DEDICATION: As ever, thanks to my long-suffering betas, Anastasia, Nestra, and Carrie. Most especially to Anastasia, who insisted.
The price I pay for waiting nine months to continue is that I've been thoroughly Jossed. So, this continues where "In The Company of Wolves" ended, in a universe almost but not completely unlike the Jossverse. Willow was kidnapped in spring 2000. The Solstice ball was in June 2000; Willow returned to LA, and eventually Sunnydale, shortly thereafter. Willow retrieved the videotape from her lawyer in spring 2001. Our story begins some time the following autumn...
"Don't forget, it's at 7!"
Willow laughed. "I'm not the one you need to worry about. See you at the concert, and tell Tara she'd better be on time or else!" She waved at Julie, then bent to unlock her door and went inside. She hung her coat on the hall rack, then walked toward the kitchen. The light on the answering machine was blinking. She hit the button and opened the refrigerator door to scavenge. There was a wide assortment of interesting and/or useful herbs, but no actual food. She shut the door.
"Wills? Sorry I missed you. Can you come over for dinner Wednesday? Riley picked out this guy he wants you to meet -- no, no, just kidding, we just haven't seeen you in forever and we miss you. Call soon. Love."
Willow frowned. The last time she'd had dinner with Buffy, Buffy had tried to set her up with this "really sweet" girl who reminded Willow of Cordelia without the charm. She really wished her friends would stop trying to manage her love life. When she was ready for another man -- or woman, or furry green thing with two heads -- she'd be able to find one herself. She opened the breadbox and wished she hadn't. Now she knew where the missing afikomen had wound up...
"Someone at this number has a reserve item available for pickup at Sunnydale public library." Probably the reproduction of Culpeper's Herbal she'd asked for on inter-library loan. Giles would be so pleased.
"Willow, it's Tara. Can you stop by Julie's and my place after the concert? Julie doesn't want to admit it, but I think she's worried about Organic Chemistry, and I know you aced it last year."
"This is a message for Ms. Rosenberg. This is Lilah Morgan. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. You can return this call at any time; my number is ...." Willow scrambled for a pencil. She didn't know any Lilahs; the voice sounded businesslike enough. Lilah Morgan, 213 area code, same as Angel's, got the number. Good enough. She glanced at the clock. There was still an hour until the concert, plenty of time to return the call and still grab something to eat. She hit Rewind, then picked up the telephone and dialed.
"Wolfram and Hart, to whom may I direct your call?"
"Hi, this is Ms. Rosenberg, I'm returning a call from Ms. Morgan."
"One moment, please."
"Ms. Rosenberg? This is Ms. Morgan. How kind of you to return my call promptly! Let me get right down to business. A client of mine has asked me to set up a meeting with you about a consulting opportunity."
Willow kept her voice calm. "I'm afraid you have the wrong person. I'm a student, Ms. Morgan, and that's a full-time job."
"My client understands that; this is a limited engagement, probably no more than a weekend. He's concerned about the security of his site, and he's looking for someone who can test it -- a white hat, I believe it's called. You may not realize it, but your name is becoming quite well-known."
"Really? Wow. Um, which weekend? I could probably manage to fit this in, as long as it isn't during midterms or finals or something like that."
"My client can be flexible about date, but he'd prefer to meet you as soon as possible to finalize arrangements."
Willow frowned, caution returning. "Where is your client? If this is a computer problem, why doesn't he just send me E-mail or phone? And how did he get my phone number anyway?"
"Ms. Rosenberg, this *is* the Internet age. My client found out about you the same way you'd find out about him. His name's Philip Conway; feel free to research him on your own time. He would prefer to meet face-to-face to discuss the problem; as I'm sure you're aware, electronic communications are far too easily intercepted."
"I suppose so. Where does he want to meet?" In the daytime. In front of witnesses, if she had anything to say about it.
"He can't easily leave his business. He'd like you to come to him; he'll send his jet to pick you up."
"I suppose.... pick me up where? And when?"
"Tomorrow evening, at the local airport."
That was moving way too fast. "Let me research your client and get back to you. Can I call with an answer tomorrow morning?"
"Ms. Rosenberg, I'm sure you understand that my client is a very busy man. You're either available or you aren't. Which is it?"
"I'm afraid I'm not available, then. Good luck to your client." Willow hung up before her courage left her, then sagged against the wall.
Too weird, too fast. She didn't like people trying to push her into making decisions, and she certainly wasn't going to get on a flight to some unknown place to meet a total stranger. She'd been kidnapped more than enough for one lifetime.
It was kind of cool, though. She was a White Hat! People knew her name! People who weren't vampires, or Watchers, or paranormal -- ordinary people, whose idea of 'unseen evil' was a really clever computer hacker. Wow.
Her stomach growled, reminding her of more mundane problems, like supper. She ran back to the hall and grabbed her coat. There was just time to pick up something downtown before she met Julie and Tara at the show. She shoved a hand into the pocket: keys, cross, stake, hex bag, breath mints. Good to go. She walked out the front door, locked it, and set out for the Espresso Pump.
She was barely three steps from the front door when something hit her hard across the back of the head.
****
When Willow regained consciousness, she was lying on the floor of a small windowless room. Concrete floor, concrete-block walls painted institutional perky blue, recessed fluorescent light fixture, one metal door without any visible knob. Her head hurt. Again. She checked her coat pockets; they were empty.
Once, just once, I'd like to run into a stupid kidnapper. Non-vampire would be nice, too. Wait a minute. What I'd really like is to get through a calendar year without getting kidnapped.
Propping her back against the wall, she sat up. As usual on such occasions, her head hurt and she felt like throwing up. She scanned the room again. It remained empty and characterless. No weapons, no clues, nothing to do while she waited for the kidnapper to show up and announce his evil plan. If she got lucky and got a kidnapper who was feeling chatty. She sighed, leaned her head back against the wall, closed her eyes, and searched her memory for the words that would get her home safely. She had fallen into a light trance -- or possibly a doze -- when she heard the door opening behind her.
She screwed her eyes shut to avoid making contact and launched into her prepared speech.
"Spike? This isn't funny. I said "No", and I meant it."
A voice she had hoped never to hear again purred, "You appear to be operating under a misconception, mademoiselle. I am not Spike."
Willow's eyes flew open. She could see the speaker's face clearly, a face she remembered all too well from Montreal. It belonged to François.
Without thinking, Willow scrambled to her feet. Pointless, when a vampire stood between her and the only exit.
"Quite right, my dear. You have nowhere to run." Slowly, casually, François began to stroll toward her. He didn't bother shutting the door behind him.
Willow froze. All her preparations had assumed an attack from one of two quarters: somebody trying to annoy the Slayer through her, although word seemed to have gotten around that this was a really bad move, or Spike, whose motives, alas, were strictly personal. She shivered.
"Cold, mademoiselle?" François' face was impassive. She let the silence drag on. Whoever spoke first, lost -- she remembered that much. In two steps, before she could react, Francois closed the distance between them and a hard slap rocked her bruised head back against the wall. Blood roared in her ears. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting.
"You will speak when spoken to. Not before, but certainly afterward."
Willow swallowed twice, then spoke in a voice that she hoped didn't quaver. "No, I'm not particularly cold, thank you." She shut her mouth before she could blurt out the wrong thing. Head swimming, she scrabbled through last year's lessons from Spike. Speak when spoken to, check, be very polite, check, don't be cocky, check, head down.... oops! She hastily dropped her eyes to the floor and awaited further instructions.
"Did you know that your lips move when you're thinking? Typical human foible." His lips twisted on 'human', as if he were tasting something disagreeable. Then, without warning, he grabbed the neck of her sweater, ripped it down the sternum, and yanked the halves away from her chest. Instinctively, Willow recoiled, only to be brought up short by the wall at her back.
François' next move wasn't what she'd expected. He released the sweater shreds as if they were doused in holy water, stepped back from her, and spat, "So, you have broken faith, abandoned your oath. I should have expected no better."
There was no good response to this. "No, sir" would be admitting to an unknown crime; "What oath?" would certainly earn her another slap, and silence had proven to be a very bad idea.
"I'm not sure I understand, sir."
Another hard blow, ricocheting her injured head back against the wall. Willow slid down to the floor and succumbed to nausea. When she finished retching, she dimly realized that François had been speaking the whole time she was occupied.
"...to be removed only at your death. You breathe. Either your master tired of you, or you betrayed him. Which?"
Willow gulped; out of old habit, her right hand flew to her naked throat. The necklace. She had to answer quickly. She certainly hadn't betrayed Spike, she had no idea if he'd tired of her, and she suspected "Our deal was for a year" would neither be understood or believed. She raised her left hand and pushed her sweater down her arm, displaying the thin black chain she kept wrapped around her wrist. "N-neither... sir?"
Iron hands grasped her wrist and twisted; she gasped in pain as the chain bit into the flesh. "Explain yourself. If you broke oath, your life is forfeit. If he discarded you...." The grip tightened.
Willow gasped, "No. That's not what happened -- either one. Really. He said we couldn't escape Montreal together, and he put me on a plane home. I haven't heard from him since. I don't know what his plans were. I kept the necklace for him." Together with a sizable piece of her mind that she'd been storing up for months, but she didn't think François would appreciate that part of the story.
Her wrist was twisted again; apparently François was inspecting the necklace. Eventually he released his grip. She cradled the injured hand against her stomach, contemplating the vampire's highly-polished shoes. Wing-tips. Black.
"You may yet retain some utility." His voice remained detached, as if he were contemplating a grubby week-old newspaper, deciding whether it could still be put to use under the cat box. "Time will tell." A knife flashed next to her eyes; Willow flinched away, banging her head once more. While she fought to remain conscious, François turned on his heel and left. The door slid shut behind him.
Willow put her right hand up to her head to check the wound. It must have been a very, very sharp knife; she hadn't felt a thing. After a few pats, she dropped the hand before her eyes, puzzled. It was dry. François hadn't touched her skin. Willow felt around again. Her bangs felt weird. She looked around for her mirror, but her backpack was (of course) not there. She put both hands up, confirming that there was a jagged gap in her bangs, next to her left temple.
He stole a lock of my hair. This is so not good. I can think of six bad spells off the top of my head that start with a lock of hair. But that doesn't make any sense. He's got me. He could just kill me. Why would he bother with a curse? And why does he care what my relationship is to Spike?
I don't know what it is myself. "Oh, he's planning on killing me, or I thought he was, but he hasn't come around to do it, so I'm really hoping he's found some nice vampire and settled down to raise.... well, that bit doesn't really work, but settled down without me."
This isn't fair. I waited a year and a half before I had that necklace cut off. I was going on with my life. I only kept the stupid thing because I thought Spike might want it back.
If I hadn't kept it, I think I'd be dead now.
This is all Spike's fault.
######
The phone rang, followed shortly by the buzz of the intercom. Angel groaned. "Cordy, can you handle it yourself for once?"
Her voice sounded strained. "Angel, this one's for you. It's Giles."
He wouldn't call unless.... Angel grabbed the receiver. "Buffy?"
"No, Angel, Buffy's in fine health. Thriving. But nobody's seen Willow for three days. Tara had a spare key to her apartment, and she let us in. There are no signs of a struggle, no suitcases packed. She missed a concert and all her classes, and it isn't like her to vanish without a word."
That bastard Spike. He heard an ominous creak from the handset and hastily relaxed his grip. "Has Willy--"
"Thank you, that had already occurred to us. Nobody in Sunnydale -- nobody, alive or otherwise -- has seen Willow since Friday. She's vanished. If somebody had kidnapped her, we'd expect a ransom note by now."
"I'll be there..." Angel's voice trailed down as he realized it was still daytime.
Giles's voice grew tighter. "We don't want your assistance. We want information. The only clue we found in the apartment was a message from Los Angeles on her answering machine. Do you know anything about a Wolfram and Hart?"
"Damn!"
"That's not information." Giles's tone was brittle.
He must be desperate. Nothing less would have made him ask anything from me. "Wolfram and Hart are behind three-quarters of the evil done in this city, and that includes the non-supernatural. We're at war. But I wouldn't expect them to grab Willow to hurt me; I barely knew her in Sunnydale, and I don't think we've spoken twice since I left." Once. Not twice.
"Will you kindly focus on the problem? What would Wolfram and Hart do with Willow, and where would they plan to do it?"
"I don't know. But I'll find out. And pass it on."
"You'd better. This isn't your problem, Angel, it's ours. "
He hung up. "Not in my city it's not."
####
"Hey, Fred, the usual."
Fred didn't meet Spike's eyes. Yes, it's good to be bad! Fred bent under the counter, retrieved a carton of Marlboros, and threw it to Spike.
"Ta. See you again." He left, whistling, and ripped the carton open.
A cream-coloured envelope fell out.
Spike jumped back. Somehow, I don't think Philip Morris got the Crackerjack confused with the coffin nails. What the Hell?
He waited a minute, drawing curious looks from passers-by, then reached out a boot toe and prodded the envelope. It didn't explode, fizz, or turn green. He scanned the area for threats, then bent to pick it up.
Fred is not going to see another sunrise. I don't appreciate jokes unless they're mine. And smokes are not a laughing matter. He slit the envelope with a fingernail, upended it, then shook it over the ground, away from his body.
A lock of red hair drifted slowly to the pavement.