Some days were horrible from beginning to end. This was one those
days. First, Lilah woke to find that Wesley had escaped during the
night, leaving nothing behind him but twisted sheets. Then she
arrived at work to discover her assistant had been replaced with a
Gonets demon whose azure skin prevented it from going downstairs to
Starbucks for Lilah's double espresso. Next came a meeting with
Linwood and Gavin to review their client's list of wants, needs, and
desires and, yet again, Lilah was the only one with the balls to ask
the logical question--how?

Gavin suggested seeking the assistance of Dr. Fetvanovich.

"That's problematic," Lilah said dryly. "Fetvanovich was murdered in
the lobby of the Hyperion, or have you forgotten our failed attempt
to grab Darla and her bad seed?"

Gavin's discomfort showed before he regrouped and suggested, "Dr.
Melman, then."

Lilah arched an eyebrow. "The man who attached Lindsay's evil hand?"

"Do you have a better suggestion?"

"Has the natural way gone out of style?"

Gavin laughed cynically. "Natural? That's an interesting word
choice."

"Enough." Linwood rose from his seat at the head of the conference
table and eyed Gavin and herself. "I don't care how you choose to do
it, just take care of this situation. Be proactive."

Easier said than done. After reviewing her limited options, Lilah
agreed to contact Dr. Melman and his demonic medical assistants. Her
conversation with the physician/alchemist was brief, but the doctor
agreed to meet her client and discuss possible solutions for
the. . .situation.

If pressed (with hot pokers and threats of painful death) Lilah would
admit to having doubts about whether the doctor could prove useful.
But in her business, appearances meant everything, so she agreed to
deliver Dr. Melman to her client's door for a meeting. If nothing
else, her client would be reassured that Wolfram and Hart was
dutifully attempting to fulfill their part of the bargain. Gavin, of
course, insisted on tagging along.

Now, Lilah sat in a limousine, gazing out the window in order to
avoid looking at the demon, Dr. Melman's medical assistant, who sat
opposite her. The black-robed creature had no face. Beneath its
hood there was only a gaping black void, causing Lilah to remember
Nietzsche's aphorism about looking into an abyss to discover the
abyss looks into you.

The silence grew oppressive so she glanced at her other companions.
Dr. Melman concentrated on working on his laptop computer and
appeared irritated when she tried to strike up a conversation. Lilah
gave the doctor a coolly, vacuous smile and glared at Gavin before
returning her attention to the slowly darkening landscape outside the
window. She read the road sign as they sped by it—WELCOME TO
SUNNYDALE.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Music vibrated through Buffy and through the metal catwalk where she
stood overlooking the dance floor. Strobe lights and writhing
teenagers added to the throbbing atmosphere of the Bronze. It was
all very hedonistic and seductive. Thoughts, images, and memories
of sensations teased Buffy, hovered around the edges of her
consciousness, refusing to go away no matter how hard she tried to
force them out. They were part of her. He was part—

=Bad thought. Evil thought. Evil thought about an evil. . .thing. =

Buffy pulled away from the railing. She shouldn't call Spike that.
She knew she shouldn't. It was the easy way out--easy to call
Spike `it' and `thing,' easy because it allowed her not to think or
feel. She could concern herself only about herself. Want him. Take
him. Have him. Walk away when she was done. What did it matter? He
wasn't real. He was just a thing.

The problem was, he wasn't. He was more.

Buffy moved through the crowd and toward the stairs.

Becoming involved with Spike had been all too easy and, looking back,
all too disturbing. She had allowed need to overcome good sense.
She had allowed desire to overcome judgment, and she had allowed
shame to overcome. . .everything. It had been a confusing time, she
told herself. But it was over--over and done--if only she could
forget.

She should focus on something else. She was in the Bronze to patrol,
not to contemplate her belly button. . .or other things. Insects and
Kermits weren't the only creatures running around Sunnydale in
hordes. Vampires were out in force.

In the last few years, evil undead threats had been pretty minimal.
A little staking in the graveyards had kept things tame, but in the
last week Buffy had seen more vamp action than she had in years. It
hadn't been like this since the Master, Angelus or Spike had been the
Big Bads in town.

Buffy shivered and reminded herself that the Master was dead, and
Spike and Angel had left town under more painful conditions. But,
as she peered into the shadowed corners of the Bronze, Buffy couldn't
escape the fact that there were still vampires here. She could sense
their presence. She could feel them--a brush across her senses,
familiar and still somehow strange. She felt their energy vibrate in
the air, and it inspired anxious butterflies to kickbox in her
stomach. Bad things were close.

Buffy strained her eyes to stare into the darkness, thinking if she
stared long enough she could see something other than dancers frozen
in eerie tableaus during momentary flashes of light as strobes kept
time to the music. She could see what she was up against. She could
see them waiting.

Hyperawareness tingled across Buffy's nerve endings as the band
sang, ~Wishing you were here.~

And something caught Buffy's attention—a flash of moonlight colored
hair. = Spike?=
 

~…Guess I should watch what I wish for…~

It couldn't be him. Clem had said Spike wasn't coming back. Ever.
Three months wasn't `ever,' not even close. It couldn't be Spike.

She should think about something else, *someone* else, someone
like...Dawn. Where was Dawn?

Buffy had left Dawn downstairs while she searched the balcony for
vampires, but with the mega wattage vamp vibes that Buffy was
getting, she was kicking herself for having left her sister alone.
Leaning over the rail, Buffy searched the crowd for Dawn and felt an
eerie sensation moving across her skin. Someone was watching her,
waiting, and again, Buffy saw the flash of familiar platinum white.

~. . .Right on time, so invite me in. . .~

Okay, no joke, that had to be Spike. It *had* to be. Buffy pushed
her way through the crowd on the stairs and plunged into the chaotic
mass of humanity on the dance floor.

~. . .This is where your trouble begins. . .~

Buffy stopped, a small, still form in the midst of bodies in motion.
Everyone was moving, but Buffy felt paralyzed. What she was doing?
Was she trying to find Spike or hide from him? If she came face to
face with him, what would she say? What would she do? Would she
pound him into the floor for having hurt her, or lift her chin and
apologize for the myriad ways she had hurt him?

Buffy stood on her toes but saw nothing but shoulders and backs. She
hated being short. In crowds like this, she didn't have a chance of
finding Spike. Or course, there was the `Slayer sense' thing, but
her senses were short circuited by the multiple vamps in the room.

~I like you better than the other ones.~

Most vampires made Buffy feel itchy, like wearing wool on a hot day,
but Spike was different. He was supernatural cashmere. Of course,
cashmere cost more than Buffy could afford, but she couldn't deny
sometimes wanting it, even lusting for it. She knew how wonderful it
felt to wrap herself up in it, to feel it caress her skin. It
felt. . .good.

~You say I'm right when I know I'm wrong~

See, this was where she had gotten herself into trouble. It felt
right. Spike felt right, but he couldn't be. He was Spike. Spike,
the Slayer Killer. Spike, the Menace of Europe. Spike, the soulless
thing.

~We could never just get along~

Sure Spike had changed. Circumstances had changed him, but could
anyone change so much that they became the opposite of what they had
been before?

~You're so damn relentless.~

Buffy caught the arm of a young girl she thought she
recognized. "Liz?"

The girl shook her head. "Leslie."

Buffy frowned. Had she known that? "Um… But I *do* know you, don't
I? I mean you know my sister, right?"

"Dawn? Sure."

"Have you seen her?"

"She's by the stage--"

Buffy was already turning away, moving relentlessly toward the stage,
but she remained aware of Spike's elusive presence near her. . .so
near her. She could almost smell his aftershave, sharp with the
scent of limes and mellowed by the fragrance of sage. She remembered
it so clearly. She remembered wondering how a vampire shaved without
a mirror.

~And you will find ~
~The two of us are like two of a kind~

Buffy could recognize Spike in the dark. She could find his
particular vibration even in the midst of all this noise and chaos.
That should frighten her, shouldn't it? Nothing inside her should be
so attuned to him.

~This hits you harder than the other ones~

Buffy grabbed the arm of a young, beefy looking kid who had been
nuzzling a girl on the dance floor. "Hold it, Buddy. That's a no-
no."

He was no kid. He was a vampire. The stray kind that wandered
Sunnydale for no rational reason Buffy could think of other than to
make her life unpleasant.

The vampire blinked. "What the—"

"Outside. Now. Let's get this over with." Buffy was bored and
impatient. She didn't have time for this.

The vampire scowled. "Back off or when I'm done with her, I'll look
for you."

Buffy crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "Not exactly shivering in
my boots." She stopped and stared. "Damn. I've scuffed the toe."

The vampire tried to pull away. Stupid vampire. Buffy twisted its
arm until it cried out in pain. "Stop wasting my time," she bit
out. "Let's go."

Buffy dragged the vampire through the crowd, glancing over her
shoulder to search one last time for a different creature of the
night, for the one she had been hoping and dreading to find.

Why had Spike come back?

~'Cause home is where the hurt is~ the band sang as the Bronze's back
door slammed shut behind her with a solid, metallic clank.

With the steel door closed, the difference in noise level from the
club to the alley was startling and eerie. Inside, the music had
been deafening, loud enough to drown out thought and conversation.
Here in the damp narrow space between the Bronze and the abandoned
neighboring building, it was quiet. Not even cars could be heard in
the distance. There was only a low, nearly inaudible bass beat
throbbing in the dark.

Buffy let go of the vampire. It cautiously stepped away from
her. "Who are you?" It asked.

Buffy reached into her back pocket and pulled out a stake. She
twirled it in her hand. "Who do you think?"

The vamp looked nervous. "I wasn't doing anything," it protested.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Oh yeah, sure."

"No. Honest, I—"

She dusted him. Why waste time with banter when she was in a hurry
and in a bad mood?

Buffy walked to the door. The metal was cold against her palm as she
slid her hand around the handle. It didn't budge. =What the…? Damn!
= It must be some emergency door. It had locked behind her. Buffy
would have to walk around the building to get back in. She kicked
the door, (What did it matter? She'd already scuffed her boot) and
turned to find—

Vampires surrounded her. One. Two. Three. A quick count came to a
total of ten. Well, wasn't that nifty? Ten to one. Not the best
odds Buffy had ever faced but do-able. Might be tough though.
Perhaps even dangerous. If she messed up even a little bit, Buffy
could find herself in big trouble. Then she saw a familiar angular
face and athletic form half shrouded in shadows—the man…demon she had
searched find.

Buffy smiled. Ten to *two* odds. Now, *that* sounded right.

With her hands on her hips, Buffy looked at her circle of
opponents. "Who died and left you guys an army of vamps?" She dusted
Vamp #1 and grinned. "Oops. Guess you did."

Buffy kicked Vamp #2 and spun on her heel to punch Vamp #3 before
staking Vamp #4. It exploded in a cloud of dust that settled onto
the damp ground at Buffy's feet. She ducked to avoid the blow of
pissed Vamp #2 then stood and backhanded vamp whatever number. Buffy
lost count as one of the monsters jumped onto her back. Losing her
balance, she stumbled backward but used her momentum to slam into the
wall. The vampire on her back grunted before she suddenly dove
forward, tucking and rolling in an acrobatic move before rising
smoothly to stand and staking Vamp #3.

Still facing eight hostile vamps, Buffy looked at Spike. "You're
supposed to help, you know!"

Spike arched a scarred brow. "I am?"

His richly timbred voice set off tremors in Buffy's stomach--which
she ignored as she straightened her shoulders. "Duh. Sort of out
numbered here, or haven't you noticed?"

He shoved his hands into his pockets and slouched casually against
the wall. "I noticed."

Vamp #5 attacked as Buffy moved deftly to the right. It missed her,
but Buffy didn't miss it. Another cloud of dust settled to the
pavement. She glared at Spike.

Pushing away from the wall, Spike slowly circled her. "I'm supposed
to help." He spoke the words as if they were foreign to him. He
cocked his head to one side. "Why?"

Buffy opened her mouth and searched for an answer but came up with a
big fat nothing. Why had Spike *ever* helped her? For fun? For
violence? For sex or money? . . .For love?

Buffy's gaze locked with Spike's. He smiled, but it was a cold,
empty expression. He could be really scary when he smiled.

"No answer?" When Spike approached Buffy Vampire #6 rushed him.
Spike ducked, and the vampire tumbled to the ground, landing in an
indignant heap on the pavement. Spike planted his Doc Marten firmly
in the center of its chest though his attention remained tightly
focused on Buffy. "Don't worry, luv." Spike ripped off the
vampire's head. "Haven't got an answer myself. Haven't had one for a
very long time."

Vampire #7 looked from Spike to Buffy to Spike again. It
blinked. "Wait! I get it." It pointed at Spike. "I know you.
You're the Slayer's pet. Spot."

"Spike."

Buffy could see a muscle tense in Spike's chiseled jaw.

The vampire rolled its eyes. "Whatever."

Spike drew closer using a graceful stride that seemed to be exclusive
to Spike. "That what I am? " he asked Buffy and there was a sharp
edge under Spike's even tone. "Your pet? Trained to sit and beg?"

Vampire #7 began to back away, but Spike caught its collar and
dragged it with him as he strode toward Buffy. "Am I your dog?
Something to keep chained outside your door? Guard the little sis,
watch your back, but don't allow it inside the house. Never forget
it's a mongrel unworthy of attention. That it, pet?"

"Going a little far with the. . . uh. . ." Buffy looked at
Spike. "Is it a metaphor, simile, or allusion?"

"Don't you know?"

Buffy avoided answering the question by dusting Vampire #8.

Spike chuckled and shook his head. "'Course you don't know." He
released the vampire he'd been holding and sidled even closer to
Buffy. He placed his hand on the wall above her shoulder. "It's none
of those things." Spike leaned close and whispered in her
ear. "It's my *life.*"

Buffy blinked.

"Oh, right," Spike bit out sarcastically. "I don't have a life. Not
real. Just a thing." In contrast to the suppressed anger in his
voice, Spike's touch was tender. His fingers were cool and gentle as
they brushed her cheek. "I'm nothing."

Spike pulled away, leaving Buffy slumped against the wall. His gaze
narrowed and there was the hint of a sneer in the curl of his
lip. "But you, luv, are a ball busting *bitch.*"

There was a scuffling sound in the alley. Spike and Buffy turned
their heads to see the two remaining vampires run for their
unlives. "Cowardly buggers," Spike muttered. "Piss poor fighters
too."

But the creatures were forgotten even before they disappeared.
Spike's contemptuous gaze settled on Buffy. "Little girl with
little rules," he mocked. "Simple. Nothing to stress her heart or
mind. Keep it easy. Don't shed light on the dark corners of your
world. Might have to face the truth and that's not allowed."

Spike started to walk away. Like *hell* would she let him walk
away.

Buffy tackled Spike, throwing herself against him, wanting to drive
him into the ground, but Spike anticipated her attack. He moved
with lightning speed and preternatural strength, pushing her off
him. He sent her flying across the alley and watched her flail
helplessly before landing ignominiously on her butt. Spike stalked
over to her, emotion flowing off him in raging waves. He glared at
Buffy as she stared back from the ground.

"It's not Saturday," he snarled.

The steel door of the Bronze swung open and from behind it, Dawn
called, "Buffy?"

Spike disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Dawn walked around the door and frowned when she found Buffy sprawled
on the pavement. "What happened to you?"

"Vampire," Buffy said somewhat unsteadily as she rose to her feet and
brushed the dust off her pants.

Dawn looked surprised. "One got the best of you?"

Buffy took three steps toward the mouth of the alley. She stopped
and stared into darkness in Spike's wake. "Not even close."

It's not Saturday. What the hell did that mean? But a memory teased
Buffy—the memory of the very first time she had laid eyes on Spike.

"What happens Saturday?" she had asked on that night long ago.

Spike had told her, "I kill you."

Buffy grabbed her sister's hand. "Dawn, let's go."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It was after 11:00 pm when Giles stepped out of the taxi to stand on
the sidewalk outside the Magic Box. His legs ached. His back
ached. And he was convinced that coach air travel was a method of
torture more sadistic than anything the Spanish Inquisition had
dreamed of. Ignoring his deep-seated longing for a shower and hot
cup of tea, Giles approached the front door and smiled when he saw
the light on. Trust Anya to keep late hours. He could almost hear
her explanation about the vast number of under-serviced magic patrons
who preferred to shop after dark.

Giles opened the door to find Anya sitting alone. She wore a pale
floral dress whose primary color was almost-but-not-quite yellow and
her hair color of the week was a flattering mid-brown with hints of
auburn. She lifted her head at the ringing of the bell and a
blindingly bright smile lit her beautifully refined features.

"Giles!" she cried. "You're home!" And Anya rushed to greet him
with an enthusiastic hug.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
[italics]
~Two Days Earlier…~

Spike looked poleaxed by the sound of Buffy's voice, and it wasn't
difficult to understand why. It was far easier to let something go,
to leave well—or bad—enough alone when there was no call from home
begging for help.

Spike handed Giles the phone and crossed the room to stare out the
window. Lydia and Reggie goggled with shock and fascination as Spike
stared down at the sunlit street. Willow was far more accustomed to
Spike's reckless disregard for personal safety so she wasn't
surprised. She did wonder what made him do such potentially self
destructive things. It was almost like he enjoyed playing chicken
with the sun. Or maybe he simply refused to accept the limitations
of his state.

Spike's expression was grim, and Willow resisted the urge to tell
him that he was brooding. She was sure he'd comically protest, "I do
*not* brood!" But, given the circumstances, Willow kept her mouth
shut, watched and waited as Giles hung up the phone and described
recent events in Sunnydale.

"Plagues!" Reggie cried, his pudgy face filling with excitement
bordering on glee.

Giles looked grim. "Yes, quite."

"Something bad is brewing in Sunnydale and it's not May?" Willow
almost winced at her own attempt at gallows humor. No one answered
her question.

Lydia murmured to herself, "Frogs and insects."

Spike, who still stood near the window, looked over his
shoulder. "Come again?"

"Plagues," Lydia repeated. "Frogs, insects. Doesn't that sound the
least bit familiar? "

Spike moved away from the glass and asked with disbelief. "Are you
suggesting these are *Biblical* plagues?"

Reggie's attention snapped to Spike.

"What?" Spike demanded defensively. "There *was* a William the
Bloody before a Spike the vampire, you prat."

Yes, Willow acknowledged. There had been a William the Bloody, and
more and more Willow was coming to realize that she and the gang had
gone years without having a clue as to who that man was.

=Beloved Brother. Beloved Son.= That had been written on his grave.
William's grave. *Spike's* grave.

Beloved. Spike. Spike was a *person.* It shouldn't have been a
revelation, but it was. How had they missed something so obvious?
The answer wasn't flattering to herself or her friends. Willow
couldn't help remembering the upset and concern Xander and Buffy had
expressed when faced with a vampire version of herself. She couldn't
help remembering Buffy's desperation to save Angel when his soul had
been lost. She couldn't help remembering and contrasting it with
their treatment of Spike.

Would Spike's mother or sibling have given him a crayon speech?
Judging from the things Willow had learned by sitting in on Spike's
interviews, the things she had witnessed herself, and the
inscription on William's grave, Willow would bet that, yes, there had
once been people who would have wanted Spike to be saved. And a
question that had been niggling at Willow since the night Spike had
rescued her in the alley sprung to full blown life in her head.
Exactly how good must a person be for any hint of that goodness to
remain inside a vampire?

For Willow, it was no longer a question of whether or not William had
been a good man. He had been. It was only a question of how
good. . .and what exactly made herself or Angel more worthy of saving
than him?

The damning answer, of course, was nothing. More damning still, was
the fact that both Angel and herself had needed to be forcibly
prevented from their world-destroying rampages. The only reason they
hadn't succeeded was because someone had intervened. Someone *else*
had prevented the destruction and removed responsibility from their
shoulders. . .and they had been granted fresh starts. Spike on the
other hand, had made decisions on his own to help save the world not
once but twice. And as for taking responsibility for moving toward
change, Spike had done nearly all the heavy lifting on his own.

While everyone pondered Lydia's observation about the plagues, Giles
removed his glasses and polished the lenses. "I hesitate to place
Biblical significance to these events. At least insofar as Judeo-
Christian religion is concerned."

"As the Judeo among the Christians, thanks for that," Willow quipped.

Reggie glanced hesitantly in her direction. "Actually, I'm a
Buddhist."

Giles blinked. "Truly? I never would have guessed." He donned his
glasses and assumed an authoritative tone. "As I was saying, I
hesitate to assign religious significance to this, though naturally
Biblical text may be a useful place to begin research. It would be
advisable to examine texts of correlating cultures—"

Spike began pacing. "Spit it out, Rupes. You don't know what this
means so you want to go into research mode."

Giles eyed Spike. "Yes, Spike, I believe I said that."

Spike muttered under his breath, "Poncy bugger could have said it in
four words, but did he? No."

And that's when all hell broke loose. It was like when a car wreck
happened; time seemed to stretch into something just a bit short of
infinity. It gave a person time to observe events in exacting detail
but there never seemed to be time to react.

Willow saw the library door open behind Spike, and Quentin Travers
step into the room carrying a loaded crossbow aimed at Spike's back.
Travers let the arrow fly even before Willow could draw a breath to
scream and gory memories of Tara's murder flooded her mind.

Reggie, standing closest to Spike, dived toward the vampire, shoving
Spike far enough to the side so that instead of the arrow plowing
fatally into his heart, it lodged high in Spike's shoulder. Giles
charged Travers as the vampire and the young Watcher landed on the
floor with audible grunts. Giles then slugged the head of the
council, knocking the Travers's crossbow to the ground.

Spike didn't stop moving after hitting the floor. His landing drove
the arrow through his shoulder causing Spike to yelp in pain as he
rolled to his feet with the acrobatic grace of a performer in Cirque
de Soleil. Reggie squeaked and backed into the table as Spike's eyes
flickered from blue to gold and his handsome visage transformed into
something unnatural and terrifying.

Giles backhanded Travers, a brutal blow that Willow cheered. Then he
shoved Travers into the wall with such force that books fell from the
shelves.

Willow heard Spike roaring like an angry, wounded lion, and she
turned to see Reggie sag with against the table leg when Spike's
attention shifted from himself to Travers. Spike charged toward the
head of the Council.

"Spike!" Giles barked.

Spike stopped in his tracks, his game face fading to be replaced by
his angry human features. Spike sucked in his cheeks and lifted his
chin in a frustrated gesture Willow recognized from the countless
times she had seen it before as Spike grabbed the crossbow off the
floor and broke it.

Giles pulled Travers away from the wall and forced him into one of
the table chairs.

"Why?" Giles demanded in a sharp, clipped voice. "The games are
over, Quentin. Now, tell us why!"

Travers glared at Giles. Fury darkened his ruddy features as Travers
announced with implacable arrogance, "Because it is what should be
done. It is what must be done."

"Spike is no danger to anyone."

Travers laughed. "You think not?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you truly believe the potential for destruction in that
unnatural thing can be contained by a microchip? When is it ever
that simple?"

"Simple or complicated. It doesn't matter." Giles slammed his hand
against the table. "Tell us *why.* Why spend all this time
interviewing Spike? Why kill him?"

"It's not about him," Travers snapped. "That *thing* is nothing.
Vampires are interchangeable."

"But it wasn't just any vampire you wanted brought here. It was
Spike."

"Spike *is* slightly different," Lydia observed as she helped Reggie
off the floor. "Otherwise you never would have wanted the interview."

Travers sneered. "Not so very different, Lydia. You only believe so
because his anti-hero traits appeal to your overly romanticized
sensibilities. He is what they all are—"

"Then why is Spike the one demanding your attention." Giles eyed the
broken crossbow laying on the table. "And your rusty assassination
skills."

"Because time has run out. Your phone call from the Slayer means
that time has run out."

Giles gazed at Travers suspiciously. "What do you know about the
phone call from Buffy?"

"Bastard probably has the phone bugged," Spike growled.

"Nothing so elaborate." Travers's voice dripped with
condescension. "Simple eavesdropping."

"Which still leaves the whole `why' thing flapping in the breeze,"
Willow murmured.

Travers laughed. "What is always the answer for us? A prophecy."

"Spike is part of a prophecy?" Lydia looked surprised, intrigued, and
excited.

"Brilliant!" Reggie exclaimed.

Spike shook his head and looked trapped somewhere between disgust and
despair. "Bugger it all to hell."

Giles was not as easily distracted. "Which prophecy in particular,
Quentin?"

"The End of Days."

That grabbed everyone's attention.

"What do I do?" Spike asked in shock.

Willow observed, "I'm guessing from the assassination thingie that it
must not be good."

Travers crossed his arms in an impatient gesture. "I don't know what
he does or if he does anything at all."

By that point even Giles looked confused. "At the risk of becoming
tedious, again I ask why? Why assassinate Spike?"

Travers leaned forward. "It doesn't matter *who* he is, only that he
is part of the Order of Aurelius. The order must be complete for the
prophecy to be fulfilled."

Spike cocked his head to one side. "Complete? What the bloody hell
is `complete?'"

"Seven," Travers said. "There must be seven representatives of the
Order."

Reggie frowned. "But. . ." He glanced at the other occupants of the
room then grabbed Lydia's notes. He offered them to Travers as if
they were evidence. "There aren't seven members of the order *now.*
There's no reason to kill Spike."

"Bloody right!" Spike exclaimed. "Most of the so-called order has
been dusted, or have you forgotten?"

Giles nodded. "True. The Master, the Anointed One, and Darla have
been removed from the equation."

"So that leaves only Dru, the Poof, and me. Three, not seven."

"Your prophecy has been averted, Quentin," Giles said with
irritation. "The Order has been broken. This has been an exercise
in futility."

"You bloody fool, when is there ever a dearth of vampires?" Travers's
tone dripped with contempt. "They are replaceable creatures. All
that is needed is for one of them to make more."

Reggie shook his head. "I still don't understand. Spike's chip
prevents him from siring anyone. Angel's soul would most likely
prevent him. That only leaves Drusilla. Why murder Spike? Drusilla
could simply—" Looking embarrassed, Reggie averted his gaze from
Spike. "Make a replacement."

Traver's dark, bushy brows lowered. "She doesn't know that there
*needs* to be a replacement, now does she? It might slow things
down." He gestured to Spike. "If that. . . that *thing's*
execution buys the world one more hour, one more day, then it is
worth it."

"You bloody, arrogant *fool!* Giles yelled. "You assassinate what
may prove to be a valuable ally so that he can be replaced by the
minion of a madwoman?"

"It's a chess game, Rupert."

"So you thought you would leave an opening for the evil side to cry
checkmate?"

Traver's face became a mottled red. "Think, Rupert! Who is the
Slayer more likely to defeat, her ex-lover, a creature who has built
its reputation on defeating Slayers or a nameless, faceless minion?"

"You aren't giving the Slayer proper credit," Spike said
quietly. "She would kill me." He avoided looking at Willow.

"Would she? Then why hasn't she?" Travers turned to Giles. "All it
would take is the Slayer hesitating one moment too long, Rupert.
Another incident such as the one with Angelus and, we will *all*
suffer the fate of your Miss Calendar."

Giles stood absolutely still, his breathing somehow both controlled
and labored. With agonizing slowness he faced Spike. Spike squared
his shoulders and lifted his chin, his defiant brand of raw courage
prominently on display.

"We can't kill Spike," Willow said softly. No one seemed to hear her
so she repeated her statement more sternly. "We can't kill Spike.
Spike isn't Angelus. He. . ." She paused and searched for the right
words. "Even back then, even with Acathla, even before. . .all the
stuff we've gone through, Spike helped us. Buffy couldn't have
fought both Angel and Dru and won. She had Spike's help. And. . .
uh. . .Giles, if Spike hadn't stopped Angel from torturing you. . . "

Giles relaxed his stiff stance. His shoulder's relaxed. "For he
today who sheds blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne'er so
vile. . ."

Willow frowned as the words teased her. She knew they were Henry the
V, but. . . She remembered. It had been the night they had faced
Glory. Spike and Giles had been gathering weapons and,
uncharacteristically, the two Brits had spoken in turn, "We few, we
happy few, we band of. . .buggered."

Giles had sighed and sat on the corner of the table. "We shan't kill
Spike." He focused on Travers. "Now, exactly what are the specifics
of the prophecy we are speaking of?"

Travers reached into his pocket. Spike growled, a low, unnerving
sound.

"Slowly," Giles instructed.

Travers produced a torn piece of parchment with an elaborately
ornamented ouroborus prominently displayed on the upper left hand
corner. It was the emblem of the Order of Aurelius. Giles took the
paper and spread it out on the table. Lydia, Reggie, Spike and
Willow gathered around him and peered over his shoulder. Quickly
scanning the text had made it clear that the Order's fate was tied to
the fate of the world and the plagues disturbing the Hellmouth.
Though the parchment was incomplete and the lower portion had been
ripped away, there was no room to doubt that the End of Days was near.

"I shall return to Sunnydale immediately," Giles announced. "The
rest of you—"

"The rest what?" Spike tone and stance were belligerent. "Sit on
our duffs being useless? That's fine for Watcher wankers but not
me. Where you go, I go."

Giles shook his head. "I don't think that's wise. The Order of
Aurelius--"

"You don't tell me what to do, Watcher."

Giles stood toe to toe with Spike. "Quentin may be an arrogant arse,
but he's right."

Spike shoved the bloodied arrow he had earlier pulled from his chest
into Giles's hand. "Want to finish the job?"

Giles threw the arrow away. "You do not need to be near Sunnydale.
I will take care of this. If the Order of Aurelius--"

Spike circled the Watcher. "You know, Rupes, I remember Dru having
you in thrall in under five minutes."

"And who is the man she seduced into becoming a monst—"

"Guys!" Willow interrupted. "Speaking for the rest of us, can we
drop the Dru thing? The thrall and seduction stuff is kind of ookie."

"I'm going to Sunnydale," Spike insisted.

"I won't allow that."

"You don't *own* me!" Spike spat. "Where did you—*any* of you—come
by that idea? Because you pay me pin money for blood and smokes? Do
you truly believe I can be bought so cheaply?"

Willow opened her mouth in a small `O' as she realized that every
now and then Spike slipped up and sounded like the erstwhile
Victorian he was.

"For educated men and women, you are a stupid lot." Spike stopped
pacing and looked at them with a mixture of irritation and scornful
disbelief. "Do you think I couldn't go to that bar in Soho where I
found Red and not find a demon or fledgling or *three* to do my dirty
work?" He looked at Giles. "What's happened to that prodigious
brain of yours, Rupes? I commanded a gang of vampires when I first
came to Sunnydale. Do you believe I forgot *how*? I do what I do
because *I* choose to do it. Not you. Not the Council. Not even
the Slayer."

Spike tossed Lydia's notes into the air and watched them flutter to
the floor. "Every time I answer your bloody stupid questions it is
because I *choose* to answer them. Every time I sit in a room filled
with people who hate me, who mock me to my face or behind my back, it
is my choice. Mine. I choose these things. So don't think you have
any say in what I do—"

"Spike!" Giles said commandingly.

"What?"

"This ends now. Clearly you have resentments that have festered for
some time." Giles checked his glasses for non-existent lint. "And,
I must admit, not all of your complaints are without merit. But
before you rush to impulsive action, sit down and think."

The two men stared at one another, judging each others
merit. . . .and Spike did as he was told. He sat. Giles circled the
table, laid his hand on the vampire's shoulder. "*We* will figure
out what we must do."

And maybe, for the first time ever, Spike was included in the "we."
[end italics]

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Spike stood in the shadows and watched Buffy and Dawn hurry down
mainstreet. He had an advantage over other potential Slayer
stalkers. He didn't need to follow her, which she might sense.
There were only a few places Buffy would go at a time like this.
Spike could afford to wait.

Buffy had chosen the Magic Box. It made little sense, but habits
were sometimes difficult to break. Spike watched her open the door
and pull Dawn inside.

The window of the shop glowed a warm, incandescent yellow in stark
contrast to the deep indigo night, and in its light Spike could see
the joyful expression on Buffy's face when she first saw Giles. She
threw her arms around the Watcher, hugging him close, and Bit was
only a step behind. Both of Spike's girls -- he still thought of
them as his girls-- were safe and happy in Giles's comforting arms.

"Welcome home, Rupes," Spike murmured quietly to the darkness.

How very different was Rupert's welcome compared to his own. In the
alley behind the Bronze Spike had looked into Buffy's eyes and seen
confusion, anger and what had to be hate. . .and it hurt. It wasn't
that he didn't deserve it, and it wasn't that he hadn't seen hate in
her eyes before. Spike had always seen it. He had tried to deny
it. He had tried to live with it, but over the years it had caused
an aching emptiness inside him that had grown to a gaping abyss.

When Spike had left Sunnydale last spring he had done so with a sense
of purpose and determination he had rarely felt in his long
existence. There had been a fire inside him to *prove* to Buffy
that he was real, that he could change, that he was more
than `nothing.' He had dreamed of arriving at her door, presenting
his hard won soul and saying, "Here. This is what I've done. It's
the right thing. I did the right thing. You said I couldn't, but I
did. That's something, right? That's important. That's *real.*"

Damn it! He really was a pet begging for the approval of its master,
just a pat on the head. . .only it really wasn't that simple. It was
all so much worse.

Spike sighed as he considered his sad little dream of a prodigal's
return. Dreams were painful things, painful because they so rarely
resembled reality. And his dream was no less painful because it had
been small.

Spike's grand soul quest had resulted in a guilty conscience, dreams
turned to nightmares, and a disgust of his very existence. He had
wanted to walk up to Buffy and tell her what he had done. What he—
not Angel but he, William the Bloody Useless--had done. Spike had
never wanted anything quite so badly. . . and there was nothing in
the world that he feared more.

What if she didn't care? What if it meant nothing? He feared it
meant nothing and he *knew* it wasn't enough.

Spike had to laugh. The cosmic joke was on him. All that he had
really accomplished was screwing himself over more than ever. For
everything that had changed, for every way that *he* had changed, it
still wasn't enough. It would never be enough. He still loved
her. He still hated her. He was in hell.

But he would help her. That was the plan. He and Rupert agreed that
Travers had a point about Buffy not having a moment of hesitation
should things go wrong. For Spike to remain in Sunnydale, he needed
to break any tie between himself and the Slayer. There shouldn't
have been a tie left—not after everything that had happened—but Spike
needed to be sure. He needed to make the division between himself
and Buffy clear to all the creatures haunting the ugly underbelly of
the city. He needed the demon world to know Spike was back, and he
was a bloody animal. If he was to attract Dru's attention he—

Spike turned to see Vampire #9 smack him in the face with a two-by-
four.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
 

Buffy moved out of Giles's arms and said, "Spike's back."

Dawn pulled away from the group hug. "What?!" Her eyes were wide
and she looked shocked and angry. "Talk about nerve."

"Dawnie, we still don't —"

"Why didn't you tell me?!"

Buffy blinked. "Why didn't I. . .? Dawnie!"

Dawn crossed her arms and glared in a way that all teens -- but
especially female teens with the last name of Summers—could do
amazingly well. "I thought we'd worked this out. No more secrets.
No treating me like a brain-damaged twelve-year-old."

"I don't treat you like you're brain damaged."

"Why didn't tell me Spike was back?"

Buffy sighed. "I'm telling you now. Besides, until a half hour
ago, I didn't know myself."

"And?"

Buffy glanced away from Dawn and looked to Giles. "And I think
things could be bad. *Spike* could be bad. Again."

Giles didn't say anything, but he looked grim.

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Like Spike wasn't bad before?"

Buffy squirmed. Her insides clenched. Had Spike been bad? Had he
really? Buffy remembered the shock she had felt when Spike had been
unwilling to help her in the alley, the stunned disbelief that had
coursed through her as she had considered his saying, "It's not
Saturday." Was that a threat? Would Spike threaten her? Even last
spring--even after...everything--Spike hadn't threatened her. He had
been out of his mind, dangerous, and out of control, but there had
been no malice in his intent. Even in her hurt and rage Buffy had
known Spike hadn't *meant* to hurt her. . .but tonight? This was
different.

When exactly had she come to believe that Spike—flaws, amoral value
system and all—was on *her* side, that he would always be on her side
no matter what? He was the thing that would not leave--stubborn,
implacable, unshakable. He'd loved a madwoman for over a hundred
years. He'd loved Dru even after she had pushed him away, insulted
him, humiliated him, and dropped him, because to Spike. . .love
wasn't a fly-by-night thing. Was that it? Was that the way Buffy
had become convinced that even if things had gone nuclear in a
spectacular way, Spike would still be waiting in the shadows ready to
offer whatever help she needed whenever she needed it even
if. . .even if. . .

"Things are different now," Buffy said softly.

"Has he gone evil?" Anya was always one to cut straight to the heart
of the matter even if she only had a blunt butter knife to do
it. "He's been gone a long time. He may have found someone to take
out the chip."

Buffy dropped her arms to her side when she realized she was hugging
herself. "I don't know."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he came back to kill all of you. You
know what humans say."

"No, what do we say?"

"Payback is a bitch. Of course the phrase was originally a reference
to me. I *am* the—" Suddenly aware of three pairs of eyes trained on
her, Anya amended her statement. "In this case payback is a pissed
off vampire. You can't blame him. "

"I can't?" Part curious and part furious, Buffy asked, "And why is
that?"

"You turned him into your minion, and you weren't even nice about
it. "

"I did *not* turn Spike into a minion."

"Then what was he? He wasn't your partner. He wasn't your employee.
And don't say he was your friend. You let Xander bully him while you
were having sex with him."

Dawn looked outraged. "That is *so* none of your business!"

"I wouldn't blame Spike if he tortured each and every one of you,"
Anya said defiantly. "You deserve it."

Dawn's face flushed red. "How can you say that? Is this
some `demons stick together' thing?"

Anya lifted her chin. "Maybe. Why shouldn't I stick up for him? Not
like anyone else will stick up for us."

"You're Buffy's friend, that's why not! And. . .and. . .you slept
with him!"

Giles glanced at Anya, surprise evident on his face.

Dawn continued to sputter. "You slept with him, and you're Buffy's
friend and. . .and that's just *wrong.* And gross. Evil, wrong and
gross and—"

"I'm Buffy's friend?" Anya asked in surprise. "Since when? Since
when has she been *my* friend?" She faced Buffy. "Name one time
you've been my friend. When have you helped me with anything?"

Buffy appeared non-plussed. She looked around the room as if she
could find a memory or an answer. "There was that Olaf the Troll
thing."

"Slaying doesn't count."

Buffy stepped back. "It does so count. Why doesn't it count?"

"It's Slaying. You would have tried to kill Olaf anyway. I'm
talking about me. When have you ever talked to me or even thought
about me other than how I could help you?"

"Well. . . I. . .uh—"

Anya looked down at Buffy—really looked down—exploiting every inch of
her natural height advantage plus her three inch heels. "Never.
that's when," Anya said flatly. "Xander left me on my wedding day."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "This story is getting old, Anya. You're
going to have to let it go sometime."

"This isn't about Xander!" Anya protested. It was weird seeing her
angry—really angry. "Xander left, and there I stood in room full of
people I had to face alone. I had to make all the explanations. I
had to talk to the caterer and pay for the limousine that we didn't
even use. I had to arrange for the flowers to be thrown away and the
decorations taken down and the hall cleaned. I had to pack my dress
and sell it on E-bay. I had to do all of it. Alone. Where was
my `good friend' Buffy? Or my friend Dawn or Willow or *anyone*?"

"We offered to help."

"I must have missed that part. Guess I was distracted by the eye
rolling and irritated sighs." Anya's lips thinned and her brows drew
together as she frowned. "Want to know what emotion I got off you
when I my vengeance powers came back? I got that you felt bad
because my wedding disaster put a damper on *your* happy day."

Buffy had to grace to blush.

Anya continued in righteous rant mode. "The only person, the *only*
one who listened to me, who took my side was Spike."

Buffy opened her mouth.

"Shut up, I'm not finished." Anya sounded exactly like the vengeance
demon that she was—powerful and pissed off.

Buffy crossed her arms and waited.

"You stood there, just *stood* there while Xander attacked Spike and
said the horrible things to me. Why did you do that, Buffy? Because
you were my friend or because you didn't want Xander's sexist,
patriarchal, annoying-even-if-I once-thought-it-was-cute self-
righteous temper turned on you?"

Dawn protested, "You're not being fair about any of this."

"Fair? Was it `fair' that Willow destroyed the capital enterprise
where I barter goods and services?" There was confusion and a hint
of pain in Anya's voice. "I helped you guys. More than once. It
was against vengeance code. I shouldn't have done it. D'Hoffryn put
it in my yearly report, and now I'm on demon probation. But I helped
anyway." She angrily brushed away a tear. "When Willow's world
destroying rage was over, when she was gone, I *still* had a mess to
clean up. Alone. Again." She looked at Dawn. "Did any of you
help? Did you pick up a broom or try to glue together the crystal
Zorrbesky sphere? Did you lend a hand to put the chicken feet back
in their jars? Did you do anything? Ever?"

Giles coughed.

"Except Giles," Anya corrected. She turned her tear-stained face
toward him and said sincerely, "Thank you for the help with the
insurance company. I don't know what I would have done without you."

Giles looked a little embarrassed but his gaze steadily held
hers. "It was the least I could do."

"And more than anyone else did." Anya's shoulders slumped and her
head hung low as she walked toward the front of the shop.

Buffy stood in the middle of the room for a long moment. Her
expression remained inscrutable before she turned to walk into the
Danger Room. Giles's expression was conflicted. It was clear that
he wanted to follow Buffy, but then he glanced at Anya who sat alone
weeping. Dawn followed Buffy to the back room.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A few things Spike had learned in his years in Sunnydale. First, if
you think you're ahead of the game, you're not. Second, if you think
things cannot possibly get worse, they will. And third, being hit in
the face hurt--especially if the pummeling was done by a Slayer or a
two-by-four. The two-by-four in question had been used to beat him
unconscious.

Spike groaned and tried to move. He had no idea how long he had been
out but suspected it had been more than a few minutes, because the
alley vamp had found time to throw Spike in the boot of a car like he
was a corpse on the Sopranos. Did they throw dead bodies in the boot
on the Sopranos? It seemed like a mobster thing to do, but Spike
wasn't sure whether it was a passé for the Sopranos. The crypt had
never had cable.

Spike shifted his weight , trying to find a comfortable position in
the cramped space. This wasn't the first time he'd spent time in a
boot. Being a vampire and having sunlight issues, camping out in his
car had been a necessity on more than one occasion. Of course, that
had been the spacious DeSoto and this -- Spike squinted and read the
tag on the underside of the boot lid ­ was a 2001 Volkswagon Beetle.

He'd been kidnapped and thrown into the boot of a bloody *Beetle*?!
How humiliating. He'd bow his head in shame if he had room to move.

Spike looked around. There was no way to get to the tire iron; it
was stored with the spare tire beneath the floor board. But Spike
knew there would be no problem pushing down the back seat and
bursting into the driving compartment to show minions what a pissed
120+ year old vampire could do. However, even as Spike contemplated
doing just that, he dismissed the idea. It would be the quick and
easy way to shoot to hell everything he had done tonight.

The whole point of arguing with Buffy in front of witnesses had been
to attract the attention of the evil influences currently causing
trouble in Sunnydale. He'd done that. Now he needed to lay back and
wait. . .which would have been easier if the barmy vampires in the
front of the car would shut up and stop arguing over the radio!

The vamp called Jake wanted the alternative rock station while Dexter
insisted on easy listening. Bloody hell, they were playing Air
Supply. How fucking evil was that?

After a half hour of eardrum torture involving Barry Manilow's "Copa
Cabana" and Debbie Boone's "You Light Up My Life," the car came to a
halt and the radio was mercifully turned off. Spike heard the
minions talking as they walked around the care. There was a long
pause.

"What's that?" Jake asked.

"What's it look like?" asked Dexter. "It's a gun. Cool, huh? I
figure if he rushes at us when we open the trunk, we shoot him."

"He's a vampire, you dipwad."

"Well, it would hurt! Slow him down long enough that he couldn't rip
our heads off. Did you see him rip Larry's head off?"

"Larry was a dick."

"That's beside the point, isn't it? I'm sayin' he's dangerous. Even
the Slayer looked scared."

"The slayer looked pissed," Jake protested.

"Whatever."

The car's rear lights flashed as the boot was electronically
unlatched and Jake opened the lid. Spike didn't open his eyes or
move.

"See," Jake said. "He's still out cold. Haul him out."

The minions pulled Spike's apparently unconscious body out of the
car, banging his head against the boot's lid.

=Clumsy bastards are gonna pay for that,= Spike thought as his arms
were thrown over the minions' shoulders and he was dragged through
the parking deck.

Spike hoped this wasn't some monumental waste of time. If he wound
up dumped at Sharkey's flat because the demon was running short of
yellow tabbies, Spike didn't think he could hold his temper ­ souled
or not ­ in check.

Once inside the building, Jake and Dexter hauled him into the
elevator where Muzak played and Dexter began singing, "Up and away
in my beautiful balloon." Spike contemplated the satisfaction he
would feel when ripping Dexter's tongue out at the first opportunity
that presented itself. Then his mind drifted to Dru.

Was the Watcher Wanker right and Dru was behind all of this? Spike
couldn't see how. For 142 years Dru had hit upon one scheme or
another to destroy the world, but not one had to pass (as evidenced
by the world still existing). She had also always needed help.
There had been himself ­ though with hindsight Spike saw that he'd
never truly been on board with world endage. Consciously or
subconsciously he had always seemed to sabotage Dru's efforts. A
little anarchy had seemed like a grand old time to him, but as Spike
had told Buffy years ago, he liked the world. Then there had been
the time Dru had Angelus's help.

Trapped in a wheelchair and dependent on the dubious mercies of
Angelus and Dru, Spike had experienced the first bit of true self
awareness in nearly one hundred years.

"I want to save the world," he had told Buffy, and the irony of the
situation had not been lost on him. Whatever his reasons and
rationalizations—no matter how properly selfish and self-motivated—he
had been aware that he was doing what he should not do. He had gone
against his own kind to fight by the side of a Slayer who loathed
him.

The bell rang as the elevator reached their chosen floor. So much
time and distance traveled, Spike realized, only to find himself in
the same place as before…still going against his own kind to fight on
the side of a Slayer who loathed him.

Dexter and Jake carried Spike from the elevator but not down a hall
or through any doors. Spike didn't have to open his eyes to figure
out that whoever they were dealing with must have taken over the
entire floor of a high rise.

Deciding it was time to fake coming out of a stupor, Spike groaned
and opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was a pair of
exceptionally well-shaped legs attached to perfectly pedicured feet
in strappy stiletto sandals. A multi-year association with Buffy and
over a century of showering Dru with gifts told Spike those shoes
cost a small fortune.

Spike raised his head and focused on the woman's lovely, angular
features. She vaguely reminded him of the model Paulina Poraskova.
She definitely was *not* Dru.

Dexter said, "Look who we found."

The dark haired woman gave a chilling smile. "William the Bloody."

Spike frowned and his gaze narrowed. "I know you, luv?" He thought
he would remember a creature such as her.

"No reason you should." She offered her hand. "I'm Lilah Morgan."

Spike arched a brow then looked first at Dexter then at Jake who
still had his arms draped over their shoulders. Spike returned his
attention to Lilah. "In a bit of a bind here, luv."

"I can see." Lilah dropped her hand and looked at the minions. "You
can let him go."

Dexter shook his head. "I don't think so. You should have seen what
he did to Larry."

Lilah didn't look curious. In fact, she looked bored. "I'm sure it
was quite spectacular. And, given that Larry isn't here, I'll assume
his absence is permanent. Now, let our guest go."

Dexter and Jake reluctantly complied as a slender man of Asian
heritage shouldered his way by Lilah. "Mr. Bloody, our firm has
authorized me to make you an offer—"

"Who authorized you to do what?" Lilah demanded, her brows drawing
together as she frowned. "Gavin, you have no authority here."

"Linwood gave me authority."

Spike smirked and slouched in the bad ass way he had perfected well
over a century ago as he scanned the room's contents. He was in a
penthouse of a highrise overlooking Sunnydale. He could see the
familiar city lights through the wide expanse of glass. He wondered
if he could see Buffy's home from here.

This wasn't Glory's penthouse. He recognized that right off. It
wasn't as gaudy. This was sleek and in some ways reminded Spike of
Deco décor in New York in the nineteen thirties and forties. Had he
just been dumped into a modern vampire-filled Film Noir?

There were two minions in addition to Dexter and Jake. They stood
near the elevator doors. A hooded demon of some sort stood by a table
in the corner of the room while an ordinary human man stared into a
gas fueled fireplace. Then there was Lilah and her squabble partner,
Gavin, and finally, there was the figure shrouded in the shadows in
the far corner of the room. A man whose back was turned to the
others as he stared down at the city below.

Spike remained highly aware of the silent figure on the far side of
the room even as he spoke to Lilah and Gavin. "When you two kiddies
are through kicking sand, you might like to actually make your offer."

Lilah shot Gavin a dismissive glare before returning her attention to
Spike. "*I* have been given the authority to offer you the chance to
play a pivotal role in—"

"Ending history as we know it," Gavin hurriedly finished Lilah's
sentence.

Spike arched a brow and longed for a cigarette. Nothing was better
at stalling for time while looking coolly dangerous than lighting a
fag. He strove to sound bored. "Ending the world? That what this is
about?" He smiled in his most seductive manner as he approached
Lilah. "Couldn't be more original than that?"

"Originality is overrated," said the figure in the
shadows. "Tradition is something we should be proud to uphold,
William. But then, you would know little about that. You always
wanted to break the rules."

Spike took a step toward the darkness. "And who might you be?"

"Who I am is of no importance," the figure answered. "What is
important is who I was and who I will become."

Silence.

"And?" Spike pressed with impatience.

Still no answer. Bastard didn't even turn around to face him.
Becoming pissed, Spike took another step into the shadows. "What's
this got to do with me? Who the bloody hell are you?"

"Why, William, don't you know?" The man turned around and. . .

Spike had no idea who the man was. Not one bloody clue. Blond hair,
sharp features, blue eyes, but Spike didn't know him, had never set
eyes on the man before.

The stranger stepped into the light and smiled coldly. "Admittedly,
our acquaintance was brief…and unpleasant. You really are lacking in
manners, William."

"So I've been told. Now who the fuck are you?"

The man ignored Spike and spoke in a preoccupied manner as though he
was only speaking to himself. "Darla was always aware of tradition.
It always called to her. She always returned to it, to me, despite
the centuries she wasted on that Irish dog Angelus. She was purebred
and wasted time with mongrels such as yourself. But she always
remembered to drag her puppies home to meet their master."

Their…?

The stranger nodded at the minions, who rushed Spike. Derek, Jake,
the two minions by the door, all came at him at once. Spike turned
and ­ damn it! All the furniture in the room was chrome, steel,
glass and leather, nothing stake worthy anywhere in sight. He fought
bare handed. Catching one of the nameless minions off guard, Spike's
roundhouse kick propelled the younger vampire into the spandrel
glass. There was a horrified look on the minion's face as the glass
cracked and came crashing down as the vampire fell out the window.
Spike could hear the minion scream as it plummeted to the ground
twenty stories below. Spike caught Jake, and with a quick twist,
ripped his kidnapper's head off.

Dust scattered across the black and white marble floor as a sharp
pain dug into Spike's back. He looked over his shoulder in confusion
and stared into a face that was no face. The demon he had noticed
earlier had nothing but a black void beneath its hood. . .at least
Spike thought so. It was hard to tell. His vision was becoming
blurry and his extremities numb. As Spike fell paralyzed to the
floor, he saw the demon holding a large, ugly looking hypodermic
needle in its gnarled hand. Drugs? He'd been drugged?

Spike lay on the floor staring up at the blond man.

"You are of my Order," the man said. "You are of my line. I wasn't
particularly impressed with you a hundred and twenty years ago but my
options are limited." His self satisfied smile was
ghastly. "William, once again you've met your Master."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Reggie lay with his arms folded under his head as he napped at the
library table. Willow ignored the drool that made a stretchy string
from his lip to the highly polished mahogany. Lydia sat at the other
end of the table quietly reviewing her notes while Willow sat on the
floor in the corner with books scattered around her as she stared at
the prophecy for …like… the *millionth* time.

There had to be an answer. There had to be *something.* But no
matter how many times she had read the parchment Willow could find
nothing new. It was just the same words over and over again. She
traced the ragged edge of the paper and wished she knew where the
rest of it was. When had it been lost? A hundred years ago? Longer
than that? If she had the rest of the paper would she find some way
to avert disaster?

A thought teased her. More than a thought, actually. It was a
memory. She remembered walking into the Magic Box and throwing open
texts. She remembered absorbing the words, *feeling* them and the
histories behind them. It had been exhilarating and terrifying. In
her grief and rage, her power had driven her over the edge. She knew
now that the power inside her could lead her to horrible things. It
could overtake her conscience… her humanity…but…

But this was different. This wasn't rage. This wasn't grief and
torment. This wasn't vengeance. *This* was desperation. She had to
do *something* or the world would end, so Willow lightly, hesitantly
touched the paper while reaching out with her senses—with *all* of
her senses. She could feel the darkness behind them. It hovered
just around the edge of her consciousness. She turned her minds eye
away from it. She would not go there. She would never go there
again… Please, never let her go there again because if she did,
Willow knew she would never make it back.

She tried to stay controlled and calm. She tried to remain at peace
as Tara had always tried to teach her to be, as the Council had
coached her to be. She could do this without losing herself. She
had to.

She felt the words and she felt. . .

Damn it! That son of a bitch Quentin Travers!

Willow realized she had said the words aloud when Lydia suddenly
looked at Willow, and Reggie fell out of his chair. He wiped drool
off his chin as Willow waved the parchment. "Mr. Travers tore off
the rest of the prophecy!" she told them.

Lydia asked, "Are you certain?"

"Pretty darn certain."

"Bastard," Reggie growled then looked embarrassed that he had said
the word. "Uh… that is…" Reggie climbed to his feet. "Mr. Travers
must be concealing something important."

"Oh, I bet it's important alright." Willow mustered her resolve
face. "And we're going to find out what it is."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The room was no operating room. It hadn't been designed as a place
for medical procedures … though Lilah had to admit there was
something cold, stark, and antiseptic about the room with its dead
white walls, black leather chaise, and chrome tables. The minions
had dragged a paralyzed but mostly conscious William from the living
room to the room Dr. Melman had appropriated earlier in the evening.
Now, a bare-chested William the Bloody lay strapped to the black
leather van der Rohe Barcelona chaise, and perhaps she should feel
sympathy at seeing such a proud, wild creature in restraints…but her
mind kept wandering to kinkier places.

Lilah's pleasant musings were interrupted by Gavin asking, "Isn't
being vamped a bit like being pregnant? Either you are or you
aren't."

Lilah stepped away from the chaise and returned her attention to the
odd menagerie of occupants in the room. Dr. Melman and his demonic
medical assistant were handling several vials of blood extracted from
the vampire laying on the chaise while Gavin pestered them with
questions. Standing silently to one side was Gabriel, who in a
previous life had been known as The Master.

She was still confused by the specifics of the Master's situation.
Having witnessed Darla's resurrection a few years earlier, Lilah
could only assume that when magic was used to resurrect a vampire,
they returned not as the vampire but as a human. That was what had
happened to Darla and that was what had happened to the Master as
well. He was human. At least she was relatively certain he was
human. Lilah found it strange that both Darla and the Master had
returned from their dusty graves with their memories of their vampire
lives intact.

Dr. Melman nodded in response to Gavin's question. "You are correct.
Infected with the demon *is* infected with the demon. But there are
varying degrees within the condition. After all, two months pregnant
and nine months pregnant do not completely resemble one another."

Lilah cast a doubtful look at the physician. "There are different
stages of infection?" This did not resemble the way that vampirism
had been explained to her.

"Not precisely," Dr. Melman amended. "But just as there are
differences in hormone levels and genetics unique to individual human
progeny, vampires have different bloodlines and different degrees of
demonic presence related to infection levels."

"But both are forms of reproduction…" Gavin ventured, desperately
trying to sound assured though Lilah heard the hesitancy in his voice.

The doctor nodded. "Oh yes. Of course, human reproduction and
vampire reproduction are very different things. Vampirism is more
than science or biology. It's magic." He indicated the faceless demon
who was constantly at his side. "This is the reason for my unique
medical assistant. There are many factors unique to nosferatu. For
instance, in the case of vampires, the first offspring are the
strongest."

Lilah nodded. This she did know. "The first are masters."

The doctor shrugged. "If you wish to use such a superstitious and
antiquated classification system." His pinched features looked
infuriatingly pompous. Lilah hoped the doctor messed up in some way
so that the senior partners would okay her having him killed when
this was done. "It's a rather trite term."

She would definitely have him killed.

"If you say so," Lilah told him before falling silent and adopting a
secretive smile as she contemplated whether his death should be at
the hands of Lilliard demons or Zorads.

The doctor appeared to be oblivious to anything but the sound of his
own voice. "A vampire's first offspring is superior in every way to
any later offspring. For reasons unknown, a sire's first progeny
bonds more readily and more intimately with its human host. It
functions at the highest mental capacity, and is more capable of
passing unnoticed among human society."

Gavin nodded as if he had in someway known all of this. He was an
inveterate poseur. "You mean they resort to game face less often."

"Usually, yes. Later offspring--" the doctor indicated the thuggish
vampire named Dexter standing near the door "—are more demon than
human." Melman looked at Lilah and asked in a patronizing
tone. "Have you ever seen the demonic species from which our earth-
bound vampires originate? Those demons are dumb as rocks."

"So being first offspring is important?" Gavin asked.

"To fully utilize the gifts of the human host? Yes, it is very
important." Melman laid the vile of blood down on the table and
indicated Spike. "And not a problem in this case. This vampire has
never sired." He looked into the microscope he had set up on this
table. "He is also quite definitely of the Line of Aurelius. There
is no problem there, either."

Gavin drew close to the doctor. "You say that as though you believe
there is a problem *somewhere.*"

"Problem? No. Complication? Maybe." Dr. Melman hit a button on his
laptop computer and the microscope image of blood cells filled the
LCD screen. "Our blood donor is of the correct bloodline and
therefore has the particular strain of demonic infection that we
seek. It's—" he laughed. "Well, for vampires it is the equivalent
of a very robust strain. But remember what I said about
concentration levels?"

"Varying degrees within the condition?" Lilah inquired.

"Yes. Our donor has the evil equivalent of a low sperm count."

"That is, if demonic infection were sperm," Lilah drawled. "Which it
isn't."

"True, but, as a rough analogy it works fairly well. Of course, the
implications of William the Bloody's condition are far more startling
than a low sperm count. "

"And by that you mean…?"

"This is his blood. It is what is in him." The doctor pointed to the
computer screen image. "Note the lack of the darker, demonic
molecules. This creature would barely test positive for vampiric
activity. He is more man than monster."

Lilah glanced over at Gabriel. She could tell by the expression on
his face that he disliked what he was hearing. Straightening her
shoulders and narrowing her eyes, she asked in a stern, authoritative
voice. "And how do you propose to fix this?"

It was best to sound as commanding as possible.