Banner by nemo_88

Blood Runs Thin

By kcarolj65

Chapter Eleven

He moved.

Eventually.

No matter how badly one is injured, at some point inertia always becomes intolerable, the effort of stillness its own brand of anguish. So one moves, not because it won't hurt to do so, but that moving will change the nature and focus of the pain. By that very difference, one might convince oneself that the pain is more bearable that way.

All an illusion, of course. Spike was intimately acquainted with illusions. Too much so, really. Hell, he'd lived - and died - on them: his entire existence, human and vampire, was defined by his chasing one fanciful idea or another. First, that he could win Cecily's heart if he gave her his own; then, that Drusilla actually did love and appreciate him more than Angelus. That Buffy cared for him but was just afraid to show it. And underlying all of them was the illusion that someday, if he just kept at it, he'd find that elusive something he could do or be that would earn him a place in someone's heart.

He thought he'd figured it out, that the something was his soul - the missing piece, that would make him fit.

Fool that he was. Fool for love.

Angel had exploded his illusions and hopes all at once, with devastating thoroughness.

So, Spike moved. Walked away from the Hyperion and all within it.

Thing was, he wasn't really aware of it until he was well down the street - several streets, actually, he must have made a few turns without realizing - and had absolutely no idea where he was. And there was no one about to tell him, except maybe a few winos he could smell somewhere in the vicinity.

Not that where he was, was of any consequence. He had nowhere to go, so he might as well be anywhere.

But the wino-stench prompted a thought that struggled to form in his mind, like a seed trying to germinate in permafrost: Where there were winos, there was alcohol. Where there was alcohol, there were people. And maybe other demons. Even if they wanted nothing to do with him, at least he could pretend that they did while he shared space with them, drinking. Drinking himself into oblivion. His mouth watered, anticipating the whiskey burn. Yeah. That's the ticket. A little self-medication, and music, the louder the better. Could sing along, got the voice for it, and maybe a pretty girl'll smile at me, just once -

Oh Bloody Hell. Another fucking illusion.

God, he was sick of them.

Sick all the way to the bottom of his heart and his bloody useless soul, sick of illusions, and dreams, and tilting at windmills like some fucking modern-day Don Quixote and where had it got him, after all this time?

Here. Nowhere.

I like this world. He had liked the world - still did, probably, deep down. Everything he'd told Buffy that long-ago night still held true. Manchester United, dog racing...and people. Billions of delicious, infuriating, heartbreaking, idiotic, wonderful people that he just couldn't think of as Happy Meals anymore. Unlife had been so much easier when he could.

I like this world. I do. But...

it doesn't like me.

Never had. Never would.

Time to check out, then.

He turned and left his world behind him.

*

It was like coming home, a little. The park, emerald oasis among the grey concrete and silver steel and plate glass, reminded him of Green Park, if he squinted a bit and wasn't too particular about the varieties of flora. Buck House's backyard had been a haven for him in his London days, a pocket of quiet and sweet clean scents of trees and grass.

Good a place as any to greet the sun.

He parked himself on a bench, staring at the silent lawn, the lush trees without really registering them. The park was empty this time of night, still far too early for joggers, and late even for the most rapacious gangbangers. That was good, right. He didn't want an audience for this.

He faced the east so he could watch it as it came, his doom of golden rays creeping slowly over the grass to blast him to nothingness in a spectacular flash of fire.

There above the horizon hung Venus, flashing and twinkling as atmospheres shifted and changed her light, revealing only a little at a time, like Salome teasing with veils. Venus, the Morning Star, featured in song and story - and poetry, of course. Also the Evening Star - astronomers once believed Venus to be two separate heavenly bodies. The dual nature of Love, perhaps, beautiful and cruel. Spike could vouch for that. She'd served as his guiding star throughout his existence, after all, and brought him to this end.

Drusilla had claimed the stars sang to her, had cajoled him to listen and sing along. Mostly he'd gone along with it, placated her by pretending to hear and joining his baritone with her sweet soprano in strangely lovely tunes, fragments of folk songs and hymns. And she'd smiled and laughed and wrapped her arms around him, hummed in his ear...

O Willy's rare and Willy's fair,
And Willy's wondrous bonny.
And Willy says he'll marry me
Gin e'er he marries any.

He blinked. Was he going mad, too? Because he could've sworn he heard -

"Dru." He gasped her name as she rounded a tree, a vision in crimson. What are you doing here? How did you know? he wanted to ask, but she shook her head and lifted a slender finger to her smiling lips. Silvery eyes gleaming wickedly, she swayed toward him, singing:

O came you by the waterside
Pulled you the rose or lily,
Or came you by yon meadow green
Or saw you my sweet Willy?

"I saw you, sweet William," Drusilla chanted, sinking down on the bench beside him. "Naughty William. I saw you." She caressed his cheek, her hand cool and smooth as water, sending a thrill through him. She smiled, lowered her eyes and giggled at his response. Her hand trailed down his torso, all the way down, teased and petted as he moaned. "And her. Oh yes, I saw her." Her voice hardened suddenly, no longer teasing, as did her grip, clamping cruelly down on him.

He gasped in shock as she hissed, "Nasty Slayer. Naughty little girl, borrowing toys without asking." Grip gentling only slightly, she squeezed him, kneaded him, worked him until he was writhing in delicious pain and desire. "Needs to be punished, she does." Abruptly, she released him and he groaned at the loss, opening his eyes as she stood and stepped aside with a sweep of her hand, revealing -

His bed, under the tree. Just as it was before Finn bombed his crypt, soft and sumptuous with blood-colored linen and velvet. And on it - beautiful beyond words in a filmy, almost-transparent white dress and veil - lay Buffy, smiling in her sleep.

Casting an arch look over her shoulder, Drusilla danced toward the bed and its unsuspecting occupant. Terrified, Spike tried to move, and could not. Tried to call out, to warn her wake up, wake up, Slayer sense should be screaming, why isn't it? but he had no voice. Helpless, he watched Drusilla circle the bed so Spike could see her face as she looked down at Buffy. "Pretty little white bird," Drusilla crooned, folding back the veil. "Pluck all your feathers, I will. To make quills for William, to write lovely poems in your blood, so I can eat them afterwards for tea." She bent over Buffy, her lips not two inches from the Slayer's. "Would you like that, naughty Slayer?" Her pink kitten's tongue darted out, brushed Buffy's mouth.

At the touch Buffy's eyes opened, widening when they focused on Drusilla. Then, to Spike's horror, she smiled and whispered, a petrifying echo of long-ago words: "Oh yes! God, yes."

No! Buffy! Spike screamed silently, tears pricking his eyes. With a mighty shove he broke free of whatever had held him still and shot to his feet, but before he could spring to Buffy's defense, strong arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning his arms against his sides. He registered a broad hard chest against his shoulderblades, more hardness digging into the small of his back, and a silky Irish voice, purring: "Ah lad, ye don't want to be missin' the show now, do ye?" Spike shivered and ceased struggling as cool lips pressed a kiss to the flesh beneath his ear: "Sure to bring down the house, it is." Blunt teeth nipped his lobe and he moaned involuntarily, eliciting a chuckle from his captor. "Just watch, boy. Ye'll enjoy it, I think."

And Heaven (or Hell) help him, he did. Despite his fear and horror, his conviction that Buffy must not, simply must not suffer his own fate, and despite his shame at feeling it, he could not help enjoying the sight of Drusilla's lips descending on Buffy's in a soft, lingering kiss, the muffled moans from both women as their mouths opened to each other, the hardening of Buffy's nipples as Drusilla's slender fingers lovingly circled them before moving down her body. He let out a groan that was half a sob, heard it echoed in his ear as a large square hand followed the same lascivious path Drusilla's had taken, working to free his belt buckle and open his fly. Already wet with desire, his cock sprang free and was wrapped in strong, firm fingers, stroking him just the way he liked, while the hardness at his back ground against him in circles.

"Ah, yessss. There's our lad." His jeans slid from his hips, falling to rest around his calves. He barely noticed, his brain overwhelmed with more powerful, immediate sensations: the fingers slipping into his mouth for him to lave with his tongue, trembling with anticipation; the wet fingers sliding down and between and in, probing gently at first and then more insistently; and finally, finally, the exquisite thickness slowly penetrating, pushing in and filling him, almost painful but not, all the way in to -

"Oh - God!"

Strained laughter answered him, and a breathless brogue: "Aye, there's our William!" Push, recede, fill, empty - the hand too stroking faster now, harder - to the rhythm of laughing music:

"Dance to your daddy,
My little laddie,
Dance to your daddy,
My little man!"

"Bloody Heellll!" Spike groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as the pleasure built to a crest and exploded, his climax triggering the tepid gush of his captor's release. The arms holding him slackened and then loosed him altogether; bereft of their support, Spike stumbled backward and felt not a hard male body but the narrow edge of the bench seat behind him, prompting him to sit heavily. He did so, shaking and gasping, waiting for his singing body to settle, his brain to clear. When it did, his eyes went wide.

He was completely clothed.

A dream, then, he thought dazedly, a hysterical little laugh rising in his throat. Just a dream...thank the - He froze, the sense of relief dissipating like mist in sunlight as Dru's sweet soprano trilled again:

"When you are a man
And fit to take a wife,
You shall wed a maid
And love her all your life;
She shall be your lassie
You shall be her man
Dance to your daddy,
My little lamb."

Wincing in dread anticipation, he lifted his head. This part wasn't a dream - his bed was still there, with Drusilla and Buffy sharing long, languorous kisses, arms twined around each other. As if feeling his stare Drusilla looked at him and smiled. Then she pushed Buffy onto her back and reached behind her, bringing forth a slim-bladed dagger, its edges gleaming blue in the moonlight. With a little laugh she touched Buffy's throat with the point, drawing small circles that made Buffy squirm and giggle.

"Ooh, that tickles!"

"Pretty bird," Drusilla sang, trailing the dagger over Buffy's nipples, first one, then the other. "Do you want it?"

"Yes," Buffy moaned. Quick as a snake, Drusilla shifted her grip on the dagger and plunged it into Buffy's heart.

"BUFFY!!" Spike screamed, then sobbed in frustration and anguish as he realized that once again he was mute, and could not move. Oh, Buffy - Dru -

Dru wrenched the dagger free, flinging drops of blood, black in the moonlight, into the air. "One!" she crowed. Buffy laughed (My God. She laughed.) and repeated shakily, "One."

The dagger flashed silver-red this time, stabbing into Buffy's blood-soaked chest. "Two!" Dru said as she pulled the dagger out.

"Two," Buffy echoed, and with the word the airborne blood droplets glowed silver-black, like liquid hematite, then splashed to the earth. Spike felt a faint tremor beneath his feet, a distant growl of subterranean thunder.

Lifting the dagger once more, Dru smiled down at Buffy, smoothing the hair back from her brow with a gentle hand. "Third time's the charm," she singsonged.

"Yes. Third time's the charm," choked Buffy, obviously weakening. Her eyes flickered to Spike. "Be ready," she whispered. Then she looked up at Drusilla and nodded.

"Three!"

Oh God, can't look can't look - not even a Slayer could survive that - she's gone, must be - He collapsed once again onto the bench, weeping.

"Three!" Buffy cried. Spike's eyes popped open to see her sitting up, whole and healthy, beautiful as ever. No, more beautiful than ever. The bloodstained white dress gone, replaced by jeans and blouse. The bed was gone, too; in its place was a rough stone bier, like an altar. All around it, an unearthly silver light shone up from the earth where Buffy's blood had fallen.

Drusilla smiled and clapped her hands, swaying in graceful, perfect synchrony with the earth rolling beneath their feet. "My turn!" She handed Buffy her weapon; it too had transformed, from knife - to stake.

Buffy put the stake aside to hand Drusilla up onto the altar like a princess, arranging her crimson gown as she lay on her back. "It's time for all good children to go to sleep," Drusilla said, patting Buffy's cheek. Smiling, Buffy nodded, reached for the stake and raised it over her head. Then brought it down with all her might.

No - DRU!

As stake met heart Drusilla's body disintegrated, but not into the expected dust: tiny black shards leapt into the air and hung there, gleaming chips of obsidian. The earth shook harder and a flash of light flooded the park, so bright Spike was forced to turn away, shaking with sobs. When the light faded he turned back to see a cadre of girls gathered around Buffy, beautiful in their youth and deadly as the weapons they held, confidently as if they knew their business. Something about them made his flesh tingle and his demon cringe.

From somewhere outside him came this knowledge: They are special. Very special. And they need a guide.

With a smell of sulfur Drusilla's remains struck the earth, hissing like tropical rain. And from the soil erupted a host of vampires; at least, that's what he supposed they were, though they looked like no vampires he had ever seen. Tall, grey-skinned as months-old corpses, mouths filled with razor-sharp fangs, they growled and snarled as they emerged like terrible reptiles hatching from buried eggs. Even from a distance Spike could feel their power, rooted in purest malevolence, felt the tug on his demon, the call to join them. As their yellow eyes lighted on the girls, they screamed in rage, pushing themselves free of the earth to stand quivering with anticipation, clawed hands twitching eagerly.

Look like vampires from Love Canal. Bugger.

Buffy shouted something and Spike tore his horrified gaze from the vampires to focus on her, eyes widening at the sight of Angel by her side. Behind them Xander, Giles, Willow. Dawn. And the girls.

Among the girls moved glowing shadows. Slayers, he realized with a start; he recognized the Chinese girl, the beautiful black Slayer from New York, a few others. As he watched, one whispered in a girl's ear and the girl shifted her stance. Another adjusted a girl's grip on her weapon. He smiled in spite of himself. Yes. That's better.

"C'mon, Spike!" Buffy repeated, her voice strident. As he turned his eyes toward her, she gave him a little smile and hefted the weapon in her hands. Spike's brow furrowed. Not a stake - no, the handle was wooden but the curved blade was metal. Silver and red. Like the blood. It was - an axe?

He lifted his gaze from it to her face, started at the sight of Cordelia's features superimposed over Buffy's. "C'mon, Spike," she echoed softly, stretching her hand toward him.

And just like that, he could move again. He smiled in answer, and shifted forward -

"Whoa, buddy, not so fast! Take it easy."

That wasn't Cordelia's voice. Too deep, too strident. It was - Gunn's?

Sure enough, when he opened his eyes Gunn was crouched in front of him, hands outstretched as if to prevent Spike from falling off the bench. Wesley sat beside him. They nodded as he glanced briefly at them, started when he gasped and followed his wild, frightened gaze past Gunn, scanning the park.

"Spike, what is it?"

He didn't reply except to shake his head in confused disbelief. The altar/bier was gone. There was no sign of Buffy, or Angel; no girls, and no primal, vicious vampires.

They had never been there at all.

Moaning softly, he leaned forward, elbows on knees, and thrust his fingers into his hair as if that would prevent him losing what was left of his mind. What the bloody hell was that?

He could feel Gunn and Wesley exchange puzzled looks over his head, but surprisingly, they asked him no questions, remaining silent as he gathered his wits. Presently, however, Wesley glanced at the brightening sky and urged quietly, "Come on, Spike. It's nearly dawn. You need to get indoors."

"Yeah." Spike shifted forward, preparing to rise, and Gunn straightened and moved out of his way. Somewhat shakily, Spike gained his feet, feeling their concerned gazes on him like a physical touch. A touch that warmed him, thawed the ice that had taken root in his soul when Angel turned him out. He could feel the melt rising in his eyes, and blinked it away.

He'd expected never to see either Wesley or Gunn again. And yet, here they were, in defiance of Angel's wishes, Spike was certain. They had come looking for him. Through his still somewhat-addled brain raced the inevitable question he wouldn't ask, for fear they'd change their minds.

And did it really matter why they had come?

In silence the three of them made their way toward Wesley's car. As Wesley released the locks, rounding the car, Gunn sprang forward to unlatch and hold open the passenger door, fixing a critical eye on Spike as he did so. He met it without flinching; by now Gunn knew the worst there was to know about him - or some of it anyway. After a while, unbelievably, a tiny smile curved the corners of the man's mouth.

"Guess Angel doesn't know you as well as he thinks he does." Gunn's remark surprised Spike. Wesley snorted in scornful agreement as Spike settled into the passenger seat with a muttered, "Huh?"

Gunn chuckled as Wesley answered airily, "He said the most likely place to find you was the roughest bar in town."

"Or the one with the biggest brawl. Said you'd be right in the middle of it, that you'd probably started it." Gunn chimed in from the backseat. "That's what took us so long, checkin' every dive within twenty blocks."

"Yet we found you in the most quiet and peaceful place in the area."

Wesley sounded satisfied, almost admiring. Given the circumstances, it was unbearable. "Thought about going to a bar," Spike confessed. He'd done enough hiding and lying by omission. No more.

"But you didn't."

"No, I -" His voice cracked and he struggled to master it, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. "I wanted to be someplace quiet when I -" He shrugged and shot an abashed glance at Wesley, and finished uncomfortably, "- you know."

For a long, tense moment Wesley said nothing, staring rigidly through the windshield. Then, in a distant tone, he offered, "You're welcome to go back there and finish it, if you like."

Startled, Spike stared at him. After defying Angel to look for him, despite what Angel must have told them, and all their efforts to find him, they'd let him go, if he wished it.

He didn't.

"No. I don't - don't want that," he rasped. "Not anymore."

"Good." Wesley glanced at him with a smile that froze as he focused on something beyond Spike; Spike realized it was the imminent sunrise when Wesley said sharply, "Gunn. Blanket." Gunn's hand reached over the seat and dropped a folded blanket in Spike's lap; he shook it out and draped it around him.

"Let's go." Wesley pulled away from the curb, executed a neat U-turn, and headed down the quiet street. Under the blanket Spike shivered, rubbing his forehead to soothe the ache. 'M'not cold, he thought wearily, vampires don't get cold. 'M'just tired.

"Hope you got some good food at your place, Wes," Gunn commented around a yawn. "All-night vamp hunting makes me hungry."


Chapter Twelve

"Hm. I believe I've some leftover Chinese. I think."

"Two-day-old takeout ain't gonna cut it, English."

"'S'blood too. Prolly still good."

"You guys are fun-ny. I'm busting a gut here."

"We could stop on the way..."

"Hit it!"

*
Gunn was out of the car and heading for the supermarket entrance the moment they pulled to a stop in the parking lot. Wesley, however, paused, fingers around the door handle, observing as Spike scrunched down low in the seat to avoid the sunlight splashing orange-gold across the tarmac. "Anything in particular you'd like?" Spike shook his head. "Well, then, we won't be long. Here." He handed Spike the keys.

“Don't think I'll be doing any joyriding, Wes.”

Wesley pursed his lips. "For the radio," he said in a sour tone which meant, Berk. Then he opened the door and was gone.

After the door closed the quiet was sudden and absolute, an abrupt loneliness. Spike eyed the tuner buttons and the LCD display (six-twenty-eight a.m.), and fiddled with the keys, but did not reach for the radio. For once in his unlife, he was in no mood for music.

He wasn't in the mood for silence and solitude, either. The friendly banter among the three of them had been a welcome distraction, a buffer to thinking overmuch, because they hadn't talked about anything important. Not Angel, or the chain of events that had brought them together, nor one word about - that, all of them avoiding the elephant in the room like the huge, awful thing it was. Have to tell 'em eventually. Clear the air.

He needed to reveal his suspicions about the chip, too. Had to be honest with them, didn't he? He'd made up his mind to that, not just because he owed them but also because he didn't want to build on sinking sand, as it were, only to have it come crashing around his ears. Never had any problem being straightforward, fortunately – well, since becoming a vampire, anyway: he'd been raised on polite nothings and smiling hypocrisy, customs he'd gleefully turned his back on after he was turned.

No, he was no stranger to truth-telling; rather, it was the impetus for honesty that had changed. Soulless, he'd used truth like a weapon, turning it against his opponents and tormentors to strike where they were most vulnerable, to gain whatever advantage he could. And his foes weren't the only ones to feel the edge of his blade: He'd used it with Buffy from the moment they'd met, up to and throughout their train-wreck of an affair. In hindsight, he could see the twisted logic that had prompted him, the belief that such plain dealing would draw her closer to him, even if it hurt her. Sick fuck, I was. Said I loved her. Didn't know what love was, doin' that to her, that way.

No, he amended. 'S'worse. I did know. I just didn't care, long as I got what I wanted. Which ended up being not what he wanted, or what she really needed, at all. Reap what you sow. Huh. Too right.

Now, though, he'd be honest for others' sakes, as well as his own. He didn't need lies and half-truths on his conscience, along with everything else. He had enough trouble sleeping at night, without that particular guilt niggling at him.

Then again, if what had occurred in the park was coming back for an encore, he might eschew sleep altogether, until he was simply too exhausted to resist its pull.

What had that been about, anyway?

The thing with Angelus...well, that was damn strange, and yet - it wasn't, really. Not that he wanted to have sex with Angel, not even to top (though that would be an interesting first), but he did want a connection, an acknowledgment of their unique bond. That had to be what that part of the dream was about: He figured his wishes for the future had gotten tangled up in memories of the past, because in all their years together, the only intimacy Angelus ever allowed was sex, and Spike had felt a connection with his grandsire then, of a sort. (He was pretty sure Angelus hadn't felt the same; probably he'd appreciated Spike only slightly more than he would have his own fist, had Spike not been available.)

But the images of Drusilla and Buffy, their lascivious yet strangely tender embraces, followed so closely by violence and death - that wasn't memory, and it wasn't dream. Not even in his worst nightmares had Spike ever imagined anything like that. And the strange, primal vampires, the ghostly Slayers and the 'special' girls - all had come from another place, not from within himself. The implications of that scared the hell out of him.

Not to mention hacking him off royally.

Who or whatever you are, don't do me like Dru. Don't want any part of premonitions and visions. You've had your fun, played your round of Kick-the-Spike, had a front-row seat for the crash and burn. Now just leave me the hell alone.

He half expected a smackdown for that impertinence – if Cordelia really was a Higher Being, she or one of her superiors could unmake him with barely a thought - but there was nothing, not a tingle, not a whisper, not even a whiff of cinnamon. Relief and patent disappointment gave way to a cynical variant of hurt, manifested in the wry smirk that twisted his mouth.

So that's how it is, eh Cheerleader? Your brooding hero's back on dry land, no more use for old Spike, is that it? I get it. Same old song and dance. Chew 'im up and spit 'im out, leave him in the gutter to rot...

The keyring, which he'd begun unconsciously twirling, slid off his finger and jangled as it landed on the floor. With a muttered curse he leaned down and picked it up, hooked it over his finger to resume twirling it, then stopped. Blinked. Closed his fingers around the keys, hard so that the sharp edges bit into his fingers, and stared unseeing at his fist.

He wasn't in a gutter. He was in Wesley's car. Waiting for Wes and Gunn.

His rescuers.

I simply cannot believe that Cordelia would send you on a suicide mission.

His throat swelled and ached, sudden overwhelming pressure that built and built until at least it burst out in a strange, strangled laugh that hurt, but felt good. So good that he laughed again, and it hurt less. The next, too.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been laughing when a rap on the window made him start.

“Yo, Spike! Open up!”

*

Spike twisted the faucets closed, scrubbed his face dry on a hand towel. As he emerged from the nubby cloth he peered curiously at the empty mirror, just for a moment, then rolled his eyes. Ever since he'd retrieved his soul, some ridiculous part of him was surprised that he still had no reflection.

He hung up the towel and made his way to the kitchen; Wesley was at the stove, scrambling eggs, and Gunn sat at the table, hunched over his coffee, slowly rotating the mug in short, tense increments with his thumbs. He didn't look up as Spike entered, nor when Spike poured his own cup of coffee and took the seat opposite him. Eyeing him warily, Spike felt a ball of dread form in his gut.

Uh oh. Man's been thinking, now the mission's over.

When it finally met his, Gunn's cold, hard gaze confirmed his suspicions. His spoon, delving into the sugar bowl, trembled slightly and he tightened his grip, bracing himself.

The man's voice was a thrown gauntlet. “Is it true?”

“Charles...”

The spoon halted midway between sugar bowl and coffee mug, spilling a few granules onto the table before continuing on to its destination. “Yeah. It's true.”

Silence, save for the soft clinking of the stirring spoon.

“I don't get it.”

A clank and a clench, and the spoon was bent double. “What's to get, Charlie-boy? 'S'not quantum physics – it's rape. I – tried to - ” Fuck, his voice was shaking. Already.

“That's not what I meant. She's the Slayer, right? Wicked strong and fast so she can kill your kind.” Gunn waited for the reaction - a shrugging sigh and nod - then: “So how'd you get the drop on her? Why didn't she kick your ass?”

Oh.

“She - ” Got hurt, patrolling. Moving so slow and gingerly in that grey bathrobe...Spike, no! Please – please don't do this! Just wanted to talk to her, I did, wanted that all along, but she never would –

“She trusted me.” The heat of the coffee seeped through the ceramic, stung fingers and palm. It felt good. “She trusted me not to hurt her.”

“Thought you couldn't do that, with that chip in your head.”

“Didn't work with her.”

“Huh?”

“Pardon me?” Wesley set filled plates in front of them, took his seat. None of them even looked at the food.

“After she came back from Heaven, chip didn't work with her. Did with everyone else, though - ”

“Did you say Heaven?” A puff of breath through pursed lips. “Man, I thought our lives were weird.”

“It was Willow, yes? Who brought her back?”

“Yeah.” First step on the slippery slope, that was. “Didn't know where Buffy was – didn't try to find out, I don't think – and ripped her out of there. Messed up the Slayer something awful.” A strained, rueful smile. “Why else would she take up with me?”

“Hold on.” Gunn shook his head. “You were involved with her?”

“Well, yeah. Didn't you - ” Puzzlement fell victim to horror and shame, eyes squeezed shut on a grimace. “You didn't know.”

“No. Angel omitted that bit of information, I'm afraid. And before you ask, no, I didn't know of it previously, from Rupert. He's not one to divulge such - ”

“Neither am I!” Quick flash of anger, abruptly doused in renewed remorse, then a mutter, “I don't kiss and tell.” Usually.

“So – what? She broke up with you, you thought you'd teach her a lesson, that it?”

“Wasn't like that!” The mug handle snapped off in his fingers and he stared at it, wilting. “I – I'm not talking about this. I'm not.” I can't. Not now. The only sound in the room was his rasping, shuddering breath.

When he ventured an uneasy glance, he found almost identical, expectant gazes on him – Gunn's tinged with a bit more hostility than Wesley's, but the fury he'd glimpsed earlier had ebbed. And in their eyes he read: Yes, you are. You can.

He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. Felt like a rock, dry and chalky with jagged edges, past which the words emerged in halting, uneven staccato. “All right, yeah – she ended it.” Fuck, did she ever. It's killing me... I'm sorry, William. “Told me to move on. So I did – er, sort of. She – found out about it – could tell it hurt her. Wanted to apologize, so I went to see her. And she said – she had feelings for me. I thought she wanted to start over, but - ”

Ask me again why I could never love you!

“But I was wrong.” His hoarse whisper died away and the room filled with silence, heavy and complete, settling on his shoulders, along with everything else. The wood-grain of the tabletop blurred and swam.

“So – you sought your soul.”

Don't do that, Wes. Don't make it some heroic quest. 'M'no hero. “Couldn't go on as I was, could I?” Evil, disgusting thing. “Had to change...so I did.”

*

“Spike,” Wesley began, eyes fixed on his demonstration of the fine art of scone enhancement for Gunn's benefit, meticulously spreading the clotted cream, spooning a dollop of lemon curd, adding a dot of preserves. “Is it true you speak Fyarl?”

How did he – oh. Rupert. A thin smile twitched his lips. Good times. He opened his mouth to reply, then stopped, eyeing the man carefully, head curiously a-tilt. Wesley, by contrast, was very pointedly not looking at him. When Wesley repeated his name Spike heard, this time, the question he did not ask.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, said again: “Yeah, Wes. I speak Fyarl.”

Wesley's brows lifted and he took a bite of scone, chewed thoughtfully as he stared at the crescent-shaped void in the pastry. “Hm. Any other demon languages?”

“A few.” Six or seven. That's a few, right?

Another bite and swallow. “Good.” When Wesley's gaze came up, Spike met it steadily. Wesley nodded once, and picked up another scone.


Chapter Thirteen

From the journal of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Saturday, 13 July 2002, 6:45 p.m.

After his pained confession at breakfast this morning, Spike told us everything that had happened to him following that fateful night in Buffy's bathroom. Much of it was not new to me, as he'd described it the night I met him (only a week ago!), but it was to Charles, of course. Despite his lingering reservations, he too could not help but be impressed by what Spike has done. For my part, I fail to see how anyone would not be impressed.

Anyone who is not Angel, that is. I know he will be upset by my decision to continue freelancing rather than returning to Angel Investigations. And probably he will be livid when he learns that Spike will be working with me.

The thought of angering Angel (again) should upset me, I suppose. I should want to avoid that at all costs, given our circumstances, not to mention the amount of time and effort spent trying to locate Angel, always with an eye toward rebuilding our friendship. But I am not upset, nor do I feel guilty. Angel's performance last night at the Hyperion was more than enough to change my mind. Angel's performance – and Spike himself.

I have no romantic illusions about him: the Academy curriculum, and my acquaintance there with one Lydia Chalmers made that impossible. He was – is – one of the most notoriously savage vampires ever to walk the earth, and I will never forget that. Moreover, I believe Spike would not want me to forget it.

However, I know what it is to want a second chance, and to be denied one. And everything I've seen of Spike since his arrival in Los Angeles has proved that he deserves it. Since Angel can't see past his resentment to give it to him, I will. Better for both of us, perhaps, to start with a completely blank slate.

And Angel still has Charles and Fred to assist him. Charles is not overjoyed at the prospect - he was just as appalled by Angel's behavior as I - but he saw the wisdom in it, especially where Fred's safety is concerned. Before he left, I asked him to report the goings-on at the Hyperion, as discreetly as he can manage it, and also to locate a few pieces of information...

Wednesday, 17 July 2002
11:30 p.m.

That Spike and Lilah would meet was inevitable. That I was not looking forward to it, is an understatement. I knew she would be unhappy that I had neglected her for the better part of two weeks, and while I wasn't especially worried about retribution (many of Lilah's methods of “payback” can be quite enjoyable), I would have preferred that she remain ignorant of Spike's presence. Because what Lilah knows, Wolfram & Hart also will know sooner or later, whether she intends it or not. Spike doesn't need Wolfram & Hart breathing down his neck in addition to his other issues.

Their meeting was...interesting, to say the least.

When the knock sounded on my door late this afternoon, I believed it might be the butcher's delivery boy; Charles had sent names and addresses of several discreet butchers and other blood suppliers Angel used. Since Charles also reported that Angel planned to visit those businesses, mainly to settle outstanding accounts but also to confirm his return, I decided to arrange a delivery rather than risk any possible confrontation. I collected my wallet and went to open the door.

And there she was. Looking not much different from the last time I'd seen her, slim and beautiful in a couture suit, smiling lasciviously. As happened so often with Lilah, however, the smile did not reach her eyes. They were snapping angry blue sparks at me.

Which only made her more beautiful, of course.

I pasted a smile on my face and hoped fervently that Spike would stay out of sight. “Lilah! How nice to see you. How are you?”

The smile dropped, settled into a firm line as she pushed me through the door and against the wall, pinned me there with her body. I stifled a moan; I'd missed her too. “How do you think I am?” she purred against my throat. “Two weeks, and not a word from you, much less -”

“Wes, izzat the blood? Did they remember to -” Spike's question, and his stride, stopped short at the sight of Lilah, who had turned and was taking in the view with wide eyes. I have no doubt she found it enjoyable - Spike clad only in a towel slung around his hips, scrubbing at his dripping hair with another towel; I, on the other hand, was not amused. He blinked at Lilah and took a breath, and then it happened.

He changed.

No, he didn't bring forth the fangs and lumpies. But his whole attitude altered perceptibly: Gone was the diffident, slightly shy young man of the past few days, who accompanied me on client visits, responded politely to their questions and greetings, and protested every purchase I made for him until I agreed on being repaid as soon as he was able; he even collected the receipt for the much-needed trim and redyeing by a demon-friendly barber (whose address was also provided by Charles). In his place was an intense, hard-edged, sardonic creature that no one with any knowledge of the supernatural would ever mistake for a human.

“I think you ought to get dressed,” I suggested firmly. Lilah muttered something that I decided to ignore, because it sounded like, “Not on my account.” Of course, Spike heard it, and he grinned; I feared he'd make an issue of it, but he turned and retreated down the hallway, making a true spectacle of himself by releasing the towel just as he disappeared into the bathroom. I didn't need to look at Lilah to know that her eyes flared in appreciation at the sight.

“Who the hell is that?”

“A friend. He's – staying here for a few days until he -”

Her mouth stopped my words – hard, demanding, angry lips, not in the least bit sensual or cajoling. Nonetheless, her kiss affected me as it always did; I groaned and tried to pull her closer, but she pushed me away and glared at me. “Don't – lie to me, Wesley! That's a vampire, or I'm a nun!”

“You certainly aren't one of those,” I smiled, then yanked her against me, pressing kisses into her throat. “Maybe later you can prove it to me -”

“What, with your friend watching?” She shoved me away again but her glare wasn't nearly as angry; from the smile that trembled at her lips and the flush of her cheeks, it wasn't hard to guess that the idea of Spike-as-voyeur turned her on. I, however, don't consider sex a spectator sport, so the thought of Spike watching us with that saucy grin on his face cooled my ardor considerably. With a grimace, I turned away and slumped onto the sofa.

Chuckling softly, Lilah kicked off her shoes and curled up next to me, lightly stroking down one side of my neck with one impeccably-manicured fingernail. “Well, he didn't bite you on this side, I see,” she murmured. I didn't resist when she set her fingers on my chin and turned my head to look at the other side. “Or here either. Hmm.” Her breath tickled my ear as she whispered, “Makes me wonder where he did get you. Wanna give me a hint?”

“Really, Lilah,” I sighed and closed my eyes, wishing she would leave. Spike and I had several deliveries to make this evening – the proverbial places to go, people to see, things to do. She laughed shortly and snugged her head against my shoulder; to my surprise, she dropped the subject entirely, began talking about her day at work. I wondered at her delicacy for a moment, before I realized she'd have plenty of opportunity to ask them when Spike reappeared.

Which he did, a few minutes later. I was hard put to it to keep my jaw from falling open. Lilah had no such compunction, and her jaw did drop, just for a moment.

Never let it be said that Spike doesn't know how to make an entrance, when the mood strikes him. That the mood had struck was evident in the aggressive swagger, the gleaming slicked-back hair, the black clothes that looked like he'd poured himself into them: Jeans so close-fitting as to leave little to the imagination, and an equally skintight t-shirt. His eyes glittered and every angle of his face seemed sharper, harder. He looked, I thought, as vampiric as it was possible to look without bringing forth his demon. The whole performance doubly annoyed me, because he was being so deliberately provoking, and also because he pulled off the bad-boy look so much better than I had in my mercifully short-lived leather-pants days.

Well aware of his effect, he prowled into the kitchen. “Just gonna get myself a bite to eat, if you don't mind.” He collected the near-empty jug from the refrigerator and poured its remaining contents into a mug. “Got any Burba weed?”

“No,” I said shortly. He shrugged, put the mug into the microwave, and turned to face us, leaning against the counter. Lilah's eyes devoured Spike's every movement like a starving woman at a banquet. Before I could stop her, she uncurled herself and approached him, offering her hand.

“I'm Lilah Morgan. And you are?”

While he hesitated, rudely eyeing her hand as if it was covered in slime, I prayed with unwonted fervor, Don't tell her – stay quiet – for once keep your mouth shut -

“Spike.”

Bloody hell.

He shook her hand briefly, released it when the microwave buzzed. He took out the mug, and blew on the steaming surface before taking a sip, eyeing Lilah over the rim.

“Spike? Really?” she said, her tone admiring and impressed. “As in 'William the Bloody' Spike?”

He flashed a rather disgusting, red-stained grin. “'S'me.”

“Well! Welcome to Los Angeles.” The Welcome Wagon tone made me wince. “What brings you to our fair city?”

Just like that, his polite facade dropped entirely away, and predatory yellow flared in the blue eyes. “What's it to you?” he snarled.

“Oh nothing, really. Just a little friendly curiosity.” Lilah favored him with a dazzling, insincere smile. “Word was, Sunnydale's been your home for the past few years. And you've been helping the Slayer, ever since the government implanted that chip in your head.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So I'm wondering what you're doing here in Los Angeles. You wouldn't, ah,” she glanced sidelong at me, “be here to help Wesley find Angel, would you?”

She doesn't know. Yet. Keep it that way, Spike -

Spike barked a laugh. “Suppose you haven't heard - me an' Old Granddad aren't the best of chums. Last time I was here, had him tortured 'cause he'd stolen something of mine.” He gulped down the last of his blood and set the mug on the counter with some force. “Wherever he is, he can stay there. I just wanted to get out of the 'burbs for a while.”

“Why?”

“Sunnydale's a bit of a bore in summer. After the annual apocalypse gets averted, Hellmouth tends to quiet down for a while.”

“I see. And this year's apocalypse – what did that involve? Another hell-god?”

Spike's gaze skittered away for a moment and I hoped Lilah didn't notice the slight tightening of his jaw. “No. Was all humans, this time – witches, techno-nerds - so I wasn't in on the action.” He smiled at her, very unpleasantly. “'S'why I came down here. Figured Hell-A's good for a spot of violence.”

Good Lord. I was beginning to see how he'd so easily annoyed Rupert. It was time to end this before it got completely out of hand, if it hadn't already. “Lilah. I'm sorry, but we've made several appointments for this evening. If you'll excuse us - ”

“Appointments?” Her eyebrow jumped and my spirits plummeted as I realized what I'd just done: I'd severely damaged, if not destroyed, the facade of the uncaring, uninvolved loner, the easy mark for Wolfram & Hart's enticements.

“Yes,” I responded faintly, helplessly. What else could I have done? I cast about for something else to say, but she didn't seem to expect it: she merely nodded and returned to the sofa to collect her shoes and purse.

“I'll call you,” I promised as I escorted her to the door.

“Do that.” She smiled tightly, sent a last scathing look toward Spike, and offered this parting shot: “If you're not too busy.” Spike's reply was a grin, his tongue curled lasciviously behind his teeth, an expression that was but one small step short of actually grabbing his crotch. I mentally rolled my eyes and wished for the floor to open up and swallow me as Lilah flounced out with a huff. I closed the door and leaned against it, marshaling my temper.

“Wes. Wesley.”

The once-again-polite tone failed to have its desired effect: I whirled on him, almost incoherent with anger. “What – were you thinking? Do you know who she is? You could have ruined everything with your – your big mouth and your - innuendo!”

Somewhat to my surprise, Spike didn't back down; the blue eyes narrowed and his jaw set. “You think so?”

“Yes!”

“Why?” he asked softly. I opened my mouth and closed it again, and blinked as he went on: “Way I see it, Wes, she doesn't know about Angel, that he's back. That means she doesn't know we – or more importantly, you - had anything to do with it. And yeah, I know who and what she is. I don't know what you've got going with her, but I didn't say anything to ruin that."

I spluttered for a moment, then it hit me. Damn it, he was right. He'd given nothing away about Angel, or me, or the fact that he and I are working together. I had.

“As for the 'innuendo,' well -” He smiled with an odd bashfulness, ducking his head, “Was just giving her what she expected: Evil vampire. Evil soulless vampire. So she doesn't know about me, either. Besides,” his smile morphed to another tongue-in-teeth grin, “was kinda fun, yeah?"

Unbelievable. When I responded my voice was weak. “How do you know she doesn't know? A-about Angel, and you?”

Spike gave me an amused look and tapped his nose conspiratorially. “Vampire, remember?” As if I could ever forget. He smiled easily at me, once again the polite young friend. “So come on. Like you said, we've got people to see.”

As he swept by me toward the door, I wondered what I'd got myself into, with Spike. And also felt, even more strongly than before, that Angel had seriously misjudged him. Angel chooses to remember only the vicious, sneering demon I met for the first time today. But Spike is also a well-mannered, determined, slightly shy friend, and a concerned, loyal relation. And in misdirecting Lilah he displayed a cool clearheadedness which did not coincide at all with Angel's account of a reckless, devil-may-care fool.

Even as I shook my head with mingled disbelief and annoyance, I could not help smiling as I followed Spike out the door. Whatever I've got myself into, I'm certain it will never be boring.


Chapter Fourteen

Monday, 22 July 2002
7:15 a.m.

When I predicted that working with Spike would never be boring, I had not anticipated how quickly, or emphatically, that prediction would prove true.

The events of last night lessoned me well.

We had spent the remainder of the week following the usual routine of Wyndam-Pryce Consulting during daylight hours, and patrolling the nearby streets and alleyways at night. I'd suggested he do so, partly to substantiate the cover story he'd told Lilah, and also because I thought he would enjoy it, given what both Giles and Angel had told me of him. To my puzzlement and surprise he displayed little enthusiasm for the idea, though he readily conceded its necessity. He dispatches vampires and other malevolent demons quickly and efficiently enough, and seems to derive some satisfaction from it, though he shows almost none of the gleeful joie de guerre I expected to see in him. Perhaps the reports of his penchant for violence were exaggerated, as several others have proved to be, or more likely, they no longer fit the ensouled creature he has become.

By Friday evening, I was more than ready to take some time off, and I believe Spike was as well. Therefore, when Lilah invited me to dinner at her flat, I accepted (trying not to seem too eager). Spike didn't attempt to dissuade me from going, though he gave me a look that rather eloquently bespoke his opinion; he assured me he would be quite all right on his own until I returned, and then reimmersed himself in the television program that has caught his fancy. Utter drivel, in my opinion - it features three scantily-clad sisters, presumably witches, and from what little I've seen of it, it's terribly silly, not to mention misleading. I doubt Spike watches it for its supernatural accuracy or quality, however.

As I surmised might happen, Friday night 'dinner' encompassed the whole of Saturday and most of Sunday, and might have extended all the way to Sunday night, had Lilah not needed to prepare for an early-morning deposition. I certainly hadn't intended to stay so long, but Lilah can be very – er - persuasive when she wants to be, and after a few weeks' privation I was more than willing to be persuaded. Eventually, though, Lilah's work and my feelings of guilt for leaving Spike alone so long compelled me to leave, and I arrived at my flat just as the sun was setting.

When Spike did not answer my knock, I was puzzled but not alarmed; that changed rapidly as soon as I unlocked and opened the door.

No voice, no flickering light from the television, not even the sound of the stereo welcomed me home. The place felt utterly, uncomfortably empty. And so it was.

Spike was gone.

Anxiously I glanced at my watch, then the window, covered with new blackout draperies. Their edges glowed dimly golden-red with the last vestiges of sunlight, and a cold dread stirred in my stomach.

Next I wrenched open the coat-closet door and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his clothes hanging there, before it struck me how unfounded that relief was. If Spike wanted to do away with himself, he wouldn't have taken his clothes with him.

Panic and guilt threatened to overwhelm me as I racked my brain, trying to think. At that very moment, the phone rang, seeming very loud and harsh in contrast to the stillness. I rushed over and snatched up the receiver. “Spike?”

I heard what sounded like a gasp, then an unfamiliar voice stammered, “Is – is this Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?” A woman, anxious and tearful.

“Yes, this is he,” I replied as patiently as I could, which wasn't very, I admit.

A shuddering indrawn breath, then: “Oh, please – you must help us! My son – he's – oh, please come -”

“Give me the phone, Darocha.” Another voice sounded through the receiver – one I thought I recognized. Darocha's sobs faded as the phone switched hands.

“Wesley.”

“Sion?”

“Yes. I'd apologize for disturbing you, but my sister is right. We do need your help.” Sion's voice was gravelly with emotion or weariness, probably both, but still determined and focused: typically, he cut directly to the chase. “Actually, we need the vampire.”

“Spike? Why?”

Sion explained, and I realized he was right: Their circumstances were dire, the reasons behind them most distressing, and if the wizard's assumptions proved true, Spike was, very likely, the only one who could help. I jotted down directions, promised we'd arrive as soon as we could (hoping I'd find Spike in time), hung up the phone and left my flat.

I had no idea where Spike was. And I had to find him - fast.

The idea that Spike had taken an afternoon stroll danced at the edges of my mind, but I refused to dwell on it; I would eliminate as many other possibilities as I could before I'd seriously consider it. After a moment's thought I recalled there was sewer access through a storage room in the basement: Perhaps Spike had become unbearably bored, desperate enough to seek something to do (or rather, to kill) in the sewers, despite the little enjoyment he seems to derive from it.

I pushed open the storage room door and touched the light-switch, bringing old fluorescent tube-lights flickering to life. They hummed faintly with age and cast a stark blue-white light over dusty stacked boxes and clothing rods, their suspended contents sheathed in plastic. I strained my ears but heard no sound of movement. “Spike?” No response.

Muttering a curse, I advanced further into the room and began shoving boxes aside, searching for the access somewhere in the floor, an aperture covered by a metal trapdoor with a ladder descending into the sewer line. I called again; still nothing. With each passing moment I felt the urgency of Sion's summons weighing more heavily on me, and I felt a rush of resentment toward Spike, for having to waste precious time searching for him. I pushed another box, not caring that it tipped over and spilled its contents onto the dusty floor. “Dammit, Spike! Where the hell are you?”

“'M'right here.”

Bloody hell. The pillock was behind me.

Biting my tongue, I whirled to face him and as I did so, my foot caught a carton's edge; I stumbled and might have fallen had he not reached out a hand and clasped my shoulder to steady me, while with the other he rescued the teetering boxes. His grin was wide, teasing, utterly infuriating. “All right there, Wes?”

“Fine.” Annoyed, I shrugged off his hand and looked closely at him, my annoyance fading into surprise at his appearance. His clothes were smudged with dust and a few strands of cobweb clung ridiculously to one ear. His hands, too, were filthy: I checked my shoulder and sure enough, there was Spike's dusty hand-print on my shirt. Brushing it away, I snapped, “You're a mess. What on earth have you been doing?” As soon as the words had passed my lips I wanted to swallow them - I sounded so like an irate parent - but instead of protesting he bit his lip like a chastised child, hesitating. I decided to let it go in favor of more urgent matters. “Never mind. We have to leave. Now.” I turned and he followed at my heels.

“What's going on?”

When we exited the building, ironically it was I and not Spike who paused to cast a cursory, and unnecessary, glance at the sky; unnecessary, as Spike is always well aware of the sun's position. Thanks to his superior reflexes he avoided bowling me over when I halted, but this time, thankfully, he made no comment on my clumsiness. As we jogged to my car, I explained, “Sion MacRhys called. His nephew performed a rather advanced spell -” I broke off as I pulled my keys from my pocket and released the car door locks.

“Went wonky on him, did it?”

“No.” I got in and slammed the door. “Unfortunately for him, it worked perfectly.” Just as I jabbed the keys into the ignition Darocha's frantic voice echoed through my mind, sending a chill through me. “He's only fifteen years old.”

“Better get going then.” I threw him a grateful look and nodded, then put the car into gear as he went on, “What'd the kid do, anyway? Raise some nasty beastie needs killing?”

“Not a 'beastie,' exactly.” I steered the car out of the parking lot and into the street without bothering to check for traffic; a pickup truck swerved and honked as it barely missed crashing into my car, and the driver leaned out of the window to gesture rudely and unleashed a stream of Spanish invective as I waved placatingly and drove away. My eyes fixed firmly on the road, I felt rather than saw Spike's incredulous stare as I ran a yellow traffic light at the first intersection. Once safely through, I slowed slightly and answered the rest of Spike's question. “Sion doesn't want to destroy it. He just wants to send it back whence it came.”

“So what's he need us for? He's the big mojo guy.”

“Not us, Spike. You.”

His brows shot up nearly to his hairline, and I must admit I enjoyed his shock and apprehension a little more than I should have. Petty of me, but it was somewhat satisfying payback for the anxiety I'd suffered on his account. “Me? I'm no wizard! I mean – yeah, I've done a ritual or two, but -”

“Sion believes you're uniquely qualified for this task, and I happen to agree with him. In fact, you're possibly the only person who has a chance of succeeding.”

“Huh? Why's that?”

“Because you're dead.”

*

Fortunately the Sunday evening traffic was predictably light, and as I paid little more than lip service to driving codes, we made excellent time. On the way, I filled Spike in on what I knew of the situation: Dafydd Gadarn, youngest shoot of a family tree that reads like a Who's Who of witchcraft on two continents, apparently had summoned the spirit of one of his wizard ancestors. Though he wasn't entirely certain, Sion suspected (and feared) that that ancestor was Blais Gadarn, a ruthless sixteenth-century wizard of enormous power and very questionable character.

From the little Sion had time to tell me I gathered that Dafydd's magical training was progressing far more slowly than might have been expected of him, given his parentage: I'd not yet met them in person, but anyone familiar with the occult certainly knows Bran and Darocha Gadarn's reputation as highly skilled practitioners of white magic. Like many children of gifted parents, Dafydd felt the weight of expectation and was embarrassed by his slow development, and so he had sought to augment his skills by invoking Blais's spirit, to ask for guidance and support.

Unfortunately for Dafydd, Blais had other ideas; dissatisfied with the spiritual plane, he seized the opportunity to attempt reentering the earthly one, and was siphoning away the boy's life-force in order to do so. Dafydd had managed to raise the alarm, bringing the coven adults running, and was resisting as best he could; however, when Sion tried to intervene, the spirit turned on him as well. Sion had just managed to extricate himself and work a stasis spell on the circle to halt the draining process, but knew its effects would not last indefinitely.

“This sort of spell can only be undone by the one who made it,” I concluded, slowing the car to check numbers on mailboxes against the address I'd been given. At the correct one I turned the car into the driveway leading to the coven house. “Dafydd must send Blais back to the spirit world and dispel the circle, but he cannot do so while he is fighting for his life.”

“So,” Spike mused, nodding slowly, “enter the vampire. I do the fighty part, boy does the mojo.”

“In a word, yes.” I stopped the car in front of the house and looked carefully at him. “Are you ready?”

“As I'll ever be.”

*

A solemn young wizard of teenage years met us at the door and led us downstairs; as we passed the silent coven members gathered in the great room and smaller groups sparsely lining the hallways, I was intensely aware of the suspicious and uneasy glances directed toward Spike. Understandable, I suppose, since they knew what he was and little else about him, but nonetheless I was irritated for his sake. One of their most respected and accomplished members had specifically requested Spike's help; even if they did not trust Spike, they should have trusted Sion's judgment. As for Spike himself, he either did not notice the looks or pretended as much, and I affected the same ignorance until I saw one nervous-looking witch making the sign against evil. I slowed my stride and glared pointedly at her, and she colored and lowered her eyes.

After a few turns in the hallway we spied Sion, leaning against a doorjamb, all his attention fixed on the goings-on within that room. As we approached I saw that his face looked drawn and tired; in fact, his entire posture and attitude bespoke a great weariness, and that, as much as anything else, alarmed me considerably. Sion is a robust man in his early thirties, more than equal to the physical demands of his work. To see him so weakened by his limited contact with the greedy spirit made me all the more anxious for the boy in that room, fighting for his life. And for Spike, of course.

“Wesley, Spike. Thank you for coming.” Sion reluctantly tore his gaze away from the figures in the circle to nod in greeting. He beckoned us closer and we moved into the doorway – or rather, Spike did, and I peered over his shoulder, into the room.

From the sigils painted on the wall and the black-draped altar at the far end, the room's primary purpose was immediately apparent; I later learned it also doubles as a classroom and is one of a series of such chambers on that level, each painted and equipped with symbols and elements appropriate to the phases of the moon. That particular room is dedicated to the Dark Moon, used sparingly as that is traditionally a time for respite from magic, though also conducive to spiritual questing and deep meditation. Dafydd's selection of that room for its associations was correct, insofar as it went; unfortunately, his timing for such magic was wrong, as the moon is currently waxing towards full, rather than waning or at Dark. Similarly, though not as importantly, the spell is also out of phase within the lunar year: May, not July, is the optimal month for invoking supernatural protectors. Add his inexperience and uncertain control of his power to that integral dissymmetry, and the result was almost predictable.

Said result was in the center of the room, within the magical circle circumscribed in salt, herbs and crystals: the lanky youth, his hands frozen in midair and his mouth open (belatedly I remembered Sion's stasis spell), and the spirit rising from the ritual cauldron like a creature of terrifying myth: human head, chest and arms fully formed, the rest of it a column of glowing white-green smoke. The overall effect was of part-man, part-snake. One of its hands rested on Dafydd's forehead and the other pressed ominously over his heart, caught in the act of drawing Dafydd's life-force from his body. I looked more closely at the spirit's face and shivered inwardly at its malevolent expression, lips curled back in a sneer to bare surprisingly excellent teeth.

“Is that - ?”

“Yes. Blais Gadarn,” Sion confirmed. He handed me a sheet of paper with what I presumed to be the spell written upon it. My Welsh is rusty at best, so I had no hope of translating it without a dictionary, but Blais's name inscribed within the penned verses was certainly plain enough.

Poor foolish lad...

“Looks an arrogant tosser, yeah?” Spike said with unexpected and, in my opinion, entirely inappropriate levity. I gave him a reproving glance and he subsided a little, muttering, “Well, he does.”

“Arrogant or not, you mustn't take him lightly -”

“Sion? Is it time?”

“Darocha.” Sion sighed as he turned to face his sister and her husband, who had approached all unnoticed. Dafydd's mother was a short, slightly plump woman whose resemblance to Sion was immediately apparent in the grey eyes and dark hair escaping in elflocks from the braid wound round her head. At her side was Bran, stocky and solid, with a firm handshake that he offered first to me and then, without any hesitation, to Spike.

“I'm still of the mind, t'would be better if you were elsewhere, both of you.”

“Better for whom?” Darocha countered; when Sion opened his mouth to answer, she placed her fingers on his lips, hushing him. “Beag brathair, he is our son. Where else would we be?” Sion squeezed his eyes shut, but eventually nodded, and Darocha patted his cheek before turning her eyes on us. Sion introduced us and she clasped my hand warmly, but nearly all of her attention, unsurprisingly, was fixed on Spike.

As she searched his eyes with her own I was reminded forcibly of Sion's scanning us before we sailed to rescue Angel. As he had then, Spike bore the scrutiny without comment or visible reaction, standing absolutely still, meeting her gaze with a steady seriousness. Long moments ticked by, until finally Darocha smiled faintly and reached up her hands to cradle Spike's face. He made no resistance as she drew his head down and traced a sigil between his brows, then brushed her lips over the spot and stepped back. Spike slowly opened his eyes.

“Right.” Spike's voice was softer, gentler than I had ever heard it; he pulled his gaze from Darocha and turned it to Sion. “'M'ready. Just tell me what to do.”

“Very well.” Sion ushered him further into the room, a few paces from the circle, and stood behind him, placing hands on his shoulders. As unobtrusively as I could, I sidled up behind, the better to hear his instructions.

“When I release the stasis spell, you must act quickly. Enter the circle – you may need to push your way in, but it should yield to you – and separate Blais' spirit from Dafydd. You must keep it away from Dafydd long enough for him to recover his strength and reverse the spell.”

When Spike turned his head I saw the curious squint of his eyes, the furrowed brow. He gestured toward the glowing form within the circle. “Be like grabbing a cloud, won't it?”

“Not to you. That circle was cast in the name of Arawn, Lord of Annwn - "

“The Underworld,” Spike supplied unexpectedly.

“Aye,” Sion said, his tone surprised and impressed. “Since you are – well -”

“Dead?” Over his shoulder Spike tossed a grin at me. I gave him a look, wishing he wasn't so flip about it. Despite Sion's pragmatic tone, something about this whole business made me more than usually uneasy.

“Dead, yes. You are partly of that world, as is Blais' spirit. He will be as corporeal to you as you are to him.”

Which meant - Oh, dear.

“Let's do this.”

Before I could move or speak Sion released the stasis spell with a flash and a shimmer, and things happened very quickly after that. Spike pushed through the circle, its wards giving way with an unpleasant popping sound as of suddenly broken suction, and grabbed the spirit's shoulder in one hand, reaching for Dafydd's with the other, with the clear intention of establishing leverage to prise the two apart. To my dismay, his attempts to catch hold of Dafydd failed – for one instant he would have a firm grip on the boy, and the next his hand would pass through Dafydd's shoulder as if he, too, was a ghost.

No, I didn't like this at all. A vampire, an undead creature suspended by dark magic between life and death, entering a space with a magically-created portal to the spirit world – it seemed a recipe for disaster. But I could do nothing save watch the circle and listen to the babble of voices that had shattered the silence of the room: Sion, calmly and firmly exhorting Dafydd to action; Darocha tearfully pleading; Blais, snarling in fury as he registered the interference; and Spike, cursing alternately at the spirit and his own inability to separate him from the boy. And behind us I heard the coven members milling about in the hallway; occasionally those closest to the doorway would call a report to the others.

Blais turned his grizzled head to look at Spike, seeming to recognize what he was in a moment. With a cruel curl to his lip he spat, “Dybied 'ch at arhosa 'm? 'Chollfarna ydy eisoes arnet, chrau-ddiotwr. At ddioddef'n dragwyddol blagio, ar ei ben ei hun, 'n ddigasog a 'n anghofiedig.” I had no idea what that meant but Sion certainly did; with a minute flinch he raised his voice, his tone calm and soothing no longer, but filled with urgency.

Already shaking with effort and weariness, Dafydd looked very young and frightened, his wide eyes helplessly fixed on the spirit's. He seemed barely able to form coherent thought, let alone attempt a complicated spell. And Blais knew it: He sniggered and pressed his advantage, closing his fingers more tightly on the boy's head and chest and hissing spellwords of his own. As I watched, more of his torso materialized, all the way to his waist.

Sion swore under his breath, drawing my attention. “If Blais steps out of that cauldron, it's over,” he said to me, then raised his voice again: “Spike! Please, you must hurry!”

With a growl Spike nodded and abandoned his original strategy, moved behind the spirit and forced his hands between Blais and Dafydd to lock around Blais' waist. He pulled with all his strength, but to no avail: Both Blais and Dafydd lurched toward him, the spirit's grip on the boy as tight as ever. As they did so Dafydd's foot jostled the cauldron, causing Blais' form to shimmer momentarily before it resolidified.

The cauldron! Maybe that was the way. As if he had read my thoughts, Sion cried, “Mind the cauldron!” I grasped his arm.

“Can it be broken?”

“What? No, absolutely not! That cauldron is the gateway – if it's destroyed the spirit will manifest and Dafydd will – ” He bit off the words with a tight shake of his head and called, “Dafydd! Listen, lad – listen to me. Repeat what I say: Arawn, Naf chun Annwn, chlyw'm ble. Arawn, Naf chun Annwn - ”

Terrified eyes still fixed on Blais', Dafydd did not acknowledge Sion at all, and my spirits sunk further. Meanwhile Spike was pulling again, in sharp, short tugs that seemed to have little effect, though at least neither he nor Dafydd were in danger of losing their balance and upsetting the cauldron.

Above the mouth of the cauldron Blais' upper thighs were now discernable.

Arawn, Naf chun Annwn, chlyw'm ble...

Several repetitions were necessary before I realized that a second voice had joined Sion's in the incantation: Spike's. Low, strained with effort and stumbling a little over the Welsh pronunciation, nevertheless he chanted it like a mantra, his eyes fixed on Dafydd's face as if willing him to hear, to respond.

Dafydd's head began to tremble, as if he was straining to turn his face away from Blais' sinister gaze but could not quite manage it. The spirit laughed and leaned its head closer to the boy's. Abruptly the straining stopped as once again Blais overpowered Dafydd's will, and the spirit's legs slowly formed down to the knees, became distinct.

For the first time in many years I found myself praying to whatever power could help, but with little hope. Blais had almost completely manifested on this plane. It was almost over, just a few more minutes and -

“Fuck!” Startled by the outburst, I stared at Spike. “Bugger me sideways for three kinds of idiot -” Still cursing himself he shifted his grip, wrapping one arm diagonally across Blais' torso, then raised his other hand to drive hooked fingers directly into Blais' eyes.

Black blood spurted around Spike's fingers and Blais screamed and released Dafydd, clawing at Spike's hand. Spike merely pushed his fingers deeper and shouted, “Go to it, lad! Now!”

Shaking, Dafydd stumbled to his knees before the cauldron and stretched trembling hands toward it, without touching Blais' form. Hesitantly at first, but with growing confidence, the boy began the spell: "Arawn, Naf chun Annwn, chlyw'm ble. D caethiwa 'th gwas Blais , adfer 'i at 'r hysbryd byd...”

Blais screamed again and his form flickered; as we held our breath the spirit began to dematerialize before our eyes, sinking back into the cauldron as Dafydd gained his feet, his young voice ringing loud and clear, filling the room. With his fingers still deep in the eye-sockets and the other hand on Blais' shoulder, Spike pushed the spirit down and into the cauldron, though I'm not sure such guidance was necessary: By the time Blais' head passed the mouth of the cauldron and dissipated utterly Dafydd was standing with chin high, hands moving smoothly and gracefully through the air like a symphony conductor, utterly in control of the spell and the spirit he had so ill-advisedly summoned.

Working quickly Dafydd opened the circle and was engulfed in his parents' fervent embrace, stammering apologies and promises never again to use his power so recklessly. Tired as he was, his face shone with what I interpreted as sheer relief – not just for his narrow escape but also for proving himself a potentially formidable wizard in his own right; I can only hope his harrowing experience will temper that new-found confidence and pride with caution. Sion and the rest of the coven elders will need to monitor him even more closely than they had done previously.

“Wes?”

Oh Christ. Spike.

He was swaying unsteadily on his knees beside the empty cauldron when I squatted next to him, his head bowed and his arms wrapped around himself as if to contain his violent shivering. “Are you all right?” I asked, alarmed.

“Yeah, 'm'fine. Kid okay?” The dazed blue eyes lifted and scanned past me, to reassure himself the boy was safe.

When he focused on Dafydd and his parents, he relaxed visibly, and I found speech inexplicably difficult for a moment. “Yes. He's all right.” I reached out and touched his shoulder, was surprised by the cold seeping through his shirt. “Good Lord, Spike – you're freezing.”

He shrugged and shifted, preparing to rise. “Like holding onto dry ice, that was. Bugger was so cold it felt like burning. Thought my fingers were going to break right off.” He brought one hand forward to stare curiously at it; the fingers were clean, Blais' blood apparently having disappeared when he did.

“Fortunately, they didn't.” Moving to his side I put my shoulder beneath his arm. “Up with you now.”

Our reception as we made our way toward the door was far warmer than it had been upon our arrival; most coven members profusely thanked us (but particularly Spike), offering firm handshakes and friendly pats on the back, and even the more reticent among them unbent enough to favor us with tentative smiles. Spike acknowledged their gratitude with a sort of wary graciousness that I attributed to his exhaustion, until I turned my head to look at him: His head was bowed again, and he was blinking furiously.

*

The journey home was comfortably quiet, and I was content to have it so. Spike needed rest after such an ordeal, and I felt no need to rush recording the events at the coven house. Yet as I drove into the carpark I remembered something curious, and could not resist mentioning it. “Spike, you never said what you were doing in the basement.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He stirred and lifted his head from the headrest, glancing at me and then away. As he had earlier, he looked sheepish and reluctant to answer, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. I steered the car into a parking space, turned off the engine and waited patiently until he met my eyes. The expression in his gaze puzzled me: He looked concerned and – apologetic?

What could he possibly have to apologize for?

“Was gonna tell you when you got back,” he said quietly. “'M'movin' out, Wes.”


Chapter Fifteen

This is ridiculous. Absolutely absurd. And completely unnecessary. Really, a waste of time and effort. Can we leave now?

Under other circumstances, the petulance of such thoughts might well shame me into renewed enthusiasm for the task at hand, a manufactured eagerness aimed solely toward finishing off the job as quickly as possible. But at that moment I didn't care. I had had a bad feeling about this, and my unease grew with every step we took, every minute that passed.

I glared impotently at the back of Spike's head, illumined white-gold by the lamp affixed to my helmet. Other than the vampire ahead of me, I could see little in the pitch-blackness of the musty-smelling cave, and the rise of my old childhood phobia, of dark enclosed spaces, only served to heighten my disquiet. Probably an unreasoning fear: For all I knew, we were passing through vast chambers with vaulted ceilings. But to me, the space was defined by the nimbus cast by the headlamp, and it was far too small for my comfort.

Why did I ever let him talk me into this?

In all fairness, Spike had had little difficulty in persuading me to come along on this excursion. I had spent the better part of the prior two days on a rather tricky translation, the purpose of which was to confirm the provenance of a supposedly ancient scroll one of my clients was interested in purchasing, so long as it proved authentic. As the weather was fine – that is, less damnably hot than California summers usually are – I welcomed the chance to leave the flaking vellum scroll with its crabbed cuneiform text behind me for a few hours, and to enjoy the fresh air. The opportunity to observe a rarely-seen, dimension-hopping creature, or at the very least its breeding lair, sealed my decision to accompany Spike to the foothills some miles outside Los Angeles.

Learning that said lair was located in a cave dampened my enthusiasm considerably, but I had accepted the necessity with some aplomb. After nearly an hour of traipsing about the cave, however, any interest I had had in seeing a Chionos had worn away to almost nothing and my patience was scraped nearly as thin. I simply wanted to get out of there as soon as possible, and if Spike didn't get what he'd come for, that would be just too bad. This was all his fault anyway.

No, that wasn't really fair either. He had vetted the area for several days – er, nights – before locating this particular cave, to find the distinctive tracks leading to it from a nearby pond (Chionos bathe nearly every day, especially when breeding) and to identify and follow on the creature's scent. He had explored the cave for some little distance as well; there was no way he could have predicted that the cave would split into several different passageways further along. At the junction of those passages he had seemed somewhat confused, as if the scent trail had faded or several trails had been laid to confuse any predators, and we had spent some time traversing what he later determined to be the wrong passage. When he shamefacedly admitted his mistake, I smothered my exasperation, accepted his mumbled apology and followed him without a word of complaint as we retraced our steps.

This had better be worth it, I thought grimly. Spike had assured me that yes, it definitely would be: Chionos tears were exceedingly rare and thus extremely expensive, a preferred component in ancient fertility and pregnancy spells. In latter days it had been replaced by amber, as that substance was far easier to come by, though less potent and effective. A mere handful of the creature's tears would fetch a considerable price, well into the thousands of dollars, and Spike planned to gather much more than that, if he could.

Though he would certainly welcome the money, I knew Spike's motivation to complete this mission was founded in something other than mere greed.

It was love, a love so pure and simple that I almost could not credit it at first, that a creature tied to this plane by the darkest blood magic could feel or express an emotion so innocent and genuine. But it was so: I had seen its birth and the first stages of its development, still in progress, and I could not deny it.

I could pinpoint the moment of its conception: A sunny morning about ten days prior, when some dozen coven members descended on the dingy little flat Spike had chosen for his new home, a space once occupied by the building superintendent, back in the days before management companies made that position obsolete. Although the flat certainly answered his most basic needs and was conveniently located a few floors below my own, I had been appalled by the condition of the space – plaster broken and linoleum peeling, stained, dilapidated kitchen appliances and various noxious odors. I would have paid for a cleaning service and new fixtures, had I not wished to avoid alerting the landlord to Spike's presence, and had I thought Spike would accept my offer. Instead, I had called Sion, explained the situation, and asked for whatever help they might be willing to give.

As I had expected, the coven had seized upon the project with enthusiasm, supremely pleased for the opportunity to express their gratitude. Armed with cleansers and toolkits, paint and scrub-brushes and rags, they had all pitched cheerfully in and within half a day, the little flat was much improved, almost unrecognizable: clean and bright, the appliances repaired or replaced and walls repainted in a soft cream that reflected light in a mellow golden glow. And over the next several days they brought homemade braided rugs and various bits of furniture – an old loveseat, its cushions refurbished with new foam, a coffee table, a nightstand and chest of drawers, and finally, the piece de resistance (for Spike, at least): a combination television/DVD player purchased with donations from the entire coven, proudly wheeled in on its stand by Dafydd and Bran. Spike had been struck utterly dumb, unable to speak for some minutes as he stared at the gift, as if he could not quite believe it was actually there, and that it was for him.

Indeed, Spike's reactions to their efforts and generosity was both heartwarming and poignant to see: there was appreciation, of course, and shy, half-embarrassed wonder and an almost childlike delight, tempered with a wariness that faded little by little, each new gift chipping away at it until none was left. To me, it was obvious he had not expected any reward for what he had done for Dafydd, and it made me wonder, with a flash of anger, just how he had been treated in Sunnydale; Giles had reported to me that for several years Spike had helped Buffy with her Slaying duties, and had shown remarkable devotion to Dawn during the summer of Buffy's death. Had no one ever thanked him for his efforts? I had little trouble believing that such was the case, though I admit my own experience in Sunnydale undoubtedly diminished my opinion of the Slayer and her friends, particularly regarding their attitude toward one whom they perceive as an outsider.

Suffice it to say, the coven's outpouring of benevolence and acceptance cemented Spike's affection for them, and afterwards he spared no opportunity to reciprocate. In the ensuing week, I quickly learned that if Spike was not at home, he was at either the coven house itself or the small magical-supplies store owned and operated by one of the coven members in downtown Los Angeles, helping wherever he could. Much to my amusement, one visit to the coven house had involved his locating the coven's wily feline matriarch, who had very successfully hidden her new litter until Spike sniffed her out.

Our mission to find the Chionos' lair was but more of the same: One of the coven witches, in her late thirties, was pregnant; she and her husband had tried for years to bear a healthy child, but had never been able to do so, suffering several miscarriages and one tragic stillbirth. She and her sister witches planned to work a protection spell for the unborn child at the next full moon, using amber as one of the spell components. Though he had not said anything to them, so as not to disappoint if he could not deliver the goods, apparently Spike had decided then and there to locate and gather Chionos tears for use in the spell.

A bit of research, including a conversation with Jonas, one of the elder coven wizards, and Spike had a general idea of the right places to search. After cross-referencing the wizard-lore with a topographical map, he made several trips into the most likely places, before finally locating this particular cave in the foothills of the Santa Ana mountains. Unfortunately, he had done so only an hour or so before sunrise, leaving him just enough time to return to Los Angeles on his motorcycle (violating the speed limit the entire way), and not enough to do more than a cursory exploration of the cave. Mindful of that, we had decided to use my car for the retrieval trip.

When he halted, lifting a hand, I almost groaned aloud in frustration. Not another mistake. But he was smiling when he turned to me and murmured, “Turn off your headlamp, Wes.” I blinked at him and his smile twisted into a teasing smirk. “Trust me.”

I obeyed with a shrug, and was instantly plunged into blackness. Yet after a few moments, as my vision adjusted itself, I could make out a faint glow ahead, showing green-gold on the walls of the passage. Brighter and brighter it became as we went along, until finally, after a last sharp turn, the passage opened into a huge chamber completely illumined in verdant light.

Gaping, I moved further into the chamber. All along the walls were small piles of gleaming oblong pebbles, draping the walls in soft green light, casting black shadows behind fallen boulders. I stooped and picked one up, closing my hand around it and smiling a little at the green radiance leaking from between my fingers. It was translucent, with tiny trapped air bubbles, and initially cool to the touch, though it quickly absorbed my body heat, and not completely solid; I opened my hand and picked up the stone with thumb and forefinger and squeezed gently, blinking in surprise and pleasure as a golden spark blossomed and danced within the stone.

“Fascinating.” I closed my fingers around the stone again, enjoying the pleasant tingle of energy in my palm, and glanced around the chamber in some wonder. “There are so many here – the pregnancy must hyperstimulate the tear ducts –’’

“Erm, rather doubt that’s a tear you’re holding, Wes.” Spike arched a brow at my puzzled look. “Beastie’d have to be the size of a dragon to produce tears this big. Cave's too small for a dragon.”

“Yes, of course. Then what - ” I broke off as understanding dawned. “Oh.” I uncurled my fingers and looked at the ‘tear’ with decidedly less favor, sniffing warily at it as Spike chuckled.

“Whoever wrote that spell must’ve figured ‘tears’ sounded a bit more romantic than ‘dung,’ yeah?” I smiled weakly in agreement and he plucked the stone (which incidentally had no discernable scent, at least to my nose) from my palm, peering closely at it. "'S'a good one," he pronounced, dropping the glowing stone into a canvas bag where it clicked against those he'd already gathered, then stirred the remaining pile with his finger for a moment before selecting another and holding it up for scrutiny.

“How do you determine which are better than others?”

“Goin' by what Jonas told me, the clear ones with little air bubbles conduct energy better. Like that - see? Cloudy ones have a tendency to scatter the magic, deflect it.”

“Producing disastrous results, I'm sure. As if magic isn't dangerous enough already."

"Don't I know it," Spike muttered darkly. I sent a sympathetic glance in his direction, which he did not see, then sighed and picked up another, staring at its glow. “I wonder what their original purpose is. The Chionos is clearly storing them for some reason -”

“Food.”

“Food? The Chionos eats her own dung?"

"Sissy." Startled by the change in his tone, I glanced up, to see Spike's teasing grin and nonchalant shrug. "Dogs do it, don't they? Think about that next time one of 'em's licking your face."

"Thank you. I'm sure I shan't be able to avoid doing so, now."

Spike enjoyed my disgust for a moment longer, then: "Anyway, if what Jonas says is true, 's'not for her. 'S'for 'er young, when they hatch.” Spike jabbed a thumb over his shoulder; I glanced in that direction and spied the nest of dry grass and branches against the far wall. In it lay two softly glowing eggs, more golden than green, their shape somewhat reminiscent of a slightly overinflated rugby ball. Entranced, I rose and started toward the nest but was halted by Spike's voice. “Wouldn't do that if I were you, Wes. Chionos are supposed to be pretty passive, but messin' with any creature's nest is usually a bad idea. Way she'll see it, we're already takin' food out of her babies' mouths. Touch those eggs and she might get real nasty, yeah?”

Again I had to agree, snuffing my curiosity in favor of prudence with some regret, and so returned to searching through the piles of Chionos droppings for optimal specimens. Though our search took us deep into the chamber, to the far wall beyond the nest, these proved so plentiful that in very little time, we had nearly filled the canvas bag, and were deciding between several stones to be the last of our take when noises from the passageway opposite the one we had used caused us to fall abruptly silent.

Rapid, rhythmic clicks and scrapes against stone, as of footfalls. Contented little trills and chirps, and a faint underlying thrum almost like a purr. And then, ominously, a sudden silence, the sound of sniffing, then a querulous growl.

The Chionos had returned.

Spike and I shared one panicked glance before casting wildly about for a place to hide. The floor of the chamber was uneven in places, marked by ridges of rock and shallow depressions; unfortunately, none of these were high or deep enough to conceal either Spike or myself, much less both of us. There seemed no help for it: unless the Chionos was unusually amenable to strange creatures looting her breeding lair, we would have to fight our way out. I grasped the hilt of the long knife sheathed at my belt and began to draw it, when suddenly Spike grabbed my arm. My apprehension was such that I barely suppressed a yelp as he pulled me toward a narrow crevice in the cave wall, then pushed me ahead of him into it, along with the canvas bag.

The crevice looked to be the result of an earthquake, the crack forming with the shift of tectonic plates, and was just wide enough to allow us; a few paces in, however, the passage broadened slightly. Having become accustomed to the light of the large chamber, I initially found the space horrifyingly dark and cramped but soon was able to make out Spike’s form, a darker shadow in the shadows, his bright hair faintly reflecting the light that filtered into the crevice. Dropping to one knee, he slowly advanced his head to the edge of the crevice; I leaned carefully over him, bracing my weight with one hand on the rough wall, and peered out into the chamber just as the Chionos entered.

Occupied as I had been with the scroll translation, I had had no opportunity to research the Chionos in the demon anthologies, and was quite certain that my Watcher instruction had not included any information about the beast. So I was relatively unprepared for the fiercely beautiful creature that appeared before us.

I say 'relatively' because I had read of creatures very like her, though not at the Watcher's Academy. No, the Chionos seemed instead to have sprung from the books of myths and legends I had devoured as a youth. Undoubtedly she (or more likely, her ancestors) had inspired the tales of fantastic creatures such as the sphinx and the lamia, among others I couldn't remember at that moment. Her long, graceful lower body was reminiscent of one of the big cats but much larger, measuring at least a metre at the shoulder. Instead of fur, the body was covered in green-edged golden scales - larger and darker on the back, paling to iridescent ivory-cream on its breast - and the four powerful legs terminated in thick talons, three toes to the front and one to the back, rather than paws. Above the forelegs rose sloping shoulders and a head very like a woman’s, with long white arms and a sharp-featured face dominated by round golden eyes with reptilian lids, and a prominent hooked nose. Pointed teeth bristled like a crocodile's from the thin, closed lips of the overwide mouth. A smooth cap of close-cropped dark red hair crowned the head and neck and tapered to a narrow spinal crest extending to the base of the long, whippy golden-scaled tail, tufted at the end in red. Around her shoulderblades curved a bronze-coloured cartilaginous ridge that reached down the back of her arms to the longest of the three fingers on each hand.

That she had heard us was evident in the wariness of her approach, the citrine eyes sweeping this way and that, scanning the chamber as she strode toward the nest. Palpably anxious, she picked up each egg, gently turning it to assure herself it was whole and undamaged; then, satisfied of the safety of her young, she prowled about the chamber, bending low to inspect the piles of droppings we had disturbed. A low growl rumbled through her chest and she cast a baleful glare around her as she tidied each pile before moving to the next.

With each successive pile she seemed to grow more and more agitated, her growl rising in pitch to a whine, and my apprehension grew with it: If she continued along her current path around the walls, she'd soon discover our hiding place. Unless the crevice had other egress, we would be trapped; the Chionos could hold us there indefinitely if she chose to do so. Or she could break through the rock and drag us out to meet our fate, she certainly looked powerful enough for that. The claws on her forelegs were very long and sharp, and as she was now stumbling and wheezing, apparently overcome with rage, she even risked hurting herself with them. Her teats -

Teats? I blinked, and stared: I had seen no such features when she entered the chamber; the creamy ventral area between fore and back legs had been smooth, covered in small, supple-looking scales. Since her arrival, however, that had changed noticeably: three dugs now swelled heavily from her body, their tips nearly dragging on the stone floor of the cave. Again, fascination superceded my fear as I realized that she was not whining in anger but rather in pain: Like a cow at milking time, the Chionos needed to purge herself of the thick, glowing green substance already emerging from her breasts.

As I watched, breathless with anticipation, she finally wavered to a halt, stood still for a moment on trembling legs, then collapsed to rest on her side, panting softly. The beads of Chionos milk glimmered green, like the points in a wide triangle pattern on her chest. After a short rest she raised her head, shifting to an elbow for support as she appeared to strain slightly; one by one the beads of milk extended to the familiar oblong shape, then dropped into her waiting hands before being carefully piled on the cave floor before her. At first the milking went rapidly, then slowed as her breasts emptied, until finally she used her hands to draw the last of the milk from each teat. The nipples receded and disappeared among the scales and again she fell to her side, with a weary yet apparently relieved moan.

Glancing down I could see Spike grinning up at me and I returned it full measure; despite our precarious situation, I was exhilerated. Aside from the thrill of such an amazing experience, perhaps the first such in recorded history, I would have the chance to correct archival information about the creature (with all due credit), not to mention all the fertility spells. Chionos milk sounded just as romantic as Chionos tears, and more appropriate to their primary use in such rituals, certainly...

Of course, we would have to get out of there alive for any such correction to be possible. When the Chionos suddenly lurched to her feet, I remembered that that was not a foregone conclusion.

Fortunately for us, the creature seemed too exhausted to continue her search of the chamber. She stretched and shook herself rather like a wet dog, made one last cursory inspection of her newest pile of milk droppings, then crawled over to the nest and settled on her side. In a very human gesture, like a child with a beloved toy, she gathered her eggs close to her chest with one arm while tucking the other beneath her head with a contented sigh. Heavy eyelids blinked sleepily, and the red tuft on her tail waved gently back and forth for a time, until finally her eyes closed completely and even her tail stopped moving.

Despite our eagerness to make our escape, Spike and I waited for a few very long minutes, to be absolutely certain the Chionos was asleep. She might well be dangerous, but neither one of us wanted to confront her, nor risk killing such a magnificent creature. Over my softly whispered protests, Spike decided he would attempt the crossing to the passageway opposite, taking the canvas bag with him. I disliked the idea of him putting himself so at risk - even if I could not smell the beads of milk, the Chionos almost certainly could, and would follow and attack Spike if she became aware of his presence. He very reasonably replied that if that happened, his was a far more resilient constitution than my own, and so I was forced to give way, and the bag with it.

I observed, every muscle taut with apprehension, as Spike slipped out of the crevice, not for the first time envying his preternatural ability to move quickly and silently. Even so, Spike went slowly, particularly as he neared the nest; I clenched my fists, mentally urging him on: A few more steps, and you'll be past the nest - that's it - go on -

Oh, bloody hell! No! Spike! You idiot! Helplessly I watched as Spike veered aside and headed for the new pile of milk droppings. Greedy fool! I fumed, casting panicked glances at the somnolent Chionos but mostly glaring furiously at Spike as he stooped to search through the glowing stones. With every faint click of stone against stone I flinched and grew ever more angry. Not even his triumphant thumbs-up at finding an especially good specimen could placate me.

Needless to say, the gesture also had no effect on the Chionos. Which was no longer asleep, if it ever had been.

Growling, the creature rose to all fours over its eggs, three-fingered hands clenching and unclenching. Its once-golden eyes glowed a baleful orange, and as the spinal ridge rose I realized for the first time that it was made of feathers rather than hair. Feathers... the fact scratched at a memory that I couldn't immediately place and so shunted aside in favor of more urgent matters. Spike's imminent peril, for one. Why couldn't he have just left like he was supposed to?

At least now he seems to realize his danger. Finally. After prudently replacing the milk bead in its pile, Spike slowly straightened as well, one hand lifting the bag's carrying strap over his head to lie diagonally across his chest, the other held up in a placating gesture. "Easy, mum - not gonna hurt you or your babies - just take it easy -"

Spike might have charmed most of the coven witches, and many other women in his day; he'd even befriended the coven's aforementioned feline matriarch, a temperamental thing that hissed first and asked questions later. But the Chionos was one female he was not going to impress favorably; her growl quickly rose to a high-pitched whine, and the cartilaginous ridge on her back and arms began to ripple and glow. Her hair - no, those were feathers too - ruffled threateningly, expanding to form a wide collar around her neck, meant to intimidate. Mission accomplished. I saw Spike's Adam's apple bob sharply and then, still murmuring comfortingly, he dared to move, inching slowly past the nest at a wide berth. The Chionos' head turned to follow his progress, burning eyes locked on his, yet aside from that she did not move at all. As quietly as I could, I moved out of the crevice, knife in hand, ready to aid Spike if he needed it.

Just a little further, and he'd be in the passage; what he'd do if the Chionos came after him, I had no idea and I was fairly certain Spike had none, either. He could traverse the caverns at least as quickly as the creature, perhaps more so, being smaller and lighter. But it appeared the Chionos had little inclination to leave her eggs; angry as she was, she was still tired, and as long as she believed we meant her or her young no harm, she might just let us go -

Or she might have, had Spike not jostled the canvas bag against the cave wall: A few of the glowing milk beads fell out of the bag and clattered noisily to the ground; Spike eyed them for one dismayed second, then at the Chionos' bloodcurdling screech his eyes shot up to meet her crimson glare. His jaw dropped as the creature's head seemed to swell and stretch, the hooked nose and toothy mouth merging and elongating to a terrifying beak-like maw, the red feathers spreading over the face. The rippling of the bronze-coloured ridge grew more pronounced, the tissue undulating and peaking until finally a series of scarlet feathers burst forth, starting at the shoulderblades and running all the way down the arms.

Spike had seen enough. Without another word he turned and ran into the passageway, chased by another earsplitting scream from the Chionos. A handful of seconds later, metamorphosis complete, the Chionos folded her new-formed wings on her back and thundered after him.

Stunned, I tried to follow and to assimilate the information at the same time - the Chionos isn't a sphinx or lamia, she's a gryphon! - but my thoughts distracted me and I tripped over an uneven space in the cave floor next to the nest. I twisted my body to avoid crushing the eggs and landed heavily on my shoulder, jostling the helmet from my head; my gut clenched with dread as I heard the crunch and pop of heavy plastic.

No, damn it, no, I chanted to myself as I raised painfully to my knees and reached for my fallen helmet, but my prayers were denied: the headlamp had smashed. And of course I had not thought to bring the spare lamp; no, that was in the boot of my car. Blast! I could put aside my terror and attempt the pitch-black caverns, but that would take hours, assuming I didn't lose my way; I had trusted Spike's direction and had taken little note of secondary passages, one of which I might mistake for the correct one and become hopelessly lost. No, I would need light, and a great deal of luck, to find my way out, and help Spike out of whatever trouble he managed to get himself into. I scrambled to my feet and headed for one of the piles of glowing stones, intent on scooping up as many as I could carry, when suddenly an idea struck me and I turned toward the nest.

Without further thought I grabbed one of the shining eggs and raced out of the chamber.

To Be Continued...