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CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
==== House and Home====

The vampires stirred the moment the sun set. Darla was so old, her entire being had learned to resonate with the incessant cycle of day and night, the way certain ocean dwellers felt the pull of the tide even if they were held captive in a fish tank. She did not have to check Angelus's pocket watch to know that it was time to hunt. She just knew.

She walked to the heavily shuttered windows, pulled back the bolts and pushed them wide open. Fresh fragrant air caressed her naked body, soothing the burnt skin on her face. It did nothing to soothe the rage that simmered underneath her cold and calculating demeanor. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of Angelus slipping into his elegant evening clothes. She took in the scenery before her, enjoying the river and the way it reflected the last remnants of daylight. The sky was still pink, but its glow was slowly fading. As the light waned, the river that minutes ago looked like a fantastic mythological snake in all its iridescent glory, became once more a sluggish, brown and stinking stripe of water. The perfect place to let bodies disappear in, if one weighed them down properly.

"Dru, get up," Angelus ordered harshly as he stepped beside his sire. Darla didn't acknowledge his presence. And he knew better than to disturb her when she was admiring 'the view'. When the last shade of pink was nothing more than a memory, she turned to face him.

"I need to feed," she said, touching her ravaged face with her fingertips. "I drank the innkeeper, but his blood was tainted, it had no healing power." She laughed. "It's ironic, don't you think? Trolls have this great power of regeneration and all that mindless strength, but the blood just makes us sick, even if it's diluted by two generations."

"If you knew, why did you bother to go back and kill him?" Angelus asked.

"So he could tell others about the way the Slayer staked our guests and almost killed us? Innkeepers talk. They all do."

She went to the wardrobe and chose a dress. Angelus watched as she slipped into undergarments that were so expensive they could have fed a human family for a year. "You think the innkeeper told the Council about our little... soiree?"

"Does it matter?" Darla asked, already bored with the conversation. "Help me with this," she said and turned her back to him. He approached her and expertly tied the strings of her corset before moving on to Drusilla to do the same for her.

The young vampire sat on the bed in her chemise. There were two bullet holes in the fabric, where her heart was. The fat watcher had been a good shot. Drusilla held a pack of playing cards in her hand. Several cards were spread out in front of her. But she wasn't looking at them. Her eyes were closed and her gaze was directed at things to come.

Angelus knew better than to disturb her when the sight was upon her. It was a useful talent; one that had saved him and his women from harm several times. It was one of the reasons why Drusilla was still travelling with him and Darla, even though having to look after her and keeping her from acting upon every whim was proving more and more tiresome. Darla, especially, was growing impatient.

"Crossroads, dark crossroads," Drusilla cooed.

"Yes, you said so last night," Darla said condescendingly as she slipped into a beautiful dress. "Is that all you can tell me?"

"It's a tangled web of did not and must not and may be. Someone came who wasn't supposed to, and someone will come, who isn't what he used to be. Things may change, but I don't want them to."

"Who came? And who is coming?" Angelus asked.

"A friend of the other Slayer."

"What 'other' Slayer? There is only ONE Slayer. "

"The Slayer that captured your heart last night."

He hit her with enough force to send her crashing against the wall. "No one," he said. "No one, no Slayer, can catch my heart. It is already taken."

He walked to Darla, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. He kissed her fingertips, ignoring Drusilla's wails. "And now," he said forcefully to his insane offspring, "I don't want to hear any more nonsense about crossroads and the like."

He touched Darla's ravaged face. "You will need a lot of blood for that to heal."

Darla caught his hand. "The Watcher who did this, find out if he is still alive, and if he is, find out his name, where he lives, everything." It wasn't a request. It was an order. Both knew it. "Find out if he's got family," she added with a wicked smile. It was an ugly sight, because the burns made her mouth crooked, and there was a hole in her cheek where the skin had disintegrated completely.

He answered her with a smile of his own.

Unfortunately, he couldn't just go and drag a dozen people into their house for Darla to eat. Too many disappearances and the Council would find them, it was as simple as that. Angelus knew what it was like to be hunted by a determined opponent.

He pondered for a moment, mentally going through a list of feeding grounds. Going back to the baby farmer to buy some more children was out of the question. Surely, the Council had already found her and taken care of her.

He watched distractedly as Drusilla began to play with her dolls.

"I would like to use one of our hunting grounds," he told Darla. "We could make it a great slaughter, this time. But not tonight. Before we go there, I should like to make sure that the skinny little Slayer isn't already there, waiting for us."

As he mentioned the Slayer, Drusilla gripped the blond locks of one of her porcelain dolls and tore its head right off. "I hate her, I hate her," she whispered. There was a crunching sound and the doll's head disintegrated in her grip.

Angelus and Darla exchanged an irritated glance. "As for tonight," he continued. "I will just snatch someone off the street for us, someone who won't be missed. Right now, we shouldn't draw any more attention to ourselves, not unless we want to leave."

"I like London," Darla said. "I like the view."

"Then we'll stay," Angelus said. *And when we are all fed and strong we'll play a bit with that Slayer-bitch.*

+++

Charles Willoughby was in his room, studying, when his brother sought him out. "Charles?"

"What is it, Georgie?"

George came in and carefully closed the door behind him. "Can I ask you something?" he ventured earnestly. George was the quiet one of the two brothers. He rarely initiated a conversation but he was a good listener.

"Of course," Charles said, putting his geometry book down.

"Have you noticed that Maeve is somehow... different? I think there may be something wrong with her."

"What makes you think so?" Charles asked.

"Little things. Maeve always liked currants, but now she picks every single one out before eating her cake. And have you seen the amount of coffee she drinks? She moves differently, too. And she sounds strange. Do you think she is... maybe... possessed?"

"Possessed?" Charles repeated the unfamiliar word.

"At the bookshop I tried to find literature on exorcisms and demonic possessions, but all I discovered was that possessed people are supposed to be obscene and violent and blasphemous."

"Father said her coma might have affected her memory and her personality, remember?" Charles said. "That would explain her strange behavior."

George looked doubtful.

*Possessed...* Deep inside Charles was suddenly convinced that his brother was right. Maeve was not herself. *Does Father know? Of course he does. He knows about... these things... The question is: What do I tell Georgie?*

He cleared his throat. "George, there is something you should know about Father and his work."

+++

"Um... Excuse me, this probably sounds a bit, well, weird, but could you please try to contact someone for me? Her name is Maeve McKenna. Her address? No sorry, I don't know where she lives. And no, I don't know what she looks like. I've never seen her before, but I know if you just ask her to come here she'll recognize me right away. Trust me. Uh...What do I know about her? She's about twenty years old and a girl, and she lives with a guy called Willoughby, Edward Willoughby. Did I say 'lives with'? Um... I mean he's her guardian or something. No I don't know his profession, well, I do but you wouldn't believe me anyway..."

Xander shook his head. *This won't work.* He had practiced expressing his request several times now and each version came out more surreal than the one before. *I think I'd better stick to the fake-amnesia.*

He heard indistinct shouting and howling in the distance, coming from the other patients. The sounds sent a chill through him. He had only been here for a few hours and already the place was giving him the creeps. There hadn't been a moment of silence since they locked him up in this cell.

He resumed his pacing. He had been released from the cot and allowed to use a toilet that could only be called disgusting, but after that, four thug like orderlies had wasted no time putting him into an old fashioned straitjacket - a strange contraption with leather cuffs and lots of straps and buckles. *Four orderlies! Who do they think I am? Hannibal Lecter?*

Only, perhaps they did. Not Hannibal the Cannibal of course, but a dangerous killer. He suddenly remembered the dead body with the torn out throat. If the police who had knocked him out had found the dead body in the hallway behind him...

"Oh no!" Could things get any worse?

*Wouldn't one of Willow's portals be so neat right now?* He didn't know what it would look like from this side, but he checked routinely, anyway. No, not routinely but obsessively. He was scared shitless to miss his ride home should it ever appear.

He heard the rattling of keys in the lock and the door was opened. *Dinner?* A number of orderlies came in to drag him out of his cell. *Apparently not.*

"...this kind of lewd behavior is indicative of a mental illness," Dr. Burton was saying, as Xander was rudely pushed into a large carpeted room. The 'alienist' was sitting behind a large desk, smoking a cigar. He was talking to three men who Xander assumed were police detectives. Two bobbies stood quietly flanking the door. "I do not think this man is a common criminal, I think he is a dangerous lunatic. We at St. Luke's are much better equipped to deal with lunatics than the best of prisons."

Xander smiled sheepishly. "Um... good evening?"

+++

"Edward, you are NOT going!" Mrs. Willoughby said with as much authority as she could muster. Even as agitated as she was, she looked impeccable. Not a single strand of hair was out of place. "No one can expect you to go out just hours after this savage attack. You are in pain. You need to take your prescription and then you need to rest. Please, Edward."

"Louisa, my dear, you know I find it hard to deny your wishes, but my presence is expressly requested."

"Send them a note. Tell them you are unwell. It would be the truth. You're a scholar, not a soldier. You cannot be expected to go to work with two broken bones. Surely no translation can be that important. Tell them to find someone else!"

"I have no choice in the matter. I am sorry, dearest."

"Well, so am I, Mr. Willoughby..."

Buffy withdrew from the open door. *Oops, better not walk into THAT minefield.*

Their argument concerned the official debriefing that was scheduled to take place later that night at the Council's headquarters in Russell Street. Hartford had wanted to hold it as soon as possible, but he also wanted as many Council members to attend as possible and had therefore chosen to hold the meeting at 11.00 p.m. *At least the meeting takes place AFTER dinner. I'm glad I didn't miss that meal. Although...*

The food had been great, but it had been an uncomfortable event, once the Watcher had announced his intention to go out that night. Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby had been barely civil towards each other. Charles and George had talked about meeting Mr. Crawford and his sister at a bookstore, -*Wow! He has... um... had a sister?* - in an attempt to lighten the mood. They had also mentioned that they had invited the Crawfords over for tea.

*William...* Buffy found her thoughts drifting, but was saved by a rumbling in her stomach.

Jeez, shouldn't have thought about dinner, now I'm hungry again. I miss my fridge with cold pizza and Slayer size cartons of Haagen-Dazs.*

Buffy opened the door to Willoughby's office and walked in quietly. The desk was tidy. There was a neat filing system. It didn't take her long to find what she was looking for. *Bingo!* She folded the papers and - for want of pockets - slid them into her sleeve. She tiptoed back into the hallway, past the drawing room, where the marital argument was growing more heated.

"I never said a thing when you went out at ungodly hours, supposedly to work." Mrs. Willoughby said. It was the first time Buffy had heard her raise her voice. "I have never asked you where you were going and what you were doing. I just hoped that whatever you did would be done discreetly and would not shame our family or place you in danger. But it seems your clandestine... activities have precedence over the sanctity and safety of this house."

"Louisa..."

"And now you are asking me to adopt some unknown child, an infant I know nothing about. What am I supposed to say to that? What will people think?"

*Oh oh...*

It was weird listening to them argue. Weird, because it bothered her. After all, she had only known them for a few days, they were strangers to her. *Sure. So, how come they remind me of Mom and Dad?* Her parents had been fighting all the time, before the big D. Largely because of Dad keeping secretary shaped secrets from Mom. *Gee, pattern much?*

It hadn't really occurred to her until now, that being a Watcher wasn't exactly about leading a normal white-picket-fence life either. *Sure I have no life, but I guess Giles doesn't either.*

Of course he couldn't burden his family with his job, ergo plenty of secrecy. But now it looked like Willoughby's lies and secrets had finally blown up in his face. And he had to pick up the pieces. *Boy, can I relate. Just like it was with Mom, when she found out I was the Slayer.*

Buffy quickly walked downstairs, where she presumed the kitchen was and caused quite a stir when she walked into the servants' dining room. The butler, the coachman and two maids were sitting there; the other servants were probably busy taking care of the dinner aftermath. *And the award for 'The invention of the century' goes to... the dishwasher, yay! Sure beats space flight.* She felt a slight pang of guilt, thinking about the enormous pile of dirty dishes each family dinner produced. Buffy briefly considered offering her help, but realized the servants would probably just freak out.

"Oh Miss Maeve," one of the maids (Buffy had forgotten her name) exclaimed nervously. The butler jumped up from his chair, and hastily buttoned up his waistcoat. He had a glass of sherry sitting in front of him and had been reading the morning paper, now that the master and mistress of the house were long finished with it. The other servants stared at Buffy, clearly not comfortable with her sudden appearance.

"Miss Maeve," Dawson said with greater dignity. "You should have rang. Can we help you?"

Buffy sat down on a wooden bench with a sigh. "I know, know," she said, waving her hand dismissively. There were bell cords all over the place, but she still wasn't used to having servants cater to her. "But all I want is a nice hot cup of coffee. Can I just sit here for a second?"

"Of course, Miss Maeve." Dawson sat back down, passing on Buffy's request by nodding at one of the maids. The girl curtsied and rushed into the adjoining kitchen. "And maybe a sandwich or two?" Buffy called after her.

Despite the fact that she had eaten well at dinner time, Buffy felt like she was starving. She always ate a lot, even in her own time. Her fast metabolism burnt up anything she ate almost immediately. *Comes with the Slayer package.* Maeve's body, however, was much slimmer than Buffy had ever been, probably because of her coma or catatonia or whatever, but also because this century frowned on women with a large appetite.

Maeve's body still had a lot of catching up to do, so the least Buffy could do was feed it adequately. *To hell with convention!* Besides, the Willoughbys had a really good cook.

Buffy gave everybody an awkward smile. The servants looked at her expectantly.

"Actually," Buffy said, when she had devoured two sandwiches and some cake and downed her coffee, "there's another reason I came down here. I need to talk to you. Could you get everyone in here, please?" she asked the butler.

When all the servants were gathered, she took the drawings out of her sleeve and unfolded them. *Okay, Angelus, you're not coming in here, not if I can help it.* She handed the sketches around and launched into the little speech that she had rehearsed, knowing that she had to sound as authoritative and serious as possible.

"I want you to look at those faces. Look closely. These people are enemies of the Willoughby family. They are dangerous crea- uh... criminals. Don't ever let them in the house. Do not invite them in - no matter what they say! They will murder every person in this house."

They looked at her, shocked and frightened. But she noticed that the butler and Harper, the coachman, looked like they had an idea what she was talking about. *Well, Harper keeps driving us to cemeteries and stuff, so I guess Willoughby had to sort of put him in the loop.*

Dawson took the sketches from Buffy's outstretched hand and looked at the drawings of Angelus and Darla. Then he studied Buffy for a moment. Finally he exchanged a glance with the coachmen, who simply nodded. "I will make sure your instructions are obeyed to the letter, Miss McKenna." He offered the papers back to Buffy.

"Good, but keep the pictures. Hang them up somewhere so nobody forgets," Buffy said. "These people may come tomorrow, or next week or in five years- but I'm willing to bet that they WILL come. Don't ever forget. And now listen carefully. There is usually a woman with them. Very thin, with dark curly hair and dark eyes. This is very important: don't ever look into her eyes..."

+++

It was 10:30 when Angelus stepped out of the carriage that had brought him to Kensington. Looking every inch a well-to-do gentleman he paid the driver and took a stroll that would take him inconspicuously past the house in which the Slayer lived with her Watcher. And the Watcher's family.

Finding out their names and address had been easy. Angelus had several contacts in London and enough of a reputation to make even reluctant informants talk.

He walked around like a man deep in thought, studying the building and the neighborhood. There was a little park not far from the house. The street lamps were lit, but the park was dark enough to provide cover. Angelus found a suitable spot and watched the house, smoking a cigar. When the injured Watcher and the red haired Slayer walked out the front door and got into their carriage to drive off, the vampire smiled. He waited another quarter of an hour then made his way to the front door. He put on his most charming smile and rang the bell.

+++

During the short drive to Russell Street, Willoughby was very quiet. He looked gaunt. His lips were pressed into a thin line. Buffy didn't know how the argument between husband and wife had ended, because Mrs. Willoughby hadn't been around when Buffy returned upstairs, but the Watcher's pale and harried face spoke volumes.

*I wonder, did they have divorces in 1880? Or was marriage kind of a life sentence?*

She suddenly felt sorry for him.

They had almost reached their destination when he spoke.

"I think you should know that I do not have any idea how I am supposed to send you back where you belong."

"Huh?" That wasn't what she had expected him to say. *His marriage is going all kablooeee and he's worried about how to send me back?*

"The spell that brought you here," he tried to elaborate. "It should have worked. I did everything according to the Grimoire. I made no mistake. And, as far as I can tell, there is no counter-spell. At least, the Grimoire does not mention a possibility to dispel the effects. That may be because it is itself a counter-spell, meant to repair what has gone wrong."

"That's alright," Buffy said with a shrug. "My friends will get me back. They're good at that kind of thing."

If he believed her it didn't make him look any happier.

"I think you should tell them," she declared.

When he gave her a disbelieving stare she hastily added, "Your family. You should tell your family about, you know, being a Watcher and all that. No more secrets." *Says the Slayer whose middle name is secrets. Buffy Secrets Summers,* she thought with a sudden flash of self-awareness.

Willoughby sighed and silently shook his head.

The carriage slowed and stopped.

"My Watcher got fired once," Buffy said suddenly.

Willoughby looked at her, startled at what seemed to be a total change of subject.

Buffy looked through the curtains. The carriage stood in front of a large sturdy building. She noticed a brass plate outside that read "Diogenes Club - Members only".

She looked at the Watcher.

"The Council thought he had his priorities all wrong," she continued. "He stayed with me, anyway. And two years later we made the Council take him back, meeting our conditions and everything. He even got paid radioactively." *Or was it retrospectively...whatever, he gets my point.* She smiled at the memory of putting the whammy on Quentin Travers. "Make your own rules. It's safer for your family, too."

Willoughby didn't answer. He let her help him out of the carriage. With his arms injured the simplest actions were difficult.

Buffy was surprised when a servant clad in a crimson livery opened the door for them with a flourish. There were several mirrors in the brightly lit entrance passage. A butler took their coats and hats. "Mr. Hartford and the other gentlemen are waiting upstairs," he informed them gravely.

Buffy followed the Watcher up a grand flight of stairs and along a red carpeted corridor.
Everything about the Council's Headquarter radiated wealth and tradition. Dark wood paneled rooms, leather upholstered furniture, darkened portraits of stuffy old men painted in styles long past and the musty smell of books combined to give it a strange mixture of age and agelessness. Buffy could easily imagine that it looked and smelled just the same in her time, except perhaps for better lighting.

And now she was standing in a large room with many little tables and comfortable chairs. It smelled of tobacco and was full of men in conservative suits.

There were at least twenty of them. Not one woman among them.

Hartford waved Willoughby and Buffy inside.

After a few welcoming words and some introductions, and after everyone present had been equipped with the drink and smoke of his choice, Director Hartford asked Willoughby to describe last night's events with as much detail as possible.

Buffy sipped her coffee. It would be her turn to talk soon enough. *Yay.*

+++

"Good evening, Mr. Kent," the doctor said. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm a little tired," he said. *Terrified, maybe.* "Not really thrilled with my living arrangements." *Although this is probably better than prison.* "Oh, and the jacket, not a fan of the jacket. It's not really my style and makes it kinda hard to move around." He smiled awkwardly at the nodding doctor. "But other than that," he shrugged. "I'm great."

"Have you remembered your address or perhaps where you were staying during your visit to London?"

"Um...No. Can't remember a thing. My mind's absolutely blank."

He glanced nervously at the detectives. They studied him like he was a wild animal, no, a cockroach that had just crawled out from beneath a rock. Their disgust was palpable.

"Do you perhaps remember how you arrived at the orphanage?"

"What orphanage?"

"Mr. Kent," the doctor said as he leaned forward in his chair. "We found two dead bodies at the scene where you were discovered. What can you tell me about them?"

*Oh no!* he thought in dismay. And: *Two? There were two?* "I was robbed. So...um...I guess maybe the robbers killed those people, huh?"

"Can you fly, Mr. Kent?"

"What?"

"When the watchmen approached, you told them..." he glanced at some paperwork on his desk. "You told them that you arrived by flying."

"Um... I did?" *Sure you did, Xander. You flew. Right over the Cuckoo's Nest.*

There was a knock at door. One of the guards opened it slightly and peered out.

"Doctor Burton, your presence is requested in the East Wing," he said formally after closing the door.

The doctor nodded and stood. "I am regretful we have to end this session so quickly, Mr. Kent. I am sure we can learn much from each other. Although, I am also certain we will be speaking again soon." He smiled cordially.

"Please be sure he is returned to his room," the doctor said as he left the office.

The detectives glared at Xander as he was lifted out of his chair by the bobbies. They practically dragged him out of the office and dumped him into the arms of three waiting orderlies. Now, it was their job to drag him through halls that may have originally been painted white but were now yellowing with age. As they took the hospital's newest loon back to his cage, the orderlies talked.

"So, that's the third this month, right?" the younger man asked.

"That's right. Not a pretty sight, son."

"Really? You saw 'er?"

"Aye, that I did. Poor creature, lyin' in 'er blood with 'er clothes all torn," the older man said, without sincerity.

The younger orderly remained silent for a moment, obviously trying to picture the dead body.

Xander on the other hand tried very hard NOT to think about dead violated women. He was feeling slightly queasy. He didn't really want to hear what these men had to say but found himself listening, anyway.

"Think of it. One of these madmen gettin' out at night?" the older man said. "I'm glad I go home at 8."

"But if he can free 'imself, why don't he just try an' run away?"

"'Cause he's a madman! Like this one, 'ere," the man laughed.

*Oh just great. Like being locked up in an asylum in 19th Century London isn't bad enough. Now I've got to worry about being pegged a psycho-snack food, too.*

Moments later, Xander was literally thrown back into his cramped room. He looked around his concrete prison and tried to figure out what to do next. He made an attempt to stand, but lost his balance without the help of his arms to support him. Besides that, he was severely uncomfortable and his left bicep was starting to cramp.

"What would Buffy do?" he mumbled. *She would have ripped right out of this stupid contraption and kicked everyone's ass.*

"Okay, I can do this," he said to himself and began squirming around in his jacket. "Just...need...to..." He was trying to bring his arms down and around his bottom. "Ow! Owowowowowowow! Crampcrampcramp! Owowowow!" *Okay, well it was worth a try,* he thought as he stretched out on the floor.

Then, staring at the yellowing ceiling in his tiny cell, still cramping inside his straitjacket, he thought, *Maybe I really died. Maybe this is hell.* He considered that for a moment and then snickered. *Nah, if this were hell, some version of Cordelia would be here insulting me for all eternity.*

*****************************

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
==== Attack of Conscience ====

"Xander!" Cordelia yelped as she fell backward. A barrage of images assaulted her.

[A criss-cross of iron bars across a small window. A barred door. Screams. Xander, dressed in a straitjacket, his eyes widened in fear. A thin rivulet of blood crossing the floor toward bare feet.]

Angel dropped the duffel bag he was carrying and caught her with practiced ease. The irritated 'What's-Spike-doing-here' look was instantly replaced by obvious concern for Cordelia's well-being.

*Oh bugger, we really needed the L.A. Raider and a fainting cheerleader thrown into the mix,* Spike thought.

"What's happening?" Dawn asked, putting into words what everybody else was thinking. Everybody except Spike. He carefully cultivated a 'couldn't-care-less' vibe and leaned against the wall, his arms folded in front of his chest.

"It's a vision," Angel answered as he brought Cordy over to a chair. His gaze swept quickly across the battered shop, took in the magical circle on the floor, the bandages on Anya's leg and Buffy's - or rather Maeve's - arm, went past Willow, who looked like death warmed up, passed over Dawn and Tara and rested briefly on Giles, who looked less than pleased to see him.

"Cordelia has visions now?" Dawn said, impressed. "Cool! Looks kinda painful, though."

Angel nodded absentmindedly.

Holding Cordelia steady as another jolt of pain made her flinch, he stole a furtive, almost shameful glance at Buffy. He knew it wasn't her. During their phone, call Giles had confirmed what Cordelia had seen in her vision in L.A.: that this was, in truth, Maeve McKenna, the Slayer he had killed or - from the girl's point of view - would kill. Giles had also expressly forbidden him to reveal that fact to her. *How can I possibly act like nothing happened?*

He found her looking at him and dropped his gaze, guilt rising up in him like bile.

"Who are they?" Maeve whispered into Anya's ear.

"Angel and Cordelia," Anya replied, picking unhappily at the bandage that covered the ugly cut on her leg. "Angel is Buffy's vampire ex-boyfriend and Cordelia is Xander's ex-girlfriend. Angel used to be evil but a curse gave him his soul back and now he's one of the good guys."

Anya was so absorbed in her own problems that she didn't notice Maeve's sharp intake of breath.

[A large room with many cots. Sleepers in hospital gowns, strapped to their beds. A blonde vampire with a ravaged face bent over a woman struggling against her confines. Blood. Fangs. Faces, lots of faces. Confusion. Hysteria.]

"We have to help him!" Cordelia blurted. She tried to stand, but Angel held her in place.

[Wide eyes, terrified. Fangs. Screaming. Howling. Xander. Oh no! Xander!]

"What is it, Cordy?"

There were tears in her eyes. Angel didn't know if the cause was physical pain or emotional. "Tell me."

"Xander," she said. "I know where Xander is."

"He's missing?" Angel asked.

***

After the initial shock of Angel's appearance had worn off, Giles outlined the events to date. While Giles elucidated, Tara cared for Cordelia and Willow.

Angel stared at the letter Giles had handed him, the letter Buffy had written to her friends. 'Keep Dawn safe for me. Please.' Words she had directed at Spike. *How can she trust him with Dawn's life?* He looked up and saw the other vampire smirking at him.

He fought his resentment and tried to concentrate on the problem at hand. "June 1880," he interrupted Giles's summary with a frown, trying to remember what he had done at that particular time. His memories as Angelus were often painfully vivid, but not necessarily linked to specific dates. He caught a warning glance from Giles.

"That's right," the Watcher said. "At least we know the exact date. Sending that letter was very resourceful of Buffy. Quite ingenious, actually."

As the Watcher continued his lecture, Angel couldn't stop stealing glances at the Slayer. She sat next to the miserable looking ex-demon, Anya, and was holding her hand comfortingly. He didn't think Maeve recognized him. It seemed her and Angelus's paths hadn't crossed, yet.

What if she found out that she'd die at his hands? Would she hate him? Of course she would. He wondered if that hatred would seep into Buffy's skin and taint it forever.

He thought of what lay ahead of the young Slayer, once she got back to her own time. *All the terrible things I've done to her and to her family...*

Worse even, if they didn't get Buffy back, if for some reason Buffy were stuck in the past, she'd be the one to die at Angelus's hands.

Angel was only half listening when Giles concluded his dissertation with, "And now, in addition to the swapped-Slayer issue, we have an injured, naked and confused Xander physically trapped in another time period. With Willow incapacitated, our options are limited. Returning spirits to their natural places was a relatively simple procedure, but getting Xander's physical presence back to our time plane is, to say the least, much more complicated and requires an enormous amount of power."

"Power we don't have," Anya mumbled.

Angel nodded. "We're here to help, what can we do?"

"Well, if Cordelia is up to it, we need the details of her visions. It is possible the Powers are trying to tell us how we can repair the damage we've done. And, Angel, if there is anything you can remember from that time, perhaps we can cross reference your memories with Maeve's Watcher's journal..." Giles stopped himself.

Angel's eyes flicked to the Slayer and back to Giles.

"Anya? Are you alright? You look pale," the Watcher observed. "Tara? Do you have a driver's license?"

"Sure, although... I haven't ... I mean, I'm not a great driver."

"Take Xander's car and drive Anya and Maeve to the hospital. Those makeshift bandages won't do them much good. They both need proper treatment. Perhaps Dawn can accompany you. Join us at the house afterwards."

"Hospitals, ew," Dawn made a face but got up anyway and picked up her backpack.

"Will you be okay?" Tara asked Willow. "Maybe you should come to the hospital with us..."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine," Willow assured her. "Finer than fine, I already feel much better, I just need a little rest, that's all. I'll see you guys later."

Tara took the keys from the little pile of Xander's clothes and possessions and offered Anya a supporting arm. Together they walked to the door.

"I do not think I need to see a doctor," Maeve announced calmly. "My body is already healing. I think I should like to hear what Mr. Angel has to say."

"Maeve, I'm not sure that is such a good idea, you really should have a doctor look at that arm of yours," Giles insisted.

Maeve looked at Spike, who had been unusually quiet since Angel's arrival. An unspoken question passed between them. He shrugged and nodded.

"You do not need to send me away. I already know what the Journal says. Spike informed me."

Angel and Giles both turned to glare at the blonde vampire.

Anya, Tara and Dawn had been about to step outside but now they turned around. "I'm not going to hospital so you can discuss things behind my back," Anya declared reproachfully. "Giles, how could you!"

"Yeah right, that's so typical, let's get Dawn out of the way so we can talk about stuff," the teenager said, just as peeved.

Giles sighed.

***

Cordelia was lying on a mat in the training room with a pair of sweatpants tucked under her head. She had a folded wet paper towel across her forehead and her eyes were closed. But when she spoke, there was an energy and a clarity one would never expect from a person who looked so...broken.

"He was in a mental institution," she told the group that was gathered around her. "I saw that place before, in the vision I had in L.A., but at the time I didn't understand what I was seeing. Now I do."

Willow was lying on the couch, but her eyes were open and she was alert. Tara sat solemnly near her feet. Giles was in a chair near the couch with a pencil and pad in hand and Maeve, Dawn and Anya all sat on the floor next to Cordelia. The vampires remained standing, as far apart as the room would allow. Spike was flicking his cigarette lighter open. Closed. Open. Closed.

"Will you stop that?" Angel hissed through gritted teeth.

Spike gave him a defiant stare that plainly read 'Make me!' Open. Closed. Open. Closed. He was in a foul mood.

Angel just shook his head and turned his attention back toward Cordelia. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. *Why does he need to be here anyway? Just cause he helped kill a few demons after Buffy...* He didn't really want to go back to that place right now. *Concentrate.*

"I saw Darla. Her face looked like it was burned, but I know it was her. Drusilla was there, and so were you," she said quietly. "You...They were using the hospital as a feeding ground. It was like a nightmare. Those people... they were tied to their beds. They couldn't even fight or try to run away... So helpless!"

Angel wondered if the memory of this horrible vision would etch itself into Cordelia's brain. *What is she thinking of me, now? Sure, she's always known that I've done some terrible things, but knowing and seeing are two different things.* The thought that those images of the past might destroy their friendship terrified him.

"You said you saw Xander," Anya urged.

"Yes. He's there. He's in a straitjacket. He's trapped. There's a barred door, like in a prison. He's scared."

"Can you tell us the name of the institution?" Giles asked as he hurriedly scribbled notes onto his pad.

"St. Luke's," Angel said.

Everyone turned to look at him. "She's talking about St. Luke's." There was a hint of despair in his voice. The mentioning of Darla's ravaged face was bringing back memories of obsession and bloodshed.

"I know St. Luke's," Maeve said. "I could tell you where it is."

"As could I," Spike said. "Willin' to bet our buddy Angel, here, could lead you there blindfolded. He probably still has a key."

"A key?" Giles asked.

Angel looked around at the faces he's known for so long. Willow, Giles, Dawn. And most importantly, Cordelia. *I have to tell them everything.* He shuddered. Talking about the things he'd done as Angelus didn't come easy. "We used to..." he started. "The hospital, it was..."

"...one of many quaint and cozy feeding grounds," Spike interrupted sarcastically.

"We would go there regularly," Angel continued. "Spike is right. I had a set of keys. We made it look like the kills were made by a patient." He closed his eyes reliving the memory. "I don't remember Xander being there," he said, "But it was over 100 years ago. I mean, anything's possible."

Anya moaned in anguish and put her face into her hands. Maeve put a tentative arm round her shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze.

"Even if you don't remember Xander, the fact that Cordelia saw you all in that vision means that Xander could be in immediate danger," Giles said, furrowing his brow in worry.

Cordelia nodded without opening her eyes.

"I can try..." Willow began as she struggled to sit up.

"No, Willow. Don't," Tara told her, but helped her lover elevate herself.

"You can't possibly," Anya said. "Look at you. You can barely sit up. And you think you have magic powerful enough to open another portal." She shook her head. "This is all your fault, you know."

"But it would have worked," Willow started. "It would have." She was growing agitated. "It's not my fault," she said as she shook her head. "If it hadn't been for the Chronoth demons messing this up we'd have Buffy back by now."

"Willow," Tara said, trying to sooth the upset redhead, "you need to rest."

"I don't care who's fault it is," Giles cut in, his anger still palpable, "Let me make this perfectly clear: from now on there will be no more spell casting unless I say so. We cannot allow for any more mistakes."

"But I..." Willow started. Then her nose began to bleed again. She put a hand to her head and took a deep breath.

"Maybe we should take her to the hospital?" Tara looked at the others.

"I'm fine," Willow said. "I'm fine." She laid back down after glaring momentarily at Anya. "Just let me lie down. I'll be okay. I can still help, you know, read books and stuff."

"No," Giles said sharply. "I don't think so. You need a doctor and you need rest. The same goes for Anya. Tara will drive you both to the hospital." He stifled everybody's protest with a decisive gesture. "Trust me, right now there's nothing we can do for him. We all need something to eat, some rest and some time to think."

***

When they all filed out of the shop, Spike took Tara aside for a moment. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure. What is it, Spike?" the blonde witch asked.

He pressed a number of bills into her hand. "Since you're going to the hospital," he mumbled, lighting himself a cigarette, "you might just as well get me the real deal while you're there. This is good for 5 bags of 0 neg. Go to the morgue and ask for Pete, tell him I sent you."

"Oh...um... sure." She put the money into the pocket of her cardigan.

He strode off, but she called after him. "Spike, about what Mr. Giles said..." she said haltingly, "...you know, about you not caring what happens to Xander..."

He stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"I'm sure Mr. Giles knows that that's not true," she concluded. And with that she hurried to get into the car.

Unable to decide whether he should be pleased or put off by this sudden and unasked for vote of confidence, Spike decided to deal with a much more immediate problem, namely how to get to Revello Drive: *Do I hitch a ride with the poof or with the Watcher?*

***

The trip to Revello Drive was passed in silence. When they reached the Summers' house, Spike got out of the car and sauntered to his motorcycle.

"Spike, where do you think you're going?" Giles asked, irritation evident in his voice.

"I'm going for a spin," Spike said, knowing the answer would rub the Watcher the wrong way. He was still angry and hurt by the Watcher's words, though he was too proud to admit it, even to himself. He swung his leg over, inserted the key, and started the machine. It came to life with a satisfying roar, just as Angel and Cordelia pulled up the driveway in their car.

"I thought you had put this kind of irresponsible behavior behind you," Giles said. "Spike, I know you and Angel don't get on well, but that's no reason to..."

"Sod off, Rupert," Spike interrupted him.

He turned the throttle violently and drove off with screeching tires, leaving behind the smell of burning rubber.

***

An hour later, Giles and Angel sat in the living room of the Summers' house, bent over several volumes they had brought along from the shop. Angel was helping with some translations. They were researching the Chronoth tribe and everything they could find out about temporal spells.

They could hear Maeve and Dawn pottering around upstairs.

Cordelia was in the kitchen making more coffee. When the phone rang, it was her who answered.

"Summers' residence... Yes, it's me, Cordelia... oh, good, yes, I'll tell them...hang on." She walked into the living room. "It's Tara. Everybody is fine. But the doctors would like to keep Willow there for a few more hours. Apparently, they want to give her some transfusions, you know, iron, magnesium and all that."

"Tell her to ask Willow for her computer passwords. In case we need to look something up on the Net," Giles told her.

Cordelia passed on the request, listened for a moment then replaced the receiver. She carried the steaming coffee mugs into the living room and sat down.

"So, what's the what with the little stone angels?" she asked, referring to her first vision.

Angel looked up but quickly dropped his gaze again, worried about what he might see in her eyes when he told her. "I used to leave them for her to find, to let her know I was around, hunting her." Grateful that the other Scoobies, particularly Maeve, weren't present he explained, "They were a kind of calling card, because that's what she called me, the first time we met: Angel..."

There was a moment of silence, then Giles, Angel and Cordelia all said it at the same time: "Buffy."

"I think you'd better start at the beginning," Giles said, readying his notepad. "Tell us everything you remember of that first meeting."

Angel sighed. "At that time, in London, there were three of us. Me, Darla and Drusilla," he began his narration. "Oh, and Spike. Although, that was later...I don't remember the exact date when we..."

Cordelia and Giles listened in a mixture of fascination and horror. Neither of them noticed Maeve. She had taken a shower and changed into clean clothes and had caught the beginning of the story on her way downstairs. She sat down quietly on the steps and listened as he talked about his first encounter with her.

"So, the following night, that's the night before the... before we went to St. Luke's, I checked on some informants, asked a few questions. That's how I found out where the Slayer lived. Someone told me there'd be a Council meeting that night. So I knew the Slayer and her Watcher would be out. So, I... I ..."

He swallowed. "The butler tried to turn me away. But the mistress of the house came to see what the commotion was all about, and she invited me in."

Maeve gasped and felt tears rising up. Almost automatically, her hand went to the left sleeve of the baggy sweatshirt she was wearing, where she was carrying a sharpened stake - just in case.

"The butler was the first to die. The woman tried to get away, but... There were two boys. She tried to warn them, told them to lock themselves in their room. I told them I'd kill their mother if they didn't come out... One of them hit me with a cross..." He rubbed his hand absentmindedly.

Angel rose to his feet as the Slayer walked in. He'd been aware of her presence all along. She was pale and trembling. There was a stake in her hand. She was like an apparition, sent to haunt him.

Vampire and Slayer exchanged a look of mutual horror.

"Maeve, no!" Giles exclaimed.

"Wait!" Cordelia tried to move between him and the Slayer with Buffy's face. "He's changed," she said hurriedly. "Angel is not a killer. He saves people. It's his calling..."

"I... If I could undo it, everything I've done, I would," Angel said, truthfully.

"I am the warrior of the people. It is my calling to slay those who would prey on humans," Maeve said after some consideration and with astounding self-control. "To protect, not to wreak vengeance." She slid the stake back into her sleeve and sat down, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

***

After a few hours of solid drinking, Spike's mood hadn't improved in the slightest. He'd run out of money and when he'd asked for credit he'd been refused. William the Bloody, without credit, that stung.

Angel, on the other hand, was probably drinking the bleeding Watcher's expensive whisky just about now. All civilized, no doubt. Comparing notes on how to fight evil. With Angelus safely hidden under that soddin' soul of Angel's and no mentioning of dead girl friends.

"Bloody Watcher," Spike mumbled, Giles's accusations still in his ear. "Who does he think he is? All high and mighty, thinks he knows me inside out, does he?"

He got on his bike. "If it weren't for Buffy, they could all go to hell, for all I care!" *Except the Nibblet, of course.* He suddenly remembered Tara's kind words to him earlier that evening. *Okay, so maybe not all of them.* He shook his head, trying to shake the knowledge that he didn't wish any of the children real harm, *just the odd humiliation or two, and maybe not even that,* and started the engine.

When would the soddin' Watcher get it into his stupid brain that he had no intention of letting Buffy down?

*Speaking of Watchers...* An idea formed in his head. He grinned. *This should be fun...*

An hour later he had found the right hotel. He rode up the elevator to the twelfth floor and walked along the plush carpeted corridor until he found the right number. He knocked insistently, until finally, the door opened.

Charlie Willoughby stood before him, barefoot, wearing only a pair of jeans and a white dressing gown with the hotel's emblem. He'd obviously been asleep, because he looked slightly crumpled. He squinted at his unexpected visitor. "Mr. Spike! What can I do for you?"

"We need to talk."

"Certainly," Willoughby replied, visibly stifling a yawn, and opened the door to his hotel room invitingly. "Please, come in."

Spike swept past him, his black leather coat billowing behind him. Charlie closed the door behind him. "What can I get you?" he asked and walked to the little fridge. "The mini bar is well stocked, but I can also call room service for tea or anything else you might like."

He froze when he heard the sound of a gun being cocked. He turned around slowly and saw his visitor aiming a double barreled shotgun at him.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, suddenly wide awake.

"What I'd like are some answers," Spike said, inwardly pleased that aiming an unloaded shotgun at the man did NOT give him a migraine. "And I'm not leaving 'til I get some."

A few minutes later, Willoughby's arms were tied behind his back with the belt of his dressing gown.

Spike hopped on the bed, and made himself comfortable, using the headboard as a backrest. He crossed his legs casually, put the shotgun down next to him and pulled Willoughby's suitcase towards him.

He rifled through the contents, carelessly tossing the expensive clothes to the floor: clothes; toilet articles; a handful of newspapers, like the 'Guardian' and the 'Times' plus the latest edition of 'National Geographic'; that was it, more or less. Spike wondered how much he'd get for the man's digital camera and laptop computer.

"Okay, mate," he said, closing the lid. "Where is it?"

"I'm sorry, but where is what?" Willoughby replied politely, clearly trying not to antagonize him. He looked scared but tried to hang on to his dignity.

"The other business you mentioned. I bet you have another one of those envelopes for us."

"I... I'm really not at liberty to tell you."

Spike jumped off the bed and strode to where the tied up man was sitting. He lifted him to his feet and dragged him to the window.

"What are you doing? Let go of me," Willoughby squeaked.

Spike smiled as the heady scent of the man's fear hit him. He'd almost forgotten how intoxicating it could be. He opened the window, bent down, gripped the tied man's legs and without much further ado heaved him out of the window.

"No! Oh god...please! Don't let go!" Willoughby blurted out, panic stricken.

Spike held his ankles with both hands.

*I don't intend to drop him. I don't intend to drop him,* Spike chanted rhythmically in the back of his mind.

"If you don't answer my questions, the last bit of business you'll have in Sunnydale will be with the street down there." Spike nodded his head toward the ground. Charles didn't want to, but he looked down.

The sight of the twelve story drop made him dizzy. He quickly looked up again, at the face of his assailant. He was sweating uncontrollably.

Spike smiled at him. It was truly satisfying to see the Watcher squirm.

"How's what's-his-name, that Travers guy? How's the Council," Spike asked conversationally.

"Who? What?" was the terrified reply.

Spike let go of one of Willoughby's ankles. The man squealed and flailed about frantically with his leg before he realized that he wasn't falling. That he was still suspended in the air, held only by one hand that held his ankle in an iron grip. He couldn't understand how that was possible.

Spike used his free hand to find his cigarettes, shake one out of the packet and put it between his lips. "Don't tell me you're not a Watcher, Charlie," he mumbled. "I know the job runs in your family."

"Watcher? No, I mean... I don't know what you mean. What is a Watcher? I'm a lawyer," Willoughby babbled, wondering if this was just a nightmare.

"Oh, a pen-and-paper bloodsucker? I'd be doing the world a favor then..."

Spike lit his cigarette and studied the dangling man. He wouldn't have put it past the Council to try and use this temporal cock-up to their own advantage if they found out about it. But, so far, he hadn't found anything to link Willoughby to the Council. No weapons, grimoires, stakes, crosses or vials of holy water. Nothing that would indicate that Charles Willoughby knew he was paying a visit to the Hellmouth.

For some reason, that Spike couldn't or wouldn't contemplate, the fact that Willoughby wasn't a Watcher made his fear considerably less appealing. He suddenly felt the urge to get this affair over and done with.

"Please, don't let me go," Willoughby pleaded. "You're right. There... there is another envelope. I have instructions to deliver it at a later date."

Spike cocked his eyebrow, gesturing him to go on.

"But you can have it now," Charlie continued hurriedly. "Please, Mr. Spike. Please let me in. This is unnecessary."

Spike pulled a shaking, sweaty Charles back into his room where he collapsed on the floor. The stench of fear was overpowering.

"Thank you," he mumbled. "Thank you."

"Where is it?" Spike asked impatiently. Willoughby told him.

The briefcase looked stout enough to withstand even vampire strength.

"The key?"

Willoughby hesitated.

"You wanna go back outside?"

Charlie Willoughby shook his head and nodded at the nightstand. "Over there."

Spike threw his cigarette butt out of the window and walked to the bed.

'Over there' referred to a little leather triptych, one of those portable things that could hold three photographs. Spike picked it up and studied the pictures for a moment. They were snapshots of three young women. There was a strong family resemblance. They all had the same blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. There was also something strangely familiar about them.

"Your sisters?" He asked his prisoner.

Charlie Willoughby nodded nervously. His still felt nauseated, and he couldn't stop trembling.

"Pretty," Spike said absentmindedly. "Right then," he continued, "If I were a little key, where would I be?" He turned the triptych in his hands and pulled out the photographs. Sure enough, there it was.

Spike grinned smugly and used the key to open the briefcase. Inside was a parcel. He broke the seal and removed the brown paper wrapping. More envelopes, tied together with a string. He browsed through them, reading the names of the addressees and studying the handwriting. For a moment he considered opening them but then he dropped them into the open briefcase. Their existence told him enough. He got up.

His eyes fell on the human. He walked over. Willoughby flinched. Spike bent down and untied his hands. He walked to the mini bar and grabbed a few bottles.

Charlie Willoughby watched him warily. There was something wrong about his visitor. Other than the fact that he was a homicidal maniac. Suddenly, Charlie realized what it was and gasped.

"You... you haven't got a... You're a..." he stopped himself.

Spike followed his glance to the mirrored wardrobe.

"What?"

"You're a vampire," Willoughby said in a strange mixture of awe and fear.

"Yeah. So?"

Spike squatted next to him and passed him a bottle of bourbon. Charlie took it but his hands were shaking too much. Spike unscrewed his own bottle and swapped it for Charlie's unopened one.

*And you're giving me a drink?* Willoughby wondered silently.

They drank.

*He's not going to kill me, is he?* Charlie wondered. But the aura of fury and menace was gone and the man - or vampire? - was offering him another bottle and a cigarette. He accepted, slowly regaining his composure.

"I... I grew up with stories about vampires and monsters," he said nervously. "My Granddad told me stories about his grandmother. How she and her friends fought demons and vampires. I always believed he invented them... I actually told him he should write them down, get a publisher ... I thought they'd make a great television series, you know, like the 'X-Files'..."

*Great-great grandmother, ey?*

Spike got up and walked to where he had dropped the photographs. He picked them up and studied them, searching for traces of Maeve in their features. They still felt familiar, but he couldn't be sure.

"Maeve, Elizabeth and Edith," Willoughby said, referring to the pictures, not quite sure why he was volunteering information about his family. Except that he seemed to be in the middle of this remarkable family mystery and that he was hoping to find out more about his strange mission.

Spike wondered - very briefly - if he shouldn't apologize for putting the guy through the wringer. He decided against it.

Vampires didn't apologize. Being a vampire was all about not having to.

*Besides, no one ever apologizes to me, now do they?*

He passed the photographs to Charlie who took them with hands that were still trembling slightly.

*He's still alive, what more could he want?*

"See that you deliver those letters as instructed," Spike nodded at the briefcase.

He picked up his gun and walked to the door. "Welcome to the Hellmouth," he said. And with that, he made his exit.

***

When Spike came back to Revello Drive it was almost dawn. The house was quiet. Most windows were dark, the only lights were those the dining room. Giles and Angel were still bent over books and fax print outs.

"Where have you been, Spike?" Giles demanded to know.

"He's got an invite?" Angel asked incredulously. "Again?"

Spike took off his duster and threw it over the backrest of a chair. Ignoring both the Watcher and his grand sire he made his way to the kitchen and checked the fridge. Five packets of 0 neg. *Bingo!*

Giles followed him. He watched the vampire heat himself a mug of blood in the microwave. The Watcher could smell alcohol on Spike, but since the vampire's movements were sure and deliberate he decided not to comment on that fact.

Also, he was hardly in a position to criticize. After listening to Angel's narration he had raided the kitchen cupboards of the otherwise alcohol-free Summers household and finished off almost half a bottle of cooking sherry that had looked like nobody had touched it since Joyce had passed away.

"I'll be with you in a minute," Spike said impatiently. Giles nodded and went back to his books.

Moments later Spike walked in, chewing on a slice of cold pizza. He sat down as far away from Angel as possible.

Angel put the book he'd been reading in on the table. He tensed. Whenever he saw Spike, he remembered hot pokers searing his flesh.

"Any clue as to how we're gonna get Buffy back?" Spike asked, sounding unusually civil. "Or Harris?"

Giles fidgeted with his glasses. "Yes and no. There are spells we could use, but they require more power than we can muster, or rather unpleasant sacrifices. For some reason, it is easier to send someone into the past than moving someone or something forward in time. The less strenuous or risky spells require someone on the other side to create a matching portal at the right time or to at least point the way - because it seems the portals are not visible from the other side."

"Right then," Spike said. "When do you want me to go back?"

"You can't seriously consider sending him into the past?" Angel exclaimed.

"Well, it's not like we've got many options," Giles tried to explain.

"He's a killer! There's no telling what he'll do."

Spike bristled and was about to protest, but Giles was quicker.

"Oh yes there is," the Watcher said sharply. "He'll grumble, insult everybody, probably expect to be paid..."

"You bet I do," Spike interjected.

"...but he'll do his damnedest to get the job done."

Spike cocked his eyebrows. *Oh? What kind of tune is he singing now?*

"But he's evil. You can't trust him." Angel said. He couldn't believe these people were na? enough to trust this vampire, just because he'd hung out with them for the past two years.

"He may not have a great deal of regard for humankind as a whole," Giles conceded, "but he'd never let Buffy or her friends come to harm. Like it or not, Angel, he's part of the team. Mind you, a very irritating part, but a member nonetheless. Isn't that right, Spike?"

Spike realized that this was Giles's way of apologizing for his earlier outburst. All this in front of Angel, no less! The Watcher was looking at him. Spike recognized the unspoken question. He nodded. *Apology accepted.*

"Yeah well," he mumbled, "It would get kind of boring without Harris. And I guess the ladies want him back, too."

Angel looked like he wanted to say something but the Watcher silenced him with a grim glance.

"So, it's decided," Giles said. "Unless we come up with a better idea we will look into means of sending Spike after Xander."

Spike looked at the librarian, knowing he should be pleased. Part of him was, but another part of him felt slightly uncomfortable as his thoughts wandered back to a hotel room, to a very scared man. And faster than he could push it away, it reared its ugly head: a tiny, sickening shred of guilt.

******************************

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