.

With her name, it’d been easy to find her: she was in the phone book, and a simple search had yielded her birth date and her mother’s high school achievements and honors. Amy hadn’t had any of those, though, having been a rat.

The thickened sky was finally delivering its threatened rain in gusts and drifts. No sensible person would want to leave a warm, dry house to stand in it. Spike’s fingers, forced to close around the stake, provided the necessary coercion. Broken blisters and blood freshened the magical affinity between the spelled wood and the witch. She came, dream-eyed, in a long flannel nightgown the rain soaked and weighted against the contours of her body.

He’d slid into his vampire aspect so she’d know him. Holding the stake that in turn held her, he circled her once around, widdershins, then twice more. The stake was eager to get at her, like half of a pair of magnets pulling to unite, but Spike held it fast. It was important that she understand.

“You bespelled me twice now. Not gonna let you do it a third time. I can embed in wood the harm you tried to do me. And deliver it back.”

He plunged the stake deep in her shoulder. She cried out: a wordless, inarticulate noise. Because the regression spell he’d bound to the wood with his blood and pain was no longer gradual. A year’s growth in comprehension was instantly erased; and a rat knew no defensive spell to undo the sorcery or the damage.

Terrified and in pain, glancing about her wildly, the witch dropped to fingers and toes and skittered away into the rainy night.

Chapter 9: Symbolic

Sunday, Buffy attempted a cake. Frowning at the recipe, she decided margarine should do as well as butter, and besides, she didn't have any butter; and all that sugar certainly would be bad for anyone, so she used half; and the recipe didn't specify exactly how long or vigorously the cook was supposed to stir the batter, so she stirred like fury until it was practically hardened in the bowl, and it plopped into the pan like cement. She had to push it into the corners.

All that could be said of the result was that it was the right shape: square. It was black, and hard as a brick. So maybe she had left it a little longer than required, being distracted by Xander showing up to measure windows; and maybe the oven ran a few degrees hotter than it was actually set for (she thought she recalled Willow saying so, but wasn't sure). Whatever.

She got up first thing Monday morning and bought a cupcake. No way she could have fit 123 candles on the square thing anyway.

It was symbolic, she decided. And it was the thought that mattered, wasn’t it?

Rushing through the two scheduled conferences based on her evaluations (done over the empty, miserable weekend, with only a few uncaught typos) got her clear about eleven thirty, which should be in time because her impression was that Spike generally retired about noon. Grabbing her tote and her jacket, she broke several speed limits driving out to the factory.

The vamp sentry said his name was Huey. Buffy vaguely recalled seeing him before, though she didn’t know where. She didn’t really care, except she was making a dutiful effort to learn their names. It would have been easier if there hadn’t been a different one every time she came. She asked, tentatively, after Deuce and was told, politely but mystifyingly, that Deuce was gone. So she just said, “Oh,” and let it drop, with the disquieting suspicion that meant she’d dusted Deuce on patrol without recognizing him, only Huey was too polite to say so, right out.

Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea, trying to learn all their names.

Anyway Huey passed her right through, let her go back to the office without an escort. The factory seemed deserted. She wondered where the vamps were in the daytime, when they apparently weren’t here.

Spike, though, was right where she expected him to be: in the office, at the desk, at the computer. Not how she expected him to look, though. Never would have expected that.

Halting in the doorway, she stared, then blurted as he looked up, “You’re wearing glasses!”

Annoyed and defiant, he reared back his head a little and said nothing. She couldn’t see his eyes at all.

They were big, tinted, aviator-style glasses. Thin silver metal frames. Rather showy, actually, not that that should be a surprise. But she was surprised because she found she’d expected something old-fashioned, not something so aggressively new. Not that she’d ever imagined him wearing glasses at all. But the glasses she’d imagined him not wearing were little clear granny glasses, like you saw in old photographs. Not in fashion accent ads in GQ.

She blurted, “You look like a movie star. Slumming as a clerk.”

“You got a problem with that, Slayer?”

“No, no, no. No problem. Just real surprised, is all. Never thought you’d break down and actually do it.”

“Yeah, well. Doin’ this, now,” (he waved at the computer) “made me reconsider. No good bein’ half blind and headachy all the time. And that laser surgery, s’not an option. Would only heal back to what they were. So.” He shrugged, then folded his arms: still all defensive, except that she couldn’t see his eyes, to be sure.

Way to go, Buffy, she thought: piss him off, first thing.

She grabbed in her tote for the cupcake--protected from squashing by a clear plastic shell--popped it on the corner of the desk, and opened the shell. Inserted a single candle from the pack. Held out her hand, requesting, “Lighter.” When Spike passed it over, she lit the candle, returned the lighter, and took a deep, fortifying breath.

“Happy Birthday to you,
“Happy Birthday to you.
“Happy Birthday, dear Spi-ike,
“Happy Birthday to you!”

Finding only the impassive glasses gazing at her, she explained, “November 5th. Your new official birthday, courtesy of Giles.” She gestured at the burning candle, now running wax onto the icing. “It’s symbolic. I made a cake, but it came out wrong. Bad recipe. You’re supposed to make a wish and blow it out. And I hate not being able to see your eyes!”

He consented to remove the glasses. His eyes were bright blue in this light: wicked-happy and speculative. He leaned forward and blew out the candle with a single short poof of breath. “Are there prezzies?”

“Yeah, just a second.” She grabbed in her tote and brought out a gift-wrapped, angled oblong, about the shape of a pancake-turner, and plopped it onto the corner of the desk next to the cupcake. Smiling, Spike delicately unwrapped it, having cut through the curly blue paper ties with the viciously sharp knife he used to whittle stakes.

“Well, now,” he said, holding up a right-side mirror for a Honda Shadow. “Isn’t that just fine.”

“I knew it was something you needed, something I hoped you’d like, and I know it’s not your real birthday but you wouldn’t tell me that, and it’s all symbolic anyway. I love you,” Buffy said, all in a burst.

“Love you too, and do I have to eat the cupcake?”

Buffy shook her head hard.

“Then give us a kiss, love,” he said, pushing out of the chair, and proceeded to prove why Buffy had long ago acknowledged him the champion kisser in the known universe.

Eventually he let her breathe, still holding her, foreheads touching.

“Not yet,” he said softly, “and not here. But soon. Someplace.” Before Buffy had thought of any response to that except more kissing, he released her to turn away and open a lower desk drawer. Holding out a small white box, he remarked, “Kept meaning to give you this. Either didn’t have it with me, or it wasn’t a good time. Maybe it’s the good time now.”

Buffy removed from the box a thin silver ankle chain decorated with a silver skull with ruby eyes. She laughed. “Like my engagement ring!”

“Put me in mind of it, yeah. Except that was only a spell. And this is real. And you don’t wear rings, and I know why. Silver’s break-away: won’t hobble you up, fighting. Not for your birthday or any occasion. Just because.”

“Because is the best reason of all. Put it on for me?”

Feeling a little shy, Buffy dropped into one of the plastic chairs and extended her left foot. As Spike fastened the chain around her ankle, she said, “Right foot means you’re available. Left foot means you’re taken.”

“Yeah.” He bent and kissed her ankle-bone. “All symbolic…. Missed you real bad, these past couple days.”

Buffy held in the comment that the separation was his doing, his choice. He knew it. No point saying so except meanness, and she tried not to do that.

Instead, she said, “Hard times,” on a sigh, and kissed his bent head.

“Hard times, true enough. So you don’t think the glasses make me look like an utter git?” he asked diffidently, looking up with a wary expression.

“They make you look dashing, dangerous, and mysterious,” Buffy said firmly.

“Kind of the effect I was going for, yeah. Won’t wear ‘em in public, only need ‘em for reading, but….”

“Did you wear glasses, you know, before?” Buffy asked carefully.

Asking a vamp anything about the before was always tricky, she knew, and felt as an intrusion.

Kneeling at her feet, Spike nodded solemnly. “Was an utter git, if you must know. Lied about that, what I told you once. Thought I’d got shut of it, tossed it all away forever. But it all comes back. For all the pretending, I’m still what I was. This, that I’m doing now, brings it all back to me: wet, silly chap that knew attic Greek, basement Greek, fancied himself…a kind of scholar, I suppose. Ruddy git. Don’t mind you knowing, but….”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Bit, she knows, claims not to think the less of me for it. Which reminds me: her birthday’s this week. Turns seventeen, this Thursday. What’d you figure to do about that?”

“Nothing! Oh, I have her presents and everything, but I’m not gonna give Lady Gates--”

“Think again, sweet. Bit’s there, too. She knows. Would want her due, regardless.”

“How can I pretend it’s normal when that bitch--”

“It’s special: maybe she’d feel bad, not to let Bit be there for it. And Bit will know, regardless. Would know if she’d been stinted. Do it extra, not less. Only once, that a girl turns seventeen. Symbolic. Make a proper do of it.”

“All right,” Buffy agreed slowly, thinking of the singular disaster that her seventeenth birthday had been--soul-losing Angelsex--something that she did not want to discuss with Spike. Or anybody. Ever. Glancing at her watch, she felt a small internal jerk. “I have to go. But I’ll be back after, like I promised. And you need to grab some sleep.”

“Want to hold you,” Spike said, rocking back, away, sitting on his heels. “Grudge the time apart. Every minute.”

Again, Buffy kept herself from pointless meanness. “Motivation,” she said. “To get past this time.”

“You being so good, so steady, about it all--that’s been a help. Dunno if I could have managed, otherwise.”

“We deal the best we can,” Buffy said. “Just like always. Got to run now.”

“Yeah. See you later, then.”

“Absolutely,” said Buffy, rising, feeling the slight weight of the ankle chain acutely. At the doorway, she added, “And next time? Ditch the glasses. Not that they look bad, they don’t. But…I need to see your eyes.”

“All right,” he responded with a chuckle, straightening. “But don’t you make fun. It’s a bit of a sore subject.”

“You know what? I’d figured that out all by myself. I do that sometimes.”

“Yes, you do. Sometimes.”

**********

Hostile 17 has survived the procedure. The degree of ancillary damage, we won’t know until it regains motor functions.

Yeah, that was one of the regular repertoire, that was. Indifferent anonymous clinical voice reporting. ‘Cause of course they’d only paralyzed him, not knocked him full out, so they could tweak and test reactions all the while they were doing it. Feel muscles firing off, no control over himself whatever. That was enough for him to rouse with the shakes and the suffocated desperate panting when it made its visits.

Giles’ soft, shaken voice announcing to nobody, I believe she’s gone.

That was fit for a good few hours of sleeping misery and grief but couldn’t compare to what came afterward, his own unspoken awareness of helpless loss that encompassed that and cast it forward into an unendurable future of never. Hadn’t had that one lately, which was a blessing. Had him staggering and staring and making aimless convulsive gestures for days afterward when it hit.

But this one, now: this was new.

An unfamiliar voice remarking warmly, What a delightfully savage pet you are! And the sense of his demon stroked, rousing, warily uncurling to bask in the approval no one had ever given it except Dru. The sense of warm, seen, valued, lifted into light that was frightening but didn’t hurt at all, the bright wicked appreciative gaze of something as large as a skyscraper that could pick him up in two fingers and then a spread hand to inspect and pet him, all approving of what it had found. Reflexively, despite yearning toward the bright/warm, the demon snarled out its defiance that it served no one, nothing, and was its own. And the voice in his mind replying, as if shocked, Of course not, dear boy! An unthinkable waste, a crime against such fine experience and potential. No, I think I’ll have you as my pet, small creature of Chaos. And I’ll teach you such tricks and we’ll have such a time of it, you and I!

And his demon submitting ecstatically to the immense petting hand, never having developed any defenses against being loved.

Cold and naked and perfectly still under the thin blanket, Spike stared at the vague dark ceiling and felt the aftershocks of the dream running through him, replaying the words and sensations and his demon’s adoring responses.

Only a dream. Probably.

When he could move, he grabbed the cell phone, hit a speed dial, and waited.

When the line was opened with silence, merely attending with no need for words, he suddenly didn’t know what to say. Blanked out.

“Spike, I know it’s you,” murmured her voice patiently. Quiet because she’d be in some class, others around, interrupted by the sound or vibration of her phone.

That sense of context made it real and freed him. Not Bit; but yes, Bit! Needed her: right away. Now!

He didn’t know what he said. Her reply was made in the same calm murmur: “I’m coming.”

Finally he set the phone down without dropping it. Kneeling by the desk, he poured two of the wake-up pills from the vial and downed them with as much liquor as he could take at one go. Waited for it to hit, for something to be real to him besides the dream. Went on methodically drinking because that was all he could think of to do.

Nothing from memory. Not a dreaded future. This had been real, present, now. Never had one like that before. And surely never wanted it again.

No defenses whatever.

He knew if that voice called to him again, he'd go.

**********

Mike noticed at once: Spike was paying no attention to him. However, Spike was paying no attention to anything. Wearing only bluejeans, Spike was in the wandering around stage of drunk, and smelled scared. Instantly enraged, lacking only a target, Mike admitted the near non-presence of not-Dawn, the Lady with nearly no smell who looked down her nose at everything, even things bigger than she was. Mike growled, “What’s happened?”

She was sitting primly on one of the pink plastic chairs, watching Spike pace the office like some wind-up toy. Aimless motion. Couldn’t be still. Eyes unfocused, might as well be blind. Bottle in fist, nearly to the tossing-away point.

The Lady remarked, “We have another player.”

Mike made a disgusted noise at the cool non-answer and stepped right into Spike’s pacing route knowing it might get him hit. Didn’t care. Spike wasn’t mad, though, which wasn’t right. Finding an obstruction, he simply stopped.

So Mike hit him a good one on the side of the face. Spike rocked back a little, was all. Didn’t come back at him. Seemed to barely notice--too anesthetized by the liquor, maybe. So Mike popped him another one. Spike took that as a hint to choose another direction and started circling the desk.

Standing in his way again, Mike demanded, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Spike said nothing, waiting for his path to clear; but the Lady commented in that dry, passionless voice, “He can’t say. He’s being blocked.”

“So what the hell are you doing about it?”

“Thinking,” said the Lady tartly, as though certain she was alone in doing that.

“Then do something else, because that’s no good!”

Spike said roughly, “Let her be,” and pushed Mike aside, continuing to move.

So Mike put him down, good and hard, and then sat on him for good measure. As Mike had thought, Spike had wanted to be stopped: he curled forward and hid--arms folded over his head, forehead against Mike’s knee. Safe, because locked down. Mike understood that. And at least Spike was finally acknowledging Mike was there. But the dreadful fear smell, of almost human intensity, didn’t let up. Tasted like fear, too, when Mike had a small nip at the thick of his arm. Other things, though, too--too subtle for smelling. Still not the anger Mike expected. Something nearer to collapse. A blankness that was way past blurred sight, way past liquor-stupid. Maybe the block the Lady had spoken of.

“Who’s done this?” Mike demanded.

“That’s what I’m trying to determine. I do not like my instruments being interfered with.” Bright color came into her cheeks, and her blue eyes snapped. Looked nearly human there for a second. Then it all flattened out again, pulsebeat dropping back into calm. “Spike. Replay it.”

“No,” Spike responded hoarsely.

“Just once more,” the Lady wheedled.

“No.”

But they both went still, and plainly something was going on between them. The Lady sat forward in her chair, intent. Mike used their distraction to take another taste. Happy with that but also took meaning from it. Not Spike pacing: his demon, agitated, yet not showing. Spike was doing the hiding part.

After a few minutes more thought, the Lady stood and reached across the desk to collect the cell phone and tapped in a long string of numbers. Following some sputtering from the other end, she said, “I have no interest in the time there or your plans. Spike’s been bespelled. The accent is British and of your generation, I think; a Chaos Mage of considerable power; thinks in terms of ‘tricks,’ phrases include ‘my dear boy’-- Ah. That’s at least a beginning. How well do you know him?” The Lady listened awhile, then said, “Recently?” She listened some more. Giles was being indignant and using what, for him, was bad language. Mike could hear the other end of the conversation well enough despite intermittent static.

Had a name to keep in his mind. Poking at Spike’s shoulder, he said it aloud: “Ethan Rayne.”

Moving one arm slightly, Spike blinked at him. “Oh. That git.”

That seemed encouraging. Mike got up and took the phone. “It’s Mike. Describe the bastard.”

Giles’ voice asked, “Who are you? And who have I been talking with?”

Mike thought answering would probably make things go faster. “Spike’s my sire. And the Lady, she says she’s Dawn’s ma. Come into her, now won’t leave. A Power, everybody says. So what does the son of a bitch look like?” Mike found corollaries for each item and came up with a resemblance to a know-it-all captain he’d been acquainted with, back in the before. Looks like Captain Hawkins, if the jumped-up asshole had survived to forty would do for a picture in his mind. “Anything still left around here, would have his smell on it?”

“I have no idea, and what do you mean, Spike’s your sire? Is he killing again? Is he--”

Since Giles seemed unable to supply any more useful information, Mike ended the call and set the phone back on the desk. Then he noticed the Lady glaring at him, like she might turn him into something. He didn’t know if a Power could do that. Not real clear on what a Power was, actually, except that they thought pretty high of themselves despite having manners not fit for a barnyard.

The phone buzzed. The Lady picked it up and listened. “Yes, substantially. No, I have no reason to think so. No, he eliminated all of them…. Quite certain: Dawn was a witness.”

Mike quit listening. The subject had no interest for him. He asked Spike, “Want me to get the pads laid out?”

Leaning on an elbow, Spike looked at his watch. “Fuck. Is she here?”

“The Slayer, you mean. Not yet. ‘Manda and Rona are, though. Maybe Kennedy. Didn’t see her. And two squads up and waiting, like you said.”

Mike could no longer smell the frightened. Only the drunk.

“Fuck.” Rubbing his eyes, Spike got slowly to his feet, then carefully bent again, holding the corner of the desk, to collect his shirt from the floor. “Tell Huey to get the gear out: that’s his to see to.”

“I can take the training, if you want. Dance with the Slayer a bit. Don’t think she’d dust me.” That last, Mike had meant as a small joke, but Spike didn’t take it that way.

“Slayer’s mine, Michael. You and ‘Manda lead out for the rest.”

Mike went as far as the door. “You sure that’s a good idea.”

“Hell, no. But that’s how we play it.” Spike’s attention shifted, and they both noticed the Lady holding out her locket on its chain.

When Spike made no move to take it, she said, “You are our instrument. I will not allow you to become another’s.”

“Yeah, sure. That makes me feel all kinds of better.” Pointing at the locket, Spike asked, “Little bit of clay gonna keep my head all secure?”

“Perhaps not. However, I’ve now identified the player. On this plane, his power may be considerable but in my own realm of action--”

Spike was lighting a cigarette. Breathing smoke, he said, “Fine, you got your name. What you came for. Great idea: you go home, leave Bit to help us clean up the mess. You do that.”

The Lady let the locket slide to the desk. Showing a small smile, she said, “Nice try, Spike.” Then she went knuckles-down, arms braced, on the desktop, asking, “Why do you want her and not me?”

“We’re used to each other’s ways, Bit and me. She and my demon mostly get on. She looks after me. Want her here now.”

Not until I have what I want!”

“And what’s that, pet?” Spike inquired, nasty and silky.

The Lady turned bright red and stomped out, past Mike, chin high. Couldn't smell anything off her, but that was no news. Mike figured Spike had things besides smell to go by.

“And that was real bright, too,” Mike commented. “Piss her off, why don’t you.”

Studying his cigarette coal, Spike admitted, “Think maybe I did. Have to admit, there’s worse than her. She’s a wretched bully if she’s let to be. Used to having her own way, and what high lady isn’t? But however loud she gets, she’s always left me my own choice. Never tried to force me, that I know of, anyway.”

“Yeah. Guess so. I’ll get that all set up, then.”

Answering Mike’s concern, Spike responded, “I’ll be all right. Just took me to a place…. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.”

Going toward the barrier gap, Mike looked back and saw Spike drop the locket chain around his neck.

**********

Wasn’t true nobody had ever cared for his demon: Bit did, Spike reminded himself, dizzily trying to locate his boots. Properly cautious of it, she was, Bit, but she liked it well enough and except for the brief time of marking her, his demon showed no special interest in her either, which was the way it should be.

But not the same, memory told him uneasily. Not the same as sharing in full measure the joy of busting things up, tossing things high just to watch them go smash. What he’d been fighting in himself, beating down every day, from the time he’d set himself to the ordering of Sunnydale. Part of him was sick of self-discipline, sick of being forethoughtful and reliable. Sick of meeting expectations, including his own. Sick of even trying to keep track of every fucking detail.

Part of him sided with the Powers. Just wanted to say the hell with it and let it go. How much of that was him and how much was Lady Gates nudging at him, he’d never tried to sort out, except to acknowledge that some of it was him, no question. The pushing hadn’t put there anything that wasn’t there before.

Demon, it was restless and angry, being mostly denied at every turn. Sometimes got past him, exploded at whatever he found to hand. Like in Willow’s bedroom. Like the other night, putting down whatever he found in reach. And harder to control without the balance of the soul. Hard to feel the need for the restraint, the rules and limits he’d set on himself. Only ideas, things he had to make himself mindful of, not things he felt.

And maybe this new git getting at him some of that time.

As avid for destruction as Spike’s demon, praising and affirming it, rewarding it with that deep satisfaction when the lattice of rules came suddenly unglued and he just struck out. Feeding it what it wanted. What not even Bit would give it: freedom to act out its nature. As though he were no more than a fledge. Relapsing to an earlier state, losing what he’d learned and fought for.

He thought that was the trick of spelling a vamp: to latch onto some secret wish, some weakness already within him. Turning an inclination into a compulsion. Making him not only accept it but want it.

Despite the years since the chip being all about not wanting what he wanted. Wanting another thing more. Training himself up with the blinding pain as limit and correction until he’d believed he could do without it and still be fine. Set the soul aside and still understand enough to follow the course he’d set for himself. To make this new thing well enough to have it survive his supervision and stand on its own. Continue beyond him.

But he still wanted what he wanted. That hadn’t changed and never would. Because demons didn’t. Not so much evil, like he’d learned to think of it, but a creature of chaos. Deeply inclined to destruction of any order he found himself within. Breaking through the barriers. Doing the impossible, the forbidden.

Shutting a Hellmouth. Loving a Slayer.

The only thing better than killing one. Two, he’d done, so he should know. And it wasn’t in him to regret any of it.

But he’d never imagined anybody loving him for that, or that in him. Fear, respect, maybe--those were appropriate responses. He understood them. But the self-assured love bypassed all that and spoke to his demon direct. And his demon understood that and responded in kind.

Couldn’t get at him except through what was already there.

That was what scared him.

For the first time, he seriously thought he might not last this out. Capable of imagining it only. Not capable of the execution. And leave everything worse than if he’d never begun.

Which was what Digger had contended all along. That Spike didn’t have the “bottom” to stay the whole course. That it was just stupid naïve vanity to suppose otherwise. Might be Digger was right and the farther along Spike pushed his plan, the worse it would be when it inevitably got away from him. Therefore the best thing Spike could do was abandon it immediately before the repercussions of failure spread to everyone he cared about. Because they’d trusted him. Taken him at his word and depended on him. And therefore caught in the backlash when it all started coming apart.

Nobody he could say this to. Nobody who could offer any reassurance he’d believe. And belief the only thing moving it all forward or holding it together.

Dressed and still drunk, full of manic, shaky alertness from the pills, he crossed the factory, seeing that the gear from the Magic Box annex was nearly all set up and Mike and the three SITs beginning to demonstrate lead and second in a fight, dull weapons only. The SITs watching him pass: this wasn’t what they wanted from him. Wanted him showing them something new, not just going through the motions of what they already knew, reflexes trained into habit. Wanted edged weapons drill, that he didn’t think he was capable of today, not without somebody getting hurt. Couldn’t think through all the cautions, not in motion. Could second Buffy, maybe, when she came. That could be all right and nobody hurt.

Could do. Maybe an answer.

His healed right hand riding the descending rail, he went into the dormitory--mostly cleared out except for the fledges and a few fucking by pairs or bunches: the usual, he didn’t bother noticing--and singled out Sue. Woke her, drew her aside as far as a bench, the way he had before. She seemed a little less dopy than last time, assuming he was in any state to judge that. All the bruising and scabs were gone, anyway. And having fresh clothes moderated much of the stink. Mostly, she smelled like Deuce, whose clothes they’d been before.

He asked her, “You fed up all right?”

“Is there more?”

Should have expected that. He shook his head. “Not till tomorrow. One delivery a day, comes in on the plane from L.A. in the morning.”

“They say other masters have cows, you can just drink from them anytime--”

“We don’t do that here,” Spike replied evenly.

She looked for a second as though she’d argue, but kept silence, swallowed it back. She’d learned that much, then.

“Want you to do something hard, and something easy,” Spike told her.

“What’s the easy part?” she asked warily.

“SITs are up on the floor now, taking my crew of pathetic wankers through patrolling drill. Lead and second, point and flank. What you lot had down pretty much the first evening. When we ran into those Bringers.”

“Yeah. I remember that. That’s easy. You want--” She stopped herself, changed phrasing. “What do you want me to do, Spike?”

Not assuming. Not thinking it would be a good thing to show off, get ahead of him, before he’d had a chance to say. Coming along fine, for a fledge.

“Like you think,” Spike said, indirectly praising both her quickness and her holding back. “Go up and train with the crew, in the colors. ‘F even a fledge can pick it up, they’ll try harder. Keep to it, if you do.”

“Yeah, all right. I can do that. And the hard part? Do I have to keep trueface shed? Because I can’t--”

“No, that’s all right. Doesn’t matter within these walls.”

“What’s the hard part, then?”

“Don’t eat anybody.”

“Oh.”

Spike waited while she thought it out. Finally she looked up, met his eyes. “I’ll try, Spike. Try my best. Could I be sort of toward the back? So they’re not in striking distance?”

“Need you to the front, love. Where they all can see you. ‘Manda and Rona and Ken, they know striking distance, and they all have their tasers. You won’t hurt nobody, even if you go for them. But I’d like to see if you can keep yourself from that. Let you come on a sweep if you can make it all the way through.”

“Even truefaced?”

Spike nodded.

She looked both eager and anxious. “How long?”

“An hour. Maybe a little more.”

She took a quick, nervous breath. “I’ll try. I’m fed up all right: I should be able to keep from going after the first warm meat I find.” She cocked her head. “I can hear their heartbeats. Isn’t that weird? It will be so strange…. But I’ll do my best, Spike.”

“Never expected any different. Come on, then.”

Weaving among the mattresses, she asked him, “How can you be this drunk and keep focus?”

“Practice, love. More than a century’s practice. S’my birthday, you know: Watcher said so.”

“Celebrating, then.” She nodded as if that made sense.

“Something like that. Now, don’t you look too sharp, right off. Ease into it a little.”

“Got you.”

She was shaping fine. As Mike was.

He found hope in such tokens.

**********

For no good reason except being reminded, Buffy had been angsting all afternoon about her 17th birthday.

How could she have been so dumb?

And how could Angel have not known a seventeen-year-old would be that dumb and exercise adult (250, that was adult, right?) judgment and restraint and not frelling fuck her?

Had he known about the “perfect happiness” clause at that point? How could he not have known?

Driving toward the factory after an unscheduled but unavoidable counselor-parent conference occasioned by a student bringing a nail file to school (nail files being currently categorized as weapons of deadly force (WDF), and the penalty for being caught with a WDF was summary expulsion and therefore failing all your classes), Buffy decided she was gonna ask Spike. He’d been around then, right? Sure he had: in the wheelchair, up at that same factory he’d occupied now, though she hadn’t known that at the time--about the wheelchair, anyway. With Dru-goddam-silla, a thought that set her blood boiling right there, that crazy vamp skank he’d trailed around after for better than a century, so what did that say about his judgment and taste in women?

In short, she was spoiling for a fight, and since Angel wasn’t available, pretty nearly anybody would do.

Toting a gym bag containing her workout clothes, she stomped up to the sentry alcove (slight sense of accomplishment when she recognized the sentry as Emil) and demanded where she could go to change.

Big Emil looked nonplussed. “Office?” he suggested.

Big open space, glass walls: the height of privacy. Fulking factory didn’t have restrooms, or if it once had, they’d torn them out like they’d torn out everything else that made the place habitable for anybody but vamps. No restroom, no lockers, no shower. A tad short-sighted, maybe?

That reminded her of the glasses, which made her snicker: she’d pretty much promised not to razz Spike about them, but that wouldn’t limit Dawn, whenever she was allowed to surface and first caught sight of them: Dawn would never let him live them down.

“Thanks,” she said to Emil absently, and went inside. Vamps and SITs were squaring off against each other at the opposite side of the floor. Buffy gave them a cursory glance, passing by to the gap in the barrier--mostly confirming that Spike was there, which he was: leaning on the far wall, talking to a female vamp…who was Suzanne. Former SIT. Frowning, Buffy couldn’t decide offhand if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She’d have to think about it. She was inclined to think “bad thing,” though, because Spike hadn’t shown any sign of noticing she’d arrived. She was fifteen minutes late: he should have been watching for her. Anxiously. Eagerly, even. Instead of obliviously chatting with some nubile, fresh-faced (albeit game-faced) she-vamp.

In the office, she laid out her sweats and sneaks, then turned off the light. Wouldn’t actually help much, given vamp vision, but it made her feel somewhat more secure. For extra concealment, she sat between the desk and the wall to pull off her counselor attire and wriggle into her workout togs and sneaks, that Giles had always called “trainers.” No mirror, of course, to check her hair or makeup. So she turned the light back on to inspect herself in the inadequate mirror of her compact, deciding her hair was gonna be all over her face in two seconds of moderate exercise and pulling out all the pins and securing it with a knotted scarf, fountain style, in a topknot pony-tail.

Then she tramped back into the open space to start her bends and stretches.

The place, she had to admit, had some deficiencies as a training space. For one thing, the floor was cement. No give. No bounce. And frickin’ cold. If she was gonna use it full-time, she needed to invest in leg warmers and sneaks with thicker soles.

The half-light provided by the painted-over windows and the high strip windows above was also non-standard but she could live with that, she decided. She patrolled at night anyway. So perfect lighting conditions for training weren’t a requirement.

The vamps were now facing off against each other by teams--one team unorganized, the other divided into triangular fighting units of lead and seconds. The triads were making figurative mincemeat of the singletons, even though the seconds kept getting in the lead’s way, each of them wanting to engage independently and first. The trouble wasn’t getting vamps to fight--it was getting anybody to hang back. As Buffy finished her warm-up and strolled nearer, Mike had called the mock battle off and was trying, with two of the SITs, to show how a fighting triad was supposed to behave while everybody else stood around and looked bored…or stared nervously as Buffy passed.

Buffy awarded herself extra points for recognizing Mike. She didn’t think he was making much headway.

“OK,” she said to Spike, “how do you want to work this, coach?”

Spike shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall as though she’d asked him something impossibly difficult. She noticed then that he’d been drinking.

“Fine,” she said, swinging away. “We don’t have to do this. I don’t even have to be here. It was all your idea anyway.”

Spike shot out a stiff-arm shove. Buffy stumbled and couldn’t catch herself, landing on knees and the flat of her hands. She protested, “Hey!”

“Balance needs work, Slayer.”

She checked he was still against the wall before warily rising. “Not gonna play around with you, Spike. This is mine: for me. Not to make you look good in front of the troops, wow ignorant teenies by showing a bit of flash. What I need is a trainer or else a mobile dummy, either one. By the smell, I guess I know which one you’ve opted for.”

Spike didn’t say anything. Buffy thought he was counting.

He pushed away from the wall, commenting mildly, “Right you are: one dummy coming up. Let’s get your hands taped first.”

“Look, I only have an hour--”

“Only take longer if you stand around bitching about it,” he responded, so she trailed along behind him to a bench and straddled it sullenly while he, seated facing her, made a meticulous job of taping her hands.

“You’re right,” he said, without looking up. “This is for you and about you. It’s plain you don’t like the audience. So next time you come, they won’t be here. Figure it out as we go. No need to get your knickers all in a bunch about it.”

“What are you doing, drinking in the middle of the day?” she challenged indignantly.

“Well, had myself a bit of a bad dream earlier. Needed to settle myself down, after.”

“When you knew I was coming,” Buffy barged on, unheeding, then caught what he’d said. “A bad dream? You figure a bad dream is an excuse to get drunk? And when did you ever need an excuse anyway?”

Spike finished taping her right hand and began on her left. “If it wasn’t for the fact you’re a blessed saint descended, I might think you were trying to piss me off.”

“Well, sitting and having you tape up my hands isn’t exactly my idea of a good time either,” Buffy shot back, shifting restlessly on the bench. “Tell me: did Angel know about the curse?”

“Don’t understand, pet.”

“When he and I, you know, and then he went all sarcastic and Angelus, that once, did he know?”

“Hold your hand still, pet.”

“But you were there, here, afterward, he must have said something about whether it was what he expected or if it was a surprise or something!”

His face had gone tight and expressionless. “You’d have to ask him. Wouldn’t take Angelus’ word, myself, that water’s wet.”

“Sure, like I’m gonna ask him about something like that, after all this time! I’m asking you!”

“Don’t recall. Had my own problems then. ‘F he wanted to natter on about the Slayer, wasn’t nothing to me. Not then.” He shook his head. “Don’t want to get into this with you, Buffy. Too many fishhooks.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means…. No. Not gonna start with that. Let it alone.”

“This is important to me! Where do you get off telling me to--”

He smacked her ear open-handed and leaned back, avoiding her answering swing. Stepping clear of the bench, he said, “Too much talk. Come at me. Keep on your feet, if you can.”

He wasn’t fighting straightforward or fair. It was all lean and duck, sliding away, dropping into a roll, bouncing back. And tripping her. She was on the floor almost more than on her feet. Trying any kind of kick was an invitation to have her support foot hooked, and land hard on her rear. On the cement. He dodged a lunge by dropping face-down and yanked both ankles out from under her. She made a point of dropping on him elbows first, and braced: that slowed him down for a couple of minutes. Dumped yet again, she folded her arms and refused to rise. “You’re not doing this right!”

He stood comfortably hipshot just beyond kicking range. “I’m not the one with my arse on the slab. What’s it say, that I can get outside a fifth of Jack and still have better balance than you do?”

“But all you’re doing is falling down in inventive ways. Big deal. Anybody can do that!”

“Taking you with me, ain’t I? The point of this exercise, pet, is who’s left standing. So take a stance and hold it.”

She got up, lame and irate. “What, nail my feet to the floor? So you can dance around and make me look like an idiot?”

“Not the point,” he said, exasperated, looking off to where the rest were doing unarmed drills. “SITs, they want edged weapons practice. How about you take them through--”

Taking advantage of his inattention, Buffy bounced on the toes of her left foot and spun into a whip kick with her right. Her right heel connected with the back of Spike’s neck. That would show him! He went down loose: not guarding himself at all. His head hit the floor with an audible crack. He didn’t move.

Buffy was just bending to make sure he was all right when she was grabbed from the side and flung ten yards, airborne--nearly back to the east wall. With time to adjust, she landed in a balanced crouch, ready to spring off in any direction.

All the vamps were gathered at mid-floor. Standing by Spike, still down, Mike was game-faced, glaring at her. The SITs were edging away, to be between Buffy and the vamps if things went bad. Or worse: they’d already achieved bad.

Mike shouted, “That’s no kind of training. That’s pure meanness and spite. You got no business doing him like that!”

“Mike,” Amanda was saying, taser extended. “Back off, Mike. I’ll take you down if I have to.”

“You can try,” Mike challenged, not shifting his attention an inch. The rest of the vamps, all yellow-eyed in the big dim space, were massing up behind him but waiting on a word nobody had yet given.

Knowing that how she handled this was critical, Buffy straightened and walked straight at him at a deliberate, balanced gait. She kept Mike within her peripheral vision--if he came at her, she’d know it; but she centered on Spike. In the next step, she’d have to choose to square off against Mike or put her back to him.

As she took the step and started to go down on her knees beside Spike, a vamp flashed past her and gave Mike the sort of rough shove he’d given Buffy, except that Mike didn’t move. “Are you crazy?” the vamp demanded: Sue’s voice. “Spike wouldn’t want this! ‘Manda, back off. Everybody, back off. Spike would--”

Mike backhanded her. She hit the west wall, fell in a huddle of splayed limbs, and didn’t move.

Spike had finally started to stir: forehead bloody, head bent, he pushed off the floor, rocked, and ended in a sort of sprawled sitting. Meanwhile Mike had called all vamps off to the short south end. Buffy didn’t care what they were doing down there. She pulled Spike to lean against her shoulder. “You took your eye off the weapon.”

He touched fingertips to his forehead, then automatically licked them. Gross, but predictable. “Guess so.”

“We didn’t plan this very well,” Buffy commented.

“Not a good day,” Spike responded, using her shoulder as a brace to push to his feet so he could look around and assess the situation. “Sue’s down.”

“Mike hit her. I don’t think Mike has quite grasped the concept of training.”

“Yeah…. No, you keep clear,” Spike told the SITs, waving them back.

“But shouldn’t we check on her?” Amanda asked, the other SITs turning with her.

“No need. Hasn’t dusted. She’ll be fine. Don’t put temptation in her way. She’s a fledge: she’d just come at you and then there’d be another right mess to be sorted. Leave her be.” Hand still on Buffy’s shoulder, Spike was silent awhile. Then he said quietly, “Could have gone better. Worth trying again, you think?”

“I loathe birthdays!”

“Never paid ‘em much mind, myself. Side mirror’s nice, though. Mice, they’ll enjoy the cupcake. Be awhile, probably, before all the mice can be got rid of. Harder to catch than rats. Taste about the same. What there is of ‘em….” He looked to see the disgusted face she obligingly made. “Can take everything back, if that’s what you want.”

“By now, Anya probably has everything stripped and painted and shelves up to yo,” Buffy reflected gloomily. “Leave it all as it is. Let me think about it some more. We’ll talk about it tonight, on patrol, all right?”

He was turned half away, his expression distant, his eyes vague. “Your call, Slayer.”

“Spike? You mad at me?”

“Had better days. The waiting’s hard….” Standing straighter, he cupped his temple and started toward the back, asking, “Name Ethan Rayne mean anything to you?”

“That prancing lightweight! Ruined Halloween!” Trotting to catch up, Buffy pulled at the tape ends on her right hand. “And then the band candy! That inspired my mom to…get groiny with Giles on the hood of a police car. Twice!”

Spike looked around, somewhere between pained and bemused. “That a fact? Not quite the impression I’d got.”

“Of Mom? I certainly hope not!”

“Of any of them, actually. Tell me about it.”

Buffy picked more tape and started unwinding. It would have to be cut, but she was too edgy and ill at ease to wait. “Actually, you should remember the first one. I chose this great dress, ancient fashion, real fainting-lady-wear, and Willow was a ghost, and Xander was soldier-guy.”

“Yeah, I do recall that dress. And you were acting all girly and helpless and I didn’t know what the hell you were trying to pull. Don’t recall Red doing a ghost, though.”

“Well, you couldn’t see her, idiot: she was a ghost!”

“Like invisible Buffy?” Spike asked, all innocence.

She felt her face go hot. “Not exactly.” Tucking her arm through his, she hurried on, “All the costumes went real. Ours, anyway. Courtesy of Ethan Rayne. Old pal of Gileses, from his Ripper days.”

“Figured they were close: gave Rupert an interesting day as a Fyarl. Luckily, I speak Fyarl.... Never saw the git, just heard Rupert ranting on about him. Fyarl profanity's pretty colorful.... Sounds harmless enough. Might be he’s come up in the world. Has minions now, seems like. Or had.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those Fire Mages. Seems they were Rayne’s.”

“But he’s a Chaos Mage.”

“Confusing, innit?” he responded amiably.

They’d reached the office. Spike went in first and started rummaging through a top drawer. Picking up a pill vial, he turned on the light and squinted at the label.

“Headache?” Buffy asked, carefully neutral. At least the bleeding had stopped. A purple bruise had started to spread.

“If it’s not one thing, it’s something else,” Spike responded, shaking out two pills and popping them into his mouth. “I’ll be fine for patrol.”

So that was all right. Still, she found herself asking again, “You’re not mad?”

“We’ve been better. Mostly not connecting right, and that’s not your doing….” He smiled. “I expect you’ll find some way to make it up to me.”

Talking around the edges had again brought them to the center.

“Oh, yes,” Buffy said most sincerely.

Chapter 10: Accommodations

Spike knew Buffy wasn’t comfortable with his bringing Mike along on patrol, any more than Mike was comfortable being brought. They barely exchanged a word, as if they each were pretending the other wasn’t there. And after decking him in good order at the factory, Buffy was being all polite, enough to make a pig gag, which pretty much ruled out her asking the blunt question What the hell is he doing here? or saying in so many words that having Mike at her back made her itchy as hell.

Spike wasn’t all that pleased with either one of them, and he considered their putting up with each other as part of their penance. How could anybody expect him to keep track of the little things, like the new wide-scale blood delivery or the progress on recruitment, if he couldn’t depend on the big things not going haywire the minute he took his eyes off them?

Plain enough that they were jealous of each other, and neither about to call it by its name, which maybe he was dumb not to have expected and headed off, but there you were. Also plain that Buffy wasn’t easy being around vamps, and maybe never would be, for all her trying, which Spike gave her due credit for, even though it’d turned her all snappish and surly, and she’d flashed out at him for it. Better him than dusting one of his crew, which was the likely alternative. He could take it and she knew that, so she’d done as well as she could, considering. Spike wasn’t put out at her on his own account.

Hadn’t been all that quick on the uptake himself, this afternoon: all shaken up and drunk on top of it, trying to get through the time any old how, and that hadn’t been enough. So his fault as much as anybody’s, what had happened and nearly happened.

And then there was Michael, beginning to get the feel of his authority, taking a stance, just as he should…but without the patience or the sense to finesse the Slayer the way you had to. Seeing her as a threat and then unable and unwilling to back off when she wouldn’t. Going after her on Spike’s account, as though Mike’s claim should override hers.

Big mess.

They got through the patrol without encountering anything but three dumb fledges and later a pair of rambunctious Rolfin, that the Slayer always made a point of taking out despite the fact that they preyed only on domestic pets, no threat to humans, and specially liked the fighting breeds like pit bulls, Dobermans, which would have inclined Spike to let them be if it’d been left up to him, which it wasn’t. So fine, they took out the Rolfin in good order, so all the fluffy spaniels and Pekingese could sleep safer in their posh little beds. All one to him. On patrol, it was the Slayer’s call.

Cleaning her sword before replacing it in the sheath she wore over her shoulders, Buffy said, “That’s enough for tonight. Thanks for the help.”

Spike nodded, catching each of them by the arm, holding them in place. "Then I'll have my say."

“What?” Buffy asked, uneasy but not pulling away.

“Oh, hell, Spike,” was Mike’s contribution. He knew what was coming, or ought to. Nothing except what he was due.

“Michael, you laid hands on the Slayer, that I’d given my personal bond that nobody would so much as look cross-eyed at her whenever she was up there. And you knew it. And did it anyway.”

At least Mike didn’t whine that he’d been provoked or make excuses. Shoulders sagging a little, frowning at the ground, he said, “Fine. Not in front of her, though.”

“Anyplace I say.”

“Yeah. Fine.”

Slayer protested, “He thought he was defending you.”

“Don’t give a goddam what he thought. He’s crossed me, in public, and I won’t have it.”

“Then you two sort it out however you want. I don’t have to watch--”

“You stay put, Slayer,” Spike ordered, quick and flat. And though she was surprised, she left the call to him, which he appreciated. “Now, Michael. Slayer, she’s what’s important here. She takes a notion to dust me, I won’t lift a hand against it. Nor let anybody who answers to me do it neither. Only reason I’m standing here is on account of she’s chosen to go against everything she believes, everything she thinks is right, and let me be. Could have dusted me a hundred different times, and most of those times, I rightly deserved it, according to the rules she goes by. But she still gave me a pass.”

“Because--” Buffy broke in.

“You shut up, Slayer. I’m putting this to Michael how he has to understand.” Returning his attention to Mike, Spike went on grimly, “The right I have over you, that same right she has over me. I continue by her sufferance, that she can change any time, and I got nothing to say about it. And nobody else has the right to interfere with that. It’s between me and her. Now do you hear me, Michael.”

“Yeah.”

“And do you understand it?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

Spike let go his arm, still holding Buffy’s. “Now, Slayer. Michael here is my declared get--I’ve claimed him of my blood and of my making. That means you got any problem with him, you come to me. You don’t deal with him except as I say. He’s mine, and I stand responsible for whatever he does. He gets out of line, that’s mine to deal with, not yours. Today, he was out of line, and you let him get by with it, which is more than he deserves and only because you don’t know our ways. I stand answerable for it.” Spike took Amanda’s taser from his pocket and slapped it into Buffy’s hand, directing, “Do me.”

Together, Buffy and Mike protested, “No!”

“You shut up, the both of you. I want this settled. Don’t never want to deal with such again, not from either of you. Buffy.” Spike held her appalled eyes, trying to make her see and accept that this was necessary. “You can take me out when I’m not looking; you can do this.”

“No!” Mike blurted again. “I’m the one was out of line. If somebody has to answer for it, it should be me. Don’t.”

“You’ll get yours, boyo,” Spike said coldly. “Never doubt it. But Slayer has first right, and nobody comes at you except through me. That’s what it means, that I’ve claimed you for mine. So you stand and you keep shut, you hear me?”

“Don’t,” Mike said to Buffy. “Please.”

Buffy stood looking back and forth between them. Then she flung the taser down. “I’m not part of your damn vamp games, and I’m not playing this one. Sorry, Spike, but no. I don’t shoot 200 watts into…somebody I love…just because somebody tells me to!”

“Slayer chooses to give me a pass. Again,” Spike commented. In one quick motion, he scooped up the taser and gave Mike a charge in the small of his back. Mike went down like a felled pine. Graveyard grass was a better surface to land on than factory cement, Spike reflected, brushing the taser clean of grit before putting it away.

To Buffy, standing all freeze-faced, looking down at Mike, Spike commented, “It’s not the watts, love, it’s the volts. ‘Round about 50,000. Put a chap down nicely for about five minutes, that will.”

Buffy shrugged. “I just figured a two-hundred watt bulb is a pretty big bulb.”

“And 50,000 volts is pretty much like being struck by lightning.” He slid the taser back in his pocket. “Happens, he’s never taken a taser charge. About time he did. Next time one of the SITs tells him to stand clear, he’ll have a little more respect for it. Thing is, pet…Mike loves me in his own peculiar fashion. Not always smart about it. No more than anybody.”

“I see that now. Then how could you…?”

“Letting him off easy wouldn’t be a kindness. Only be worse the next time. Maybe somebody dead. He has to learn how to do. According to the way vamps see things. Just as glad you let me off, though--would have been a bit much on top of everything else, today.”

“But you said--” Buffy began, then slapped her hands on her legs in frustration. “I’m never gonna understand this!”

“Likely not. And maybe a mistake to try,” Spike acknowledged softly. “You stick to the ways you know, love. Don’t bother about the rest. That’s mine to see to. Maybe be best to go back to keeping it out of your way.”

“I’m trying…to connect,” she protested.

“Know you are. But maybe it’s not possible.”

She came and hugged him close and kissed the side of his mouth when he turned his face away. “But it has to be possible.”

“Yeah.” She’d think that, want that to be true. Didn’t make it so, though. But Spike wasn’t gonna argue. Things would be as they could be, and what anybody wanted didn’t come into it. “He’ll be coming to in a while now. You go on home. I’ll see to him.”

“I can wait,” Buffy offered.

“Love, bad enough I took him down in front of you. Be worse if you’re here to watch him stagger around, try to get himself working right again. Don’t think rubbing it in is really what you mean to do here.”

“No. No, I guess. All right,” Buffy agreed uncertainly, and went off.

His back sliding down a tombstone, Spike settled onto his heels and lit a cigarette, waiting for his unruly childe to wake.

**********

“Come in,” said the Slayer, opening the door.

She smelled nervous but didn’t actually show it, and she wasn’t scared about giving him access to her claimed place. Wasn’t scared of him at all. Well, no reason she should be, Mike supposed, though from anybody else, it would have been an insult. Well, nervous was something and as good as he was apt to get, considering that the Slayer outranked him by a fair bit even despite being human.

Mike had never been invited inside Casa Summers before and now wasn’t particularly sure he wanted to be, with Dawn absent. Nobody here he was much interested in talking to. He folded his arms, looking back toward his bike for no particular reason except not to be looking at her. Didn’t want to be rude, stare her right in the eyes like a challenge.

“All right,” said the Slayer coolly, “I’ll come out.”

Her house: she’d do what she pleased. It was nothing to Mike. Except that now he had an invite, he had a choice. That was different, he supposed.

She hitched a hip on the porch railing, facing him. Tiny little thing; but strong as a vamp twice her size and could do the air stuff, the flips and twists, like Spike did. So even though her hands were empty, Mike was properly wary and respectful. Owned Spike like Spike owned him, so she was due respect--Spike had made that perfectly plain last night, after the patrol. So when she’d sent a summons up to the factory for him today, he came as soon as the sunlight faded. No reason not to.

“You don’t like me much,” she said, opening with the obvious. Not waiting for an answer, she went on, “I don’t like any Sunnydale vamps except Spike, so we’re even there. But you’re important to Spike, and Spike’s important to me, so I thought we might have a talk. Try to come to some working arrangement.”

“Don’t need no arrangement,” Mike replied. “You forbade me Dawn, and it’s been a couple weeks, anyway, since I smelled you on Spike. You just want to get another handle on him ‘cause he’s moved out of your reach.”

She was silent, mouth all pursed up tight, for a minute. (Mike took note of her motions and changes of expression with quick side glances, still avoiding straight-on challenge stares.) She said grimly, “All right, that’s more true than not, even though I don’t like hearing it put that way. There’s a distance. Since he began this, he’s been all caught up in vamp things and trying to keep that all to himself. I think he thinks it’s safer that way. For us. Dawn and me and Willow, who live here. But the result is the distance. I don’t like it. So I’ve tried to mix into his stuff, and get him to keep mixing into mine, as much as possible. That’s not working and it just makes everything more complicated. Adds onto everything else he’s trying to keep track of. And I’m starting to think it’s more than he can do.”

“So?” Mike said when she stopped. “What’s that to me?”

“He’s not sleeping right. He’s taking those pills because days just aren’t long enough to get everything done no matter how he packs them and pushes himself. He--”

“Spike manages fine,” Mike interrupted loyally. “It’ll be better, now he’s gonna lair up at the factory as a regular thing. And…and you got a problem with that, you take it to him. Not up to me.” Mike was real annoyed at himself for saying even as much as he had. Nearly as bad as Digger, she was, making him start blabbing stuff that was none of her concern. Or if it was, stuff Mike had no business telling her, anyhow. Up to Spike, to tell her or not.

She stuck her hands in her sweater pockets. “I don’t understand. If we both care about Spike, there should be some common ground here. We should--”

“What do you want, Slayer? Why’d you call me over here?”

Again, the frown and the pursed mouth. “You’re not making this easy, Mike.”

“What’s ‘this’? And why should I care if it’s easy or hard? You’re none of my concern, either way. Except as Spike tells me. He says I got no business mixing between you. So fine, I won’t. Now are you trying to tell me different?”

She flung her hands. The sudden motion was unnerving, but Mike kept himself from reacting except to check her hands for a stake. “Mike, do you even realize that he loves you?”

“Course he does: named me his get, let me feed from him. Gave me a district to run. Gave me his keepsake watch for my protection. I’m useful to him, as best I can be. Others, he assigns to do other things for him, but none of them is a blood connection so they don’t signify. Only me.”

“He’s marked me,” she declared, like she thought that was some daring big thing to admit. “That should count for something!”

“Makes you his cow,” Mike responded, with a wry glance, flick and away. “Signifies that, anyway. Marked himself for Dawn. Don’t bear no mark for you, not that I yet noticed. But,” he added quickly, “he said you had same as sire’s rights over him, and gives you the respect of that; so I’m not saying different.”

Buffy lifted a glance of rueful frustration and sadness. Still didn’t smell anger or antagonism from her, which was strange, seeing as how she’d been questioning his connection to Spike and insisting she had the stronger claim, which Mike hadn’t contended otherwise…out loud, anyway.

She smelled nearly as nice as Dawn, though much more puzzling and therefore less attractive. Mike was pretty sure she didn’t like him. Then again, Dawn didn’t either, anymore, so that was probably no difference that signified.

She said, “I’m not getting through to you at all, am I.”

“Don’t know what you mean. Still don’t know what you want from me.”

“What’s the air speed of a laden swallow?” she demanded suddenly.

“European or African?” Mike responded, knowing that was the right answer.

They looked at each other awhile. Then she shook her head.

“Your logic is not of the earth logic. OK, I get that. Just tell me this: what Spike’s doing. What he’s wrecking everything else, and himself, to do. Is it worth it?”

“He’s Master of Sunnydale. Doing what’s needed, for that,” Mike replied, not seeing what she was getting at. How could Spike be top predator and the eldest, strongest blood in the area, with the will and the ferocity to enforce his claim against all opposition (as was proper), and act any other way than he did?

“I give up!” Buffy said, throwing her hands again. “You win!”

Mike nodded politely although he was certain dominance hadn’t changed, so nobody had won. People were unaccountable. No making sense of them. No use even trying.

“Thursday,” she said, “is Dawn’s birthday. We’re having a party here, after the class. Though she’s not even here. Though nobody that I know of likes Lady Gates very well. Spike says, ‘Have the party anyway,’ so we are. Dawn’s friends are invited…some of them, anyhow. The ones I know about. So you’re invited. Provided you can stay out of game face and don’t try to eat any of the other guests.”

Mike frowned. Last he knew, Dawn was officially furiousfuckingmad at him and wouldn’t speak to him except under combat conditions. Didn’t bear his mark anymore, didn’t allow him to taste her, didn’t want to keep company with him. And to Lady Gates, he had no connection at all. Wasn’t even her birthday, as humans would reckon things. He didn’t think Powers had birthdays, being ageless and timeless. So why he should spend time on such a farce made no sense whatever. Yet the Slayer plainly meant he should, even setting aside her implication that he had no more command of his demon than a fledge would. Classing that as ignorance, not deliberate insult.

“I’ll ask Spike. If he says come, I’ll come.”

“Good enough,” said the Slayer, on a sigh. “See you later, then. At the class.”

Mike thought that meant he should go, though he wasn’t entirely sure. He figured he’d best ask, since he didn’t want to be rude to Spike’s same-as-sire. “We done now?”

“Yeah, Mike. Stick a fork in us, we’re done.”

Taking the steps down to yard level in one long stride, Mike tried to shake his head free of confusion. Every once in awhile, she’d say something that was actually understandable--like about the swallow speed, and about the fork--so he couldn’t quite dismiss the rest as vaporous nonsense. Why couldn’t she talk plain, say what she meant, like Dawn did? And the SITs did, mostly?

It was clear she’d wanted to, tried to. And simply couldn’t.

Starting his bike, Mike decided to ask Spike about that too. Spike would make sense of it for him, or at least tell him how to do about it, which was all that signified.

********

As she approached the gym’s double doors, schlepping the remaining carton of the smell on her hip, Buffy could hear music. Which was therefore loud music. And when she opened the righthand door, that same smell hit her like a breath from a bordello, not that she was absolutely sure a bordello was what she thought it was.

Her dutiful errand was therefore what Giles would have called “carrying coals to Newcastle,” which Xander had explained to her as being like unto delivering an extra stooge, to make four.

The stooges inside were not exercising, or only a few. Nearly all were dancing in bare or stocking feet. Or maybe they were exercising too, since quite a few were gathered doing high kicks, alternate feet, in time to the bass thunder of a boom box set on the bottom row of bleachers. Going toward it to set the carton down, Buffy squinted her eyes and made a wincing face at the volume and the similar intensity of the smell. Absolutely everybody must be wearing it, sweating it into the air. And there was a lot of everybody: the gym was at least half full.

She climbed up the bleachers to get a view of the whole floor. From that perspective, she saw how a boom box could impersonate a rock band’s sound system: at least six were parked at intervals along the bottom tier, cranked up to the max. From behind and above, the volume seemed slightly less likely to make her ears bleed. She couldn’t discern a tune, apart from the pounding rhythm that made the bleachers bounce.

There were even more people than she’d thought--over a hundred, few aged above eighteen--jerking in weaving throngs to the thundering beat. She still wasn’t sure which were exercising and which were dancing. Several flavors of stomping line dances were weaving through the recognizable jitter-buggers, frug-ers, and others doing dances she knew no names for: alone, in pairs, or loose clusters performing the same motions. One maybe-dance involved propellering your arms slowly backward and prancing on tiptoes while lifting the other knee smartly against the chest. The mutant offspring of Michael Jackson and Michael Flatley?

Pungent as mothballs although more floral, the smell made it hard to focus or form thoughts. And the driving beat shattered any struggling vestige of thought, like reflections in a stomped puddle.

Buffy was reasonably certain of only three things: (1) absolutely nobody was waltzing (2) she was facing dismissal and possible lawsuits for holding an unauthorized, unchaperoned orgy and/or riot on school property (3) she’d spotted Spike’s bike outside, so he was here…someplace. She caught sight of the occasional red/black blur, but they were just vamps and SITs having a wild good time. She awarded herself points for spotting (and recognizing) Mike. Modest points, because spotting him wasn't hard, since he was a head taller than any guy near enough for comparison, moving with characteristic vamp grace, strength, and energy. No Spike, though: not a platinum head anywhere.

She wilted onto the high bench, knees together, feet apart (and tapping), trying to think what to do. Then Spike came bounding up the bleacher rows as though they were a set of stairs, grinning like a maniac. One sleeve of his scarlet button-down was torn and flapping. The other was completely gone. Before Buffy could enlist his help in solving the problem, she was part of it, her face locked between his cool hands to hold her still during the application of a ten-megaton kiss that went on for several forevers and involved tongue. After that she was too busy hauling his T-shirt free of his jeans waistband so she could get her hands up under there and find skin. Skin was important. Skin was good, cool against her heat. She wanted more of it.

Seized by a perverse impulse, she started tickling and nearly sent them both crashing and bumping down all the tiers to the floor. Convulsing, Spike grabbed her wrists and forced them wide, so they were standing front to front like some interrupted non-standard tango, since they were looking into each other’s faces with loony expressions. Buffy lifted on her toes and licked his chin. Spike laughed and made some comment the music drowned. She felt him start to move and went along, wide-stepping down the rows hand in hand, Spike batting away her renewed threats of tickling.

They latched onto a passing line dance that mainly involved skipping wide to the side and doing a complicated little triple-time hop/bounce at what seemed random intervals. Whenever the line paused in its galumphing progress, that was what you did before being jerked into motion again. Then for awhile they were surrounded by people doing vaguely Egyptian-frieze movements, lots of serpentine arms, undulating torsos, and chins pushed out and then snapped back, over one’s shoulder. Or maybe they were imitating wading birds. Anyway the motions were contagious and imitable, so they mirrored them, sinuously exaggerating each sway and glide.

Most of the would-be Egyptian wading birds just looked herky-jerky. On Spike, whose eyes had kindled with a devilish gleam, it looked good. There was nothing that didn’t look good on Spike.

Then Spike caught her waist and tossed her straight up. Buffy looked down at lots of kids looking up. Descending, she was caught and hurled high again--like being on a trampoline without needing to bounce. This time, to be doing something while airborne, she managed a half rotation and was caught from the back and sent off again with a definite spin in the release. So she tucked her arms tight against her sides and made a full 360 before falling back into Spike and set safely down before he staggered away, doubled over in laughter. The angle was good, so she jumped onto his back and executed a handstand on his shoulders, head-top to head-top, holding the pose as he straightened beneath her. Everybody looked so funny upside down that she started giggling and fell into what would have been a messy collapse if Spike hadn’t grabbed her arm, tossed her out horizontally, and cracked her like a whip. Then she was suddenly back, on her feet, decorously held…and goddam waltzing in defiance of the music.

Spike had his eyes shut and looked as happy as she’d ever seen him. And Buffy could tell that their impromptu gymnastics had been noticed--the kids around had stopped to watch, grinning broadly, some even applauding soundlessly. Some of them were vamps. And it occurred to Buffy that absolutely nothing bad was happening. Sure, she might lose her job over this, but that would be some other time and this was now. The vamps were pairing off with human partners or each other, executing steps a little more light-footed and sure than the rest but otherwise distinguishable only by wearing the colors. Not one single kid with a throat torn out. Nobody terrorized or screaming. Nobody even yellow-eyed. Because the vamps adhered to the limits Spike had set for them; because they knew the punishment would be sure, severe, and quite likely end in dust if they crossed those limits. With feeding prohibited, the picked crew were having a good time like everybody else in the hypercharged fog of sweat and the smell, music and motion.

This enchanted harmony within set limits, established and brutally enforced, was Spike’s doing. His new order. Not to be trusted beyond the limits, but perfect within them on the shared middle ground of the gym.

Freeing a hand, she reached up to cup his ear, and he bent to hear her: “I get it, Spike! I get it, what you’re doing!” When he drew back and blinked, she nodded emphatically, grinning so hard her face hurt. It was so great to finally understand. A connection.

He swooped in for a kiss. When she started to sag against him, he held her steady, his head bowed, and raised his right arm straight up, calling, “Here!”

Somehow, they’d learned that signal. The vamps could probably hear him anyway. With a spread hand descending, he sent them to silence the radios, and as the music diminished and died, everybody gathered around, leaving happy, respectful room for Spike and Buffy in the center.

Looking around, collecting their attention, Spike said ruefully, “Well, we’re for it now. Not exactly the sort of exercise we were s’posed to be doing. Liable to get in Dutch for it, too. Wasn’t the, the instructor’s idea here: you remember that if anybody asks. Just sort of happened. Anyway, though this could roll on fine till midnight, the hour’s up and more, and next time, we stick to business here, all right? And you lot, scatter yourselves around and make certain not a single bit of trash is left anyplace. You lot with the radios, go stand by yours so I know they’re all accounted for and claimed by who brought them. That’s a good idea, music to move to--but not so many. We’ll see to that, next time. No more radios, right?” As the crowd broke into swirling motion, policing the floor and collecting belongings, Spike called, “My lot, help ‘em locate their own footgear, and no good stealing somebody else’s for a lark. And be certain you get your jackets and what-all, too: whatever you brought with you. Can’t leave this place looking like what’s left after the best party I been to for awhile. Long while. Now go on. Not gonna try to get names of the newcomers, that’s next time, supposing they come back for what this class is really about. Not this ridiculous dancing around nonsense. And thank the, Miss Elizabeth here, for not shutting us all down when she first came in, like the good sport that she is.”

There was a scatter of backward-shouted, “Thanks!” and somebody tried to get “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow” started but it petered out as the gym cleared. Directed by a flipped thumb, the vamps waiting by the door went out too.

“I’ll get the lights,” Spike said, starting toward the bleachers and the inner wall. Over his shoulder, he added, “See you brought the rest of the smell. Didn’t tell ‘em: enough around already to choke an elephant. Have to talk to Red about that. The fug’s chewable, in quantity, an' stinks of magic something fierce. There were a couple times I thought this was gonna turn into something absolutely else. Didn’t, though--not that I know of, anyways. Save the case for next time, I guess. I’ll take it back to your office for you. Afterward.”

Bounding up a few rows, he killed all the lights. A rattle, shortly after, marked his checking that the inner doors were secure. Buffy stood in the darkness tracking him by sound as he came back to her across the floor and wasn’t surprised when he grabbed hard and started trying to suck all her vitality out through her swollen lips.

“Now,” he growled in her ear.

Following, moving with his motion, everything reduced to smell and touch and taste, Buffy wondered that he’d thought a word was needed. When the time was right, you just knew. And everything followed from that, as it always had.

**********

He’d taken adequate thought. Fed himself up as much as he could take, even to getting a bit into the fledges’ ration. Had all the floor mats laid out in the corner under the bleachers, with some pillows, and a snuggy quilt: for under, so there’d be something between her and the mats’ plastic when he was nailing her into it; and for over, so she wouldn’t get cold in the between times. Nearly a hundred square feet of improvised bed: should do, no matter what they got up to.

With no mats set out for falling onto, the class had turned warm-up exercises into dancing. And it’d all gone on from there.

Taking thought had meant he’d been wholly distracted all day. Yearning toward it. Dreaming of it. Locked in arousal he didn’t want to waste on anything but its proper object. And then walking into the compelling haze of the smell, that fuzzed the edges and made everybody seem desirable and available to him. Could have shagged half the room and been working on the other half before Buffy arrived, so warm and so herself that no one else was the least appealing and he’d pulled out of a spontaneous group grope to get to her.

Good thing she hadn’t been ten minutes later. What she’d have walked in on wouldn’t have been anything like so harmless and innocent.

Have to have a talk with Red about the effect of the pheromone-heavy smell in volume, in an enclosed space, particularly on smell-sensitive vamps. Tone the next batch down considerable or there’d be consequences. Might already have been some, though he’d given his crew a good talking-to before his mind veered off and rejected anything that wasn’t sensation and readiness and need, all focused on her like a spotlight.

Taking thought beforehand meant that now he didn’t have to think at all. Could just turn loose and do.

They did. Frantic after weeks of abstinence, they exploded into one another. Couldn’t even make it as far as the prepared nest for the first few times. Couldn’t separate long enough to fully shed even the minimum clothing--haul it away, rip it, push it aside, and lost again. The taste of her, under her breasts, and her smell of wanting, sent him into immediate spasm. He came in his jeans, constricted, not even inside her. Unrecovered, still caught in that first release, he was back at her, wanting to taste every inch of her skin. Game face emerging and fading unnoticed, flexing within himself as everything inside was welcomed into the warmth. Seized, handled, scratched, bitten, wrestling and rolling, strength matched to need and his joy that she rose to him as would a great wave, capable of hurling him into rocks but instead engulfing and tumbling him, powerful and playful. Everywhere. Nothing he knew that wasn’t her. Again going for the tickling, that sent him into helpless spasms and another blowout stronger than the first and collapse after, passive while she yanked his boots off and able to be of little help with removing the sticky jeans.

“Sorry to put all the work on you, love. Think my spine’s melted,” he said blurrily. Her face came down and her hot mouth silenced him. Or at least dismissed anything but hard-drawn breath and babbling.

Eventually, on hands and knees, he led her to discover the nest, the quilt and the pillows, and swarmed all over her there, and it was so stupid ever to talk of “taking” a woman. It was giving, all giving, tuned to her now in a conversation of touches, finding where and how she most wanted him and giving her that, still incapable of delay but able to surprise her with fingers and mouth and tongue, startling sudden noises from her and pleased with his own inventiveness as she came to climax and convulsed, screaming.

Gentling her down afterward, holding her through the aftershocks, nuzzling at the mark that summoned and assured him that all was permitted. No hurt, no harm, except what she wanted, except what came of itself in the varying torques of their coming together. Didn’t need to hurt her. Nor not afraid of it, neither. All good, the bruised and aching places. Let him know it wasn’t a dream.

She slept a little then, and he continued to hold her, reaching behind and tenting the quilt around to hold her warmth, a little sad that he had none of that to give her when it meant so much to him. Softly petting until she stirred, all wonderfully slippery with sweat and smelling strongly of them both, cheek and sweated hair against his chest, stroking along his ribs, licking and nibbling at his nipples. Then she bit, and the galvanic shock went straight to his cock. Hard again and aching that good ache but patient with it now, keeping things on the simmer, not desperate to be finished. Time for less demanding kisses, investigating the precious inner fold of her elbow and behind her knee. Attending to her poor punished feet, the ridiculous shoes she inflicted on herself, brainwashed fashion victim to accept such self-imposed torture when the turn of a slim ankle, the imagined flare of a calf, was the quintessence of feminine allure in his day, not foot-binding as though modern girls were the inheritors of the heathen Chinese so that the toes withered and dropped off, nothing left but the stub of a foot, and on like that, meanwhile kneading and working the muscles, taking each toe into his mouth for separate attention while she defended her idiot choice of footwear on the grounds of practicality, like a stiletto heel was any help in staking a vamp or pivoting with a broadsword. Completely ridiculous. Happily bickering and all the rest simmering steadily underneath.

Her silver anklet was still in place. Tasted fine. She jerked her foot away, complaining that it tickled, and a fine one she was to talk.

Then she started telling him about Mike coming over and he fizzed as quietly as he could, hearing what she’d said, knowing what Mike would have made of it; touched that she’d even tried, sweet silly cow. Sounded like Mike had minded his manners, anyway, which was good enough and all he expected. But her talking love and Mike surely hearing dominance was just so impossibly funny he couldn’t keep it altogether inside so she pounced him, all indignant, and then opted for her turn on top, controlling the pace, and that was fine too, whatever she pleased. Bossy little minx when the mood took her, and he happy to have it so, changing leads never a problem for him. Had quite enough of being in charge in the ordinary way, glad to lie back and be ridden, letting it all build how it would, deeply sheathed, and the view glorious too, looking up at her: all ribboned and auraed with radiant heat, all the more beautiful for being self-forgetful in her blindness, all inward focused and intent, hair elflocked and wayward, hiding and then revealing her face as she moved on him.

Might not have been bad with the shackles, much like this and skip all the sad waiting but she wouldn’t even try, and that set him off somehow.

He flipped and held her and bore down hard, fast, impatient. Forcing sweet noises from her and making considerable noise himself like they weren’t supposed to at her place on account of Bit, needing her rest and all, not to mention Red, but no reason now not to cut loose and just fly. The mark called him out of himself and he bit down hard, everything clenched and exploding and completely gone into the sensation and the taste of her, smell and taste fused and overwhelming. Taking in the power while giving it back, no will left in the matter whatever. Part of an arc. Whited-out blank.

The voice inside him saying, It could be like that all the time. Lost in an ecstasy of completion.

He thought he said to it, “Bugger off. This is mine. I shut you out.”

Can’t do that, dear boy. Not once you’ve let me in. Besides, if I were out, I couldn’t do this to you.

A wave of pure bodily pleasure washed over him, devoid of context or significance. It lasted however long it lasted and was gone when it was gone. Sense seeped slowly back.

Dazed and lethargic, he thought he said, “Buffy’s better. We’re better. It all means. That, that’s just some trick.”

An appealing trick, nevertheless, isn’t it? Direct stimulation of the pleasure centers. Overloads the receptors with bliss. It’s impossible to feel better than that. Quantity and availability beat occasional, inconsistent quality every time. Over time. You’ll like my service. I absolutely guarantee it.

“Fuck off. Wanking myself unconscious for eternity isn’t how I figured to spend my unlife.”

Then, you hadn’t experienced it. Like the chip’s opposite: pleasure instead of pain. Unending. Your demon understands.

“And the button in your hand. Think not. If it’s so great, you do it. Be rid of you then. Fold all small and disappear up your own arse, why don’t you.”

Deliciously contrary. But your demon understands. Smug.

“I control my demon!”

Then followed an interval of vague drifting in which his exchange with the voice faded into a general unease and was forgotten except for the sated contentment of his demon, which was no very strange thing, after all. He became aware of lying stretched out with his head on the best pillow imaginable, Buffy’s belly, and her weeping onto him the way she did sometimes. Meant nothing bad, only letting all the stored-up sorrow out, which she mostly didn’t allow herself except at such times. Just how she was, how she did. He didn’t take it personally.

**********

Mike was on the hunt.

This player, this fucking sorcerer, Ethan Rayne, had made beaucoup enemies in Sunnydale, his last few swings though. So there were those that remembered. A bit of spite here, a grudge there. Somebody he'd pissed off with a non-delivery or a casual double-cross who wouldn't mind a piece of his hide if it didn't risk or cost them anything. Not many vamps, though--vamps didn't much like magic or those who played around with it. As Spike would have put it, too poncy, too sneaky, for blunt vamp smash-and-slash tastes. Much as Mike heard poisoners were regarded by the more directly murderous elite in prisons. So vamps didn't tend to have much contact with magic workers, not even enough to dislike them on a personal basis. Except, of course, Digger. However, Mike put off visiting with Digger, saving that for a last resort, instead proceeding roundabout.

First he built a network of connections who knew something of Rayne’s prior escapades, information mainly sourced initially from Willow, who’d have a natural interest in such things. With sufficient reason, Mike had gotten his mind around what Spike had finally accepted: that you didn’t need to be abroad in daylight to talk to somebody. Spike had given him a cell phone. Mike used it, sitting tense and intent in his own lair, an abandoned house at the edge of Tryed Stone Cemetery, that he shared with his crew of three fighters and five minions.

Talking on the phone was strange and uncomfortable--no smell or body language to go by, only the words--but it had advantages, too. There was no rank to be considered. No fight could break out over the phone. Those he talked to weren’t reacting to this big hulking guy with a fairly stupid, placid expression. Nor to a vamp that might take a notion to yank them apart if he didn’t like what he heard, since all vamps had a rep as crazy-volatile among the rest of the demon population. He was just a voice to them, as they were to him, and he found things were simpler that way. Much clearer, more understandable.

To Willow, all he had to do was identify himself as “Spike’s Mike” and she opened right up and told him in plain words what he knew to ask and even suggested promising lines of follow-up he hadn’t then thought of. Helpful, direct. He decided he more liked Willow than not. Apart from the magic, of course.

More demons than he would have thought had phones. Most weren’t listed in any book, but there was a network of demons who needed or wanted to contact others, and the connections spun out from there. Within a couple hours of starting, Mike had 127 numbers jotted down, together with their associated names and designations: he found that there were quite a lot of demons in the repair and delivery businesses, servicing those parts of Sunnydale humans avoided after dark. Nearly all the cabbies were demons of the less conspicuous breeds. Utility workers, too. It made sense, though he’d never had any reason to think about it before.

And into the notebook went what they knew about Rayne: where they’d seen him, what he’d been up to, why they disliked the bastard. Mike didn’t come up with a single individual who’d had any contact with the Chaos Mage who seemed to have the least respect or liking for him. Practically fell all over themselves to spew some story of how he’d done them down. Stupid, Mike decided, to piss so many off so casually, with such indifference. Given the chance, they’d turn on you, do you whatever small harm they could. Even mice could do you down, given enough of them; or distract and occupy your attention while somebody else came at you from a direction you hadn’t expected.

Rayne was a bit like Spike that way, he thought then, except that Spike knew and accepted that there’d be consequences of pissing people off on a wholesale basis and faced up to them and then beat them down, toe to toe, whenever they confronted him. So maybe not just stupid. More arrogant. And Mike had nothing against arrogance when it was earned. Like a Master vamp insisting on due respect and beating down any who refused it. Just the natural order of things.

In the first of the early twilight, he rolled over to the Magic Box to talk to the vengeance demon, Anya, that owned the place. In the lull between the end of the work day and the start of nighttime activity, the shop was empty and Anya, a nice looking woman, seemed not at all unwilling to talk to him--even flirted with him a little, which was always pleasant, though not at all serious, as best he could judge.

Leaning on the counter where the cash register was, Mike said, “Trying to get a line on this Ethan Rayne. Figure he has to buy stuff, to do what he does. And where else would he come but here?”

“Naturally,” Anya agreed with a brisk head bob. “I have the best selection and quality of materials to be found within a hundred mile radius.”

“You know him by sight?”

“I do now,” Anya replied with an extremely toothy grin, chin resting on an upright prop of fists. “I’d be a pitiful judge of customers if I couldn’t tell a true Adept from a novice at twenty paces: Adepts won’t tolerate more than a 30% markup, whereas novices can be overcharged wildly and are too ignorant to know the difference. Adepts smell of their profession. Like dentists and garbage collectors.”

“Expect they would. If he comes in again, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.” Mike pulled from a shirt pocket a yellow sticky with his cell phone number and passed it over. “Or just call sometime to chat, if you take the notion. Though I don’t expect a lady like yourself has much spare time, what with running this place. Expect you’re pretty busy, socially, too.”

“Well, I’m very involved with civic groups, the Chamber of Commerce and the Downtown Merchants’ Association, that’s true, and it does take up much of my time. With the extended evening hours, I seldom get home before midnight these days. Evening business has really picked up, the past few weeks. I’ve seen you patrolling.” By Anya’s expression, she’d liked what she’d seen, too.

Mike returned her smile pleasantly. “Spike, he calls them sweeps. To tell that from what he does with the Slayer. But yeah, I help out how I can. However he wants. Sort of his second these days, though I have a territory of my own. Always back and forth between there and the factory…. Kind of occupied past midnight on that account, though we’ll be going to two shifts soon--to midnight, and then to dawn. Sunrise…. Don’t yet have the hands to run that yet, though.”

“It’s been noticed. Much more repeat business, steady customers that don’t inexplicably disappear. In general, historically, vamps have been considered bad for business. That’s changing. The colors are noticed, even by merchants who don’t have the least idea what they stand for.” Anya tugged with two fingers at the sleeve of his black T-shirt, one he’d found with the slogan Farm Fresh Tilapia--Fewer Bones! and the logo of the Farmed Fish Association, a twisty looking fish caught in mid-jump. She smiled up into his face and gave his arm a pat.

No question: flirting.

She went on, “The Downtown Merchants’ Association is behind this initiative 200%, and you can tell Spike I said so. Or is ‘initiative’ a bad word for you? I know Spike gets an odd look in his eyes when I forget and use it, and no wonder, given his experiences.”

“No, don’t mean nothing to me.”

“Good. Anyway, we’re solid.” Anya shook her clasped hands in what Mike supposed was a sort of cheering-on gesture. Turning pensive, she continued, “I’ve been considering taking on extra staff for the evening. These ten-hour days aren’t healthy for a girl my age. I’m sure I look a positive fright--bags under the eyes, incipient wrinkles.” She offered her wide-eyed face for his inspection.

“Expect you’re tired, but it doesn’t show. Don’t see any wrinkles, not a one.”

“I said ‘incipient,’” she said crossly, rubbing at the space between her eyebrows. “So there are bags, then.”

“No bags, neither. Look like a magazine cover.”

“Really? Which one?”

Mike cast his eyes to the ceiling, visualizing magazine racks at the supermarket nearest his lair. “Modern Bride, maybe. Or Diet Surgery, that had that series about Melanie Griffith awhile back.”

She nodded emphatically. “So sad, when the before pictures look better than the after! A girl has to be extra careful when she’s only intermittently immortal. And the schedule is positively killing. So…before I actually advertise for help, might you be interested? Good-looking retail personnel make the customers so much more likely to think well of an establishment, and therefore much more likely to return. Repeat business: that’s the secret of successful retail.” Anya nodded solemnly, disclosing this sentiment--surely one worthy of a T-shirt, in Mike’s estimation.

“Couldn’t say. Have to ask Spike about it. Maybe. I’ll give it some thought. Now back to this Rayne. Anything he bought, that he had delivered? Maybe an address?”

“I think there was one phone order, now that you mention it: let me look.” She dug under the counter and brought out a ledger-style book. She banged it open on the countertop and started flipping pages, scanning with an intent frown. “There it is: 1601 Oak, second floor,” she declared triumphantly.

Mike got out a pocket pad and borrowed her pen to write down the address. Then he asked soberly, “We gonna be on the outs if I tear the head off a steady customer?”

“Well, that would really depend on why. Though in my profession, it’s not good to be overly inquisitive about final intent, motivation, that sort of thing. So I’m not meaning to pry, or--”

“He’s doing something to Spike. Something that’s….” Mike stopped himself at the last second, before admitting whatever it was had Spike scared--strong enough to smell. “I don’t like it and mean to stop it.”

“Is Lady Gates of no help? I know her attitude toward Spike is somewhat ambiguous, or should that be ambivalent? Anyway, she certainly might be expected to intervene, since she considers Spike her property.”

“Don’t know what she’s after,” Mike responded, scowling. “Except for setting Dawn aside, that is. Hasn’t been helpful so far, that I can see.”

“Then by all means, stop the bastard,” Anya said, nodding several times. “But do be careful: mages aren’t easily approached and tend to have very nasty things up their sleeves by way of defense. Or they wouldn’t live as long as they do. Has Spike authorized you to act on his behalf?”

“On some things. Not about this, though,” Mike admitted unwillingly. “On the other hand, this Rayne won’t look to see me coming.” He quoted, “‘Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.’”

“Exactly right! And he certainly won’t hear it from me!” Anya placed fingers over her mouth, then made as if turning a key in a lock over her full and red-painted lips. “Everybody knows I’m the soul of discretion!”

A narrow look found no conscious irony. So maybe her eager rattling on about Rayne was only part of the general dislike of the man, or maybe it meant she considered them on confidential terms on account of the connection to Spike. Likely the latter, he decided.

“I’m serious,” Anya said, clasping hands around his wrist and looking into his eyes earnestly. “I’ve never known a vamp who wasn’t far too reckless, charging in without a plan of attack, much less preparing a defense. Spike’s notorious for that. I’ve had to bail him out of several situations over the years. If Spike hesitates to go after Rayne himself, there’s good reason, and you should give it a lot of serious thought before involving yourself.”

“Don’t worry on my account: I’m protected.”

“One of Willow’s lockets?”

“No, a watch. But same sort of thing, I expect. Spike gave it to me,” Mike informed her proudly.

“Willow’s a good ally and a powerful defense, even if she’s often unreasonable about what constitutes a trade discount. But don’t trust that talisman blindly, not against a mage with a taste for influencing vampires. If he can hurt Spike, he can hurt you.”

“That’s so,” Mike admitted. He hadn’t thought about that side of it. His respect for Anya’s shrewdness, already high, went up a notch. “Thanks for the warning. And I’ll take what care I can.”

“Be sure you do. I imagine you’re told all the time that you have the most lovely eyelashes. But the first time I remember seeing you, you had both arms broken, two black eyes swollen shut, and a concussion: you looked as though you’d been through a meat grinder. And that was just Spike! It would be a shame to get yourself turned into something hideous or trivial, like a newt or a Mayfly. After all, who pays any attention to a Mayfly? And they live such short, unimportant lives, too--the epitome of mortality. That’s if he doesn’t dust you outright, of course. Less hideous, but far more final.”

“I’ll take care,” Mike assured her, and thanked her for her help.

Took less than five minutes to get to that address on Oak. No surprise, the second floor apartment was empty, and maybe it’d been no more than a convenience address, where something could be dropped off and then collected later. But Mike thought not. Having forced a window, he stood in the space the drab living room furniture left open, shut his eyes, and pulled what information he could from the atmosphere. Definite stink and prickle of residual magic, though old and faded to nearly nothing. Magic of a dry sort, not the more active fiery kinds. Passive, like a bear trap, set and waiting for you to walk in, not the sort that would chase you down the street or erupt into your dreams, though he wasn’t so discriminating a judge of that as Spike was.

And stronger than the scent of magic was a mix of lingering personal scents: this apartment had been occupied by many over the years, and their smells lingered. Took him awhile to separate the older from the newer and memorize the distinguishing characteristics of the one associated with the magic, indefinably tied to it by smell.

He went in search of that smell. The apartment had been stripped pretty thoroughly but not repainted. He found a hand print on a door. Couldn’t see it, but he could smell it just fine. That helped him refine his original guess at Rayne’s own smell, as distinguished from all the other smell-ghosts that inhabited this place. He thought of taking the door, but it would be hard to maneuver on the bike, so he kept looking and found a crumpled tissue lodged unnoticed behind a bureau. Smell was distinct on it: it would do. Holding it carefully by the least corner with a two-finger grip, he ducked back out through the window and inserted the tissue in one of the set of panniers he’d gotten for his bike, to avoid mixing the scent with his own any more than he could help. A zip-shut bag would be good, but he hadn’t thought of that in time. He could pick one up on the way back to the factory.

When he’d set tonight’s sweep on that scent, if Rayne moved around anywhere in Sunnydale in the open air tonight, they’d have a lock on him they could follow to his destination and likely his lair. A good beginning. Mike wouldn’t have to go to Digger about it after all--not yet, anyway. Didn’t want to show his hand to Digger if he could avoid it, because Digger was almost certainly involved, since the target was Spike. And Mike didn’t trust himself to keep his mouth shut. Hadn’t seen much of Digger lately, except at some distance, at Willy’s. Not since Spike had let Mike feed from him. Digger would have noticed and expect to be told why, and Mike wasn’t at all eager to have that conversation. So best to put it off as long as possible.

Then he headed off to the factory by way of the mall. Picked up a box of zip-shut bags at the drugstore there, then wandered around moodily looking into shop windows, waiting for inspiration to strike. Dawn’s birthday party was tomorrow, and he was going, so human customs dictated a present. Likely why the Slayer had invited him and Spike had said yeah, go: raise the tally of presents.

But nothing looked good to him. Nothing spoke to his senses and said Dawn to him. Been so long since he’d kept company with her or tasted her, he reflected sadly. Caught her scent a few times, but angry words and a cold stare had gone with that, so he couldn’t really be happy at the memory.

She wasn’t really there, and maybe she wouldn’t like what he got her anyway because it’d been from him, so it likely didn’t matter what he got her. So just get something simple, any old thing, and get it gift-wrapped, and a card to go with. Be done with it.

Deciding, he grimly headed for the department store.

Chapter 11: Slipping the Tether

Spike lost most of Thursday. He wasn’t sure how. Felt so good, he didn’t particularly care, but it puzzled him whenever he roused from his walking dream, checked his watch, and found another two or three hours had gone someplace. Maybe south--south sounded good to him. Warm there. Good place for the untethered hours to go. Then the fog would roll back and blank out the puzzlement.

Once, the fog lifted and he found himself fighting all-out against a trio of Tethys demons: many-limbed, with tough black shiny chitin, spurs at the joints, had to go for the eyes on those, then get a blade in under the skull plate and separate it from the thorax; looking around the big indigo-dark temple space for something with a cutting edge….

Another time, his opponent was an ugly stinking troll in furs and leathers and odd scraps of cloth, and he was keeping clear of the huge hammer, indifferently in and out of dappled sunlight on a hillside, the sun chartreuse and empty of harm, and almost got himself mashed flat trying to puzzle that one out, wondering what’d become of the Tethys or had he done for them? Weapon, came the insistent thought: had to find a weapon, don’t worry about the Tethys, dealing with the troll now, and that was no problem, not really: just get uphill of him, dodge the hammer swing, and go right at him, hard and fast, maybe knock him off balance and rolling. Anyway, tear his throat out. Try not to get hit in the long while it would take the troll to collapse. Had all the weapon he needed, he was a fucking vampire!

The minute he thought that and started to act on it, the hillside and the strange sun were gone and the next he knew, he was perambulating along the sewers. Marks at the junctions told him where he was, and a glance at his watch told him it was already past the time the Slayer was due for her workout.

Some way, he’d blown off the whole day’s agenda, yet couldn’t bring himself to care. Actually, he felt most inclined to get extremely drunk and blow the rest of it. The agenda--even the thought of the agenda--bored him stiff. And the thought of a long session with the translation was even worse. Sit and stare at a screen for hours? What had possessed him to agree to that? Very no fun whatever. Fighting Tethys, now that was more like it. He wondered how that had all come out and how he’d missed the finish.

Take on Digger, maybe: Digger would have enough fighters by now to put up a good scrap. There’d been a reason he hadn’t taken Digger on directly before now but he couldn’t bring it to mind.

He felt strange, stoned, and that puzzled him because that was Mike’s preferred impairment, not his. So maybe starting an all-out battle should be put off awhile. Stoned, his judgment wasn’t worth shit. Besides, the thought of fighting in Digger’s labyrinthine lair didn’t feel like fun, once he started considering it. Felt like an appealing trap. Put him off the idea somehow. Hell with it all. Just go up to Willy’s, take on the house. Drink himself paralytic afterward. But get someplace safe first, considering the blood price Digger had set on him.

He couldn’t think of any fun that didn’t drag waves of complications rolling in behind. Nothing simple and direct, the way he wanted.

Had to be hallucinating again: the Tethys’ cathedral, the troll and the hillside in the wrong colored light. Might better sideline himself and wait for the sense to come back.

Wished he could talk to Joyce, but he recalled she was gone, likely to where he’d never be, so fuck it. Likewise Dawn, whom he missed acutely: wanted her real bad to sort this for him, tell and confirm for him what was real, but that was a shut door too, couldn’t go there. Not Buffy, though: had to keep all the nonsense clear of her or like as not, she’d figure he’d slipped a cog and gone all crazy again, want to chain him up in the basement except the shackles were gone, no way to lock him down until the sense came back. Shackles, they’d been comforting in a way: locked down, he’d known he couldn’t hurt anybody who mattered. Didn’t have that worry on his mind. But she’d taken against them somehow so they were gone and he’d have to manage this all by himself.

Had to stay well clear of the Slayer. No help to be had there.

Seemed like every way he turned, he ran up against a blind wall. Rat in a maze, subtly herded along a path by finding everything else closed off and no way to get above it, figure how to go. Too stoned and fogged to see it plain, yet too driven by restlessness to stop where he was.

When he started battering the walls with his fists, the soothing fog slid back in, feeding him reassurance that none of it mattered and there was no need to hurt himself over it even though the hurt had felt good--like the beginnings of clarity. Feeding him pleasure, right now, that was an escape from choice. Didn't have to care about none of it, only drift and let the fog take him. Let himself be pushed wherever it was he was needed to go. Fog didn't want him tormented or uncertain. Liked him fine the way he was and would presently deliver him to more fighting and all things that satisfied his nature.

Couldn’t very well argue with that.

**********

It wasn’t the end of the world, Buffy thought, without a hand free to rub at her eyes because she was carrying a carton containing her pencil pot, half a dozen computer diskettes, a notebook, a few pens, and the six remaining squeeze bottles of smell down the school’s front stairs toward the SUV in the parking lot.

She’d only lost her job, and what was that? A part-time nothing, a make-work service usually performed unpaid by the head of the P.T.A., that she didn’t even belong to. It was really stupid to feel like the world’s utter failure, except that she did. So she was a stupid failure. Not to mention guilt: one Charissa Richardson, whose name wasn’t even on the roster, claimed she’d gone into the gym a virgin, on Tuesday, and left otherwise. The family doctor had confirmed her non-virgin status. A complaint of inadequate supervision had been lodged by the parents.

Not rape, Principal Doty had assured her. Youthful high spirits, poor judgment on everyone’s part. No one claimed otherwise. But better all around if appropriate action was seen to be taken and the person technically responsible for supervising that after school activity was sent away, presumably to the more structured environment of the business world. That might fend off a lawsuit, which the school really couldn’t afford under present circumstances. However, he was quite willing to provide a reference, should one be needed, since her job performance had been quite satisfactory except for this one regrettable lapse in judgment.

So the bottom line was that she was out, and so was her rowdy exercise/self-defense class.

She tossed the carton on the middle bench seat and slid the door shut. Then she turned against the vehicle, her face hidden in her bent arm, and bawled.

She’d been rejected. Was unwanted and disapproved of. Had Done Something Wrong. It was devastating. She couldn’t think through the ramifications. If she’d been told that losing her job meant that in two hours, marshals would arrive to seal and seize Casa Summers and dump them and their belongings out on the street, and that she’d have to go back to the horrible Double-Meat Palace and beg the manager for her old job back, she would have gulped, nodded numbly, and believed it.

Willow knew about catastrophes like this: once she’d gotten a B on an algebra exam and been inconsolable for weeks. But Buffy’s try to reach Willow by phone went unanswered. In class, perhaps: Buffy never could keep Will’s daytime schedule straight.

She next tried Spike, and that was even more frustrating, because you often had to wait through twenty or more rings before he’d pick up. This time, not even thirty brought a response.

Oh, why were the people you depended on never available when you really needed them?

Flinging the unresponsive phone onto the passenger side, Buffy turned on the ignition, shoved the gear shift, moved about five feet, then jammed the shift into Park while slamming on the brakes. Had to dive into her tote for tissues for an eye wipe and a nose-blow, in that order. Being an organized person, she had a small trash bag on the floor to dispose of the tissue wad. She took her foot off the brake while shoving the shift lever, and the SUV lurched forward.

The phone buzzed.

Everything jammed to a halt again. Buffy was too weepy and distressed to look for the caller ID: she just shoved the phone to her ear.

Anya’s voice blared, “Buffy, you have to get over here this instant, right away! Something terrible has happened!”

“What?” Buffy shrieked back, filled with horrible imaginings.

“The Chaos Stone has been stolen!”

“The what?”

“--and it’s all Willow’s fault. My life may be in danger! You have to come here right now and protect me and get it back!”

With no clear idea of what Anya was so wound up about, Buffy shoved the SUV back into gear and drove out of the school parking lot, scowling with Slayer determination, bumping heavily over the curb.

**********

Buffy had a vague recollection of the Chaos Stone: Angel had dug it up someplace, and it’d been used as a diversion during the closing of the Hellmouth, drawing away most of the Turok-han, clearing the way for her, Spike, and the SITs to get into the Hellmouth with nobody left to fight but the Bringers.

“But that’s not the point,” Anya declared, wringing her hands and pacing in front of a display of desiccated Hands of Glory. “It’s worth money. Lots of money!”

Buffy sat down at the big table. She wasn’t exactly glad of the distraction, but she was prepared to listen and try to understand what this had to do with her. “Remind me how you ended up with it.”

“Angel wanted it back, but Spike tossed it to me, and we both ran,” Anya explained, chin lifted righteously high. “I have it, so I own it. Or I had it…. And I had a buyer!” she wailed. “And now it’s gone!”

“What is the thingy, precisely?”

“The dial of a fixed dimensional portal that doesn’t exist anymore. So it doesn’t connect with anything. But it could be made to. Now, it’s just randomness, the keyhole of a door into noplace, everyplace. Energy blowing through like wind. It has an energy signature that demons are attracted to--particularly vamps. Metaphysical harmonics, or some such thing. Personally, I found it annoying, which was another reason I parked it elsewhere while I was shopping for a buyer. It set my teeth on edge.”

Looking around the shop, noticing the modifications made to the annex to repurpose the training room as retail space and pulling a slight frown on that account, though it was no surprise, Buffy asked, “It wasn’t here?”

“No, that’s what I’ve been telling you!” Anya flopped down in an adjoining chair, flinging her hands in agitation. “It’s best to be discreet about such things. You’d scarcely believe how unscrupulous some dealers in magical antiquities can be. So I certainly didn’t want it here: not nearly secure enough.” With hands clenched in effort, Anya forced herself to spit it out: “I engaged Olaf to look after it for me.”

“Your ex?” Buffy asked incredulously.

“He’s perfectly reliable. Well, stupid. And it was no imposition--all he had to do was keep it for me. And I paid him! Or would have, when it was time to collect it. And in that dimension, its shrieking was barely noticeable. No one should have been able to find it. Except Willow. I told Willow where it was. I was naïve and trusting, and now she’s betrayed me!”

“Slow down, Anya. How do you know it’s gone?”

Anya made a vexed face. “Well, I looked, of course! I generally pop over once a week, just to see how Olaf is getting on. A few drinks, a few laughs. It’s sociable! And it’s only a small interdimensional jump. Why shouldn’t I?”

“What does Olaf have to say about it?”

“Nothing. No Olaf, no stone. I came right back and phoned you.”

“Ahuh.” Buffy tucked away for further examination the possibility that Anya’s pop-in visits had been enough to alert even Olaf, who had an IQ well south of his blood pressure, that what was in his custody was valuable. “How valuable?”

“The current price is $ 100,000. And it was met, Buffy! I had a buyer!”

Buffy fanned herself. “That’s a big-ticket item, all right. But Anya--I don’t yet see how any of this has to do with me.”

“Well, there’s Willow: I admit she probably didn’t steal it herself, but she undoubtedly blabbed to somebody. And she’s your friend! And then there’s this Chaos Mage who wants to reopen the Hellmouth. I’d think that would concern you somewhat. And then--”

“Whoa! Whoa! Where did this come from?”

“Mike told me. Yes!” Struck by a thought, Anya dashed back to the main counter, got a yellow sticky out of the register, and dialed the phone, leaning on an elbow. After a long wait, she said, “It’s Anya. Yes, I realize you were probably asleep, but this is an emergency. Please come down now. Right away.” She listened, then said, “Yes, I’m quite aware that the sun is shining. There’s tunnel access in the alley, I’m sure-- Fine, that will be fine, I really appreciate--” Replacing the receiver, Anya remarked, “Vamps certainly can be cranky when you wake them up. I thought of Spike first, but I couldn’t reach him and besides, he’d want a finder’s fee. Mike will do just as well. Better.”

Buffy deduced that Mike wouldn’t require being paid.

While waiting for Anya to finish her call, Buffy had been wandering among the tables and displays, avoiding the Hands of Glory, for which she'd developed a fixed dislike. On the table nearest the shop door, half a dozen or so tiny one-ounce bottles were set out. Curly lettering identified them as "Sunnydale Seduction." On a nasty guess, Buffy opened one: sure enough, Willow's magicked smell. Repackaged.

"You're selling it?" Buffy demanded indignantly. "For" (she checked the sticker) "ten dollars an ounce?"

"Just because you have no retail sense doesn't mean nobody has," Anya retorted airily. "I was going to tell you, the next time we had a meeting. We haven't had one lately. So. You'll get your share. Or Spike Enterprises will. It's a sensible business arrangement. I don't know what you're so upset about."

"Did you ask anybody? Did you tell anybody?"

"Really, I can't see that it's important now, with everything else that's going on. Please wipe the bottle before you put it back: I can't sell it with your finger marks all over it."

Grumpily, Buffy swiped the tiny bottle on her sleeve, then thumped it down. It galled her that Anya was making money from what they were giving away for free. But she should have known better. For a moment, she considered requiring a finder's fee, that even Spike wasn't dim enough to pass by, according to Anya. But no. Regretfully, she decided that would be Wrong.

If this theft was part of the attempt to reopen the Hellmouth, it was her duty as the Slayer to prevent that from happening. The Council had made it abundantly clear that Slayers were not to be paid for doing their duty. Despite Spike’s often expressed contempt for that view, Buffy reluctantly accepted it even now, when she imagined her modest bank balance vanishing under a deluge of bills for lack of a paycheck.

“OK,” she said, settling back at the big table, “let’s see if I have this right: you had this major, somewhat broken, magical rock, in your possession because you ran off with it.”

Anya nodded cheerfully. “The Indiana Jones approach: grab the rock and run, carefully avoiding pygmies