"We have to get back and warn them. Call…something." Giles was furious with his friend and as he spoke he slowed the car to turn around and head back. Wesley had insisted that Spike had nothing useful to share before he’d passed out and had virtually dragged Giles away without stopping to confront Travers about what Preece had been doing. When they’d got in the car he’d refused to discuss anything until about five minutes ago, when they were halfway back to their Council lodging house. Only then had he chosen to share.
Wesley put a hand out and stopped the steering wheel from turning any further, his voice determined as he spoke. "No. He made me promise and if we go back or even call to warn them… Be realistic, Giles. Think this through. What are our chances of being able to tell the others and get them here in time if we go back? Travers will be all over us and the next thing we know we’ll be as much confined to the centre as Spike."
It was like watching the air leave a balloon as the truth of his words hit home, and Giles sagged in the driver’s seat. "You’re right. I know you’re right, it’s just… God, I hate leaving anyone like that, knowing something terrible is going to happen and there’s nothing we can do."
"But there is. We need to call LA and Sunnydale, alert the others and tell them to get the hell over here."
Giles didn’t reply. He sat silently in the stationary car staring straight in front of him for a couple of minutes then, just as Wesley was about to ask what was wrong, he made a small noise in the back of his throat. If the younger man hadn’t known Giles better he would have sworn it was a whimper.
"What’s wrong?"
"LA."
"Yes. We need to call Angel and…oh."
"Exactly. We have to call Angel and tell him that we know the people who kidnapped his Childe, and have held him captive and drug crazed for the best part of four months. Then we’re going to have to tell him we helped."
Wesley swallowed past the sudden lump of very real alarm in his throat. "God."
Now both of them were staring blankly through the windscreen, their faces reflecting the progressive turmoil of their thoughts. After stopping briefly at worry, they soon passed by apprehension and guilt, changing at fear to catch a ride on horror because all lines eventually led them to blind panic.
***
It wasn’t fair and it didn’t make sense. Why award someone a range of superpowers that equipped you to fight the denizens of evil only to leave out night vision? A faint scuffle in the blackness of the sewer had Faith extending her spider sense - vampire or rat? - it wasn’t easy to tell and both could give her a nasty bite. Equally both would die if she pierced it with a stake - so that was an upside. She clutched the piece of wood in her fist and curled tighter into the corner, wondering briefly where the arrogant woman she’d been two days ago had gone.
And that was the wrongest of wrong things to think about because she knew exactly. That woman had died alongside the last rattling breath that gulped from Raul’s throat as her hands, sticky from his blood, pressed into his belly in a futile attempt to keep his insides where they belonged. Less than six months she’d had. No more than a taste of love, deep and soul wrenching, like that she’d glimpsed in the face of a strapping soldier who had looked into her eyes and seen someone else.
Could that someone else help her now? Or maybe, if her suspicions were correct they could help each other. She paused, assessing the options. There were risks but then nothing came risk free these days, and it sure beat hiding in the filth till they found her. Decision made, Faith rolled to her feet, dusted the vamp that had mistaken her for someone that wouldn’t fight back, and took to her heels. It was time to go to Sunnydale and pass on a message - The Council’s coming to get us.
***
They managed to keep their lips locked despite walking backwards up the steps. Fred slowly inching along until her heels caught on the concrete, forcing her to balance on her toes leaning her weight further into the kiss. Her groping foot sought the next level of flat ground and her groping hands found purchase in his shirt, each shuffle backwards the driving force of their momentum. For his part Gunn was the guidance system, his fingers tangled in her hair holding her face close and her heart closer, easing their way so neither of them slipped and fell. Thus they moved together acting out their mumbled two step, their ascent both accent and actuality of their lives together, her pulling them forward into a better future, him providing a sense of direction where otherwise there would be floundering hopelessness. Neither really aware of anything outside of themselves, so when Fred’s back hit the doors and thrust her forwards deeper into her lover’s arms it made them both break off to laugh.
The two-step became a waltz and they spun through the doors, Fred’s feet lifted from the ground only to alight when her man landed her firmly, his face swapping a goofy grin for a frown.
Picking up on his disquiet, Fred turned to see what has put such a look of consternation on his face, only to find hers mirroring his when she saw a bleak faced Angel standing, phone in hand, at the desk. For infinite seconds the tableau held, the humans unwilling to intrude on anything that would put such a choler in their colleague’s eyes.
The sudden motion, already passed by the time they had registered and assimilated it, accompanied by a harsh growl of ‘I’m going out to kill something’; told them the call had ended. But the telephone remained where it lay, the strangled tones of a voice faintly audible to their ears.
Fred moved first reaching the phone and speaking into it before Gunn had a chance to blink.
"Hi. Who’s there?"
Then silence from his girl as her face broke into the same expression as Angel’s and a sudden crazy notion sped through Gunn’s head suggesting that the damn thing was cursed and taking over everyone who answered it. It seemed unlikely but he didn’t dismiss it entirely, after all he seen weirder things during his life. Though he would have admitted to a slight sigh of relief when Fred hung up without another word and didn’t storm out of the building to pull the arms and legs off the first creature she met.
"Well, I guess that answers that question." She said with false levity. "Now we know where Spike is."
***
Willow was on to her third cup of coffee, and she wasn’t sure if it was the caffeine or the news that was making her hands shake and her words come out in an uncontrolled rush.
"I don’t understand. How can we not remember? I mean it’s not like I’ve had much to do with him since the whole Angelus kidnapping and torturing Dawnie and me thing, but I’m sure we’d remember something like that."
The phone call had come out of the blue and it had been more luck than anything else that had found Willow already at Xander’s apartment. At first they hadn’t wanted to believe him. Xander in particular vehemently denied ever having been on friendly terms with the vampire, and while Willow’s memories were less hate filled, she still admitted to numerous misgivings at the idea of acting on anything he suggested. Particularly if it meant giving up her new teaching job and shipping back to England for several weeks. Her memories of the last time she’d visited that country were not her most comforting ones. But finding the duster had only confirmed what Giles had told them and when Xander had retrieved it from the janitor’s office, exactly where his neighbour had said it would be, they had no choice but to admit that they may have been duped.
"Unless they didn’t want us to."
"Huh?"
"Think witchiness for a minute. Not wanting to throw around any unreasonable and irresponsible accusations here but memory spells - not exactly unexplored territory."
"You-you think they might have done a spell on us?"
"And this surprises you why? Honest Wills, I know Tara was all ‘cuddly, English guys’ but I thought you of all people would have better developed black-hat radar."
The gentle smile on Xander’s face took the sting out of the words and away from the mention of Tara. Willow was still struggling to come to terms with her lover’s death and there were still some nights when she cried herself to sleep cuddling a pillow that had long since lost any trace of her scent. But, as she kept telling herself as she plastered the brave smile on her face the next morning, everyday in every way she was getting better and better.
"Okay… okay let’s say they did one. A memory spell. There’d have to be something, a flower or a crystal or maybe the traces of where they built a fire. Unless they didn’t do it that way in which case they could have used anything and then we won’t know what to look for…"
"Whoa. Back up a bit. Did you say flower?" Xander shot to his feet and was in the kitchen opening and searching through cupboards. "And what would this piece of floral irritant look like?"
Not bothering to wait for an answer, he reappeared from his hunting trip under the sink and returned to the living room flourishing a resealable plastic bag half full of what looked like pastel coloured weed. "That morning when Mr Franklin called round stressing about the party we never had. Well, I found a flower and I remember thinking that it must’ve spilled from the smelly perfumey stuff you brought over."
As he sat down and emptied the bag out onto the coffee table, Xander wagged his finger admonishingly under Willow’s nose. "Nada about pack rats. I was gonna buy some of that revitalising oil so that next time Spike…" He paused, eyebrows raising a notch as he listened to what he was saying. "Huh. I guess he must’ve been here. Otherwise why worry about that oh-so-delectable smell of smoke."
Willow was hardly listening. Her small fingers were stirring through the pot pourri separating out any bits that could have been Lethe’s Bramble but it was useless. If it had ever been there it had long since disintegrated and was now indistinguishable from the rest. Still there was one way to break the spell if that was the source. She swept it all back into the bag taking care not to let any spill and resealed it.
"We need to go home, to Buffy’s. I’ve got… things there that will help. Oils and stuff. And you need to come too."
***
Smoke palled over the bowl and the air was filled with the sweet smell of the rosemary oil Willow had dashed over the pot pourri before setting it alight. Xander could see the essences mixing in the smoke, the ethereal bluish purple which he presumed came from the rosemary enclosed and trapped by the dense yellow of Lethe’s bramble, waiting for the witch’s command.
"Solvo."
All in all quite a neat metaphor for what had happened to their memories.
They should have returned in a rush. That was what he’d been expecting. That was what had happened the last time someone had tampered with his memory, like his mind was an empty vessel, the memories flooding in to replace the vacuum inside. But this time it was different, more like a flower unfurling, the myriad petals of interwoven awareness slowly, so slowly growing from potentiality to actuality, and it was then he realised that nothing had really been forgotten. Rather, he’d been encouraged not to remember, so while his memories had felt whole, in retrospect there were gaping Spike-shaped voids in it. Everything pertaining to the vampire since the rescue of Willow and Dawn the best part of two years ago had been concealed from his conscious mind.
And - oh god, when they did come back. A flash of an image here, the skirl of sound there, liberally dosed with evocative scents like his come and Wesley’s blood, and the flavours of fear and self-disgust.
"Oh god."
Willow watched on bemused as Xander turned a strange shade of green and rushed out of the room and up the stairs. As her memories had returned the most vivid had been of the trip to LA, Wesley and Cordelia, and although they were upsetting, very upsetting, it seemed unlikely that they were enough to make Xander throw up. Maybe his stomach was more delicate than she thought.
Ironically the last memories to come back were the ones of the night the spell had been cast. She remembered hearing voices in the hall outside the door of the apartment, loud voices raised in anger, and she and Xander had, in best Scooby fashion, investigated. They must have hit her immediately with some sort of stunning spell because apart from a vague recollection of blurred faces there was nothing else.
Footsteps on the stairs told her that Xander was returning and she looked up smiling. "Are you okay, honey? What happened?"
"Just…memories, you know. Guess the Xan-man’s not the macho guy we thought." Could he sound any lamer? Probably, but if he kept his mouth shut he should be able to avoid the worst of the humiliation. He took a detour around Dawn who was just coming in from school and headed for the kitchen in search of something to clear the taste from his mouth. While he stood leaning against the workbench he could hear them chatting about the spell and the odd effect it’d had.
At least he knew where the stiffness he’d felt that morning had come from and the eyes that haunted his dreams. Unlike Willow, Xander had not been attacked by magic but had been taken down by brute force. The huge man had thumped him hard in the jaw, sending him flying backwards through the door. The next thing he’d known was waking up lying face down on the floor, his hands securely tied behind his back and his shirt shoved in his mouth to stop him screaming for help.
Hardly able to move for the pounding in his head, Xander had settled for opening his eyes, only to find himself lying virtually nose to nose with Spike, who was in full game face. Not the most comforting of sights for someone who had just regained consciousness. But it was the vampire’s yellow eyes that had stopped him from totally freaking out, the eyes that had been haunting his dreams. There was rage there but it wasn’t directed at him. If anything there was a silent plea for help. It was then he’d heard the chanting and that was when reality had started to get weird. His last thought before slipping into sleep had been - what the hell is Spike doing here?
***
Even the surrounding buildings didn’t afford much protection from the gathering storm and the wind was fairly howling around the hotel, the windows spasmodically shaking as they were hit by a particularly strong gust. Sooner or later the rain would start, dropping in sheets from the sky and accompanied by a barrage of thunder and lightening. The forecast had been warning that this would hit and although it shouldn’t be as bad as the ones that had caused such devastation in ’98, it still wouldn’t make for easy driving conditions. Hopefully their visitors from Sunnydale were well on their way, otherwise they would miss the call from England that was due in just over an hour.
From her perch on the bed, Cordelia listened as Angel completed his ablutions in the bathroom, the shower finally shutting off. After her unannounced visit to Spike, and a subsequent one to Fred and Gunn’s quarters when she’d managed to catch them in flagrante delicto, she had determined not to intrude on anybody’s bath time and restricted herself to hanging around in slightly more public spaces.
The fact that Angel couldn’t see her meant his was the only room she could enter without impunity, but when he wandered out of the bathroom wearing only a towel slung casually around his hips it left her feeling a little uncomfortable. It was the sweetest torture being able to see him and not being able to touch, but one she couldn’t seem to give up, hence her presence right now. The low lighting seemed to make his skin glow, casting highlights and shadows that accentuated the flex/flow of muscles as his moved, and as he passed close to the bed she reached out a hand promising herself that she wouldn’t actually touch him. It was just that she so desperately wanted to, it was breaking her heart seeing him so unhappy and blaming himself for everything that had happened when really it had been her own fault. She should have realised that sharing a soul would never have been enough to keep Angelus under control, and when the signs of his re-emergence had started she’d ignored them from fear of losing Angel completely. Of course that had happened anyway, but it still sucked that she hadn’t worked it out earlier.
Completely absorbed in her self-recrimination, Cordy failed to notice that Angel was moving again and this time heading directly for her and she yelped in surprise when he sat down virtually on top of her, their legs touching. He leapt up again with a very unmanly squeak and a ‘what the hell?’ and Cordy shot up with him, heading for the corner berating herself loudly for being so careless.
"Cordy?"
He was looking straight at her so she had to ask. "Can-can you see me?"
"No…but I can hear you." It must be that super-vampire hearing of his. Tracking her by the sound of her voice. "But… you’re very quiet; you sound like you’re a long way away."
The sadness in his voice made her choke up. He sounded like he wanted her voice to be able to move mountains, or maybe it was the mountain of guilt he wanted her to move. Well, nothing ventured and all that. She moved in close to him again, keeping her eyes fixed on his and it immediately became obvious that he couldn’t locate her when she didn’t speak, his eyes were still fixed on the spot in the corner. When she was inches in front of him Cordy reached out her hand to touch his face like she’d done to Spike and Gunn, and Angel flinched back, frowning at the strange sensation.
"Is this better?"
Now her voice sounded closer and much clearer and he could feel the warmth of her hand on his face, but he still couldn’t see her, though the forgiveness she had in her heart became known to him. And suddenly the enormity of it was all too much.
"Oh god, Cordy, I’m so sorry." The words ended in a choked off sob and he dropped to his knees, boundless guilt raging through him again. Guilt for her death and for everything that had happened to Wesley, because it didn’t matter what any of them said, it was all his fault because at the end of the day it had been him who had allowed Angelus to take over. If he’d been a stronger man then none of it would ever have happened. Then more guilt later for what he’d said to Spike, and the fact that he hadn’t even tried to find him because that had also been weakness. His inability to try and build something new with a person whom, he finally acknowledged, was so much more than the demon he remembered. So it had been easier to ignore his absence and write it off as a good thing because then he would never have to confront his feelings. And none of what he was feeling could be alleviated by Cordelia’s forgiveness because if he was going to accept that he had to first forgive himself.
Cordy joined him on the floor, her hands hovering over his back, tears running unchecked down her own face. All she wanted was to able to hold him and comfort him, to make all the bad feelings go away, and bring a smile to his face because it suited him so well but he did it so rarely.
"Angel, it wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault. I should have realised what was happening and stopped it somehow." But he wasn’t listening, he either wouldn’t or couldn’t hear her, curled as he was on the floor rocking slightly his lips silently repeating ‘sorry, I’m sorry’ if that would somehow bring her back.
She had no choice but to let him cry and watch while the clock ticked past the minutes until Angel had to be downstairs ready to face the others, and the challenges Giles and Wesley would present them with when they called. The full details hadn’t yet emerged not least because no one they had called had wanted to hear them out. They knew the Watcher’s Council had taken Spike and they knew that he was being held somewhere in England. They also knew that the two ex-Watchers were partially responsible for what had happened but that was all, apart from Spike’s vision which had apparently informed the Seer that some terrible event was going to happen unless all of them went there to stop it. After tonight the blanks should be filled in but for that to happen, Angel needed to be there.
Eventually the sobs faltered and his breathing levelled out and stopped, but he still didn’t move, in fact he was looking suspiciously like he had when the others had first found him cradling her rapidly decomposing corpse on the lobby floor.
"Angel? Angel?!" Damn. Now was not a good time for their main man to go catatonic.
***
"So this place, this Watcher’s training centre thingy is in a place called Yorkshire?"
"Yes, yes, that’s what I said."
"And that would be…?"
They could virtually hear Giles cleaning his glasses at the other end of the phone, which was set to speaker so they could all - the Scoobies and the LA gang - hear what was being said.
"Xander, did you ever pay attention in class? No, don’t answer that." There was a sigh and then he continued. "Yorkshire is in the north of England. The nearest international airport is Teeside, about an hour’s drive away from where…"
The assembled Americans stared at each other blankly as Giles reeled off their options for transport, lodgings and the best way to expedite the inevitable paperwork. So far this had been the entire gist of their conversation, and none of them had taken the initiative in asking exactly why they were being expected to make this trip, and what they were likely to find when they got there.
Fred and Gunn were a little overwhelmed by the whole thing, their only real contact with Giles had been when he dropped Spike off in LA, and he’d left them with the distinct impression that when determined nothing would stop him. The Scoobies - Willow, Xander, and Dawn - had found it far too easy to fall into the old ‘Giles is Watcher’ mindset and except for Xander’s brief question about geography, none of them had dared interrupt. The only three people in the hotel who might have stood a chance against this whirlwind of organisation were Angel - catatonic upstairs. Cordelia - ghost, who’s voice, much to her annoyance, did not carry down telephone lines and Buffy, who was curled up on a separate couch still in shock from her friend’s recovered memories and their subsequent reversion to Buffy-is-a-bitch mode.
The storm finally cut Giles off after a suggestion that they should probably look into the possibility of getting Angel freighted over by a Funeral Directors. He based this on the grounds that the vampire didn’t have a passport, that sunlight was bound to be an issue on such a long journey, and so long as he acted like a corpse, getting through customs shouldn’t be a problem.
"Well that was informative, in a totally not helpful way."
"Don’t be mean, Xander. I’m sure Giles knows exactly what he’s doing."
"Right, so when we’re packing were gonna what, pack for all apocalyptic possibilities or just the common or garden ones."
"Xander’s right, Willow. You guys just let Giles walk all over us. It was like ‘oh Giles please tell us what to do’."
"I second the teen in the corner? But also point out that I didn’t see her making big with the questions."
Cordelia’s caustic comment effectively put paid to the brewing argument amongst the Scoobies but Xander did at least have a point. Their ineffectiveness had left them with more questions than answers and no plan about how to go about getting them.
"So, what have we got? Yeah, a trip to England but apart from that?"
Fred waved a yellow legal pad covered in her painfully small, neat script. "I took notes. I mean, I’m not sure how much use they’ll be but I think I got everything he said. Even the stuff I didn’t really understand, which was quite a lot."
"Show me."
In the absence of Angel, and with Buffy as persona non grata even to the non-Scoobies - Xander had no hesitation in telling everyone exactly why the cavalry hadn’t arrived in time - Cordelia picked up the mantle of leadership and the others seemed quite happy to let her have it. While coffee mugs were refilled and sodas were liberated from the fridge, Fred opened the pad and flipped through the pages allowing Cordy to read them. When she’d finished the ghost stood hugging herself for several minutes while the humans chatted around her, the frown on her face suggesting she was thinking deeply about something.
"Do we have any maps? Of England, I mean. Something that’d show this place, this Richmond?"
"I bet Wes did, but all his stuff’s gone."
Willow bounced out of her seat squeaking, "Oh, oh, the Internet. I bet there’s loads on the Internet."
"Um, Wills? Storm, phone lines?"
With a smug grin, Willow sat herself in front of the computer and stated, "Cable. Should still be up."
And within minutes had managed to find a site, which showed the exact location of the town they were supposed to be visiting. "Oo, it’s pretty. Look the houses are all stone and so old."
"What about the centre. Try that, or the other place, Stanville was it?"
"Stainton."
"Huh. Small. Really small. And lots of army stuff all around it. Shooting ranges and…wow do they have stuff like that over there? Hang on there’s a couple of pictures. Hey, cute. A gas station. It has a gas station."
"Wills, stop with the ohs and ahs and…"
"Hang on, is that the church?"
"Yeah… St. Andrew’s… It’s not in Stainton though. It’s at, um, Grinton, a few miles away. Why?"
"I recognise it."
The chorus of ‘whats’ that followed Cordy’s statement even roused Buffy, and she hovered at the edges of the group hoping no one noticed and made her go away. She wasn’t used to being on the outside like this and was desperate for her friends to forgive her for the letters, she wasn’t even sure why she’d done it, except that she’d been angry with Angel about Dawn and for some reason had assumed they were from him.
"I’m not trying to be funny Cordy, but you were never big with the geography at high school so…"
"It’s not like that, not that type of memory. It’s older…much older… oh my god, I remember. I didn’t think I did but I do." Realisation spread over Cordelia’s face and she broke into a huge excited grin.
"Enough with the cryptic. Straight answers already."
"It’s there. Where they were. That’s where they were. Angel and Spike… and Darla and Drusilla as well. All of them."
Her enthusiasm was completely lost on the Scoobies but Gunn quickly got the message.
"Is this one of them residual memory things Fred was telling me about, ‘cos damn that’s useful."
"Residual memories?" Even Willow was floundering.
"It’s a whole thing about when I was a higher being." Cordy waved away their confusion. "I could like, remember everything. I thought it was all gone. Guess not."
"Okay, so Cordy remembers the fang-gang being at this church. And I so don’t want to know what they were doing there. But, I say, how does this help exactly?"
"Not just the church. That just reminded me. They were at the centre. Well, Angel was. Except that he was Angelus at the time. Spike broke in and ate some Watchers and eww… I wonder if I can forget that part. Anyway, Angelus had to go and get him and they ended up in a mine nearby. Hah… Sorry, funny bit."
"Again I say, how does this help. That must have been a hundred years ago. Everything’s gonna be different… No, forget I said that. This is the Council; they’re probably still running around in chain mail.
"Actually chain mail wasn’t around…"
"I remember Spike telling me." All the eyes in the room swivelled towards Buffy when she interrupted Willow and she quailed slightly under their combined gazes. "About the mine. It was when he first found out about Slayers."
"Buffy…"
As soon as Willow opened her mouth Buffy started to back off, not wanting to hear more accusations. "I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just go…"
"No, Buffy. I wasn’t going to say anything. I mean, I guess we’ve all been a bit mad with you…" Willow threw a filthy look at Cordy who had let loose a snort of un-amusement. "And not without reason. But if there’s anything you can tell us? Any details?"
The phone rang, stopped abruptly and then rang again and Gunn went to pick it up in the office, allowing the others to continue their conversation. Buffy swallowed nervously aware that she was now on probation.
"Umm. Not really. Just… Spike told me about the mine. I thought that maybe me saying it, would help with everyone believing Cordy."
"Yes, because we so need miss-hides-potentially-life-saving-letters corroborating everything I say."
"That’s unfair… true but unfair. I’m sure if Buffy had known what was in the letters then…"
"Hey, guys. Listen up." Gunn had returned from the office and flicked the telephone back over to speaker. Once again Giles’ voice came over loud and clear.
"I said, Wesley just reminded me that Spike told him the Slayers are not to come. Are you there? Hello?"
"Yeah, Giles. We got it. And while we’ve got you, we’ve got some news too."
And so the whole story had to be told again, this time with Cordelia, via Gunn, and Buffy adding any details they felt were missing, until Giles finally called a halt.
"Fine, so we’ve established that Angel should know all about the centre and, for the record I can confirm that nothing much has changed. The basic layout is still the same as it was when the Council first took it over in the 1850’s, however the security system has been substantially upgraded, and I really don’t see how any of this will be useful."
"But that’s the point Giles, Angelus didn’t go in through the front door. There was some sort of back way, maybe through tunnels or something. I don’t really know but Angel would, I’m sure."
"And is there some reason why he hasn’t chosen to grace us with his presence?"
Cordelia shot a quick look at Gunn and told him to stall, she really didn’t want Giles knowing just how bad things were at this end. With any luck they would have Angel up and functioning by the time they were ready to leave.
***
It seems ridiculous at first to suggest that an organisation that prided itself in killing demons would need an interrogator. And Preece would be the first to admit that the vast majority of his work involved getting information from humans using the usual methods of interviewing and questioning with an edge of intimidation. Though on occasion he did have resort to more ‘robust’ methods.
His real speciality, however, where his expertise really lay, was with demons. No one ever seemed to question how it was known that only a silver blade killed Fyarl demons, after all surely a copper one would serve equally well.
Well, actually no, and Preece could testify to that. Although he, himself, hadn’t been around at the time, he’d read the accounts of the exhaustive testing that had gone into that hard won conclusion. These days there were fewer new demons to assess but on the odd occasion when something undocumented was discovered it was Preece they called for, and he was personally responsible for adding twenty two different demon subspecies to the Slayable list.
On even rarer occasions it became necessary to extract information from them and it was then that his extensive knowledge of demonic physiology really paid dividends. When the call had come from the Council three years ago that there was a new player on the scene, and any and all methods should be exploited in gathering data about her, Preece had willing picked up the gauntlet. It hadn’t been an easy task, the underworld was notoriously closed mouthed when it came to protecting their own from the Council and he’d emptied the zoo three times before finally finding a creature who wasn’t prepared to spend it’s own life to protect her. But the satisfaction he had gained - not to mention the big pay rise - when he’d handed the file on Glorificus to Travers had made all his hard work worth while.
This time the challenge was slightly different and hadn’t been going at all to schedule. Experienced interrogator though he was, Preece was almost ready to admit that he'd met his match but not quite. Now that Rupert Giles, and that Pryce bloke, were off the case there were no more ridiculous limitations determining what methods he could and could not use in getting what he wanted - absolute and unconditional co-operation.
**
It took a lot to make Spike break. Over the years he’d taken everything Angelus had thrown in his direction and only cracked a couple of times. Then there was Darla and on a good day she could make Angelus sing, and that was leaving aside Dru, and what that woman couldn’t do with holy water and a candle really wasn’t worth mentioning. So he liked to think that he had a fairly high tolerance for such things. But this fella was starting to get to him. It wasn’t the pain - that was here now and gone tomorrow - it was more the sheer indignity of it. Being tortured by food was downright humiliating and even if he had, over the years, come to think of some of them as something more, individuals in their own right with their pathetic little lives and dreams, he was still a vampire and humans were still basically dinner.
Now let’s try that again with a little less self-delusion shall we? Yes, he had taken what Angelus dished out though not from choice and on the occasions he had broken, which were more numerous than he’d like to admit even to himself, the rewards had always outweighed the costs. The same went for both the girls and, by the time she’d left, Darla had worked out how to make him scream after five minutes. Luckily she always kept the door locked so Dru never did have a clue how she did it. And tolerance - yeah, he had tolerance, acres and fields of tolerance. He’d proved that under the hell god’s hands but that had been for Buffy and for Dawn, and for a reason that at the time had meant more than his own life.
But now? This was setting him against himself. Pitting his demon and his own selfish self interest against his still-too-new soul and the bloody human was starting to win. Just one, that was all they were asking for. Just sink your fangs into one, willing - and wasn’t that a pisser - blood filled neck and then turn them. Not as if you’ll be making a monster, we’ll put their soul back directly, so no need for you to worry. So why wasn’t he doing it again? Because if he gave in on this, then the bloody human would have won and Spike was damned - ha - if he would give the bastard the satisfaction. This was one vampire’s name that was not going to end up on that fuckers metaphorical bedpost.
And so they danced, day in, day out. Each convinced that the other would eventually give in. Which was why he was here now, back in that fucking room with it’s white on white tiles that smelled of cleaning fluids and blood, with it’s gadgets and gizmos that even a century of experience couldn’t identify. Being lashed, yet again, to the ‘thing’ that the human had, apparently, designed just for him, because chains were so old fashioned and the Council had come so far in the last few years. So now it was kevlar and carbon fibre, and electricity rather than holy water and Spike couldn’t repress a pang of fondness for the good old days. There was something intimate about pressing a cross into a naked chest, something personal that was entirely missing when you simply wrapped copper wire round their knackers and sent a jolt of mind-blowing agony through them. He’d be willing to wager that even Angelus hadn’t thought of that little trick or else Giles would have been spilling more than the contents of his bowels when the bastard had tortured him. And by now the whole world would have been living it up in Acathla’s own private level of hell.
The slightest of prickling of the hairs on his neck told him the interrogator had arrived, silently as always, waiting to be noticed, and it had taken a while for Spike to pick up on that little trick so the human couldn’t take him by surprise. He was certainly a crafty one, encouraging his underlings to come and go as they pleased so the number of heartbeats was always different, and the smell of bleach drenching the room overpowered their individual scents. But there was something about Preece - smell, presence - Spike didn’t know exactly what, that spoke inside him, alerting him now when he entered the room. And for once he didn’t question it and was just damn grateful that it happened at all because at least now he had time to prepare, unlike before when he hadn’t been able to hide that flash of fear when he’d realised that company was here.
What would it be today? Straight to the nitty gritty or was he going to be talked half way to his final death first? Even Mozart would be preferable to that.
"I’ve come to a conclusion."
The interrogator moved smoothly across the room, his footsteps muffled by the soft leather shoes he wore, his tone smug and self-satisfied, and for a spinning second Spike wondered if the order had finally come - dust him. No, the bastard certainly had something up his sleeve but it wasn’t that. Preece enjoyed his work too much for him to be happy when that came. Clenching his teeth round the rubberised gag tightly enough to leave a permanent dental record, Spike forced himself to stare directly into the human’s eyes. There would be no submission; he couldn’t allow it because once started there was no going back.
"But I also find myself torn."
More threats then. But something in those pale water coloured eyes hinted that whatever was coming was something a bit different.
"You see… I reviewed the tapes and the documents… in fact anything I could find and I’ve discovered something rather fascinating."
The accent, cool and upper class was as fake as Spike’s own and he knew Preece only used it because it gave him an gloss of superiority.
"Pain…" The word was accompanied by a single finger running from the top of naked sternum to navel leaving a track of dampish sweaty warmth that belied the chill inherent in the tone. "Is never going to get me what I want. Is it?"
Damn. What was it that made his traitorous muscles flex and twitch to shake his head? Where was that resolve which said that this one would get nothing from him not even his name and number? But it was too late, the slip had been spotted and an answering smile smeared itself across the human’s face.
"Hmm. Interesting. You fear a lot but not pain. Let’s see if my other insights are correct." The finger moved from vampire’s belly to human’s lips and Preece turned away tapping it gently as he paced.
"William Bartlett, Watcher. Something of a mother’s boy, poet, looked down on by his peers, not a terribly impressive specimen. In fact I would go as far as to say that when you died it was probably the best thing that ever happened to you. Am I right?"
This time he fought the urge to nod but the answer must have been written in his eyes or in the bloody stars for all Spike knew, ‘cos Preece somehow managed to pick it up.
"Exactly. Then we had William the Bloody, or Spike. Vicious killer, slayer of Slayers, with a reputation for messy slaughter that made even demons quake. And now? Now we have something of a hybrid. And that I feel is where the weakness lies. Because without the kill, without the slaughter, there really is only one thing left."
And that is? God, please, Mozart would be so much better.
"Reputation."
Shit.
"Without that then William the Bloody reverts to William the Bloody Awful Poet."
Bugger.
"Now I’ll admit, it took something of a knock what with you fighting with the Slayer and killing your own kind but even then, you were still a killer, still the hunter. So I was thinking. What would it do, I wonder if I removed that? Removed that top dog, head honcho, pack leader reputation for good. Say by letting a few fledges in here and leaving you to their tender mercies for a few hours, and then letting them out to spread the word on the street that William the Bloody is anyone’s bitch."
Oh, fucking hell.
Despite his best intentions, Spike yanked at the bindings that kept his arms firmly fixed in place, causing the frame to rattle in irritation. Preece returned to his former position standing toe to toe and close enough that the vampire could identify which brand of toothpaste he used.
"Hmm. But then I thought, it’s not enough. A flash of fang at the wrong time and where does that leave us. Yes, a bitch, but an unwilling one and though it wouldn’t do much for your hard earned reputation it probably wouldn’t destroy it."
Thank Christ. Whatever gods listened to vampires he owed them big time.
"So last night, I did a little reading. It’s been a long, long time since I reviewed my notes on vampire physiology and what fascinating reading they made."
Again there was a smile and Spike’s stomach lurched when he realised that his relief had been premature.
"You may not know this, but there are ways to stop your demon showing his face. Some subtle…" Again the finger, this time from naval to throat and continuing up until it rested at the corner of the vampire’s mouth. "Some…more direct."
Maybe if he closed his eyes then Preece wouldn’t see the fear crawling up his throat and trying to claw it’s way past the gag.
When the interrogator gestured, one of the trainees stepped briskly forward and handed over a piece of equipment from the table.
"Secure him."
The order came so suddenly and was acted on so efficiently that Spike didn’t have a chance to react before his head was yanked back in a painful arch and the gag was removed from his mouth. Metal immediately replaced rubber and something pushed against his tongue and palate, forcing his mouth open to its fullest extent. A jab from the cattle prod made his demon face emerge and Preece nodded approvingly at the growl that followed it.
"You see, you won’t use them to do what we want, so really what is the point in you having them. And as an added bonus, without them your demon won’t be able to defend himself."
It was far too late but he struggled anyway, would have killed all of them if he could have got free. Not so much for what Preece had said but for what he held in his hand, something Spike - William - hadn’t seen since he was a child. Extraction pliers.
His voice still calm, as if he was simply passing the time of day, the interrogator continued with his commentary.
"They’ll grow back, eventually. A month, maybe two but in the mean time you will be completely vulnerable, especially to your own kind. So, what do you say William? Do I have your co-operation?" The pliers headed for his mouth and Spike couldn’t prevent the flinch when the metal gripped the base of his fang and started to tug. "Last chance to decide."
There was no response. The vampire simply closed his eyes and submitted. Preece cursed silently, he had been was certain that this time he’d hit pay dirt but the demon still evaded him. Fine. If that was the way he wanted to play it, there was still one option left.
He flicked the catch on the gunther, letting the vampire’s mouth snap closed and stared him straight in the eye as he made his announcement.
"Call the shaman. Remove his soul."
Preece smiled. The anguished howl that filled the air as he stalked out of the room was really just the gilding on an already perfect day.
***
It had taken several days to get here. Travelling by night to avoid the Watchers had put her in the path of every vamp and demon between here and San Diego so by the time she reached the outskirts of Sunnydale Faith had been ready to hang up her stake and call it a night. Unfortunately, the vampires seemed to have other ideas and she’d taken out a bunch of them on her way through town. It surprised her, Buffy was usually more careful than to allow a gang of fledges run around unchecked. Still, it was possible the Slayer had something else on her mind.
The lights were on in the house so it was safe to assume there was someone home. As she walked up the steps, they creaked slightly under her weight and with some trepidation - how the hell was B going to react when she saw her - Faith knocked on the door. But it wasn’t Buffy who answered, or Dawn or Red. The young woman was vaguely familiar - Anita? Amanda? Whatever. It was the girl Xander Harris had been dating all those years ago.
"Yes?"
"I was, err, looking for Buffy?"
"She’s in LA." With that the door started to close and Faith jammed her hand out to stop it.
"Do you know where?"
"Why. Are you going to kill her?"
"N-no. I just need to find her."
The woman rolled her eyes and pulled the door open again.
"She went to help Angel. The Watcher’s Council kidnapped Spike and they need to get him back."
That was interesting news and though it didn’t really fit in with what Faith knew, for some reason she felt sure there had to be a connection.
"So she’s at the hotel?"
"Yes. Now please go. I was watching an interesting program and I need to see if the parrot is really dead."
When Faith made no move to stop it, the door slammed shut in her face and left her alone on the porch.
***
Ibtesam Roohizadegan was having misgivings. Re-souling vampires was something she’d done before, not often, but she was experienced in retrieving lost souls from the ephemeral realm and returning them, so really there was very little difference. But what they were asking her to do in this case was something she felt in her bones to be wrong.
Firstly, she had the distinct impression that the creature wasn’t willing, what other reason could there be for him being unconscious when she did it. Secondly, they were asking her to remove a soul, not return one, and that just wasn’t right. Having said that, these Englishmen seemed to wield a lot of power and they had promised that she could join her daughter in London after her work here was done, so she had settled on a compromise. She would remove the soul but store it in a container much safer than the glass ones she usually used. Her fingers tightened round the large uncut sapphire and she offered up a quick prayer to S'ülmec to watch over the soul after it had been removed. Then she began.
***
Have you ever met Spike? You’ll probably tell me yes, you’ve met him. Interesting chap, spends half his time killing things and the rest obsessing over whoever he’s currently in love with. I would argue no. And you never will. Not in the way William has anyway. And right now they’re getting reintroduced.
It goes something like this:
Imagine a schoolroom. Old fashioned with ink splattered wooden desks and maps on the wall that are coloured pink to indicate where Britannia holds sway. Seated, knees cramped up, at one of those desks is a young man, scribbling frantically on his notepad in the hope that one day he’ll catch up with everything he’s missed. Even from a distance you can tell, he’s the one no-one will sit next to in class, the last to be picked for any team sports, and the one who invariably drops his books, blushes and stammers when the pretty girls walk past. Meet William.
The door swings open and in walks a second figure. Taller, stronger, older, his face set in an arrogant sneer - think Flashman from Tom Brown’s School Days. Meet the demon, for convenience sake we will call him Spike.
"William, old boy, how the devil are you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere."
He strides over to the man at the desk, plonks himself down next to him and slings a companionable arm round his shoulders.
Now, you’d think that his next move would be to knock William’s books to the floor or some such petty trick that bullies use to keep their victims in line. But no, this bully is cleverer than your average thug and we all know the meanest trick the popular kid can play is to make friends with their prey and then laugh at them for being so gullible. How many trusting innocents have been played that way and believe me, William is no different. He knows - you can tell by the pathetic panic in his eyes - that this is all a ruse but not to fall for it is completely beyond him.
"The chaps and I have come up with an uncommon good jape and want you to tag along."
"Really?" There it is again, that glimmer of hope that someone would think he was worth talking to.
"Absolutely. Couldn’t do it without you, William."
The demon stirs unfolding his long legs, stands and walks out of the room. Big eyed with hope and remembrance of promises past, William follows him.
And our unlikely hero is lost. In theory it should have taken longer, after all William knows exactly what’s happening and last time he put up a decent fight. But, after being abandoned by everyone he thought gave a damn, even the company of a bully is company of a sort.
***
"Who is the lucky aspirant?" Travers had left the final decision to Markham on the grounds that he worked most closely with the candidates and was sure to make the right decision.
"Marlowe. You remember him. Twenties, good family. His great grandfather was in charge of monitoring the Hellmouth in Sunnydale in the 1930’s, but apart from that the Marlowe record is impeccable."
"Excellent choice. And I presume we now have complete co-operation from the sire." This question was levelled at Preece who was standing by the door of the office waiting for the others to walk with him down to the pens.
"Yes, sir. In fact I would say he’s quite looking forward to it."
"Good, good." Travers rubbed his hands together, then stood up. "No need for us to be delaying matters then. Let’s be on our way."
**
If Quentin Travers would ever have lowered himself to use the word with regards to himself, he would have said he was gobsmacked. Never having met the unsouled version of William the Bloody he was quite unprepared when he did. Initially the vampire looked and sounded exactly the same but there was a cold predator-like quality in this creature that had been completely absent in the other. It was… unnerving.
He and Markham were watching from upstairs so they would have a bird’s eye view of everything that transpired. This room, something like an operating theatre in a teaching hospital, had been selected for that very reason.
Below them the vampire was pacing his prison, occasionally throwing deliberate glances at the guards that stood strategically around the walls. His movements appeared anything but deliberate however, being more a study in arrogant indifference to the humans supposedly controlling him, and Travers noticed that Douglas was nervously fingering the chip controller he held. A little research by Ramirez had ascertained that the chip had completely failed to fire off when the vampire had the vision hence its failure to stop him. Something to do with electrical interference apparently. Since then they had checked it regularly and it seemed to be working well, felling the creature within seconds of being activated, that was the only reason they had risked removing his soul.
Suddenly and for no apparent reason the vampire halted in the middle of the room and turned towards the door gazing at it intently. Several seconds later, Travers heard voices outside and realised that it must be Marlowe arriving. Sure enough the door soon opened and a chestnut haired young man entered dressed in casual slacks and an open-necked checked shirt.
They had no idea what to expect. Would the vampire attack immediately or would he attempt a conversation? First hand information regarding such situations was, understandably, rare and to the Council’s knowledge there were no records of witnessed sirings at all. Anything they had was from second hand reports and most was based on guesswork and intuition. Hence the close monitoring and recording that was going on and the presence of the guards. While the board had given the go ahead for this to happen they had stipulated that the volunteer should be spared any undue suffering, after all they were hardly monsters.
Unlike the creature that was now standing about six feet from Marlowe, and looking the candidate straight in the eye, his head cocked to one side. And to give credit where it was due, Marlowe didn’t look half as scared as Travers was sure he felt. Indeed the young man met the demon’s cool gaze with a determined one of his own and then took one, very deliberate, step forward further into the room.
"Well, looky here. Take-out’s arrived." Spike moved closer - only four feet separated them now - and his nostrils flared as he scented the air. Everyone else held their collective breath waiting for the vampire to strike. He didn’t. Instead the room was again treated to the sound of his disdainfully bored voice. "If we’re being honest then you’re a bit on the old side. But you know what they say - any port in a storm and all that. And it’s been a while."
Faster than anyone could blink, and certainly far quicker than the chip could be activated, Spike had Marlowe by the shoulders and his fangs in his neck. And when the hot pumping blood hit the back of his throat, all he could do was groan in ill concealed delight. This was the stuff, straight from the carotid and gushing almost faster than he could drink. God, it had been too long.
But not so long that he didn’t feel the human’s heart start to slow and though it was hard to stop, he did, then cut into his own throat and pressed the man’s mouth to the wound. A good belly full should do it and though he was no expert - Dru had always been the one to make the minions - he knew enough to recognise when his blood had done the trick.
Outside the room Ibtesam felt the human’s soul depart and focussed her magics on halting its journey and trapping it safely in the blown glass vessel she held in her hands. It fought against her strongly, twisting and writhing, slippery in her mind’s grasp but she prevailed and pulled it back to the mortal plane, forcing it into the receptacle that would hold it secure until the time came for it to be replaced.