Soul Searching

By Hesadevil

Prologue

The alley behind the Hyperion Hotel was awash with freshly spilled blood, the rain sluicing it into the gutter in torrents. And still they came; wave after wave of seemingly unstoppable demons bent on destroying the pitifully small band of figures fighting with their backs to the wall. As each line fell, another replaced it; a never ending horde clamouring for annihilation.

In the sky above, the dragon screamed, its jaws peeling back revealing a deep maw containing neither flesh nor bone, but pure darkness. With a roar, the thing that had assumed the dragon’s form, spewed forth, fracturing into three parts, each rolling away from the battle and up into the storm that accompanied it. As they did so, a figure plummeted to the pavement, still clutching the sword that had dealt the dragon the mortal blow. Crumpled on the gore soaked ground, Angel raised his head briefly and blinked the blood from his eyes before losing consciousness.

Above the rooftops, three clouds, blacker than the rainstorm that had heralded the beginning of the conflict, billowed and grew, changing shape, reforming and finally solidifying in the forms of a wolf, a ram, and a hart. The rain stopped. Something worse replaced the storm. Fog, rolling in from the direction of the bay, bringing with it the faint metallic odour of dark magic. As the fog thickened, it grew colder, blacker, and foul-smelling, turning rapidly into smog, the kind that conceals, smothers, binds and kills.

Gunn was the first to fall, unable to hold off the attackers he could no longer see. Illyria was next; cursing the loss of powers she once had to sense and anticipate the enemy. Spike continued to fight on a while longer, his heightened vampire senses guiding his moves. But he was alone and eventually, overcome by the sheer numbers, he too fell and was buried under a mass of blood-hungry demons.

…………………………………………………………..

He knew she was there before he saw her, sensed her before he caught her scent above the acrid smell of the corpses that pinned him to the sodden pavement. Before she grasped his arm and hauled him to his feet, he could taste her fiery anger punching its way through the suffocating clouds.

Spike opened his swollen eyes and grinned at her. "The Big Poof had a plan after all then." He scanned the alley for signs of the others. "Did he make it?" he asked her anxiously, still searching the battleground. “Where is he?”

Spike turned back to face the slayer but she had thrown herself into the fight before she'd heard his question. There were other girls fighting alongside her, skilful and strong, slicing heads from bodies with apparent ease. Illyria was with them but, even so, they were outnumbered. As quickly as they sent a demon to its death, another took its place.

Spike gazed at them in awe, feeling as if he'd died and gone to heaven. He rubbed his face, feeling the blood welling from fresh wounds, wincing in pain as he gathered his strength to fling himself back into the fray. "Not heaven then," he muttered.

As he turned to join them, a sudden blast of power threw him to the ground; the heat singeing his coat, adding further to the damage it had suffered from the dragon’s fire. He watched with amazement as the demons stopped their attack, responding to some unheard call to retreat. He saw Illyria turn her attention to the Slayer who had led the counter-attack. She held out her leather-clad arm towards her and pulled it back rapidly as it drew sparks from the power-shield that surrounded her. The demons silently disappeared into the fog, which quickly turned back into mist before dissipating altogether. The rain returned, a fine drizzle at first, then gathering strength, cascading in icy sheets, from a sky that gradually brightened with dawn’s imminent arrival.

Spike lurched painfully to his feet. "Where’s Angel?" he shouted. "We have to find cover."

Illyria continued her scrutiny of the woman who had earlier pulled Spike to his feet. "Your leader is there," she said. Without changing the direction of her gaze, she pointed at a battered figure slumped in the Hyperion’s rear entrance, cradling Gunn’s head, shielding him from the worst of the rain.

Spike strode over shrugging his singed duster off his shoulders as he did so. He held it out to Angel. "Here, use this," he said softly. "Is he going to be OK?" Not waiting for an answer, Spike’s eyes swept the alley once more. "How’d you pull this off?" he asked, indicated the girls standing before them. "Put out a 911 call while you were airborne, did you?"

Angel frowned and glanced beyond Spike at the slayer who held Illyria's attention and was running towards them "Buffy . . .she . . ."

Spike never heard the rest of Angel’s explanation. Strong hands gripped his shoulder and swung him round. He was pulled into an embrace that would have done serious damage to a human body and his lips were assaulted by a passionate kiss. His blood sang in response and he leaned in, opening his mouth, welcoming the tongue that caressed his. The soft moan that greeted his response shocked him into breaking the embrace. His eyes flew open and stared into the green ones of the slight figure that continued to grip his arms like a drowning woman clutching at her rescuer.

"Bloody Hell, Slayer," Spike gasped. "What’d you do that for?" He glanced over his shoulder at Angel. "You saw that, right? She kissed me. You really should keep a closer eye on your bird, mate. She’s loopier than Dru ever was."



Chapter 1: Soul Sensations

The entrance lobby of the Hyperion bustled with activity and at first glance, it looked to be in total chaos. People hurried in from the street carrying toolboxes, cooking utensils, armfuls of bedding, and camping cots. The stuffy air smelt of dust, sweat and blood and was laden with soft cries of pain as the injured called urgently for assistance.

In the midst of this, Buffy moved through the room with calm efficiency, directing the first-aiders and indicating where supplies should go. As more bloodstained slayers were ferried in through the front doors she allocated places in adjoining rooms according to the severity of their injuries. Illyria followed her progress, observing from a distance as she checked each new arrival. Twice she stepped into Buffy’s path and received an icy glare, to which she responded with a slight, quizzical tilt of her head.

"Will you back off?" Buffy snapped.

"I wish to observe," replied Illyria.

"Well do it somewhere else – like Texas."

Illyria ignored her, instead looking over her head towards the doors as Angel and Spike appeared, carrying Gunn between them on a wooden board. They moved slowly, taking care not to jolt their injured comrade.

Buffy took one swift look at Gunn, and pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket, flicking it open with a snap. She punched a number into the keypad. "We need the Crash Team," she said briskly. She glanced at Spike and tears welled behind her eyes. "Hyperion Hotel, 4121 Wilshire Boulevard." Without waiting to hear further questions, she closed the phone and bent her head to a wounded girl at her feet.

Illyria switched her attention to the two vampires, though her eyes remained fixed on Buffy. They were nursing injuries of their own. Spike’s duster was in tatters; the charred remains hanging from his shoulders like paper streamers. His black T-shirt was stained and gashed and his face was a mass of purple and black. Several deep gouges on his forehead showed the beginnings of healing but the dried blood on his eyes and cheeks bore witness to the savagery of the demons who had felled him.

Angel’s injuries were less visible, but he moved stiffly with a pronounced limp on his left side. He shifted the weight of the board onto his right hip, wincing with each painful step.

"What were you playing at?" he hissed.

"Told you, she started it," snarled Spike.

"Not that!" Angel spat in response. Illyria noted that as he spoke, his eyes flicked over to where Buffy was still crouched beside the young girl. She was tight-lipped, her tear-streaked face bleak and closed.

Illyria stepped closer as Angel lowered his voice to a whisper. "You’re tearing her apart, Spike. I know we agreed to move on, but what you just did is too much. Even for you."

Angel gestured with his head at a vacant spot on the ground and he and Spike carefully lowered each end of the makeshift stretcher to the floor. Spike squinted at Angel through blood-caked lashes. "What’re you on about? That dragon venom’s affected your brain, Grandpa’."

"It’s not me that’s affected! This is the woman you said you loved. If this is an example of the way you treated her when . . . "

"Loved? The Slayer! Me?" Spike’s yell cut Angel off.

All activity in the room ceased as people turned their attention to the two vampires standing face to face, noses almost touching. Illyria’s swift, noiseless glide away from them went unnoticed in the hushed stillness that followed Spike’s outburst. She observed him from a distance, waiting for the storm she knew was gathering in his mind, to thunder its presence.

Gunn’s low groan, and an accompanying growl from Spike’s stomach, broke the silence. "Look’s like Chuck’s done for," Spike muttered, glancing down. His stomach gave another rumble. "And I’m feeling mighty peckish."

Buffy slowly got to her feet, glared at Spike, and crossed the room towards the entrance, as the distant sounds of sirens heralding the arrival of ambulances grew louder.

Angel tensed in alarm as he saw ridges beginning to appear on Spike’s forehead, but before he could move, Spike backed rapidly away from Gunn, colliding into Buffy in his haste to put distance between himself and the injured man.

Buffy pushed him aside, her grazed knuckles leaving droplets of blood on the shoulder of his duster. "Better keep out of my way, Spike. I'm not gonna take this much longer."

Illyria focussed on Spike. She could feel his confusion, reading it in swirling patterns of colour, pulsing round his body like a light show accompanying a symphony orchestra. She reached out and touched his mind with hers, probing it to reveal his thoughts and feelings.

Spike closed his eyes, the wave of emotion rippling across his stomach, leaving the muscles tight with tension. His nostrils flared at the familiar scent, Buffy’s scent: sweat and blood mingled with the sweeter, lighter perfume of Jasmine.

That smell.

Unbidden images flashed through his mind with the instantaneous hardening of his penis; Buffy, naked and moaning with pleasure beneath him; a tiled floor; a torn bathrobe; hands aflame. With the images came an aching sense of loss and desolation, washing over him in painful waves. He swallowed hard and opened his eyes, struggling for a quick rejoinder to Buffy’s words that never came. Instead, he found himself staring into Illyria’s glacial eyes, hearing her speak, though her lips never moved.

"The price you willingly paid is high, vampire." Illyria’s voice echoed in his head.

Spike blinked with surprise. And suddenly, she was gone, resuming her place in the centre of the room, motionless and silent once more.

Angel, too, was watching as the warring emotions danced across Spike’s face. Horror, pain, desire, need, and guilt, in quick succession. He grasped Buffy’s arm as she moved past him. "Buffy . . ."

She jerked away from his grasp. “Not now, Angel,” she said stonily. "There’s more important things I have to do."

"You are coming back?" Angel frowned, lowering his voice. "There’s something wrong with Spike." He gestured at the blond vampire who swung his head from Angel to Buffy, frantically searching their faces for reassurance.

Buffy snorted. "You just figure that out?"

"This is serious." Angel glanced again at Spike who was inching further away from Gunn. "I think a demon took a chunk out of him."

"He’ll have to wait his turn," Buffy replied coldly, avoiding Angel’s eyes.

She swung the doors open, revealing the Crash Team. They moved swiftly into the room, carrying drip stands, IV bags, coolers, and medical bags.

"There’s your patient." Buffy gestured at Gunn. "There’s a room out back all ready." She pushed the doors wide open, and left without a backward glance.

Angel gave Gunn's hand a reasurring pat as the medics carried him away, then hobbled painfully to where Spike sat slumped against the reception desk with his knees drawn up, his head resting on them underneath folded arms. He placed a hand on Spike’s shoulder.

"Spike. What happened?" he asked softly.

The younger vampire mumbled something unintelligible and shrugged Angel’s hand off.

Angel lowered himself carefully to the floor, rested his head back against the front panel of the desk and sighed wearily. They sat together in silence, watching as the room gradually emptied, leaving Illyria standing alone in the same spot from which she’d watched Buffy leave the hotel.

"You’re a bastard!” Spike’s voice shattered the stillness. “A manipulative, self-centred, prancing, do-gooding, Nancy Boy . . ." The tirade came to a sudden halt.

"Feel better now?" Angel asked, studying Spike’s face for clues.

"No," Spike pouted. "I’m not done yet." His face creased with a sudden spasm of pain. "God, I’m hungry. All this fresh on-tap human blood sloshing around, you’d think I could have just one little sip." He inhaled deeply, then tensed his jaw and stared at his Grandsire. "Angel, what’s wrong with me?"

Angel regarded him for a long time before answering. Something in Spike’s storm-grey eyes warned him to tread carefully.

"That’s what I’d like to know," he replied finally. "Are you sure you haven’t taken Andrew’s advice too much to heart? Moving on’s one thing. But I’m seeing denial here. You loved her Spike. You got your soul back for her."

Spike’s shoulders slumped even lower as he let his head fall back into his hands. "But I don’t remember."

"You don’t remember . . .?" began Angel.

"Hang on!" Spike’s head snapped up. "Soul? Don’t be bloody stupid. I haven’t got a soul." He pulled himself onto his feet and strode angrily away, stopping beside Illyria who remained still and quiet. "You're the soulful one. I’m as soulless as the Ice Queen here."

Angel hauled himself up, slowly levering himself upright with the aid of the counter top. He limped painfully towards Spike. "As if I haven’t enough to worry about, I now have an amnesiac second-in-command on my hands," he thought despondently.

"No soul? Then how do you account for not being able to drink human blood?" he asked.

Spike’s response was instantaneous. "The chip."

"And why are you here helping me?" Angel raised his eyebrows.

"Because . . ." Spike stopped, narrowing his eyes. "That a trick question?"

Angel changed tack. "If you never loved her, why did you help Buffy in Sunnydale all that time?"

Spike didn’t answer. Instead, he began pacing the room, his face contorted with the effort of trying to recall the events of the past five years.

Angel was unsure how far to push Spike but he pressed on. "And why did you stay with Dawn after Buffy died?"

Spike ceased pacing. "Nibblet," he breathed. A painful vice clutched his chest as more images crowded into his mind; the feel of Dawn’s arms as she clung to him on the back of a motorcycle; her standing in the doorway of his crypt; "If you wanted to hurt Buffy -- congratulations. It worked."

Angel noticed Spike’s unease but continued his attack. "And why did you stay to die at the Hellmouth when Buffy told you . . ."

Spike’s fist slammed into Angel’s jaw, sending him reeling backwards into Illyria. "That’s enough," he snarled. "No more mind games. I . . . She," he struggled for control. "There. Is. No. Soul. Couldn’t love the Slayer. Right. Wrong. All wrong." Spike backed away from Angel and faced the wall, running his hands along the torn wallpaper and mumbling softly to himself.

The entrance door opened quietly and Buffy stepped inside; Lorne stood grim-faced behind her. Illyria was still contemplating the spot Buffy had vacated earlier. A flash of acknowledgement passed between her and Lorne and she shifted the focus of her attention from Spike to Angel.

"This Slayer is the One," an icy voice said softly in his ear. "And so it begins. It was not a demon that removed part of your comrade,” she said. He gave it freely to help another."

Angel caught the slight motion of Illyria’s hand in front of his eyes before the light from the room faded. The ground slipped away from under him and he felt the vertigo he’d experienced on the dragon’s back. He tried to shake his head in an attempt to clear it, but his muscles wouldn’t co-operate and he felt himself leaving his body and floating in the darkness.


Chapter 2: Lost Souls

Three clouds loomed on the horizon. Shaped like warships, long, broad and dense, with anvil-shaped prows. They streamed closer, blackening the entire sky, hurling down salvos of heavy rain and stinging hail. The wind was a solid wall of sound, pounding a counter-rhythm to the percussive shocks crumpling the sky. Lightning tore at the graphite heavens, ripping them apart. It seemed that Nature in all her wildest fury was hell bent on destroying the rook as it soared above the city. Yet this weather was no natural phenomenon, the Storm Fiend was fuelled with anger, brutal and feral, and it burnt the air with each lightning flash. The stench of sulphur lingered, despite the driving rain, thudding down relentlessly in implacable volleys; Ares’s warrior-archers’ aim deadly, sure and true.

“You must witness certain events as they happened if you are to understand and accept the journey that lies ahead.” Illyria’s voice said from somewhere inside Angel’s head.

He opened his mouth to speak, struggling against the confines of the body in which she’d trapped him. “Illyria? Where am I? Where are you?” These were the words that echoed through his mind. What he heard was the rasping sound of rusty metal on metal, ending in a vaguely familiar ‘cack cack’.

“To fight is futile.”

Angel had looked on the world with eyes that were not his own once before, when the Darkness that was Acathla swallowed him. Then he’d been left with a lingering image of Buffy, the sword with which she had just run him through still in her hand. He peered through the downpour, more or less certain now that he was airborne, and a reluctant passenger with Illyria, within her Spirit Guide.

As he relaxed, Angel could feel the whip and wire of the air through his feathers, the sting of each hailstone on head and beak and wing, as they rode the switchback of the spirals and curves of storm-tossed thermals. No city lights guided their way as the rook plunged through the tumult, spiralling downwards, riding the waterfall thundering to the streets below. Angel tried bracing himself for a rough landing, forgetting for an instant that he was not the one in control of this borrowed body, straining to see through the blackness that accompanied their descent.

Slowly, the light returned and with it, the realisation that he was no longer part of the bird that stood watching him, head cocked, blue eyes glittering.

“A power such as I have not enjoyed since my Wesley robbed me of it, will guide you now, half-breed. My task is done,” croaked the bird with Illyria’s voice. And with that, the rook lifted its wings and beat the air twice before disappearing in a flurry of ebony and purple-black velvet.

Angel blinked and stared at the man in front of him through Lorne’s eyes.

“You don't trust me. You don't think a man can change?” Lindsey grimaced up at him.

“It's not about what I think. This was Angel's plan.” Lorne’s voice replied solemnly. Angel flinched, knowing what was to come.

Lindsey smiled at him. “I could sing for you,” he offered.

“I've heard you sing,” Lorne’s weary voice replied.

Angel looked down at Lorne’s hand, holding the gun he himself had given him. He smelt the cordite of the explosion, watched the bullet making its way, in slow motion towards Lindsey’s heart.

“Why-why did you...?” Lindsey gasped.

“One last job,” came Lorne’s toneless response. Angel’s thought joined him in perfect harmony. “You're not part of the solution, Lindsey. You never will be.”

The dying man slid down the wall, his words coming in painful gasps. “You kill me? A flunky?! I'm not just... Angel...kills me. You don't... Angel...”

“But I just did,” Angel told his closing eyes.

---------------------------------------------------

Lorne swung the car into the slow moving traffic, wiping the condensation from the front window with the sleeve of his jacket. Angel watched the driving rain and listened to the squeal of the windscreen wipers as they tried valiantly to clear the deluge.

Angel’s mind screamed in pain at the newsreel of visions that flooded in causing Lorne to pull over and stop the car, his hands shaking on the wheel; Fred, holding Wesley’s body, crying “My love. Oh, my love”; her hand smashing Vail’s skull into thousands of fragments; Fred, in Wesley’s arms, “Why can’t I stay?”

More events crowded into Lorne’s mind, threatening to overwhelm Angel; sounds and sights he could almost touch. Conflicting memories warred with one another: Spike crashing through the observation window of the training room, a circle surrounding the hieroglyphs from Illyira’s coffin, Wesley, holding a crystal aloft; Connor, lying bruised and bloodied on a sofa in Spike’s office. Angel’s mind screamed for emptiness. Those things never happened. His soul writhed with guilt. He hadn’t saved her. He’d let her die.

Lorne rested his head on his trembling arms and sobbed. He was shaking so violently that Angel could feel his own consciousness colliding with that of the Pylean. He battled furiously to take control but felt Lorne’s will slip from his grasp, as more apparitions flooded in; Illyria, crouching beside Wesley’s lifeless form, keening, “What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Heimdall’s soul arise!

‘Cordellia’s visions.’ The thought struck Angel like a physical blow. She’d passed them to Lorne. ‘Impossible!’ She’d given Angel the single gift that had enabled him to take out the Circle of the Black Thorn.

Illyria appeared before them, blue hair streaming in the wind and rain. “Turn the car around,” she commanded. “There is more yet that you must do.” As she dissolved back into the storm, Lorne turned the key in the ignition and spun the car through a U-turn, ignoring the oncoming traffic and leaving a line of rear-shunted cars in his wake as he sped back towards the city.

The Merc squealed to a halt across the path of hooded figure hurrying away from an apartment block. The headlights caught a flash of white hair as the monastic robe was discarded. Spike’s face was bloody from battle but he crouched in defensive mode, ready to face whatever emerged from the car. Angel watched him visibly relax as he recognised the former Karaoke Host.

“Lorne! Thought you’d quit. Didn’t think you went in for spectator sports.”

“Need you for a solo spot before the main act gets underway,” replied Lorne. He glanced anxiously at the sky. “Don’t have much time.”

Angel observed the incredulous look that passed across Spike’s face and he gave Lorne’s consciousness a metaphorical kick. “Tell him what’s at stake,” he clamoured silently, as Spike turned to make his way towards the Hyperion.

Lorne gripped Spike’s arm. “It’s Fred,” he said simply. “I know where she is.”

Spike lowered his eyes as a grimace of pain flared across his face. “She’s dead, mate,” he said softly. “Dead and gone.”

The thunder rolled across the sky, increasing its cacophony with each jagged burst of lightening. Lorne stared at the blackness over their heads. “Never knew there could be so many shades of black.”
‘A thousand shades of black
But the same rule always applies
Smile pretty, and watch your back,’ he crooned.

Lorne’s singing ended abruptly and he fixed Spike with a resolute stare. “Sparrow lied!” Lorne drove the word through gritted teeth. “ Fred’s soul couldn’t be destroyed, any more than yours or Angel’s could. It’s out there, Spike. And I know someone that’s willing to do a deal. Another little bird brought a message from The Powers.”

“Why me?” asked Spike. “What have I got that the Powers want?”

“Nothing that’s of value to them. That’s not the way it works. They’ll grant a favour for the right price.”

“And that would be . . . ?”

“Something important to you.”

As Angel waited for the rest of Lorne’s explanation, the light faded once more and he felt himself swept into the air and dumped unceremoniously back into his own body in the Hyperion’s reception area.

---------------------------------------

Lorne waved sheepishly at him from behind Buffy. “Hi Big Guy,” he smiled. “You all caught up, courtesy of Little Miss Blue Eyes?”

Angel looked at Spike who was standing beside the staircase with his back to the wall, pulling at a cigarette as though his life depended on the fumes he inhaled. A clatter from the head of the stairs drew everyone’s attention. Looking dishevelled and bloody, but very much alive, Wesley stumbled into view and half-fell down the first few steps. His gaze swept the room below, as if searching for something or someone. It stopped at Illyria, who raised her head regally to meet his stare.

“I . . .” Wesley began, his voice cracked and hoarse. “Fred’s room. It contains something important, something I can’t read.” He paused. “The walls, they . . .”

Wesley sat down abruptly and Illyria appeared by his side, though no one saw her move from her place below. “We need someone with powers greater than those that remain to me,” she said.

“What you need is a Witch.” Buffy’s voice sounded a clear clarion call to action. “Fortunately for you, we already have one of those.”



Chapter 3: Soul Trader

Spike ground the stub of his cigarette into the wall beside him, the ash leaving a dark smudge, like old blood, on the marble. Threads of pink and rose ran though the cold stone, and he marvelled at how they mimicked the veins of the human body. He traced a finger along a thin capillary. The need for blood, to rend, to kill, was primal and all this waiting around amongst the injured was stretching his thin patience.

He forced the feeling down, resisting the urge to feed and pushed himself off the pillar he’d been leaning against in frustration. Restlessness drove him, to move, to do something. His duster hung in useless tatters from his shoulders, flapping as he searched the ruined pockets for the crumpled cigarette packet.
Spike’s anger flared for an instant. He tore off the remains, taking a moment to gaze at it sorrowfully. 'Another coat down', he thought, what else had he lost?

A movement from inside the doorway turned his attention to the two figures that had just entered. What had Lorne said to Angel?

‘All caught up now?’

Spike looked to his grandsire for an explanation. What he saw in his face was something akin to concern, concern tinged with respect. Spike snapped his head back in surprise. Nothing made any sense. He pulled another cigarette out of the pack, lighting it as he stared at Lorne, who was peering anxiously at him over Buffy’s shoulder.

“Thought you’d quit,” Spike remarked,. “Thought you wanted me dusted,” he exhaled a lungful of smoke in Buffy’s direction. He moved across the lobby to the forlorn man on the stairs. “And I thought you were dead!”

Wesley raised weary eyes to meet Spike’s. “I . . . ,” he faltered, “. . . rather think I was.”

Spike lowered his gaze; unable to endure the pain and sorrow he’d glimpsed in addition to his own fierce sense of loss. A flare of ice blue from Illyria’s hand re-ignited his anger. With a snarl, Spike sprang towards her. “You! What did you do?”

Illyria didn’t flinch. Instead she raised an arm and drew the mark of the sigil from her sarcophagus in the air between them. “By the power of the Illuminata, admitte. By the soul of The Watcher Heimdall, admitte. By the power of all that was Illyria, God-King of the Primordium, admitte.” The diamond she held in her hand glowed, flashing fire of blues and golds and amber in a dancing, spinning spiral throughout the room, freezing the moment for everyone; for everyone except Spike.

******************************************

The colours darkened, as they threaded their way through his nostrils, into his ears, filling his eyes with blackness.

‘A thousand shades of black
But the same rule always applies
Smile pretty, and watch your back.’

Lorne’s voice crooned somewhere in the distance.

“They’ll grant a favour for the right price.”

“ . . . something important to you.”

The diamond sparkled in space before him, banishing the darkness, replacing it with a purity of light that robbed him of all vision, engulfing him in a white glow that filled him with a sense of peace he’d never known before. He was standing, alone, in a room, or at least he supposed it was, he could feel no breath of wind nor hear any natural sounds. Spike stared, sightless, into the vast white space stretching before him towards infinity. “A thousand shades of white,” he thought.

“We like to maintain a balance,” a disembodied voice sussurated somewhere above him.

“Which is the reason we invited you here.” A second speaker, more masculine in tone, joined the first.

Spike searched for the source of the voices but could see nothing. Sheer, unfathomable cliffs of pure chalk stretched up as far as his eyes could discern. There was no ceiling that he could determine, no doors or windows.

“Yeah? How come?” he asked, feeling his way along the nearest wall, fingers probing for some indication of a way out but finding none. He felt remarkably unconcerned; all emotion seemed to have slipped away with the darkness.

“The Old One was never meant to leave the Deeper Well.”

“Thought it was part of her million-year plan.” Spike squinted into the profound light. It flowed from the origin of the voices like a river, its blue-white waves flickering, effulgent, as they glided onwards.

“The Keeper of the Well was chosen to thwart it.”

“The Wolf, Ram and Hart sought to make use of it for their own purpose.”

“They intervened.”

“And denied us one of our Warriors.”

“Fred.” Spike’s emotions crashed back with an intensity that threatened to crush him.

“Where is she?” he snarled.

“Where the one who is needed by Illyria had found her.”

“And so we will restore him to guide you.”

“So what now? You want my soul? This going to be a Warrior for a Warrior sort of deal?”

The first voice ignored Spike’s question. “Anyanka was correct. You should not have been allowed to do it. But we were curious to see what would happen, why such a creature as you would seek a soul.“

“And so we did not interfere.” The second voice added.

“Afraid to get your lily white’s dirty?” Spike sneered.

A wave of absolute coldness blasted him from his feet. So intense was its fiery ferocity, it burned where it touched him.

“Angels are terrible things, my Spike. Demons of the light they are, with steel tipped pinions.”

A sudden fear grabbed Spike as he recalled Drusilla’s words. “Like you could have stopped me!” he growled into the void above his head.

“Defiance. We know this. We understand this.” The feminine voice replied evenly.

“But the love that drives you. That we cannot comprehend. Nor would wish to.” The masculine one added.

“What do you want, you clapped out pair of stereo speakers? demanded Spike. “Need me to tweak your woofers to restore your balance?”

“You rightly fear us. Just as Illyria’s subjects once feared her.”

“What we seek as the price is more precious to you than even your soul.”

“It is the key to unlocking that which should not be opened but shall be.”

Something inside Spike fractured and flew into hundreds of pieces, each one tearing him in a different direction, allowing the turmoil that had been threatening since Buffy kissed him, to finally overwhelm him. And, as it did so, the light splintered, prisms erupting in multiple rainbows of colour; and time returned.

************************************

“Key – what key? I’m not a sodding key.” Spike was swept along on the floodtide of memories released by the word; lying bruised and bloodied in his crypt; Buffy turning to leave; “what you did, for Dawn and me, that was real. I won’t forget it”; standing on a bridge with Angel staring into a hole in the world. Spike reeled backwards and fell to his knees, clutching his head in both hands. “Too much. Too much!” he cried, thrashing against the stairwell in an attempt to drive the images from his brain.

Buffy’s strong hands gripped his, gently pulling them away from his face and replacing them with her own. She cupped his cheek and stroked it. “Spike, stop it,” she said gently. “What do you remember?”

Spike leaned into her hand, feeling its warmth, savouring the tenderness of the caress. He felt a soft beat pulsing against his skin, heard the sound of blood pumping through Buffy’s wrist. He licked his lips. God he was so hungry. Just a taste, that’s all he needed. It wouldn’t hurt.

He shook his head violently and tried to pull away. “I don’t hurt you.”

Buffy took his hands in hers again. “Spike, Look at me. I can help you.”

Spike wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I could never ask. Not after . . . I’m a bad man.”

“No! Spike, I’ll help get you through this,” she reassured him. She released his hands and got to her feet, gazing down at him in admiration. “I know what you did. Lorne told me everything.”

Buffy gestured to Angel. “. “I’m through with working blind. We need to get cleaned up, and bring everyone up to speed,” she said suddenly business-like again. “You!” she rounded on Illyria. “Why are you here? Aside from getting in my way, what is it you do?”

“I have chosen to observe.”

“’You observe? What kind of answer is that?”

“You have power. You would give your advantage away. Yet you choose to fight. I wish to understand this contradiction.”

“Understand this. I am not your experiment.”

“You are arrogant. My pet chooses well.”

“Your ‘pet’? Wesley?” Buffy laughed.

“My Wesley is my guide to humanity’s stinking chaos. I chose the white haired one to be my pet.”

“Spike is not yours to choose.”

“He has made his choice.”

Buffy bit back a rejoinder. Illyria was right. Spike had made his choice. It was up to the rest of them to make sure that it hadn’t been in vain. “Lorne,” she called down the stairwell. “Take Wesley where you can watch him and this . . . “ she waved a hand at Illyria, “new blue breed of Watcher.“ Buffy took Spike by the elbow and encouraged him to stand. “Need to find you something to eat,” she said softly.

Angel took Spike’s weight on his shoulder and together he and Buffy helped him down the staircase. “So, he said, “you going to let me in on your next move?”

“Please, Angel. Don’t start with the ‘it’s my town’ crap. This is too big. It’s gone global.”

Angel grimaced at her, shamefaced. “I wasn’t gonna . . .”

Buffy shrugged her acceptance of the unspoken apology “I think it’s time we joined forces and shared what we have. You have Willow to thank for anyone on your team coming out of that alley alive. You can do that by agreeing to listen to whatever she and Giles come up with when they get back from their planning meeting.”

Chapter 4: And by and by my Soul returned to me

The harsh neon light glinted off the implements hanging from the ceiling, accentuating the grime that covered everything else in the Hyperion’s kitchen. The blades sparkled, throwing sherds of brilliance into the gloom below. Someone had cleaned and sharpened them. Why? Angel stared at the rack. Two vacant hooks. He narrowed his eyes in thought

The kitchen floor was covered in recently delivered boxes, most of them empty. Angel had agreed that the Hyperion was to be the base for the combined Slayer/Vampires-with-souls operations and he’d offered to help Buffy unpack, stowing provisions in places she couldn’t reach, glad of the thinking space the activity afforded.

“Top cupboard, first shelf.” Buffy handed him a box of chocolate chip cookies.

Angel opened the cupboard door and found a place for the box beside the peanut butter variety. He had to admit, if only to himself, that he was having difficulty adjusting to the idea of working with her. He’d become too used to running his own team and didn’t yet know how he was going to handle moving aside from the position as sole leader.

And then there was the problem of Spike. No one knew how the loss of his memories of loving Buffy would affect him in the long term. Nevertheless, Angel marvelled yet again at the speed of Spike’s apparent recovery. During his disintegration in the lobby, he’d been barely coherent. Now, less than 30 minutes later, after a shower and copious mugs of blood, he was back to his old acerbic self – almost. With Buffy’s arrival in the kitchen, he’d disappeared into the walk-in larder and was rummaging through the freshly stocked shelves.

“You see that?” Angel whispered to Buffy. “How does he do it? Thirty minutes of screaming and yelling and he’s coping with major memory loss. Six weeks crazy in a school basement and he deals with having a soul!” He stared at the larder door. “It took me decades.”

“It wasn’t that easy, believe me,” Buffy replied. She raised her head from the carton of supplies. “And why did no one tell me he was back?”

“Before or after The Immortal?” Angel retorted. “He said he’d contact you when he was ready. I guess by the time he was, it was too late.”

Buffy flushed and they stood in silence for a while avoiding one another’s eyes.

“He never even called,” Buffy said finally. She placed the empty box inside the stack heaped beside the rear exit and turned to a pile of freshly washed Tea Towels. With a deep sigh, she began folding them, piling them neatly on the counter.

"Neither did you," replied Angel, watching the displacement activity in which she was engaged. "All I got was a 'no one trusts you’, from Andrew."

"Taking over Evil Inc. What was I supposed to think?" Buffy argued, smoothing the white and blue-checked cotton in her hands. “Besides . . .” She paused. Angel’s scowl reminded her of their last conversation about her feelings for both vampires. “He didn’t believe me, you know . . . at the Hellmouth.” She lowered her eyes, hiding the tears that were forming.

Angel’s face softened. “He did,” he said quietly. “But he didn’t want it to affect what you were going to do.”

Buffy pursed her lips. “Deciding what was best for me?”

Angel folded his arms. “If you believe that, then you really didn’t know him all that well. He came close to killing me over you after he recorporealised.”

Buffy looked up. “Yeah?” she said, hopefully. “I mean . . . not the killing you, obviously. Not that I haven’t come close to doing that myself a couple of times . . .”

Angel noticed the fleeting expression of optimism. “Maybe we should send him away?”

Buffy’s face hardened. “Not gonna happen. Not again.”

“Buffy, you’ve seen what happens to him when you’re around. When someone loses his memories, he becomes a different person. I know all about that.”

“No! We need him here.”

“Wes needs him here. We need you . . .”

“Shit!” The sound of breaking glass from inside the larder accompanying Spike’s expletive brought their squabble to an abrupt end.

“What are you doing in there?” Angel called to Spike.

“Finding something decent to drink,” came the muffled reply.

“You won’t find anything in there,” Angel dropped his voice “I hope.” He turned anxiously to Buffy. “He heard us. Tell me you didn’t stock up on drink.”

Buffy scowled at him and opened her mouth to respond, closing it again immediately as Spike emerged from the larder clutching a dusty bottle.

Angel recognised one of Wesley’s finest malts, a present from the Old Country he’d said it was; to be opened on a special occasion, like a wake. “Spike, before you open that and get thoroughly drunk, how much do you remember now?” He tried the diplomatic approach.

Spike perched on the edge of one of the kitchen work surfaces. “It’s coming back in short bursts,” he said, unscrewing the cap of the single malt. “Like the bloody trailers for Passions. Only making even less sense.” He laughed and took a swig from the bottle. “Bloke burns up saving the world just to be brought back and for what?” He stared into the space over Angel’s head. “Some tin pot god’s idea of a joke, that’s what.”

Buffy folded the last item and picked up the pile of towels in front of her. Spotting a door marked ‘linen’, she crossed the room and paused in front of it. She swung her head back towards Spike.

“You don’t remember why you fought for your soul, but you remember saving the world?”

“Don’t pick and choose the episodes, Slayer, the reruns schedule themselves.” He took another gulp of whiskey. “’Sides, not altogether convinced about the soul-having. Don’t feel any different.” He looked over at Angel. “As flies to wanton boys are we to the' gods; they kill us for their sport. Well sod that.” He stared at the linen in Buffy’s hands. “You doing the housekeeping now? Thought we had minions for that.”

Buffy bit back a response and opened the linen closet, clamping the towels under her chin with one hand and reaching for the light switch with the other. As she groped along the interior wall, a figure, clutching a knife, launched itself at her from the gloomy depths.

Before Angel could move, Spike launched himself from the worktop, pushing Buffy out of the way and sending the man sprawling onto the floor with one swift blow. Spike's hand automatically clutched at his head. "No pain!" he cried.

He flashed a look at Angel who smirked an 'I told you' at him.

"No chip. Right," Spike chortled. He offered his hand to help Buffy to her feet but withdrew it rapidly before she could take it.

Angel hauled the man up off the floor by his collar.

"What the hell are you doing in my linen closet? Our linen closet," he corrected swiftly at Buffy’s raised eyebrows.

“I . . . I was hungry. I found some food and was . . . ”

"Looking for napkins?" Angel finished threateningly.

The man’s face contorted in fear and he shrank back into his jacket, flinching in anticipation. Angel released his grip but stayed close, towering over the lightly built figure.

The man relaxed slightly. "Hey Man, I thought this place was deserted. Needed a place to hide when all the craziness started." He swung his head to each of them in turn. “You’re that Mr Angel guy. I d…d…didn’t know this was your p…p… place, I swear,” he stammered addressing Angel.

The double doors swung open and the man gasped fearfully. Illyria, still bloodied from combat, strode towards him, carrying a meat cleaver.

"Oh God, Oh my God. I'm gonna die," he squealed, sinking to the floor and covering his head with his arms.

"I am no longer your god," Illyria hung the cleaver on the ceiling rack and regarded the figure cowering at her feet, coldly. "This one is of no consequence. I would not waste the edge of a fine sacrificial blade on one such as he."

"He just tried to kill Buffy. That's worth a lot of consequences," Spike responded. He glanced up at the utensils hanging from the stainless steel hooks. “Sacrificial blades? Is that what they are. And here’s me thinking Cheffie used them to slice and dice for the casserole pot.”

Illyria regarded him coldly. “I know nothing of this ‘casserole.’ My Wesley does not regard it to be of any import. He merely asked that I return the blade to its keeper in the room of the sacrificial furnace.”

"You're them,” the man gibbered. “ But I'm not the one you want. I don't know where he is. I don’t know anything!"

Spike grabbed the man’s arms and peered into his face. "You're what's'isname from accounts, Miser Maurice, yeah that’s it." He grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him to his feet. "You owe me money, Mo!"

"You know him?" Angel asked incredulously.

"Yeah, played poker with him enough times to know he's a lying bastard. He knows plenty."

Spike pushed Maurice over to Angel who flattened him against the fridge door.

"Does he now?" Angel said morphing into gameface. "Now isn’t that interesting. Talk to me!"

Maurice choked, and paled at the sight of Angel's vampface. "They'll kill me if I tell you."

"I'll kill you if you don't." Angel shoved him hard against the refrigerator, denting it with the ferocity of the impact." So what's it gonna be, Maurice? Now? Or maybe later, depending on how fast you can run? Your choice."

Maurice swallowed nervously, and swung his head from Angel to Spike to Buffy and, finally Illyria.

"They're after the boy.” Maurice lowered his eyes. “Connor."

Angel recoiled at the name and dropped him. Maurice seized the opportunity and made a dash for the rear door. Spike started after him but was stopped in mid-stride by Angel’s voice.

"No, Let him go." Angel intoned flatly slumping against the fridge.

Spike frowned. Something about the name resonated against the back of his skull. "Who's Connor?"

Angel didn’t answer, looking instead at Buffy who had moved to his side.

Illyria broke the silence "The one who binds Angel to this world."

Spike studied Angel’s face. The look of desolation and despair was familiar somehow but he couldn’t recall when he’d seen it before. He clenched his jaw in frustration and turned his attention to Buffy. Her freshly washed hair fell to her shoulders, soft and golden, a glowing curtain caressing her features. Her face, bruised and battered still, bore the scars of the recent battle; a Warrior. Spike’s expression softened as his heart gave a lurch. God she was beautiful. He closed his eyes for an instant against the rising tide of confusion that swept towards him on the sentiment.

He swallowing hard, driving the sensation away, and opened his eyes. "Thought that was the Slayer," he said hoarsely.

Buffy smiled sadly. "No. Not me, Spike. Angel's son."


Chapter 5: A Never Dying Soul to Save

The fog had returned to Los Angeles, first to the bay, where it flowed under the pier across the eddies, and swirled on the remains of the ebbing tide; into the docks, where it rolled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollution of the dirty city. It lay out on the yards, hovering in the stacks of the cargo ships, drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. It crawled into the eyes and throats of the matelots loading the last of the containers onto an ocean bound carrier; streamed into the stuffy cabin of the skipper, asleep on his bunk, the afternoon siesta a preparation for the long night-watch ahead. Fog everywhere, searching, probing, slithering towards the city on the humid air, hunting an enemy, driving the daylight before it to a premature dusk.

The oppressive heat squeezed itself between the thin cracks of the window blind of the hotel room, the last beams of sunlight reduced to thin slivers in the dust-laden air. Illyria watched the motes glimmering in the shafts of light as they made their way towards the motionless figure seated in the armchair. Even on a stifling, unhealthy afternoon such as this, the blinds were closed and the room lit by candlelight until the electricity could be reconnected, no necro-tempered glass here to protect those for who the sun was a lethal weapon.

Spike lay sprawled on the small bed beside the wall, his arms across his eyes. Whether he was asleep or not, the other occupants of the room couldn’t tell. He'd arrived earlier for 'a little chat with The Green Man' who watched him anxiously for further signs of the instability he'd displayed in the hotel lobby. Throughout their conversation, Illyria and Wesley remained silent; each locked in an internal discourse of their own.

Illyria reached out and placed a hand in the stream of shimmering specks filtering through the blinds. She watched as the beam disintegrated, scattering glistening atoms across the surface of her leather clad arm, light sensitive particles travelling along the neural pathways, stimulating electrochemical activity inside her head.

"I am constrained by this shell, and yet I still perceive that which beyond the cognisance of the swarm of misery that is humanity." She stared into the space between her and Wesley. "Wretched vermin parasites breeding in these ruined shelters that are no more than prisons for ones such as I. You shut yourselves inside . . . in cages of bone, in rooms of brick, with mere slats of lense and glass through which you attempt to discern reality. "

“You lied to me.” Wesley spoke for the first time since Spike had entered Fred's old room.

“Is that not what you asked?”

“You said we’d be together . . . that I’d be where she was . . .” Wesley stopped, his voice breaking into a soft sob.

“ You returned to her place here. Surely this is where she is to be found?” Illyria crossed the room and contemplated the wall beside the bed. "These walls confine you, just as this bag of sticks stifles the glory that was once mine." She frowned in concentration as the thin mist obscuring her vision cleared. “There are hieroglyphs, impenetrable and meaningless to me, a web designed to deceive and entangle." Her head twitched, so imperceptibly that Lorne, watching her as closely as he did Wesley, missed it. "Hypermassively parallel-processed by human neural nets, causally dislocated by the logic paths that must traverse Ant Country, and therefore cannot be mapped."

Wesley's eyes opened wide and he looked at her for the first time.

"Illyria?" He rose from the chair and joined her beside the bed, peering into her eyes, searching for evidence of what he’d heard in what she’d just said. "Fred?" Wesley narrowed his eyes and turned from her to study the wall instead. "What do you see?"

Illyria swung angrily on Lorne, still seated in the chair opposite the one Wesley had vacated. “How can I be restored to where I wish to be when you have returned my guide to me unable to help himself,” she asked, her normally icy tone replaced by one that struck him with the ferocity of the thunder lurking outside the window in the oppressively humid air. “Humankind evolved from vampire-like parasites, insects that feasted on beings greater than they, their senses centred on blood and taste and feelings.” She turned to Wesley once more. Your sensory experiences confuse and conceal, just as the fog that moves towards us screens and filters, denying you clear sight of what you seek."

At the word 'vampire', Spike sat up and watched the fog, slipping into the room along the fading rays of sunlight, the luminous grains twirling like a movie projector, whirring in undifferentiated phosphor-lit blankness, performing their destiny. The image transported him to another place, another time. There a calculated nostalgia engine discharged its contents, memories of an earlier media era, one of bright bulbs, photochemical emulsions, reflective surfaces, and dust motes swirling into life, into light. There, where Drusilla made him, before the first film projector ever created the magic, his destiny was revealed.

"I see you. A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory. That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head."

Spike turned his head away from the ghostly figure of Drusilla forming in the mist gathering in front of the window. He scanned the wall, his face contorted with the effort of trying to catch a memory just beyond his reach. Something about Fred and these walls.

"No, not these walls, the other walls!" Spike vocalised the flash of intuition, to capture it, record it in the memory of the others so that it might not be lost again.

The first roll of thunder struck the window, causing it to rattle in its frame. All eyes turned from Spike as a second percussive shock shook the walls. The sound of raised voices, swiftly followed by the crash of a door slamming in the lobby below drove Lorne to his feet and out onto the landing outside the room.

8888888888888888888888888888888888888888
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"That was close. Too close. One more red light on Wilshire Boulevard and I'd've been the main course on Big Bad Wolf's dinner table," gasped the slight red-haired figure leaning against the entrance doors, hugging a backpack to her chest.

"This one brims with power." Illyria's appraisal carried a note of envy. "She will rend in two the curtains that cloak my Wesley's vision.

Willow glanced up at her, giving Lorne a small smile of recognition as she did so. "Hi all," she said shyly to the crowd that had gathered on hearing her dramatic entrance. She handed Buffy her backpack. "You should lock the doors," she said rapidly, "and the windows. 'Cos I'm pretty sure I was followed from the airport, and whoever it was that was after Angel . . . they're really pissed at me."

At a signal from Buffy, several slayers hurried to do as she'd asked. As the final bolts slid home on the main doors, there was a thunderous hammering on them from outside.

"Let me in! Let me in!" a voice shouted.

Willow pursed her lips. "Oooh, I know this one," she quipped. "Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin," she yelled at the door. She raised her arms and began a defensive spell, "Enemies, fly and fall. Circling arms, raise a wall . . ."

"I'm not the enemy." The frantic response interrupted her spell. "Tell Angel, I got down off the fence."

Angel appeared at Willow's side and began unbolting the door.

"What are you doing?" Buffy grabbed his hand to prevent him opening the final deadlock.

"It's Whistler," replied Angel. "He's on our side - usually."

Buffy raised her eyebrows and held her hands up in surrender. "Your house, your decision," she said evenly. "But if he starts with the cryptic comments again, I get first shot at him, right?"

Angel gave her a lopsided grin, opened the door and dragged Whistler inside. " Willow, you can carry on," he said, keeping a firm grip on his unexpected visitor.

" You mean start again," grumbled Willow. " The spell's been interrupted." She raised her arms once more. “Enemies, fly and fall. Circling arms, raise a wall. Caerimonia Minerva, saepio, saepire, saepsi.

The bolts flew back into position as the first wave of the hail struck the windows, washing the fog away, but leaving the air only marginally less humid.

Illyria made her way to the foot of the stairs and regarded Willow with a slight tilt of the head. "Why do you persist in this deceit?" she asked. " You have no need of words. The barrier was raised even before you spoke. Your power lies beyond speech, beyond thought."

Willow glared at her. "TMI," she said stonily. She gestured at the young slayers. "The children need the illusion of the ritual."

"You would resort to riddle to confuse me, just as the walls are beyond my ability to decipher them." Illyria moved to stand in front of her, their faces mere inches apart. She reached a hand to touch Willow's head but withdrew it as if stung by something invisible to all but the two of them. "This power. It is that which protected the one called Buffy in the mighty battle that should have been our last." Illyria bowed her head slightly. "In this time, in this place, truly, you are what is needed."

Whistler gave a slight cough. "You going to introduce us?" he asked, shrugging Angel's hand off his shoulder. "Name's Whistler. Some weather we're havin' huh?" He removed his fedora and scoured the lobby. "You got any coffee?" he asked Angel. "I could murder a dog."

Angel shot Buffy a warning look as she moved towards Whistler clenching her fist.

"You didn't come here to sample the 'cordon bletch'," Buffy snapped. "So why don't you tell us why you're here and I won't have to punch you on the nose."

Whistler ignored the threat. "You done good," he told her. "And you," he turned to Angel, "you ain't doin' so bad either, all things considerin'. Nice recovery from the mess Holtz left you."

He swaggered over to Spike, who had joined Lorne and Illyria. "But you - you traded the one thing you had goin' in your favour."

"We don't need this," Buffy's voice cut across the flow of Whistler's monologue. "You got somethin' to say - say it. Fast. Willow . . ." she made a door opening motion.

Whistler grinned at her. "You're still really mad at me for being right about Angelus and the sword, aren't you?" He turned to Angel. "You gonna let your ex throw me out and risk losing a lead to the one person who can make a difference in all this?" He walked around Angel and Buffy, glancing at the others as he did so. "Gotta say. Not the smartest move setting up camp here. Didn't take too long to find ya'. How long d'ya think it'll take The Forces to send in Quroroß?"

"Never heard of him." Spike spoke for the first time since Willow's arrival.

"Keeper of the Gate, he who will open that which is Pulon Odoß. ‘Then the Old Ones will walk once again, where we walk now. When the stars are right’ or, more precisely, 'when the spaces between the stars are more wide' and chaos will prevail." Wesley made his way slowly down the stairs, an open book in his hand. “We must find the other Keeper, the one who was charged with closing the Gate here on earth." "Willow," he said nodding at her. "I believe we have need of your considerable talents."


Chapter 6: In Your Patience Posses Ye Your Souls

Illyria watched the end of the blind cord swinging against window frame, caught in the slight flow of evening air blowing into the office behind the Hyperion's reception desk. Silence hung heavy in the room and, despite the small breeze, stillness pervaded the small space, as though time was holding its breath.

Click.

The early afternoon had witnessed a flurry of activity following Whistler's evaluation of the hotel as a location for the joint-headquarters. A series of phone calls to Giles instigated the swift evacuation of the injured to a 'safe' wing of the local hospital; they also brought disappointment for Buffy when Giles told her he couldn't leave Cleveland any time soon.

Spike's remark "Good thing too," had resulted in a shouting match that exhausted itself only when Angel steered the debate about Giles' merits as an ally around to possible alternative accommodation. Illyria knew that Spike wasn't ready to offer his basement flat, not yet at any rate. She judged he couldn't bear the thought of being cooped up in a small space with The Slayer until the turmoil in his mind had settled into something less traumatic.

Click.

Buffy glanced at Angel, opened her mouth to speak and closed it again swallowing hard. Only Illyria noticed the way she flexed her fingers, extending and curling them into her palms, regaining the control she'd lost in her argument with Spike.

Click

Buffy returned to the maps that she’d been studying, piecing together information Whistler had given her with Angel’s knowledge of the sewers and new intelligence from Giles. She was searching for a route that would take Angel, Spike and Illyria from the Hyperion to the ruins of Wolfram and Hart with minimal risk from whoever, or whatever, had followed Willow from the airport.

Click.

Illyria shifted her attention to Angel. He sat beside Buffy, motionless and expressionless since his diplomatic diversion of Spike's ill-timed outburst. He hadn't mentioned his own pressing desire to begin searching for Connor. Illyria was intrigued by his restraint.

Click.

A moth flew in through the open window, and battered itself ineffectually against the lampshade in an attempt to reach the light. Illyria inclined her head towards it and listened to the rustling of the wings. "I still hear the song of life," she mused, "in the movement of living things and in the passage of linear time" She turned her head towards Lorne. "But no longer the sound of the green. That has passed to another."

Rustle.

Click.

Lorne’s eyes flicked towards Illyria. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement before grimacing in recognition of his new role.

Click.

Rustle.

The moth veered away from the light and made its way back towards the open window. It faltered for a moment before negotiating its way across the window box full of dandelions and chickweed. Lorne watched the insect's progress. How swiftly the weeds had colonised and dominated the tiny space, once tended by his own hands, bent on bringing order and light to the darkest corners of the city that had adopted him. Fear and uncertainty pulsated from the former Karaoke Host as he wondered if he was really cut out for the task with which the Forces of light had entrusted him.

Click.

A sudden movement from Spike broke the stillness. He tapped his fingers rapidly on the desk in front of him, before jumping to his feet. He began to pace. Like a caged animal, his loping, feline stride measured the breadth of the office again and again, impatient for escape from its confines.

"Haven't they finished up there yet?" he asked jerking his head in the direction of the upper floor. "You'd think Glinda and Head Boy could have worked something out by now. How long've they been at it?" He grasped Angel's wrist and peered at his watch.

Angel snatched his arm away. "Quit complaining, Spike, they'll be finished when they're finished."

"Well, why can't we go do something while we wait?" Spike shot a glance at Angel. "What about that boy of yours. Doesn’t he need finding before Evil catches up with him? You finished that route, Slayer?"

Angel stiffened and looked across at Buffy. She rose wearily to her feet and moved towards the door. “I need to check something with Giles before . . .”

A loud crash from the upper floor was followed by the sound of splintering glass. All eyes swung in the direction of Fred's room directly above their heads, bringing to an abrupt end to what Buffy was about to say.

"Sounded like the window," observed Spike.

"Uh - do you think someone should go . . .?" Lorne asked rising from his chair.

"Wesley said they'd call if they needed help," Angel replied. He cocked his head, straining to hear for any signs of distress through the ceiling.

**********************************************

"Sorry!" Willow grimaced at Wesley. "The opening spell kinda rebounded on the window."

Wesley sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Not to worry," he said kindly, "I have every confidence . . ."

"This is not the kind of stuff I'm used to dealing with," Willow said solemnly. "There's more here than just concealing magic. There's some kind of manipulation of time going on. This is big, cosmic stuff. I don't think I'm going to be able to break through by myself. I'm not even sure I should try." She cast a sympathetic glance at the former watcher as he sank forlornly onto the bed. He clasped his hands together on his knees.

Willow sat down beside him and touched his shoulder gently. "I know what it's like," she said softly.

Wesley raised his eyes and looked at her for an instant before staring at the floor once more.

"To lose someone, just when you’ve found them again," Willow went on. "It's the most terrible thing in the world. And you'd do anything, even go against the forces of nature, anything to get them back. But you can't . . ."

"Fred wasn't taken by natural forces." Wesley cut Willow off and looked at her steadily this time. "She died horribly, and slowly, and . . . bravely, by the design of a merciless mystical being."

Willow examined the walls again. "I can sense something there," she conceded, "but the way through is blocked. I need more to go on." She paused, unwilling to broach a subject that had once been so painful between her and Buffy. "Do you know where you went," she asked finally, "when you were dead?"

Wesley reached for the book that lay beside him on the coverlet. "I was only gone a little while," he answered. "It was dark. There wasn't a sense of being in any particular place," he gazed at the walls, "more a sense of not being finished, of having something that needed doing, if only I could remember what. A voice called me into the light, naming me 'Heimedall', telling me my work was not yet done." He gave his head a small shake and sighed again. "And then I was here, in this room, clutching this manuscript."

Willow twisted her head trying to read the cover. "May I?" she asked holding out her hand.

Wesley handed her the leather-bound tome. "Watcher's Diary," Willow read aloud. "Observations of the Soul named Heimdall - crossed through - Wesley Wyndam-Price - substituted." Willow blinked slowly. "Interesting. Do you remember writing any of it?"

"I haven't had time to go through it all yet," Wesley replied holding his hand out for the book's return. "The final sections are in my handwriting; the research I undertook at Hamilton's suggestion, just before Angel decided to take out the Circle of the Black Thorn." Wesley opened the volume at the first page. "But there are many more contributions by many different hands, beginning with Heimdall's own; the one I read aloud on the staircase."

Willow squinted at the archaic print Wesley held before her. "It's not in English!" she cried. "Why is it never in English?"

Wesley gave her a lop-sided grin. "A cynic would say it's the Powers' way of leaving us open to being misled, but I rather think it's because the writer wasn't an Englishman."

*****************************************

"Wyndam-Price is so easily deceived." In an upper room in City Hall, Rutherford Sirk looked down at the Eleanor Chambers fountain in the square below. "There really was no need to remove him from Wolfram and Hart to mislead Angel about the Shanshu. Price would have misinterpreted the text we provided himself if his previous track record is anything to go by." Sirk turned round and addressed the figure seated at the table behind him. "What do the cards reveal about the other vampire with a soul, now that the Senior Partners have shown a renewed interest in gaining his services?"

A thin, lace-clad hand turned the first card in the centre of the Celtic cross pattern. "The King of Cups. My naughty boy, what have you been doing since I lost you?" Drusilla smiled vacantly up at Sirk. "I lost three Daddies. Did you know?" She swayed in her seat, moving to an unheard song. "Three Daddies," she intoned. "The second one killed my first Daddy. And then I lost the 'Our Father' to the darkness." Drusilla picked up the next card. "Hm - mm," she giggled, "then I lost my boy." She turned the card. "Queen of Swords. Naughty girl, she stole both my boys away. The Father, the son . . ." she paused. "I forget what comes next."

A flash of rainbow-coloured light from the square below caught Drusilla's attention and she wandered away from the table to look out of the necro-tinted window at the fountain. It formed a dandelion-clock pattern in the centre of the marble circle, throwing rainbows into the sunlit spray. Drusilla clapped her hands excitedly. "Oooh, such pretty flowers! I used to play with the dandelions when I was little," she said. "Me Mum told me not to bring 'em indoors; they'd make me pee the bed, she said." Drusilla laughed and began to sing "Piss on Lee, piss on Lee. Dunno why she called me Lee though, my name was . . ." she stopped again, staring into Sirk's eyes until he was forced to drop his own and turn from her. "I forget, " Drusilla continued brightly. "Daddy made me forget so many things. Grandmother says it's 'cos he was jealous. Jealous of what I could see. But that's not why." She began to sway again to the soundtrack in her head. " I used to play ever so many games with flowers, with my Sweet William." She began to sing again. "Mummy had a baby and its head popped off." She raised her thumb quickly and snapped the flower head off an invisible dandelion with her nail. "And now all the family is lost, and Princess is all alone.”

Sirk frowned and appealed to his colleague. "Remind me again why we need this lunatic's help," he murmured.

"The body that has commissioned the rebuilding of Wolfram and Hart's operation here in LA is in receipt of intelligence that suggests William the Bloody is in a vulnerable state at present and she," the speaker gestured at Drusilla, " is best placed to take advantage of that vulnerability."

"In other words, you're not telling me," Sirk said haughtily.

"Mr Sirk, you are here as caretaker until a suitable replacement can be found to the former CEO. Your job is to oversee operations, temporarily, without asking questions. You will be suitably rewarded, and, believe me, you are much better off not knowing certain things."

"Oh, I believe you, Councillor," replied Sirk. "I just don't know if I should trust you."

"Better not," was the enigmatic reply.

*******************************************

"It's not that I don't trust you.” Buffy glared at Spike. “Giles can cope without me. He's got Andrew."

Spike snorted. "Just because the little squirt found the balls to double cross us once, doesn't mean he kept them. Giles is right, if there's trouble in Cleveland, you should be there."

"Oh so all of a sudden Giles is right? What happened to ‘That Wanker’? Or ‘Mr Needs-Someone-Else-to-Do-His-Dirty-Work’?"

Angel stepped between the combative couple. "We can't stay here," he said evenly. "The team needs organising somewhere else. Giles suggests Cleveland."

Buffy turned her scorn on Angel. "When did you get so reasonable about agreeing with Giles?"

"When you got so blinkered about the difference between what you should do and what you want to do!" Angel shot back at her.

Before he realised what he was doing, Spike sprang to Buffy's defence. "That'd be round about the time you sold everyone out for Connor," he said, spinning his Grandsire round to face him. "Yeah," he sneered at Angel's look of surprise, "Lorne filled me in on a lot of things."

Angel's shoulders slumped in defeat. He glanced at Buffy from under downcast eyes. "I'm sorry."

Buffy reached out and touched his arm. "It's OK. I understand. If it had been Dawn . . ." she trailed off and cleared her throat of the emotion that had built inside her. "That's why I understand that you have to stay and look for Connor."

Illyria plucked a dandelion flower from among the majority that had run to seed. She examined the petals. "Dents de Lion," she announced. "The flower is well named." She turned towards the three figures standing before the open window. "My Wesley will not leave the room until the riddle of the walls is solved. The Red Witch has pledged to help him. I will remain alongside my guide to this world."

Lorne levered himself from his chair and approached the former God King. "And I should stay 'til the last curtain call," he said, his voice trembling a little, "and as long as the hooch lasts in the bar, I'll mix up the best bunch of cocktails to see me through the run." He threw an arm over Angel's shoulder. " Why don't we send Whistler and the slayers over to Giles? Whaddya think, Big Guy? "

"Once he's told us where we can find this 'mysterious one who will make a difference'." Buffy picked up Lorne's lead eagerly.

"In the meantime, what say we go sift through the wreckage of the offices formerly known as Wolfram and Hart, as planned, and see if we can pick up a lead on your boy?" Spike offered Angel the only sort of apology of which he was capable. "'Sides, I need to replace the coat," he indicated a heap of leather in the corner waste bin. "Seem to remember a promise of ten from our Italian friend with the double helping of bountiful assets."

"I marked the route on this." Buffy handed Spike a sheet of paper. "I’ll make a start on Whistler while you guys are across town,” she said opening the door. “Bountiful assets?" she whispered to Angel as he headed for the rear exit.

Angel shrugged "Search me."

*****************************************

Back in Civic Hall, Drusilla turned the next two cards in the cross. "The Ace of Cups - Love! My sweet William told Daddy ours was a forever love." She gazed wistfully out of the window. "It was 'til she came and stole him away." She pressed her hand to her heart as she looked at the second card. "Seven of swords." She sighed and ran her hand along her cheekbone and across her brow. "My poor boy. Someone's stolen away his love, tisk, tisk. How will he live?" She turned the next card and gasped with pleasure. She clapped her hands with delight. "The Devil! Oh joy, my Spike will come home, back to the dark, to Princess.”


Chapter 7: Soul Unto Soul Glooms Darkly

Buffy was taking a coffee break, having temporarily given up trying to find Whistler in the labyrinth of the Hyperion’s corridors. She sat alone in the hotel entrance lobby, listening to the young English slayer who had disappeared into the kitchen earlier in the evening, to ’do a spot of baking’ to satisfy her sugar craving. As she worked, the girl was singing along to her CD player, with a sweet, pure, but untrained voice. Buffy caught snatches of songs, none of which she recognised, each time the girl passed near the doorway.

The smell of warm baking wafted into the room as the kitchen doors swung open with the final words of another obscure piece of Brit Pop.

“Ta da!”

A plate bearing pieces of moist cake, a strong scent of lemon drifting upwards from the gleaming icing along the inner edge of each slice, appeared on the table in front of Buffy.

“Lemon Drizzle, courtesy of Jane Asher – and my Mum’s Red Cross parcel,” said the young woman, with a tinkling laugh. “Thought you’d like some with your coffee.” She indicated the pot Buffy had made earlier.

Buffy smiled up at her and, noting the CD headphones still firmly clamped in place, just nodded her thanks.

“You girls mind if I join you?”

“You sure your name’s not Wimpy?” Buffy asked without looking up. “You do that appearing thing anytime there’s food.”

Whistler grinned at her and poured himself a mug of coffee, its comforting aroma mingling with the tang of lemon. “Been called a lot of things in my time,” he chuckled. “Wimpy ain’t one of ‘em. Don’t know as I see myself as side kick to no guy wearin’ a sailor suit and eatin’ leafy green stuff.” He gestured at a small potted plant standing beside the crockery and wrinkled his nose. “That,” he shuddered “gives me the creeps.”

Buffy followed the line of his outstretched arm. One of the slayers had placed the plant there to ’brighten the place up’ before the evacuation of the injured had begun. It seemed innocuous enough; a few delicate lilac flowers, purple-streaked at the centre of each of the five petals, perched precariously atop a multitude of tooth-edged leaves. Buffy pulled the triangular label from the compost and peered at it. “Pelargonium citrosum. Water regularly. Do not overwater,” she read aloud. “Leaves may be used to add flavour in baking, beverages and salads.” Buffy shot Whistler a questioning look.

“Salads,” he replied by way of explanation. “One of the Dark Side’s inventions.” He helped himself to the largest slice of cake and settled into the armchair beside her.

*****************************

In the gloom of Civic Hall, Drusilla waved away the minion offering her a tray bearing a crystal decanter of blood. “Take it away,” she said stonily. “Got no use for blood when there’s seeing to be done.”

She turned away from the window, leaving the view of the darkened city streets and moved back to the table upon which the Celtic cross of tarot cards, five of them still face down, lay. “What will the future hold for my boy now that his love’s been taken from him?” She selected three cards and held the first to the lamplight. “Three of Swords. Sorrow. Poor Spike, I can feel his loss, it aches and burns inside like hunger.”

*******************************

In the square below her, Angel, Illyria, Spike and Lorne emerged from one of the many underground passages Buffy had marked on the map. Spike paused and narrowed his eyes as he searched the mid-floor windows of City Hall.

“Spike?” Angel stopped walking and turned to face the younger vampire.

Spike shook his head. “Nothing. Thought I felt . . .” He shook his head again. “’s nothing.” He stared at the fountain in the centre of the square. “Why’s this called Dandelion?” he asked peevishly, gesturing at the centrepiece.”

Lorne stepped beside him. “The patterns it makes when it plays,” he explained. “Like a giant seedhead.”

“Yeah? Well, looks like someone knocked the head off now,” Spike retorted, his eyes drawn back to a window as a shadowy figure moved deeper into a room and an unseen hand drew the blinds. “Dru had one of those fly-catchin’ plants once. Kept it as a pet. Lived longer than anything else ever did.” He dropped his gaze from the fourth floor offices. “Why dandelion?” he asked, returning to the topic of the fountain. “Why not something – I dunno, less weedlike?”

Lorne noted the increased agitation in his voice. “Someone wiser than me once said that ‘weed’ is just a word for ‘plant in the wrong place’.”

“Words!” spat Illyria. “They spew from your mouths like vomit, pouring from your very entrails filth that conceals true meaning.”

Spike turned his head and frowned at her. “Thought you’d all done with the muck metaphors, Blue. What brought that attack on?

Illyria surveyed the buildings surrounding the square, lifted her head and sniffed the air. “My nostrils are filled with the scent of reeking dung hills and puddles of piss.”

Spike surveyed the surrounding buildings. “Got that right,” he snorted. That’d be the seat of government over there, where they’re full of it.”

Angel shot him an irritated glance and scanned the deserted street anxiously. “Let’s get movin’. Less time we spend out in the open, the better.”

“Not much further,” Lorne added, folding the map and putting it in his pocket. That way.” He pointed eastwards across the square.

“Time is not our ally,” agreed Illyria, moving swiftly ahead of the others in the direction Lorne indicated.

*********************************

Buffy reached out and touched one of the geranium leaves, crushing it between thumb and forefinger, releasing a barely perceptible odour of fresh citrus.

“What did she mean?” Buffy asked, bringing her fingertips to her face and breathing in the scent.

Whistler looked up from his plate and tilted his head at her. “Pardon me?”

“Illyria. She said Connor binds Angel to this world.”

“See,” Whistler took another bite of lemon drizzle, “so long as the kid is safe, Angel’s willing to go out fightin’.” He considered the statement for a second “If he knows the kid’s in danger, he’s gonna stay put.”

“What’s he like - Connor?”

Whistler swallowed the remaining mouthful. “Better ask the man himself. Ain’t my place to say.”

“Where is your place?” Buffy held the cream jug out to him.

Whistler shook his head. “The big shake-up happenin’, forces gatherin’, Dark Alliances bein’ made like you never seen before.” He reached out for another slice of cake. “Decided to even the odds for the Light a little.“ He paused and watched as Buffy poured herself more coffee, added cream and stirred it slowly as she waited for him to continue. “Your guy knows all about choosing sides.”

“Angel?”

“Your other guy. The one who don’t know why he made the choice in the first place now.”

“Is he still my guy?” Buffy asked ruefully, watching the cream swirling in spirals on the top of the dark aromatic liquid.

*******************************

Drusilla turned the next card. She gasped at the image; fire crowned a tower crumbling from the force of a lightning strike. Two figures hurtled to the rocks below, falling from the disintegrating keep. “My poor boy’s world is turned all upside down.” She began to croon softly to herself, her hand worrying her brow. “Poor little lamb who’s lost his way. Baah, bahh.” She raised her head, looked towards the window, and lifted her eyes to the sky she knew was there behind the drawn blinds. “Princess will help you, my darling. Help you find your way back to what you really are.”

*******************************

“He’s still who he is,” Whistler told Buffy, “but with a chunk missing from his memory, all bets are off about who he chooses next time. This is a whole new ballgame and I ain’t seen no rules posted.”

“How about you, Whistler, whose rules are you playing by?”

“I don’t play by no rules. Strictly freelance. Always have been – ‘til now.”

Buffy stared into the remaining dregs at the bottom of her coffee mug, now cooled to murky mud coloured sludge. “Then why hide what you know – about the one we need to find?”

“Gimme a break. I ain’t used to this, I’m usually the one doin’ what you’re doin’.

Buffy raised her eyebrows at him over the rim of her mug.

Whistler wiped the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand and gave her a small sheepish smile. “To keep me safe, I guess.”

Buffy rose to her feet and crossed the room to the window and gazed out into the darkness. She stood for a moment before turning and looking steadily into his eyes, folding her arms as she did so.

“C’mon,” said Whistler anxiously. “How long you gonna keep me around once I hand over the goods? Guy like me – short, no negotiable skills? What else I got? There ain’t no place for me.”

“We could find you a place,” said Buffy, returning to the table and plucking the remaining cake from Whistler’s plate. “Mmmmm,” she murmured, biting into the icing, “lemony.”

*******************************

Upstairs in Fred’s room, the aroma of peppermint with sharp, more acidic undertones, pervaded the air. Willow, seated beside the window, her laptop open in front of her, closed her eyes in concentration. She’d placed candles beside Wesley, coloured lights, crème de menthe darkening to deeper blue, yellow gold paling to lemon, resonating the soothing perfume emanating from their depths.

“Are they working?” asked Willow.

“What?” Wesley looked up from his books; tiredness etched across his eyes which were deep in shadow.

“The candles”, Willow indicated with a flick of her head, her eyes firmly closed.

Wesley ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. “I do seem to be feeling a little less . . .”

“Angry?” Willow supplied the word.

“Conflicted, I was going to say. But as to deciphering the book.” He sighed heavily. “I seem to have lost . . .”

The computer gave a single beep. Willow scrutinised the monitor and smiled. “I kinda missed this,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “hitting the research with a Watcher.”

“Have you found something?” Wesley asked, rising to his feet.

“Only the Wolfram and Hart LAN,” beamed Willow, unable to keep the pride from her voice.

“How on earth . . .” Wesley strode across the room and peered over her shoulder.

The monitor screen was empty, save for the intertwined letters WRH forming part of a logo, a crest bearing a Yale rampant on a black background.

“Easy as nailing jelly to a tree,” grinned Willow.

Wesley raised his eyebrows quizzically and examined the screen. “I’m not familiar with that page. Can you go in deeper?”

Willow’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “Shouldn’t take too . . .”

“Wait!” cried Wesley. “Go back. Let me see that image again.” He returned to the table, picked up the Watcher’s Diary and carried it back to Willow. He studied the logo carefully, then flicked through the pages of the book. “There,” he said, showing Willow a page upon which was a drawing of the same mythical creature as the crest on the webpage. “Ram’s horns beneath a pair of antlers, body of a stag, the head and feet of a wolf. “It’s like no Yale I’ve ever seen before.”

Willow studied the page, scanning the ancient text for signs of Wesley’s translation. Faint pencil marks in the margin indicated he had at least made a start on this section of the manuscript.

“Where’s your notes?” she asked, anxiously.

Wesley rifled through the loose sheets stuffed into the back of the book. “Yes,” he smiled triumphantly. “Let me see . . . many armed powers . . . alliance . . . ah, here it is. ‘Oh accursed letters, combine in one all ages past, and make one live with all. Make us confer with those who are now gone. And the living dead unto counsel call.”

“A Super Power? Like Super Buffy.”

Wesley gave her a quizzical look.

“The – uh - adjoining spell,” she stuttered excitedly, “when me, Xander, Giles and Buffy made a combo-Buffy to fight Adam.

“Seems like,” agreed Wesley. “But that’s not all. There’s worse.”

“Worse than combo-evil?” Willow paled and smiled bravely. “What could be worse?”

“I’m not exactly sure about some of the references in the next paragraph,” Wesley confessed. “I’d like to work on it a little longer. In the meantime, try going deeper into the new website and see if you can find any personnel lists.”

**********************************8

Angel stared up at the gleaming blue glass tower. He’d stopped so suddenly that Spike careered into the back of him.

“Watch it!” Spike snapped “Hand signals next time, Gramps.” When Angel didn’t respond, Spike followed his gaze upwards. “Well,” he said, eyes opening wide. “Looks pretty upstandin’ for something you said was fallin’ down round your ears.”

Angel frowned and searched the front of the building. The entrance doors sported new glass, etched with what looked like a family crest. He moved closer and examined the shield, tracing the lines forming the Yale rampant; ram’s horns, antlers, wolf head, and claws, with his fingers.

“New tenants done a spot of renovating already?” asked Spike peering into the darkened atrium.

“New improved old ones.” Angel replied, pointing at the crest.

“Looks like they used up all their energy on the bodywork,” said Spike. “Inside’s like a war zone.”

“Any sign of life?” asked Lorne nervously.

Spike rattled the doors and cocked his head, straining for sounds of alarm from within. “Nope. No way in, either. Back door?”

Angel nodded.

Minutes later, they emerged from the empty underground car park into the ruined interior of the reception area. They picked their way gingerly across the rubble, probing forward by torchlight. Fallen masonry cast long shadows ahead of them, magnified in the arc of their beams.

Lorne looked around nervously and flinched at a sudden noise from beneath the pile of splintered wood and plastic that had been Harmony’s desk. He relaxed slightly as a rat skittered out from beneath the debris. “I thought they were the first to leave,” he joked.

“That’s ships, not evil corporate headquarters,” replied Spike, squinting into the gloom. “Besides, this one isn’t sinking. Not if the quickfit job outside is anything to go by.”

Angel paused and sniffed the air beside another heap of fallen plaster and wall cladding. “D’you get that?” he asked.

The slightly sweet smell of decay that permeated the room was stronger now. Illyria stooped and picked a broken flowerpot from the pile, a broken geranium head clinging stubbornly to the jagged edge of earthenware. Bright splashes fell slowly to the floor, drops of blood-red petals drifting across the grey grime. “Men’s lives are as brief as the flowers,” she mused, “destined all too soon to putrefy into the stink of flesh.”

Lorne clamped a hand over his nose and fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, overcome by the stench of faeces and urine; and something worse. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” he moaned.

“You ’d think they’d clear the rubbish in here before waxing the bodywork,” observed Spike. He heaved a chunk of the Wolfram and Hart sign clear of a pile of twisted metal, revealing Hamilton’s body beneath.

The foetid smell of rotting meat stung Lorne’s eyes and he moved swiftly away, fighting the bile that rose in his throat.

“Go see if my spare coat’s still in the training room,” Spike called to him. “Air’s prob’ly fresher in there.”

“I shall accompany you, Green Demon,” declared Illyria, striding after Lorne “There is something I also wish to find - for my Wesley”

Spike crouched down beside Hamilton’s body and turned the head to one side to examine the neck. “Took a good chunk out of him, Peaches. ‘S that how we got ‘supercharged Angel the dragon killer’?”

Hamilton’s eyes flew open. “Only temporarily,” he sneered. “Whereas with the Senior Partners, it’ll be a permanent arrangement courtesy of Management.”

“You say something?” Angel called from his old office doorway.

Spike recoiled at Hamilton’s words. He staggered backwards as Hamilton’s body rose from the floor and stalked away into the dark.

“Spike?” Angel hit the security lighting switch and hurried back to where he could see Hamilton’s body lying motionless and silent.

Spike looked around wildly. “He spoke to me. He’s not . . .” His eyes focused on the corpse beside him.

Angel swallowed the knot of concern forming in his gullet. “Shadows. Your mind playing tricks.” He held out a hand and hauled Spike to his feet. “Stay close.”

He led Spike back to the CEO’s office and cleared a space on the sofa, brushing rubbish and dust aside with a sweep of his hand.

“It never ends, does it?” Spike said morosely as he stared at the dirt. “Is dust immortal, then?”

As he spoke, the few remaining airborne particles began spiralling upwards, swirling and glinting in the glow of the subdued lighting, taking shape, solidifying into a slender female form.

Drusilla’s voice floated from the dusty mirage, twirling a bright yellow dandelion flower between her fingers. “Golden lads and lasses must, as chimney sweepers, turn to dust,” she sang.

Spike leapt to his feet and grabbed at her. “You’re not her!” he snarled, as his hands passed through her laughing image.

“No! I’m really not.” Drusilla giggled. “You know who I am, William,” she growled, morphing into vamp face. “Don’t you remember?”

“No, I don’t!” Spike yelled. “I don’t remember.”

Angel gripped his arm. “Spike. Concentrate on my voice. There’s no one here.”