Chapter 2 notes: My take on the early days of the Fanged Four, or as Bridget calls it, "William: The Making of a Monster." I have the feeling that a good chunk of this might be imploded in AtS ep. 8, but this contains absolutely no spoilers. It’s all mine. I hadn’t even considered the majority of this chapter when I wrote up the "Rewards" outline, but I couldn’t resist the idea when it started taking shape in my head. Plus, it does a little to resolve that annoyingly confusing bit in "School Hard" where Spike refers to Angelus as his sire. So, without further ado…

Chapter 2 -- Nascor

Orator fit, poeta nascitur -- Latin proverb

Buffy took a step away from Vivienne, as if she’d been physically struck by the older woman’s words. She tried to speak, but rage closed her throat.

"Buffy--," Vivienne started, but Buffy held up a hand, as if to check the sound of Vivienne’s voice.

"Don’t," Buffy whispered. "Don’t you dare speak to me."

Vivienne nodded briefly and watched Buffy for a long moment.

"No. Don’t you do that," Buffy shot out angrily. "Don’t you stand there and look at me like you understand. You have no idea. You have no idea what happened to him. What I did to him." Her final words came out haltingly, in a terse staccato, not because she found it hard to take responsibility but because emotion bit off her words.

"There’s no chance that he survived?"

"No, Vivienne, there is no chance he survived. Sunnydale caved in on top of him." That’s right. Be angry. Make this about anger so that it doesn’t have to be about him.

"But did you actually see—" Vivienne began gently.

"Did I see him die?" Buffy finished, her tone sharp, with the slightest edge of hysteria to it. "No, I didn’t see because I left him there. I ran away and left him there." She took another step backwards, felt the wall beneath her fingertips and pressed herself against it. "I held his hand, I told him that I loved him, and then I left him there to die."

"Then he might have been able to escape after you were gone."

"No, damn it! You don’t get it." The tears were running down Buffy’s face, and her body shook with the effort of biting back sobs as she slid down the wall. "We were on fire. I held his hand, and we were on fire together. Fire plus vampire equals dust," she spat out, and a look of horror crossed her face. She had thought all of it a million times but never once said it aloud. Never told anyone. Now that it had a witness, it felt so much more real. "Oh, my God. I think I’m going to be sick."

Vivienne crouched beside her, concerned. "Put your head down, between your knees," she instructed. "Breathe slowly."

Buffy cried instead, great sobs of pain, grief, self-loathing. "Why would you say that to me?" she murmured brokenly. "Why would you say he’s alive when he isn’t? How could you?"

"I’m so sorry," Vivienne said, stroking Buffy’s hair. "I didn’t mean to trick you or hurt you. I would never do that. Do you trust me?" she asked.

Buffy lifted her head and stared into Vivienne’s face. "Yes, I trust you."

"Then I need you to trust me now. I can’t explain this, and I don’t have any answers for you, but I do know what I see. You may have lost him when Sunnydale was destroyed, but he is not dead now."

"How can you know that? How can you possibly know that?" Buffy demanded in disbelief, getting to her feet.

"I see it," Vivienne answered simply, rising. "It’s in you, in your aura. Just as there’s a part of you that is him, there is a part of him that is you. Your auras are tangled up together, and what I know is that the part of his aura you carry is alive."

"No," Buffy said, shaking her head. But there was a note of doubt in her voice. And the tiniest flicker of hope. "Maybe it looks alive because I want it to be, because I pretend that he’s not gone."

Vivienne shook her head. "You couldn’t do that. It’s not something you can control. If he were dead, all I would see is a reflection of his aura in yours. This is not a reflection." She held Buffy’s gaze steadily. "He is alive."

Buffy closed her eyes and tried to wrap her mind around the possibility. Tried to contemplate what it would be like to believe. It was everything she wanted. Everything she dreamed about. Time thickened and stretched, as if the moment would go on forever. But there was too much reality in it for the moment to last. It was so real that it felt unreal. Surreal.

"Buffy, are you all right?" Vivienne’s voice sounded as though it came from a great distance even though she was only inches away.

"I’m okay," Buffy said raggedly. "I mean, no, I’m not okay, but I will be." Buffy stared into Vivienne’s face with eyes that were almost unseeing. "He’s really alive?" She said it tentatively, as if she were afraid of the answer, afraid that she’d misunderstood.

"Yes, Buffy, he is really alive, and I’m so sorry that you believed he was dead when I could have told you the truth. I would have mentioned it long before this, if I thought you believed he was dead."

"You couldn’t tell that I didn’t know?" Buffy asked, clenching and unclenching her hands, almost as if to reacquaint herself with how they worked. Were those her fingers? She felt as though she’d been funneled back into her own body, and now everything felt strange, unfamiliar.

"Buffy, I read auras, not minds." Vivienne spoke softly, deliberately.

Buffy exhaled a shaky breath. "I’m sorry. This is all-- I mean, I-- I’m not thinking." Suddenly, her eyes opened widely. "Wait. Alive. You keep saying alive -- alive as in undead, right?" When Vivienne didn’t answer immediately, Buffy said again, more insistently, "Right?"

"No, Buffy, alive as in alive -- living, breathing flesh and blood."

Buffy rubbed her forehead and pushed her fingers through her hair. "How? Where?" she asked in disbelief.

"I can’t answer the first question, but we can definitely do something about the second." Vivienne moved to her desk and started pulling open various drawers and compartments. "We can do an aura casting here and find out."

"Oh, my God." Then, just that second, it became real. Vivienne was going to do something, and then she would know where Spike was. Where a living, breathing Spike was.

Vivienne looked up at her briefly. "Buffy, sit. Sit down before you fall down."

Buffy sat and put her head in her hands.

Vivienne continued to rummage through her desk as she spoke. "We’ll cast a wide net first, get a general locale, and then we’ll try a pinpoint from there." She hesitated, taking in Buffy’s pale face, the look of shock in her eyes. "Buffy, I’m afraid for you," she said softly. "This is all happening so fast. Maybe we should wait?"

"Now," Buffy stated automatically. She met Vivienne’s eyes. "I’m okay." She could feel hot tears threatening to spill. "He’s here, in this world. Do you know what that means? It means I’m more than okay. I just need to know where he is."

Vivienne nodded. "Okay. This will take a couple of minutes, so just sit back and relax." When Buffy lifted an eyebrow, Vivienne shrugged. "Okay, so you can’t relax. Sorry."

Buffy’s eyes flew open at the feel of Vivienne’s hand on her arm. She’d just closed her eyes to think for a second and gotten lost in memories. "Buffy?" she said. "Come on."

Buffy rose and stepped forward with Vivienne to look at the open book on her desk. It was an atlas covered with a fine, shiny dust. Buffy looked quizzically at Vivienne, and Vivienne pointed.

Buffy gasped. "Oh, my God. Look. He’s here in London. That’s what that glowing spot is, right?"

"No, Buffy. That’s you," Vivienne answered, quietly. When Buffy looked at her in surprise, she continued, "I told you that there was a part of you that is him -- that’s what showing up here."

Buffy stretched a tentative finger toward the map in amazement. "Part of him is actually here with me?"

"Here," Vivienne said, pointing across the Atlantic at the United States. "He’s somewhere in the middle. What is that, Kansas?"

"Missouri," Buffy corrected, peering at the map.

"Here, I’ll do a more specific casting," Vivienne said, starting to turn the page.

"Don’t bother," Buffy said, straightening. "That’s St. Louis." She took a deep breath. "I think I need to make some calls," she said slowly.

"Of course," Vivienne replied. "Why don’t I leave you in here to use the house phone, and I’ll use my mobile to make the travel arrangements?"

"Thank you," Buffy responded gratefully and watched Vivienne’s retreating back.

Buffy still carried everyone’s numbers with her, in her purse. But she’d never used them during those early months in London, had no desire to. And then when that time had passed, she didn’t know how to call. Even with the phone in her hand now, she didn’t know what she could possibly say.

She dialed anyway. If she could just do something, do anything, she could keep functioning. If she stopped for a minute, she might fall apart.

"Hi, you’ve reached Willow. I’m not in--" The answering machine cut off with a high, piercing whine, and a breathless Willow interrupted, saying, "It’s not Memorex anymore, it’s me. Live. Happy Holidays!" Pause. "Hello?"

"Willow." Buffy rubbed her fingers into her tired, burning eyes. It was after 2:00 a.m., and suddenly, the initial euphoria of the news evaporated, leaving her exhausted. Strangely exhilarated, but still exhausted.

"Buffy? Oh, my God. Buffy." First came the shock. Then there was concern. "Are you okay? Is anything wrong?"

"Listen, Will, I know there are a lot of things we have to deal with, but I don’t even know where to begin." She stumbled hurriedly over her opening words and then took a deep breath. "I just know that right now I need you," she finished simply. "I need you, Willow."

The silence felt heavy, and it crossed Buffy’s mind that Willow might just hang up on her. Maybe she deserved that.

"Anything," Willow said quietly. "You know that."

For months and months, it was like her old life had ceased to exist, and now it suddenly came crashing down on Buffy with breathtaking speed; it felt like she had awakened from a deep sleep. But it felt right. Buffy felt fresh tears welling up in her eyes. "I really love you, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. I really love you, too. What’s going on?"

"God, I don’t even know how to say this except to just come out and say it." Buffy took a steadying breath. "Spike is alive, and I’m coming back to the States to find him."

"What?" Buffy heard the shock and disbelief in Willow’s voice. "Oh, my God, Buffy. Are you sure? How?"

"I am sure he’s alive. I just don’t know all of the details. Any of the details, really, but I intend to find out. That’s where you’ll come in, if you’re willing to help."

"You know I will." Buffy could practically hear Willow thinking over the phone. "This changes everything for you, doesn’t it?"

"Yes." It did more than change everything.

"Because you love him." Willow said it tentatively, and Buffy wondered whether that hesitation was for Willow’s benefit or hers.

"Because I love him," Buffy repeated firmly. Somehow it had become that simple.

"Wait, Buffy, wait. This doesn’t make any sense." Now Buffy could almost see Willow shaking her head, thinking it through. "How do you know any of this?"

Buffy briefly explained what Vivienne had told her, and Willow let out an audible breath. "Wow, that is amazing. And he’s human? Is there any precedent for that? A vampire coming back human?"

"I’ve never heard anything, and I’ve never heard Giles mention it. There’s so much of this I don’t understand, but God, Will, he’s alive. It’s got to be some kind of miracle, some kind of something intervening. I just don’t know what."

"Why St. Louis, though? It’s so random, you know? I did a lot of research on mystical deaths when you were, um, you know, gone, and the rule seemed to be that people were resurrected at the physical locus of their interment." She continued on, following her own train of thought. "Of course, there is no more Sunnydale, so that might explain the alternate venue." She stopped suddenly. "Wait, I just remembered a case where a person came back not at his point of termination but at his point of origin. Wouldn’t that have been somewhere in England for Spike?"

"Should have been." Buffy exhaled slowly. "Maybe it depends on how you define ‘point of origin.’ I know one person who might know if anything special in the origin department happened to Spike in St. Louis."

"Angel," Willow supplied and then fell silent. "So what happens when you find Spike? What then?"

"I’m thinking that the resources of Wolfram & Hart are probably the best shot we have for finding out what the hell happened and why."

"So, do you want me to meet you in St. Louis?" Willow paused. "Sorry, that sounded much less Judy Garland in my head."

"Huh? Um, no. Can you get to LA in the next couple of days and meet us there?"

"Sure, I’ve got loads of Christmas break left. All the classes I have spring semester are graduate seminars, and I’ve got a couple weeks before they start." She paused. "Buffy, what if-- No, never mind. It’s nothing."

"What? What were you going to say?"

"It’s just, if Spike is alive and human, why didn’t he try to find you?" she asked carefully. "You don’t think he was trying to just bow out of your life, do you? Because he thought that was best for you?"

Buffy almost laughed and was surprised that she had the energy for amusement. "No. No way. One, bowing out for my own good is just not something he would do. He would never have taken the choice out of my hands. It just isn’t his way. Two, he would never just let me think he was dead."

And then it hit her, a notion she’d never entertained before: what if he hadn’t stayed away for her own good but for his own? God, what if he’d just decided he was better off without her? She could hardly blame him if that were the case, and the idea suddenly made her feel ill. What made her feel even worse was the thought that maybe he really was better off without her.

"No," she said again, softly, almost to herself, pushing the idea away. "That’s not how he works. He just wouldn’t do that."

"But why wouldn’t he come for you?" Willow pressed gently.

"I don’t know, Will," Buffy confessed, "but there’s got to be a reason. God, he could be hurt, or confused, or not know who he is. You should have seen Angel when he came back from hell. He was like a wild animal. What if that’s where Spike was, too?"

"Buffy, stop," Willow broke in. "We could play this ‘what if’ game all night. You’ll know soon enough. Just go, and we’ll deal with what we’ve got."

"Right. You’re right. I should probably call Angel and tell him about this."

"Yeah. So I’ll see you in a couple of days?"

"Thanks, Will."

Buffy was surprised that anyone even answered the phone at Wolfram & Hart. Guess evil-turned-less-evil-through-working-with-the-forces-of-good lawyers didn’t even get Christmas Eve off. She was even more surprised when reception connected her directly through to Angel’s private line.

"Angel."

"Angel? It’s Buffy."

"Buffy." One word, and she could already hear the worry in his voice. "What is it? What’s wrong?"

"It’s kind of too huge to get into all the details on the phone," she said rapidly. "But I’ll be in LA in a couple of days, and I think I’m going to need your help."

"Of course," Angel said. "All of our resources are at your disposal. You know that."

"It’s about Spike," Buffy continued, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"What about Spike?" he asked tersely.

"He’s alive, Angel, and I’m going to find him."

"What?" He sounded incredulous. There was a lot of that going around.

"Like I said, it’s really complicated, and I don’t have any solid details at this point. But I know he’s in St. Louis. I’m going to get him and then bring him to LA so that we can figure out how this happened."

"Spike is back," Angel mused, almost to himself. "Great. Just what I wanted for Christmas."

Buffy broke into his thoughts. "Angel, is there a reason St. Louis would be some kind of birthplace for Spike?"

St. Louis.

Another lifetime ago.

Angel exhaled and closed his eyes. And remembered.

***

"I can’t believe you," Angelus growled, leading them off the street and away from prying eyes.

"What? I was supposed to know that she was the mayor’s daughter how, exactly?" Spike was exasperated. He hadn’t meant to rouse the ire of the whole city. It had been an honest mistake. Angelus was impossible to please, but for some reason Spike still couldn’t fathom, he was desperate for Angelus’ approval. Little hope of winning that -- he was always doing something wrong.

"If that crowd followed us over the river, I’ll stake you myself," Angelus fumed. "First London, then York, and now Chester." He turned to glare at Spike. "I happen to like Chester."

"I like Chester, too," Drusilla intoned, eyes shiny with sudden tears. Angelus tightened his grip around her waist, and she smiled at him, sadness evaporating.

"This is all riveting," Darla interrupted, eyes hardening at the sight of Angelus’ hands on Drusilla, "but I’m curious as to what our plans are now."

"The first thing we’re going to do is find a place to hide out for a bit until things calm down." He spied a large house up the street that looked promising. "Wait here for a moment." He paused and went to stand in front of Spike. "Do you think you can stay out of trouble for a couple of minutes, William, while I try to clean up your mess?"

Spike looked sullenly at the ground. Angelus smirked and walked away.

He approached the house and knocked heavily on the front door. He was about to give up when the door swung open, revealing a fresh-faced maid in a stiff uniform.

"Good evening to you, sir. May I help you?" she asked politely, a trace of nervousness in her voice.

"Hello, lass," Angelus returned, smiling at her. "Yes, I think you might help me." He paused for a moment to study her. "You’re mighty young to be in charge of such a grand house, aren’t you?"

The maid beamed at him. "The family is out of the house tonight, and Mrs. Jennison gave the rest of the staff the evening off. I’m in charge," she confided proudly. Chatty little thing, Angelus thought to himself as she continued. "I’m looking after Miss Mary."

Almost as if the reference conjured her up, a pretty but sickly-looking young girl of about fifteen appeared in the hallway. "Who’s there, Ellen?"

"I don’t know, Miss Mary," the maid answered guiltily, bobbing at the girl in a slight curtsey.

Mary pulled her shawl around her shoulders and stepped forward, giving Angelus a slight smile. "That will be all, Ellen," she said, dismissing the maid, who bobbed again and retreated down the hall, shooting a grin at Angelus as she walked away. Playing mistress of the house, Angelus mused. How sweet. Mary then turned to the door. "How may I help you, sir?"

"My name is Liam. Liam O’Hagan." Time to put on the company manners his father claimed he’d never had. "I am terribly sorry to disturb you this fine evening, Miss--" He let his voice trail off uncertainly.

Responding to his charm, she smiled and answered, "Mary. Mary Vernon. I’m afraid," she continued apologetically, "everyone else is in town for the night. I’m not sure when to expect them back. Were you looking for my father?"

"As a matter of fact, I was," he replied. He gestured to Darla, Drusilla, and Spike who had now approached the front gate. "My traveling companions and I were supposed to meet with him this afternoon, but we were delayed." He played up the hint of annoyance in his voice. People always sympathized with stranded travelers.

"How very vexing," Mary responded, reaching out a slightly trembling hand and grasping the door to steady herself. "I’m sorry, what was your name again?"

"Liam O’Hagan. Surely you’ve heard your father speak of me?"

Mary frowned in concentration, trying to place the name, before shaking her head. "Papa doesn’t talk much about his business at home."

Angelus took in the pallor of her cheeks, the dark smudges under her eyes. He sniffed the air discreetly and smelled the sickness. Consumption, unless he was much mistaken.

"Why, we’re here on business for you," he stated, feigning surprise. "Mary. Of course. I didn’t put it together until just now. I’m the specialist from Dublin. Surely your father mentioned that we were coming?"

Mary looked blank but curious.

"Oh, dear. Perhaps it was to be a surprise." Angelus smiled his disarming smile again. "Your father sent for me so that I might look over your case, see about making you well."

Mary’s eyes, big and bright, welled up with tears. "He never said anything," she whispered. "That must be what he and Mama have been talking about. They always stop when I come into the room."

"There, now," Angelus said kindly. "I don’t suppose that we could come in out of the cold and wait until they return?"

"Of course. How thoughtless. Please do come in." She raised her voice slightly and directed it to the gate. "You’re all welcome."

Angelus entered the house and snapped Mary’s neck. "Thank you, Mary."

"That took long enough," Spike said crossly, stepping into the hall. "Do you always have to be so artful?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Angelus returned. "You might try taking a few notes, boy." He turned toward Drusilla. "Dru, take care of the maid for us, will you? She’s the only other person in the house."

Drusilla nodded happily and skipped toward the kitchen.

"And now, Angelus? What’s next?" Darla brushed past them and into what appeared to be the library. It smelled of fine leather and expensive cigars.

"I’m thinking that since William here has managed to inflame the whole of England against us," he glared at Spike as he followed Darla, "it might be time for a change of venue."

"Where were you thinking we might go?" she asked, full of curiosity, sitting on the edge of the writing desk.

"America," Angelus answered. He lit a thin cigar from the silver case on the desk and blew out a steady stream of smoke. He smiled as he heard a muffled scream from the rear of the house. The chatty type had always annoyed him.

"I’ve always wanted to see to America," Spike broke in eagerly, without thinking. "Boston, Philadelphia, New York."

Angelus rolled his eyes. "Christ on the cross, boy, we’re not going there to sight see." He shook his head. "You really are hopeless, you know?"

Spike cleared his throat, narrowed his eyes, and berated himself. Eagerness for anything that wasn’t sex and blood and death was frowned upon. Why couldn’t he ever remember that? "I wasn’t suggesting we sight see. I just meant that I’m tired of the mother country and ready to see the world."

"Nice recovery," Darla said snidely. "Just curious about the taste of American throats, are you?" She turned back to Angelus as Drusilla joined them, licking her lips contentedly. "Where precisely are we headed?"

Angelus shrugged and scanned the bookshelves of the library. He selected a large, leather-bound volume and dropped it onto the table. "I was thinking we could let Dru decide."

Drusilla clapped her hands eagerly and began spinning in a circle in the center of the room. "The middle, the middle!" she chanted in a singsong voice.

"Darling, I don’t think she understands. She thinks you’re playing a game," Darla said with a false smile. Did he have to indulge her, Darla thought with disgust?

"No, she understands," Angelus answered, opening the atlas. "She wants somewhere in the middle." He turned toward Drusilla. "How about the mid-west?"

With bright eyes, Drusilla nodded. Angelus found the page he was looking for and left it open for her. Dru approached the book, hands in front of her. She ran her fingers over the selected page and halted near the center of the right-hand side. Her hands began to shake wildly, and she looked at Angelus. "Here! Here, this is the place. Things will happen. Horrible things." She looked fixedly at Spike. "Wonderful, terrible things."

Angelus leaned over her shoulder as she giggled and read aloud, "St. Louis." He turned to Darla, and she shrugged. "Good. As soon as we find some traveling companions, we’ll find a captain who will give us passage."

"What do we need companions for?" Spike broke in. "I thought you wanted to get out of here in a hurry, and yet here you are, wasting time." He sneered at Angelus. "Fine bloody example you are."

"Boy, you would try the patience of a saint," Angelus spat out. "And as I’m clearly no saint…." He trailed off and took a menacing step toward Spike.

Darla stood between them and shot an irritated glance at Angelus. "I tire of this bickering, Angelus." She turned to Spike. "Do you have any idea how long it takes to get to America by sea? You may be content to feed off the ship’s rats, but the rest of us prefer a steady stream of human blood."

"Mary said the rest of the family would be coming back from town later," Angelus mused aloud.

"Mary?" Darla echoed. She caught sight of Mary’s crumpled body in the hallway. "Oh, right. Well, then, that’s settled." Oblivious to the rest of them, Drusilla had picked up the atlas and began dancing around the library with it. Darla shook her head. "We’re off to St. Louis."

*

"Where’s William?" Darla asked, reclining on the sofa nearest the fire.

"Out," Angelus answered, distractedly. "You know that Dru can’t hunt when she’s like this. He went off to find a little something to bring back to her." His eyes were fixated on Drusilla, sprawled in the middle of the floor. She was patting imaginary clay into molds and building something with bricks that she alone could see.

"He went out by himself? Do you think that’s wise?" Darla inquired carefully.

"I don’t really care one way or another," Angelus replied, his eyes remaining on Drusilla. He glanced quickly at Darla and said, "I was thinking that we’d go out later," in a tone that implied he hadn’t really given the idea, or her, any thought at all. He turned back to Drusilla. "Isn’t she fascinating?" he asked delightedly, like a child with a new toy.

"Fascinating," Darla confirmed without any enthusiasm.

Inwardly she seethed. She’d been more than patient. It had been twenty years, and Angelus’ fascination with Drusilla had not only not diminished, it had grown. What he found so intriguing in Drusilla’s madness Darla couldn’t begin to guess, but it gnawed at her. She was sick of the way he fawned over Dru and ignored her. She glared at the two of them for a few moments, and then a slow smile began to spread over her face.

Yes, that would be just the thing. It was an absolutely perfect plan.

Darla rose and settled herself next to Angelus on the floor. "Darling, would you like to play a game?"

"A game? What kind of a game?" he asked, sparing her a quick look.

"Hmm, well, I guess it’s not so much a game as it is a bet," she answered. She appeared to consider something for a moment, and then shook her head. "No, I’m not sure it’s even possible. Not even for you."

"What?" he demanded, curiously. Darla noticed with satisfaction that Dru’s make-believe bricklaying seemed to have been forgotten. Time for the hook.

"You’re the most powerful vampire I’ve ever known," she started, her voice low and seductive. Always a good idea to play to the ego. Angelus may be a vampire, she thought, but he was still a man. "Look at the mayhem you’ve caused. You’re absolutely wonderful. Wouldn’t you like to pass that on, create a true protégé? Someone whose capacity for destruction is second only to your own?"

Angelus’ brows knit together in confusion. "Well, that’s actually how I saw Penn--"

"Yes," Darla broke in. "Penn’s take on the family vengeance motif is positively inspired. But it lacks," she paused, pretending to search for the right word, "spontaneity." She traced the seam of his shirt up and down his arm and smiled coyly. "You’re always so good at adapting. You have your standards, but you’re so much more than just simple method."

He pondered her words. "I suppose it could be interesting," he concluded thoughtfully. "I don’t know that we really need an addition to our little family right now, though. Two fledglings and Dru could be a lot to handle." He paused and brightened. "Of course, we could just kill William, and I could start fresh. I’m liking this plan already."

"Angelus, he is one of us. Our blood." Darla said it sternly, with a hint of disapproval in her voice. She needed to disabuse him of the notion of getting rid of William, or her plan would be a complete failure. The last thing she needed was someone new taking even more of his attention away from her. She would have to play it just right. Time for the line. "I was actually thinking that William would be the perfect student for you."

He practically snorted in disbelief. "What, you see great potential in William?" Angelus asked incredulously.

Darla stood slowly and walked over to the window. "Potential in William?" she repeated and laughed gaily. "Of course not."

"He’s an idiot." Angelus rose and began to pace the room, ticking Spike’s failures off on his fingers. "Dru told me he killed his mother only after he tried to turn her. What the hell is that? I grant you that the bit with his old society friends was interesting, the railroad spike business. I mean, I admire good torture as much as the next vampire. But he hasn’t done anything even remotely gory since killing that Cecily girl in London." He paused. "He kills, but there’s no joy in it, no art. It’s such a waste," he finished, disgusted.

"Don’t you see?" Darla turned to face him now and halted him in his tracks. "Therein lies the challenge."

Angelus’ eyes gleamed in the moment of illumination. "Ah." And there was the sinker.

She knew him so well. Better, she thought, than he knew himself. Now that she’d planted the seed, he wouldn’t let it go. He was always so single-minded, so purposeful when the occasion called for it. Darla could already imagine his thoughts. He was wondering where William was right that minute, thinking that he would have to study him, find the perfect opportunity, just the right moment, to step in and break William completely. They both knew that reconstruction would succeed only if complete destruction laid the groundwork. There was only one matter left to take care of, and Darla would have complete victory in driving Drusilla out of Angelus’ head.

"I take it you accept the challenge?" Darla asked sweetly, tracing the line of his jaw with delicate fingers.

"Well, I don’t know. I don’t recall a wager being placed as yet. If I’m to accept a challenge, don’t I need to know what my reward is?"

"Reward? Oh, that," Darla said, waving her hand. "Isn’t evil its own reward, darling?"

"Ha ha," he countered, capturing her wrists behind her back and pulling her toward him until their bodies were pressed tightly together. "If I pull this off, I’m envisioning a major payoff."

"Kind sir," she breathed in his ear, "I have nothing to offer but myself." She pulled away from him just slightly, looking up at him through her fluttering lashes. She practically purred as she continued, "Anywhere you want me, anytime you want me, any way you want me." She paused. "And not a touch until you’ve succeeded."

She knew it would work because she knew how he worked. Knew that after a hundred years he still burned for her, still thrilled in the joining of their minds and bodies. He’d been preoccupied with Dru for so long that he may have temporarily forgotten, but now Darla could see him remembering, see the wheels turning. He’d spent generations pleasing her and being pleased by her, and yet the more he had of her, the more he always wanted. And she knew him well enough to know that no matter what heights of passion and depravity they’d reached together, there were still a few little things they had left to try. There would always be more between them. Wasn’t that what immortal love was about? There always being more?

He released his hold on her abruptly, and she nearly stumbled backwards. He turned toward the door as she said impatiently, "Where are you going?"

He faced her again, grinning. Leering was more like it. "I’m going to see what my little protégé is up to. And to ponder the meaning of anywhere, anytime, and any way." He ran his eyes up and down her body. "I suggest you do the same."

Darla returned his smile. Victory.

*

Spike waited in the alley outside the bar, cloaked in shadow. He missed hunting with Dru, but she was still in that place where he couldn’t reach her, and God only knew what Darla and Angelus were up to these days. Angelus never went out with him, and he was always gone when Spike returned. It all made him feel...a little lonely.

Ah, here he was now, the perfect mark, Spike thought, brightening considerably. He smiled and stepped squarely into the stranger’s path.

"Good heavens!" The voice was muffled, as the young man bent to retrieve his dropped parcels and papers. "I never saw you there. I’m so sorry."

Spike shifted into gameface above the distraught figure. "No problem, mate. My fault, really." He extended his hand, intending to yank the man up by his collar and siphon him dry.

And then he caught sight of a sheet of paper lying across the toe of his boot. It was full of verses. Spike looked at the other pages strewn across the ground. They were all covered with poetry. His gameface retracted involuntarily, and Spike grabbed the closest sheet for further examination.

"This your work?" Spike asked curiously, scanning the page.

The young man stood, pushed wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, and smiled guiltily. "Yes. This ‘God-awful scribbling’ is mine." He raked his fingers through his thick dark hair, and his expression turned rueful. "Sorry, just fighting with my father over my choice of vocation. He thinks there’s no respect in being a man of letters. He’s a barbarian, really."

Spike sniffed. "Fathers. They can be tough on the old ego, eh?"

The young man laughed and stuck out his hand in a comradely fashion. "Stephen Scheizter. You don’t happen to write yourself, then, do you?"

Spike hesitated. What was he thinking, talking to his dinner like this? He cringed inwardly, thinking of what Angelus would say if he could see him now. He’d get the "playing with your food" lecture again. According to Angelus, playing with your food was fine, as long as the playing involved chains, hot pokers, and things of that nature. Pleasant conversation was definitely a faux pas.

Spike straightened his shoulders. No one else was talking to him these days. What was the harm in chatting with this bloke before killing him? He smiled broadly and extended his own hand to shake Stephen’s. "William. William Hunt. And yes, I write. Or, I used to."

"That’s a cold hand you’ve got there, William. How about if we head in," Stephen jerked his thumb toward the bar down the street, "and warm ourselves up with a good brandy in front of the fire?"

"Only if we get to talk about your work," Spike answered, grinning. Who said he even had to kill this guy? Might be amusing to have someone here in town to talk to, if everyone else was going to ignore him. He could drink someone else later.

Stephen shoved a stack of pages into Spike’s hands and smiled widely. "I’d love to hear your opinion."

As they turned away, Spike read the top page and said, "Let’s see, we’ll take a look at this bit right here. This is-- Well, actually that is quite lovely. Well done. Oh, but this line is atrocious. What you need here is a word that rhymes with--"

Angelus lingered in the darkness, listening to the receding voices. Yes, this would do nicely.

*

Darla tied the sash of her lace dressing gown around her tiny waist and sat in front of the mirrorless vanity table. She smiled to herself as she heard Angelus returning. He was earlier than usual, earlier than William, and that must mean that he had something interesting to report. How delightful.

He appeared in the doorway, a bottle in hand. A half-empty bottle, Darla noted with amusement. Angelus drunk. Those were good memories.

"Hello, there, darlin’," he said, his voice thick and heavy with accent and drink.

"Celebrating something, are you?" she asked, turning in her chair, pulling the fabric of her gown tightly across her chest.

He grinned broadly and jumped onto the bed. "As a matter of fact, I am."

"Care to share?" she asked, rising from her chair and leaning against one of the tall bedposts. "Don’t tell me William is ready so soon?"

"I wouldn’t say he’s ready," Angelus said speculatively, "but the set-up is perfect. More perfect than I could have ever dreamed. It’s going to be a masterpiece."

Darla came closer, and Angelus caught a whiff of that scent, the mixture of perfume, cosmetics, and the rich, coppery tinge of blood that was uniquely her. He inhaled deeply. She smelled like home to him. And then she smiled one of her dazzling smiles. She was fetching. That’s what they would have called it in his day. God knew he was more than ready to fetch her.

He related to her what he’d overheard in the shadows and her smile grew.

"So I’ll let William make a little friend, a little replica of himself, and then I’ll get him to kill this Stephen," he concluded. "The ultimate act of self-negation. There’s no hatred quite like self-loathing for creating a monster." He paused and studied her reaction. "What do you think?"

She bent close and whispered, "It’s brilliant."

God, he wanted her. In a single, fluid motion, his hands shot out and he pinned her to the bed beneath him.

Darla could feel the triumph singing in her blood. She wondered if he could hear it, and she almost felt a little drunk with success herself. But waiting would make things even sweeter. She let herself arch into him for the briefest of moments and then pushed him off.

"Ah, ah, ah," she admonished, almost apologetically. "Not a touch until you’ve succeeded, remember?"

He groaned and closed his eyes. "You drive me mad, woman." When he opened his eyes, the lust had receded slightly, replaced by admiration.

"I’m going out," she said, standing and reaching for an evening gown. "You’ll keep me abreast of the developments of our little project?"

Angelus took a long drink and smiled. "Count on it."

*

"You think?" Stephen asked, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table as he surveyed the pages spread before him.

Spike shrugged. "I think those four are clearly your best pieces. Those are the ones I would submit if I were you." He signaled the serving girl. "Stephen and I need another drink, Kate."

Kate rolled her eyes but smiled fondly at them. "What you two need are a couple of girls. But as there’s only one of me, you’ll just have to settle for another brandy." She winked.

Spike grinned at her, but Stephen blushed deeply. "Come on, mate. It’s good advice," Spike said. "Someone had to inspire all of these verses. I’ve just been waiting for you to tell me about her."

If it were physiologically possible, Stephen’s face seemed to turn an even darker shade of red. "There is someone, but I don’t dare--"

"Good for you!" Spike nodded approvingly. "Why have you been sitting here with me every night for the last three weeks, then?"

"You don’t understand," Stephen said dreamily. "Julia is an angel, a goddess. I’m not worthy of her. Maybe, one day, if my poems are accepted for publication, maybe I’ll be bold enough to approach her again."

"Again?" Spike’s eyes narrowed. "She turned you down already?"

"Not exactly." Stephen cleared his throat. "She was called away before I had a chance to express my intentions."

"Carpe diem, my friend. Well, carpe noctem, actually. What do you say we pay her a visit?" Spike asked, pushing his chair back and standing.

Stephen’s gaze was openly admiring, and he finished his brandy and set the snifter down with a flourish. "By God, I think we should." He paused and turned slightly pale. "But we’d better go before I change my mind."

Spike laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "We’re off, Kate," he said, and she waved at them from behind the bar.

They hadn’t walked half a block before a fist shot out of the darkness and landed solidly on Stephen’s jaw. As he fell to the ground, Spike peered into the shadows. "Bloody hell, Angelus. What’d you do that for?"

Angelus stepped out under the streetlight, face suffused with anger. "I could ask you the same question. What the hell do you think you’re doing, William?"

Spike cringed. "I-- Um--"

"As articulate as ever," Angelus stated blandly. Then his expression changed, softened. "I know good and well what you were doing. You’ve been letting yourself forget who you are."

"I know who I am," Spike returned angrily. He glanced at Stephen. Out cold.

"Do you? You’re not one of them anymore. You never will be." Angelus’ voice was soothing, almost hypnotic.

Spike scoffed. "I know that. You think I want to be mortal again?" He injected all the venom he could into the word.

"I would hope not," Angelus replied. "So why befriend one now?"

Spike was silent.

"You may walk in their world, but you are not one of them," Angelus said softly. "You think I don’t know why you’re drawn to him?" His gaze was sympathetic, companionable. "You see yourself in him, don’t you?"

"Maybe. A little. What’s so terrible about that?" Spike tried to sound defensive, but his heart wasn’t in it.

"You were a coward before. A man no one respected. This," Angelus waved his hand in Stephen’s direction, "this just blurs the line between who you were and what you can become. You could be so much more."

Spike sighed. "I killed everyone who ever made me feel like a failure when I was alive. What else am I supposed to do?"

"Stop feeling like you want to belong, with them, in their world."

"I don’t feel like—" Spike began hesitantly.

"Yes, you do. I can see it, see you." Angelus circled him but held Spike’s gaze. "You said you killed everyone who made you feel like a failure, but that isn’t true, is it?" It was a purely rhetorical question. "The part of you that made you feel like a failure, that made you feel like you didn’t belong, still exists, doesn’t it? Deep down?"

"Yes," Spike whispered, leaning heavily against the lamppost.

"So cut it out, Spike, get rid of it. Exorcise that demon, and let your real demon take over. You won’t believe how good it feels."

Spike’s eyes widened at hearing Angelus finally call him something other than William, the name he associated with weakness. This was what he’d been wanting for so long, for Angelus to treat him as someone important. For him to give a damn. "How?"

Angelus didn’t speak; he merely let his eyes drift to Stephen’s unconscious body.

Spike closed his eyes and exhaled. He could feel a great wave of self-hatred breaking over him; it was almost tangible. He was drowning in it, choking on it. When Spike opened his eyes and looked at Stephen, he directed all of that hate on to him, and it felt...easy. Good.

"No one should hate who they are, Spike. Kill him, and you’ll finally be rid of William. You’ll really be one of us. You can belong to us, to the night."

Spike saw Stephen finally beginning to stir and moved as if to help him to his feet. Spike carefully crushed Stephen’s glasses under his heel as he stepped forward.

He grasped Stephen’s arms tightly, noting with dark pleasure the look of surprise and fear on Stephen’s face as he leaned in close in gameface. When he sank his teeth into Stephen’s neck, saw the flash of pain and betrayal in eyes that were so like his own, Spike felt something deep inside himself die. And then he felt something else in the void. Something waking, stretching, moving.

Something being born.

Stephen’s blood coursed through his veins, warming him, making him strong. Powerful. Joyful. It had never been like this before. He was free. And yet he was connected. It felt as if he was a part of something bigger than himself. That he wasn’t so alone. That he belonged at last.

And then he heard Angelus’ pleased voice behind him. Finally approving. "Now that’s poetic."

Spike dropped Stephen’s limp body and smiled.

***

"Angel." Buffy said his name more sharply than she’d meant to, but damn it, she didn’t need his brooding right now, didn’t need him feeling responsible for something that happened over a hundred years ago. She was worried about Spike in the here and now. "Yes or no."

"Yes," he answered.

Buffy was still holding the phone in her hand when Vivienne appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a heavy wool coat and wheeling a small carry-on bag behind her.

"We’re booked on the first flight out of Gatwick in the morning," she said, adjusting her jacket collar and looking at her watch. "And morning is pretty much almost here, so we’d better get moving."

"‘We?’" Buffy echoed. "No, Vivienne, I’m not expecting you to go with me. I don’t know what I’m going to find--"

"Whatever you find, I want to be there for you. Period," Vivienne interrupted. "Next?"

"Well, there are your patients--"

"Who will be fine," Vivienne finished. "I always take two weeks over the holiday, and I’ve left a message with a colleague’s answering service to take any emergency calls. Any other objections?" When the ghost of a smile flitted across Buffy’s face, Vivienne nodded. "Good," she said firmly. "Now, what do you need? Maybe we’d better go to your place so that you can pack a few things."

"There’s nothing here that I need," she said simply, replacing Vivienne’s phone in its cradle. "Let’s go."