Spike watched regretfully as the "Welcome To Sunnydale" sign dwindled unscathed in the rear-view mirror. This was supposed to be a stealth visit; in, out, nobody the wiser. No Slayer, no Watcher, no vapid blonde vampires, please whatever. He'd even abandoned his ride; this trip, he pigged it in a bland, anonymous Taurus, liberated from a bored 7/11 clerk whose boredom had become permanent.
He nosed into a "Registrar Only" parking space, cut the motor, and hopped out. First things first. The lock of hair had smelled like the witch, right enough, but it wasn't proof positive. Spike stomped down a "Do Not Walk On Grass" sign and continued to the back door.
Ah, dear trustful Sunnydale. The so-called lock wouldn't slow Harmony down. A kick was as good as a skeleton key. Easier to keep track of, too. Spike wondered idly why the locals remained so oblivious... perhaps the smart ones left town. The third cubicle held pay dirt, its occupant too lazy to log off at the end of the day. He slid in behind the monitor and began searching.
"ROSENBURG, WILLOW" NOT FOUND.Had Miss Bookaholic of 1999 dropped out? Not bloody likely. He slammed the side of the monitor.
"ROSENBURG, WILLOW" NOT FOUND.Oh. Sod. Spike hastily corrected his error.
ROSENBERG, WILLOW, 2003, CHEMISTRY/HISTORY, PRESIDENTIAL SCHOLARThat's my girl. Spike scanned the screen, then clicked HOUSING.
F1999, S2000, 214 STEVENSON, DOUBLE, SUMMERS, BUFFYPining, was she?
F2000, S2001, 123 STEVENSON, SINGLE
F2001, OFF-CAMPUSFuck. Bloody useless. He hit the screen again. It collapsed with a satisfying screech... and shards of glass everywhere. Ouch.
Thirty minutes later, when he'd picked most of the splinters out of his hands, Spike began searching for another logged-on computer. Bloody technology. Eventually he remembered the telephone book.
ROSENBERG, W. 256 CHANCELLOR ST, APT. 2Score! And not two blocks from where he stood. Still a pedestrian, Red? He abandoned the car and strode off to investigate.
Apartment 2's door was blocked by yellow "Police Line - Do Not Cross" tape. Spike's blood couldn't run any colder, but it tried. Someone else killed her. Someone is going to die. For weeks.
######
Willow was startled from her doze by the sound of the door sliding open. She scrambled hastily to her feet and dropped her gaze to the floor. Now what?
"Pfaugh, what a stench. Humans. Deal with her." François again.
Willow tensed. Apparently the cavalry wouldn't be coming; time for the death-or-glory spells. I wish I'd had time to work the bugs out of that teleport.... She wove her fingers desperately, but, as she'd expected, she was interrupted. By a punch to the gut, unfortunately. She slumped to the floor, forcing her eyes to remain downcast, and struggled for breath.
"Don't." She didn't recognize the voice. Male, probable vampire. She didn't recognize the shoes, either, although she very much doubted they'd been fashionable this century. Black, glittering jeweled buckles, red high heels. I've been kidnapped by Dr. Frank N. Furter?
The unknown demanded, "Where is the sigil?"
Can't place the accent. Willow pushed her sweater up her arm to display the necklace.
François replied, "Put it where it belongs, and ensure that it stays there."
Willow obediently began to work the clasp, only to have her hand slapped away. Oh. Not talking to me.
The unknown ordered, "Stand up and turn around." She swiveled to face the wall. Cold hands Vampire, check removed the necklace from her wrist. She heard small metallic noises behind her, and shivered. She hated blindly waiting for ... whatever ... to happen. The hands entered her field of view, then the necklace was around her throat again, and there was fiddling at the nape of her neck. Oh, come on, the clasp isn't that complicated. There was another mysterious snap. Then the steps retreated.
I can't take much more of this. I need information. She risked a question. "What's going on?" For once, nobody hit her.
François replied, "Fortunately for you, you retain some value."
As what? Willow shuddered.
His voice mocked, "Oh, not in my eyes. We have established that you remain in play. Give thanks, if you pray." Disdain rolled off the last word.
In play? What's the game, and how did I wind up a pawn rather than a player? The question answered itself. Spike had dragged her off to Montreal, and she'd been reacting, one way and another, ever since. In François' eyes, she was Spike's tool, not Willow Rosenberg, not herself important. I swear, I am going to make him pay for that, if it's the last thing I do. She refused to clarify which "him" she meant. Or to contemplate how close "the last thing she did" might be.
François spoke again; her attention snapped back to his voice. "Get her cleaned. We leave immediately."
#######
Snarling, Spike ripped aside the police tape, kicked open the door, strode in ... and found himself stretched flat against the empty air.
She's alive.
He couldn't get in. That meant she wasn't dead. It also meant he couldn't search for the clues he needed ... assuming the police hadn't already trampled them. He punched a fist into the barrier. As usual, this was utterly useless, but, also as usual, it felt good.
There's more than one way to break a neck. Spike strode around to the back of the building. As he'd hoped, each apartment had the usual glass sliding door, opening on the usual tiny patio. Spike walked up to the door that should be hers and pressed his face against the glass.
He saw chaos. Furniture had been pushed helter-skelter. He didn't spot any blood, but every flat surface was covered with fingerprint powder. Clothes spilled out of the half-open closet door and the chest of drawers. She'd lived here, all right. He recognized the psychedelic-puke color scheme and the ongoing bagginess. Thought I'd broken her of that.
That settled it. This was Willow's place, she'd vanished, and the do-gooders were worried enough to drag the police into the problem. The Slayer would not have called the rozzers for anything she fancied she could handle herself. Which rules out the usual suspects.
He stepped back and scanned the apartment walls. There was a tiny high frosted window to one side of the patio. Bathroom. He punched the window; his fist rebounded, but the window shattered nonetheless. He sniffed. The scent trail was jumbled with strangers and Slayer, but he could still pick out fading traces of Willow. He pulled the cream envelope from his inside breast pocket and lifted it to his nose. Perfect match.
So, who grabbed her, why did they send her hair to me rather than the Slayer, and what do they want? He looked down at the envelope. Suddenly he realized where he'd seen its mate. Fuck.
His epiphany was interrupted by an all-too-familiar voice from the front room. "Someone's been here. Back me up."
The Slayer. So much for stealth. He turned on his heel and fled.
#######
Whack! The heavy bag rocked back, and Angel punched it again.
The situation could hardly get uglier. Thwap! Another Spike incident would have been trivial by comparison: follow the trail the boy could no more avoid leaving than he could control his temper, end his presumption once and for all, restore the girl to her grateful (hah!) friends, return home and contemplate how he'd let the situation get so far out of control.
Well, he was certainly going to have time for the last part of that plan. Rushing into this situation half-cocked would guarantee Willow's death, and very possibly his own as well. He could only hope that Spike's might be thrown in as a bonus.
He'd been afraid of this. Spike (and Willow) had blithely assumed that they'd left the mess behind them in Montreal. Naturally. Humiliate a 400-year-old vampire in front of the community he rules, skip town, and it's all history. He snorted and threw another flurry of punches. Right. Because the Old Ones are so fond of moving on and living in the present.
The puzzle was how to extricate Willow, while leaving Spike to face the consequences of his idiocy. In the Old Ones' eyes, Willow was just as much a symbol of defiance as Spike; to leave her unpunished would 'encourager les autres'. Her very existence was an insult, and an invitation to rebellion.
Whack! One thing was clear. The public defiance had occurred in Montreal; that was where the Old Ones would expect reparations. He picked up the phone. "When's the next evening flight to Dorval?"
########
After a couple of hasty sewer detours, Spike shook off the Slayer. When he was sure the trail was cold, he risked a return to the administration building. Nobody had yet discovered his intrusion (thank you, oblivious Sunnydale!), so he returned to the Taurus.
There was another cream envelope on the dashboard.