*one*

After two weeks, Gwen’s neighbourhood was beginning to look a bit less like war-torn Bosnia. There were only one or two crazed lunatics loitering outside her building, and sometimes the emergency sirens stopped for a couple of hours. People were beginning to forget about Jasmine, going back to work, replacing broken windows, restocking vandalised store shelves. And Gwen was starting to wonder if it had all been a bad episode of Outer Limits.* Or a County-wide drug induced hysteria: Timothy Leary meets Stephen King.* But there were some large scale catastrophes that were best left a mystery- for the general public not wise to the whole ‘mystical forces exist in the world’ thing anyway.

Thanks to her thirty-thousand dollar security system, Gwen’s elegant, but poorly lit loft had made it through the craziness unharmed-- not a dust bunny was out of place. As she unpacked her groceries, she considered her reading options. Maybe some Jane Austin, or Tennyson. *Nah, too perky, and too old.* Something darker- she was feeling a bit wallowish. Kafka; yes, that seemed somehow appropriate. Of course, just as she was on the verge of sitting down with her book and a glass of chocolate milk, the phone had to ring.

She picked up reluctantly, after 4 rings. “Hello? . . . This is a private line, buddy. . . fine, you have 30 seconds . . . well that depends on what you want me to-. . . Sunnydale? Isn’t that the town that just became a crater?. . . . How do you expect me to-. . . Oh, no. NO. I am not a magic girl-or I mean I am, but I don’t, you know. You’ll have to find some one else. . . How Much? Crap.. . . Yeah, okay. I’ll be here. . . . I can get it to you as early as tonight, say 1 am. . . . Fine. I’ll be there. Bye.”

She didn’t get his name. Half of her clients preferred to remain anonymous anyway. The only name she had was Claude. The middle man she was to meet in the Krispy Kreme parking lot at 1 that morning. What had she gotten herself into? Scrambling around a giant crater in the valley for some stupid Amulet? Not exactly the most relaxing way to spend an evening. And she so desperately wanted to relax. But if she just got it over with . . . oh, the money she would get. How could she say no? There would be much relaxing in her future if she pulled this baby off without a hitch. And it didn’t sound too complicated really. Find centre of Sunnydale crater, sprinkle some fairy dust, say the magic words, and presto-magnifico! Amulet rises from the ground, and all she has to do from there is deliver it into the hands of Mr. Moneybags. So why did she feel like she might hurl?

Gwen realised that this bastard knew she wouldn’t be able to refuse, when a bike courier arrived only minutes after she had put down the phone. Oooh, that pissed her off. She tipped the courier generously. Was there some law that said you have to be a hot sex machine to ride a bike for a living? *Focus.* Gwen leaned against the closed front door, and gave the padded manila envelope a short shake. Then she tore it open tentatively, hoping nothing slimy would crawl out and sink its teeth into her, or goo on her and mess up her nice expensive clothes. She reached in, and pulled out a small clear yellow flask filled with what looked like nothing. *Interesting.. . .* Then she removed a piece of paper from the envelope that seemed to have been torn out of an old book. There were some directions on how to wave your hands around like a dork, and how to cast the “yellow ether.” *Hmmm.* Then the words to speak as this is all being done. It looked straight forward enough . . .

After changing into tighter, more leathery clothes and gathering up some supplies in her backpack, Gwen made her way down to the parking garage. Since she was still waiting on some obscure part to arrive from Europe for her Saab, she would have to take the bike. It was a nice, streamline motorbike— like the kind you see in Anime movies from the eighties. Gwen normally rode it when she had to get through rush-hour traffic, which, in LA, was an Apocalypse in its own right.

The drive took a little over an hour. Over a wide hill, Sunnydale appeared suddenly. The enormous depression in the ground where a town had once been had Gwen’s jaw hanging in a rather undignified manner. She hopped off her bike, and made her way to the centre of the crater. Once there, she removed the necessary items from her backpack. It was time for the rabbit to come out of the hat.

“Ferramentum Resurgere. Ferramentum Resurgere. Ferramentum Resurgere.” As Gwen spoke the words she uncorked the flask, and smashed it to the desert ground in front of her. A yellow haze spread in a swirling motion away from the shards of glass. Gwen waited for something very bad to happen.

About 30 seconds passed and by then the entire crater was covered in a low yellow haze that came up to Gwen’s knees. It was silent. But for some reason, not eerily so. For the first time since she took this job, Gwen felt oddly at peace. She wasn’t afraid. And she even felt kinda happy-- in a confident and strong sort of way. Not like it had been with Jasmine. That was happy in a dazed, childish sort of way. But beyond that not much was going on. She was beginning to wonder if the spell had worked completely. Then she heard it. A sort of distant scratching noise. And very slowly it was getting louder.

Gwen took a few steps backward as she watched the spot on the ground where the flask lay in pieces. There was a circular break in the haze surrounding the area, and she could see the earth there was trembling slightly. Her eyes were fixed on the spot, and she was actually excited, as if whatever was about to emerge was the Christmas present that she never got, but asked for every year just the same. Instead, a glint of something small and metallic appeared. *The Amulet.* It was shot ferociously into the air by some unseen force, and cleared away the haze with a burst of energy that also sent Gwen flying inelegantly backwards about 30 feet and onto her ass. The shock of the energy burst dazed her for a few minutes, and when she regained her senses, she stood up to find the crater just as it had been when she arrived, except for the shiny blackish object attached to an equally blackish chain which lay on the spot where she had stood mid-crater, as if it had always been there la-de-da.

She scooped up the amulet, pocketed it, and made her way back towards the edge of the crater, where less than an hour ago, she had rappelled down with an ease that would most likely elude her on the way back up. The sun was just setting behind her as she scaled the cliff’s face, and Gwen gave herself a mental pat on the back for being so far ahead of schedule. Then she started to think. *This was too easy.* Why did Mr. Moneybags, or whoever he was, hire her, and offer so much cash? Why didn’t he just come get the damn hunk of metal himself? *Damn hunk of…* she fingered the amulet within her red leather pocket. It felt bumpy, and warm. As if it were warming her soul. *My soul? Warming my soul? Hold the fucking phone!* Righting herself as she reached the top, she yanked the thing out to get a closer look at it. Thought maybe there would be some kind of flashing neon sign that read “Good!” or “Evil!” but no such luck. The thing was a freakin’ mess. It turned out the metal part was just the setting for a big stone, that was almost completely blackened with thick, crusty soot. But in some small places, Gwen could see that it was a crystal- she couldn’t tell what colour, as no light could pass through it. Looked like someone had tried to melt it down without much success other than rendering the thing into a toasty mess. She shoved the Amulet deep into her pocket, and continued her way back, hoping that ignoring the magical object was a sure-fire way out of this slightly uncomfortable situation.

Once she had her motorbike back on the road to L.A, she decided to take the pretty way, up the coast, and stopped for dinner at some charming local seafood restaurant along the way. She was no longer thinking about the piece of glorified shrapnel in her coat pocket, and the funny feeling it had given her, but she was in a particularly good mood. She assumed it was due to the disgusting amounts of hard cash she would be receiving in a few hours.

It was still only 11 pm once Gwen was back on the road. About 20 miles up from the restaurant, she spotted a deserted beach, all pebbles and cliffs, and thought about ridding herself of more of that extra time. Rarely did she get an opportunity to go for a dip in the ocean, thanks to her nifty powers. She was sure to seriously zap all other swimmers within a 3 mile radius. Not to mention the fish. Radio in bathtub effect. LISA wasn’t a big help in this department either, since Gwen was too protective of her to test out her waterproof-ness on a whim. But tonight she was feeling deserving and cocky, fish be damned. So she gave her kick stand a you-know-what, and decisively made her way down to the water.

An odd thing happened, as they sometimes do shortly after mutants perform pagan rituals in the middle of ex-hellmouths. When Gwen stepped away from her coat, she suddenly felt queasy. *Bad shellfish?* No, it was more than that. She felt sad too, as if she had just lost an old friend, or a favourite pet. She felt like she had when her nanny had taken away her bun-rat when she was 10, telling her that 10 year old girls were too old to carry around stuffed rabbits. And then Gwen had removed one of her fuzzy white gloves and made a much more menacing E.T. pointy motion towards the old bag, who darted out of the room with her beloved companion. Neither were seen ever again.

Without thought or hesitation, Gwen snatched the Amulet from her coat where it lay on the rocks before her, and held it tightly to her chest. She was on the verge of tears. Whatever this Amulet was, it contained something very powerful, and wonderful even. Gwen decided, without a second thought about the money, that she was not going to make that meeting at the Krispy Kreme after all. *Something had gone wrong with the spell, and it hadn’t worked. She didn’t have the Amulet. Maybe it wasn’t even there. So sorry.*

~~*~*~~

There was a suspicious looking limo parked outside her building. *Shit. Had a feeling he wouldn’t buy it. Now what?* She had to find out what the deal was with this damn Amulet, and why she was so protective of it. But all her research books, and her expensive hacking software were trapped up in the apartment. She also needed to hide out, and fast. Considering the amount of dough this guy was willing to fork out, he probably wanted the thing enough to kill for it too. So where could she go? She needed answers, the immediate kind. But who did she know who had a clue about mystical yellow fog and supernatural Amulets? . . . Ah-ha!

“I’m looking for Angel Investigations? You know what? Forget it. I must have the wrong-“

“No, please, Miss, who would you like to speak with?”

“You mean Angel and his lackeys really work in this shiny, clean, officially office building? I thought the sign at the hotel was a prank or something.”

“They do more than work here. They run the place,” explained the barely dressed and rather sparkly receptionist. Gwen was confused to say the least.

“Lackeys? I’ll have you know that I am not a lackey or a sidekick, darling, nor am I the wacky comic relief. I am the official Professional Entertainer slash Demon of the Non-Evil Variety Liaison. As for the other three? Yeah, lackeys, pretty much.” Gwen turned to face the non-threatening green demon, who was, at the same time as she was, putting a name to the face in front of him.

“Tell me that’s not what’s on your business card,” Gwen coughed out, cracking a resisted smile.

“It’s Gwen, right? Great to see you dolly. Love the streaks. Match the coat nicely.”

“Thanks. Lorne?” She held out a bare hand, which Lorne stared down at suspiciously, until his memory kicked him in the pants.

“Oh, silly me,” he laughed nervously, and shook hands with a hint of hesitation. “Heard tell you found yourself a little lightning rod to keep all that nasty zapping business in check. With some help from one of our lackeys?” Gwen stared at the floor, pushing her conscience back into cold storage. “Glad to see that working out for ya.”

“Yeah, well. Girl’s gotta do what she has to, to survive- or fit in socially. I’ve got no regrets.”

“I didn’t ask if you did.” Gwen wasn’t liking the direction the conversation was taking.

“Look. I didn’t come here to be psychoanalysed. There are matters. Pressing ones. I need to talk to the others. Your research guy. Wes? And that small girl. Phil?”

“Fred! Phil is a boys name. Sheesh! You really are distracted. Well okay. Just follow me.”

In the morning California sunlight conference room, stood Wesley, Fred, Angel and Gunn. *One of these things is not like the other. . * “Angel. Hi?” *One of these things just doesn’t belong.* “Why aren’t you, uh. . .” Gwen pointed twitchily back and forth from the huge windows to Angel’s un-dusty personage.

“Dirt Devil dinner?” Gunn finished for her.

“Enchanted windows. Don’t expect to see me out playing Ultimate Frisbee anytime soon though. Purely an indoor thing.” The novelty had obviously worn off rather quickly, as Angel seemed wholly uninterested in any kind of basking. He greeted Gwen with a cheerful handshake, while she mused over the thought that happy was not Angel’s best colour. He looked awkward in it, like he couldn’t find it in his size or something. He motioned for her to enter, and she did so at the same time as exchanging existence acknowledging nods with the others. Other then the people and the generic conference room furniture, the room was rather empty- as if it had never been used, or at least not by these guys, who seemed to like leaving weird creepy old books and maps and orbs lying around.

“So what’s with the new H.Q.? Win the lottery? Sell your souls or something?” The 4 musketeers exchanged mysterious glances. “Hey! That last one was a joke, guys! What the hell?” Wesley, who was sitting on the table in a casually British way, stood up.

“We didn’t sell our souls. Don’t be absurd. We merely took advantage of a limited time offer.”

“Yeah, we called within the next 30 minutes and got a free salad spinner,” Gunn sniped, rolling his eyes in Wesley’s direction.

“What I mean to say is,” Wes continued, clearing his throat, “that we were made an offer- oh for Christ sake, someone else give it a go!” Wes sunk into his shoulders and plopped himself back down on the conference table.

“O-kay. So this evil law firm got wiped out during the latest apocalypse, and left their fancy building and stuff to us in their will- kinda.” Fred tilted her head in resolution, and took in her friends’ nods of approval.

“Good enough for me,” Gwen blurted, ready to move on to her story. “So, anyway. I came because I need some info on an Amulet that I found. It has some kind of power that’s affecting my, well, sanity and stuff.” She pulled the circular object from her coat pocket, allowing the chain to dangle through her fingers. Angel’s jaw tightened, and he reached for the thing. Gwen took a step back.

“Where did you get that?” he asked, voice slightly raised, but restrained.

“Sunnydale. Look, this sounds strange, I know, but, I need you to not take it from me. I’m having withdrawal issues.” She was embarrassed and amazed all at once. Wesley and Gunn let out short sighs of laughter, and Fred’s interest in the object was tangible. But the concern on Angel’s face and within his crossed arms was the only thing Gwen observed.

Wesley finally noticed Angel having an actual reaction, and approached him and Gwen.” Have you seen this before, Angel?”

“Shit. He really did it,” Angel whispered to no one.

“Angel?” Wesley repeated.

“Yes, I have. It’s the Amulet. THE Amulet.”

“You mean. . . Sunnydale. Of course. After Lilah’s tour.”

“The one you gave to Buffy?” Fred was catching on. Angel nodded.

It was Gunn’s turn now: “But how did she- Yeah, how did you find this, Gwen? From what we heard, it should have been buried under miles of, well, town.”

“It was a job, okay. I just followed the instructions. Easier than putting together a Kinder Egg toy. Really. Well, except for the being thrown through the air by an energy field part. “

“And the Lord of the Rings Syndrome, of course,” Angel added.

“Uh, and that.”

“So you used some random spell to yank this thing out of the ground, and you expect us to figure out what the hell is going on?”

“Well, yes, actually. Look, I’ll pay you.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, we aren’t exactly – we have gobs of money.” Angel’s face remained stoic.

“So what’s the problem?”

Wesley was looking just as serious as Angel now. “The problem is that this Amulet is extremely dangerous. The problem is that whoever hired you to go get it knew that the spell was dangerous. The problem is that now you are most likely being hunted down by this man who is sure to be really dangerous. And you want to put us in the middle of it.”

Gwen stared Wes down: “Oh, I’m sorry. I must be mistaken, but I thought that this was the Angel Investigations that did really dangerous stuff all the time, as in, for a living. This must be the other Angel Investigations that does sissy loser things, and runs away all the time. I’ll be on my way then.”

Wes let out a resigned huffing noise demonstrating impressive lung capacity. “What did the spell involve?”

~~*~*~~

The lab was massive. They couldn’t even see the extent of it from where they stood. Fred had offered politely to give Gwen a tour, but she had politely refused. They politely disliked each other, and preferred to spend the least amount of time alone together as was politely possible. “Let’s just get down to business.” Also, the anticipation of seeing the amulet after it was all cleaned off was too much to bear through speeches on multi-spectral analysis and inter-dimensional strata scope demonstrations.

A lab technician, who looked fresh out of high school, approached them swiftly, carrying a clear plastic jug of pink liquid. “Here is the solvent, Ms. Burkle. I’m, like, positive it’s concentrated enough to clean the object. Just don’t let it touch you. We’re talking to the bone, permanent tissue damage, “ he said, tapping on the jug as he handed it to Fred.

“Great. Thanks, ummm. . .”

“Cal. Humbly at your service, Ms. Burkle, any time.” Cal tipped his invisible hat, and Fred giggled shyly.

“Thank you Cal,” she called out as he turned to walk away. Gwen’s eyes took a fast trip to the ceiling.

Fred turned to a nearby counter, which was adorned with typical labby stuff, like a Bunsen burner, a rack of empty vials, a stack of plastic basins, and various other empty receptacles. Stuck onto the wall behind the counter was what at first glance looked to be a Periodic Table of Elements. At second glance, Gwen realized that it looked very different from the one she had studied in school. There were elements she had never heard of covering half the table. Some of them didn’t even have letter symbols. There was one column that had Rune-like pictograms, and another that looked like a series of old Arabic scribblings. Gwen decided that it would be best not to ask.

“It’s ready,” Fred tapped on Gwen’s shoulder, and pointed to the basins which she had filled- one with the pink liquid, the other with what looked like soapy water. “Just dip the Amulet in there, and it should clean up real nice. Then we can rinse off the solvent so you don’t burn your fingers off and all that.”

Gwen let the amulet dangle from the chain, and slowly lowered it into the first basin. After it sat for only a few seconds, the liquid started to fizz and turn grey. When the fizzing died down, Gwen pulled the Amulet out by its chain. She stared at it, mesmerized. It was red. Blood and fire, Hellmouth red. And it looked to be blazing, throbbing and alive on the inside. Fred could see it too.

She gasped. “We have to show the others.”

*two*

“It’s incredible.”

“Reminds me of the Stone of Darmosg that a professor of mine had.” Gwen gave Wes a dirty look. “Except much prettier, of course.”

“I can’t stop staring at it.”

“This isn’t what it looked like before. It was clear. Like a diamond. This is, well, much less . . . clear.” Angel spoke carefully.

“It would be safe to say that whatever is now inside the stone is the cause of Ms. Raiden’s, er, compulsion, and not the Amulet itself,” Wesley hypothesised.

“So what do I do about it,” questioned Gwen.

“We should figure out what exactly this Amulet thing is, and what this glowy red shit inside of it is before we do anything,” Gunn stated, as if he were talking about defusing a very big bomb.

“Agreed,” added Wesley.

“I think I might have the answer to that second question.” Everyone turned to look at Angel, who was just starting to tear his eyes from the Amulet.

“I think it’s Spike.”

~~*~*~~

There was no white light. No tunnel. No sudden feeling of euphoria, or peace. There had been the explosion-- his explosion. And it was bloody brilliant. It had felt like hot freedom, and there was an overwhelming sense of release. Like the best fucking orgasm in the universe. But then, in a flash, it was the morning after, and he opened his eyes *(I have eyes?)*, and he was alone, standing in a room that looked almost familiar, as if he had dreamed it once. He looked down at his body, and patted himself. He was solid, and he was wearing the most horrible brown suit- *oh, not the bleedin’ Randy suit!* He panicked for a moment. Was this Hell? He took in his surroundings more carefully. There was a huge, gaudy portrait on the wall of a stuffy old man that triggered something in Spike’s memory. The plaque at the bottom of the portrait read “Hubert Thackery, Headmaster 1850- ____.“ What the frell? Spike knew exactly what this place was. His old public school. And he was right outside the Headmaster’s chamber. Oh, yeah, this could be Hell alright.

A few minutes passed. Spike just stood there thinking. What was he going to do next? There was no way he was going to prance around Hades in this vile Salvation (ha!) Army reject get-up. He would find a way out. Back to, well, probably not Sunnydale. But back to Buffy. There was no way he would give up kicking more ass with the slayer (or a slayer anyways) back on earth, for this pathetic . . .

“Are you coming in or what?” yelled a deep voice from behind the Headmaster’s door. Spike scratched his head. He approached the door, and placed a hand on the knob. *Why not?* Spike went into the room, expecting to find Satan himself sitting comfortably in old Thack’s armchair. Instead, he found a very anachronistically dressed middle aged man, in Dockers and a blue chequered dress shirt. He was slightly overweight, and was smoking one of Thackery’s pipes. And coughing.

He held the pipe out elegantly. “Man, that stuff is nasty. Thank god for the modern cigarette filter.”

Spike stared at the strange bloke, with a raised eyebrow. “Mm-hmm. So now that we’re through with pleasantries, mind telling me what the bloody hell is going on! Who are you? What am I doing here? And why am I in these ugly, ugly clothes?!” Spike asked loudly, taking a fierce hold of the edge of the oak desk that acted as the only barrier between the two men.

“Woah,” the man sighed, utterly un-phased by Spike’s hostile stance. “Slow it down Buckaroo.”

“Bucka-what did you call me?” Spike was getting frustrated.

“Sit down first, then we can discuss your future, in a civilised, adult manner. We are all adults here, right?” Spike sat reluctantly down on the wooden chair on his side of the desk as he came to terms with the fact that grabbing this guy by his pinkie toe and dangling him out the window probably wouldn’t get him very far.

“Good. Now. I already know who you are, Spike, a.k.a. William the Bloody. So let me introduce me. I’m Martin, your case-worker.”

“Case? What do I need a sodding case worker for?” Spike shifted in his chair impatiently. He could already tell this was going to take way too long.

“Well, we deal with lost souls. Souls that need placement, so to speak. We’re kind of like social workers.”

“Or parole officers?”

“Well, not yet-“

“Hey, wait. So I am dead then?” asked Spike mournfully.

“Technically, yes.”

“But. There’s a But.”

“There are arrangements that can be made,” Martin said hopefully. “In your case, certain deals could be struck, if it benefits both parties.”

“Who’s the other party then? Do you work for them?”

“No. I work for an independent organization. We’re governed by the Powers That Be. But I am also aware of what the other party’s terms are. And I’m here to help you make a decision.” Spike was finally starting to show some interest in what Martin was saying. He leaned forward in his chair. “See, it’s like this: That Amulet you exploded from, it belongs to someone. That someone is very powerful in, like, lots of dimensions. And when you used their Amulet to save the world, your essence was captured inside of it-“

“I don’t like where this is headed,” Spike growled.

“So now you technically belong to That Someone.”

“Right. So I basically save the world from being taken over by the first, baddest evil, and die doing it, and my reward for this is, what? Being reborn into slavery? That’s just dandy!”

“No, listen. You have a choice here. You can be free. You’ll be released from any obligations. But,” Martin continued with the kind of gravity one expects from a game show host, “you will be dead. And we can’t be sure where you’ll end up. You might not like it.”

“I might like it more than doing some random Sorcerer’s bidding. Jesus. This is all so, so . . .”

“Dramatic?”

“. . . far fetched. Ridiculous. Insane. Fast. Bloody fast. I haven’t even had a chance to think about what just happened. I turned to dust, but here I am? I’m not even sure if Buffy made it out of there,” Spike realised suddenly. He was finally giving himself a chance to let the hugeness of what had happened sink in. Martin contented himself with bearing witness to Spike’s monologue, which was really just Spike thinking out loud. “What happened after I . . . after I- don’t right know what that was. How I felt. Like my soul was running through my veins like molten lava. Was pretty much disturbing- in a good way. One thing I know is that it wasn’t just my soul that I felt. That was a big part of it, yeah, but s’not all. There was something heavier. Something fierce.” Ideas began to erupt in Spike’s head, ones best left unsaid. *Like my demon. The stuff inside me that makes me a vampire.* The part that seemed totally ludicrous was that it wasn’t fighting against his soul, it was with it- part of it even. Not oil and water- water and water. Or blood and blood, as the case may be.

“What is it?” Martin prodded. Spike’s speech had ended abruptly, and he was currently biting at his left thumbnail.

“Oh. Never mind that nonsense. Prob’ly never know,” he said, and spat nail over his shoulder. “So, can you tell me what happened?”

“After you went poof?” Spike half smiled at Martin’s Buffyism, as he reclined a bit in his necessarily uncomfortable chair. *Damn, keep forgetting to ask what the deal is with the ol’ public school.*

“Was there to see it all end, but that made it a bit bothersome to see any of the epilogue. Who didn’t make it out?”

“The Ex-Vengeance demon. Anya? The rest of your friends are fine. Including Buffy Summers.” Spike nodded. He didn’t look surprised.

“I wouldn’t go so far as ‘friends.’ But, Anya? Yeah, maybe. She was a fine lady. And a damn vicious fighter. Expect she went out in style.”

“Sliced in half,” Martin said coldly.

“Nothing duff about that kind of dead I suppose. Definitely final. At least for a human. And I suppose her time was up. She was older than me, and that’s bleedin’ impressive.

“I guess. . .”

Spike got up from his chair and staggered towards the fireplace, looking into the black pit spitefully. “Agh, what the hell am I on about. This fucking stinks. Why should I go out of my way to rationalize who gets to live, and who dies? None of it makes any sense. Ever. It’s all rot. She was the only one out of that whole lot that always showed me respect. She didn’t deserve to die any more than Dawn or Buffy.”

“Or you?” Spike didn’t look up. “Where does the line get drawn, Spike? As far as I can tell, you had a lot in common with Anya. So, tell me, what makes her life worth more than yours?”

*Why did this prat have to be so bloody insightful?*

“She was human.”

“That’s it? That the big why?”

“What d’ you want? It’s obvious,” Spike sighed.

“Obvious? Obvious? Disco is dead? That is obvious. Luke is in love with Loreli? That is obvious. Being human makes you a better person, more deserving of happiness? That is a big-ass heap of what-ever.”

“What? What makes you a sodding philosopher on the subject? I’ve been there. I’ve lived it. Learned this shit the hard way, you know.”

“From who? Those oh-so-infallible humans? Imagine that. They think they’re morally superior? That’s original.”

“Vamps just think they’re superior. Morals don’t really factor into it.”

“You would like to be human again wouldn’t you?” Martin asked retoricaly, taking note of Spike’s facial reaction, which included squinting and furrowing his brow, as if to say:

“What are you getting at,” which he did.

“It seems to be the trend with souled vampires.”

“I’d hardly call two a trend,” Spike griped. “But so what if I did?”

“I’d say you have a thing or two to learn that you’ll only understand if you go back.”

“I get it. It’s pitch time, then is it? Convince ol’ Spikey boy to sign on the dotted line?”

“Convince him that there are other ways to find peace with yourself besides waiting around for that get out of jail free card you guys think humanity is.”

“With a catch, of course.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.”

“Who am I dealing with anyway? Some Hell God with a thing for blondes? An all-powerful Magician from some weird dimension that is ruled by trashy pop singers? I can deal.”

“Wolfram and Hart.”

“Fuck.”

*three*

The view was even more impressive at night. From the 15th floor you could see almost all the highest skyscrapers downtown. And everything looked cleaner in the dark, Gwen thought. She and Gunn were alone together in the conference room, alone for the first time since the night they had “tested” LISA out. *He couldn’t have at least called?* Of course, averting the enslavement of the entire world was surely up there on the list of acceptable excuses for bad post-sex etiquette. After a long akward silence, Gwen finally spoke:

“I thought we were supposed to be meeting the others.”

“They’ll be here. Wes and Fred have a long elevator ride up from the basement. This building is three times deeper than it is tall. Gotta keep all the secrets underground, and since these guys pretty much cornered that market . . . “

“Angel?”

“Oh, he’s always late these days. Boss-guy now, in a big, under-qualified way. He has like, ten assistants and he still can’t figure out how to conference call.” Gwen imagined Angel staring at his phone quizzically, pushing random buttons. She was positive that was what he was doing at that very moment.

“I guess technology has a way of sneaking up on you when you were born before they invented toaster ovens.”

“Or the wheel,” Gunn added. The two laughed simultaneously, and looked at each other, both relieved that a bit of Angel fun-poking was all they needed to clear the air of the eau de awkward. Gunn took a seat in one of the chairs that surrounded the long mahogany table, and began testing its swively-ness.

“Gunn? What ever happened to that other girl? Cordelia. Did she skip town or something?”

“She’s doing the whole fairy tale princess thing. You know, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White? That’s pretty much her deal for the past month. No one really thinks she’ll wake up.”

“Wow, Angel must have been upset.”

Gunn paused, mid-swivel. “Weird thing. No. Well, a bit, but he seems to think she’s better off, or something. We’re all just going with it.”

“Do you really think that there is some guy trapped in this thing,” Gwen asked, swinging the Amulet around her hand casually.

“Maybe. What about you? I mean, you are the one feeling its vibes.”

“It’s not like I’m psychically communicating with it or anything. I just feel good around it. Energized. Vital.”

“Vital?”

“Yeah, you know, confident, important. Not egotistical of course-“

“Of course,” Gunn mocked. “And when you put it down?”

“I feel that even more strongly. It’s like I’m pulled back towards it, and if I resist, I start to feel like crap. I know in my head that I don’t need it, but I can’t stop myself. God, I sound like Jim Carroll. Amulets are evil, kids! Stay in school!” Gwen was still standing near the doorway, fiddling with the object of her addiction, when Fred, Angel and Wesley all came swooping in. Wesley dropped a full filing box on the table, releasing a cloud of dust as it landed.

“So, what’s the score?” Gunn asked, standing up for a stretch. Wesley pulled out a yellow folder from the box, and spread its guts out on the table.

“Let’s go at this in chronological order,” he said, all business. “The Amulet, as we keep creatively referring to it as, is actually the Stone of Hrathgund. It was created by a warlock during the 11th century in Denmark. He meant for it to capture a star from the heavens. Wanted an impressive necklace for his wife, I’ll wager. Instead, it simply harnessed the power of the sun- the closest star. His wife? Dead pretty much as soon as she hung the thing around her neck.”

“The power that the stone had was so great, it was too much for any human to bear,” Fred added.

“Yes. But we believe that there needs to be a soul touching the stone for it to work at all. And a soul of great courage and stamina.”

“AKA, a champion,” Angel sighed.

“Precisely. But something happened to the stone on its way to the 21st century. There was a spell cast on it. We found it referred to in this write-up in the Christie’s catalogue.”

“The Christie’s hunh?” Gunn said.

“Ah, yes. It seems Christie’s Auctions are not limited to this mortal realm. Wolfram and Hart have acquired many powerful objects from their underworld events in the past, according to the purchasing department. In any case, the write-up said that the spell decreed: ‘Whosoever perishes wearing the Stone of Hrathgund at its full strength, shall find sanctuary within its walls, and become the property of the rightful owner of the Stone.’”

“So who’s the rightful owner?” asked Angel, not certain he wanted to hear the answer in the first place.

“Christie’s records the winning bidder to be none other than Wolfram and Hart. They are the ‘rightful’ owners, unfortunately.”

“And now they own Spike,” Fred continued gloomily.

Chucking the Amulet into her pocket, Gwen approached Wesley and his stack of papers. “But what does all this have to do with me?” she whined, waving her hands at the dusty files. Angel glared at her, disgusted.

“Okay, okay. We’ll skip to the part about Miss jewellery junkie. Gwen, from what you told us about the spell you cast, I was able to find the original version. And it seems you forgot to duck.”

“Duck? What do you mean?”

“The energy burst hit you, and that is what’s causing you to be drawn to the stone. Something to do with forces being polarized. The spell uses compulsive forces to bring the Amulet forth, and somehow they transferred to you when you were hit by its energy.”

“And to sever the connection?”

Wesley looked down at his research solemnly. “There are two ways,” Fred continued for her distracted friend. “One, restore the stone to its original form, thus releasing the energy affecting you, or two, destroy the stone, and let the energy dissipate.”

“The energy? We are talking about a person here if you’ll recall?” Wesley interrupted.

“A vampire,” Gunn grumbled.

“Spike. His essence is that energy. And who knows what happens to him if we do either of those things.”

“Wes is right,” Angel said quietly. “While I’m the last person I would expect to make a case for the fashion-illiterate vampire who has been an all-around pain in my ass for the past hundred years, Gwen will just have to hold on to the Amulet until we can figure out what to do with Spike’s soul. Do you think we could transfer it to an orb or something?”

“Our orb track record does not lead me to believe that’s a brilliant idea, no,” Wesley said rubbing his temples. “There must be other ways of moving it safely-- ways that will still be there tomorrow morning? Because my eyelids are going to need either two large fork-lifts or twelve more cups of earl grey if they are going to stay open for more than ten more minutes.”

“We could all use a satisfying collapse into unconsciousness-land, and this isn’t the most time sensitive case we’ve ever had, frankly,” Gunn said, apologetically.

“That’s fine. Except I’m slightly homeless at the moment. So if-” Gwen started.

“I’ll show you to the spare penthouse,” Fred said, leading Gwen and her raised eyebrow out into the hall as they nodded goodnight to everyone else.

“I’m thinking selling my soul might be the right career move after all,” Gwen said just as she walked out of the room.

“We did not sell our souls, damn it!” pouty Angel exclaimed to the empty doorway.

~~*~*~~

The satin sheets reminded her of home, and she could almost fool herself into believing she was there with her eyes closed. But the glowing red crystal which she clung to under the blankets was her reminder that something was slightly off. She conked out despite her new surroundings, however. And a few hours later, as she snored herself silly, a shimmering red steam emerged from under the sheets, and turned itself rapidly into a nude, confused blonde man.

“Where the hell am I?” Spike yelped, his voice cracking as if he hadn’t used his vocal cords in weeks.

“Better question: who the hell are you? And why are you in my bed,” Gwen took a lightning fast look under the sheets, “naked?” Both of their eyes widened, aware of the utter awkwardness of their new situation.

The two of them were now tucked away tightly on either ends of the king-size bed, as far away from each other as they could manage without toppling onto the floor. “Buggered if I know. Last thing I remember is . . . oh.” Spike looked down at the pillow on his end, and the clear crystal Amulet which was lying on top of it. Gwen’s eyes followed suit, and her still half-asleep brain began to put two and two together.

“So you’re Spike, I assume,” she asked casually, separating comforter from sheet, so that they would each have their own nakedness-covering thing.

“Yeah . . .” Spike said suspiciously “What’s it to you? And what are you doing with the Amulet? Are you with Wolfram-“

“I’d better call Angel,” Gwen said, climbing out of bed, wrapped up tight in a blue satin sheet.

“What! Peaches? Oh, that’s just brill,” Spike moaned, pushing the comforter down to the very edge of his abdomen. As Gwen looked for the phone, he pulled himself into a sitting position, only to find the room was starting to spin uncontrollably- or was it his brain- or his stomach? “Ah, hell,” he moaned- more genuinely this time- as he sank back into the bed. “Just my bloody luck that I would be sent back to earth, and wake up naked in the bed of Nancyboy’s girlfriend,” he muttered to himself as Gwen dialled.

“Name’s Gwen. And I am not Angel’s girlfriend,” Gwen said forcefully, covering the mouthpiece.

While she carried out a very guarded and brief conversation with Angel, Spike tried desperately to figure out what had actually happened to him. He had most definitely been turned to dust. Saving the world was a memory his ego would not let go of, even through a gruesome, blood drenched battle. But he remembered being somewhere else –at school? And some twit in khakis named Martin. *Oh God.* There had been a deal. Some kind of deal. With the evil L.A. lawyers. The image of his hand holding a pen, and signing something, played itself out in Spike’s head, and he suddenly felt like he was going to heave.

*What in the name of fuck have I . . .*

“Uh, are you okay?” Gwen asked, though she was praying he would say yes even if he wasn’t, because, well, she wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea of fluffing the pillow of, or making hot tea for some spontaneously appearing vampire that she’d only known for about 3 minutes, and who was currently naked. It would just be weird.

“Sure. Just a bit knackered is all. Realm travel jet-lag, you know,” Spike replied, trying to resemble someone who was not about to release his vital organs back into the wild by way of his mouth.

“Angel’s on his way over,” Gwen stated, fumbling into a complimentary bathrobe. There was a fanciful “WH” embroidered on its left breast. As she dropped the sheet, Spike had caught a glimpse of the electronic device attached to her lower back, and raised a curious eyebrow.

“Hey, You got a chip too?” he asked.

“What? Oh. That’s really none of your business, vampire.”

“There’s no need for name-calling!” Gwen was staring at the wall, in pause/rewind mode, and removed herself from the conversation briefly.

“Did you say ‘too,’ as in also?” she queried.

“Had a little technology in my brain not too long ago. Kept me from murdering people and all that fun stuff. Got it removed on account of it was beginning to get in the way of my being conscious.”

“Okay . . .” That was a lot more explanation than Gwen was expecting.

“But I’m sure you won’t have any problems. Mine was made in the States, piece of junk.”

“Japan,” Gwen said, motioning to her back with her head.

“They know their implants, they do,” Spike assured her. Gwen couldn’t help but grin. Here’s this guy just recently released from being a ball of red energy inside a hunk of rock, and he’s trying to make her feel better about a computer chip on her back that he doesn’t even know the purpose of. That made her feel kinda nice.

“Am I interrupting?” It was Angel- standing in the bedroom doorway, looking morose and somewhat irritated. Some things you could just depend on, thought Spike.

“Don’t be daft,” Spike said still lying in bed, with his hands placed under his head, in an effort to appear relaxed.

“So Spike, you’re . . . solid again. How are you feeling?”

“Since when is that a concern of yours?”

“I think I’ll go make some tea,” Gwen said unnoticed, as the two vampires stared each other down, as if each were hoping for spontaneous laser-beams to come out of their eyes and blast the other one into a gazillion pieces. She left the room as if she had never been there to begin with.

“I feel obliged to help you, Spike.”

“Oh, that makes me feel right warm and marshmallowy inside.”

“Damn it, Spike! Can you cut out the sarcasm for once in your relentlessly idiotic life. This is fucking serious! And I’m not in the mood to try and run verbal circles around your witticisms and utter lack of fucking sincerity all night.”

“Christ, if I’d known you felt that strongly about it, I would have been sarcastic and insincere more often- I mean, when I was evil of course.” Spike paused to enjoy the view of Angel’s face, version 2.3: irritated, with snarl. “I’m good now.” *I hope.* What had he signed? Spike was feeling ill again. “Saved the world. Didja here?”

Angel approached the bed and dropped a pile of neatly folded clothes at Spike’s feet. He turned to face the wall, and Spike climbed out of bed, and started to get dressed. A pair of black Dickies and a dark green t-shirt? Spike couldn’t fathom how Angel had obtained these clothes on such short notice. Maybe he had a new roommate with actual taste.

“Unfortunately. Buffy and about 30 other people came into town about 2 weeks ago in a school bus. She left out no details of the adventures of Sir Spike the lame.” Angel paused. “It should have been me you know?” He was about to continue when he heard a “thump” and a “Bloody hell!” He turned around and found that Spike-- shirt hanging around his neck, but pants all the way on, thankfully-- had for some reason fallen onto his ass. “I doubt you’ll be doing any kitten saving tonight, let alone world saving, “ Angel said, grabbing hold of Spike’s hand and tugging him up. Spike accepted, making sure Angel saw the resentment plastered across his face. After pulling his shirt the rest of the way on, he plopped himself down on the edge of the bed, ran his fingers through his un-tamed hair, and let out a heavy sigh.

“Haven’t found my sea legs yet, is all.” Angel just stood there glaring at him disapprovingly, his arms crossed. Spike had to admit, Angel was the glare master.

“That’s odd, because you look about as green as algae.”

“You are starting to understand this thing we call humour. Impressive.”

“Your avoidance skills are well honed, but no match for my stubbornness. So just tell me what’s going on already,” Angel said impatiently.

“There’s nothing wrong with me, physically speaking. Ten fingers, ten toes, two fangs, one soul.” Spike spoke not to Angel, but to the Oriental rug under his feet. “Bloody tired. That’s about it. But there are things. Bad things that I can’t exactly remember.” He searched desperately for answers within the intricate maze of designs on the floor. “There was the Headmaster’s chambers. The fat guy called Martin. Something about disco. I can’t hear the words. Can only see my hands . . . I can’t bleedin’ remember it all, but I know that it wasn’t good. And when I try . . .” Spike trailed off as he let his head sink into his hands.

“Well! You aren’t making any kind of sense,” Angel said.

“Bugger off,” Spike mumbled from inside his hands.

“You have no idea how much I would love to.”

“Well, at least let me get some sleep. Give me a chance to remember stuff.”

“We need to get you checked out by a doctor at some point . . .”

“Are you daft? So he can what? Check my no-heartbeat, and ask me to not take a deep breath?”

“Wolfram and Hart have specialists in the, uh, no-heartbeat kind of people.”

“Wolfram and-? WH . . . Of course. So you’re evil again? Wait, this doesn’t make sense,” Spike said, head up now, and shaking it out of confusion.

“Not evil. Just kind borrowing their stuff for a while. They’re having a bit of a personnel shortage in L.A.”

“Well, that’s creepy.”

“I guess Buffy should be told what’s--”

“NO!” There was no way Spike was going to drag Buffy into this weirdness, until he found out what had really happened to him in between his ‘incarnations.’ He certainly didn’t want her around if he was meant to turn to dust again in a few days. Because the possibilities were bloody endless. “Buffy will not be told anything until I know exactly what kind of stupid mess I’m in. I can’t risk . . . I can’t risk . . .”

“What? Hurting her? Please don’t say that, or I will throw myself out this window,” Spike grinned slightly, “and drag you down with me.”

“Just don’t,” Spike sighed.

“Fine. But when she finds out- and she will soooo find out- she is going to kick both our asses, and it’ll be all your fault.”

Spike laughed to himself, thinking fondly about simpler times, when he was evil, and the two of them would do their little dance, fighting so furiously, no one ever winning. What he wouldn’t give to be able to go at it with Buffy that very second. But nothing was simple anymore. There was no logic, no instinct, nothing to tell him what he should do, but he knew he shouldn’t drag Buffy into this. That would just being selfish. “I’m a risk taker.”

“Fine. It’s not like we have any idea where she is anyway. When the magic school bus left, they were talking about roaming around the country, finding all the newly inducted slayers. No small task. No small map either. They could be anywhere.” Angel headed out of the room, then turned back, just before going through the door, and mustering up the tiniest glimmer of sympathy said, “We’ll figure this out. We always do.”

*four*

With two steaming cups of hot chocolate, Gwen re-entered the large penthouse bedroom. She found Spike sitting hunched over at the bottom of the bed, examining the fine workmanship of the carved oak bed-post that jutted out of his corner. His slim, wide-jointed fingers traced the curls and knots as if they had been the ones to put them there many years ago.

“There’s no appreciation for good craftsmanship anymore. Everything’s flat.” Spike didn’t look up. Speaking was enough to acknowledge Gwen’s presence. She approached him, and held out a mug. Spike took a firm hold of it with both hands, and looked at the contents with a curious gaze. Why did everything have to remind him of Buffy? He wondered if things ever reminded Buffy of him.

“Angel left some… I mean, if you’re hungry. Blood. Fridge.” The words stumbled out of Gwen’s mouth clumsily. She took a long sip of her hot chocolate, imagining that it was 50 proof, and would relax her with remarkable speed. But it wasn’t. And she couldn’t understand why she was nervous in the first place. Maybe it was because no one had thought to give Spike his own place to sleep. Maybe it was because she hadn’t thought of it, and she was never nervous or clumsy or awkward feeling, and she had no idea what to do with a recently dusted and re-animated vampire, or what to say next.

“Thanks,” Spike said, and you could just tell he didn’t say it very often. He looked up at her finally, squinting into her eyes. Reading her, trying to determine if she was what she seemed, and not a blobby, brain-sucking purple demon disguised as a kind, beautiful woman.

“Wesley told me Angel’s your sire. Doesn’t that mean you should have some kind of prodigal son thing happening, and not a sibling rivalry thing?”

“Sibling rivalry?” Spike chuckled. “Is that what it looks like to you?” Gwen shrugged. “Angelus was my sire, sure. But he didn’t choose me, didn’t turn me. I was the kid he never wanted. A nuisance that he couldn’t be rid of because his darling Dru had brought me home one night and never let me go. Angelus always resented me, my closeness to Dru, and I always hated him. But we fought on the same side, so we mostly tolerated each other. Well, to a point, at least. And now, we’re on the same side again, so we’ll tolerate again. Siblings we are not. Rivalry? Why bother? Angel hasn’t a bleeding chance.”

“Right. That’s cleared up.” Propping herself against the back of a desk chair, Gwen finally began to relax a bit. She had bit her tongue as she asked him about Angel, worried that the question was too personal, but apparently Spike was the gossipy type.

“Your turn to dish. Give it up.”

“Give what up?”

“Angel was being downright civil. Bloody disconcerting. Normally, he’d just try to toss me into on-coming traffic. He knows something I don’t. I’ll wager so do you,” Spike said bluntly, and gulped down his hot chocolate in two moves.

“About the Stone of . . . blahblahgund?”

“Of what?”

“The Amulet. Wesley and Fred traced its origins. It’s called the Stone of-“ Gwen quickly scanned the inside of her eyelids. “Hrathgund.”

“Sounds like something out of bleedin’ Beowulf,” Spike said with a yawn, and rearranged himself on the edge of the bed, in preparation for a long and tedious explanation, like those he had so frequently sat through with the Scoobies, listening to Rupert, or even Willow ramble on about the latest putrid smelling demon or lust spell or enchanted bloody toothbrush. A vaguely lame and miserable feeling came over him, as he reminded himself that he would never have that again. He felt stupid. Why should this make him feel sad? He hated having to sit and listen, when he wanted to run and kill. But now that he knew he would never again have to sit through one of those long lectures at the Magic Box, or in the Summers’ living room, he wished he had to- more than anything.

“-and then I brought the thing here. Figured these guys could make tails, if not at least heads of it.” Spike jerked his head towards Gwen, whose story had continued apparently, despite his brief attention span. “Spike. Are you listening? What did I just say?”

“Yeah, yeah. You brought it here. Heads or tails, la, la, la. I’m all ears, love,” which was utter trash, but Spike figured he was smart enough to fill in the blanks from what he got from the rest of the story.

Gwen eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then continued, accepting his slick, grin coated cajoling for the truth she knew it wasn’t, and in the end, didn’t really care anyway. Spike listened for real now, as she explained the stone’s origins, and the enchantment that was later placed on it. He didn’t look all that surprised. What she did not tell him about was the way the stone had made her behave. The way it had made her feel. She knew that it had nothing to do with him personally, that it was just some mix up with the spell she had used. And it was gone. Now that Spike was released from the stone, she couldn’t care less about the hunk of rock. But still, she felt uncomfortable just thinking about telling him. Embarrassed even.

“The ugly, unpleasant part is that they think you somehow ‘belong’ to Wolfram and Hart now. And because of that, I think Angel is probably more than a bit concerned about how you ended up back here. What had to happen for you to get back. That kind of thing. I guess that’s why he was acting strange. He knows you’re into something heavy. And now, so do you,” Gwen finished, and walked towards the large panelled window behind the bed that looked out on the night time L.A.

“I had a feeling. What with the turning to dust and waking up in a stranger’s bed, all un-dead again. Doesn’t happen to a chap every day, that sorta thing. Besides, I do remember something about Wolfram and Hart. When I was dead, or whatever that was, I talked to this bloke, and he told me I had a choice. Damn. I’m starting to recall something, something that occurred to me when I was there. But I don’t-”

A loud crash in the kitchen interrupted Spike’s almost-revelation, and before he or Gwen could even head that way, four night-club bouncer type, yellow, prickly skinned demons stormed into the bedroom, and headed straight towards Gwen. Spike immediately took a fighting stance between them. Gwen reached up the back of her shirt, and ripped off her LISA.

“Who the hell are you?” Spike asked in a typically patronizing manner. *Step 1: Make them feel small and impotent by acting reeeeaally cool.*

“They’re after the Stone, Spike. For that guy who hired me. Remember? Christ, you’d think they’d have a better security system in a place like this!” She was more than a little obsessed with modern home saftey.

“Yeah, ‘course.” *Step 2: Never let anyone think you haven’t a bloody clue what’s going on.* Spike took a quick survey of the four goons in front of him, who looked about as patient as terriers on crack waiting to catch a Frisbee. They weren’t too big. Two of them, the really hyper ones, were scrawny even. But they more than made up for their lack of brawn with the long stabby bits sticking out of them from every direction imaginable. Even their ears sported thorns. Human-rosebush hybrids was what they were really- except not as pleasant smelling.

“Give us the Amulet, and we’ll just trash the place a bit and leave, ‘kay?” suggested the largest of the four accommodatingly, in a husky meat-head voice.

“Catch up with the times buddy,” Gwen grinned, striding confidently towards the head of the four-poster bed. “No one calls it the ‘Amulet’ anymore.” She reached into the pillows, pulled out the Stone of Hrathgund, and proceeded to swing it around by its long metal chain.

What the hell was this girl up to? Spike remained frozen, but ready to pounce. *Step 3: If you don’t have a bloody clue what’s going on, best to be ready for all possible outcomes.* He scanned the room for makeshift weapons. If there was going to be a fight, he’d need something other than bare fists to bring down these blokes.

Gwen let go of the chain in mid-swing, allowing it to fly through the air, and land approximately at the feet of the bigger, spokesdemon. He picked it up, and looked at it with a frown.

“Do I look stupid to you?”

Gwen held back. Spike, of course, didn’t.

“Only in the literal sense of the word.” All four demons looked at each other, utterly lost in the English language. *Were they all high?* Their suits looked to be snagged from the ‘Boogie Nights’ dressing room, and one of them kept sniffling an invisible runny nose. The evidence was coming together nicely.

“FrankiesaidFrankiesaidFrankiesaid red,” said one of the scrawny ones spastically.

“THIS is NOT it!” the big guy yelled, and made a move toward Spike, in strangling mode. Instinctively, Spike went for a fast kick at the chest. The demon was thrown across the room, but not before Spike realized he was boot-less, and now had three ballpoint pen size holes straight through his right foot. *Step 4: Swear a lot and throw things.*

“Jesus Fuck!” Spike howled, as he took a limping step backwards. He reached out his hand and grabbed the clay table lamp he had spied during his earlier weapons search. It came down on a small, pokey demon head with a satisfying crack. A few feet away, Gwen was managing to temporarily fend off the remaining two by swinging a broken bed post around in an elegant, yet deadly manner. Spike took pause to be impressed.

“Toss me something metal. And long, preferably,” she yelled over the post and the Hellraisers. Spike leaped to the window, tore down the curtains, and pulled out a long, brass curtain rod. The first guy down was getting back up. Spike and Gwen made eye contact. He tossed her the rod, javelin-style. She tossed him the bed-post.

“Watch where you throw the wood.” Spike swivelled, and knocked the butt end of the post into the almost-up demon’s temple. He then turned to witness Gwen hold out the curtain rod and jab it into another one’s side, which caused the demon to convulse rapidly, then shortly thereafter collapse to the floor for reasons that Spike was not yet privy to. She then created a similar reaction with the remaining demon, who was of average size, and not worth mentioning before this point.

Gwen stood over her kills, holding the curtain rod by her side as if she were Neptune, and it her trident. “Kind of puts a new spin on the 10-foot pole expression,” she said with an out-of-breath phew.

“Right. I’m lost. Definitely missed somethin’,” said Spike, grabbing his foot in one hand, in order to examine it, and pressing against the wall for balance with the other.

“I’m a freak.”

“Aren’t we all.”

“No. Not the D and D kind. The Marvel Comics kind. I’m not demon. I’m human- with a 10, 000 volt added bonus feature.”

“Well. That explains the chip on your shoulder- I mean back.”

“Localized Ionic Sensory Activator. It was supposed to be a kind of human stealth device. Regulator. Lets me touch things- people- without . . . well without doing that,” she said, and pointed to the two fried demon platters before her.

“Impressive.”

“Have to admit. Has come in handy a few times,” she smiled, re-attaching the device to the skin on her back.

“Good to see you aren’t all ‘I wish I didn’t have superpowers! I wanna be pedestrian! Blah, blah blah,’” Spike mock-whined. “What a bloody waste of time.” He watched as the blood from the 3 gaping holes in his foot dripped steadily onto the hardwood floor.

“Uh, yeah,” Gwen agreed. She was so over that. She was! “Ouch,” Gwen squeaked, finally noticing Spike’s wounds. “Why don’t you sit down or something, Jesus.”

Spike limped over to the brown leather couch that lay on the opposite end of the room from the 4 new demon shaped area rugs, sat down, and positioned himself into a ‘king of the penthouse’ kind of lounge.

“I like my feet. I use them to kick stuff,” he said. “The boots are also usually a part of that.”

“Gimmie your shirt,” Gwen ordered, standing next to Spike now, with an outstretched arm. He looked at her quizzically. “You’re getting other people’s blood all over everything.” Spike groaned, but obeyed. Gwen took the shirt in one hand, and the Emmental foot in the other. Spike winced.

“Sodding hell, woman!”

“Hold still!”

“Watch it!”

“Eeuweh . . .”

“Stop pokin’ about!”

“You’re barely bleeding anymore.”

“Still hurts like a bitch.”

“Stop whining.”

“’M not whining!”

“Whimpering then.”

“Ouch!”

“See?”

“Bitch. You did that on purpose.”

“There. All done.”

Releasing the bandaged foot, Gwen looked up into Spike’s eyes. They were looking back, wide and wild, and a little lost. Spike, in that shared gaze, was sensing something- a realization that they had been acting as if they had known each other for years, which was bleedin’ ridiculous. There was no reason for it. He was nicely surprised. There weren’t many humans he could say he got along with. He wasn’t known for leaving terrific first impressions. Unless permanent scars count as impressions.

“Gatbar,” Spike exclaimed, breaking their awkward moment.

“What?”

“These fellas. Gatbar demons, I’m pretty certain. Although there are far too many breeds of demon with painful bits sticking out of them, if you ask me.”

“Thugs are thugs,” Gwen stated plainly, hauling one of the demons by its collar across the room towards the door. “Boss guy ’ll send more once he realises these lassies aren’t coming home.”

“It’s never a demon that sprouts daisies out of its ears. Or whose venom is made of sweet gooey caramel.”

Gwen was out of breath. “Some help here?”

“I’m all crippled!”

“Oh please!” Gwen groaned, letting the demon thunk to the floor so she could put her hands on her sassy hips. “Angel told me about the crazy-fast vampire healing, you know.”

“Need blood,” Spike smirked.

“You are so irritating!”

“Yeah.”

Gwen trudged into the kitchen, came back, and threw a Nalgene bottle of blood violently across the room into Spike’s lap. “I just want to go to bed. Is that so outrageous?”

“Wait a sec. We’re guests here, yeah? Call bloody housekeeping!”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all night.”

*five*

There were your earthquakes, your rivers of blood, your blazing villages—all those icky things typically associated with the end of the world. One thing was out of place though. There was a man. He was standing on the roof of a skyscraper, untouched by the destruction and chaos that covered the rest of the planet. There was no one to share the view with. He was the only one there to see the end. It was Spike.

"I did this," he said to no one.

~~*~*~~

The janitor had cleared the bodies out of the apartment with surprising speed and efficiency—almost as if he had a lot of experience doing that kind of thing. Of course, being a janitor for Wolfram and Hart must make for some colourful job descriptions.

Gwen took the bed and Spike the couch. They didn't discuss it. It just happened that way. Sleep came quickly to Gwen, who had not slept in almost forty hours. She awoke a few times during the night, however, hearing Spike's voice. He was talking in his sleep, seemingly disturbed by whatever he was dreaming about. Gwen would not wake him though. She turned over, and went back to her own dreams.

~~*~*~~

They were standing in front of PH 1. Angel's place. You just knew it was a job given to you by evil lawyers when it came with a fully furnished penthouse. Gwen was looking at the bronze door knocker, and Spike was fiddling with his hair. He had sought and found the hair gel.

"Time for your big entrance," Gwen said.

"I'm sure they adore me already, considering they've only heard what the Big stinkin' Cheese has told them about me. Like how the last time I saw him, I branded him with a hot iron, and skewered him with various household items."

"Or maybe you should run really fast in the away direction."

Spike grinned, and knocked at the door confidently. A few seconds later, Angel opened it, and motioned for them to enter. Everyone was staring. They were all standing around the room awkwardly, staring. No one said anything. It was horrible.

"Spike, everyone. Everyone, Spike," Angel said quickly. "Great. Now that pleasantries are out of the way we can-"

"Spike," Wesley said enthusiastically, as he approached Spike and shook his hand firmly. "Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. A pleasure to finally meet you. Willow told us something of your transformation over the past few years. I would be fascinated to hear more about it."

"Yeah?" Spike said, honestly surprised. "Any time. There's loads of brilliant stories up here," he said, tapping on his head. "All true." He winked at Fred. That got her.

She, Lorne and Gunn approached Spike as well, and the four of them asked question after question about what kind of weapons he used to fight his apocalypse (that was Gunn), what types of demons he had encountered (Wesley), what it had felt like when he saved the world (Fred), and what brand of hair dye he preferred (well, Lorne, obviously). Spike answered each question thoroughly and with great pleasure, revelling in the attention. And the ice broketh. And there was much rejoicing.

Angel and Gwen stood apart from Spike and his entourage, sulking and pouting, and being generally immature in that `picked last for dodge-ball' kind of way. They looked at each other to acknowledge their common disdain. Neither of them enjoyed being upstaged very much.

"It was bleedin' wretched. All gooey and sticky. Huge too. Impossible to predict," Spike was saying, as Angel approached their conversation.

"Demon?" Angel asked.

Angel's friends looked everywhere but at Angel. "Nah. Your hair," Spike said casually.

"Don't we have more important things to discuss than my personal grooming history?" Angel said, deliberately ignoring Spike's predictable insults.

"I, for one, am dying to know if Angel ever had a goatee," Gwen chimed in.

"I'm sorry Spike. Angel's right," said Wesley, clearing his throat. "We must get to the bottom of your returning as soon as possible. We've no idea what Wolfram and Hart may have planned."

"It must have something to do with us, otherwise they wouldn't have plopped him back down right across the hall." Angel said.

"How do we know it was Dub-H who did the plopping? " Gunn asked.

"It was them," Spike said sullenly.

"Hey," Gwen said. "Did you remember something?"

"I just know. Don't know how, or why. Guess those are the important bits, eh?" Spike said, displeased with his lack of usefulness. He much preferred solving mysteries to being one. It was frustrating having a piece of his life missing, even if it was only a few weeks. They were damn pivotal weeks. And the weird dreams he had last night just pissed him off even more. He had to know what kind of agreement he made with Wolfram and Hart, before he went off his bloody trolley.

"It's not your fault. They went out of their way to make you forget," Fred said.

"There has to be some way for me to remember. Gimme some fucking magic dust, or send some bug into my ear to fetch it out, I don't care—anything!"

"Well there is that Wraith who gave me the memory spell for Cordy last year. And that worked out—eventually."

"Do you know where to find him/her/it?" Angel asked.

"She has a shadowy alley in Santa Monica that she's been busking lately."

"A phantom street performer?" Spike asked.

"Sugar pie, if a demon from the Deathwok clan can run a karaoke bar, is a ghost that plays the recorder such a stretch?"

"Go," said Angel. "and take Wes and Gwen."

"Whoa," Gwen exclaimed. "Just `cause I'm standing on the board, doesn't mean I'm one of your chess pieces!"

"Sorry, I guess you don't have that problem anymore where you need to stay here because some crazy rich guy and his pointy demon friends are trying to kill you?" Angel said coldly. Gwen gave him a dirty look, but said nothing. "Okay. Make yourself useful then. Good girl."

"Oooh, he's so good at that patronising thing sometimes," Fred said aside to Gunn. But Gunn didn't look amused.

"Hey, she didn't ask to be in this mess. Cut her some fucking slack, Angel," he said. Angel looked at Gunn, perturbed. By this point, Spike couldn't help but notice Gunn and Gwen's heartbeats fluttering. They were just a touch faster than everyone else's. And by the way they were fidgeting like uncomfortable 14 year olds and avoiding direct eye contact, Spike was forced to jump to certain conclusions.

"Thanks, Gunn," said Gwen. "But I pretty much did. Took the job. Someone dangles a six-figure carrot in front of you, it's hard to resist. You four, of all people, should get that."

"Still, he shouldn't-"

"Really? Let it go." Gwen turned to Lorne and Wesley. "Shall we boogie?" The three of them left the Penthouse, leaving Angel, Fred, Gunn and Spike to wade through the excess tension left in the room.

"Gunn, you know I didn't mean to-" Angel started.

"Me neither." Gunn and Angel patted each other on the back, and Fred looked on with pride. Spike looked as if he just stepped on something gross and smelly.

"I think I might cry . . . from vomiting a lot," he said.

"You're ruining their moment!" Fred exclaimed. Angel and Gunn backed away from each other in horror.

"That was not a `moment,'" said Angel, panicky.

"We don't have `moments,'" Gunn continued defensively.

Spike approached Gunn with interest. "You and Guinevere. There's a tale there. I can see it," he said with an arched eyebrow. Fred looked at Gunn and frowned. Gunn squirmed like Spike was the Spanish Inquisition.

"I, uh, no. Not really. Hey! It's none of your damn business anyway!" He exclaimed.

"Thought so." Spike said, with a satisfied smile. Fred was now sitting on Angel's couch, arms crossed, restraining herself from destroying random objects that happened to break after she flung them across the apartment.

~~*~*~~

"I still don't get it," said Gwen, as she and Wesley got back into his car, where Lorne had been waiting for them.

"They had the right album?" asked Lorne.

"Um, yes. Orange marble on the cover, with a big elaborate T?" said Wesley, as he tossed the plastic bag to Lorne in the back seat, and proceeded to start the car.

"Good," said Lorne. "You have to understand. There isn't much an incorporeal being can do with money. Can't eat. Can't buy a new pair of chinos, or even catch the latest Bond flick. Can't hold the damn ticket. They might be able to read, but it can be hard to find someone willing to turn the pages for you. Especially with chapter books." Lorne looked out the window. "Turn left here. Anyway, they watch TV, a lot. I knew this one Wraith in Pasadena, who could recite every episode of Charles in Charge. Oh lordy, was he the life of the party. But I digress." Wesley looked at Lorne for further instructions. "Yeah, park anywhere sweetie, it's just around the corner. Nice area, huh? Full of vegan arty types. This particular spirit's a music junkie. Has a record collection that even Nick Hornby would lose saliva over."

"I'll stay in the car in case there's trouble, and we have to make a hasty departure," said Wesley, as the other two climbed out onto the sidewalk.

"This all seems pretty tame from the sound of it. I don't even know why I'm here," said Gwen.

"Oh," said Lorne. "Did I forget to mention how the Wraith can set your intestines on fire with her thoughts? But she's a doll, really."

~~*~*~~

Fred was sitting at a computer, in a room filled with, well, more computers. Gunn sat in a chair next to her, watching the screen and Fred's fingers on the keyboard. Spike and Angel stood behind her anxiously, as she made her way through the database of local demons.

"Anything?" asked Angel.

"These guys are worse than the IRS," said Fred. "They have files on every demon in the state. It's got to be in here."

"Are you sure you spelled it proper?" Spike asked.

"Wait. This is it. Current employers of Gatbar Demons. There's only two," she said with a brightened face. Gunn leaned in to have a look.

"Bill Prescott," he read aloud. "Owner of Prescott off-track betting operations. Redondo. 8 Gatbars. What would he want with a mystical Stone from the Dark Ages? Next. Hingston Monroe. Millionaire. Recluse."

"Very original," said Spike.

"Collector of rare gems. Dingdingdingdingding!"

"Oh, look," Fred exclaimed. "Wolfram and Hart out-bid him for the Stone at the auction. Wait, it says that he lost the bid due to an unfortunate fainting spell during the bidding."

"'Spell' being the operative word," Angel added.

"So obviously, he's pissed," said Spike "The one time this decade he decides to leave the house, he gets fucked over by a bunch of know-it-all lawyers."

"And decides to take matters into his own hands, when he hears about Sunnydale- probably from one of his demon friends," added Angel.

"But they thought it was red. Wouldn't it have been white at the auction?" Fred questioned.

"He must know a hell of a lot about that Stone," said Gunn.

"Address?" Angel asked.

"Yep," Gun replied.

"Okay, lets go."

"Uh, Angel, it's only 4 pm," Spike reminded him smugly.

"Damn it. I'm all pumped." Angel turned to Spike. "Wanna fight? I have a fencing arena. 12th floor."

"Braggy much?" said Spike, as they all piled into the elevator.

"You need the practice anyway," Angel prodded. Spike gave him his most menacing evil death look, and pressed the `12' button emphatically.

*six*

The Hard-Bop rhythms of Thelonious Monk filled the hot, cluttered apartment with a fervor that led the inhabitants to sit humbly and let beads of sweat trickle down their faces. It was an interesting portrait they made. Gwen and Lorne were on the futon couch and a slightly translucent looking woman wearing a long patchwork dress was sitting on (or more accurately, hovering over) a papasan chair with her eyes closed. Still, by the way her head twitched from side to side, she seemed to be looking for something.

“Side B please” said the Wraith softly, eyes still closed. The needle lifted just as Lorne rose from his seat.

“Look, I hate to be a bother, but our friend is waiting for us outside. And it’s been, like 2 Miles Davis’s and 1 George Benson, so . . . do you think we could get the spell now?”

“Gwen!” Lorne said panic stricken. This was a very delicate situation, involving the welfare of each of their digestive systems.

“It’s alright. There is no spell. It is done.”

“Done? How so?” Lorne asked as politely as possible.

"On the way up from the alley you told me his name. Found him while we were listening to 'Kind of Blue.' Then I simply lifted the fog-- with a bit of help from some blue Alsatian crystal, and my telepathic powers. A surprisingly amateurish memory blocking spell really. Easy for someone like me to reverse.”

“So it’s done? Spike remembers everything now?” asked Gwen apprehensively.

“Well, it might take a while for the memories to surface, but they are there. They’ll show themselves.”

“What do you mean ‘show themselves’?’” Lorne looked concerned.

“Ah well, part of the process of recovering the memories involves re-living them. It's par for the course.”

~~*~*~~

"Very posh," said Spike, after punching out the security guard who had been the only thing keeping them from passing onto the property. You could see the house at the end of the curved oceanside driveway. One of those Modern affairs, with long glass walls, a low roof, and a huge patio that jutted over the shoreline, held up on stilts. Spike jumped back into the convertible (just like Angel's old jalopy, but in much better condition), and they peeled up to the front entrance.

"Remember, we just want to scare him," Angel warned "If we have to kill some demons to get to him, so be it. But he's human. I think. Yeah, so no killing people."

“We're all pretty much familiar with that rule," Spike scoffed.

"Yeah, but some of us are newer to the game than others," Angel replied, as the four of them approached the front steps. Spike glared at the back of Angel's head. Like he hadn't dealt with enough self-righteousness in Sunnydale, now he had to end up in LA only to be chastised by a new gang of cartoon detectives. All the fibres of Spike’s being-- his guts, his muscles and sinews and the blood that coursed through his un-dead veins were telling him to rip the oafish git to smithereens, nick a pack of smokes (just because he had a soul didn’t mean he was suddenly in favor of capitalism), and go grab a pint in fucking Uzbekistan. It took all the bleeding stamina he had to resist the urge.

Gunn and Fred crept about the front of the house, assessing . . . the front of the house. Gunn peeked through a window, and Fred took a glance around to the back. The large, verdant yard was silent except for the sound of waves crashing on the shore, and some crickets chirping, and there seemed to be little or no activity inside.

"Look," Fred whispered, clinging on to her double-bladed Roapharian battle-axe with one hand, and pointing to a sign stuck to some iron railing with the other. "Beware of dog."

"Euh, I think a bad-tempered poodle is the last thing we-" Spike paused suddenly, and twitched his head. He had felt something strange just then. As if someone had flicked a light on and off in his brain. And now he was left with an itchy sensation inside, and the thought that he had lost time somehow. When he looked up and found Angel and Gunn in the midst of thrashing about with a disgusting looking furry creature, his suspicion was confirmed. It was about the size of an SUV, with droopy ears, a big wet nose, foot-long claws, and yellowy-brown fangs longer than one of Spike's arms.

"Spike!" Someone yelled from somewhere. He turned his whole body around to find them. It was Fred, and she appeared to be circling around him, with her weapon ready. She made eye contact. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, what's the problem?" *Bollocks. Act like nothin's wrong. Fight. Just weigh into the bugger.* Spike sprinted towards the dog-beast, broad-sword raised, and rammed it into the creature's side.

"Tried that already," Gunn called from the other side of the thing. It lifted its front leg, and batted at Angel and Spike. They were thrown to the dew-covered ground in the same blow. Angel looked over at Spike, who was already back on his feet.

"What took you so long?"

"Wanted to see you squirm a bit."

"I missed you too," Angel said, coating his words with artificial sweetener. “Now help us kill stuff, or go home,” he continued, sweet turning abruptly to sour. Spike was about ready to have it out, when the mutant mutt barreled towards him again. It pinned Spike down under its left paw, claws jabbing into his torso, and stared down at him. Huge gobs of drool slithered down its long un-washed fangs, and a puddle of this ungodly fluid fell from its jowl and onto Spike’s face.

He spat and gagged furiously, and thrashed about, trying to free himself.

“For fuck’s sake! That’s putrid. Bad Dog!” Spike yelled. At those words, the creature’s face changed, from rabid and hungry, to shocked and beaten. It tumbled backward, freeing Spike, and made a low whining noise.

“Ha!” Spike exclaimed. “Just needed to be put in your place, eh?” As he righted himself, Spike spied Gunn and Fred pulling away from behind the dog-thing, Fred holding her blood covered axe, and Gunn dragging what could only be the dog-thing’s long, fat, matted tail. They had whacked it off.

“Yep. With a very sharp 400 year old Roapharian battle-axe,” Fred clarified.

“Man, this Monroe guy has all sorts of colourful employees,” Gunn said with a huff, as he tossed away the blood-soaked tail.

“Now accepting applications,” Spike added.

“Now, we’re going in,” Angel commanded. “And let’s hope that’s the last beastie. I like these confrontations short and sweet. Epic is getting old fast.”

~~*~*~~

As Wesley, Gwen and Lorne passed Angel's receptionist, the young blonde woman looked up suddenly from her issue of Wallpaper, and called out to them.

"Mr. Wyndham-Pryce! Mr. Angel left a message for you." She handed Wesley an index card with Angel's handwriting on it. "He said that you should make your way over to this address, that they might need back-up. Something to do with Ms. Raiden's living arrangements?"

"Funny," said Gwen.

"When did they leave?" Wesley asked.

"Half an hour, maybe 40 minutes ago. Sundown."

"Of course. Thank you." He turned to his two companions. "Lorne, you stay here in case they return. Gwen and I will find this place."

"Niet Problemski," Lorne replied. "But you kiddies better leg it, ’cause Spike could be very distracted from beating stuff up and trying not to be killed- what with the deleted scenes being played randomly in his noggin."

"Oh, shit. He's right. Let's go." said Gwen urgently. She and Wesley headed back on to the elevator.

"We should pick up some weapons on the way out," Wesley suggested. Stepping onto the elevator, he turned back around to face the receptionist. He opened his mouth to speak.

"Weapons and Armory, 4th floor," she replied, before he even asked.

~~*~*~~

The front door was open.

“Humph,” said Spike “any proper rich recluse cliché should have three security systems at least, or a bloody deadbolt would do in a pinch.”

“I suppose this guy wasn’t there for the rich recluse cliché training seminar,” Fred added, as she and Gunn walked over the threshold. Spike and Angel stood slightly embarrassed, still on the other side.

“Oops, come on in guys,” Fred said quickly.

The front hall was dark, and sparsely decorated. It looked as though Monroe had just moved in recently. There were cardboard boxes here and there, and the only things set up were an end table with a Tiffany lamp, and a large painting on the wall adjacent to it, of some random blobby shapes and lines in vivid reds and yellows. Angel stopped to gawk at it.

“This is an original Franz Kline. The composition . . . it’s like none of his other work. This must be one of his last paintings.” The others looked at each other, bemused.

“This isn’t a class outing Peaches, lets go,” Spike whispered.

They began to search the house, room by room, finding the condition of each similar to the hall—mostly bare with a few boxes lying around and pieces of furniture and fine art placed in random spots. As they approached the stairs that led to the second floor, Spike could hear voices coming from one of the rooms up there. He turned to Angel, who nodded- he heard them too.

“Lets go,” said Angel, leading his pack up the stairs.

As they approached their destination, Spike realized that there was only one heartbeat coming from the room. The voices were from the Telly.

“Blood.”

“What?” Spike whispered.

“What what?” Gunn said equally quietly.

“You said something.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Shush!” Angel ordered from ahead of them. He was now standing right outside the room where the TV voices were emanating from. And there was some snoring going on too. “What’s wrong with him?” Angel sighed. Why was there always someone losing consciousness at really inconvenient moments like this? Fred and Gunn looked confused, then less so as they turned around, and witnessed Spike slide down the wall and onto the floor, utterly sparked out.

~~*~*~~

“Fuck.”

“They aren’t all that unreasonable really,” Martin said breezily.

“Aren’t that unreasonable? Aren’t that unreasonable?” Spike began pacing the room and flailing his arms about in a Royal Shakespeare Company fashion. “They’re fucking lawyers! And their head office is in some hell dimension . . . where is their head office anyway? What, oh, sure they just want me to murder a few babies and blow up that Disneyland affair right? No problem. Oh, and they want my soul? Fine, was a bit itchy around the neck anyway.”

“Blood.”

“’S’not as if I went half-way across the earth to find the blasted thing, and endured days of unspeakable torture to get it. I was going to pawn it anyway- never got around . . . What?”

“Blood. They want a bit of blood.”

“Oh?”

“You aren’t of much use to them really. Not as a ball of red mist, anyway. And they aren’t stupid. They knew you wouldn’t agree to sign on with them, learn their secret handshake. So they just want some of your blood. Like a pint. Or less.”

“And what exactly do they plan on doing with *my* blood?” Spike asked, knowing full well that it was something nefarious and evil and really sneaky. But what, he could not imagine.

“I have no idea. Sorry.”

“So, you mean I have to decide without knowing what they might do?”

“Yep. Death, the afterlife, and subsequent resurrection is hard like that.”

“Apparently.” Spike paused to take a good hard look at his thumbnail. “What could they possibly do with my blood? It’s not even mine, technically. Kinda borrowed it from the local butcher and the county hospital.”

“I don’t know. Test it. Put it under a microscope. See if anything wacky happened to it when you used the Amulet.”

“It used me, more like.”

“Or maybe they need it for some kind of ritual. Some hair-brained scheme to take over the world. The usual.”

“You seem well versed on their comings and goings.”

“Hello? Bit of a higher power here? Omniscience?”

“Fine. If you are so bloody Omniscient why can’t you tell me why they want my blood?”

“They have a private line, so to speak. And I’m no mind reader. There are various levels of all-seers. I’d have a way cooler office if I were.”

~~*~*~~

The tires screeched as the black BMW sedan came to an abrupt halt on Mr. Hingston Monroe’s driveway. Wesley stepped swiftly out of the driver’s side sporting a cross-bow and a serrated dagger, and Gwen followed out of the passenger’s side, hauling behind her a ridiculously long pointed staff.

“It’s impossible.” Wesley continued, from the conversation they had started in the car. “The spell broke the moment Spike was released. And it was the stone, not the energy, that you were compelled towards.”

“That makes no sense! Why do I feel this way then?”

“Did you ever consider that you may have real feelings for him.”

“No! non. C’est ridicule! I do not have a crush on Spike.” Wesley looked at Gwen and frowned. “Oh, god! I have a crush on Spike!”

“We better make sure he doesn’t get killed then.”

chapters 7 to 12

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