Note: Previous installments at http://www.oocities.org/serpyllum/.
Spike stared at the car, and at the envelope lying on the dashboard.
Bloody fucking hell.
He despised symbolic messages. Rip his head off, fine, blow up his crypt, no problem, but spare him the mindfucks. He'd been worked over by experts. These berks weren't in the running.
What was it with the over-200 set, anyway? Couldn't just kill the Slayer, no, had to draw menacing sketches, leave mysterious boxes of flowers, torture some goldfish, then destroy the world as an encore. And the Montreal trads couldn't kill him, or bomb the car, or sprinkle holy water in his lair. Oh, no. Not subtle enough. Not stylish enough. Just make it clear that he was being watched, that they had plans, and he wasn't going to know anything until they were good and ready to share.
He drove a fist into the side of the car. It felt good. Violence made sense. Violence was the answer to any problem he could think of, including those annoying twelve-letter cryptic crossword clues. He turned his back and walked away. Screw them. He wasn't dancing to their tune. Sodding car could rot. Never liked bloody Tauruses anyway.
This called for bourbon. Or tequila. Or anything over 80 proof.
######
"Angel, what do you think you're doing?"
Angel slammed his suitcase shut and turned away from the bed. Keeping his voice level, he replied, "I'm leaving town for a few days. It's urgent."
"Who has the visions here, you or me? *I* haven't seen a thing."
"This is personal, Cordy".
"Oh, no, you don't. Every time you get personal it turns out really, really badly. Remember--"
"Drop it. Just don't." He fought to suppress a snarl.
She stepped toward him, eyes pleading. "Angel. Honest to God, remember the last time you didn't listen, remember what happened next. Vengeance doesn't work for you."
"Why do you always assume... I'm not even going to start this. This isn't vengeance I hope, it's a rescue. You haven't had a vision, fine. Sometimes the Powers That Be aren't involved. I don't need your help, I don't need my soul saved, I just need you to GET OUT OF THE WAY so I can catch my plane!"
She didn't back off. "Promise you aren't going all no-soul again?"
Snort. "Would a promise do you any good if I were?"
Cordy folded her arms, lifted her chin, and stood her ground. "Angel. Promise me this isn't more Wolfram & Hart nonsense, or you'll have to hurt me to get out the door."
Angel sighed. He was going to have to give her part of the truth if he wanted to get out of there. "I doubt this has anything to do with our favorite law firm. An old ... acquaintance ... is in trouble. I'll be back as soon as I can. If you get any visions, call Gunn and Wesley; you've handled them without me in the past. I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't urgent."
She stepped aside. "Please be telling the truth. And please come back in one piece."
He gave her half a smile. "That's the plan. Urns don't suit me."
#########
After François and Mr. High Heels left the room, another vampire entered. This one was scruffy, the sort Buffy staked by the dozen any night in Sunnydale. He never dropped the demon face; Willow suspected he couldn't. The minion escorted Willow to a dingy bathroom, where she was required to shower and use the facilities under his cold gaze. She blushed. He didn't.
When she got out of the shower, her own clothes were gone, replaced by a gray pile on the floor. It proved to be too-large sweats, the shirt with a telltale rust-brown stain. There was no towel. She dressed without bothering to protest. At least these clothes didn't smell of vomit. Unsurprisingly, there was no mirror over the sink. The vampires hadn't provided a comb, so she did her best to tidy her wet hair with her fingers. Before she had finished, the minion grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hall. Not back to her cell, as she'd expected, but up a flight of stairs.
"But I'm still barefoot!" Willow protested. The vampire tightened his grip to the point of pain. "Speak when spoken to." Then he increased his pace, Willow stumbling to keep up with him.
She was dragged into an featureless room. The only thing in it was a black (naturally) footlocker, lid open. "In."
"What?"
The vampire didn't bother to reply. Instead he twisted her arm behind her back, forcing her down and forward. Willow's shins banged against the edge of the footlocker; she cried out and doubled up in pain. Before she knew it, she was crammed uncomfortably into the trunk, knees to chest. The vampire slammed the lid down. She heard clicks. Then the world lurched. Apparently she was being carried somewhere.
Her legs hurt. Her head hurt. It was dark. She was starving. She was soggy. She tried desperately to find something cheerful to think about.
I'm not dead yet.
########
Buffy finished her report to Giles. "There was nobody in the apartment, nothing had been touched. It looked just the way the police left it, except that the door was kicked down and the bathroom window was broken."
Giles's eyebrow went up. "Where was the broken glass?"
Buffy rolled her eyes. "In the bathroom window, Giles. I already told you that."
He sighed. "Inside the room or outside it?"
"I don't know... inside, I think. The glass crunched under my feet."
"Buffy, think. Nobody had entered. The glass was broken from the outside. So was the door you entered through. If the apartment was empty, that means somebody tried to get in and failed."
"Vampire?" She tensed.
"Who else would break down the door without entering?"
"Then Willow's alive!" Buffy sagged with relief. "God, Giles, she's not dead. I was starting to think..."
"Not only is she alive, but someone or something is looking for her in Sunnydale. Our suspects must be local after all."
Buffy threw herself into Giles's arms. "She's alive, Giles! And she's here! Which means I can kick some vampire ass and find her!"
Giles returned her hug for a moment, then withdrew. He didn't seem to share Buffy's elation. "You've already tried that, Buffy. Nobody's talking. And the indications are... disturbing. Whoever has her knows she's alive. Which means they would know better than to send a vampire to enter her apartment. Therefore more than one faction is involved. I very much fear she's the object of some sort of power struggle. She has something that someone wants."
Buffy looked at him grimly. "Or is something."
"It seems all too probable. If they were holding her hostage to influence you, they'd have contacted you by now. Somebody wants her for her own sake. But not for her benefit." He took off his glasses, searching for words. "There are ...uses... for a witch's blood."
"Oh, God."
######
Spike staggered back to the car. He needed someplace dark for the daylight hours. If he moved the wretched suburbmobile away from prying eyes, he could crash in it for the day, then get out of town come nightfall. He climbed in, raced the engine, and sped out of the parking lot. There was a railway overpass on a back road north of town. That should do for now. He accelerated hard, and the cream envelope fell into his lap. He snarled, crushed it in his hand, and threw it into the floor well.
Long ago, there had been a factory a little way out of town, set on a railroad spur. Whatever it built had gone out of fashion years ago. Since then, it had been abandoned to the drunks, the bums, and the randy teenagers. Every now and again, vampires had attempted to lair in it, but had always abandoned it for more populous hunting grounds. He pulled the car under the overpass and cut the engine. The road should be undisturbed until nighttime.
He lifted the Jim Beam to his lips. Nobody told him what to do. He danced to no one's tune. He was a free agent, a lone wolf, the master of his own destiny.
########
Willow struggled to control her stomach as the footlocker lurched from side to side. After too long, she felt a hard jolt, then heard a metal slam and the roar of an engine. Apparently, she'd been loaded into a vehicle. In the trunk, judging by the smell of exhaust. Death by carbon monoxide? Great. Doesn't sound very vampiry somehow... Stop that. François said I still had some utility. That means he doesn't want me dead.
Yet.
I hate the dark. I hate small spaces. At least Spike let me have light and air... Stop that. He didn't do you any favors. He kidnapped you. He wasn't your friend.
A lifetime later, the vehicle stopped. Another slam, another hideous lurch, and she was jolting through the air again. She smelled a nasty chemical tang. After a few moments, she identified it. Kerosene. They're setting me on fire? Stop that. They're taking me camping? She giggled hysterically, and was rebuked by a slam on the side of the trunk.
Suddenly the trunk fell to the ground, knocking the air from Willow's lungs. As she gasped for breath, she heard a voice. "Load this in the passenger compartment."
Oh. An airport.
"Looks like cargo to me, boss, and there's a big hold."
"Shut your mouth. The passenger bay."
The trunk lurched again, then tilted and jolted; Willow presumed she was being carried up a flight of stairs. After a few moments of argument, the invisible carriers stood the trunk on end, dropping her in a heap at the bottom. Head side up, fortunately.
Some time later, there was a soft murmur of voices. She thought she could pick François out, but the conversation was in French and moved too fast for her to decipher. Then there was a whine of engines and the trunk tilted heavily forward, landing at an angle. She supposed it must have collided with a seat.
I think I'm headed back to Montreal. FedEx class.
########
When Spike woke, head pounding, the first thing he saw was the damned cream envelope. He turned away, wincing, and grabbed the bottle of Beam from the seat. It was empty.
He closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, no part of the situation had improved in any way. He had a hangover. He was trapped. And he was being played. He clenched his teeth. There was no use putting it off any further. As he'd known he eventually must, he retrieved the crumpled envelope, flattened it, ripped it open, and yanked out the single sheet of paper, inscribed in the flowing 18th-century hand he had grown to hate.
It read:
At the bottom was written, "Fail not of your presence. The human's fate hangs on your obedience. "