Elysium

by Dana Woods

Part of After the Opera

Disclaimer: The characters/concepts of BtVS belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and everyone else who makes money from the show. The rest is mine. Ooh, I bet Joss is jealous.

Prologue

Refuge had been sought at Giles', because while the apartment held its own set of wretched memories, it was easier to be there than at Revello. Even still, they had bypassed the entire downstairs with twisting guts and wide eyes to climb the stairs and wander dazedly into Giles' bedroom. It held the least stifling memories.

The only illumination came from what rays found their way from the hall light into the bedroom, and they'd hidden in the shadows of the room after having taken care of all the ugly necessities.

Giles was sitting in a cushy reading chair, crystalline tears falling from his eyes as quickly as an amber bottle lifted to his lips. The Watchers had insisted that they not let the demon populace become aware of how vulnerable Sunnydale and the Hellmouth now were. It wasn't unexpected, that request. That's why one body had been removed from the scene, after all. In a soft voice, Giles had asked how she was to get a headstone if they couldn't let anyone know. Perhaps they'd sensed how close to boiling over he was, because one would be arriving from England the next day.

Spike and Dawn had claimed the bed. She was in shock, her eyes wide and frantic but unseeing, her body cold. A thick comforter was tucked around her, but still she shivered. Earlier, she had hyperventilated. Giles had put his shovel down and glared at Spike, his visage alone enough to reprimand Spike for capitulating to Dawn's demand that she be present for the closest thing to a funeral that would take place.

Spike had let his own shovel fall from suddenly numb hands, and thrown himself from the still-shallow grave to pull Dawn into his arms. He'd murmured softly with his mouth as his hands had tried to pry her fingers from the claw-like position that lack of oxygen had twisted them into. He had avoided looking at the blanket wrapped body that was soon to be put in the grave as he returned to the Watcher's side and took up his shovel once again.

Now, he held Dawn close, and his mind was so out of sorts that it didn't even draw the obvious comparison to this blanket wrapped Summers female and the other one.

Their minds were all out of sorts, but none more so than the woman who was pressed into the far corner of the room, her knees pulled to her chest, her wild hair covering her face and giving only brief glimpses of her feral eyes. Willow had attempted to fix Tara's shattered mind, but another of Glory's victims had intervened at the last minute and thrust Tara out of the way. That man, whose head had somehow ended up in the exact same spot that Tara's had been, had reverted back to his normal sane self.

As had the rest of Glory's victims, once her alter-ego had succumbed to the wounds Buffy had inflicted. It was anyone's guess as to whether Tara had also recovered, and then broken again under the strain of everything that had been lost that night, or if she'd simply stayed shattered.

In the end, it didn't matter which it was, because they four were all that was left, and none of them knew where to go from there.

Dawn was sobbing uncontrollably, violently, in the manner of someone who was about to temporarily part company with sanity and destroy everything around her before reverting once again to crying.

"We have to find, we can't lose her," she gasped between her tears.

Holding her to his chest, Spike closed his eyes briefly. "It's all right, Bit," he murmured, walking backwards to the stairs and bringing her with him by way of the arm wrapped around her waist. "It's all right."

His jaw clenched tightly as he quickly lifted her and carried her upstairs. Down the hall they went, to Giles' bedroom. When he shoved the door open, the stench of stale alcohol hit his nose like something tangible: a sick and sour presence that screamed in pain. With angry strides he stalked to the bed and the hand that had been cradling Dawn's head to his chest snaked out and grabbed a hold of Giles' wrist, pulling the passed out man into a sitting position.

Spike heard a groan and he moved his grip to Giles' shoulder and shook fiercely.

"'M up," Giles croaked. "What is it?"

"Find her, Spike. Find her!" Dawn practically screeched. "Oh, God, please find her."

Even that didn't cause the Watcher to do anything more than blink red-rimmed eyes. Spike pushed away from Dawn enough so that he could take her face in his hands. "Look at me," he said firmly, and her terrified eyes locked with his. "You're going to make yourself sick again, pet. Just calm down and stay here with Giles."

Her hands clutched at his shoulders tightly, desperately. "You'll bring her back? You promise?"

He gave her a pale imitation of his usual smirk. "Course I will," he said confidently. "Now, why don't you slobber on the Watcher for the time being, eh?"

She didn't smile, but she did lean her forehead on his chest and take a deep breath before nodding jerkily. "Soon, Spike. Bring her back soon," her mumbled voice begged.

He rubbed her back in soothing circles, and eyed Giles. The fact that the man hadn't winced in pain at Dawn's high-pitched cries meant that he wasn't yet sober enough to be hungover. Not the ideal situation he wanted to leave Dawn in. But nothing about any of this was ideal. Not by a long shot.

"Tara went wandering. I need you to keep the Bit company while I find her," Spike told him, face and voice blank. Giles had become defensive about his coping mechanism, and any sort of inflection might cause his feathers to get ruffled. Even though Spike had not, and would not, judge the man's use of liquid obliteration. In all honesty, Spike himself would have been taking the same path. If he hadn't made a promise.

"Yes, yes, of course," Giles muttered, reaching for his glasses and sliding his feet to the floor. His hand brushed against a half-empty bourbon bottle and a look of longing came over his face, but his hand left the bedside table with only his glasses.

Giles never drank in front of Dawn. Maybe he liked to tell himself that she was unaware, but Spike knew better. She was smart, that girl, and those huge eyes of hers never missed anything. But she was also hanging by an emotional thread and she pretended that Giles wasn't drinking himself into a near coma state every night.

Rising, Giles pushed his feet into a pair of slippers and ran his hands through his unkempt hair. "Come along, Dawn," he said quietly. "I believe there was a movie you wanted to watch...?

Spike left them sitting on the sofa and being sucked from the horrors of this world into the safety of the one flashing on the screen. He pulled his duster on when he was outside and withdrew his cigarettes from one of its numerous pockets. Lighting one, he took a moment to stair up at colorful just-past-dusk sky.

It had been two months since the fight with Glory, and sometimes Spike thought that nothing would ever be right again for those who had survived. Instead of easing up on the drinking, Giles had increased it and was now passing out until later and later. The video store wares that had first helped Dawn shatter the oppressive grief inside of her had become a compulsion, and she became distraught if she was too long away from the television.

He finished his cigarette and tossed it to the side, leaving it to burn out on its own. A tired hand rubbed at his face and then he set out to bring Tara home. Again. He hadn't wanted Dawn to find out about Tara's latest penchant for slipping out of the house and wandering through Sunnydale at night. The girl had lost enough soft, blond women to last a lifetime and she hadn't needed the fear of losing another. But this time, Tara had taken off while Dawn was still awake.

Crossing town took longer than it should have, thanks mainly to some fledglings he came across along the way who needed to be put down. He let the fight drag out longer than it needed to because it felt so damn good to pound his fist into something, to let it all out in some way. After the last had been dusted, it was just a few minutes before he reached his destination.

As he grew closer, a familiar and unsettling sensation prickled along his skin. It spoke to something primal in him, that instinct that sensed when something was off but didn't know in what manner. In his head, it screamed at him to run, run away as fast and as far as he could. Spike had seen humans, vampires and demons alike stop dead in their tracks at the feeling, their throats swallowing convulsively before they turned tail and fled.

Wearily, Spike followed it to the source, to Tara. Her mind had been flung to the four corners of the world and with it, her mental sense of self-preservation. But her innate magic was guided by something other than neurons and chemicals, and it had stepped in to fill the void.

She was where he'd found her every other time she had vanished from the apartment. For a moment he considered listening to that primal voice in the back of his head and walking away. But that promise he'd made had expanded to cover more ground than it originally had, and he continued until he was at Tara's side.

She was huddled on the earth of Willow's grave, dressed only in one of Giles' white undershirts. It had ridden up to expose her panties and bare thighs and legs. The former sleekness of her ash colored hair had been replaced by a tempestuous mess of tangled strands and knots. The face that had once been so serene, so soothing, was highlighted by madness, grief and a terrific guilt that drew away color and flesh, leaving a pale husk in its place.

One hand was pressed against the headstone, covering half of Willow's name. The other had wormed its way into the ground, into a familiar hole that she'd dug out for herself on her first visit. She was covered in blood, from her matted hair to her scuffed bare feet. In another time, another life, he would have found it glorious, her state of deviant dishabille.

A strangled and distraught cry came from her.

"I'm here, pet," he said and sat next to her. "You're a right mess again, aren't you?"

"She won't take my hand," Tara mumbled, lifting blood-dripping eyes to him. "I call and call, but she won't take my hand. No matter how close I get to her, she won't take my hand."

Spike sighed and let his fingers drift over her face, through the blood that had no substance to go with its appearance. "I know."

She moved, then, taking her hand from the cold marble to pull Spike down so that he was lying under her. Her other hand never left the earth as she climbed on top of him and curled into a fetal position. The blood that sluiced from her never made it to Spike, but dissipated in midair. Without conscious thought, Spike's arms encircled her.

When she spoke again, her voice was breathy and almost as non-corporeal as the blood that hadn't remained on the headstone when she'd removed her hand from it. "I don't think this is how it should be. I can't...it should be different. She should take my hand, shouldn't she? I think she should, but I don't know why she isn't."

Silence fell upon them. Despite his earlier reluctance to approach her, he found himself clinging to the moment. Pressed between the living and the dead--that ghostly blood moving along Tara's form in tandem with the beat of her heart--her living hand plunged downwards towards the dead--her heat sinking into the depths of his being.

When she drifted off, the blood faded. He lifted her into his arms and carried her home. Once there, he brought her to Giles' spare room and set her gently on the bed she shared with Dawn, and the teenager clung to her like a lifeline.

Later, when he returned from patrolling, he entered the apartment and two straight months of patrolling, combined with the little sleep he'd been getting, caused something to slip from his eyes.

He saw the veritable mountains of videotapes and DVDs stacked next to the television. He saw the two empty bottles on Giles' bedside table. He saw Dawn burrowed against Tara's soft, blond womanliness. He saw the torn bottoms of Tara's feet from her nightly excursions. He saw the bruises and gashes on his own body.

But, most significantly, he saw only the room behind him when he looked into the mirror in the bathroom, and that was what took him to the phone.

"I need your help," he said to Angel, his mind empty of every impulse that normally would have kept him from ever saying such a thing.

A long pause during which Spike braced himself for a response full of the antagonism that was always present between them. But Angel's voice was soft and blank when he replied, "I'll be there the day after tomorrow."

Angel stopped in the shadows, watching the sight before him with wide and disbelieving eyes.

Earlier, he'd gotten as far as Giles' front door before realizing that there wasn't a vampire inside. Assuming that Spike was patrolling, Angel had gone looking for him. Passing a thousand memories in the process.

He hadn't really expected to find Spike at the park, and a part of him admitted that he'd gone there to indulge in some masochistic remembrances. But find Spike he had. And Tara, as well. On the swings. The swings.

Someone, probably Dawn, had actually gotten Tara to sit still long enough to brush her hair, and the silken fall of it flew out behind her as she rose and fell on a swing. The thin, loose material of her peasant top billowed and flattened alternately against her as she ascended and descended, and the stark whiteness of it--relieved only by some blue embroidery at her chest--shone like a beacon in the dark playground. Her black pants were the opposite, and blended with the night so well that she appeared to be half a woman, with nothing existing beneath her waist except the small bare feet that arched as she climbed to the sky and tucked under as she plummeted to the ground.

"Higher," she called out, her husky voice the perfect compliment to the darkness. And it seemed to not fit the picture, to not mesh with the mentally unstable woman who most surely should have been giggling or squealing in delight.

Behind her, Spike clamped his cigarette between his lips. "Fine, higher. But only a little."

He waited until she descended into arm's reach, then placed both his hands on the metal seat and gave a great push before stepping once again to the side. Tara's eyes closed in what Angel could only call pure, unfettered, tranquility. Everything about her that showed the toll of all that had happened seemed to loosen its grip, leaving her closer to what she must have once been than Angel would have thought possible.

Then something about her demeanor alerted him, and he took two steps toward the swings just as she ascended to the top of the arc, released the swing's chains and let momentum and gravity carry her forward and down. Panic blinded him for a brief moment, and when he could see again, he came to an abrupt halt.

In the spot where Tara's body should have lain, bloody and broken, stood Spike. He must have caught her when she'd been high, because his head was level with her abdomen, and his arms were around the back of her thighs and knees. As Angel watched, Spike tipped his head back to look up at her, and his face...it was relaxed. Angel forced his gaze up, to Tara. Her eyes were still closed, and a soft smile played on her lips. Her hands came to rest on Spike's hair, her fingers rifling through it.

A part of him thought that he shouldn't be surprised, at least not by Spike's actions. Hadn't he seen, first hand, just how good Spike was with insane women? But this was different, and it took him a moment to realize why. With Drusilla, there had been a playful and open exuberance when Spike had catered to her whims. This tableau before him held nothing of that. It was hushed...private...intimate, and Angel suddenly felt like he was seeing something that wasn't meant to be witnessed or shared.

Tara slid down Spike, and his arms shifted their hold to accommodate her movements. Her body wrapped around him, legs at his waist, arms at his neck, like she was trying to insinuate herself under his very skin. Spike seemed to be trying for that as well, and he snaked his arms across her back, buried his face into the crook of her neck, and nudged her head with his own until her own face was against his neck.

Finally, Spike broke the embrace. He unwrapped her limbs from his body and set her on her feet. Still, Tara leaned into him as he positioned her at his side.

"It doesn't hurt here," Angel heard Tara whisper, and somehow he didn't think she was talking about the park.

"No, no it doesn't," Spike agreed, his voice also a whisper.

They walked off, and Angel followed them back to Giles' place. Just moments after the door closed behind them, it opened once more. Spike came into the courtyard and lit a cigarette. Exhaling a plume of spoke, he turned his head in Angel's direction and said, "I thought you broke the stalking habit."

Angel stepped out of the shadows and approached Spike warily. "For the most part," he replied.

"When did you get in?"

"About an hour ago." Spike didn't say anything, and Angel continued awkwardly. "I, uh, would have been here sooner but I wasn't in Los Angeles."

"Hm," Spike grunted as he brought his cigarette to his lips again.

Angel had seen Spike in a million different moods, but if he'd ever actually seen this quiet, blank and weary vampire before him, he couldn't remember. "What's the trouble?" he asked quietly.

"Trouble," Spike repeated carefully, blinking slowly, then fell silent again.

"Yeah, trouble," Angel said tightly. "The reason you called and asked for help. From me, of all people."

Instead of answering, the other vampire moved with heavy limbs to the wrought iron table near Giles' door and sat fell back into one of the matching chairs like someone had just cut his strings.

Angel had heard. Of course he had. Willow had mentioned it to Cordelia, who had been worried enough about his reaction that she'd been incapable of even the barest hint of tact when she'd burst into his office and blurted it out: Spike's in love with Buffy. Unlike the others, he hadn't marveled at the fact. Spike was as capable of love as any human. Not typical, granted, but it was just a fact of Spike. Nor had Angel been surprised by who, exactly, had captured his heart. For a variety of reasons.

Looking at Spike now, he thought that something had been lost in the translation somewhere. What had happened in the months before Glory's bid for home to toss Spike into this deep pit of grief? Because Angel was damned sure that Spike mooning and being rejected outright wouldn't have done that. Not that he thought the two had become involved in the way Spike had wanted...but something had changed, in some manner, for Spike to be like this.

"Spike..."

"Don't." Just the one word, spoken so flatly, and it told Angel what he didn't know. Spike had been rejected but he'd also been invited close at the same time. On that push/pull of his emotions could have done this.

More silence, too much and too heavy for even Angel to take. Then Spike leaned forward to flick his cigarette away, and Angel got his first close up look at him in the light. "You look like shit," he said, taking in the fading bruises, the healing cuts and the gaunt features. "What happened?"

Shrugging, he said, "Patrol."

"I hope Giles got off better than you did," Angel ventured.

Spike ran a tired hand across his face. "Giles doesn't patrol."

Angel's eyes narrowed. Giles was the only other one left who would be able to patrol, which meant that Spike was doing it alone. "Why not?" he demanded.

And for the first time that night, Angel got a response that was more than just a few words.

"Because Giles can't haul his drunken ass out of bed in the middle of the night to take a proper piss, much less patrol," Spike said grimly. "And when Dawn isn't sleeping, she spends the rest of her time watching one movie after another because it takes her away from thinking about the people who aren't here anymore. I go out on patrol five minutes after sunset and come back five minutes before sunrise, seven days a week, and it's not enough to keep this place under control because I'm a vampire and not a Slayer. If the three of us aren't fucked up or busy enough, there's Tara to deal with; she can't even brush her teeth by herself, and lately she's been leaving the house in the dead of night to wander the streets."

Angel's stomach tightened. He hadn't known. How could he? The survivors had closed him out of the ranks from the beginning, deeming him an outsider to their shared losses, their shared experience of that night.

"We should--"

"I didn't ask you here for advice," Spike interjected, looking away again. "I know what to do, and I'm going to do it, but I need you to help me convince Giles."

"Just Giles?" Angel asked, brows lowered.

Spike nodded. "The Bit'll take it hard but she'll listen to me in the end, and Tara is too out of her mind to argue. Giles is going to be the problem because he can't stand me."

Angel shifted uncomfortably. "His opinion of me isn't much higher."

"No, but it is higher. And he respects you. The memories are bad enough," Spike went on quietly, "but the Hellmouth is making everything worse--it sucks you into the pain, magnifies it."

Angel was well aware of that particular trait of the Hellmouth, actually. "What did you have in mind?" he asked.

"They need to leave. All of them."

Angel waited until Spike, Dawn and Tara had gone a block before going to the door. The Watcher blinked at him for a long moment after he answered the bell, then stepped aside and let him in.

"To what do I owe this honor?" Giles drawled tightly.

He had debated a variety of options in presenting Spike's plan to Giles, but hadn't actually decided on one. But he remembered the Thanksgiving that he'd driven in from L.A. and come to this apartment. Remembered the blunt and raw manner in which they'd opted to communicate then, and chose that as his course.

"Do you think she'd want things to be this way?" he asked, gesturing at the glass in Giles' hand.

The Watcher froze, then shut the door with deliberate softness. "Don't talk about her," Giles said almost pleasantly, but there were razors in his eyes. "Ever. You lost the right a long time ago."

That hurt, but he wasn't there to indulge in his own pain. "Fine," he agreed easily. "Let's talk about Dawn, then." He wandered to the television and kicked at a stack of movies. "Why don't we start with her unhealthy avoidance of what she's feeling?"

Giles' face blanched and the glass shattered in his hand. Blood was in the air. "Get out," he rasped.

Angel ignored him and moved to the kitchen table, picking up a coloring book whose open page had been viciously smeared with red crayon. "Tara then," he went on harshly, holding up the picture for Giles' inspection before tossing it at the man so that it slapped him in the chest before tumbling to the floor. "Has she started trying to hurt herself yet, besides wandering around the mouth of Hell unprotected, that is?"

The Watcher was trembling now, the hand that had been holding the glass now resting at his side, blood dripping from it without his notice.

"Hellmouth activity," Angel bit out. "How much longer do you think it will be until everyone realizes there's no Slayer here? Then give me your best guess as to how well Spike will be able to keep it under control all by himself once that happens."

Giles wiped his hand on his pants and took several steps towards Angel. "You have no place here," he reminded Angel cruelly.

"I realized that a long time ago, Giles." The choice of words was intentional. "That's why I left."

"Do you have a point?" Giles asked coolly.

"You can't go on like this," Angel said bluntly. "None of you. Pretty soon, there won't be enough movies, or enough alcohol. Pretty soon Spike won't get to Tara before something else does. Pretty soon this town is going to be overrun by the monsters."

Rage seemed to draw Giles to his full height and bring his foot forward. But it brushed against the coloring book, and when he looked down everything seemed to drain out of him. "Contrary to what you think, I don't see this as a fitting tribute," he said eventually, his voice strained and painful to hear. He lifted his eyes and the desolation in them made Angel flinch.

"I'm well aware," he said, his voice far away, "that we're falling apart and the only reason it hasn't happened yet is because of a soulless vampire." He dragged himself to the sofa and sat dejectedly. "Spike asked you to come here to snap me out of it, didn't he? Sorry to say, but I don't think it can be done."

Angel pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat so that he was facing Giles. "Spike did ask me to come," he agreed softly. "But not for that reason."

"I'm using him, you know. Using what he felt to let him shoulder it all."

The admission was so stark and bare that Angel sighed. "I know. So does he."

"And you've come up with a way to fix it all, I take it?" Giles guessed.

"No," Angel countered. "But Spike has."

Spike returned to the apartment with Dawn and Tara to find Angel gone and Giles sitting on the sofa, seemingly lost. Spike sent the girls upstairs to bed, and Giles' eyes tracked them up the steps and out of sight. For once, there wasn't a drink in his hand the instant Dawn was out of the room.

"I'll make the necessary calls tomorrow," Giles said quietly. "You do know that Dawn is not going to take this well?"

"Yeah," Spike replied, reaching for the door.

"How bad is it out there?"

Spike stilled and stared at the wooden door in front of him. "Not nearly as bad as it will be," he said as he opened the door.

The next day Giles spent the day in his bedroom. On the phone. A few times his voice had risen to a level that it could be heard downstairs, but the words couldn't be made out above the blaring television and Dawn was none the wiser about what was being set in motion.

Spike didn't actually see Giles until he returned from patrol just before dawn. The Watcher was waiting up for him, looking exhausted and unkempt. "It took some creative lies, and a great deal of convincing, but it's all been sorted out," Giles sighed. He paused, then added haltingly, "I shall endeavor to remain sober through the rest, for what it's worth."

"Up to you," Spike said impassively and shrugged the duster from his shoulders with a wince of pain. His arms were torn up badly, the result of an encounter with a blade-wielding Yaso demon. He'd run into it on his way out of Willie's, where he'd been trying to ferrett out if anyone knew the Hellmouth was Slayerless. Luckily, the duster had escaped being shredded since he hadn't had a chance to actually put the thing on before being attacked. He hung the coat up and then left Giles to whatever he was thinking, heading upstairs to check on the girls.

There wasn't a lot of space in Giles' spare room, so the double bed was situated in the corner. As he'd expected, Spike found Tara trying to push herself through the wall in her sleep. Dawn was latched onto her like a leech and had probably chased her across the bed. The door creaked as he opened it further, and Tara's eyes popped open instantly.

He sensed her fear right before her magic kicked in, and he braced his hand on the doorjamb to steady himself. When she noticed him, the magic faded away, and all that was left were her panicked eyes, staring at the body that was only inches from hers while she clawed at the wall behind her.

One hand reached out to him, and he took it briefly before scooping her into his arms and depositing her on the other side of Dawn. Her blanket had been kicked to the foot of the bed, no doubt thrust aside when she'd felt trapped between Dawn and the wall. Spike settled it over her and she curled onto her side, only her face uncovered.

"All right, then?" he asked quietly, on his haunches next to the bed. She nodded and leaned closer to peer at his forearms. Then she was touching him, barely brushing the tips of her fingers over the gashes. Her brows were drawn together and Spike chucked her under the chin. "It's nothing."

Her frown deepened and he wondered if she realized he'd just told her a bald-faced lie. It would be more than a few days before those gashes were gone. Animal blood took a toll on his healing abilities in normal circumstances, and Slaying every night of the week wasn't helping anything.

The smell of blood suddenly permeated the room. His head whipped up and he saw Tara holding her wrist out to him, that frown still on her face. The index finger on her other hand was smeared red, and he realized that she'd cut herself open with her own nail. Bloody fucking hell.

Her wrist moved, and Spike froze as it came nearer and nearer to his face. Oh, it was tempting. That small, jagged tear in her skin, the low-tide tumble of ebb of fresh blood. Offered so willingly. From someone so pure. Innocence wafting through the air. And insanity, too. Mustn't forget the insantiy. She jumped when his hand grabbed her arm and lowered it firmly, and her frown changed subtly to become tinged with confusion.

"It's not that I don't appreciate it," he said thickly, the scent overwhelming him. "Or want it. Because I do. Want it. I just...I'm not..." He closed his eyes and tried to find something else in the room to distract him from the scent of blood. There. Just beneath it. The cucumber and melon shampoo that Dawn used on her hair. He focused on that, keeping his eyes closed even when he felt Tara shift under his grip. They flew open an instant later when her free hand came to rest on his arm.

Her fingers were bloodier than they'd been, and he saw the fingerprint marks in the congealing blood next to the tear on her wrist. She was rubbing her blood against his wounds, exerting pressure. Regaining his senses, he let go of her and jerked back, falling on his ass. Wide-eyed, he stared at her. She was smiling softly, eyes on his arm. Following her gaze, he saw that the gashes had almost closed up.

She reached for him again and he backed away. "No," he choked out. "Tara, don't."

And her mind couldn't form the questions it needed to ask, if it was even trying, so she just watched him with large tear filled eyes. Which was just fine with him, because what the hell would he have said? That every time something healed quickly and cleanly--fading away while he slept until it could have never been there to begin with--he wanted to scream until his throat bled?

He tucked Tara's arms back under the blanket and smoothed her hair from her face. "You haven't cornered the market on issues, pet. Not in this apartment." She smiled. Widely, this time. "Get some sleep. We've got a rough couple of days ahead of us."

It had been a mistake to have Angel there. Spike knew it as soon as he started talking, and he was proven right when Dawn's accusing eyes narrowed on Angel. It took half an hour for Spike to convince her that none of it had been Angel's idea. Giles remained at the kitchen table, silent and pale, throughout the scene and explanations. When Dawn finally believed that Angel--the interloper--wasn't responsible, Spike wasn't sure if the betrayed look on her face was actually better than her rage.

She stumbled away from him, like he'd struck her, and collapsed onto one of the steps leading to the second floor. "You want to get away from me, is that it?" she asked lowly. "You wish you'd never made that promise to Buffy."

Spike sighed and sat next to her, nudging her with his arm. "Yes, Bit, that's it. Instead of just leaving town and going someplace else, I thought--what the Hell, I should do it the hard way."

"Then, why?" Dawn asked, her hair hiding her face.

He raised his hands to her chin and tilted it in his direction. "What's here for you, pet?" he asked her soberly.

"You," she said fiercely. "And Giles, and Tara. You're all here."

"You're forgetting the Hellmouth, the house you can't bear to go into, and about a million painful memories every where you look. 'Sides, Giles and Tara aren't here for much longer."

She rose to her feet, indignation and pain sending tears down her face. "That's why you saved me for last," she cried. "You took them away so that I would have nothing here."

Spike got to his feet and put his hands on her shoulders, resisting her struggles. "That's exactly what I did," he agreed softly.

"I'm not a child! You can't just make decisions for me like this. And I won't let you send me away to him!" she screamed and bolted for the door. Spike cursed and slammed a fist into the wall, leaving behind a dent when he hurried after her. She was still in the courtyard, sitting at the table and sobbing brokenly.

Spike pulled a chair out and sat so that he was facing her. She didn't physically resemble her sister, but she had the same stubborn streak that had been Buffy's best and worst trait, depending on the situation. Spike was hoping she also had the same need to put others before herself, under her typical teenaged selfishness.

"Giles is an inch away from being an alcoholic," he said eventually and watched her stiffen. "And as much as you love Tara, she needs more care than any of us can give her. Am I wrong on either count?" he pressed.

"No," she gasped reluctantly. "But we could--"

"What?" he interrupted harshly. "Erase Giles' memories of the Slayer who was like a daughter to him? Hug Tara really tight and hope she'll be sane when you let go?" He shook his head and leaned back in the chair. "Look, I'll make you a deal." Her head lifted and she watched him cautiously. "Giles going back to England--Tara going to a place that can take care of her--look me in the eye and tell me that's not what they need, and we'll call it all off."

She opened her mouth and Spike forestalled anything she might have said by lifting a hand. "Catch is, you have to believe it. You say you're not a child?" he queried rhetorically. "Then give me the adult answer."

Spike credited her with trying. So damned hard that it hurt to watch. But in the end her blood won out and she shook her head miserably, the last light in her eyes starting to flicker out.

"That doesn't mean that I can't stay here," she breathed.

"Right," Spike said sarcastically. "A strange Watcher, the ex-rogue Slayer and a soulless demon taking care of a teenager on the Hellmouth." He rolled his eyes and snorted. "I'll tell you what sounds better: a human father taking care of his human teenage daughter, in a big city, with all the resentment and rebellion that goes along with it."

"Well, if they were television shows, I know which one I'd watch," she grumbled, and he smiled.

"You're not losing them, Niblet," he reminder her. "You know loss, and this ain't it. Tara's only going to be an hour away from you, and Giles got your Dad to agree to let you visit her whenever you want."

"Giles," Dawn whispered, huddling in on her self. "He'll be so far."

He got to his feet and held his hands out to her. It took a while, but finally her shaking ones grasped his and she let him pull her to her feet. "Far?" he echoed teasingly, lifting a brow. "Just as far as your computer or phone. He bought one of those 'dread machines'."

Her eyes widened. "No he didn't."

"Yep, he's been practicing, too. Only took three days, but now he can turn the bloody thing on without consulting the manual." A weak chuckle limped from her lips, then keeled over and died. "And do you think he'll leave me and the others to our own devices on the Hellmouth? Trust me," he drawled wryly, "he'll be visiting. Frequently. Won't take any effort at all to stop by and see you."

"What about you?" she said in a small voice.

Spike sighed hugely. "Me? Well, I expect I'll have to get a flat in L.A. since I'll be there so much," he said, sounding put-upon.

Arms crept around him and squeezed. "You won't just send me there and forget about me?"

Hugging her closely, Spike looked at the gashes on his arms and said, "Never, Bit. Never."

The next day was a blur of activity, and things happened so quickly that Spike didn't have much time to take it all in. Not that he really cared to. Better to let it flash by in his peripheral than look at it dead-on.

Giles took Dawn out to the graves in the morning, then the survivors sat quietly in the master bedroom, their positions almost the same as their first night back there. The only change was that Tara was on the bed as well, this time.

Hank Summers arrived that afternoon to take Dawn to Los Angeles. He told Giles that the police had given up searching for his eldest daughter, who they surmised had run away due the pain of her mother's death. Spike had never seen Dawn resemble Buffy more than at the moment when she kissed Tara's hair and then walked out of the apartment--back straight, chin high and tears streaming down her face.

Faith arrived only an hour after Dawn left, slightly singed around the edges from the fatal car crash that had been staged mere hours after her escape from prison. She climbed out of Angel's Plymouth and went directly into Spike's DeSoto. On the ride out to the airport, Giles roused himself from his grief long enough to remind her of the duties she was shouldering.

They got there just in time to meet the disembarking Eric Olson, the Watcher that Giles had handpicked for Faith. Paperwork was taken care of at a coffee stand, and a few signatures later the lease to Giles' apartment and one-half of the Magic Box were in Faith's name. The other half of the shop belonged to Olson.

On the way to Giles' gate, Faith and Spike let the Watchers get ahead of them. There were heated whispers, wide-eyed glances in their direction, and terse nods. The two rebels rolled their eyes and promised Giles they would most definitely make sure someone was at the apartment the next day so that the shipping company could pick up his belongings.

Giles dallied at the gate, his eyes falling on Faith rather often, but in the end he sighed and said nothing. For Spike there was only the manly meeting of eyes, and a very British nod that seemed to say a million things that Spike could only guess at. He supposed that the nod he gave in response elicited the same feeling in the Watcher.

The ride back to Sunnydale consisted of much babbling from the back seat and cynical sneers from the occupants of the front seat. For Spike, everything was still on the edge of his awareness, but that changed when he, Faith and Olson entered the courtyard.

Tara, barefoot, was pacing the small enclosed area. Spike narrowed his eyes. No, pacing was too precise a word for this. This...this was something else entirely. She was tossing herself around, hurling forward and sideways from one foot to another with about as much awareness as a zombie, rabbit-quick movements that zig-zagged when he least expected it. Incoherent ramblings sprinted from her mouth only to fade away into nothingness, and her hands...one was buried in her hair, fist curled around a lock as though to rip it out by the roots, and the other was batting the air around her.

"Oh my," Olson murmured.

"I don't know what's wrong," Angel said with concern. Spike dragged his gaze from Tara's frantic form and looked at Angel blankly. "She snuck out, but I caught up to her here. She didn't try to go any further, but she wouldn't go back inside."

Spike didn't respond, just turned back to Tara. "Ready for a last midnight romp?" he called out loudly.

She stopped. As much as was possible, at any rate. Even though it appeared that every muscle in her body was ridged, she still seemed to be trembling. Her back was to him, and she pivoted on her heel to peer at him through a mess of ash-blond. Only one faded hue of an eye was visible, and it was wide and mistrusting.

It was all he needed to see to realize the problem. "Bloody hell! You thought--" He broke off and snorted. "Nice to know you have such a high opinion of me, pet." Sighing, he shook his head and waved an arm. "Come on."

She ran to him, jerky motions and fumbling feet, and tried to launch herself into his arms. Spike huffed and held her away. "Oh, so you think I'd do something like that, but you'll still--oof!" Tara had crept behind him and leapt onto his back. "Soddin' hell, Tara. A little warning next time would be nice," he groused. Her hands released his neck so abruptly that she fell to the ground.

"Allow me."

Spike spun around and grabbed Olson's arm before his hand touched Tara. It still startled her and she scurried back a few feet, scampering like a crab. The air tasted differently then, like dread and fear, and Spike released Olson before he crushed the man's wrist.

Angel and Faith took several steps back and then steeled themselves. They were tense and wary, but they were there. Olson, however, fled to the face of the apartment building and pressed his back against it, eyes alarmed and hands shaking.

"What--what the fuck is that?" Faith asked shakily, her nails clawing at her arms.

"Bloody Hell," Spike snapped, grinding his teeth. "No one touches her--shit, no one even thinks of touching her. Do you hear me?" He glared at each of them in turn. Angel's nod was tight, Faith's was a little less controlled than it could have been but was still serviceable, and Olson looked like he hadn't heard a word. Which he probably hadn't.

Dropping to sit on the ground in front of Tara, Spike caught her eyes with his own. Her dishwater blue orbs were panicked, and she was breathing heavily. He wanted to reassure her, calm her, but what he said instead was, "I've had a fucking shitty day all around, Tara." He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "You know damned well that you're safe, so stop the drama."

Her eyes skittered around the courtyard before coming back to him. She watched him for a long while and then her brow creased and she rolled off her back onto her knees. One trembling hand stretched out and settled on his calf, tentatively at first, and then convulsing tightly. Spike saw her lips tremble and he brushed his hand across the top of hers, a fluttering drive-by of a touch. A tremulous smile took over her lips and the dread left the air.

"Goddamn," Faith exclaimed. "I think the Watcher just pissed himself."

On the earth. Tara as a blanket. Hair tickling his nose. Night sky above.

"Goodbye?"

It was an effort for Spike to focus on what Tara had just said. Speaking somehow seemed...wrong, but that was the whole point of this after all.

"Yeah," he confirmed softly. "Don't know how much you picked up on the past few days, but the Bit is with her father again and Giles is on a plane to England right now."

She nodded her head, and he wasn't sure if it was an acknowledgement of the facts, or an agreement with what had been done. What the hell. He was already lying on Willow's grave with her lover on top of him, might as well go for delusional and decide that Tara was giving her approval of what he'd done.

"And as for you, ducks," he continued quietly, "well...it's Los Angeles for you, too. Peaches went hospital searching last week. Found a private place out near some woods. All nature-y, like you Wiccas prefer. He took me there a few nights back. Doesn't look anything like a hospital, and the people who work there will treat you good. Watchers are springing for it all."

He waited. For distressed mutterings. For troubled rocking. For thick dread. None of it came. Instead, Tara withdrew her arm from the burrow and tilted her head up. Spike tucked his chin to his chest and looked at her curiously. Her hand lifted and when it touched him, his mind stopped.

Dirt on his cheek...drifting up to brush against his eyelids...sweeping across his forehead then back...sliding down his temple to the other cheek... settling on his mouth. Lips against his throat...vibrations thrumming into his body...fingers gaining entrance...tongue coated with earth--and blood?...oh, a nail torn low by the burrow....breath on his neck...and then his mind spun.

Emotions....every one of them just pouring over him like it was his own...joyandloveandsafetyandcomfortandpeace...and after...the guilt...oh god, his nerves were exposed....but the pain...it dug into his bones...hurt to move...and touch...touch made his muscles burn...fire like a thousand candles...turning everything inside to ash....soontherewon'tbeanythingleft...something cool...andnothingburnswhenthecoolisthere...blackness...scratching at his skin...clawing into his pores...worse so worse...

Spike's back arched and he sucked in a breath. His arms tightened around Tara as he sat up, taking her with him. Pushing her back with shaking hands, he stared at her. Her head tilted to the side and tears spilled down her face.

"Goodbye," she begged on a sob, desperate and fraught. And again, "Goodbye" but this time more insistent, more demanding.

He ran his hands along her face, through her hair, down her back. Her right side was against his chest, her knees on his thigh. He tucked her knees under and then lifted his own so that she was sandwiched between them and his chest. And he locked his arms around her, trying to hold every inch of her to him, trying to cool the burn, and he leaned his forehead on her head, and he made another promise.

"Goodbye," he swore, strands of her hair clinging to his lips.

Disclaimer: The characters/concepts of BtVS belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and everyone else who makes money from the show. The rest is mine. Ooh, I bet Joss is jealous.

Part Two

"She could have ended this minutes ago."

Spike cut his eyes to the man next to him. Eric Olson had been a damned fine choice for Faith. At thirty-two, he was neither too old to be out rightly dismissed by the young woman, nor too young to not know how to handle her. A dutifully Slayer she might now be, but Faith still had that dark side to her. Always would, really. Unlike Giles might have, Olson didn't try to stamp it down into nothingness, but instead subtly guided her so that it was channeled righteously. Not to mention that, being gay, he was rather impervious to some of Faith's more creative manners of getting her way.

He was also damned good at his job. Knew his stuff, could handle himself in a fight, had a decent brain, and could always find the perfect way to get Faith to do what he wanted without her having to actually agree to do it.

Olson was watching Faith and her opponent with narrowed green eyes and a grim twist of his lips. Turning his attention to the fight in front of them, Spike saw what he meant. The Slayer was enjoying herself, toying with the enemy to get her Slaying rocks off.

"She's having fun," he noted.

"It'll get her killed," Olson hissed and Spike shrugged. They'd already had this discussion, which was why they were in the training room at the back of the Magic Box.

A pleasure-filled laugh tumbled through the air, followed by an exasperated exhalation of air from beside Spike.

"This is useless," Olson said, turning away from the fight and motioning Spike to his side. "If anything, she's worse with him."

Spike rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "She's comfortable with him."

"And that is disturbing in and of itself," Olson said uncomfortably, his eyes flickering quickly to the fighters before skittering back. "Angel is rather brutal in his fighting."

"That's not brutality," Spike countered with smirk and Olson frowned dubiously. "It's the threat of brutality, and Faith knows that it's an idle one where she's concerned."

"I've wasted everyone's time here, then," Olson mused, a bronze hand rifling through his gold hair. "So I take it you're of the opinion that this particular lesson can't be taught?"

It still hurt. Spike had thought that, being soulless and all, the pain would fade suddenly in a blast of disgust, and leave him kicking himself in the arse for being such a pansy. But it hadn't. Instead it lingered, festered, and chose odd moments to reach out with a sharp hand and twist his innards into something that was tight and viscous at the same time.

And with Olson's words, the hand came, ripping through him and turning him into so much meat and blood: images of Buffalo wings, stories only half told, and a lesson he'd managed to teach to another Slayer before she'd looked down her nose at him and delivered a blow that hurt more than her fist ever had. That hand, even though he'd steeled himself against it when this conversation had first come up.

"Spike?"

He started and looked away from Olson's curious eyes. "Not saying that," he said absently. "But Peaches won't be able to do it. She knows she's safe with him. I'm going to do a round."

He was gone before Olson could say anything else, striding out of the store and hitting the pavement outside almost desperately. What would have come next, had he not left, would have been Olson attempting, yet again, to get Spike to spar with Faith. The damn Watcher didn't want to hear anything about the chip. No, he just wanted Spike to exploit the loopholes and give Faith something to think about.

That wasn't going to happen. There'd only ever been one Slayer that he had traded punches with for a reason other than killing, had exploited the loopholes for, and it was going to stay that way. He thought the hand might finally succeed in putting him out of his misery if he broke that rule. So while he might help her patrol, and pass his feedback on to Olson, he was not going to dance with Faith. In any sense of the word. Ever. Even if he did shared Giles' old apartment with her. Fuck, he was pathetic.

He was also a bit off. He knew it, even if no one else did. When Giles, Dawn and Tara had been here, there'd been no time for him to feel anything. Lately, the only thing that got through that haze of numbness he'd erected was pain, and then only rarely. Everything else was...far away. The big-brother spiel with Dawn, the arrogant vamp with Faith and Olson--it was all an act, because he just didn't have access to the real thing yet.

Luckily, Dawn hadn't been affected similarly. Away from Sunnydale, her grief had run its natural course and had finally faded from excruciating to manageable. Nowadays when he visited her, she was Dawn Summers: Ubernormal Girl. No demons ransacking her house, no vampires prowling around every corner, no hellgoddeses trying to get their claws into her. Just the regular horrors of school and father and boys.

The latter was much to Spike's chagrin, as she constantly asked his advice, and he hadn't a clue how to advise a teenaged girl on teenaged boys, except to frown menacingly and snap at her that she was still too bloody young to date. Of course she would remind him that Buffy had been dating Angel at her age, and he'd snarl and remind her of how well that had gone before she sighed in frustration and changed the topic. Much to Spike's relief.

Giles also seemed to have recovered well. The bottle and the battle had been left in Sunnydale in favor of consulting on an as-needed basis with the Council's researching department. He crossed the channel once a month to advise, annoy and aggravate Faith and Olson, and glower at Spike.

Tara...hadn't changed. At least, as far as Spike knew. She didn't accept any visitors, a fact that had stunted Dawn's recovery time quite a bit.

An hour later he had worked his way through two cemeteries and was heading to the third when familiar footfalls sounded from behind him. He ignored them and tossed his cigarette into the street. He heard the air whistle next to his ear and stepped to the side just in time to avoid Faith's roundhouse kick.

"You didn't even try sneaking up," Spike said with disgust.

She shrugged, unconcerned. "Mind if I stick with you for a bit before I do my side of town?"

"Don't really care. Peaches on his way back to LA?"

"Yeah," Faith replied as they turned a corner. "Is it just me, or was he broodier than he has been in a while?"

Spike lowered his brows and curled his lip. "I don't pay that much attention to the Magnificent Poufster," he sneered. "Probably just the Prom Queen rubbing him the wrong way."

"Or not at all," Faith zinged, elbowing him in the side. He reluctantly smiled but it didn't stick around for long. Faith ran ahead of him, turning to face him and walking backwards. "We could have it worse," she reminded him, holding her arms out to the side and grinning at him. "As strange and weird as this set up is, at least we're not them--saddled with a shitload of unresolved sexual tension."

Spike laughed at the brazen up-thrust of her breasts, her swaying hips, the salacious rumblings that meandered along her skin. "Unresolved sexual tension?" he repeated with a smirk. "I don't think that's something you'll ever suffer from."

Her head tilted to the side, sending a wave of brown locks over her shoulder. "Pot and kettle, babe," she retorted with a husky laugh. "Last time I was getting info from Willie, I heard your name come up more than once." She set her tongue between her teeth and quirked a brow. "Got quite the fan club, hot stuff."

"Yeah, well it's good to know not every demon in this shithole town wants to tear me limb from limb," Spike drawled. "And you just passed the entrance."

The sexuality was reigned in as she readied herself for business and backtracked to the gates of Sunshine cemetery and waited for him to reach her. They strolled inside and began the familiar routine of patrol.

Faith was generally chatty when they were skulking around graveyards, but tonight she was conspicuously silent. It was because of Angel of course. Or, rather, because Olson had called Angel in.

Despite the fact that Giles had persuaded the Council to allow Faith to be stationed in Sunnydale, there was always a barely hidden look of disapproval and disappointment in his eyes whenever he visited.

It hit her hard, being made to feel that she wasn't the real Slayer even though she was now the one and only. Granted, Spike was the first to admit that she was no Buffy. That was to be expected, though. Give her some more time in the field, a little more of a support system, and she'd be as much a force to be reckoned with as Buffy had been. Only...differently. Because if there was one thing the two women had in common besides being Slayers, Spike had yet to see it and, bloody fucking hell, but he was grateful for it.

Generally Faith didn't feel inadequate unless Giles was around, because Olson didn't have any personal experience with Buffy: Vampire Slayer Extraordinaire and he treated her like her own person. Spike figured that she had taken it as a slap in the face that Olson had asked Angel to try to knock some of the cockiness--which made her underestimate her opponents and *would* be her undoing if she didn't get control of it--out of her.

Spike could relate to Faith's second-best syndrome. Tended to crop up in *him* whenever Angel: The Tragically Magnificent Souled Vampire swept into town with his coat billowing in the night.

He watched her carefully during their circuit. Even though she'd refused to listen to Angel's directives at the Magic Box, Spike saw her putting them to use now. Typical. She always had to keep up the appearance of having no fear. Wouldn't let Angel or Olson know she took them seriously. In the field, though, Spike got to see the results in action.

As for how long this particular lesson would stick...Spike figured that, unless some seriously bad bugger came along soon, it would be maybe a month at the most before her guard lazily dropped again. She had a tendency to discard lessons that she didn't think were all that necessary.

They parted ways at the back entrance of the cemetery. Faith wandered off with an obscene wagging of her tongue and an insolent, "Go get some, babe."

He planned on it.

Willie's was packed, since Wednesday was Two-Fer-One-Drink night. He saw Clem coming out of the back room, a lidded basket being held with difficulty in both hands, and a wide smile on his wrinkled face. Obviously someone had gotten lucky already. Clem saw him, smiled goofily, and started towards him. He changed direction before Spike could even nod a hello. Clem was not as dense as he appeared to be, sometimes.

The same couldn't be said about Willie, who babbled non-stop while getting Spike a glass and a bottle of tequila. Spike walked away while he was in mid-sentence, dropping a few bills on the bar in the process.

At the back of the bar was a table that gave a view of the entire bar--including the restroom doors on the left. It was generally where Spike preferred to sit, due to some latent paranoia that had set in the previous year when more than one demon had wanted to beat the ever loving shit out of him.

Spike made his way there, standing over the sole occupant. The Qpozl demon glanced up at him nervously.

"That's my table," Spike said lowly.

Unlidded eyes shifted anxiously around the bar. "But--"

And Clem was there. Inviting the feathered bird-like demon to his table, and ushering him away with nary a look at Spike. Wonderful. Lovely. Fucking, not fighting, was on his agenda tonight. He sprawled in one chair, then hooked his ankle around the other and dragged it closer. Propping his feet on the seat of it, he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. Smoke curled around him as he poured the tequila and studied the other occupants of the bar.

In the center of the bar was a table of females of varying species, casting subtle and not-so-subtle eyes in his direction. Spike squinted and considered them. Must've been the ones Faith had been talking about, because Spike was damn sure he'd done the lot of them.

To their dismay, he turned his attention away. None of them were what he needed tonight. What it was he *did* need remained a mystery until he saw the figure at the bar who wasn't reflected in the wall-length mirror behind the bottles of booze. The hair was right. Build was perfect. Height and face were wrong, but that could be worked around. He made eye contact, and received one quick nod.

The cigarette was crushed out. Two more glasses of tequila were knocked back in quick succession. Then Spike was on his feet, the bottle in his hand. He moved through the crowd to the door, certain he'd be followed to the alley next to Willie's.

And he was. Barely seconds after he'd leaned against the brick wall the shadows parted. Spike brought the bottle to his lips and took a deep sip before setting it on top of the closed dumpster by his shoulder.

He stepped away from the wall and moved swiftly behind his partner for the evening. Face met brick and blood flowed. Spike stalked forward until he was pressed against the body and leaned forward to growl, "Want another go, do you?"

The body arched into his, ass against cock, neck exposed in an offer or demand, maybe both, and oh fuck that dark brown hair, too long but close enough. His fangs ripped into that vulnerable too-thin skin, and his hands tore at his belt, unbuckling it and opening his jeans and freeing his cock not nearly fast enough. He thrust forward only to encounter more denim, and lifted his head and snarled.

The denim separated at the seams with a noise reminiscent of a thousand little fingers dislocating. He tossed the tattered jeans aside, kicked the legs further apart, turned the head to the wall, and oh if only the shirt could come off, but that would ruin it--and he was in and it was tight and it didn't matter that he had just forced himself in and was pounding until there was nothing except how good it felt. And that brown head just leaned against the wall, pain and pleasure circling around it to Spike's ears, and he moved harder-harder-harder until the pleasure was there only for him.

Bit through the shirt, gnawed through the silk to skin, and the cold day-old blood tasted like shit but it was blood, and goddamn there was begging now. More, and hard, and please-let-me-come-this-time-oh-god-please, and it was music to Spike's ears. His lips curled and he thrust faster and harder, but only because he wanted it, and when the music changed, singing that it was too hard, he laughed and bit again. In-and-out-in-and-out barely leaving, barely moving, just shoving his hips forward while buried so fucking deep and shit, he was so bloody *close*.

Changed the angle and toes struggled to hold weight, and every damned inch of him was in now and it was so tight around him and he needed to come so he reached around, dug claws into flesh and shredded it like it was nothing and there were little bits of skin under his nails and he growled and came when the scream sounded.

Spike stepped back, body thrumming, and did up his pants with one hand. The other swung out to snag the tequila.

On shaking legs, the figure moved, hands braced on the wall, turning to Spike, face begging and pleading. Narrow eyed, Spike drank from the bottle and raised a brow. "Help yourself," he suggested nastily, leaning on the opposite wall to watch.

Defiance flared briefly. Because there was always the option of hobbling away and finding someone else to take care of the problem, wasn't there? Spike smirked and lit a cigarette. Their eyes met briefly. This one would stay, just like they all did. Just like Spike had, once upon a time. And that made it so much better.

A strong pale hand came away from the wall. Eyes lowered.

"None of that gentle stroking bullshit," Spike growled. "Like you mean it. Like you wanted me to do."

Spike watched silently as the man took one hand from the wall and encircled his cock. The grip was painful and he hated it. Not the pain, but the being watched. Hated it just as much as he loved it. Spike could tell by the punishing rhythm that he set, by the combination of groans and clenched teeth. By the way his hips pushed his cock into his hand, then pulled it back almost gratefully. And, of course, by the way he violently came not a minute later.

That was Spike's cue to leave, which he did, finishing the tequila as he wound through the streets of Sunnydale and heading home only after the bottle was empty and his buzz had faded.

When he got to the door of the apartment, Faith was there, fumbling with her keys. Her eyes lifted when he approached. He knew that she'd gone out and found herself a sweet little blond girl tonight. She knew that he'd found himself a broody brunette man. And they both knew that that neither felt less like a half-assed second-string replacement despite the effort to the contrary, so they smiled bitterly at one another.

Once she got the door open, they scrambled for the bathroom. She beat him there and he kicked at the closed door before heading to his room to strip his clothes off and wrap a towel around his waist. She was in and out of the shower in ten minutes, and she knocked on his door on the way to her room to let him know the bathroom was his. His shower only took seven minutes. Less hair to worry about, after all.

Half an hour after he'd locked himself in his room to smoke and stare at the ceiling, she pounded on his door. "Rocky Horror's on."

So they watched it, sneering and laughing, almost manic in their constant talking that filled every silence but said nothing, just like they preferred, and waited until their lids were too heavy to keep open even with their best efforts, and then they slept.

A persistent chiming noise woke Spike. He blinked his eyes open and frowned. That wasn't the ceiling of his room above him, and the lumpy thing under him was definitely not his bed. He turned his head and realized he was on the couch in the living room. Oh. Right. Which meant that the annoying noise was the doorbell.

He started to sit up, but then saw that the door was already open. Olson was on this side of the doorway, one arm curled around the doorjamb to press the bell. He was too smart to try waking either one of them any other way.

"Go the fuck away," Faith growled from the loveseat, the words muffled by the cushion over her face.

Satisfied that the occupants of the apartment were awake, Olson stepped inside and the bell finally stopped ringing. Rubbing his face, Spike sat up and blearily asked, "What bloody time is it?"

"Half past five," Olson informed him, skirting the living room furniture in favor of the table near the kitchen.

"Couldn't just wait till a decent hour to visit?" Spike drawled. "Like when the sun's been down a few hours."

A noise of agreement from beneath the cushion. Faith had gone nocturnal upon her return to Sunnydale, since she raked in half the profits from her share of the Magic Box and didn't have to worry about money. Or working, since Olson had discovered just how horrendous she was with customer service, inventory, ringing up sales and just about everything else to do with running the shop.

Olson settled on one of the kitchen chairs and straightened his khaki pants at the knees. "Giles called," he said without looking up.

"I fucking hate icing," Faith grumbled, and the cushion went flying across the room. "On the cake," she clarified for a confused Olson. He didn't get it. Spike did, and he seconded it. Giles icing on top of an Angel cake was not in the least appetizing.

She rolled onto her side and tilted her head so that she could see Olson. "So what did I do wrong now?"

He shook his head and looked at Spike. "News from Wildwind."

Spike stilled. "Something happen to Tara?"

"In a manner of speaking." He hesitated, then carefully said, "She checked herself out earlier today."

"She what?" Spike croaked.

"Very calmly requested to see the hospital administrator and announced to him that she was leaving," Olson recited quietly. "Immediately."

His mouth opened, to ask why they would let an insane young woman go free, then closed it with a snap when he realized he knew the answer.

Standing, Spike crossed into the kitchen and got a bag of blood out of the fridge. "So Giles passed that on, but didn't bother sharing that she was getting well again," he commented idly, pouring the blood in a mug and shoving it into the microwave. "You'll notice that I don't sound the least bit surprised."

Olson regarded him intently. "He says that he was unaware that her condition had changed."

Eyes on the descending numbers of the timer, Spike grunted. "You believe that?" he asked.

"Not sure," Olson replied, sitting back. "And as Tara refused to see anyone, and we don't know who at the hospital was on the Watchers' payroll..."

"Doesn't matter." The timer reached zero and Spike popped the door open and curled his hand around the mug.

"Wait," Faith interjected. She was sitting up now, elbows braced on her knees, hair smashed against her head at odd angles, her dark eyes incredulous. "So they just let her walk out without letting anyone know?"

Spike shrugged. "She checked herself in. They didn't have to tell anyone anything."

Faith shook her head. "Seems kinda shady to me."

The phone rang and she dug around under the loveseat for the cordless. Spike sipped his blood and met Olson's curious green gaze with bland eyes.

"Hello. Hey, what's--oh. Yeah, we heard." Faith looked at him. "Sure, just a sec." She held out the phone and mouthed, "Angel."

"Bloody fuck," Spike hissed, striding to her and snatching the phone. "What?"

"Giles called about Tara," Angel said immediately. "He wants me to search around for her in Los Angeles. Do you have any suggestions about where I should start?"

Spike took another sip of blood. "Don't bother."

Angel didn't say anything for a few moments. "You sure?" he asked finally.

"She's not there," Spike informed him. "No need to take time away from the huddled dirty masses that need saving."

"Okay," Angel said, not bothering to respond to the jab, which pissed Spike off royally. Damn Pouf had gotten all noble about their verbal sparring after he'd driven Spike and Tara to Wildwind. "If you change your mind--"

Spike hung up and tossed the phone back to Faith when it rang again almost immediately. With a clean movement she sent it in Olson's direction, and only his experience with her random acts of reflexes kept the phone from bashing him in the head.

"Hello?" He grimaced almost imperceptibly. "Yes, Giles, I did indeed let them know."

Faith and Spike looked at one another, then casually abandoned their positions and wandered to the staircase. Olson noticed their movements too late, and they bolted up the steps before he could pass the phone to either of them.

"You all right?" Faith asked him at the door to her bedroom. Spike didn't answer, just moved past her to his own door. "Not talky. That's cool. But, hey--" Spike paused and tossed her a look over his shoulder. She lifted her hands and shrugged, eyebrows raised. "You need it, you got it," she told him with a shake of her head. "That's all I'm saying."

"I'll keep that in mind," Spike retorted drolly and entered his room. He walked to the double bed in the corner and sat down, staring at the ugly brown carpet.

Was he all right? Spike had no bleedin' idea, actually. On the one hand, Tara was obviously well enough to be released--good news. On the other hand, Tara was obviously well enough to be released but had decided not to contact anyone--troubling news.

He'd understood why she had refused to see any of the other survivors when she got to Wildwind. Reminded her too much of that night to see them, and she'd needed to get some distance, get some time. But to stroll out of the place and not tell anybody? Made him think there was something else going on.

Sighing, he got up and rummaged through the pile of clothes next to the bed and found a clean black t-shirt. A little more searching got him a reasonably clean royal blue button down that had escaped getting wrinkled beyond wearing by hiding under the bed.

He pulled the t-shirt over his head and then scrounged up a pair of socks and put on his boots. The overshirt was buttoned on the way downstairs. Olson was looking none-too-pleased. Giles: Ultimate and Supreme Watcher was a tough act to follow.

"And where are you going?" he snapped.

"Out," Spike said brusquely, crossing the room and walking out the front door, grabbing his coat along the way.

Spike had been chain smoking for about forty-five minutes when he felt it: Dread. Fear. Panic. Crawling under his skin and screaming in his head.

Swallowing thickly and clenching his fists, he forced himself to remain still until he'd acclimated to the sensation. Even though he was out of practice, he still managed to calm himself down in less than a minute. Not too bad, really.

When she didn't appear right away, he thought about it and then nodded to himself. Right. This would be her last stop, wouldn't it? Another three cigarettes later, he heard rustling leaves and gentle footfalls.

She came from the right, along a neatly paved trail that curved into and veered out of sight not far from where Spike was standing. She stepped off the path and approached the grave slowly. At the foot of it, she stopped, and stared down at the marker.

The clothes were familiar. Same ones she'd been wearing when he and Angel had walked her into Wildwinds eight months before: a soft sage-green v-necked sweater and a pair of plain khakis of army green. After Glory, no one had ever been able to convince her to actually don one of the many long, flowing skirts she owned. In fact, she'd gone and shredded them to pieces with a pair of safety scissors--an impressive feat--after Dawn had tried to manhandle her into one. From then on it had been jeans and khakis.

Spike remembered that the clothes had hung loosely on her then, because getting her to eat had been a Herculean task that only Giles had been able to manage, and then only sometimes. Now they fitted perfectly, clinging to reborn curves and roundness.

The shoes were different. She was actually wearing a pair, which she definitely hadn't been when Spike had loaded her into the car to go to Los Angeles. Hospital had probably dug up the old tennis shoes for her from somewhere or other. Wouldn't be good policy to let patients be released barefoot.

Her face was mostly hidden from his view, as she was standing at an angle and her hair obscured her profile. Still, the hair was combed, and it was a great deal longer than it had been as well.

"You know," she said softly, "you'd be much more effective at skulking in the shadows if you didn't smoke."

At first he'd thought she was talking to the headstone, and when she got to the skulking part, he started, because she hadn't even been looking in his direction.

Spike discarded his butt and crossed the small distance between them to stand next to her, facing her profile. "Got bored," he said diffidently. "Should've known you'd save her for last."

"Yes, you should have. For more than one reason," she said on a sigh.

"So." Her head tilted to the side, revealing part of her eye and some of her cheek through the fall of her hair. "You're right in the head again?"

Slowly, she pivoted on her heel to face him and Spike studied her features. Her face had filled out again as well, no longer gaunt and haggard looking. The shadowed haunting was still there, though. Always would be, most likely. Surprising thing was that it wasn't even diminished. Just sitting there, all brazen and comfortable-like, as though it was a hated houseguest who had been invited to stay because the company was better than none at all.

She took in his words, and he watched her carefully, wondering how she would react. Would she be wounded and quivering about the chin like the Tara that Willow had first brought around? Or would she just skitter out of the light and grace him with that maddened gaze of the Tara that Glory had warped?

The movement of her small, careless shrug shifted her position, and he saw her face and eyes clearly. Her visage was neither of the ones he'd considered, but something new that was confident and shy all at the same time. "As right as I can be, yeah," she replied tiredly.

"Good."

"Good," Tara repeated, narrowing her eyes and rolling the word off her tongue as though she was tasting something new that she wasn't quite sure she liked. "I suppose you could say that."

Spike lifted a brow and folded his arms across his chest. "What else could you say?"

Her eyes flickered and she looked away. "Nothing," she breathed. "Nothing at all. How...how are the...others?"

Not sure of how much she remembered, he told her, "Giles went to England, and Dawn's in LA with her Dad."

Tara frowned. "Yes, and you and Faith stayed here, with a new Watcher. But...how is everyone?"

"As good as they can be," he responded blandly. "Getting away from that pit of evil helped." She looked at him expectantly and he pursed his lips. "If you want to know more, you can call them." After a moment, he harshly added, "Maybe reciprocate with a few details of your own."

She flinched and stepped closer to Willow's grave. "I would have come during the day if I'd known you were going to be like this," she murmured.

"How the bloody else did you expect me to be?" Spike asked incredulously.

And she turned back to him and put her hand on his chest, looking up at him with raw eyes and anguished skin. Her full lips slid up into a small smile that was challenging and accepting all at once. "Like someone who sent us away for our own good," she said evenly, "but did it more for himself than us."

It was Spike's turn to flinch. If Giles had said that to him, Spike would have shrugged and ignored him, because he had never given a damn about the Watcher's opinion and had only done what he'd done for him because of Buffy.

If Dawn had said it, he would have said and done whatever he had to in order to convince her otherwise, because she was still so fragile that he hadn't yet stopped worrying that she would break.

But it would have been lies, really, because Tara was right. He'd gone out while he was still on top--hadn't fucked anything up in his usual fashion--but he'd still acted with his own self-interest in mind. It had been too damn hard taking care of the Hellmouth and the three of them.

"Like someone," Tara continued gently, "who understands that I don't want to have to deal with anyone else until I've gotten to know myself again."

He looked down into her large eyes and there wasn't a recrimination to be found. "Yeah, I get that," he said gruffly and cleared his throat. "You got a plan in mind then? For the meantime?"

"Just some, um, traveling," she said, ending on a high note like she was asking, in the manner of Willow's Tara. It made him laugh lowly, and the hand on his chest tapped him reproachfully. "You know...be elsewhere. For a while."

Spike reached up and took hold of her hand. He wondered if everything still hurt her the same inside, if she'd invited it to stay too. He wondered why she'd come at night, why she'd chosen to see him and not the others. But then he pulled her closer without realizing it, and she was leaning against him, and he forgot to ask, because with Tara there'd always been silence. So much silence that had run so deep that it had been a relief. Still did and was, he found out, and circled her waist with his arms.

Maybe he moved first, but he decided later that it had to have been Tara that lead them to the headstone and brought them to the ground to familiar positions. She laid her hand on top of the grass and sighed, and Spike watched the stars twinkling, remembering something Dru had said about them being the eyes of millions of friends who blinked their secrets only to her. Against his chest, Tara's heart was beating a rhythm that spoke its own secrets.

Time passed, but Spike wasn't cognizant of how much. All he knew was that he was pulled out of his reverie by a noise that came from the small grouping of trees just behind Willow's grave. He narrowed his eyes and listened, detecting more than three sets of footsteps and heartbeats. His nose was telling him they were anything but human.

"Got company," Spike whispered, tensing. "Coming from behind us."

Tara shifted on top of him while he tried to sit up, and when they'd sorted out the tangle of limbs she was lying on his chest, one hand braced on the ground. Her other hand came into view, fingers uncurling from a fist to reveal a small amount of powder. Spike frowned and attempting yet again to sit up. He never made it as the powder fell across his face and he suddenly couldn't do anything other than fall backwards again.

"Tara," he mumbled sleepily, one fumbling arm trying to grab at her.

Her lips brushed against his cheek. "I'm sorry."

Nothing in particular woke Spike. He just eased into consciousness feeling invigorated and refreshed without any hint of grogginess. Lazily he reached up and scratched at the spot where his chest met his neck, and smiled for no damned reason that he could think of. When he remembered what had occurred just before his little nap, however, all thoughts of his good sleep fled and he bolted into a sitting position. He scanned the area for Tara and found no sign of her.

"Bloody hell," he snapped, then cursed again when he a glance at his watch told him that it had been three hours since he'd arrived at the cemetery. He had no damn clue how much of a head start she had on him.

He got to his feet and headed in the direction of the trees, where he'd heard the sounds of others approaching before Tara had pulled her little Tinkerbell/Mr. Sandman stunt. The trees opened into a secluded bench-lined area. Strewn across a bench on the far side was a body. Definitely male. Species unknown, though he definitely wasn't human despite his appearance and dress.

Though there was no outward indication that he'd been injured, his breathing was a resounding death rattle. Spike ran to his side and saw the tattoo. Two of them, actually. Some kind of swirling black design on either of his temples.

Almost casually, Spike grabbed his shirtfront and pulled him upright. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

The demon focused on Spike with great difficulty, then his body exhaled one deep breath and his eyes went sightless. Spike growled, but it ended abruptly as the body shifted eerily and then suddenly became sand, keeping the form of the demon before falling to the ground in a messy pile.

"Well, haven't seen that one before," Spike said aloud, staring around the clearing and scratching at his neck again.

Shaking his head, he backed away and then set about searching the rest of the cemetery. Except for a pair of teenagers snogging by one of the mausoleums, it was empty.

"Goddamn it," Spike growled, running his hands through his hair in agitation. It had been too much to hope that Tara had simply wanted to get reacquainted with being sane again. His eyes widened when he processed the fact that she had flat out lied to him. Tara. Right to his face. And she hadn't even blinked.

With quick steps, he started on his way to the Magic Box. He needed to get an I.D. on those demons and figure out what the bloody fuck was going on. Because he was damn sure something was, and that it was big, and that Tara--damn her lying hide--was dead center of it.

On the streets, people scooted out of his way, but one woman didn't watch closely enough and her shoulder slammed into Spike's chest as he was barreling down the street. Spike paused long enough to snarl at her, and was about to start walking again when he realized that he was scratching again. His hand stilled suddenly and then slipped under the neck of his t-shirt and felt along his collarbone. There. Just below it. His skin was...raised, kind of like a burn but so very clean and neat. Some kind of pattern, he realized, that started at each side of the bone and met in the center.

Face set grimly, he continued on.

The young man behind the register at the Magic Box looked up curiously when the door slammed open. He was just twenty years old, with soft, pretty features that were just this side of feminine, and lips that were perpetually quirked. The carefully gym-maintained tautness of his body was shown off advantageously in a tight long sleeved green shirt, and equally snug black jeans. He brushed the artful fall of light brown hair from his forehead and blinked pale brown eyes.

"Spike," Josh greeted.

"Where's your sugar daddy?" Spike asked, voice clipped.

Olson's lover pointed towards the back room. "Staffs, tonight," he said with a grin, eyes twinkling. "I think they were both feeling...inadequate."

Ignoring the comment, Spike strode across the store and threw open the door to the training room. Faith and Olson paused, staffs locked in Faith's favor.

"That offer still stand?" Spike asked Faith obliquely

The Slayer nodded and stepped away from Olson. "Yeah, sure," she assured him casually.

Spike nodded and closed the door again, noticing that Josh was at the entrance, turning the Open sign to Closed. "Books or fists?" he asked practically.

"Books."

Josh nodded and began cleaning some brick-a-brack from the large table towards the back. Olson and Faith came into the room, him a lot more stiffly than her. Spike remained standing by the counter as the others sat at the table and looked up at him expectantly.

He told them what had gone on at the cemetery in a flat voice, described the demon in as much detail as he could, and then pulled the collar of his shirt down to show them whatever the fuck was on his neck. Olson frowned deeply and muttered something to Josh, who dutifully jotted it down alongside the rest of the notes he'd made while Spike had been talking. Faith was listening attentively, her searching gaze raking over Spike far more than he was comfortable with.

"Well, getting a picture of that is out of the question," Josh commented thoughtfully, eyes on the mark. "But, it's raised, so we might..." His face lit up and he jumped to his feet and went behind the counter, rummaging behind it briefly. He emerged triumphantly with a large white sketch pad and a pencil. "I can get an imprint," he said slyly.

Faith snickered. "Who do you think you're fooling? You just want to see Blondie there all bare-chested, you little slut," she teased.

"Oh, and I suppose you're soooo very against it," Josh said cagily, eyes flickering to Olson. "Both of you."

Spike just clenched his jaw and yanked the duster off, then almost shredded his t-shirt while pulling it over his head. Faith's amusement faded away, and Josh frowned in confusion. "Make it quick," Spike snapped at the boy.

"It'll be more accurate than anything I could draw," Josh explained seriously as he approached.

"Make it quick," Spike repeated.

To his credit, Josh did indeed make short work of rubbing the edge of the pencil along the paper as Spike held it to his chest.

There were a few things Spike liked about this new incarnation of the Sunnydale crew. Best thing, hands down, was that there was none of that touchy feely "talk about your feelings and share with others" bollocks to be found. Lots of things got heard without being said, communicated without being shared, and responded to without a big bloody "look I'm supporting you" show.

When he was done, Josh took the page from Spike and sat it on the table next to his notes. Spike busied himself with putting his t-shirt back on.

"I'll search the usual databases for the demon," Olson offered. "Josh--"

"I'm on the mark," he said with a nod, and was behind the counter again, this time to retrieve a long narrow wooden box of indexed cards.

Faith caught his eye as he was tucking the shirt in. "Any ideas what the deal is?"

He shook his head, then incongruously said, "I need to go to LA and check on Dawn."

She just nodded. "Take this with," she said, arching her back and unclipping her cell phone from the waistband of her jeans. She tossed it at him and he snatched it easily from the air. "Anything else we can do?"

Spike started to say no, but changed his mind. "The name of the Watcher contact at Wildwind," he said, shrugging his coat back on.

He left the three of them arguing about who was going to call England for that bit of information and went to the apartment to collect the Jeep he and Faith shared.

Over the next two weeks, the details came, and when the pieces fell into place, Spike had to get away from the others. At the park, he smoked a cigarette and stared at the swings.

"It doesn't hurt here."

"No, no it doesn't."

At Dawn's home just outside of LA, Spike had found out that she bore a mark just below her collarbone that resembled his exactly. On a hunch he'd called Giles, who also had it. But they weren't the only ones. Faith had discovered that everyone who'd been present the night of the fight with Glory had a mark, and Olson's research had determined that it was a protective mark of white magic origin. Tara, of course. Who else?

As for why she'd marked them all, that had taken a bit more time to discover. Only after they'd identified the tattooed demons as Arcepts--a group that more than willingly accepted humans into its trippy cult--had the picture begun to emerge. Their goal was to bring their long dead guru-cult-leader back from the dead, and they'd come to Sunnydale because of rumors they'd heard of a witch who supposedly had the massive amount of power they needed to do it. Trouble was, they'd come eight months too late.

Then had come the pithy comment made by an Arcept Spike had attacked at Willow's grave: Power like hers doesn't die. "What the fuck?" Faith had muttered. "So then what happens to it?"

As they'd found out, it stayed within the body that had housed it. Generally. Rarely, so damn rarely that documentation hardly existed, the power could be transferred to the one responsible for the death, who could feasibly have no idea that the transfer had even happened.

Tara had covered every imaginable base to keep the Arcepts from obtaining the power they needed: the graves of everyone who'd died that night were damn near magically impregnable, as were the survivors who'd been there.

The Watcher contact at Wildwind had provided the answer to the question of how Tara had known about the Arcepts. An altercation had taken place between Tara and a new orderly the night before she'd checked out. When the woman had mentioned the orderly's strange tattoos, Spike realized that the Arcepts had gone after Tara first, thinking the institutionalized woman would be the easiest place to start, and that their emissary had probably said more than he should have.

Spike snickered, and lazily shoved at one of the swings. The orderly's body had been discovered in a utility closet hours after Tara checked out of Wildwind. Preliminary examinations, the nurse had said, indicated a heart attack had killed him, but he hadn't been a day over twenty-eight.

With Willow's power inaccessible to them, the Arcepts should have given up and gone in search of another source. But they hadn't. Since the Arcepts were blasting away at the spells around the graves every time Spike's back was turned, and magically attacking everyone with a mark that they saw, Olson thought it was logical to assume that they were hoping to break through the magic.

Spike had felt his stomach drop. The marks and spells were a temporary measure, which meant that Tara was out there, somewhere, working on a more permanent measure. By herself.

All of that information had come to light in only four days. Finding out just what exactly the permanent measure was, on the other hand, had taken eleven days of constant research by the Sunnydale group and Giles, who had been assisted by a coven of witches.

There was only one bloody way to make Willow's power inaccessible to everyone forever: a ritual whose components were scattered around the globe and which was thought to be impossible to actually perform. Josh had found the grim footnote. Very few humans or demons had actually succeeded in gathering the components. Of those that had, only a handful had lived past speaking the first line of the ritual. None had survived long enough to finish it. Ever.

A roomful of confused and shocked faces had turned to Spike, but it had been Giles--who'd called a few minutes later--who'd come out and said it. "What on earth possessed her to go about this on her own?" he'd shouted rhetorically, going off into a rant about how stupid and foolish, not to mention deadly, it was.

Spike had listened quietly for a moment, then handed the phone to Josh and walked out of the apartment.

Olson had compiled a list of the ritual components and their locations, and Spike had shoved his copy into his pocket on his way out.

"Ready for a last midnight romp?"

No doubt Giles had been put on speakerphone, and the lot of them were now trying to decide what to do next.

"Goodbye," she begged on a sob, desperate and fraught.

Spike pulled out the list and fingered the paper. From another pocket he withdrew the Zippo. The flame from the lighter licked at the paper, and Spike dropped it to the ground, watching it burn and knowing that if he got too close the fire would consume him as well, but he'd always been reckless with his choices, so he stomped on the paper until even the embers were gone, and then put the charred scrap back in his pocket.

The following sunset, Olson took Spike to the airport and stopped him when he would have exited the car. A thick manila envelope landed in Spike's lap. Inside were papers and bits of plastic that identified him as one William Strathmore. Whoever's picture had been used resembled Spike a great deal. Something clanked around on the bottom of the envelope, and Spike pulled it out. A Medic-Alert bracelet taped to a small stack of photocopied medical records for Strathmore. Frowning in confusion, Spike scanned the cover letter on top and then grinned.

"Good luck," Olson said with a small smile of his own.

Disclaimer: The characters/concepts of BtVS belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and everyone else who makes money from the show. The rest is mine. Ooh, I bet Joss is jealous.

Part Three

Before he'd left the States, Spike had called Dawn to let her know what he was doing. She'd expressed her absolute faith in Spike's ability to find Tara and bring her home. Soon. "You always find her," she'd said. True. But Tara had always been in the same damned place when he'd gone after her months before, not to mention that she had a two-week head start on him.

He had studied the departures at the airport around the time that Tara would have gotten there the night she'd whammied him. There wasn't anything on the list that wouldn't "keep", so he looked at the destinations, looked at his list, and saw that there was a flight to Canada around that time. He'd bought a ticket and crossed his fingers that she'd opted for convenient, and hadn't had some kind of specific route in mind.

Then he'd wondered if maybe she'd already gathered everything and was heading back to Sunnydale, if she wasn't already there, to do the ritual. That thought was squashed in Calgary. It had taken her three days to find and obtain the rare Annointing Bowl. Olson had said it was impossible to determine if Willow's energy had been transferred but Spike figured that if Tara had spent three days tracking it down, then, hey, she was pretty damn sure it had been.

From Calgary he'd gone to Berlin, only to realize she hadn't yet been there. He'd been tempted to take care of the business in Berlin, but didn't want to lose track of her. So he'd flown to Paris and found that he'd missed her by only a few days. She'd wasted time there, trying to get the Onyx Heart. Solid sources said she'd headed to Cairo after that, so off he went.

He didn't want to be doing this--traipsing after her. Really didn't. But he was, and the really ironic part of it was that Tara had let him know she didn't expect him to. Her lack of judgment at Willow's grave, when she'd acknowledged that she was damn well aware that he'd shuffled everyone out of Sunnydale to make his own life easier, proved that.

When he wasn't tired from the traveling, he could tell himself that he was doing it for Dawn. No telling how badly she'd react to Tara getting herself killed on this quest, right? Might just be the straw to break the camel's back. When he was knackered beyond belief, he told himself the same thing. Trouble was, he didn't believe it then. Wasn't just for Dawn he was doing it. It was for Tara.

Because he'd made a promise to her that last night before he'd taken her to Wildwind. Goodbye. Hadn't just meant getting her away from the pain of Sunnydale. What exactly it had meant...Spike wasn't even going to go near that anytime soon. He was too busy working himself up to a nice level of irritation that was quickly escalating to anger. Nice feeling, anger. Nothing at all pansy-ass about it. He couldn't wait for it to put in an appearance.

When he got off the plane in Cairo the anger arrived suddenly; Cairo was a stinking cesspit whose odor of oppression and sickness made his stomach churn. Definitely not going to be a fun trip.

Olson and Josh were relatively handy on the computer, but they hadn't been able to track Tara at all through those means. Which meant that Spike was left to his own devices to find her. Took most of the night to find the hotel at which she was staying, and when he finally did, a careless shuffle of bills got him her room number, and access into it. He wasn't exactly pleased about that.

He tossed his small bag into a corner of the room and secured the drapes at the windows, almost tearing them from the wall with his sharp movements. There wasn't a bloody ward or protective spell to be felt in the room, and the Annointing Bowl was just sitting on the nightstand out in the open. Was she really so clueless as to not take precautions? Spike paced and thought about that. If the Arcepts had any idea of what she was up to, they'd be trying to stop her. Not to mention that there was no telling whose attention she was garnering while trying to get what she needed.

The utter lack of caution with which she was going about this enraged him. It was like she didn't care if something got her.

"Soddin' hell," he snapped, kicking at the closed door.

His phone call to Sunnydale didn't make matters better. Quite the opposite, actually. His demon came to the forefront when Giles answered the phone at the Magic Box. "What the hell are you doing there?" he snapped.

"Hello to you, as well," Giles replied, his voice clipped. "Have you found her?"

Spike hung up. Just hung up and punched in the number for his and Faith's flat with more force than necessary. He was half convinced that she was at the Magic Box as well, but he calculated the time difference and realized it was still daylight in California. Then he resigned himself to calling several times so that the incessant ringing would actually wake the Slayer up.

To his surprise, she answered on the first ring. And she didn't sound happy. "I said I'd be there in half-an-hour. Just give me a friggin' break, already," was her hissed greeting.

"What the fuck is Rupes doing in Sunnyhell?" Spike demanded of her. "And why the bloody hell are you awake during daylight hours?"

"What do you think he's doing here?" Faith all but yelled in his ear. "We can't do anything right, remember? We can't train or slay or research or run the store right. Apparently I don't even sleep right, which is why I'm up and tired and waaay bitchy. Oh, and according to Giles? Yeah, we must have all lost our minds to let you go after Tara."

She took a deep breath. "I want to strangle him, Spike," she said, the words precise and furious. "Just choke the life out of him and send his corpse back to England with a big red bow on it. Think that would hurt my bid for redemption?"

"Redemption's overrated," he dismissed.

"Let's just hope he blows out of town before I start agreeing with you," Faith sighed. "Any luck, yet?"

Spike kicked his boots off and sat on the bed. "Jackpot, actually. Just waiting for her to get back to her room."

"Cool." She paused. "Hey, how'd you know Giles was here?"

"Called the store first. Hung up on the git."

There was a long silence, then Faith laughed. "Sweet. Wish I'd seen his face."

"You three come up with anything?"

"Josh is still looking into why the ritual's a killer, and Olsen's still digging into that Arcept so that we know how to take him out if Tara can't get this done." She blew out an exasperated breath. "I've been out scoping for their lair, or whatever you want to call it. I'm hoping to kill the bastards so that none of this matters."

There was a tone to her voice that had Spike glaring at nothing in particular. "But...?" he said knowingly.

"Giles is, like, all up in our faces, Spike," she admitted tiredly. "He's not too thrilled about our plan, and he has this knack for knowing when we're about to do our own things. Keeps insisting that we quit wasting time and shit. Josh would tell him where to shove it, but he's trying to keep the peace for our sake. "

"What's Rupes' suggestion?" Spike drawled, laying back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling.

"The recipient," Faith snorted. "That's what he calls whoever got Will's mojo. Wants us to focus on efforts on finding out who it is. I'm not too clear on the details, since he won't tell me all of it. Came out and said it was over my head, which is asshole for not smart enough. Shit, Spike, I understand what his problem is, but I'm getting damn tired of dealing with it."

He grunted. "Preaching to the choir, Slayer. Anything else I should know about?"

"Olson suggested we see if Wesley's contacts could find out anything for us, but Giles went apeshit." A telling pause, then, "Josh called him the other night and he's on it." Spike laughed. He wasn't one to advocate going to the Pouf or his people for help. Not unless it was dire. Far as he was concerned, this qualified. "Gimme a number to reach you at, just in case."

Spike tilted the phone cradle up and read her the number.

"All right, I gotta go before he comes over to drag me to the Magic Box. Be careful, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And...go easy on her."

It was almost seven before Tara came back, and Spike's rage had dulled to an aching anger that he was almost able to control. But then the door opened and she entered the room. Tired and dragging, head bowed and arms wrapped around her waist, she leaned against the door once she'd closed it. She looked so lost, so small and gone, that the rage came back in full force.

He shot across the room, and her head whipped up in terror as he braced his hands on the door at either side of her shoulders. "Hello, pet," he snarled. Tara's mouth opened and closed several times. A tremor wracked her body and Spike clenched his jaw.

"Spike," she gasped, staring up at him in shock. "What--what are you doing here?"

His eyes widened in shock. "I was just in the bleedin' neighborhood," he snapped sarcastically, "and I thought I'd pop over to see if you had a bloody cup of sugar." Her eyes clouded with confusion and Spike lost another bit of hold on his temper. His next words were screamed at her pale face. "What the hell do you think I'm doing here, you idiot? We figured out what the hell is going on."

"Okay," she said hesitantly. "But why are you here? I mean, I'm taking care of it..."

Her words stopped with a squeal when Spike slammed his hands against the door with enough force to shake the wall. "Very noble of you," he said icily.

Her eyes flew to his and she shrank away from him. Spike watched her face sag as everything except exhaustion and shadows fled. "That's not why I'm doing it," she whispered, leaning her head against his forearm and peering up at him.

Staring down at her, he saw the thousand emotions flitter through her eyes, and he fell forward, dropping his head to her shoulder. Her arms came around his waist. "I know," he said softly, his anger abruptly gone.

There wasn't a damn thing about her that hadn't been laid bare to him six-feet above her lover's corpse. He'd seen the secrets in her eyes, felt the emotions attached to them. And if it had been anything other than love that was at the heart of it all, he might have been able to remain impervious then and now. But he was apparently love's bitch even when it didn't involve him.

She moved closer to him and he buried his face in her hair, his hands rubbing her back. "I'm still not letting you do it on your own," he said quietly but firmly.

"I have to."

In her place, he'd feel the same way. But he'd seen her secrets objectively, and he knew that it was the worst possible thing for her to do. She was acting out a death wish with this reckless jaunt.

He pulled back and pressed his hand on her chest, trapping her against the door. "Listen carefully," he hissed. "I did not haul my arse all over the damn world for shits and giggles, and your head is crooked again if you think I'm just walking away now that I finally caught up to you."

His voice had risen with each word until he was shouting, his face an inch from hers, and she just watched him calmly, blinking. "I'm taking care of it," she said again in a quiet voice, drawing her shoulders up and lifting her chin. "You don't need--"

"You didn't get the onyx," he cut in, and a fine shudder wracked her body. They stared at one another for a beat, then Spike stepped away and gave her his back.

"No," she admitted thickly, "but I'm going back for it."

He snorted impatiently and tossed himself carelessly onto the bed, folding his hands under his head and crossing his ankles. "Between now and then, you're gonna find a way to stomach wading shoulder deep in maggots, are you?" A green tinge came to her face. "Then again," he went on, "you might find something you can stomach less than maggots when you're traipsing around."

"Worse?" she asked with a frown.

Spike smirked. "Had a nice long talk with that chap who guards the onyx," he explained. "Different for everyone, the contents of the pit. Can change for the person, too. Meant to be one thing you really can't bring yourself to go through."

She took in the implications of that and wrapped her arms around her waist, frowning. "What was it for you?" she asked, ducking her head.

"Holy water. Rather an effective deterrent."

"Oh."

"But then I asked the chap what kind of demon he was, and he told me he was a Guntry." He leveled a look at her, and she tilted her head curiously. "Know anything about them?" She shook her head. "They're peaceful, overall, which is good because they're damn hard to kill. Can regenerate their limbs."

Her brown furrowed. "Um, interesting."

Spike eyed the ceiling. "This is why you can't take care of this on your own," he stated incongruously.

"I don't...I don't know what you're trying to tell me," Tara said hesitantly.

"Put yourself back in that damp, dank cave. Think about the little detail I just told you."

"Limb regeneration?" she asked dubiously. "I'd rather not. He had these super long arms and legs with, um, sharp claws. Really sharp."

"Exactly," Spike confirmed, tilting his head up so he could meet her eyes. "The onyx is in my pocket."

He saw her make the connection and then immediately dismiss it. Bloody Hell. If there was someone less suited to navigating the seedy depths of the demon world...

"How...how did you get it?" she asked in a shaky voice.

A small smile came to his face as he stood up and crossed to her until they were only a few inches apart. When he spoke, his voice was a husky whisper, like a lover's tone, but so very not that at all. "You already know."

"No, I--"

"Tara."

Her eyes went a little wild then, separating at the seams for one instant before she drew the material together again. "You ripped his arm off, didn't you? And you--"

"Fished the onyx out of the pit with it," he finished blandly. "And it was a leg. Didn't think he'd be all that quick to get at me, what with having to hop around."

She was silent for a while, confused, thoughtful and troubled expressions flashing across her face. "Why?"

And he didn't need to ask her to clarify what she meant, because he knew. They always knew, him and Tara, didn't they? Ever since that night, they knew.

"Really not in anyone's best interest to let the Arcepts get their way, eh?" he said with a shrug, looking away. Her hand touched his cheek, and he let her turn his head to her again.

"That's not why," she denied, eyes warm and gentle.

"No, it's not," he agreed, pushing her hair out of her face. There were dark circles under her eyes. "You look exhausted."

"I, uh, haven't been sleeping much," she admitted. Her hand slid down his face, along his chest, and around to his side. It jumped from his torso to his arm and took hold of his hand. Her fingers danced around his rings, twisting them absently as she glanced up at him. "I'm sorry. You at least had the right to know that they might come after you."

Spike dipped his head. "Yeah, we did."

He wanted to push her for more answers then. They knew she'd found out about what the Arcepts were up to from the henchman that had been sent to Wildwind, but no one could figure out just how Tara had known about the ritual. It had taken a lot of eyes and a lot of books for them to find out about it, and yet she'd just seemed to know.

But instead he asked, "Any luck tracking down the Keepers of Khentimentiu?"

She shook her head. "Um, no. I don't really know where to look for them."

Spike tugged on her hand. "I'm all out knackered," he announced. "Bouncing around after you isn't particularly restful, pet. Feel like a cat nap?"

Her mouth opened, and a frown pulled at her brow. But Spike just squeezed her hand gently and she wrapped her arms around his waist for another hug. Anyone else might have continued the conversation. Maybe have asked Spike if he knew how to find the Keepers, but all Tara said was, "A nap sounds great."

While she went into the bathroom to change, Spike pulled the Onyx Heart from his pocket and gathered up the Bowl. He stashed both of them in his overnight bag and then peeled his duster off. When she came back into the room, in a large t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, he was already lying in bed after having stripped down to his jeans.

She stopped when she saw him, her pale eyes communicating her every thought. No longer crazy, could she still justify curling up with a soulless vampire? But she'd done that already, hadn't she? Led him to the soft grass of Willow's final resting place, draped her softness on top of him and let the silence envelop her. He saw it all and was unsurprised when she crept forward and slid under the covers next to him.

They lay on their backs, side by side, in an uncomfortable silence that was finally broken by Tara's husky laughter, which became higher in pitch as it went on. Spike raised an eyebrow and shifted onto his side, propping his head on his elbow and staring at her. "What's this, then?" he asked with amusement.

It took a few moments for her to be able to speak. She mimicked his position and grinned. "Just...this. You know? Once upon a time, I wouldn't have thought I'd be in a bed with, um, you. No offense," she tacked on quickly.

Spike rolled his eyes. "None taken."

"And now, it's...um, like. Well," she said slowly, "back in Sunnydale? There was lots of...and then there wasn't any...and now it's all awkward."

"You find that amusing?" Spike asked her diffidently. "Feeling awkward?"

Laughter once again overtook her. Spike's lips pulled into a smile as he watched her try to regain control. So different than the young woman who'd given the Pouf the vampire equivalent of a heart attack by climbing from the front seat to the back seat of the convertible on the way to Wildwind. While they'd been doing seventy down the highway. With the top down. So different, too, from the Tara who had been very much in Willow's shadow before that final fight with Glory.

Recovering from her meltdown obviously agreed with her.

"It's not the feeling awkward," she explained when her merriment had been tamed. "It's why. Not because you're you, but because I'm not crazy." Her face reflected surprise at her own words, then tightened almost imperceptibly.

"No surprise there," Spike put in, reaching out to touch her chin lightly. "Less inhibitions when you're stark raving mad."

She stared at him for a long moment, then her lips twitched until she could no longer contain her smile. "You never, um, pulled punches, did you?" she said softly. "Everyone else? They were very...careful about what they said. You just talked to me like I was still okay."

It was Spike's turn to look surprised. Tara shrugged uncomfortably, looking up at him hesitantly, biting her full lip.

"Your brains were scrambled like an omelet, luv, no denying that," Spike told her casually. "Doesn't mean you deserved to be treated like an imbecile. 'Sides, I'm evil. We don't do 'considerate'."

That last part was tacked on because he was being far too human lately for his liking. He knew what generally happened when he put reminders like that on the table. Wounded looks. Scoffing rejoinders. Things that hte Big Bad rejoiced in.

Tara tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "I think that evil does, um, w-w-whatever it wants. Good...well, good does the right thing, right? Evil can sometimes do the right thing, but it doesn't make them good. Just...self-serving?"

Spike stilled. "You think that being evil just means being selfish?" His tone was careful, empty.

"No," she said thoughtfully. "I think that evil is--de Sade." She nodded her head, as though it all made sense. Spike frowned at her and she shifted so that her head was no longer braced on her hand, but was instead resting on her pillow. "He was all about...fulfilling his wants, no matter what they might be. That's what I think evil is."

She seemed to be waiting expectantly for a response, but Spike honestly didn't know what to say right then. Fact of the matter was, Tara had just proved that her understanding of things was clearer than most other people's. De Sade, though he'd been an utter ponce and loonier than all get out, had systematically burned out any shred of conscience in himself. If one went by his writings, he was a man who'd never denied himself anything. Never apologized for wanting it or taking it or doing it. Had never seen the need to. If he wanted it, it was natural and therefore he should have it or do it. Never regretted it, either.

Tara tossed herself onto her back. "You think I'm...silly, don't you?"

"Sometimes," he admitted, and she scowled at him. He grinned back, even though she probably couldn't see it. "But not now. Think you're dead on." Face sobering, he leaned closer so that she could see him in the scant light that was in the room. "But, you know it works the other way, too, right?" She looked confused. "Good can do the wrong thing, even evil an thing, but that doesn't make them any less good."

Her head tipped to the side, hiding her face from his. "I-I-I need sleep."

He studied the back of her head for a moment, and the curve of her cheek that was on view. Tara had always seemed to him to be so sweet and good that she was incapable of fully knowing the darkness out in the world. That kind of knowledge usually only came when someone contained their own darkness, and it was apparent she possessed none. In fact, she'd been so distanced from the darkness as to not even be on the same plane of existence with it.

Her knowledge had come from elsewhere. She'd listened, watched, learned. She'd soaked it all up and it had coalesced into complete understanding. And it couldn't touch her, really. Couldn't crawl inside and use her for its own, because she could recognize it no matter what form it took.

He wondered if this knowledge was newly found, a result of all that had happened with Glory and the effects of everything that had happened on that tragic night. Could it have been there sooner? Born from spending most of her life thinking she was going to become a demon? No, he'd have seen it before. It had to have been the Glory situation.

"Stop staring. It's a little creepy."

Tara shifted, preparing to turn on her side, and Spike reached out and hauled her closer. Her tense muscles relaxed as he settled her under his arm, her head resting on his chest and one of her arms draped across his stomach. She was already asleep by the time Spike dozed off five minutes later.

The next evening, just after the sun had set, Spike learned that Tara had a stubborn streak a mile wide. He'd seen it when she'd been crazy, but had thought it was a byproduct of her condition. To his frustration, it was not. Considering that every damn female he'd encountered in Sunnydale had it, Spike decided it had to be the Hellmouth at work yet again.

"We are not leaving this room until you do it," Spike said firmly, leaning back against the door and raising a challenging brow.

In deference to the heat, Tara had convinced him to forego the duster so that he'd blend in better when they went out. His t-shirt was a dark red, a blood red, really, and he could feel the material stretch as he crossed his arms. Faith had only slightly more talent than he did for doing laundry, and she'd shrunk everything that contained cotton on her last laundry day. The black jeans would have been too uncomfortable to wear if Faith had gotten her hands on them, but she'd been doing colors on the Great Shrinking Day.

Tara was dressed more appropriately for the Cairo heat. Low riding thin cotton pants rested comfortably against her hips, the hem jauntily bouncing between knee and ankle. The dark azure color was a gentle contrast to the bit of skin that was exposed in the gap between her waistband and her tank top, whose midnight blue color offered a harsher contrast that he rather preferred.

Her feet were bare because he'd tossed her sandals aside when they'd begun this argument. She'd been sitting on the bed, obstinately refusing to listed to him, and had leaned down to slip them on. They were currently somewhere on the far side of the room.

"You're being paranoid," she insisted. He narrowed his eyes and her lids lowered as she pulled her ash-colored hair back and secured it in a ponytail with a tie that she slipped from around her wrist.

"And you still haven't given a reason that isn't utter crap," he snapped, infuriated by her attitude.

Her hands trembled slightly as she lowered them from her hair. Without it to fall around her when she ducked her head, she couldn't hide her face from him. She raised her hands again, as though to reach for her hair, and he strode across the room and took hold of them. She froze in his grasp and stared up at him with eyes that were just this side of sane.

"Stop. Just stop and tell me the bleedin' truth. Why won't you ward the room?"

The trembling in her hands spread to the rest of her and Spike loosened his grip and dragged his hands up her exposed arms, feeling the satin of her skin, which he chafed with his calloused hands, hoping that it would bring her back to herself. Beneath that, he could feel the fluttering of her muscles as they tried to choose between fight or flight, the indecision tensing and relaxing them so quickly that the sensation was like that of dozens of tiny heartbeats as his hands traveled to her shoulders. She flinched when he clenched his hands, then blinked quickly, her eyes clearing.

Her head turned away from him, towards the wall. "I've done magic my whole life," she whispered. "But since that night...I haven't...my control...I can't."

Spike wasn't really sure what she was saying. Hell, he didn't know if she knew what she was saying. When he spoke, his voice was severe, cracking from his mouth and making her flinch again. "You're making me question if you're up to this." Her head snapped around, an incredulous look on her face. "Maybe I should send you back to the Hellmouth while I get what we need."

"No," she practically shouted. "I need to do this."

He let go of her shoulders and shrugged. "What you need to do and what you can do are two different things, aren't they?"

When her face crumbled, he wanted to pull her close, chase the look back where it came from, because it reminded him that his façade wasn't as solid as he'd like it to be, either. But he couldn't do that. Her façade had to be strong enough to be almost as good as the real thing. His did too, but he wasn't all that worried about himself; he'd had over a century to perfect the art of ignoring what he was really feeling. Tara didn't.

"I don't much care, really, what you're going through," he went on, still keeping his voice cutting. "Except that you're playing with a lot of lives here, one of them being Dawn's."

"Liar," she accused.

Spike knew which part of that she was refuting but he barreled on like she hadn't spoken. "If you're trying to tell me you can't do magic, then you're flat out lying." He leaned forward and took hold of her chin, tilting it up and catching her eyes with his own. "If you're saying that you've gotten out of practice using it--that, I'd still doubt was the truth, but I'd tell you to get back in practice. Fast. If it's something else, then I haven't the faintest idea what it is." He let go of her face and stepped back, raking his eyes up and down her form. "Whatever it is, you need to say it."

Her face was like a movie, emotions spinning across it like frames of tape across a screen. And he could see the characters, each and every one of them. He could see the plot, twisted and tragic, with its conflict and climax. He knew this one by heart.

"It's--it's--nothing," she said quietly, lifting her head. "I'll put up the wards."

He watched her do it, feeling so damn weary he almost would have preferred to go back in time to the summer after Glory. When he'd spent all of his waking hours patrolling the Hellmouth and dealing with the three humans who had become his responsibility, and who'd been only slightly more broken than he'd been. Because while it had once been comforting, this lying he and Tara each did all the while knowing the truth, it no longer was.

It was truly a sad state of affairs when nothing stayed unsaid even if no one said it.

Like a good little Scooby, Tara had started her quest for the Keepers with research. While she'd managed to learn an impressive amount about them, Khentimentiu, and Egyptian mythology as a whole, it did little good when push came to shove.

Spike dragged her along a different route of search that began in the demon underground. He'd been to Cairo once before, with Dru, and though it had been decades, demons weren't much for change. At one time it had been a temple of some sorts. Tara might know what kind, now that she'd soaked up the history, but Spike didn't. Nor did he care to. It was off the beaten path, tucked away on the outskirts of the city, and it seemed to be in such bad shape--threatening to collapse if it was so much as looked at wrong--that humans didn't generally enter it.

Generally. Sometimes a fool or two wandered in, but as small as it appeared from the outside, it was filled with passages and corridors, and rarely had a curious human actually found their way to the center room that contained the bar.

"My skin," Tara mumbled, stopping next to him and rubbing her palms roughly against her thighs. "There's--it's--crawling. Trying to...pull away from me."

"Yeah, mine is too. It'll do that in here." He gestured around them, at the pale stone walls, the light that emanated from nowhere, yet lit the surrounding area. "Doesn't work on humans, just demons and mystical-types. That's how you know which way to go."

She scratched at her skin through her pants. "It hurts," she groaned softly.

"That's because you're resisting it." Spike moved her hands to his forearms, not wanting her to scratch herself open. Human blood was too tempting to ignore for demons, and it'd just lead to trouble if she reeked of it when they got to the bar. "Just ride it."

A scowl fell upon her face as her nails dug into his forearms. "What does that even mean?" she hissed.

"Treat it like a small pain," he said quietly. "A...scraped knee. Those hurt, right?" Tara nodded skeptically. "But it's just a little bit of hurt, so you bend your knee just right to get it to sting a bit, and it feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, but this...it's not agony, Spike, but it's...every inch of my skin and I really don't know how to bend my skin just right."

He made a small, frustrated noise. "Fine. Pretend it's a knot. You know, a muscle knot," he clarified when she frowned. "Those hurt, but when you relax your muscles, it loosens up. Relax and it won't hurt so much."

She took several deep breaths, closing her eyes while she did so. Her hands never slackened their grip on his arms. Right, maybe he needed to be a bit more precise.

"Start with your feet," he suggested. "Tense them up for a second, real good and tight, then relax them all sudden-like. Work your way up like that."

Her eyes, still closed, squinted together tightly. He felt the reverberations in the muscles in her hands as she gradually got the muscles in her lower body to relax. Less than a minute later, the squinting was gone and she opened her eyes carefully and took a deep breath.

"It kind of...tickles, now," she commented, staring down at her hands. "I can still feel it pulling, but it's easier."

Spike tossed her a smug look and then waved her forward. "Go on. Follow the pull."

They wound their way through the passageways, and she made a few wrong turns. Spike didn't correct her, just let her figure out on her own that she should have gone left instead of right or vice versa. The closer they drew to the bar itself, the more confident she was about direction, and they eventually stood before an impressive set of doors that definitely hadn't been part of the original structure. Not unless mechanized three-inch steel doors had been around about a thousand or so years ago.

"Those are new," Spike said idly as they stared at them.

"Now will you tell me what we're going to do once we get inside?"

Spike chanced a look in her direction. She didn't seem annoyed, just curious. He purposely hadn't told her what the plan was; he'd wanted her to have as little time as possible to think or argue about it.

There was a small buzzer next to the left side of the door, and Spike absently pushed it. "The blokes in there are going to see you as a human," he told her without looking at her. "Prey for the taking. You need to demonstrate right away that you're not just a human."

"But I am," she insisted.

She grabbed his bicep and tried to turn him towards her, but Spike didn't budge an inch, wouldn't so much as turn his head to look at her. If he did, if he saw those wide pleading eyes, he might just drag her out of this place and lock her in the hotel. Truth was, he agreed with her that she needed to do this, needed to put it to rest with her own two hands from start to finish. But it couldn't be her way, not entirely. They didn't have time for her to pour through every book in the city to find what they needed, didn't have time for her wishy-washy hang ups about using magic. The Arcepts were trying to break through her measures, and this had to be done quickly.

Some would have called it trial by fire, but Spike thought something about leading the deer into the lion's den was more fitting, because that was exactly what he was doing. Tara had proved that she knew the darkness, that it couldn't taint her. Now she had to realize that that knowledge gave her an advantage, that she could use it for more than just preventing it from sinking into her.

"You're not just a human, you're a witch," he countered just as the door began sliding open, and he stepped inside. "I suggest you make them aware of that fact."

Even with the noise of the occupants inside the bar, and the clanging sound of the door sliding closed, he could still hear the frantic pounding of her heart behind him. And he wasn't the only one. No less than four of the bar's customers had turned their attention to her. Spike stood arrogantly in the doorway, moving his eyes around the room and affecting a bored demeanor.

Two of the interested parties were vampires; a male and a female. Both were barely more than fledglings, though they were cocky enough to think they were more powerful than they were. He could tell by the amused way they were perusing him, by the sly glances they traded across their table. They'd definitely start trouble, but they'd be easily dusted.

The other two were more of a concern. The Traleg on the left side of the room sat on a stool, rather than a chair, to accommodate his whipcord-like tail. Spike knew, even though he couldn't see, that the tail had double-jointed connections every inch or so, giving it a snake-like movement and offering precise control. The thing was also covered with razor sharp spines and had a damn fast strike to it. The Traleg was a normal biped otherwise, except that his torso was unnaturally long. His skin was thick, rubber-like in consistency and waxy in appearance, and Spike knew from experience that it took a lot of muscle to pierce it.

Unlike the vampires, it wasn't Tara's blood that had garnered the Traleg's attention, but her muscles. Oh, not hers, specifically. The bugger had a thing for human meat. Only thing that would save Spike from having to go head-to-head with him was if Tara came through with her demonstration. Traleg's could be fierce predators, but they were not easily roused from their natural state of laziness. If Tara seemed like too much trouble, the Traleg would forget about going after her.

The same couldn't be said for the Emling in the center of the room. The incandescently furry demon with three mouths and five arms--not to mention the tongues that were coated with a lethal poison--liked brains. Didn't matter what flavor, and Spike was surprised that the owners had even let it in. Emlings were notoriously violent, and were for the most part banned from demon haunts because of it. Spike knew the damn thing wouldn't be swayed from Tara no matter what kind of show she put on. If she even put one on, that was.

"It's beautiful," she said from his side. He spared her a quick glance, and saw that her pale blue eyes were soft as they gazed upon the Emling. With a quizzical tilt of his head, he noticed that her heartbeat had slowed back to normal, and her breathing was as regular and measured as it could be.

"I suppose," he said noncommittally, turning back to the Emling. There was a certain aesthetic appeal to the shining fur, despite the assorted limbs and mouths. The limbs weren't attached to a normal trunk, which meant that they were able to lie more naturally against the body. They could almost be tucked away in concaves that acted as niches. As for the mouths, the extra two were merely slashes on either side of the expected mouth. Looked like creases from smiling.

Beautiful or not, it was the only true problem he saw in the room with regards to Tara. He was preparing to make his way to it, snap its shining neck, and be done with it, when he felt Tara brush against his shoulder as she stepped past him.

In nature, most animals know to steer clear of another critter that's too brightly colored. The fact that a creature doesn't mesh with its natural surroundings means that it doesn't need to hide because it can handle what comes its way. There were exceptions, of course, but it was a pretty good rule of thumb. Tara must have been absent the day that was covered in school. Her eyes were fixed on the Emling, lids slightly lowered so that it looked for all the world like she was challenging it. Challenging a predator that Spike wasn't sure he could take without the element of surprise, which she'd managed to ruin now.

The Emling blinked eyes that were startlingly wide and extraordinarily framed by thick lashes of varying colors. The eyes themselves were silver, and they gleamed like mirrors as the Emling stood, unfolding its nearly eight-foot tall frame, and shoved its table out of the way.

Spike tensed but forced his face into a bland mask of indifference as a thick silence fell over the bar and the other patrons crept into the shadows. Tara had no clue what she'd done. If she had, her heart would have been racing and fear would have been flowing off of her in tangible waves.

The Emling was all fluid motions and rippling multi-colored fur as it shimmied their way.

"Spike?" The word was slightly misspoken, as though she'd uttered it around her smile. He would have checked, but no way was he taking his eyes of the rainbow rug that was getting closer.

"Yeah?"

"This thing...it's not like Clem, is it?" she asked, a catch in her voice.

Blood buggering hell. Girl met one demon that was only partially bad and she got all soft-headed. "No, it damn well isn't," Spike ground out.

The Emling stopped about three feet from them, and had finally looked away from Tara to stare at Spike. It snarled something at him, the sound echoing eerily as the thing had three voice boxes to go with its mouths.

The Emling language had died out sometime in the seventeenth century, rumor had it. Since then they'd taken to glomming off of other demon languages. It took Spike a moment to figure out that it was speaking Roltek, then another second to translate. The bugger had called him a leech!

"Go skin your mother," he replied pleasantly in Roltek, and was rewarded by a dark sparkle of anger in the Emling's mirror-eyes. Another triplicate hiss issued forth, and Spike curled his lips.

"W-w-what's it saying?" Tara stammered.

"Told me it''s not going to let me suck your corpse dry after it rips your head open and eats your brains."

"Oh," she said immediately. Then, once the words had sunk in. "OH!"

The danger must have clicked with her, because she remained quiet and unassuming as Spike traded not-so-witty banter with the Emling. After a few jabs and barbs, the thing's patience came to an end, and it spilled at Tara in a multihued flash. Spike threw himself in front of her and braced himself for an impact that never came.

In front of him, the Emling had come to a dead stop, and Spike frowned for a moment at the strangeness of the action before he felt it. Coming from behind him, where Tara was. Sliding past his shoulders, curling around him like water parting for a rock. The Emlings mouths all gasped and its hulking form shook.

The sensation that Tara could cause--the warning fear that prodded some hidden instinct into making a body run--was being focused directly on the Emling. The effect was obviously more intense than when it was generalized over a large area. The Emling fell to its knees, the five hands clenching as it tried to fight the urge.

Tara moved to Spike's side and he spared a quick glance. She was staring at the Emling again, this time in determined concentration. It whimpered and started frantically crawling to the door, taking a wide berth around Tara and Spike. It scrambled to its feet as the bouncer pushed a button to slide the door open once again, but couldn't wait long enough for the door to open completely. The Emling twisted sideways and squeezed into the hallway. It took off down the corridor at a run.

Spike knew it would run and run until it collapsed from exhaustion, and it wouldn't return to the bar--maybe not even the city--for quite a while. The instinct had been triggered, and it wasn't easily calmed.

The rest of the demons in the bar eased back to their seats and took up their conversations again, each casting wary glances at him and Tara. All in all, it was far less violent than Spike had hoped for, but it had done the bloody trick. He turned his head towards Tara, smiling in approval. She shrugged one shoulder, acknowledging him, then took a moment to scan the room, settling her gaze on the vamps and the Traleg a beat longer than she did the others.

"So...safe passage?" she asked Spike hopefully.

He nodded. "As close as one can get, yeah." He took her arm and led her to the overturned table, righting it. Tara gathered the two chairs that had gone flying as well, and sat down. Spike remained standing. "I'm going to start with the bartender."

"What should I do?"

"Something very important," he replied without hesitation. She sat up straight and her face fell into serious lines. Spike leaned down conspiratorially and whispered, "Sit here and keep out of trouble." Tara sat back and glared at him. He rolled his eyes. "Just stay put for the time being, all right? If I get anything solid, I'll call you over."

He left Tara sitting alone at the table, not liking it but not wanting any of the other customers to think her vulnerable. If he attached her to his side, they'd decide she was in need of his protection and would take the earliest opportunity to make a go for her.

At the bar, he ordered a pint of blood, then tossed a few questions at the bartender. He also had some blood packaged to go, and he dropped the bag at the table on his way past. He did a circuit of the room, subtle questions expertly interposed in the middle of conversation.

Ten minutes later, he caught sight of Tara at the bar. She was obviously asking for something to drink, but the bartender was staring at her uncomprehendingly. Which was to be expected, as it had taken Spike several tries to find a language the bartender knew, and he doubted that Tara was even remotely fluent in Hungarian. She turned and found him in the crowd, sending him a pleading look.

"What do you want, pet?" he called out from the Traleg's table.

"Soda?" she called back. He snorted and shook his head.

"Anything not gross...or poisonous...or that was previously something's bodily fluid...or alcoholic." Her eyebrows were raised in encouragement, and Spike smiled. Catching the bartender's eye, he gestured at Tara then shouted out an order for seasoned iced tea. He watched the bartender prepare the drink, turning back to the Traleg only when he was confident Tara had been served exactly what had been ordered.

Still, he only focused half his attention on the demon, because he'd spotted the female vampire slinking towards Tara's table and taking a seat, obviously not having learned from the Emling's exampled, and just as obviously assuming that Spike's attention was fully diverted.

Tara paused when she noticed the vamp. A frown knitted her brow, but she didn't look to Spike for help. Chewing on her lip, she took several measured steps towards the table, then her teeth freed her lip and Spike saw her mouth moving as she said something. Her free hand lifted, traced something in the air almost absently, and the vampire's chair slid back a good four feet before it just fell apart and tumbled the vamp to the floor.

Laughter echoed through the room as others noticed, and Spike allowed himself a small chuckle at the sight of the stunned vampire. Tara didn't so much as look in the vamp's direction, just continued to the table, sat in the remaining chair, sniffed cautiously at her drink, then took a small sip.

The vamp pulled herself to her feet and snarled at the nearby demons that were laughing. It seemed like she was about to go back to Tara's table, and Spike gave up all pretense of conversing with the Traleg. But the bint had finally remembered the Emling, because her eyes flickered to the door and her motion halted. Tara raised a placid brow in the vamp's direction and lifted her glass to her lips again. The vamp glared menacingly, but went back to her own table.

The Traleg griped about his lack of participation in their talk, but relented and directed him to the Marpel when Spike growled at him. Several more conversations later, Spike wandered back to the table. Tara was finishing her tea and she looked up curiously when he pulled up another chair and sat.

"Good money's on the Marpel demon for getting to the Keepers." He shrugged. "Mostly third- and fourth-hand accounts of her having worked with them."

"Which one is that?"

"One in the corner," he answered. He pulled his cigarettes and lighter out of his duster and lit up. "They keep to themselves mostly, Marpels. Only reason you find one in a joint like this is 'cause they can't blend in human bars."

Tara smiled at him. "Hm. Yeah, purple skin would stand out. Are Marpels...bad?"

"Depends on the Marpel. They're mystically gifted, but it's all emotion based."

"Wild magic," she said knowingly.

"Some are better than others at control. This one--" He gestured with his lit cigarette. "--has damn good control. Didn't react to your display with one of her own. Also did her best to stay off my radar when I was gathering intel."

"Intel?" There was only the slightest inflection to her voice, a bare widening of her eyes, a mere tilting of her head. Tara's version of mockery, right there.

"Oh, bugger off," he grumbled. "She knows the Keepers, and I'm gonna chat her up, see if I can charm something useful out of her."

This time the mockery was less subtle, as her pale eyes shimmered with amusement. "You can do...charming?"

"I'm evil, luv," he reminded her as he stood. "I can do whatever I want."

Tara's soft laughter followed him as he crossed the room to the Marpel. She was indeed purple, a faded purple touched with gray that was somehow or other soothing. The color looked bloody fantastic with her purple-black hair and storm-cloud-gray eyes, which flickered to him as he got closer.

"Hello," he drawled, taking a chance and speaking French--Marpels had been in France longer than anyone could remember. "Mind if I have a seat?" he asked as he sat down.

"I don't associate with vampires," she said in a lilting, almost musical, voice. "Leave."

Spike flashed her a charming but awkward grin. "Not looking to associate with you, just talk. I'm trying to find--"

She sat up and glared at him. "I know what you're trying to find." Her eyes flashed, the clouds gathering in them. "And I will not help an abomination. Go away; I won't tell you again."

Okay, so he'd forgotten how xenophobic and bigoted Marpels were. Right. Spike slouched back indolently, tilted his head forward and gazed at her insouciantly. He waited a beat, then gave her the slow, sexy grin that usually got him his way. "Come on, now. I'm not looking to--"

The clouds had overtaken her pupil as she looked at him full on. Magic was in the air. Spike reconsidered that: magic should have been in the air. But it wasn't. At least, not for him. The embossment on his collarbone seemed to be blocking whatever she was trying to do. In Sunnydale, it had caused the magical attacks by the Arcepts to return to the originator. Violently.

Either way, it was holding up. Spike stared the Marpel down, cool as could be, and she glared at him. A moment later, he felt Tara coming up behind him, her heartbeat slightly accelerated. She placed a warm hand at the nape of his neck, and he felt the embossment flared marginally in response.

"Charm not going over so, um, well?" she asked hesitantly.

Spike waved a dismissive hand. "I'm wearing her down," he assured her, and he felt her shake a little with suppressed laughter.

"Ah."

"Why do you protect this creature?" the Marpel snarled at Tara in English.

Tara's hand spasmed at his nape. When she answered, her voice was steady and sure, if not all that forceful. "We protect each other."

The Marpel sneered at Tara as though she were a fool. "You are food to him."

"Not at the moment," Tara said immediately, still confident. "Or, am I?"

Spike tipped his head back, nudging her stomach. "Nah. Safe from me, pet."

Storm-gray eyes once again on Spike, the Marpel snapped, "What does a vampire want with the Keepers?"

"Thought we could tea together," Spike replied diffidently, pulling his cigarettes out again. "Maybe get together and do each other's hair, tell stories about girls we like."

Tara shifted so that she was standing next to him, but she kept her hand on him. Spike wasn't sure why. The embossment didn't need physical contact to work, so maybe she just didn't want to feel alone in this confrontation.

"I'm the one looking for them."

The Marpel seemed interested in this information, which made Spike instantly suspicious. "Pet," he said warningly.

"Well, she doesn't seem to, uh, like you? Despite the...charm," Tara said carefully.

"You seek a boon for your vampire," the Marpel stated, but Tara shook her head.

"Uh, no. And he's not. Mine, I mean. He's his own."

No. No, he wasn't. He was Buffy's, and through Buffy he'd become Dawn's. But he was also Tara's, and as much as he wanted to completely tie it back to Buffy and/or Dawn, he couldn't. Only comforting thing about being Tara's was that she was just as much his. They'd seen to that last summer.

The Marpel frowned, staring back and forth from Tara to Spike. "Then what do you want from them?"

Spike responded before Tara could take a breath. "That's between her and them." He pointed at her, moving his finger up and down and gesturing at her. "Way I hear it, you can arrange a meeting with the Keepers."

She stiffened at that, pulled herself up ramrod straight and curled her lip. "I will do nothing of the sort unless you tell me why you want to see them."

Exasperated, Spike stood. Tara slid her hand until it grasped the area just above his elbow. "Already told you," he said blandly to the Marpel. "Has nothing to do with me." He glanced down at Tara. "Come on, luv, time to move on."

Looking up at him, Tara searched his eyes, and he nodded shortly. They weren't dancing to the Marpel's tune, simple as that. "Always another way," he told the blond, and she nodded, just once.

"I'm kind of hungry," she said incongruously, her voice casual. "Can we stop for food?"

Spike allowed himself to genuinely smile down at her. She'd outdone his expectations that evening, gone above and beyond. He touched her cheek gently. "Anything you want," he said softly, and he meant it. Right then there was very little he would have denied her.

They had just turned away when the Marpel said, "Wait." As one, they looked at her over their shoulders. The Marpel was staring at Tara again, confused and leery. "You trust him," she said with dawning realization Tara nodded and the Marpel licked her lips. "What--what sigil did you set on him?"

There was a considering look on Tara's face. "Always another way," Spike repeated. The mystical was Tara's field, and he realized with a start that he trusted her judgment on it. "Don't do anything you don't feel comfortable doing," he advised.

She stepped closer, her hips brushing against him. "Are you sure? That there's another way?"

"Positive," he assured her.

So they walked away, heading towards the table that Tara had vacated, and on which still sat the bagged blood he'd ordered earlier. Tara plucked it from the table and they seamlessly changed direction to leave the bar.

When they were just a few feet from the door, Tara suddenly spun around, a quickly hissed word flying from her lips as she flung her hand outward. Some kind of misty ball was shooting towards the Marpel, then Tara jerked her hand to the side and it careened to the right. There was a small explosion of stone as it hit the wall behind the Marpel.

Spike blinked, confused.

"The next time," Tara called out, glaring at the Marpel, "I won't redirect the rebound."

Bloody fuck, the Marpel had attacked him, and Tara had prevented it from being shot back at the Marpel.

Oh, they were well past done with the place. Spike jerked his head at the bouncer and the door began sliding open. He wrapped his fingers around Tara's bicep and stalked to the exit, ready to drag her along if she couldn't keep up, but it didn't come down to that. Tara matched his pace as they crossed the doorway and made their way through the corridors.

It wasn't until they were out of the temple, and had torn through the roads and side streets that led back to the city, that Spike realized that Tara was working on pure adrenaline. Which abruptly ran out as she stopped moving and sagged against him.

"What's wrong?" He scooped her into his arms and looked around. They were in a market of sorts, and he searched through the bustling crowd until he spotted several large barrels behind one of the vendors' stands.

"Wild magic," Tara said, her voice shaky. He set her on top of the barrel and snagged the bag of blood from her hand, placing it on her lap. Then he put his hands at the small of her back, bracing her. She leaned all of her weight on him. "K-k-k-kind of hard to divert."

Spike set his jaw. "You shouldn't have done it, then. She knew it could happen when she pulled that stunt."

But of course, she'd had to. Spike sighed and shifted one of his hands, brushing away a strand of her hair that had escaped her ponytail and fallen across her face. This little adventure might just break her down to nothingness before it set things right for her. "We'll get you some food and call it a night."

"You seek the Keepers?" someone said in English from behind him.

Spike spun around, pressing against Tara's knees as he curled one arm behind him and wrapped it around her back to hold her steady. There was rustling as she moved the bag, then opened her legs and scooted closer to him, her chin resting against his shoulder as they both looked at the three men in front of them.

They appeared human, and his other senses seconded that appearance. Each was dressed casually in linen pants, sandals, and loose-fitting cotton shirts. All three were well built, bulging muscles making themselves known through the thin material of their tops. They seemed to be at ease, casually studying Tara and him, but their eyes were hard and cold.

The one in the middle was several inches taller than Spike, with swarthy coloring and several gold hoops in each of his ears that twinkled from between locks of jet black hair. The one on the right was more golden, his coloring almost lion-like. The short stubbly beard added to that impression. And the one on the left was so dark skinned that dark blue highlights leapt from him, with eyes whose irises were as black as the pupils.

"You seek the Keepers?" the one in the middle repeated, narrowing his eyes.

"Who wants to know?" Spike asked, infusing the words with a bored monotone.

"Spike." Her tone made him twist his neck to look at her. She was staring at the amulets around the men's necks. "It's...that's them."

Spike shrugged and turned back to the Keepers. "Considering that purple bint's attitude, that doesn't ease my mind."

"Emmanuelle does not speak for us," the gold one stated. "In words or actions."

"You sure about that?" Spike grunted, raising a brow. "She seemed to think she was your social secretary and bodyguard all rolled into one."

"We'll offer no harm unless provoked," the dark one said solemnly.

The swarthy one in the center dipped his head and frowned at them. "Many wish an audience with us, but few intrigue us enough that we consider granting it."

Tara's arms came around his waist, gripping him, and he slowly eased his arm from around her back, lowering it only when she stayed upright. Spike met each of the men's eyes. "We're barely out of the bar. How'd you turn up so quickly?" he asked the swarthy one, who seemed to be the leader.

"We've been aware of the witch's desire for an audience since she arrived. We've been watching her." Spike tensed. "When you joined her, we became curious about why she sought us."

His dark green eyes settled on Tara, and she craned her neck to look at Spike. He shrugged. "Your call," he conceded. "You're the one that did the research."

Facing them again, Tara took a deep breath. "I, uh, want to...petition Khentimentiu."

The Keepers' lips quirked condescendingly. "Of course you do," the gold one drawled. "But why?"

"Oh," Tara squeaked, embarrassed. "I wish--I mean--it's a matter--"

"Pet," Spike interrupted her. "Just spit it out."

So she did. "The Cerno ritual. I'm here to ask for Khentimentiu's help."

They went still. "Then your journey was wasted," the leader hissed. "You will receive no--" He broke off, tilting his head to the side. Spike saw that his forest green eyes had gone unseeing. A glare settled over his features as he hissed a word in a language Spike didn't know. "Your audience has been granted," he bit out. "Come with us."

"Right now?" Spike asked incredulously. "Look, we're pleased as punch your boss is going to see us, but--"

"Not you," the leader growled. He pointed at Tara. "She seeks the audience."

The argument grew heated very quickly. Eventually, Tara nudged Spike forward and slipped off the barrel. He ignored the threats the Keepers were issuing him and touched her arm as she let go of the barrel. "You all right?" he asked, frowning as she swayed a bit.

She blinked and then nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine." Spike carefully let go of her arm, his hand hovering until he was sure she wasn't going to fall. "Why can't he come?"

The Keepers glared at her. "You are the one petitioning for aid."

"Well, yeah," she replied slowly. "We're not asking that he, uh, petition with me. Just come with."

"It's not allowed," the dark one snarled. "You can come alone for your petition, or you can not have your audience. Those are your choices."

The golden one stepped forward. "Why do you want the vampire at your side?" he asked, but his voice was...different than it had been. So was his bearing. He held himself with grace and confidence, and he was far more at ease than he'd been before. Spike realized that they were now most likely in the presence of Khentimentiu. Beside him, Tara gasped. "You are of white magic and innocence," he commented to her. "Yet this creature is not."

"I-I-I am of white magic," she confirmed, blindly reaching towards Spike. He took her hand and squeezed it. "But not of innocence. Not for a while now."

Khentimentiu stepped closer in the golden Keeper's body. Full lips pulled in a soft smile. "Nonsense. It surrounds you completely. It's almost tangible."

"Different kinds of innocent," Spike put in idly, pulling out his cigarettes with his free hand and lighting one. He exhaled a plume of smoke. "This one's been tried and tested."

"Perhaps she has," Khentimentiu conceded, tilting his head. "But you haven't answered my question, witch. Tell me why you stand with him, why you walk with him."

"I, uh, don't know," she mumbled. "How to explain it, I mean. Maybe--maybe you look at him and all you see is...is a vampire," she said slowly. "And he is. A vampire. An evil one." Spike puffed his chest out and she jiggled his hand reproachfully. "Like I told the Marpel, he's my friend and I trust him. There's only three...people I can say that about."

He knew who the other two were: Giles and Dawn. A slight smirk pulled at his lips when he realized Angel wasn't on that list. At least he was one up on the Pouf when it came to something.

"Fascinating," Khentimentiu murmured. "In times past, witches and vampires regularly kept company. But the witches were not of white magic, and the vampires had not been tamed."

Spike growled and wondered if the Keepers' were entirely human. Would they set his chip off? What about the one who was currently possessed by Khentimentiu? Would he count as human? Maybe he should find out...

The other Keepers took a step forward and Tara giggled. Khentimentiu waved the guards back and returned Tara's grin. "What do you find so amusing?"

"He's not tamed," she answered, trying to stifle her giggles. "He's the epitome of untamed, actually."

Her words allowed something in him to ease up infinitesimally. Dawn thought he was tame, despite his best intentions to keep her opinion of him based firmly in reality. But Tara didn't, and she probably had more reason to think so than Dawn did. Maybe he wasn't as pathetic as he'd thought.

"Yes, he is," Khentimentiu countered. "Why else would he be here if not because you have leashed him with magic?"

"He's here with me because he wants to be," Tara said firmly, her anger subdued but noticeable. Khentimentiu raised both of the golden Keeper's brows mockingly, and Tara's hand tightened around his. "I don't use magic to, to, to control people."

Her voice shook with a newly raised tide of grief and despair. Glory had done that to her, had driven her insane and embedded imperatives in her that had gone against her very nature. She slid closer to him, pressing against his side and leaning her head against his arm. Her breathing hitched and then the sensation of dread crept outwards, once again bypassing him. It was generalized this time, but still disconcerting for the Keepers who were close to them. They took gasping breaths and backed up several feet.

"You offer us harm?" Khentimentiu asked coldly.

Spike glared at him. "Poking at wounds, even unintentionally, can cause someone to lash out without meaning to," he snapped, trying his best to keep the rest of what he wanted to say from coming forth. Like it or not, they needed Khentimentiu's aid for the ritual. He focused his attention on Tara, turning her in his arms and running his hands along her back.

"I shouldn't remember what she made me do," Tara said, her teeth chattering despite the heat. "I was in her head, not my body. But I do. IrememberIrememberIremember."

"Sh," he murmured, bringing his hands to her face and cupping her cheeks. His eyes flickered to the Keepers, who watched them closely. "Pull it back, Tara."

"I gave her Dawn," she choked out, her eyes unseeing. "It's all my fault." A red haze covered her for a moment, then the blood materialized as it had all those months ago at Willow's grave. It rode over his hands and swept along her skin, pulsing not with a life of its own, but with her life.

He dug his fingers into her until she flinched. "Look at me," he commanded. Automatically, her eyes flew to his, and the longer he stared into them, the more awareness returned. "Pull it back," he said again. "All of it."

It drifted slowly, meandering to her and collecting around her, dancing almost perceptibly with the wraithlike blood until she took a steadying breath and it eased back inside.

She stayed in his arms, the length of their bodies touching as they had so often last summer, when things had gone to Hell six ways from Sunday and the only solace they could find was with each other. Only with each other, because the others had lost family, friends--even children of sorts--but he and Tara had lost their loves. It had been a pain Giles and Dawn couldn't share.

Her pale eyes were soft and open, and she placed her hand on his cheek and smiled up at him. And she knew where his thoughts were. "Your cigarette's burned out," she said solemnly.

Spike blinked and realized that the acrid stench of burning filter was in the air. He pulled his arm from around her and stared at the butt. "Looks like," he agreed. Shrugging, he tossed it aside.

"I'm sorry," Tara said to Khentimentiu, but her eyes were still on Spike. "I'm a little...raw? It won't happen again, I promise."

Khentimentiu bowed the blonde's body gracefully at the waist. "Your apology is accepted as sincerely as it was given." He eyed them consideringly. "The vampire can accompany you. My Keepers will bring you to me."

With that, his body slumped forward slightly before the golden-skinned man shook his head in a daze and stepped back to join his companions.

They made the journey in a Jeep. At Spike's insistence that Tara needed to eat, the Keepers had produced several granola bars and a bottle of water for her. It wasn't much, but it would hold her over until he could get her to eat a decent meal.

It wasn't until Tara hesitantly asked their names that the Keepers introduced themselves. The dark one was Gahiji, the gold one was Lisimba, and the leader was Mosi. Thankfully, further conversation wasn't possible, as the Jeep had been stripped of its roof and sides, and the noise was incredible as they sped through Cairo to the other side of town.

Spike and Tara were in the back, on pull-down seats that faced the center of the vehicle. Lisimba was driving, with a none-too-pleased looking Mosi in the passenger seat. Gahiji had perched behind Tara and Spike, crouching down on his haunches in a space that shouldn't have fit him, while he lazily held on to the roll bar. Spike rethought the Keeper's status as humans whenever he caught sight of Gahiji. His muscles should have cramped, locked and given out in that position, yet he was poised and relaxed.

They drove into the desert, the trip jarring and uncomfortable. Tara had insisted he strap himself in, and though he had protested, he was glad he'd given in. If not, he might have bounced out of the damn Jeep and taken a dive in the sand long before it finally came to a stop.

There was nothing around them for miles, save a stone doorway that jutted out from the sand, its color worn away so that it matched the sand perfectly.

"The vampire waits here," Mosi told them firmly as they exited the vehicle.

Spike unbuckled the seatbelt then went around to the other side of the Jeep. He lifted Tara out by the waist, setting her on the dense sand and raising a brow at her. She frowned at the doorway and nodded. "Petitioners only beyond this point," she said gently. "If it gets to close to sunrise? Head back."

"Nah," he dismissed. He ran one finger along her cheek. "I'll just burrow, luv. Done it before." Mosi and Lisimba were waiting impatiently by the door. Gahiji had moved into the backseat of the Jeep and was watching everyone alertly. Spike nudged Tara towards the door. "Go on, then. I'll be out here with Chatterbox."

"Right," Tara said uncertainly. "I'm going." Spike's lips quirked as she remained exactly where she was. She frowned again. "My, uh, knees don't seem to be working."

Spike reached out a lazy arm and gave her a heave. She stumbled, but she'd moved. "Seem fine to me," he said with a smirk, which grew when she glowered at him. But she didn't move again and he sighed. "If you want me to shove you the entire way, I will. Won't be the least bit pleasant, though."

"Walk me there?" she asked, her brows raised hopefully.

"Fine, but let's try and get there before dawn, hm?"

Tara pursed her lips and harrumphed at him, and Spike grinned at her back as he followed her at a nice clip to the door. "Stop gloating," she chided him without turning around.

The Keepers weren't willing to wait for Tara to get up the nerve to pass through the door, so they opened it and drew her inside by way of a hand on each of her elbows. Spike met each of their eyes. "You got fragile cargo there, mates," he said coolly.

The door slammed in his face.

The next few hours passed agonizingly slow. Spike had ripped open one of the packets of blood from the bar during hour two, after having spent hour one trying to get Gahiji to speak so much as a word to him.

"Look, I know you're not the yammering jaw type," Spike said with exasperation, pausing his pacing around the Jeep. "But would you at least let me know how much longer this is going to take?"

Gahiji stared at him with eyes that were uniformly black. "It takes as long as it takes."

"Well, thanks, Confucius," Spike snapped and resumed his pacing. "Mind narrowing it down a little? It's been three hours and I'm 'bout ready to storm the bloody castle!" His boot got caught in a sinkhole of sand and he cursed as he yanked it out. "And I've had just about enough of this buggering sand, too!"

"Some come out within minutes," Gahiji said. He shrugged. "Others take days. There's no telling how long your witch's audience will take."

Spike scowled. "I thought you might say something like that." He lit a cigarette and tilted his head. "What exactly goes on in there?" he asked curiously.

Gahiji was sitting on one of the pull down seats in the back, and he propped his feet up on the other seat before answering. "Petitioners are brought to the altar to make their case. Khentimentiu does not give his bounty lightly, and he doesn't agree to do so until he is satisfied with not only a petitioner's request, but their motivations."

"Huh. And how often does he bestow his bounty?" Spike asked cynically.

"Rarely," Gahiji replied. "But he also rarely manifests in any manner before a petitioner, either, and your witch wasn't even that when he graced her with his presence."

"You saying she's got a chance in there?" he asked, bringing his cigarette to his lips.

"Many have sought a counsel with Khentimentiu for the Cerno," Gahiji said slowly. "Few have been granted an audience. It requires great effort to assist those who wish to perform it, and often their reasons are not worthy of the effort."

Tara wanted to perform the ritual to draw Willow's magic from its new home and then make it so that it couldn't be drawn upon again, but he imagined others would use for greedier purposes. Only reason it wasn't used often was because of the low success rate. Getting everything needed for the Cerno was no simple task, and even then the damn thing tended to kill whoever was trying to perform it.

If no one could find out why the ritual was so dangerous and learn how to diffuse the threat...he still wasn't sure what they'd do then. There hadn't been much time to talk contingencies before he'd left, but he knew Faith and the others had done so. Even with Giles' wild goose chase and interference.

"Spike." He spun around, stumbling a bit in the sand. Mosi was at the door, holding it open and gesturing Spike forward. "Your presence has been requested?"

"That right?" he smarted, tossing his cigarette away. "Who by?"

Mosi clenched his jaw. "Who do you think?" he ground out. "Do you wish to come inside or not?"

Oh, he wished, all right. The doorway that jutted from the sand was the top of something...massive. Just massive. He considered himself to have a pretty good sense of direction, but he didn't think he'd be able to find his way back to that bloody door.

Spike came to a halt behind Mosi, who gestured him forward. "Down that corridor, through the door on the right."

He wasn't sure what he expected to find when he entered the room. Maybe some kind of altar, or a sarcophagus. His mind had even considered that he might pass into the room and find himself someplace...else. Instead he entered a room that was undeniably ancient, but filled with--

Leather couches? A large screen television? And was that a...jukebox?

All right, so he hadn't expected that. But what he'd least expected to find was Tara sitting cross-legged next to a vampire. A buggering old one, if the tingling of Spike's scalp was anything to go by. He looked like a mixture of his Keepers, Khentimentiu did. His hair was as black as Gahiji's; his skin the same bronze as Lisimba's; and the forest green eyes matched Mosi's perfectly.

He rose when Spike entered, and his black dress trousers slid perfectly back into place, the hems resting lightly on what looked to be hand made Italian shoes. He wore a casual dress shirt, the collar wider than on the kind that went under a suit, and the buttons starting several inches below his neck. There was an amulet around his neck, same as with his Keepers. Some kind of stylized dog creature imprinted on obsidian and dangling from a leather strap.

It was the amulet that got him even more worried than he already was. Because once he'd laid eyes on it, Spike realized that he sensed something else in Khentimentiu besides just a vampire so old that he should have turned into a giant buggering bat at this point. He'd never heard of a vampire who could shapeshift. Some could warp a bloke's head until he thought he was seeing something else, but there hadn't even been rumors of vampires shifting in the true sense of the word.

But when he met Khentimentiu's eyes, he knew. Knew for bloody sure that Khentimentiu could turn himself into some kind of dog--maybe any kind of dog--at will. And if he did that, then Spike and Tara were in serious trouble.

"Bloody hell," Spike growled. "Tara, get over here. Now."

Tara stood and gave him a small smile that he figured she meant to be reassuring. She was just too damn clueless. "It's all right, Spike."

"Luv, it's not even in the neighborhood of all right," Spike snapped, striding to her and yanking her behind him. "He's a goddamn shape-shifting vampire."

"I know--"

"Did he bite you?"

"No--"

"You didn't look in his eyes, did you?" he snarled, glaring at Khentimentiu. "Some of these old ones, they can twist your mind 'round their pinkies."

Khentimentiu held out his hands and inspected them. "There is no sign of nefer on any of my fingers, I assure you."

Spike frowned. "Nefer? Actually, never mind. We're leaving."

Tara was tugging on his arm, and he glanced down at her. "It, uh, makes sense. When you think about it," she tacked on, shrugging. "I mean, he rules the destiny of the dead so...vampire. And...well, I'm, uh, not too clear on how shifting into a dog helps, but..."

"Rules the--?" Spike's eyes widened incredulously. "You've bloody lost your mind again!" Spike shouted at her, stepping back and forcing her to move further away from Khentimentiu, who was watching them calmly. "He kills people, that's the only destiny he rules. Murder. That's what a vampire does, now move those feet and let's get the hell out of here."

"He is as willful as you said," Khentimentiu drawled, taking a seat on the leather couch again.

"Spike, please," Tara pleaded. "He's almost agreed to help. Don't, uh, piss him off. Okay?"

"He's a shape-shifting vampire," he said again.

"So are you. The vampire part, anyway." There was that stubborn streak again. He heard it in her voice, felt it when she pulled away from him, and saw it when she faced him down with her arms crossed over her chest. "But you haven't bit me, and you haven't...uh, wrapped me around, uh, anything..."

Spike raised a brow and she tilted her chin defiantly. The booming sound of laughter sounded, and they looked at Khentimentiu. "Please, have a seat," he said in a deep voice that was surprisingly unaccented. He gestured at the couches around him and smiled invitingly. Spike snorted. Khentimentiu smiled widely, his teeth glowing against his bronze skin.

"I understand your suspicion," he said to Spike, his smile fading away. "I am, as you have guessed, a vampire that can shift. Before I was in this post, I was simply a shape-shifter. After, it is as nefer said: who better to navigate between the world of the living, and the world of the dead, than a creature that is both? I retained my shifting abilities." He shrugged carelessly. "Once again, I assure you that no harm will be offered without provocation."

"So you're not really a god then?" Spike asked snidely.

Khentimentiu shook his head. "Just a servant to the Powers. As is usually the case, the mythos and religion don't get it right."

That was good, at least. Meant Spike might be able to hurt him if it came down to that.

"He didn't try anything?" Spike pressed Tara. "Anything at all?"

She shook her head. "He's been very nice, actually. And he's pretty funny."

Spike narrowed his eyes at Khentimentiu, but could find nothing that posed an immediate threat in his gaze. "All right," Spike consented. He pointed menacingly at Tara. "But if he goes all feral, I'm leaving you to it. Understand?"

"Perfectly," she said, nodding emphatically. Her lips curled inwards, hiding against her teeth in the manner of someone fighting back a smile. She was a closet brat, Spike decided, and thought that he might be better off with the shy, stuttering witch that Willow had first brought home to the Scoobies.

"What's this nefer stuff?" Spike asked her, pointedly ignoring her contained amusement.

"I'm not sure."

Spike tossed a look at the Ruler of the Destiny of the Dead. "It's Egyptian--"

"I guessed that," Spike interrupted sarcastically.

"It means good or beautiful." He smiled at Tara kindly. "And you are both." She flushed and lowered her eyes. He picked up a piece of parchment from a low table in front of the couch. "This is the glyph."

Spike pushed Tara's arm down and took the paper, holding it so that they could both look at it. They exchanged dubious glances. "It looks like a banjo," Spike noted, squinting at the black lines. "Is it upside down or something?" He turned the paper. "Oh, look--an upside-down banjo."

Tara nudged him, and he looked at her. There was a very obviously forced smile on her lips as she deliberately flickered her eyes to Khentimentiu.

"It's quite all right," Khentimentiu said, laughing again. "Personally, I've always thought the same, though it's actually a rendering of the heart and the windpipe."

Spike shoved the paper at Tara and raised a cool brow at Khentimentiu. "We done with the polite chitchat?" This time, Tara chose a kick instead of a nudge. Spike lifted the corner of his mouth and didn't so much as flinch.

"Yes, but we'll have to wait until nefer comes back before we get down to business." He smiled graciously and waved Tara to the door. "I believe you mentioned before your companion joined us that you had need of the...facilities?" he said courteously. Spike frowned, then realized the tea at the bar, and the water during the drive, must be ready to return to the wild. "Mosi is just outside, and he can show you the way."

"Oh," Tara mumbled. She looked down and crossed to the door. "Thanks."

Once she was gone, Khentimentiu studied Spike for several long moments. For his part, Spike did his best to appear bored. Seemed more than coincidence that Khentimentiu had waited until he knew Tara would be leaving the room to have Spike brought in.

"Normally," Khentimentiu commented at length, "I would have made her..." He gestured vaguely with a bronze hand. "Unaware of this conversation. But I thought it best to not tempt fate twice this evening."

"So, what do you want?" he asked when it became apparent Khentimentiu wasn't going to say anything else. He loped to the nearest sofa and dropped down, resting one arm along the back.

"Compassion is not usually found in your kind." Spike felt his eyebrows raise. As non-sequiturs went, it was impressive. "It's also not something I'm often...burdened with; I've lived long enough to be practical."

Spike grinned at the smirking Khentimentiu. "Has a knack for it," he said easily, glancing briefly in the direction Tara had gone.

Khentimentiu resituated himself on a sofa directly across from Spike, carefully adjusting his trousers as he did so. He steepled his hands and tapped his index fingers against his lips. "I will give my assistance for the Cerno," he said without preamble. "It's not unheard of for me to do so." He shrugged and narrowed his eyes at Spike.

"Well," Spike replied, nonplussed. "Great." Call him touched in the head, but he had the feeling Khentimentiu wasn't done.

"I find myself," the vampire/shifter/god said as he stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles, "in the unusual position of wanting her to succeed. It's something of a quandary."

Spike tilted his head and stared. When he spoke, he made sure his voice was bland and casual. "Best bet for success is knowing why the others failed."

Khentimentiu acknowledged that with a nod. "As with most things, there are rules that even accused gods must abide by." He paused, and Spike felt himself tense as he waited for what would come next. "However, I've also been alive long enough to know how to walk that fine line."

His mind screamed at him to proceed carefully, and he forced himself to take a breath so that he could have a moment to think. "Why isn't Tara here for this?"

"There are several reasons why the components of the Cerno are scattered and difficult to obtain. It's a deterrent, of course. But, it also takes the individual on a journey."

Spike grunted. "Some esoteric journey of self-discovery?"

"That's not for me to say." Of course not. Might've actually been helpful otherwise. "But nothing negates the purpose of a journey more than knowing one is on a journey."

Spike hated cryptic; it left too bloody much room for misinterpretation, and lead to mistakes and fatalities. He took a deep breath through his nose and counted to five to prevent a tirade on the subject.

"If nefer were to perform the ritual right now, she would fail." Spike choked on his breath. Khentimentiu waited until Spike had stopped coughing like a nit before he went on. "The journey is as necessary as the components. Encourage her to be open to it." His lips quirked. "Try to temper your impatience the slightest bit and be open to it yourself."

Spike's cheek muscle twitched as he clenched his jaw. "But at the end of this--" His lips twisted disgustedly. "--journey, she'll be able to pull off the Cerno?"

Khentimentiu held out a hand and rolled it from side to side. "There's a chance." He rose, and the door opened. Tara shuffled through, her head ducked as she smiled shyly up at them.

"Everything okay?" she asked with barely hidden concern, her eyes sliding from Khentimentiu to Spike.

"He has not 'charmed' me into denying your request," Khentimentiu chuckled. Tara looked relieved--too relieved, Spike thought. Her eyes widened when he glared at her, but filled with amusement when she realized why he was annoyed. He could damn well do charming.

Khentimentiu crossed the room and opened the drawer of an armoire. From inside, he drew out a small knife and walked to Tara. She took a stumbling step back and Spike jumped to his feet. Khentimentiu came to an abrupt halt and held up his hands. "I'm merely going to hand this to you," he assured Tara.

Spike made a "gimme" motion with his hand and Khentimentiu handed him the knife hilt first. He lifted his leg and tucked the blade into his boot.

"When you perform the ritual," Khentimentiu said to Tara, "I will do what is necessary."

"Thank you." Her voice was grateful, as Spike had expected. But there was also an underlying note of something that sounded like regret, as well, and it worried him. Maybe the lack of precautions had been because she really didn't want to succeed in the first stage of the Cerno. If so, then she was in for a surprise.

"Now, you should be leaving. There is only just enough time for my Keepers to get you back to your hotel before dawn." They walked to the door, and Tara nodded at Khentimentiu. "Nefer, it has been a pleasure to meet you. I wish you luck in your endeavor."

Tara took his proffered hand, and blushed when he brought it to his lips. "Um...thanks. For everything." She drew her hand back awkwardly and busied it with pushing renegade strands of hair back into the ponytail. "Oh, and it was nice meeting you."

He opened the door, and Spike saw that it no longer lead into a corridor, but out into the night. The Jeep was only about ten feet away, and all three Keepers were already inside. Tara grinned, her eyes twinkling, then slipped outside.

"What, that trick doesn't work on the way in?" Spike asked absently, watching as Tara stopped halfway to the Jeep and waited for him.

"It's all in the journey," Khentimentiu said slyly.

"Right," Spike drawled. He rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. He crossed the threshold, expecting the door to close behind him. Instead, Khentimentiu's voice sounded softly enough for only Spike to hear.

"A vampire is just a different kind of dead, Spike. We'll be meeting again."

The door closed. Spike froze. Just went completely still. He spun around, intending to march back inside and demand an explanation. There was a note taped to the door. Spike blinked and then swore loudly when he read it:

"See you at the end of your journey."

If it was true that he was just a different kind of dead, then he'd just met Fate. Bloody buggering hell. It couldn't be a good thing.

They fell into bed in a tangle of limbs--Tara's recently freed hair finding its way into their mouths and noses --Spike's belt buckle digging into his abdomen and her back--their hands gripping painfully and leaving bruises that wouldn't fade on her pale skin as quickly as they did on his.

Their sleep was deep and empty, and when they woke that evening they ordered food. Over sayadiya and kosheri, they decided to head out that very night. After the dishes had been taken away, Spike left a message on Faith's cell phone while Tara packed up their meager belongings.

"We ready, then?"

"I, uh, I think so. Let me check the bathroom again...okay, we're ready."

"Right. Next stop, Berlin."

Disclaimer: The characters/concepts of BtVS belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and everyone else who makes money from the show. The rest is mine. Ooh, I bet Joss is jealous.

Part Four

Tara had been mildly amused when Spike had donned the medic alert bracelet at the airport in Egypt. The amusement had grown only slightly when the stewardess got on the speaker and asked all passengers to close their shades to accommodate a fellow traveler suffering from a rare light-sensitive medical condition.

But when they were preparing to disembark in Berlin, and Spike dug through his small bag, Tara had to cover her face so that the obliging stewardess didn't see her laugh when he pulled out a long swath of black material and wrapped himself up from head to toe.

Airline officials led them quickly to a windowless inner room of the airport, where they waited until the sun had set before finally leaving. They hailed a cab, and Spike used his rusty German to direct the driver to a hotel that the stewardess had suggested.

"Porphyria?" Tara commented idly once they were on their way.

"Sod off," Spike grumbled, opening the window and lighting a cigarette. "Was Olson's idea and it's come in damn handy."

The hotel was of the luxurious chain variety, and Tara raised her brow at the ornate lobby, only lowering it when Spike produced a credit card and handed it to the concierge.

Spike had gotten them a suite, not because they needed the extra room, but because he knew that Tara had been staying in utter crap holes due to her cash situation. No sense in roughing it if they didn't have to.

During the ride up in the elevator, she frowned at the number display. "There's never a thirteenth floor," she mused.

He slanted a look in her direction. "It's bad luck," he reminded her.

"Well, yeah, but--I mean, just because you skip from twelve to fourteen doesn't get rid of the thirteenth floor. Uh, the fourteenth floor is the thirteenth."

"People are idiots," he grunted as the elevator stopped on the nineteenth floor. "As long as it's not marked thirteen, they're appeased."

She didn't argue when he told her to ward the room this time, and Spike stashed the Bowl, the Onyx and Khentimentiu's knife under the bathroom sink.

"I need to get some blood," Spike told her. "Why don't you order room service or something? Bint down in the lobby said there's an English menu in here somewhere, and you didn't eat anything on the plane."

Her nose wrinkled. "It smelled weird," she confided, and he smiled. "Spike?" He looked at her expectantly. "I, uh, don't have any idea where to look for the Essence. Are we going to go to a demon bar again?"

Remembering the last jaunt, he wasn't eager to repeat it. "Maybe." He shrugged. "That's one of the things Olson's working on. I'll check in with him when I get back. If he doesn't have anything, we might have to hit the underground, but it won't be tonight." Then he stared at her. "Giles popped into town."

She frowned and sat on the bed to take off her shoes. "Oh."

"Dead set against the Cerno," he informed her casually. "Seems to think we'd be better off finding out who..."

"Oh," she repeated, her hands going still. She sat up and sighed. "There's...there's no way to, uh, track it. Magically, I mean."

"Yeah, we figured that, since the Arcepts aren't trying. But I think Giles is fancying himself a detective."

Her face paled, then. "The people that Glory, uh, brain sucked?" Spike nodded. "They won't be any help. It was...you're not really all in her, but you're, uh, not in your body, either," she said slowly, her voice shaking just a little bit. "You remember things you did, but it's all faraway, and everything else is all disjointed. Hazy."

Combined with the Sunnydale Denial Syndrome, Spike figured Glory's victims were going to be about useless. "Right then. Get some food. I'll be back in about an hour."

A spot of B and E later, he wandered back to the hotel with a cooler of human blood. There was a picked over tray of food by the door, waiting to be removed by the hotel staff, and the shower was running in the bathroom.

Spike downed two packets of blood, then called Olson's cell phone. He didn't want to come across Giles again and figured it was safer to stick to the mobiles. "It's Spike," he said when Olson answered.

"Tom, so good to hear from you," Olson replied, forced cheer evident in his voice.

Spike rolled his eyes. Since when had patrolling the Hellmouth turned into one giant mess of office politics? "Do yourself a favor and grow a pair, mate," Spike scoffed.

"That's good to hear," Olson said tightly. "What can I do for you?"

"Look, we're in Berlin and I want to know if you chaps found out where we should start looking for the Essence."

"I see. Actually, you'd be better off calling your sister for that."

Spike growled. "My sister? Is that your clever way of telling me to call the Slayer?" he ground out.

"Bloody Hell, Eric," Spike heard Giles snap in the background. "I'm not a fool, and I damn well know you're talking to Spike so just hand over the phone this instant."

There was a shuffling noise and then Giles was on the line. "Bring Tara home immediately," he hissed at Spike.

Spike lit a cigarette and sat at the desk across from the bed. "Yeah, that's not going to happen, Watcher."

"I'm warning you, Spike. Stop this stupidity at once."

It was a damn good thing he wasn't in Sunnydale at the moment. Less than a minute of Giles' nonsense was more than enough, and he didn't know how the others were putting up with the ponce. "She won't go back," Spike snapped. "But if you want, I can force her to. Of course, I'll have to keep her knocked out for the entire trip, and then you'll have to restrain her once we get there so that she can't take off again. I'll go slam her head into a wall and we'll be off. How's that sound?" he asked, his voice overly chipper and cheerful.

If Giles' long stream of loud curses was anything to go by, he didn't like the sound of it at all. "Would you please try to take this seriously?" Giles finally said.

"I am taking it seriously," Spike countered furiously. "You're the one who's not. You think just because you want her to stop that she's going to? Well, she's not, and if she does it alone she's gonna get herself killed."

"What I think," Giles bit out coldly, "is that you are not doing anything whatsoever to sway her from what she's doing."

Well, the git had him there. He wasn't doing any such thing, and he didn't plan to, either. "What's the issue here?" Spike asked cynically. "Pissed off because no one's falling in line like you think they should?"

"I'm pissed off, as you put it," Giles snarled, "because this ritual is not the answer, and no one seems to want to consider that fact."

"Yeah, well, until you have another solution in your musty little hands, this is all we've got," Spike said diffidently.

"Spike--"

"She's as stubborn as Buffy," he interrupted, and silence fell over both sides of the line for several minutes. "Never would have thought it," Spike went on eventually, clearing his throat, "but she is."

"Damn," Giles sighed. "How...how is she?"

Spike shrugged, even though the Watcher couldn't see him. "She's managed to stay in one piece."

"And mentally?"

"Got a ways to go, still," he said bluntly.

"Yes, I imagine she would." Giles cleared his throat and then said, "Spike, I need to ask you about...about that night."

He tensed. "Faith already filled me in, and I didn't see who killed the witch. It was chaos at that point, and I'd just taken a tumble." He frowned and thought of something. "And don't be upsetting the Bit with this, you hear? She's finally on her feet and I don't want you shoving her back down."

"I wouldn't do such a thing," Giles said haughtily. "Even if there was a need, which there clearly is not since Dawn was nowhere near anything that was going on." He paused. "But Tara was."

"And she is nowhere near ready to talk about that," he said gruffly. "Between you and me, I don't think that hospital was any help to her. You really should have badgered that Counsel of yours into sending a shrink who knew the deal; don't think that one nurse was able to do all that much."

"I badgered until they refused to even take my calls," Giles said tiredly. "Bloody hell, she must still be a mess."

"She's better," Spike reluctantly admitted. "But from what I've seen, she'll revert back to her formerly loony state if you start asking her if she saw who killed her lover. Why don't you talk to some others who were there? You know, people who aren't us."

"I've been trying, but there were a lot of people present, and I'm getting no cooperation from anyone here," he said, sounding more than a little aggrieved.

Spike snorted. "Maybe you should get off their cases. Might do wonders for getting them to help you." Giles started in with one of his lectures, and Spike was done He hung up on the Watcher again and called Faith's cell.

"We couldn't find squat about where you can get the Essence," Faith told him. "But Wesley came through. Said some crone has it, and you can find her in the catacombs under the city."

"Well, that narrows it down," Spike snapped. "The bloody catacombs are under every inch of the city and then some! Be sure and thank the useless wanker for me."

"Chill out there, fang. He wasn't pleased about the lack of details either, but he's waiting to hear from another contact of his. I talked to him about ten minutes ago, and he said he'd call back in a few hours. Why are you in such a bad mood, anyway?"

"Giles saw through Olson's brilliant little scheme," Spike snorted. "We had a lovely chat. You given up on redemption yet?" he asked hopefully. The laughter he expected didn't come and Spike scowled. "What the hell did Rupes do now?"

"Same shit, different day," Faith responded flatly. "Tenth different day in a row, actually."

Torture wouldn't get him to admit that he liked Faith, Olson and Josh, but he did. They were a solid lot and there was a tougher feel to them than there'd been to Buffy's group. Not that that lot hadn't been tough--he'd found that out the hard way, on more than one occasion--it just hadn't been as evident. But it just took a look, a single look, to know that Faith, Olson and Josh wouldn't be easy targets. It was nothing overt, just an edge to their eyes that only a blind man couldn't see, and predators were anything but blind.

That mess he'd caused during the whole Adam debacle? Never would have worked on Faith's crew. They'd have laughed in his face and walked away, never giving his words a second thought. They didn't share sappy words and hugs, but everyone knew where they stood with one another. They didn't pull punches, and no one cried foul about that fact.

Not to say there weren't weaknesses to exploit, but figuring out what they were was no easy task.

So he liked them, and they all worked together, and Spike realized he the tiniest bit possessive of them--a very vampiric trait--and not pleased about whatever the hell Giles had been spewing at them lately. Far as he was concerned, the Watcher could rip into him all he wanted. He always had, and Spike had never expected that to change even though everything else had. But the rest of them were another story. Worst part was that their hands were tied. With Faith's history, no one at the Counsel would take too kindly to her kicking Giles out of town and telling him not to come back.

"Fuck Giles," Spike snapped at Faith. "It's his problem, and you've got to stop making it yours."

"Like you do when Angel shows up with problems that aren't yours?" Faith asked cynically. "Vamps in glass houses, Spike."

He straightened up. "That's different. Hell of a lot more history there, you know." She didn't say anything and he frowned. A moment later the dial tone started ringing in his ear, and Spike's eyes widened. He was the one that did the hanging up, damn it.

There wasn't a whole lot to do while they waited to hear from Wesley. Spike killed a good ninety seconds when he called Olson and gave him the hotel's number so that someone could call them and let them know what the ex-Watcher turned up. After that, though, they were pretty much just stuck in the room. Tara didn't speak a word of German, so she didn't even bother turning on the television.

Spike had suggested they go out, but she'd insisted that they needed to be there when the call came in about the Essence. It was an obvious excuse to stay hidden away from the world and Spike wasn't sure if it was a good idea or not to force her out just yet.

He was sitting against the headboard of one of the beds, chain-smoking cigarettes that he didn't even like, and trying not to glance at the clock every five minutes. Tara was down near the foot of the bed, sitting cross-legged with rows of playing cards laid out on the bedspread between them. Spike had ventured down to the gift store in the lobby and picked the cards up, along with a set of dice in case she felt up to learning any games to pass the time. She'd passed on the dice games and had dealt out a hand of Solitaire instead.

He studied her as she absently counted out three cards and turned them over. The pseudo-corset shirt she was wearing had made him smile when she'd come out of the bathroom. With the lace-up front and the soft cotton material that didn't actually emphasize anything the way that type of top was meant to, the damn thing just screamed "Tara". Once again she was wearing pants. Jeans this time. Spike thought that her return to herself would be signaled by a skirt that was long, a little frumpy, and some absolutely hideous color. Despite his distaste at the idea of the skirt itself, he was hoping it would make an appearance sometime soon.

Her reluctance to go forth into the world for something other than the Cerno got him to thinking about where she'd spent the last few months of her life, and he narrowed his eyes on the blond in front of him.

"What was it like?" Spike asked curiously and he didn't need to clarify the "what" that he was talking about, despite the fact that the question had come entirely out of the blue.

Her hands stilled on the cards and then floated away from them. She looked down at her lap and shrugged. "It wasn't horrible or anything," she said awkwardly. "It was kind of...nice. I, uh, didn't have to think, you know? They brought me where I needed to be when I needed to be there, and told me what to do when we got there." She sighed, a deep frown wrinkling her forehead. "It was...easy."

Spike raised a brow. "Yeah? Surprised you left, then."

"I had to."

He cracked his neck and took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly and watching her avoid his gaze. "If the Arcepts hadn't come into the picture, you would have stayed there even though your head sorted itself out." Tara stayed silent, and Spike shook his head and a long-standing question was answered. "It wasn't Glory's work after that night, was it? I'd wondered about that."

She shook her head slowly. "No. It--it was because of...what happened. It was...too much to, uh, absorb. Everything was wrong. It had been right, but then it was all wrong. Because of me."

Spike crushed out his cigarette and motioned her to him. "C'mere, pet," he said softly. She pushed the cards aside and crawled up the bed. Spike spread his legs so that she could sit between them, her back resting against her chest. "Blame's a tricky thing," he said after a few minutes. "You look objectively at everything that happened, and there's a million things that everyone involved could have done differently, or better, or not done at all. You can fling the blame every which way, and even some butterfly halfway across the world would catch some."

He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. "But it can't be looked at objectively, can it? Because that's not how things work. It's messy and personal, and you're right there in the middle of it not knowing half of what's going on, and only guessing at the consequences of anything you do. Truth is, it's about intent, and you were no more responsible for anything you did after Glory scrambled your brains than Dawn was for being the Key."

"It's not that simple," Tara choked. "It can't be. I--"

"You were being controlled by her," Spike finished harshly.

"Did you...I mean, after that night? Did you think that you...?"

"Yeah," he said gruffly, his chest tightening. He laughed wretchedly. "Did my best and it wasn't good enough, and there won't be a day that goes by that I won't be angry about that. But it was one of a truckload of things that would've had to go differently for it to work out the way we wanted it to. Took me some time to realize that."

It had actually taken him until that exact moment to realize it, actually, because he'd done his best not to think about it much. But trying to explain the way of the world to Tara had forced him to acknowledge it himself.

She turned in his arms, and there were tears in her big blue eyes that threatened to spill down her face any moment. Spike brought his thumbs to her face and brushed them away before they could fall. "How did you do it?" she asked brokenly.

"It's not something you have to do, pet," he said gently. "Just happens naturally. You go about your life, even if that's the last thing you want to be doing, and it settles on its own." He laughed again, this time in amazement. "Just settles on its own."

She leaned forward and laid her head on his shoulder. "I guess you didn't really have much choice in that, huh?" she guessed. "Going on, I mean. We really, uh, took away any other option for you."

"Yeah," he admitted without malice.

"Just like you did when you sent us away, even if that's what you weren't trying to do," she mumbled against his shirt.

"I suppose," he conceded. "Doesn't seem to have worked for you, though. It's more like you went off to a place where you could get by without living at all." He pulled back from her and scowled. "You're going back, aren't you?"

"I can't escape any of it out here, Spike." Her eyes pleaded with him to understand, and he did, all too well.

"That's because you're not supposed to escape it," he said uncompromisingly. "It's not you in that grave, even if you think it should be. So you have to live or die. That hospital is neither, and it's just putting off the decision."

He waited for the inevitable question he saw swimming in her eyes. "What--what if I decide I...can't live? What then?"

And he didn't have an answer for her because, really, he was a vampire who'd spent over a century killing people. What did he know about convincing a human to live?

So he reached out and flipped off the light by the bed, and they sat in the dark and drank up the nothingness that closed around them, and they didn't move until Olson called them four hours later.

"Might want to put a sweater on, luv," Spike suggested. "Catacombs are cold and drafty."

Tara automatically glanced down at the thin cotton of her top and nodded before rummaging through the small overnight bag that held her clothing. Spike shrugged his duster on and stared down at the map that Olson had faxed over to the hotel the previous night after he'd called.

Spike had managed to convince Tara that it would be better to wait until the following night to head out. They didn't know how long it was going to take them to get the Essence and he didn't want to be caught with his pants around his ankles--figuratively speaking--if dawn snuck up on them.

The map detailed the various access points of the Catacombs and he was trying to memorize as much as he could so that they could get the hell above ground in a hurry if they had to. They had lucked out in that there was actually an entrance located in the sub-basement of the hotel, but if they weren't near it, he wanted to know which way to go.

Tara slipped a white knit sweater on that fell to her waist, and Spike knew the damned thing was going to be dirty as hell when they were done crawling through the catacombs. "Is Wesley sure that a simple, uh, guiding spell is going to work?"

Spike shrugged and folded the map. "That's what I was told. According to his source, it's the only way to get to the crone." He shoved the map in his pocket, checked for his cigarettes and nodded towards the door. Tara checked the wards that were already in place without having to be asked, and set another one by the door. That was some kind of improvement, at least.

She was nervous and fidgeting as they strolled through a door marked "Authorized Personnel" in the lobby and Spike decided he wasn't going to translate any others sign for her when they were trying for subtle. They walked down a flight of stairs where the janitorial and security staff had offices and locker rooms. Passing by an equipment station, Spike stopped suddenly and took two large flashlights. He'd been in the catacombs only once, but he remembered just how dark the bloody things were.

It took some time for them to find the door that brought them down to the next level, with the furnaces and boilers, but they did find it. The entrance to the catacombs, on the other hand, wasn't so easy. They made their way down a cramped walkway surrounded by pipes and came to the spot where the entrance should have been. There was nothing but empty space.

"Damn thing should be right here," Spike exclaimed, turning in a circle. Tara was staring at the map, a frown on her face. "Shouldn't it be right here?"

"Yeah," she agreed. She tilted her head to the side and nudged him out of the way.

"Do you see a door or a cave or anything that goes anywhere?" he went on foully.

Tara dropped to her knees and began feeling along the floor. There was a coating of dirt and dust that no janitor's mop had ever seen, considering that the area they were in was tucked far away from everything important. She pulled a napkin out of her pocket and began clearing some of it away. Eventually Spike started to see that there was a small square of floor that was recessed from the rest.

He squatted down next to her and traced the outline with his fingers, finally finding a latch on the side nearest to him. "Take a step back, pet," he instructed Tara. She tossed the napkin aside and climbed to her feet, brushing the dirt from her pants. Spike grabbed hold of the latch and realized it was actually a ring. He gave it a pull and a trap door opened.

There was a set of stone steps that start just inches below the rim of the door. Spike counted ten of them before the darkness became so absolute that even his preternatural sight was useless.

"I'll do the spell now," Tara said thoughtfully. "There'll be a light? To follow."

She closed her eyes and started speaking, and Spike realized that when it was Tara's magic in the air, he did feel it despite the embossment. Not like he should have, but kind of like...same thing as when there's a bug crawling on you, and you see it and know that it's crawling on you, but damned if you can actually feel the creature's feet on your skin. In fact, if you weren't looking, you wouldn't even know it was there.

A small speck of green light appeared suddenly and danced in the air at the top of the stairs. Tara smiled wistfully at it before a stricken look entered her eyes and she looked away, swallowing and wrapping her arms around herself.

"I'll go first," Spike said brusquely. "Stay here 'til I tell you to come down."

He handed her one of the flashlights and turned his own on before he jogged lightly down the steps. At the bottom, he took a good look around, the light bouncing crazily around on the walls. It was pretty clean, for being set more than a few levels below the city, and he'd remembered the chilly breeze correctly. There wasn't sign of any other light besides the one he had brought, but there were old-fashioned torches set in the walls at regular intervals. He'd pass on those. Being highly flammable, he wasn't about to go prancing around with a burning stick in his hand, thanks. And he didn't really trust Tara to watch where she was wielding the damn thing.

He took a step forward and cursed when his foot twisted. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the cobblestone that was the floor, the wall and the ceiling. This he had forgotten, the great uneven chunks of stone fitted together with half-a-mind and some kind of broken train of thought. "You got heels on your shoes?" he called up to Tara.

There was a pause, and he rolled his eyes. Damn girl was probably looking at her shoes like she hadn't put them on herself. "Uh, no. Why?"

"Come on down and you'll see."

The green ball of light must have been tuned in to Tara, because it preceded her down the steps and hovered impatiently while it waited for her. Spike pursed his lips and waited for her to touch down on the cobblestone. Sure enough, she pitched forward almost immediately, despite the sure-footed sandals she was wearing. He slung an arm around her waist and kept her from falling face-first to the ground.

"Look," he instructed, and turned the flashlight to the ground, showing her the ground. "It's pretty bad everywhere. Stay next to me, all right? Keep your light down and watch where you're going. I'll watch for everything else."

The guide fluttered in his face, somehow conveying its annoyance with Spike holding up its mission, and he swatted it away.

"Be nice," Tara chastised him. "Its helping us and I'm sure it has better things to do than wait for us to, uh, start moving." It bounced off her face a couple of times, in obvious agreement and gratitude for her understanding, and Spike snorted. Office politics in Sunnydale, and some kind of twisted Disney Adventure here in Germany. Damn chip.

"Fine then," he said, sounding as long-suffering as he felt. "Let's go. Remember what I said. If you start to fall or something, just grab my arm, right?"

She nodded her head, and then held out her hand palm up. The guide skittered to her outstretched hand and its ears perked up. Not that it had ears, or anything. For a featureless ball of light it was certainly expressive, that was for sure.

"We need a guide to the crone that lives here," Tara said softly. "We need to get the Immortal Essence from her. Show us the way."

The guide lifted from her hand, seemed to concentrate very hard, then floated to their right.

Their progress was excruciatingly slow at first, as Tara paused between steps to decide where to move her other foot next. But she got better as they went on and they were moving at a respectable pace as the light drew them through dark hallways with dripping ceilings and strange echoes of sounds that could have been coming from a foot or a mile away.

The acoustics were screwed up even at short distances. When Tara tripped at one point, Spike asked if she was all right. Even though he'd spoken normally, his voice sounded like nothing more than a whisper. When he slammed his arm hard against the uneven wall in a tight passage, Tara's soft-spoken sympathetic ouch sounded like it had come from megaphone.

They kept silent after that, winding further and further from their starting point at the whimsy of their guide. Spike was beginning to wonder if the damn thing knew where it was going. As though it knew what he was thinking, it skittered back their way and spun around his head in some kind of reproach before continuing on.

Spike estimated it was over an hour before they finally saw the door ahead of them. The guide was still, frozen in place before it. Tara and Spike paused, exchanged a look, and then walked quickly to the guide.

"Should I send it away?" Tara asked Spike uncertainly. "I mean, do we need it to find our way out or something?"

He shook his head. "Got a good head for direction when I pay attention," he dismissed. "Let the bugger go back where it came from."

She scowled at him, and then held out her hand once again to the guide. When it was perched in her palm, she smiled. "Thank you for your help. You can go now."

With a slight flare of light, it flickered out of existence, and all that was left was the two of them in front of a massive cobblestone door that began to open on its own. There was some kind of light on the other side, and Spike squinted around the shadows. It looked like a room of some kind, with a dirty single mattress on the wall opposite of them, and a table to the left. The same torches were in the room, but they were lit, unlike the ones in the hallway he was in.

Someone was sitting at the table, back to them. "You have business with me, yes?" an ancient and grumpy voice called out.

"You the crone?" Spike asked, even though the slight form he could make out through the thick, rough material of a brown dress was most definitely crone-ish. But no sense being stupid and just assuming. Too much at stake.

"No, I'm the maiden," the irritated voice hissed back. "Come or go."

Tara was shifted uncomfortably at his side, and he glanced down at her questioningly. "What do you say, pet?"

She shrugged. "I don't, uh, know. I didn't have a chance to research this like I did with...with the Keepers."

No matter. They didn't have any other options of leads. Wesley had passed along the fact that the Immortal Essence they were after could only be obtained from the crone in the catacombs, and only if the price was right. He'd said that the price didn't have anything to do with cash, but that no one seemed to know what, exactly, it was.

"Right," Spike said decisively and crossed the threshold. Then he froze, because a gasp had tumbled from Tara's lips. He jumped back to her side of the doorway and stared at her confused face. "What is it?"

"Wards," the crone answered from the room. "More powerful than even your witch. No magic but mine in here. That's the rules."

Spike ran a hand through his hair and stared up at the ceiling. "Liking this even less and less," he muttered. He nodded and faced the doorway again. "You expect us to walk into a place stuffed with your magic when ours isn't available?" he asked her archly.

The crone turned, but her face was cast in shadows from the flickering torches on the walls in the small room. "Nothing happens here against anyone's will. That's always been the case." She shrugged a small shoulder. "Come or go," she said again.

He cracked his neck and looked to Tara again. She was biting her full lip, more concerned than he really wanted to see. "You won't be able to break them if something goes wrong, will you?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

She shook her head. "No, they're...strong, and different than anything I know." Spike grimaced and she took a breath. "We don't have a choice though."

"True enough," he admitted. They turned off their flashlights and Spike shoved them into the deep side pockets of the duster. They stuck out and made his coat swing oddly, but they stayed put.

Then Tara's small hand took hold of his and they entered the room.

The crone was still in the shadows, but Spike saw her tilt her head. "The vampire and the witch, on the quest for the Cerno," she stated with a grunt. "Running here and there like chickens with no heads, missing all the points along the way."

Her tone was one of disgust when she uttered the last words and Spike was suddenly remembering what Khentimentiu had told him about gathering the components for the Cerno being a journey. He'd assumed the false god had been talking about some kind of metaphorical journey--and maybe he had been--but Spike began to wonder if maybe it wasn't all metaphorical when the crone spoke so knowingly.

But then the crone got up from her seat and walked into the light, and Spike's thoughts abruptly cut off when he got a look at her, and Tara's hand tightened around his.

She was only about five-feet tall, and Spike thought he was being generous with that estimation. Couldn't have weighed more than eighty pounds at the most, even with that burlap sack she was wearing. Her skin was a bleached color, a sickly white that was testament to the fact that she lived well away from the light of the sun, and was so creased that it appeared her wrinkles had wrinkles. A few strands of long gray hair dangled pitifully from her mostly bald head. But as disgusted as all that was, when it was put together in such a manner, it was her eyes that made Spike's stomach spin.

Her eyes were rotted. Two shriveled orbs that still moved and scanned the room sightlessly. "The vampire avoided the trial for the Onyx, and you--" she pointed unerringly at Tara with a gnarled bony finger. "You gained the affection of the God." She cackled, and the sound of it curdled Spike's stomach. "You can't avoid payment with me, and I have no finer emotions to appeal to. This is going to be such fun!"

"How--how do you know all that?" Tara asked tremulously, staring fearfully at the crone.

"I may be blind, but I'm all seeing, witch." A cruel smile pulled at her thin, wrinkled lips and Spike knew fear for Tara and for himself. The creature in front of them was cruel and vicious and because she was so frail, Spike knew there had to be other tricks up her sleeve. Tricks designed to inflict the damage she seemed to be anticipating and that they'd be ill equipped to defend against with Tara's magic not available.

"Such a pretty little picture in your head, girl," the crone cooed in a gravelly voice. "Blood and brains, and lovely red hair. So sweeeeeeeeeeeet."

Spike froze. Beside him, Tara gasped in pain or shock or both, and her bones seemed to melt. Spike grabbed her around the waist, keeping her on her feet. Bloody hell, it was going to be even worse than he'd thought.

"Oh!" the crone said almost gleefully. "And you tried to scoop her brains back into her head! How darling!"

Tara was sobbing now, her body shaking so badly that he had to lift her in his arms because his arm couldn't keep her upright any longer. "What do we have to do to get the Essence?" he snarled at the crone.

She smiled toothlessly at him, shriveled eyes seeming to sparkle maliciously. She walked to the dirty mattress, and eased herself down. Her legs crossed with loud creaking noises that bounced off the walls. "I want that scene in her head," she hissed, her back arching. "I want it here, and now. In this room that holds only my magic. Want it played out in every excruciating detail."

Spike's eyes widened. He wasn't sure exactly what she meant to do, but he knew that Tara would lose her tentative hold on her mind if it happened. She'd crumble into so many little pieces that she'd never be able to put herself back together again. She'd be like those Arcepts when they died--constructed of millions of small bits of sand that couldn't keep a form for longer than an instant before it fell apart.

He spun on his heel, Tara still in his arms, and walked to the door. "It's a one time offer," the crone called out. "If you leave then you don't get a second chance, and there is no other way to get the Essence."

Changing tactics, Spike set Tara on the floor and then practically flew across the room, his hand wrapping around the crone's throat and pulling her up from the mattress. "You're not breaking her," he growled. "Give us the bloody Essence, or I'll spend the next few hours, or days, or weeks, torturing you until you're the one scattered to the wind." He tightened his grip. "Understand?"

She spat at him, and he tossed her across the room. There was a satisfying thud as her head slammed against the concrete wall, but the crone didn't even cry out. She got to her feet, nothing broken or bloody, and that feeling of apprehension crawled across his spine again when she issued another cackle.

"Typical vampire," she said through her laughter. "I hold the immortal Essence, and there is a price to be paid for it. There is no circumvention allowed."

"You don't feel pain," he realized, staring at her with narrowed eyes.

The crone gestured at Tara. "That memory is what it will cost her. She can take the offer or not."

His gaze slid to Tara. She was pressed against the back of the open door, her knees pulled to her chest. He remembered her like this, with her eyes feral and wild because she'd been stripped of everything except her instincts and her pain. He faced the crone again. "I'll pay."

Another toothless grin gaped at him, and he curled his lips in disgust. "You ask for the Essence for yourself, and will willingly pay the price?"

Again, that tickle against his spine. Spike knew there weren't any scenes she could reenact that would reduce him to Tara's current state. Not even the one from that night because while it had some power over him, he wasn't human and it didn't grab at him the same way it did for Tara. Which made him wonder just why the crone looked like a junkie who'd just been given a lifetime supply of her drug of choice?

"Spike?" Tara was sitting on her knees now, a semblance of awareness fading in and out of her eyes, her face ravaged like it hadn't been in months. He crossed back to her and crouched down in front of her. "It's about pain," she muttered absently.

He smoothed her hair away from her face awkwardly. "Yeah. Craves it because she can't feel it. S'allright, though. I'll take this one, right? You just...just calm down."

When he tried to stand, she shoved him backwards and crawled over him, her hair tickling his face. "She can't hurt you like she can hurt me," she whispered. "She'll--she'll--it'll be physical. And it won't end quickly."

"Tougher than I look," he said, and chucked her under the chin. Later he would think that if he hadn't done that, then things would have gone a lot differently. But he did do it, and her eyes shifted and slid and spun, and he knew she was remembering when his arms had been torn to shreds and he'd done the same thing.

"I'll do it," Tara practically shouted, still staring at something that had happened months ago. "Leave him out of it."

"Damn it, Tara," he snapped. He shoved her off of him, got to his feet, and pulled her up with him. Holding her by the shoulders, he shook her none too gently. She whimpered, but it just made him angrier. "Do you think I don't know what this is about? You want to be punished, think you deserve it. That's crap."

She squeezed her eyes shut and when they opened, he watched everything shift and slide yet again, until most of Tara was there. "That's--maybe I do think I...deserve it, but it's--there's more. You--you were the walking wounded that summer." Her voice grew frantic and intense, and her eyes got clearer and clearer. "You tried to hide it, but I always noticed. Ripped open and swollen and cracked; limping and wincing and stinging. And I know that Giles wasn't--he wasn't paying attention, and you could have...you could have gotten human blood. But you didn't, and I know why. But I hated it, Spike. I won't let you do it again. I won't!"

He glared down at her, refusing to let her words get to him. "I can take the damage. It wasn't a big deal then, and it's not a big deal now."

She pushed his hands from her shoulders. "Yes it was, and it is. You're not a...thing, and I won't let you act like you are. Not again."

Spike drew in a shocked hiss of air. Oh, that had hit a little too close to home. But this wasn't about him being made to feel like a man again. It was about the blond in front of him that he was about to pick up and toss out the bloody door for her own damn good. "You're barely keeping it together," he reminded her harshly. "Hanging on to the edge by the tips of your fingers and about to let someone stomp on them."

And her response? A simple, "I know."

He stared at her for what felt like hours, and he remembered that she was from the old group, filled with stubborn females. The group that had been stronger than they'd looked, stronger than everything that had come their way except the Hell goddess that the woman in front of him had survived. Part of the group that had been infused by the Hellmouth with a double dose of obstinacy.

"Fuck," he said with feeling.

"Yeah."

The crone was shivering in pleasure, and Spike was shaking with barely repressed rage. This wasn't the goodbye he'd promised her months ago--that he'd sworn to give her. Not by a long shot, and it was harder than he'd thought to just standby and watch as Tara straightened her shoulders and nodded to the crone.

The cobblestone door swung shut, and then the room darkened, until it was utter blackness, and Spike could no longer see the crone. But he could see Tara. Yes, he could see her. Backlit as the hazy and indistinct scene from that night gradually faded into the peripheral of the room. It was sideways and upside down; twisted and warped. Because this was Tara's point of view, and when she'd come back to herself there had only been the spot four feet to her left. The spot she was staring at, face pale, eyes coming loose, and knees threatening to give out.

The crone was drawing it out, setting the stage one small piece at a time instead of just thrusting Tara right into it. Because there was more to pain than the actual pain. There was the anticipation of it, and Spike knew from experience that it sometimes tasted even sweeter than the actual thing. And even though he would have gladly let the crone have her way with him so that this could have been avoided, there was still something...beautiful about Tara's agony. It flowed through him and he could feel it filling his head, clouding his thoughts.

The air in front of her shimmered and she changed. The cast was on her arm, and her clothes were the same as from that night. Her hair was shorter, her curves a little rounder. There were scratches and small bruises on her exposed skin, from the fall she'd taken when she'd been pushed away from Willow, from the panicked motions of all of those in Glory's thrall. The only thing that ruined the illusion of it being that night was that she was still the Tara of now where it counted.

But then, four feet to her left, a red mist gathered into a recognizable shape, holding the teasing illusion for one long moment before it abruptly settled into the flesh and blood of Willow Rosenberg. Spike looked away, settling his gaze on Tara, whose eyes grew wider and then, somehow, faded from the now. Everything in her lost touch with her and she was the Tara from before, all twitching limbs and jerky hand gestures.

"Baby?" she whispered, tears falling from her eyes and tracking pretty little lines through the dirt on her face. "Baby?"

She took two awkward steps forward, then collapsed face first to the ground. There was the sound of sobbing. Broken, shattered sobbing that continued when Tara began to drag herself to Willow, the movements laborious because of the cast and her violent crying.

But then she had reached Willow's feet, and her uninjured hand feathered over Willow's calf. "Sweetie, please," she cried out. "Willow. Willow, please. Please, Willow. I'm better, Willow. Talk to me, baby."

Tara slumped to the side and got to her hands and knees, crawling up and up and up so that she could touch Willow's face. Green eyes that had always been so expressive were now empty and blank, fixed sightlessly on the night sky above. That colorless skin of hers was streaked with dripping lines of blood, mottled with bits of pale mush.

Spike swallowed thickly, wanting to look away, but his only other option was to peer into the peripheral, twist it around in his head until he was seeing what he didn't want to see, so he watched Tara run her hand through the mess on Willow's face. Saw Tara try to wipe it away, then bring her fingers close to her face and stare until it sunk in, until she realized what she was looking at.

It seemed like her eyes expanded focus then, like a camera, and she took in the fact that Willow's hair was settled...unnaturally on the ground. Tara scurried around, and the room moved so that Spike didn't miss any of it. Tara reached out a tentative hand towards the battered and shattered remnants of Willow's skull. She caught something as it slid out, and then she mewled and curled in on herself, rocking and rocking, her eyes squeezed shut so tight that nothing could get it. They opened abruptly, a flicker of hope in them, but Willow's brain was still leaking out of her head.

Her arms flew out and she scraped her hands and fingers along the ground around her, gathering the blood and brains, and probably gravel and glass, into a pile just under the wound. She even dragged her fingers carefully through Willow's hair and wrung out what had stuck to it, then shook her hands clean over the pile.

Spike closed his own eyes then. He didn't want to see that poor girl try to put everything back. He bit back a bark of laughter. No, the problem was that he did want to see it, because everything about this was pulling at the demon side of him, urging him to enjoy the show with a malicious grin and a predator's eyes. But he wouldn't, because as delicious as this was on a certain level, he'd made the witch a promise.

He didn't look again until Tara started screaming. That sound drove away any possible enjoyment he might have found, because he remembered the screams. They had startled Dawn, had forced her out of the hold he'd had on her, and she'd tried to go towards them. But Spike had pulled her from Anya and Xander's bodies and shouted at Giles until the Watcher had blinked and been able to see again, and then he'd had Giles take Dawn so that he could follow the screams.

For Tara, it was like he just...appeared in a sitting position a foot away from her. In reality, he'd limped and staggered drunkenly through the chaotic frenzy of running humans, following those damn screams. He'd seen her, curled into a fetal position by Willow's head, and he'd made his slow and painful way to her. When he'd tried to crouch down next to her, his body had protested by collapsing under him so that he'd landed on his arse with a thud.

It had taken him a moment to register what exactly had happened to Willow and he'd sighed, knowing that he'd have to tell Dawn that someone else had been taken. But for the woman in such pain next to him, he hadn't known what to do. His tank had been empty and he'd been running on fumes, because they were supposed to have won, weren't they? Buffy and the others, they'd always won, and this just...hadn't...made...sense. And he'd barely even looked at Tara before, much less spoken to her.

Spike pulled his eyes away from himself, sitting helplessly next to the witches, and instead looked at Tara, watched as she screamed and cried and raged and blamed and freed a thousand other emotions in primal eruptions of sound that said more than words could have.

The Spike from that night finally touched her shoulder, and she looked up at him, raw anguish on her face. The same anguish was on Spike's face, too, and they recognized one another beyond just Spike and Tara. They recognized the pain that ripped their hearts out and slashed their wills and her screams faded away. Heartbeats passed as they stared, just stared at one another, two sets of blue eyes that were different by just a shade of gray, and then Spike opened his arms to her at the same time that she grabbed hold of his duster and pulled herself up.

She fell onto him, and he was so weak that it flung him onto his back, and he remembered that it had hurt his ribs and head, but the pain...the pain had been real and he'd tightened his arms around her to press her harder against him, making everything flare, and she pressed face against his throat and cried into his neck.

Spike saw his mouth moving, and knew that was when Dawn and Giles had been calling his name, and he'd had to swallow several times before he could yell back that he was fine and to give him a few minutes. Dawn understood what he hadn't said, and there were new screams in the air. But all of that was in Tara's peripheral, and there was only the silent moving of Spike's mouth to give credence to it.

Spike sat up, taking Tara with him and shifting her sideways on his lap, his lips once again speaking without sound. He'd been trying to tell her that they had to leave, because the police would be showing up and they needed to get out of there, the four of them needed to leave, and there would be a fifth but not really. But nothing penetrated for Tara until he pushed her back and forced her to meet his eyes. "Say goodbye, pet," he told her gruffly.

Tara jerked this way and that, flinging away from him to lean her forehead against Willow's and mumble incoherently. It was when Spike took hold of her shoulders to pull her away that she noticed it. The piece of pipe a few feet away, one end covered with blood, strands of red hair and white fragments of bone and dead gray matter stuck to it; the other hand smeared with the bloody handprints of the wielder. At the time, he didn't notice, and his hold was gentle, so when she yanked herself out of his grip she actually got away from him.

The Spike in the scene sighed and crawled after her, finding her staring, horrified, at the business end of the pipe. Trailing the tips of her fingers through it, collecting what she could and trying to rush back to Willow. But Spike wrapped his arms around her waist and held the struggling woman, fighting to get to his feet and finally succeeding.

He took her away from it. Walked her straight towards the jumbled peripheral, but instead of the scene clearing up and zooming out, it tightened. Closed more and more around her until there was only Tara hanging from Spike's arms, and absolute darkness and silence everywhere else.

Light flashed, and Spike shielded his sensitive eyes with a hand, lowering it only when he could see. Tara had her back against a wall, leaning on it and crying. Not sobbing, just crying. The crone had gotten up off of the mattress, and was heading in Tara's direction, a spring in her step and a small vial in her hand. Spike stepped in front of her and stared down at her, knowing that his face was a mask of nothing.

"Do you want the Essence or not?" the crone asked lightly, raising an eyebrow.

He walked with her to Tara, watching closely as she brought the vial to Tara's face and let a stream of tears fall inside. When she reached up to touch Tara's face with her other hand, Spike negligently slapped it aside and then followed her as she practically skipped her frail, creaking body to the table along the opposite wall.

Once there, she took hold of a small straight pin, muttered an incantation of some sorts that was spoken too quickly to be anything more than a sibilant rush of breath, then absently pricked her finger. Three drops fell into the vial before the small wound closed, and then she screwed a cap on it and handed it to him.

Spike shoved the thing in his duster pocket and went back to Tara. She was still on her feet, still crying. He tilted her face up by way of a finger on her chin. "Look at me, luv," he said quietly, and her lids rose so that her eyes could meet his. He'd seen them look better, but he'd also seen them look ten times worse. He smiled at her and put a hand at the back of her head, pulling her forward to lean on her chest.

"We done here?" Spike called to the crone over his shoulder.

"She paid, and she has the Essence. It's finished."

Tara walked of her own accord, stiff and tired, but on her own two feet. It was something. The crone's voice crackled through the room to them just as the door swung open. They paused but didn't turn around. "Don't worry, sweet witch. You kept your grip, but there will be other chances. You'll be your own worst hurdle."

The door crashed closed behind them, and Spike cursed while he fumbled for the flashlights. Tara's hand was limp when he tried to press a one in it, so he finally tossed it aside and used the one he was holding to light the corridor. She was pulled tight into herself, not even reaching out to him as she had so often done since that night, so he slung an arm around her shoulders while he thought. He didn't want to spend another damn hour in the catacombs, didn't think the dank darkness would be all that good for her.

That little instinct in him that knew when the sun was out told him that they still had plenty of time before dawn. He reached into Tara's sweater pocket with his free hand and pulled out the map, clumsily unfolding it, then studying it in the dimly lit corridor.

The paper was balled up and shoved into his jeans pocket, and then he urged her the opposite way they'd come. He was gentle at first, and when she didn't move, he forcefully pulled her along by way of the arm around her. It took them only ten minutes to get to the nearest exit, which brought them into a park on the edge of the city, amid a circle of high bushes. Spike lowered the trap door and then took a deep breath. The night smelled of greenery and beer and food that was too stupid to be safely shut in houses.

And it also smelled of Tara, who was standing a bit away from him. Tara was...she was soothing lavender and luscious hyacinth, and it brought to mind thickly humid climates full of knowing smiles and swinging hips and soft women glistening with light sheens of sweat that soaked into cotton clothing.

But there was also another scent in the air that was also Tara, one that he hadn't smelled since that last night before she'd left Sunnydale for Wildwind. His lips parted and his eyes fell on her clenched fists, and he knew that her nails had broken her skin.

He'd tasted her blood that night, quite accidentally. Her fingers had pressed passed his lips, and there'd been a small scrape on one of them. He remembered the taste of her beyond just the copper. Her blood had awash in innocence and grief, in insanity and guilt. And the magic, of course. The power of her magic.

As the wind brought the scent to him more directly, Spike's nostrils flared. It was different, now, changed. There was something new wound through it, something that was dense and eclipsing. He knew what it was: rage. Pure rage that had no target and gave no hint of itself on her wretched features. That was why she was on her feet, still mostly whole. It had sunk its hooks into her, sewn her back together as quickly as everything had ripped her apart, and it had come into her when the Arcept minion had shown up at the hospital. He didn't know how he knew that last part, but he did.

He touched the embossment at his collarbone. Her power had impressed the covens that had been helping Giles research, had cowed every mystical being they'd come across. It had even scared Tara, hadn't it? In Cairo, when she'd stammered about her lack of control.

His hand fell away and his eyes lost focus. Rage could be a weakness, a monumental weakness, because it left you open to the clear-minded strategy of someone who was calm. But sometimes rage could take such firm root in someone that it was cold and controlled while it demolished everything in its path and gave you no opening to stop it.

"Spike." The word was said softly, but it still made him jump. His eyes went back to her, and saw that she was facing him now, eyes dark and pained by what she'd been through, her arms at her sides. She looked so lost there, standing so close that he could see her and smell her and hear her.

Last summer he'd learned her secrets and he'd tasted her blood. In Cairo he'd come to understand that she was untouchable by the darkness. Tonight he'd watched make it through the one thing she shouldn't have been able to make it through.

And in between all of those moments, he'd seen other things, too. She'd protected herself not by attacking anyone, but by deterring anyone from coming near her. She had set about keeping everyone from that night safe with the embossment. She'd chosen not to physically hurt the Emling when it had come after her. She'd kept the Marpel from getting blasted by its own attack.

The rage inside of her, it should have had her firmly in its grip, should have made her irrational and unpredictable. But the rage was doing her bidding and all she'd ordered it to do was to keep her on her feet--in all ways--until she could finally sit.

He held out his hands and she tripped to him and fell against him and stretched up to wrap her arms around his neck and he lifted her so that her legs could settle around his waist.

And his arms were across her back and his lips were against the pulse point in her neck and she was all that he could smell and just like the night that had been replayed by the crone, there was nothing except the two of them as he carried her back to the hotel.

Spike was on his back with Tara curled on her side next to him, watching his face. He snaked an arm out and pulled her to him, and she twisted and shifted until she was lying flat on top of him, her forehead pressed to his neck, their bodies touching down to their feet, and the tears she'd been crying since the catacombs finally slowed and stopped.

"I missed this," Tara said eventually, her voice hushed. "I thought...I thought when I was away? From there? I thought I wouldn't need...."

Spike quieted her, and tilted his face to kiss the top of her head. "No explanations, right?"

"No secrets, either," she finished for him, and he smiled sadly. "It doesn't hurt here."

"Never has."

He snuck out around noon, when he was sure Tara was deeply asleep and his moving from the bed wouldn't disturb her. The catacombs entrance was easier to find this time, and he clambered down the steps and retraced the path from the previous night.

The crone's door was open, and she was smiling coldly when he stepped through into her small room. "You know something about the ritual," Spike growled immediately.

"I know many things about it," the crone replied in a singsong voice. "But it's not my place to give you everything you need to know." She cast a sly glance in his direction, and it was creepy, with the unseeing eyes. "There is one thing I can tell you."

Spike looked upwards and clenched his hands into fists. "What?"

"One of the reasons it fails. Would you like to know that? Will you pay the price to know it?" she trilled, and Spike took a breath that he didn't really need, to compose himself, and then turned icy eyes to the crone.

"Yes."

There were too many questions to count in Tara's eyes when he returned, but she chose not to voice any of them. The white washcloth was red when she finished cleaning him off, and she helped him to the bed and tucked the blanket around him. When she would have walked away, he took her arm and pulled her on top of him, feeling the warmth, god, she was so warm, and listening to the small sounds she made at the back of her throat.

It was just getting dark when he woke, and Tara was sitting up, back against the wall behind the bed, with him cradled against her chest. She was running her hands through his hair.

"Nightmares," she said absently when he frowned at their new position. He wasn't surprised about that. "I'm mad at you."

"I'm sure," he said, but she didn't try to move out from under him, didn't take his head from her chest.

"I should probably ask you if there's anything else you let her do besides what I saw, but I think that I don't really want to know." Spike laughed harshly and she tugged at his hair reproachfully. "Why would you let her carve you up like, like a piece of meat or something?" she demanded quietly, an ache in her voice.

"We need to go back to Paris," Spike answered incongruously. Tara stilled, then resumed running her fingers through his hair. He answered her unspoken question. "If you're going to do the Cerno, then you have to be the one to get what's needed."

"All right."

Then she twisted and turned until she was flat on her back. Her legs were spread and he lay between them, his head just under her breasts and the thudding of her heart reverberating through his body.

There'd been nights that summer when he'd found himself at the house on Revello, not even realizing he'd gone there in the first place until Tara had wafted into Buffy's bedroom. The room where the scent of her was trapped by closed windows and a latched door.

On those nights he'd lain on top of Tara, just like he was now, face buried against her chest as he shook and trembled. Those quick hands of hers had touched him everywhere, reassuring him with butterfly caresses that followed no pattern. He'd get distracted trying to anticipate where they would land next, and the shaking would subside and then she would take him by the hand and lead him back to the apartment and they'd miss the sun by minutes.

Spike turned his head, nose brushing her breast and she began to hum a soft and calming melody that he'd never been able to place.

"I know it never would have worked out," Spike said eventually, his voice quiet, and Tara's humming drifted off. "Even if she'd given me the chance."

Once again she wasn't surprise by where his thoughts had gone. "Not really the point, is it?" Fly-by-night caresses changed in favor of firm circles between his shoulders.

"Guess not," he admitted, sighing.

They left two hours later, neither one of them wanting to keep going, but both of them desperate to leave this place, and needing the entire ordeal to be over with as soon as possible. Spike demolished the rest of the blood he'd gotten the previous night and ignored the concerned look on Tara's face when he winced while putting a clean shirt on.

The gathering of belongings was done in heavy silence, the checking out with terse words to the cheerful concierge, and the booking of a flight at the airport with drawn faces.

When they boarded the plane, Spike pulled the in-flight phone from the chair back in front of him. He called Josh's cell phone because the boy perpetually forgot to turn the thing on and Spike didn't wan to talk to anyone in Sunnydale right then. His message was short and to the point.

"Done in Berlin. I'll call from Italy."

Disclaimer: The characters/concepts of BtVS belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and everyone else who makes money from the show. The rest is mine. Ooh, I bet Joss is jealous.

Part Five

Once they had landed and were settled in Italy, it was the middle of the night. Spike didn't even take time to calm the anger that had started gathering during the flight, he just grabbed the phone in the hotel room and called the Magic Box.

Tara wandered into the bathroom, closing the door with a click. A moment later, while he listened to the phone at the shop ring, Spike heard the shower start. He didn't blame her for not wanting to hear this. As he'd hoped, Giles answered.

"You tell that slimy bastard," Spike shouted, "that the minute this soddin' chip is out of my head, he's in for a long, painful death!"

There was an exasperated sigh. "Spike, what are you going on about?" Giles asked irritably.

Spike kicked at the double bed in the room, and the mattress slid off the boxspring. "That crone is what I'm going on about," he snarled. "And that damn fool didn't even warn us!"

Giles didn't say anything for a moment, then his clipped tones came across the line. "What happened?"

Spike glared at everything and nothing. "Bitch damn near broke the witch, is what happened. Went into her head and then recreated the entire bloody thing in surround sound and Technicolor. Got to see Tara try to put Red's brains back. You getting it now?" he added sarcastically. "Or do you want some more details? Because there's plenty."

"Dear lord," Giles gasped, horrified. "For what--why?"

"Payment," Spike ground out. "I'm telling you, that moron--"

"I'll take care of it." His voice had that blunt edge to it, the one that told Spike this was the version of Giles who had stormed the mansion--crossbows blazing--after Angelus had killed his girlfriend. Well, good. Wesley deserved this hardass Giles going after him if he'd known more than he'd said. "Is Tara alright?" Giles went on.

Spike tossed his hands in the air and then threw himself onto the cozy chair in the corner. "Who the hell knows?" he grunted.

Actually, he knew damn well how Tara was doing and he wasn't sure yet whether it was good or bad. She'd barely spoken two words during the two flights they'd taken from Berlin, and she'd woken up screaming from a nap on the second plane. Also hadn't spared a glance at the renowned Tuscany countryside. Then again, neither had he, for an entirely different reason. But humans were supposedly all gaga about Tuscany.

Giles cleared his throat. "During the, er, reenactment, did you happen--"

"No, you bloody tosser!" Bloody hell the man was tenacious. "She was swimming around in Glory's head when it happened. Considering how everything but Willow was warped in that little scene I saw, I doubt she was aware of anything going on around her before Glory died."

"I see," Giles sighed. "Er, yes, well, Josh was here until just a few moments ago. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to determine where you might be able to find the pomegranate."

"Doesn't matter," Spike said tiredly. "We'll figure it out here. Have you been checking in with Dawn like I asked?"

"Yes, yes. She's doing well and is eagerly looking forward to Spring break. She, er, said to give you--and Tara--her...love."

He smirked. "Aw, Rupes, didn't know you cared!"

"I don't, you great plonker," the Watcher grumbled. "Spike, whatever else is, er--that is, please--oh, hell. Dawn can not lose anyone else; I don't know that she'd be able to survive it. Just make sure you keep Tara safe. For Dawn's sake, if you can think of no other reason."

Spike made a sound. The Watcher had a pretty realistic opinion of him; maybe the chip hadn't completely made him a feeb. "Yeah, I'll do that."

When Tara emerged from the bathroom, all pink faced and soapy fresh in her boxers and t-shirt, Spike was just hanging up. He was feeling particularly restless and he was scowling at her as she struggled to set the mattress right. Considering his mood, it seemed like the perfect time to force some answers out of Tara.

"What the hell is the deal with the crap we're collecting?" he demanded to know. "Not very consistent, is it? Egyptian, Roman, Canadian...whatever the hell that bitch in Berlin was, not to mention the damn Onyx."

Tara frowned and began folding her dirty clothing. "It...the Cerno didn't originate from any of those, uh, religions or cultures, or whatever. It just utilizes what already exists." She put the clothing in her bag and sat on the edge of the bed, knees tucked together like a schoolgirl's, her hands pushing a lock of wet hair behind her ear. "Did you read the ritual?"

Spike shook his head. "No, just heard about it from the others. Why?"

"The ritual is designed around the objects. The kind of magic that

it would require to call the dead back and reverse what they'd done?" She shook her head. "It would have to be the darkest kind. Probably requiring a human sacrifice, or even more than one. That's beyond just dark magic to something that would consume you before you even did what you were trying. But with the Cerno, you don't need to access those magicks; the objects do most of the work for you, and there aren't any, uh, repercussions, either."

"Huh," Spike grunted. "Makes sense." He raised a brow at her. "You know anything about why the damn thing is so fatal? Crone only gave me the one reason, but she said there were more."

She sighed, a flicker of worry chasing itself across her face. "Rumors," she said hesitantly. "Theories." Her legs lifted until her knees were at her chest, her feet hanging slightly over the edge of the bed with a hand braced next to each of them. "There's supposedly a lot of, uh, criteria that needs to be met for it to succeed." She frowned. "But it's not written anywhere."

"That chatty Keeper said that his boss doesn't usually find the reason for someone doing the Cerno to be worthy," he said thoughtfully. "Could be part of it. What did Khentimentiu say when you were in there with him?"

Tara shrugged, her face falling into uncertain lines. "I don't know. It was all really...odd. He talked a lot, but I got the impression that, um, it was what he was talking around that was important. Anyway, he, uh, asked me..." Her eyes skittered away. "...why I wanted to do it."

Spike scooted down in the chair, his foot stretching out to drag the matching ottoman closer. Once it was positioned, he propped his feet up, crossing them at the ankles. "You told him everything, then?" he asked, studying her carefully.

She wrapped her arms around her calves. "Pretty much." She leaned her chin against her knees and looked at him again, pale blue eyes struggling to stay focused. That was getting to be her normal look. "He asked me a bunch of questions about--about it all. They were kind of--they made sense. You know, getting the...details. Of what happened."

Spike grunted. "And what about the 'talking around things' business? Got an inkling what he was trying to say or find out?"

Her head shook slowly, awkwardly. "No, but...ever get that feeling that things are waiting to click into place?" she questioned him. "Like you just need some time before something gets to the tip of your tongue? That's what it feels like." Soft blue eyes became curious. "What about when you talked to him?"

"About the same," he sidestepped. "Think he was more cryptic and less charmingly erratic with me than he was with you."

She sat up, knees still at her chest, then leaned back and braced her hands on the mattress behind her. "And the note that made you so, uh, irritated?" she pushed.

He snorted and cut a hand through the air. "Some drivel about him being something like Fate to me because I'm a vamp." He pursed his lips. "Bloke's got delusions of grandeur, if you ask me," he added haughtily.

Her lips quirked, and a knowing light came into her eyes. "Hm."

Spike glared at her. "What's that mean?"

"Oh, nothing," she said lightly, staring up at the ceiling suddenly.

"Think the wannabe god was telling the truth?" he sneered. "Please. Like vamps need some kind of mystical being arranging for them to kill and maim and--oh, drink some blood." A harsh bark of laughter. "'Sides, Peaches is a vamp, and I woulda remembered him yammering on about some shapeshifting vampire being one of the Powers That Be."

"Hm."

Spike growled in frustration. Bloody hell that doubtful humming noise just made him violent. He grabbed his cigarettes off the table next to the chair and lit one, closing the lighter with a loud snap of metal on metal. "Shut up."

Tara climbed into bed not much longer after that, the natural undershadow of her eyes more pronounced than ever. Spike stayed on the chair, at first attempting to come up with some way to track down the latest piece of the Cerno. But his eyes strayed of their own accord to Tara's fretful form--body twisting in the sheets, small whimpers coming from her lips, heart racing and breathing shallow.

He knew that if he were to get up and slide in next to her, she would quiet. He was starting to wonder if that was actually a good thing anymore, if it had ever been to begin with. How was she--how were either of them supposed to get passed anything if they kept running to the safety of silence? Wasn't too much different, was it, than Dawn's movie fixation. Except Dawn had gotten over that.

Tara cried out. A trembling, "Noooooo." His legs fell from the ottoman and he was half out of his seat before he realized what he was doing. Jaw clenching, he forced himself to sit back down. She'd make it through the dreams just fine, wake up a little haunted but all right. But he still had to wrap his hands around the arms of the chair and concentrate on just sitting. He settled his gaze on the wall across the room, hoping that not looking at her would make it easier. It didn't.

There was no stopping him when the crying started, however. Very aware of his actions, he jumped to his feet and hurried to the bed. He didn't even have to gather her in his arms. As soon as his weight settled on the mattress, she scrambled to him. Still asleep. Still crying. The wetness fell on his bare chest for only a minute or two before it tapered off. She sighed, and her sleep became restful. Spike sank into it--into the stillness and the quiet that was accompanied by a gaping maw of loneliness that should have made him uncomfortable, because it served to remind him of losing something that he'd never had.

This was why he couldn't remain across the room. Despite being love's bitch, and chipped, and halfway to becoming his grandsire minus the buggering soul, he was still a selfish git of a soulless vampire--and slightly masochistic. She gave him succor from everything that he hadn't been able to avoid since she'd left Sunnydale, and she also acted as salt on some wounds that he wasn't letting close.

No one had ever accused him of being well adjusted, now had they? In fact, they might have said that he was in love with pain.

They woke around midday. Spike showered and came out of the steamy bathroom wrapped in a towel, to find Tara sitting in the center of the bed, a plateful of tomatoes and cheese in front of her. The television was on and she was eyeing it with a frown of concentration. Must have had some high school Italian under her belt, because she laughed when the idiot on the sitcom she was watching made some idiotic joke or other.

"Want some?" she asked, holding out the plate. "The, uh, innkeeper lady brought it up."

Spike took the plate and flounced on the bed, adjusting the towel when her eyes widened and her head snapped away. He snorted. "Just a body, pet. Not even the flavor you're interested in. Grow up."

"Kind of used to, um, bible thumping repression of people being nude under their clothes," she admitted, blushing slightly.

"That a fact?" he drawled, popping a wedge of mozzarella--fresh, Italian mozzarella and not some store-bought American crap--into his mouth. "Think bible thumpers also repress lesbianism, but you're a card carrying carpet muncher, aren't you, luv?"

Her mouth dropped open. "Carpet muncher?" she repeated, her voice cracking towards the high end. "Wow. I think that's the...crudest way anyone's ever put it."

"To your face, maybe," Spike said knowingly and shoved a goopy mess of tomato out of his way in favor of more mozzarella.

Tara rolled her eyes and scooped up the tomato he'd mangled. "That's what I meant. People are pretty PC when they find out I'm gay." She shrugged. "Plus, it's gotten kind of trendy, you know?" Spike mirrored her shrug and shivered in distaste as she ate the tomato. "I have an idea. About the pomegranate?" she said after she'd swallowed.

"What is it, then?"

"I thought I could maybe talk with the innkeeper lady. And her friends. She has lots of them and they all, uh, hang out. Here. That's what she said, anyway. I figure that I could get them to tell me some stories about the area. You know, play up the tourist bit." She smiled shyly at him. "What do you think?"

He nodded and tapped her on the nose. "Sounds fine. Got an idea or two myself when I was showering. I'm going to make a visit to the local vamps when the sun goes down."

She eyed him with confusion. "Are there even any? I mean, there aren't really many people that wouldn't be missed around here. How do they...eat? Without getting anyone suspicious. Or killing everyone off."

"Gossip mill says they keep caged humans on hand. Supposedly bring them in from places they won't be missed." He stood up and grabbed a set of clothes from his bag. "Not sure if it's true or not, but I guess I'll be finding out, eh?"

She was silent, and he glanced at her absently as he pulled out a t-shirt. "What's the problem?" he asked. She had pushed the plate aside, and was picking at a loose thread on the blanket under her.

"You...will you come back?" she asked without looking up, tilting her head even further so that all of her face was curtained by her hair.

Spike closed his eyes briefly. All these humans needing him, needing things from him that he had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to give them. "Course I will, luv," he said softly. "Told you I didn't come all this way just to leave. It's still true."

"I'm sorry." He almost hadn't heard the words because her voice was so thready. "I know you'd rather be home. Or...anywhere."

"Must I remind you, yet again," he drawled, "that I'm evil. I damn well do what I want, and if I'd rather be in Sunnyhell then I'd be in Sunnyhell. Or anywhere else." He slung his clothing over his shoulder and strode to her. A light tug on a lock of hair brought her head up, and she watched him nervously. "We clear on that? Because if not, I'll have to spring for a tattoo. Put it right about here," he said, drawing a line across her forehead. "Get it done backwards so you can read it in the mirror."

She smiled and shook her head, ashen locks sliding along her face. "No tattoo needed," she assured him. "I'll change and go down to Senora Montalbano. Let me know when you're leaving?"

"Sure, pet."

As soon as she'd switched her sleeping clothes for the outfit she'd worn in Cairo, she slipped out of the room to make time with the matronly Italian women.

Spike got to work dismantling the chair and ottoman. Broke them apart into sharp bits of wood that he stashed in his pockets. One was crammed into his boot and he refitted his jeans over it before making a circuit around the room and adjusting his gait so that he didn't give its position away.

These local vamps had reputations that had kept even the arrogant bastards of Aurelius away back in the day when everyone had been happily soul and chip free. The Florence crew had it good, and they knew it so they went to great extremes to maintain it. Imported food that no one thought to look for in the countryside and a safe place to hide. It was the best deal out there, really.

When the sun set, he grabbed his duster and prowled downstairs. Tara was in the back of the inn, sitting at a wrought iron table on a terracotta patio. There were lanterns in the small garden area, chasing shadows across her face as she listened attentively to one of the four women at the table.

"Heading out for a stroll, pet," he interrupted. "Back before you know it."

Tara nodded, a small smile tilting her lips. "Be careful."

He smirked. "Always am." Noticing the interested looks he was getting, and knowing from experience how much Italian senoras could talk, he beat a hasty retreat through the building and out the front door. He followed the gravel road for a while until he came to the "main" road, then cut a right.

He hadn't a clue where to find the locals, but he figured he wouldn't have to worry about that. They'd probably find him soon enough if even a portion of what he'd heard was true. Just a matter of wandering around in plain view long enough.

Sure enough, he felt them coming forty minutes later. With a small grunt, he brought his cigarette to his lips and spun around to face them before they could attack. "Heard you coming from two towns over," he sneered in Italian, tossing the cigarette aside. "Maybe the stories are exaggerated."

The two vamps stared coolly at him, apparently not much for the witty banter. Spike shrugged and went on the attack, lunging forward to dust one before he could move, and then bringing the other to the ground with a sweeping kick that took the git's feet out from under him.

Spike's foot connected with his ribs several times before he leaned down and grabbed the vamp's collar and dragged him to his feet. "Here's the deal," Spike said pleasantly. "I'm just passing through. Don't want to piss you blokes off by snacking, so I thought I'd track you down. So why don't you just take me to whoever gives you your orders? If not, I can just dust you and wait for more lackeys to wander by." He shrugged. "Up to you."

Seemed like the minion had never been asked to make such a difficult decision, and Spike wasn't sure what it meant about these locals. Personally, he liked all but a closely kept two or three minions to be dumb as bricks. Made them easy to confuse, sure, but it also made them easy to order around. It had always been a conscious decision on his part. But stupid minions were often a sign of a master that wasn't vampire enough to handle the smart ones.

The thought didn't sit well with Spike. With the kind of reputation these blokes had...if the master was weak, then it had been earned solely by bloodshed. Which was all fine and impressive, but also a tad more indiscriminate than Spike was comfortable with. Angelus had been impressive not only because of his violence, but because of his imagination and cleverness. Spike had never claimed to be a chip off the old block, but he'd learned how to deal with that type. There was no dealing with a weak or stupid master because they just didn't use their bloody common sense.

The vamp was still indecisive and Spike wasn't about to stand around until the sun came up. "Right, let me repeat this in a way you'll understand," he said reasonably. "Take me to your boss or you're dust. Simple enough for you?"

The imbecile had lead him through about half a mile of gorgeous countryside before taking him below ground via a cave entrance. Spike vowed to never again complain about sharing the Watcher's old flat with Faith, no matter that the bathroom was a clutter of feminine odds-and-ends that he hadn't thought she would own. But she did, and he always growled in disgust every time he entered the bathroom. No more, though. It was supremely preferable to the ubiquitously below-ground digs he'd formerly inhabited and which he seemed destined to revisit during every part of this miserable trip.

Didn't seem to be much to this lot's digs from what Spike saw. Raw stone walls that weren't relieved by any kind of decoration, dirt floor that had well-worn paths trod through it, and small carved holes in the walls that served as rooms for the minions. No electricity, even, just lanterns in some of the rooms, but not in all of the halls. Old school, as he liked to think of it. Before his time, even, because he'd always been all for the creature comforts. Much like Khentimentiu, now that he thought of it.

The main room of the place was small, and Spike was once again suspicious of the master's level of intelligence and prowess. A human would have called the bare, unadorned room Spartan, but there was no such thing for a master vampire. There was either pretentious or unpretentious. He'd never met a master worth meeting that wasn't pretentious. Was part of the package.

Seemed like the entire crew had gathered to meet him, and Spike smirked lightly. Then he realized that he couldn't identify the master immediately and his lips thinned into a small, tight line. Bloody fuck, he might be screwed but good.

The vampire that stepped from the midst of the crowd was only marginally more powerful than the rest. He wasn't much taller than Spike, and he had the Mediterranean coloring down pat. Thick dark brown hair, skin that was lightly olive toned despite the being undead thing, and deep brown eyes. His clothing left a lot to be desired. Not even close to flamboyant. Yeah, he was well on his way to getting screwed here if the chinos and Henley were anything to go by.

"I'm back, Maurice," the minion announced boldly.

"Gianni," he said very carefully in his native tongue. "You were supposed to dispatch him."

A blank stare worthy of Harmony emanated from Gianni, and Spike snickered. "I confused the imbecile," he sneered. "Didn't understand me when I said I was just passing through and wasn't looking for trouble with you."

"I see." Maurice shook his head slowly, then narrowed his eyes. "I know who you are. William the Bloody. They say you aren't fit to be called a vampire anymore. Unable to feed, helping Slayers..."

Spike's jaw clenched in an impotent fury that was all too real. "Some soldier boys in the States decided to fuck around with my head, yeah," he ground out. "But the only reason I was helping that bitch of a Slayer was because she was threatening to soul me. I played along until she died, then stuck around long enough to make sure the new bitch couldn't pull it off."

Maurice's eyes flickered to gold. Another strike against him. There was no need for pissing contests yet and he was showing a lack of control with that little bit of yellow in his eyes. "Why are you here?"

Spike tilted his head. "Got this bloody brilliant techno human under my thumb," he said with a slow smirk. "Goona get this thing outta my head so I can take care of business again." He shrugged. "I'm playing the tortured and misunderstood vamp for her." A disgusted shudder that wasn't entirely forced accompanied his words. "Trouble is, I have to keep up the ruse until she fixes me up. She wanted to see Tuscany, so I brought her here to the Florence countryside."

When Maurice stared intently at him, Spike read the gaze and realized that he wasn't on his way to being screwed; he'd arrived ten minutes ago. The ponce couldn't figure out if Spike was telling the truth, and if his instincts were trying to guide him, he didn't realize it because he was too damn weak to have honed his predator to the best possible edge.

That's what eating caged and being insular did to a vamp--halted their power growth, dulled their instincts. Kept a vampire that was Peaches' age at minion level, only able to lord it over the weakest of fledglings. Spike was damned glad that he'd made it a point to let his demon reign every which way it could, even if he couldn't kill people. There was no way he'd want to be like this git.

Of course, this git was quite possibly about to hand Spike his arse on a plate...

As Maurice scrutinized him, Spike casually got the lay of the land. There were fifteen vamps in the room, with all but four of them in his line of sight. They were all weaklings, through and through. Even Maurice. Spike had spent a couple of months keeping the Hellmouth under control on his own, and many more months dividing that duty with a Slayer. A slow grin came over his face. Nah, they were the ones that were screwed.

Spike's opinion on who was about to give it to who jumped sides yet again when a murmur and scuffling of feet came from the back of the group in front of him. He raised a cocky brow at first, but then the scent assaulted his nostrils and he felt like his face had just frozen into place. Lavender and hyacinth and rage. Tara. A bleeding Tara.

Angelus wouldn't have been caught like this. And if he had been, he would have had a contingency plan in place. But Spike had been caught, and the only option he had was his old standby: unexpected violence. He forced his features into a mask that was slightly more natural in appearance right as two minions came forward, Tara's unconscious form being kept upright by a hand at each of her arms and her feet dragging along the dirt ground.

Her head lolled to the side and a snarl came unbidden from his throat. She was a damned mess. Her left eye was already beginning to swell shut, and her lips were twice their normal size, split in two places and oozing blood. Her hair was matted with blood just above her right temple, and there was a handprint at her throat that was starting to bruise. But what really got him was the bite mark. He could tell that the bite had been interrupted, the fangs torn abruptly from her neck and ripping her skin raggedly.

"What's this about?" Spike asked archly, waving a hand at the beaten witch. A tingling sensation spread across his collarbone, and he raised a brow at Maurice as though the embossment hadn't flared to life the way it had when Tara had touched him in Cairo.

Maurice's jaw set. "There is no 'just passing through' here. Everyone knows that. You will not take over this territory."

Spike exploded with laughter. "Take over?" he gasped incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me. Like I want to rule a lovely bunch of countryside or these rejects you've got working for you."

The other vampire's eyes slid away. There was something here besides the countryside and Spike would've bet his fangs that it was the pomegranate. Not that he had any idea what Maurice would want with it, just like he had no clue why the bloody embossment was throbbing like some kind of--his eyes widened, and he cocked his head to the side. Tara's heart was beating in time with the embossment. He felt a pull, felt something draw away from him and sink into the mark at his collar. There was a steady flare along the lines of the embossment, and then everything seemed to happen all at once.

The embossment quieted just as Maurice signaled his vamps to attack. In the brief moment of calm before chaos ensued, Spike heard Tara's heart rate increase until it was damn near off the charts. But he was too busy fending off the vamps coming at him from every direction to spare her a glance. He dusted one of the morons and took two bloody painful hits to the face and gut. With a roar, he slid into game face and lashed out, flinging away the vamps in his immediate vicinity. The calming down of Tara's heart was so strange, given the fight that was raging, that Spike couldn't help but turn her way.

She was lying face down on the floor, obviously having been tossed there when the minions had attacked him. As he watched, she lifted her head and said something too quiet for him to hear in the din. He had a good idea what she'd done, though, when every other vamp in the room suddenly went still, their eyes wide and panicked.

"Bloody hell," Spike shouted and stalked over to her. He glared down at the witch with his hands clenched into fists. "You couldn't have done that when the pillocks grabbed you?!"

"They surprised me," she whispered. Her lips started bleeding anew and she flinched. One hand flattened against the ground and she tried to push herself up. A hiss escaped her and she fell back to the floor with a whimper. "My ribs. I think they broke a couple of ribs."

Spike dropped to his knees and shoved his arms underneath her. One was braced just above her breasts, and the other along her thighs. Without any warning, he flipped her over and sat her up. Every bit of color in her face that wasn't part of a bruise drained away, and tears gathered in her eyes.

"The binding spell isn't going to hold," she gasped. "I can't...I can't focus. Hurts too much."

Ignoring Tara's gasp of pain, Spike pulled her into his arms and stood. "Time for plan b," he announced, striding towards the exit.

Tara dug her hand into his shoulder. "No time. Won't hold. Stop."

"We can't--"

"Stop!" she practically shouted, and Tara raising her voice was astounding enough that he did stop. "Turn around." Moving slowly and eyeing the struggling vamps, Spike moved until they were facing the rest of the room. "Need to borrow more." The embossment flared once again, this time fiercely. It must have completely broken Tara's concentration because the vamps were free again.

"Oh, fuck," Spike breathed as they started to circle him and Tara.

But then there was a word, a single word that was exhaled along with a gasp of pain. "Annullo," Tara whispered in his arms.

The carnage was... unbelievable. Hearts exploded out of chests. Heads twisted round and round and round until they just popped off. Blood poured out of mouths until every drop was wrung from the body and it just crumbled to ash. Flames came spewing forth from the inside out, leaving nothing in their wake.

Just one word.

Just forty seconds.

Just one alarmingly cold and shaking witch in his arms.

Spike tore his eyes away from the ash and blood that littered the room. Tara was still staring at it all, her face tight, her eyes blank. It took him three tries before he could get his mouth to work. "You all right, luv?" he asked, voice scratchy and raw.

"Why?" Tara said with difficulty. Her lips were bleeding again. "Why does everything--why is it so hard? I'm just trying to make things right."

Spike looked around the room again, shifting Tara in his arms. "Don't know, pet," he said softly, shaking his head. He looked back down at her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He'd been tempted to go for her lips just to taste that rich blood of hers again, but he had a better sense of self-preservation than that.

He tried to set her down on the ground to check her over, but she buried her face in his throat and he felt the tears. "Can't stay here."

"Right," he sighed. "Okay."

He took her straight ahead, through the door at the other end of the room. They still needed to find the pomegranate, and Spike was damn sure it wasn't back the way he'd come. Which left its location deeper in the lair. The door brought them into a narrow hallway, empty except for the lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Spike lowered her to the floor and ran his eyes over her appraisingly.

"Your damn shoulder's dislocated," he muttered angrily when he saw the way it was hanging. How the hell hadn't he noticed it before? Oh, yeah, the vamps had been holding her up by her arms. "So the bump on the head, the busted up face, the broken ribs, the butcher job of a bite, the attempted strangling, and the dislocated arm. Anything else I should know about?"

Tara shook her head. Spike shrugged his duster off and then divested himself of both of his shirts. "What the hell happened?" he asked, eyes focused on his hands as he ripped the black t-shirt into strips of material.

"It was just a few minutes after you left. I had to, uh, go to the bathroom," Tara said tightly. "I just--it was in the lobby. They hit me on the head, first. I couldn't...it made me confused." She whimpered slightly and Spike made a hushing sound as he probed at the gash on her head. "My magic scattered and...but I struggled, and they started hitting me."

Spike tilted her head up and looked at her pupils. She had a concussion from the hit to the head. "I can guess the rest. Grabbed your arm when you tried to run," he said knowingly. "Popped your shoulder right out of the socket." He'd done the same thing a dozen or more times. "Brought you here."

She nodded, and then her eyes rolled up and she started sliding backwards. Spike forced her to sit upright and snapped his fingers in front of her face until her lids lifted all the way. "Stay with me, luv. Can't pass out again."

Her shoulder needed to get put back into place, but he wasn't sure if the pain of it would kick start her adrenaline or just make her pass out.

"I need a hospital," she whispered.

"Yeah, I know. But we have to get what we came for first, then go back to the inn and get the rest of our stuff." He took her hand. "That shoulder needs to be reset. You think you can stay awake if I do it?"

Her eyes widened and she started shaking. "I don't know."

"Guess we'll be finding out then," he said firmly. "Lay back, luv."

Her scream echoed loudly throughout the hallway, and Spike had to grit his teeth to continue the necessary pressure to get the bone back in the socket. Just a quick, forceful push and it was done. Tara was sobbing and screaming through clenched teeth. Spike drew her into a sitting position and pulled her against his chest.

"You did good, pet," he said gruffly. "Real good." He placed one of the strips of material in her hand. "Hold that to the bite on your neck. How're the ribs holding up?"

"Hurt," she said simply.

"They'll do that," he said with a smile. He slipped his button down back on, then put the duster on over it. He adjusted the collar around his neck and then sat there, staring at her pale face. "About what happened back there--"

"Did I kill that guy?" she interrupted. "At the hospital?"

Spike blinked. "The Arcept lackey?" he asked in confusion. Tara nodded, her gaze fixed on the floor. "Where the hell did that come from?"

Tara gave him a look that was empty and hard. "Just answer me, please. Did I kill him?"

"Well," he said, stalling for time. "What did you do to him?"

"Same thing I did at the demon bar in Cairo," she said flatly.

Spike shifted and leaned back against the hall wall. "His heart probably wasn't in the best of shape," he temporized. Her face cracked and Spike was suddenly angry. About her feeling bad, about the beating she'd taken, about every damned thing.

"Want to know what humans have to do to get brought into the Arcepts' little world?" he snapped. "I know all about it, because there are three of them trying to get in good with the bastards in Sunnydale right now. One of them raped a ten-year-old boy. Another one beat some bint to death in the mall parking lot. The third carved some git's face off." She was watching him now, eyes wide and scared. "The one that came to you at Wildwind? He'd already been accepted in."

"Oh god," she murmured.

Spike sighed and banged his head back against the wall. "Listen, pet," he said curtly. "There are things you feel bad about that I think you shouldn't, but they're a matter of opinion. That bastard at the hospital is about fact. He would've done a hell of a lot worse to you than you did to him, and he would have done it on purpose."

"I...I think I'm going to be sick." He got to her in time to brace her by way of an arm across the front of her shoulders, holding her as she heaved up the meager bits of food she'd eaten earlier. Gagging sounds were interrupted by groans and whimpers of pain.

When she had emptied her stomach, she sagged weakly against him. "I don't--I don't feel bad about the vampires," she said weakly. "But what I did...that's not like me."

"I know," he said tiredly. "It's the stress of it all, wearing you down where it counts." He touched her chin and she looked up at him. "It's almost over, and I'll make sure you won't have to do something like that again, all right?"

She nodded tremulously. "Where--do you think the pomegranate is here?"

"Stake my life on it," he said, his lips quirking. Tara made a small noise that could have been a laugh. "Maurice was hot and bothered about protecting something more than his territory." He looked around the long hallway. "Know it wasn't back the way they brought me in, which leaves somewhere around here. Right or left, pet?"

"Um, right?" she chose.

"Right it is then."

With Tara in his arms, her injured appendage cradled against her chest and her hand holding his t-shirt to her neck, Spike took them down the hallways. They'd gone about ten feet when he began to hear it, and his steps slowed until he came to a stop when the scents became clear as well. "Change of direction," he said and spun on his heel.

He felt her eyes on him but kept his own planted firmly on the other end of the hallway. "Spike..."

"Feel much better about left, really," he said casually.

She struggled in his arms, hurting herself more than getting free of him, and he finally had to set her on her feet so that she didn't worsen the damage she'd already taken. "We're going right," she said adamantly.

"No, we're going left," he argued, reaching for her.

She stumbled away from him, slamming her bad shoulder against the wall. Tears gathered in her eyes but she set her jaw and she started walking. "Right."

He was too soft on her to grab her up and force her the way he wanted to go. So instead he moved to her side and helped her to the end of the hallway, and the heartbeats that awaited them. There was an open door to their right, and Spike saw the lines of cages before Tara did. He blocked her view and stared down at her. "You've been through enough," he reminded her curtly. "Let's just go the other way."

"Move."

Sighing, he stepped away and waved her into the room. They were actually more like cells than cages. There were six on either side of the room, flush with the walls, divided from each other by concrete partitions with bars facing the center of the room. In each cell was a human. They ran the gamut when it came to age and appearance, but they were all female. When they saw Spike and Tara, they cringed and scurried into the shadows of their cells.

Seemed like Maurice hadn't been too concerned about hygiene, because the place stank of bodily fluids and the natural aroma of the unwashed. Not to mention the sour taste of infections, most likely from the bite marks. At the other end of the narrow room was a table of fruit, most of it just this side of rotting. There was a scattering of ashes around it, and Spike turned to Tara.

"Oh my god," she breathed. "This...this is horrible."

"Looks like someone had an accident over at that end," he said slowly, directing her attention to the remains of a vamp. "Was that part of what you did?"

She blinked once, twice. "I, uh, I think so," she stammered. "I didn't know that ones that weren't there would--oh my." She looked at the cells again. "We can't just leave them here."

"Yes we can," Spike said harshly. "They're probably praying for death at this point. I say we leave them to it."

Tara leaned against the wall by the door and shook her head. "No."

Spike got right in her face and glared at her. "They've spent God knows how long being drank from, at the very least," he told her bluntly. "Most likely they've been raped and beaten and tortured just for fun. Letting them starve to death is a mercy." He pursed his lips. "If they were horses, they'd get a bullet to the brain to put them out of their misery."

"They're not animals, Spike," Tara said, her voice small.

Spike took hold of her chin. "To me, they are," he said clearly. "You, on the other hand, have a higher place in my regards. We're getting what we came for, and then getting you to a hospital. I'm not wasting time playing the great conquering rescuer."

"And I'm not leaving them locked up," she insisted and pushed herself away from the wall. It was an awkward movement, what with one hand pressing the scrap of his t-shirt to her neck. "You don't have to help me."

"For crying out loud!" he exploded. "Fine. Fine." He saw an empty cell and on the end and dragged Tara there. "You'll sit on that cot in there while I get these cells open." He pointed a threatening finger at her. "You will not move, and you'll damn well keep pressure on that bite. Understand?"

She nodded slightly and Spike brought his hands to the bars, but he couldn't force the door open. "It's magically reinforced," Tara said with confusion. Spike let his hands fall away. "There's...there's someone in there."

Tilting his head to the side, he listened and sniffed. "Not according to me there isn't," he said slowly. "Bloody hell. Park your arse on the floor right here."

"Aren't you going--"

Spike glared at her. "No, I am not going to open a magically locked cage, and let out who the hell knows what. Park your arse on the floor. Now!"

With an ill-tempered scowl, Tara lowered herself stiffly to the floor. At the very least, their bad moods were distracting Tara from just how much pain she should have been in.

The women in the cells cowed in the corners of their small spaces while Spike efficiently went from one to the other and jerked the bars open. When the last one had been opened, he went back to Tara.

"Happy now?" he asked sarcastically, eyeing the cowering women who hadn't left the cages.

Tara obviously wasn't happy, judging by her clenched fists. She struggled to get herself to her feet. "We can't leave them here like this," she said reasonably.

"Do you have some kind of magical bus that can scoot them all away to where they came from?" he bit out.

She turned away. "Spike, please," she whispered, and he could hear the tears in her voice. "There's been too much--I can't leave them. I can't!"

Grumbling quietly, he drew her to his chest and let her lean against him. "Hell. You're not playing fair with the crying. You know that, right?" He sighed. "Bloody manipulative, is what it is." He rubbed her back and tried to think of what to do about the dozen women. "Keep putting pressure on it," he said absently, moving her hand back to her neck.

"Maybe we can drive them to, uh, the city? In our car?" she sniffed against his chest.

He snorted. "That little rental barely fit the two of us." The crying continued and he kissed the top of her head. "I suppose we can bring them back to the inn and let the senora get the authorities to sort them out," he said slowly. "Course, we'll have to convince them to come with us, and I don't know how much luck we'll have with that."

She raised her head, all wide tear-filled eyes, trembling lips, and vicious bruising. "But we can try it, right?" she asked hopefully. "And if that doesn't work, we can find something that will?"

Spike let his fingers drift over the few unmarred contours of her face. He was back in Sunnydale the night before she left for Wildwind, back in the demon bar in Cairo. Ready to give her any damned thing she asked for. She should have been a slobbering mess long ago, but she kept on going. Emotionally wrung out, physically beaten, magically weakened--she refused to stop. "Sure, pet," he said quietly. "We'll suss it all out. Then we'll get the seeds and head to Paris. It'll all be over before you know it, yeah?"

They walked to the middle of the room, Tara still held to his chest protectively. Spike turned in a circle, scanning the cages for just one woman that would look at them. There wasn't one.

"All right, listen up," he called out in Italian. "The vampires that were keeping you here are all dead. I'd just as soon leave the lot of you here, but the witch won't hear of it." Tara stepped on his foot and he fought back a smile. Damn, she was feistier than he'd have thought. "We're going to bring you to the inn we're staying at. They'll be able to call whoever you need to get you back home. So, up and at 'em."

"They won't listen to you," a feminine voice said softly. Spike narrowed his eyes. It was coming from the "empty" cage on the end. "They've been traumatized too badly."

"Then they'd better get over it," Spike snapped. "I said I'd get them taken care of, and that's what I plan on doing. If I have to drag them out of here by their hair, I will."

"Spike," Tara chided him.

"What?" he asked indignantly in English. "If they don't give us any other options--"

"We're not going to do that," she said slowly, her Italian choppy but understandable. "We just want to help them get home."

"That's not for you to do," the thread-like voice replied. "It's my fault that they've been held like this, and it's my responsibility to take care of them."

Spike and Tara's eyes met, and she stepped back from him. They walked to the empty cage and found that it wasn't so empty any longer. A young woman sat on the cot, long brown hair falling to her waist, a gauzy white gown fitted to her curvaceous form. There was something almost ethereal in her placid brown gaze, a calming force that made Spike shiver, because he had the feeling it could turn brutal if the need arose.

"Who are you?" Tara asked, still using her schoolgirl Italian.

"My name is Marianna. Until the vampires came, I was the guardian of the pomegranate. But they tricked me." She waved her hand, gesturing at her small cell. "Trapped me in this space and gained unlimited access to the pomegranate and its seeds."

"How long ago was that?" Spike asked curiously.

Marianna's head tilted. "I'm not entirely sure. Centuries, at least."

"I don't understand," Tara said hesitantly. "Why--what could they do with the pomegranate?"

Rising to her feet, Marianna approached the bars of the cage. Spike took an automatic step back, bringing Tara with him. "Do you know the story of Proserpina?" she asked them.

"Ate some seeds and was bound to the Underworld, yeah?" Spike answered.

Marianna shrugged. "Proserpina wasn't just tied to the Underworld as a place. She was tied to all things that it entailed, including the passageways of the dead."

"Passageways?" Tara repeated.

"Yes. The spirits of the dead, as well as the residents of the Underworld, don't travel where we do. There are paths for them, they overlap ours but are just slightly...shifted."

Spike looked down at Tara. "Inter-dimensional travel?"

"Not really," she said thoughtfully. "That kind of travel would take you to...to a different reality, or dimension. But this sounds more like slipping a bit out of perception."

"Exactly," Marianna confirmed. "The seeds allow one to see and use these paths. That's how the vampires brought these women here, and the ones before them."

Tara nodded. "That's--that's why you say it's your responsibility to take care of them."

"Yes. It was my mistake that gave those monsters access to the pomegranate, and to these women," Marianna said hollowly. "I must correct it."

Spike just knew Tara wanted to let Marianna out. "Pet, your focus still isn't all there," he reminded her carefully. "Not to mention that you're in bad shape otherwise. And we only have her word for why she wants out."

"We have more than that," Tara corrected him, staring at Marianna. "I know...that look in her eyes? I know it. I see it everyday."

Yeah, he knew she did. That look had made her leave the haven of Wildwind to drag herself through Hell. He touched the back of her neck. "Take care of the magic."

She took her hand from the bite and handed him the bloody scrap of his t-shirt. Before she turned away, he tilted her head to the side and saw that the bleeding had slowed somewhat.

Lifting the arm that had been dislocated made her clench her teeth, but she forced her hands to take hold of the bars in front of her. A gentle breeze ruffled her hair and she stared at the bars. "Release," she said quietly. Nothing happened, and Spike felt the embossment tingle once again. "Release," she said more forcefully. The wind picked up force for one brief moment, then abruptly died down. There was a hiss of air around the cage, and then a slight popping noise.

Tara let go of the bars and stumbled back. Spike caught her up in his arms and cursed when he saw that not only had her lips had split again, but the wound at her throat was bleeding profusely once more. She shook violently for a moment, then passed out. Spike sank to the floor and called her name several times, then lightly slapped at her face until her eyes fluttered open again.

He repeated his words from earlier, "Stay with me."

"Didn't mean to," she murmured.

"Thank you," Marianna said lowly. Spike looked up at the sound of her voice and watched her phase out of sight. There was a blur of color that made it seem like she was stretching towards them, and then she was on their side of the cage.

"She needs pomegranate seeds for the Cerno," Spike said tightly. "Can you help us with that?"

Marianna studied them with narrowed eyes for a long moment and then nodded. "I can. You'll have to come with me."

"What about the women?" Tara asked, her voice slurred with the effort to stay awake.

"I will attend to them directly after that. A few minutes won't make much difference to them after what they've been through." Her voice grew thoughtful as she looked around at the open cages whose occupants hadn't moved. "In fact, it might help them adjust to the idea of freedom."

"Come on, then," Spike said to Tara. "You're walking."

"Can't you carry me?" she asked miserably.

"I can," he admitted. "But I won't. Less chance of you conking out if you have to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other."

Spike got her on her feet and wrapped an arm around her waist, taking most of her weight but making sure she had to actually walk. Marianna brought them through three short hallways, then through a doorway into a small circular room. In the center stood a small pedestal, on which sat the pomegranate.

Marianna smiled as she entered the room, and there seemed to be electricity in the air around her. She went directly to the pomegranate and motioned them over. "The Cerno is a difficult and complicated ritual," she told them. "The pomegranate seeds allow one to communicate with the deceased, and their power is depleted entirely by the ritual." Smiling softly at Tara, she said, "You will need to select two for the Cerno."

With a trembling hand, Tara plucked two seeds from the fruit and closed her hand around them. "Thank you," she said tremulously.

"I'm the one who owes you thanks," Marianna demurred.

"Off we go, then," Spike said firmly. He arched a brow at Marianna. "No offense, ducks, but she needs to get to a hospital."

Marianna frowned uncertainly at him, then glanced at the pomegranate. "If you hadn't already demonstrated your trustworthiness," she said to Tara, "I would have had to test you before allowing you what you need for the Cerno. But what you did--for me, and for the other women--speaks a great deal about you." She reached out an olive-hued hand and removed two more seeds, then held them out on her palm. "These I give to both of you freely, in a more personal show of gratitude for what you've done."

Spike took them from her hand and frowned. "What are we supposed to do with these?"

"The seeds for the Cerno must be imbibed at the time of the ritual," Marianna explained. "However, if you choose to, you can partake of my gift now."

Which would give them access to the passageways of the dead, and maybe make it easier to gather their belongings from the inn and then get Tara someplace that had a bloody hospital. "Not really eager to be tied to the Underworld for the rest of my unlife," he muttered.

"It doesn't work the same for vampires," Marianna assured him. "That's why Maurice and his underlings needed unlimited access to the pomegranate. The results will be temporary for you--just twelve hours. Even for humans, the results differ depending on how much they eat. The vampires simply wiped a bit of juice on the lips of the women to bring them here; it wore off in less than an hour. The effects of one seed would normally tie you for years to the Underworld," she said to Tara, "but the Cerno is indiscriminate in nullifying any seeds you have eaten."

"Oh wow," Tara said softly. "Thank you."

Marianna dipped her head in acknowledgement. "The passageways are easy to navigate. You simply need to step inside and indicate where you want to go." She waved them towards the door, following behind them. Once they'd left the room, she touched her hand to the doorway and it sealed shut.

"Thank you again," she told them before hurrying back to the cages.

Spike and Tara stood silently for a moment, staring at the seeds in Spike's hand. "What do you say, pet?" he asked, switching back to English finally.

"I say that I hurt. A lot." She took one of the seeds from his hand and brought it to her mouth. Spike popped the other and then they stared at each other. "I, uh, don't feel any different," Tara said hesitantly. "Do you?"

Spike shook his head, and grinned. "No, but I see one of those passageways." He pointed to the left and she turned to look. It was kind of like looking through one of those water features that some restaurants kept in the lobby. A sheen of warped air that seemed to be only two dimensional, and in which blurs of colors waved past.

"The inn first?" Tara asked curiously.

"No. We're getting you to a hospital, then I'll go to the inn and get our stuff." She opened her mouth and he glared at her. "Not listening to any arguments on the subject. You've been stubborn enough for one damn night."

She wavered indecisively, but then she sighed. "All right. Hospital first. Where?"

Good thing she'd relented, because the truth was that her stubbornness in refusing to let those women stay where they were was what had gotten them the extra. If she'd really argued, he might have had to give in on the subject.

"Florence proper," Spike said with a shrug. "Several hospitals there, and it's not too far." He eyed the passageway. "I'm not all that eager to try anything farther right now."

They joined hands and approached the passageway. "Do you know the name of a hospital there?" Tara asked as they reached it.

Spike thought for a moment. "Only one I know is Serristori. Had a bit of fun there a few years back with Dru."

"Hm," she murmured, and there was disapproval in the small sound. Spike grinned. "So Serristori hospital in Florence."

"Now or never," he commented and they stepped sideways into the passageway.

It was like being held aloft by something he couldn't see or feel, an almost stasis-like sensation. Around them there were others traveling along the passageway, some moving slowly, and others almost running. Spike tried to speak their destination, but he wasn't able to. Tara started to stretch away from him, similar to what Marianna had done in the cage, and he couldn't hold on to her. Frantically, he thought of Serristori and then he was stretching, too, crawling along at a high speed and passing the world in a daze.

The passageway took them through buildings and people, through traffic and the everyday scenes of life. Spike saw it all as they sped along, unsure of how he did so when it seemed like they passed everything so quickly.

Just as he was adjusting to the strange sensation of movement, it felt like part of him came to a stop while the rest of him tried to catch up. When he was together again, he shook his head and look around. Tara was at his side, dazed, but he didn't know it if was from the trip or the concussion.

"Linen closet?" she guessed, staring at the bundles of sheets and hospital gowns.

"Looks like. Let's get you checked in."

As soon as they stepped out of the closet, they went to a nurse's station. "I'm trying to find the emergency room," Spike told the nurse in Italian. He gestured at Tara. "She got mugged and she needs some help."

In a flurry of white coats and rubber-soled shoes, Tara was whisked away to the ER for treatment. Before Spike was pushed aside, she managed to hand off the seeds for the Cerno to him. Spike went back to the linen closet and took the disconcerting passageway again, this time directly to their room at the inn. When his thoughts had settled, he saw that the room had been trashed, probably right before Maurice's guys had taken Tara.

Eyes wide, Spike stared at the small dresser where the other components for the Cerno had been stored. The drawers had been torn out of it, their contents upturned on the floor. He cursed and rummaged through the room, relaxing only when he found the plain paper bag they'd been keeping everything in. Tara's ward had apparently held, not allowing the intruders to see the bag. He wrapped the seeds in a tissue and set them inside the bag.

He found their luggage in the mess and started shoving clothes and toiletries inside. Their passports were also in the paper bag and he pulled those out before cramming the bag in his duffle. Grimacing at the damage to the room, Spike made his way downstairs, scrawling a brief note for the senora and leaving a thick wad of Italian lira for her troubles.

Then he sidestepped into the nearest passageway.

The hospital insisted Tara remain overnight for observation, and Spike insisted that he stay at her side. In the process of convincing the nursing staff to let him, he got vindication.

"Remember that the next time you say I can't do charming," he sniffed at Tara, watching the matronly nurse blush and stare at him on her way out.

"Impressive," she drawled.

Spike sat down in what had to be the most uncomfortable chair he'd ever had the misfortune to experience. "How're you feeling?" he asked neutrally.

"About the same," she sighed. "Except I'm not leaking blood any longer."

"More's the pity," he smirked.

"Ouch, don't make me laugh. Laughing, uh, hurts."

Spike grinned, then turned serious. "You should get some rest while you can. They're going to be waking you up every couple of hours."

The reminder of rest triggered a yawn. "Did you tell them about your...condition?" she asked sleepily. He nodded and pointed at the blankets that had been draped over the windows. She held out her hand--the one that wasn't hampered by a sling--and Spike took it. He didn't resist her when she tugged him to her, and it took some maneuvering, but he managed to settle on his side next to her, the guardrail on the bed digging into his back.

He laid his head on the pillow next to hers, finding beneath the antiseptics and antibiotic creams the scent of her. She was asleep within moments, and he followed her not long after.

By the time the hospital agreed to release Tara, it had been fourteen hours since they'd eaten the pomegranate seeds. Spike's hopes for getting to Paris and to Sunnydale via the passageways were dead in the water.

"Guess we'll be taking the long way," he said irritably as he helped her down from the hospital bed. One of the nurses had come in a short while before to help her change into her clothing, and they were set to go.

"You're kind of grouchy," she noted as they waited for an orderly to come wheel Tara out.

"How are you not?" he snapped. "Damn Nurse Ratchet wasn't who I wanted to wake up to six bloody times last night."

Tara grimaced. "She was rather unpleasant, wasn't she?"

Spike growled. "Unpleasant? She was a damn termagant!"

Even with one eye swollen shut, Tara still managed to mock him with a subtle lifting of a brow. "Termagant," she repeated, the word just a bit misspoken due to her lips. "I don't think I've ever heard anyone actually use that word in real life."

Spike flipped her off and then stared at her when something occurred to him. The seed had worn off of him, but not of her. "You're not planning to do something stupid, are you?" he asked suspiciously.

She didn't even pretend ignorance. "No," she assured him, smiling a bit. "I did think about it, but I really, uh, don't want to go to Paris alone."

"Well, good," he stated. "I still think you should wait a few days--"

"Spike, there's no time," she interrupted him.

"With stitches on your head and lips and neck, you're just asking for an infection," he maintained. "Or worse."

Tara crossed the small room and reached up to touch his face. "I don't have a choice," she said softly. "The sigils can't hold up indefinitely. I really don't, uh, want to do this at all, much less..." She took a breath. "I'm not waiting. I can't."

The orderly arrived, smiling happily at them. "Let's get the pretty senorita out of this gloomy place, yes?" he chirped in English.

Spike rolled his eyes and Tara smiled again. "Yeah, let's," Spike drawled.

The hospital had arranged for a cab earlier, and it was waiting for them, holding up traffic on the busy street. Spike tossed their bags in the trunk that the driver solicitously opened for them, then helped Tara into the back seat. He loped around the back of the car and got in on the other side.

"Airport, eh?" the driver remarked in Italian.

"Yes," Tara said quietly, leaning her head on Spike's shoulder. "We're going to Paris."

"Ah, Paris. The city of lights and lovers," he said slyly. "Just made for nice young couples like you."

Spike laughed darkly and Tara simply sighed.

Disclaimer: The characters/concepts of BtVS belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and everyone else who makes money from the show. The rest is mine. Ooh, I bet Joss is jealous.

Part Six

They received more than their share of odd looks at the Paris airport: Spike wrapped head to foot in the thick black material, Tara black and blue with one arm in a sling.

It didn't help that the bright color of Tara's shirt kept her from blending into the background like her usual faded colors did. She'd donned one of his, the front closure being easier to manage with the bum shoulder, and the royal blue silk practically glowed against her skin and hair. Also perfectly framed the handprint around her throat, but Spike thought he was probably the only one in the airport that enjoyed that fact.

He ignored everyone. Tara met the eyes of every person who stared until they looked away.

Once again, they were brought to the interior of the airport, this time a lower level employee lounge that reeked of wine and cigarettes. Yes, this was definitely Paris. Tres bloody magnifique. Tara's French didn't extend beyond yes, please, and thank you, so Spike had handled all of the interaction with the airport staff. They'd already booked a flight out of Paris for sometime in the middle of the night. The plan was to go to the cavern, put the onyx in the pit, take the onyx out of the pit, and then go directly back to the airport and hop on a flight to California. There were some scheduled stops along the way, though. They were checking in at a hotel for the simple fact that Tara would need a shower after the pit.

In the meantime, they were waiting in the windowless room for sunset. It looked like old, discarded bench seats from the terminals had been pawned off on the lower level employees. Most of them were in a bad state of disrepair, and had suffered more than a few wine spills and cigarette burns, Spike noticed as he unwrapped himself.

Tara made a small face, but carefully eased herself onto a row of seats, wincing when her shoulder was jostled. That was her own stubborn fault. Absolutely refused to take the painkillers the hospital in Florence had sent them off with.

"I'll take them before we get on the plane back," Tara said, and Spike started at her apparent mind reading. Then he realized that he was scowling at her, and had probably started doing so the moment she'd flinched.

Spike tossed their bags on the seats next to Tara and pointed at her. "I'm holding you to that. Hopefully the things'll knock you out for a bit. Let you get some rest." He tossed himself back on the seats across from Tara, lying on his back with his hands clasped under his head, and his legs crossed at the ankles. "Speaking of rest...we've got an hour to kill if you want to nap."

"Yeah, um, I don't think so," she dismissed, looking at his sprawled out form, and then at the row of seats. "I doubt I'll be able to get comfortable."

Spike offered to rifle through his bag for the playing cards, but Tara shook her head.

He was tired. A tired that went beyond physical exhaustion. This trip seemed never ending, even though it would be ending the next day. Every stop had been short but horrible, taking chunks of Tara with it and leaving him to try to help her pick up the pieces. Only she hadn't. Not yet. She'd only pushed everything aside even as she'd faced it. That took a real determination and heavy handed avoidance.

It was going to bite her in the arse.

The rage that was keeping her on her feet was either going to buck at the reigns shortly and explode, or melt away. When that happened, she was going to have to deal with everything properly and he didn't know if she was going to be able to. He'd seen strength in her since this trip began, but he didn't know if it was all due to the anger, or if she was strong. He truly hoped it was the latter, because she didn't stand a chance otherwise.

"Not to eager to spend the next bit of time staring at the wall, pet," he commented half an hour later.

"I'm just not in the mood for, uh, cards," she said apologetically.

"How about I tell you about the others, then." He cut a glance in her direction. "If you're interested?"

She nodded, her pale eyes lighting up a small amount. "Is Dawn all right?"

Spike turned his head to the side and grinned at her. "Niblet's great," he said easily. "All sucked into school--socially, not academically--and has lots of nice, normal friends. She's thriving."

Tara's face softened. "Good," she said quietly. "I was...worried. I couldn't really help her that summer..." She cleared her throat. "Does she have a boyfriend? Oh. Or a girlfriend?"

Spike glared at her. "No. She doesn't need some slobbering moron attached to her hip and trying to get in her pants," he snapped. "Or some googly eyed chit, either."

"I, uh, hate to break it to you, Spike, but no one will ever be good enough for her," Tara said with a smile. "Let her have fun. She deserves it." Her eyes darkened. "I don't think the others had much fun in high school."

"You'd be surprised." Tara frowned, and he grinned. "Neither patrolling, nor apocalypses nor my demented grandsire could keep that group from the Bronze," he recited soberly and Tara laughed. He tilted his head and considered it for a moment. "Or from anything, actually," he amended, snorting lightly. "They were teenagers, and they acted like it. You should ask Rupes about it; damn near drove him nuts to hear him tell it."

The eye that wasn't swollen shut twinkled. "Poor Mr. Giles."

Spike waved a hand. "Watcher needed every minute of it to keep him young. Should've seen him back then: all tweed suits--in Cali-bloody-fornia, no less--and ties and loafers. It was pathetic."

"Hm. Is he still...?"

"Drinking like a fish?" Spike finished wryly. "No. Got himself back together in Merry Ole England. Works with the Counsel, still, but mostly just spends his time aggravating us."

Tara digested that. "I guess it would be hard for him," she mused finally. "New people replacing his people."

Spike sat up and looked at her. "No one replaced anybody," he said harshly. "Hell, if you ask me, there's no replacing that bunch. Faith, Olson and Josh are just doing what needs to be done."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, I know," she hastened to assure him. "I'm not saying, uh, that's what I think, just that Mr. Giles probably can't help but see it like that." Spike nodded and sat back. At least Tara wouldn't be joining Giles in picking at Faith and the lovey-dovey couple. "How is Faith doing with the whole, um, being good thing?"

"Much to my dismay," he replied dejectedly, "she's all reformed." He shared a smile with Tara, then shifted awkwardly and looked away. "Faith--well all of them, actually, aren't entirely incompetent or annoying."

"High praise," she noted idly and he curled his lips at her. "I know that Olson is Faith's Watcher, but who's, uh, Josh?"

Spike looked back at her, smirk planted firmly on his lips. "Josh is Olson's pretty boy lover."

Tara stared at him with surprise. "A gay Watcher," she said slowly. "Wow."

"Yeah, Slayer was pretty shocked to find out that her feminine wiles weren't going to be twisting him around her finger." Tara laughed again and Spike was glad to hear the sound. There wasn't going to be a lot of laughter once they left the airport. "His boy toy actually comes in handy, though. At first he just stood around looking pretty, but now he's spot on with the research."

"Gay and not entirely incompetent or annoying," she teased him. "Can't wait to meet them." Spike rolled his eyes, but frowned at her next question. "And what about you? Why are you still, um, there?"

"Figured I owed it to Buffy to make sure they had their feet under them, and it's a quick trip to see the Bit," he explained casually.

"There is that," she agreed, but she was watching him curiously. "I'd imagine their, uh, feet are where they should be now."

"Olson pays me," he said abruptly. "More than enough for fags and booze and blood. With this soddin' chip..." Another female, and another pause while he hoped he wouldn't be pushed for a real answer. But this was Tara, he remembered when she simply shook her head. She already knew the real answer and they had an unspoken agreement not to voice what they already knew. "Still set on wasting away at the Cracker Barrel?"

The look she gave him was pure admonishment and a long silence fell upon them. Maybe she thought he didn't need an answer, but he did. "I don't know," she said finally. "It all seems like forever away right now."

They didn't say much else until an airline representative came to bring them back upstairs. Spike took care of renting a car and he drove them to the hotel he'd stayed at the last time he'd been in Paris for the Onyx Heart. Seemed like years ago, but it had only been a little over a week. Either way, he knew the sultry concierge behind the desk.

"Welcome back, Mr. Strathmore," she cooed lyrically in her native French. The look in her eyes clearly said she believed herself to be the reason he'd returned. Hell, maybe he should have found another way to pass the time before his taxi had arrived on his last visit.

"I need a room for the night," he drawled.

The woman leaned forward, and Spike raised a brow at her come hither position. "Just for the night? This is Paris. I'm sure there must be...something here that will take more than a night to see. Or do," she added suggestively.

Definitely should have just had a couple of drinks in the hotel bar last time.

"Ouch."

Spike turned and frowned at Tara. "All right?" he asked quickly, scanning her to see what had caused the noise. She was touching her ribs, staring with dismay at a couple that was hurrying away.

"Just got bumped," she explained. "Are we set?"

"Not quite," he grumbled. "Come up here out of the way. Don't want you getting jostled again, luv." He drew her to his side and turned to the concierge again. The nametag pinned to her blazer indicated her name was Marie. Oh. He hadn't known that.

Marie's eyes flickered to Tara, widened slightly at the bruises, and then casually dismissed her. "Should I arrange for two rooms?" she asked him.

Spike smiled, and bent forward until his mouth was almost next to Marie's ear. "We only need one room," he whispered. "With one bed." He stood up straight and stared down on her. "Understand?" he asked coolly.

Marie stiffened into a more business-like manner. "I understand," she said with a nod. A few minutes later she handed Spike a card key. "Enjoy your stay."

He and Tara wound their way through the lobby to the elevator, but Tara stopped suddenly, staring down a hall. "There's a gift shop," she noted. "Come on."

"Souvenirs, pet?" he asked with confusion as they changed direction.

"I think I've got all the, um, souvenirs I need from this trip," she muttered. "But I need shirts with buttons."

Spike followed her into the small shop and frowned. "Why? Don't like mine?"

"Well," she said hesitantly, staring up at him with her nose scrunched up. "On you, yes. Not on me."

He grinned and tapped her nose. "Think they look good on you," he commented. "You should wear the vibrant colors more."

Standing by the counter, their bags at his feet, he watched her go straight to the shirts and glance at a couple of tags before taking three from a rack and walking to him. "You're gonna look like a bloody tourist," he said with distaste, staring at the flags and logos on the long-sleeved, button down cotton shirts. "And why do they even have crap like this here? French are supposed to be fashion savvy."

"Probably for the tourists," she said matter-of-factly. "Besides, I don't think the...Guntry is going to care what I'm wearing," she added under her breath. Well, yeah, there was that. Thinking about the pit, he was suddenly glad she'd decided not to use his shirts.

He paid for the shirts with one of the credit cards Olson had supplied him with, and they finally made their way to the room. Tara slipped into the bathroom to switch shirts, then wandered back out, the sling dangling from her arm. Spike helped her slide it back on properly. "How long did they say you had to use this contraption?"

"Um, just a couple of days," she told him. "It's just to let the joint take a break."

He grunted, and ran a hand through his hair. "Right. I've got the onyx. Set the wards and get a change of clothes to take with you. I'll get some towels." He grabbed one of the bags the shop had packed the shirts in and went into the bathroom, gathering every towel in the place and cramming them into the shopping bag.

"Ready then?" he asked as he came out of the bathroom.

Tara nodded. "Ready."

They made the drive in silence. Every so often Spike glanced at Tara, but she steadfastly refused to look at him, instead choosing to stare down at her lap. She did, however, sneak one hand over to his side of the car, wedging it under his thigh. He drove out of the city, taking narrow winding roads and trading paved roads for dirt ones.

It only took about an hour to get to the cave, and Spike forced the small car over the terrain so that they could stop just a few feet away from the entrance.

Spike held the foliage aside and waved Tara through before following her. The pit and the Guntry were only ten feet in, and Spike sighed as he set the bag with the towels and clothing down. The place smelled wet. Old and wet, actually. Rather like some basements he'd been in, but the wetness wasn't the stagnant kind. There was fresh water somewhere nearby. If he concentrated, he could hear it trickling.

The demon was perched on an outcropping of rock, its long limbs folded inwards. It resembled a gargoyle, with its thick gray hide, and its position. But, most gargoyles didn't have seven-inch long tusks growing from the bottom part of their mouths and curling up to rest on either side of their nose. The Guntry did.

It opened one eye large eye--also gray--which narrowed when it saw who the visitors were. The other eye opened as it clambered down from the rock, its large taloned hands clenching into fists. It walked towards them, its body bobbing up and down as its legs bent and straightened.

"Leg came back pretty fast," Spike commented. "Impressive, really."

Tara made a noise and scrambled away from him. Smart chit. The Guntry demon glared at him, and the next thing Spike knew, he was halfway across the cave, the side of his face throbbing. Guntries had a mighty reach. Bloody hell. He got to his feet and shrugged philosophically at the stooped demon. "Guess I had that coming," he conceded.

"Why are you back here?" the Guntry asked around his incisors. "You got what you came for."

Tara was watching them both, her head moving back and forth carefully. She was a bit tense, he noticed, but a lot calmer than she would have been a month ago, that was for sure. Spike slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the Onyx Heart, holding it up for the Guntry to see. "Actually, I got what she came here for," he replied, nodding at Tara.

Pulling his arm back, Spike threw the onyx into the empty pit. The Guntry stared at Tara with its large eyes. "You will be attempting to retrieve the onyx again?" he asked, and she nodded. "Very well. Let me know when you're ready."

Tara moved next to Spike and held onto him as she toed her sandals off. Then he helped her remove the sling. "How does the shoulder feel?" he asked.

"Better," she said quietly. "Still sore, though."

She took his hand and they walked over to the edge of the pit. Tara took a breath and nodded at the Guntry, who motioned Spike to let go of Tara. He released her hand and watched the pit fill.

Tara didn't look surprised at the contents, and when Spike thought about it, he wasn't surprised either. Somehow, a churning mess of blood, brains and bits of skull was exactly what they'd been expecting since Germany. Spike took hold of her chin and tilted her head around, staring closely at her. She seemed resigned more than anything else. He thought that maybe she'd given up hope of any of this being easy, and as harsh as that was, it was probably what she needed.

Lifting her own hand, she brushed his from her chin and then faced the pit again. She was directly in front of the steps and she raised her leg and started descending. There was no hesitation in her, even when her bare foot was immersed in the mess. As she sank deeper, her shirt was soaked through, the white material weighed down and clinging to her. When she got to chest-level, he saw the concoction sluice over the skin exposed by the shirt, disappear down the neck of it, and she grimaced but kept moving.

Once she got to the center of the pit, she stopped. Her head swiveled from side to side as she looked around herself, then she closed her eyes and gently dropped backwards, vanishing beneath the surface. He wondered if her bible-thumping family had taken her to the water as a child, brought her into it and watched as she was pushed back, submerged as the sins of others were washed from her.

He wondered how the hell she'd managed to do that, to go under and into the stuff of her worst memory, let it surround her completely, let it take over her senses and trap her in its midst. Was it getting in her nose? In her ears? Was her mouth closed tightly? Had it traveled up the legs of her jeans to places that kind of stuff should never go? Inside of her bra?

Just twenty seconds later she emerged, her face calm beneath the blood--this time all too real--that sluiced from it, taking chunks with it, leaving small fragments behind. She came to the edge and ascended the steps more slowly than before. Her jeans were soaked through. Her hair was plastered to her head, completely saturated, bone and tissue entwined in the now red tresses.

In her right hand, she held the onyx.

Spike brought one of the towels to her, wiping her face clear. Her eyes fell on her empty hand, which she was holding palm up. She frowned, and then closed her hand into a fist, staring at the flesh that seeped out from between the creases of her fingers.

Had she found absolution? Her eyes said no, but the shadows--the ones that had been there since that night and that months at Wildwind hadn't eased--those shadows had retreated some, and reluctant acceptance was easing in. She seemed so...normal. She'd become desensitized somewhere along the way and it hadn't come without a price.

Spike pried her fist open and wiped her hand clean before taking the onyx from her other hand and shoving it in the pocket of his coat. He cleaned that hand, as well, and drew her past the Guntry, tossing the towel aside and picking up a clean one. Standing in front of her, he pressed the cloth to her scalp, then wrapped the material around the length of her hair and wrung it out. She watched him with wide, unblinking eyes and it was the sanest he'd seen her in almost a year. He swiped the material behind and in her ears before turning his attention to her neck and the exposed skin above the shirt.

"You have somewhere she can change?" he asked the Guntry.

"No, but I will turn away."

Spike grunted. "Can you manage?" he asked Tara blandly.

She tilted her head to the side in a contemplative manner, then nodded. Spike handed her another one of the purloined towels and went to the Guntry's side, their backs to Tara. She made some small, pained noises every so often, but none of them were severe enough for him to check on her. Until she called his name several minutes later.

"Yeah, pet?"

"Um, can you help me?" she asked uncertainly.

He turned around. She was fully dressed in her khakis and another of the shirts from the gift shop. She'd even managed to get the sling back on. "Shoes?" he guessed as he walked to her.

"Well, yeah. But...my, uh, bra first," she said awkwardly. "It's--the other one closed in the front. This one...this one doesn't."

"It just so happens," he said as he moved behind her, "that I'm an expert at bras. Mostly taking them off, but I'm sure I can figure out how to reverse the process."

She looked back at him. "I have faith in you," she said solemnly, and he bent forward and dropped a kiss on the side of her cheek. She shivered a little when he slid his cool hands under the shirt and fumbled for the sides of her bra. Deftly, he drew the two ends of material together and hooked them.

"All set, luv. Let's get your shoes back on." He looked around the cave, his eyes settling on the rock the Guntry had been perched on when they'd arrived. "Have a seat there. You can turn around now, mate," he said to the Guntry.

Tara sat gingerly on the rock, and Spike scooped up her sandals.

"I don't understand," the Guntry said to Tara. She looked up at it and waited.

Spike reached down and grabbed one of her ankles, lifting her leg and trying to figure out just how the hell the bloody shoes were supposed to stay on. Was that a buckle of some kind? What had happened to the good old days of buttons?

"You didn't hesitate," the Guntry went on. "The pit is supposed to be a trial. The contents--"

"I knew what it would be," Tara interrupted. She touched Spike's arm and he looked up from the sandal. "Bring that strap over the top." Oh, well, that made sense. Buttons were still easier.

The Guntry, however, wasn't finished. "But you were so calm," it insisted. "Did it malfunction? Was that not something that you didn't want to traverse?"

The sandal was on, and Spike let go of her foot, staring up at the Guntry incredulously. Who the hell wanted to traverse what had been in the pit? The stupid sod. "It's called strength of will," he told the demon, reaching for Tara's other foot. "Doesn't mean it was any less of a trial because she didn't freak out." He got this sandal on more quickly and patted her leg when he was done.

"True enough," the Guntry mused. He paused for a moment. "A human has never before retrieved the Onyx Heart."

Spike and Tara exchanged glances. "But other humans have done the Cerno," Tara said carefully.

The Guntry nodded its massive head. "And they were destined to fail before they even begun. Without all of the objects, there is no chance."

"And with them?" Tara ventured.

"There's a chance, of course. I'm aware of the fantastic failure rate. Some are unable to take what the onyx gives them."

"Which is what, exactly?" Spike asked with interest.

"The right frame of mind," the Guntry informed him. Its large eyes slid to Tara and stayed there for a long moment. "You may go now."

As dismissals went, it was pretty blunt. Spike helped Tara down from the rock. "Can you take care of that stuff?" he asked the demon, motioning at the soiled clothing and towels.

Already back on his perch, the Guntry nodded before closing its eyes. Tara and Spike were quiet as they walked outside and got in the car. Spike started the engine and stared out of the windshield. "How're you holding up?" he asked without looking at her.

"Not very well," she answered lowly. "Just drive. I don't want to talk about it."

"What does the onyx do in the ritual?"

Tara looked up from brushing her wet hair. "Nothing," she said with a sigh, sliding the brush into her overnight bag and zipping it.

They'd gone back to the hotel and Tara had immediately gone to the bathroom to shower. Forty-five minutes had gone by, and Spike had been about to charge in when the water had stopped. Tara had reappeared, looking downright red against the navy blue of her pants and the white of the "Vive La France" shirt, and Spike had known there wasn't a drop of hot water left in the bathroom.

She wasn't supposed to have washed her hair with the stitches in, but Spike figured that it was better that she'd done so rather than leave that mess in place. That stuff from the pit had to be worse than some soap and water.

"Every other object is part of the ritual," she went on, sitting on the edge of the bed that he was sprawled on. "But the onyx is only in the list of components."

"Probably why some of the others didn't bother getting it," he guessed, and she nodded in agreement. "You know much about the onyx?"

"No. I guess we can look into it before I, uh, do the ritual," she told him.

"Count on it," he snorted, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and standing. "Also count on an argument with Rupes."

She grimaced. "I don't do too well, um, standing up for myself."

Spike stared at her. "Bollocks," he dismissed. "Faced me down a time or two since Cairo. Rupes will be a cakewalk."

"Hm," she murmured doubtfully. "We should get to the airport."

The flight to California was direct and long. True to her word, Tara swallowed two pain pills once they'd been seated, and promptly zoned out. Spike would have preferred for her to sleep, but she seemed to be easily distracted by the smallest of things, and was slurring her words a bit. By the time they disembarked at LAX, she was ready to drop. Her eyes were barely staying open and she was yawning almost constantly.

"Should maybe only take one next time, pet," he drawled, and she blinked lazily at him.

"Okay."

He snickered and took her arm, following the signs for ground transportation. They were driving to Sunnydale. They could have taken another plane to a small airstrip just outside of the Hellmouth, but for some strange reason, there were no flights after sunset. Go figure. Was actually faster to just drive.

During their walk to the rental car counter, and their trip to the sidewalk while the car was being pulled around, Spike noticed that Tara was moving more stiffly than ever. The aches and pains of the beating, combined with the cramped airline seats were taking a toll on her.

"Want to hold off until tomorrow?" he asked.

There was more slow blinking. "Feels too much like stalling," she finally said.

Spike's eyes widened incredulously. "Pet, you haven't taken a moment since this started. And, trust me, it's going to be real fun dealing with Rupes, or doing the ritual. If you need to prepare yourself, you're entitled."

"I'll take a moment on the drive," she insisted.

"Fine, have it your way," he sighed. "Stubborn chit."

The attendant pulled up, reluctantly getting out of the cherry red convertible and handing off the keys. Tara gave Spike an amused look, once she'd processed what she was seeing. He shrugged uncomfortably. "You seemed to like the ride in Peaches' car."

She leaned against him. "Thank you," she whispered.

He rubbed her back for a moment, remembering the two hours they'd spent in the back of Angel's Plymouth on the way to Wildwind. After giving the Pouf a heart attack with her move from the front to the back with Spike, she'd twisted his body to her will until every inch of it was touching hers because it hadn't been enough that he'd had plastered himself against the back of the front seat to drape his arms around her.

He'd ended up on his back, with Tara lying on him like he was a bed, and he'd managed to rig the seatbelts in such a way that they were strapped down. She'd stared up at the sky the entire way, one of her hands tickling the skin at the side of his neck while he'd run his fingers through her hair, trying to smooth the tangles out.

And after arriving at Wildwind, he remembered the shock on Angel's face when Tara had announced to the doctor on call that she wanted to be admitted. The words had been quick and strange, but they'd been sensible. Spike didn't know what had gone on during the hour long interview between Tara and the doctor, but it had been enough for her to be deemed in a sound enough state of mind to voluntarily admit herself so that they would have no hold on her.

At the time, Spike hadn't been sure if she was surprised or not. Hadn't cared to think about it enough to decide, either, because Tara was coming out to the lobby to say goodbye and then she was going to be shut away from the world, from him, and he'd suddenly realized that there would be no place for him to go from then on. No escape from anything.

She'd made her way to him, her bare feet slapping lightly on the tiled floor, her hair only marginally less tangled than it had been. Her words had come in a barely decipherable rush, running together at one point only to falter off at an odd syllable. "You have to take care of yourself and remember when the sun is coming up and to lock the door behind you so that no one steals stuff and you should stop but I know you won't so you have to remember going and know when you have to leave."

Angel had frowned, trying to figure out what she was talking about, but Spike had just leaned down to kiss her forehead, and she'd jumped at him, legs around his waist and arms around his neck, her grip painful.

Spike roused himself from his thoughts and gently pushed nudged Tara towards the car. "Go on, get in." He loaded their two bags into the trunk, then loped around the side of the car and leaped over the door, landing in the driver's seat.

Tara paused in the process of getting the seatbelt across her chest and scowled at him. "Show off."

Spike brushed her hands from the buckle and pulled it across her, securely latching it. "So, the question is," he said as he started the car. "Are you a speed ninny?"

"Speed ninny?" she repeated around a yawn.

"The roads are dead," he explained, "and I'm not about to creep along at the speed limit. Are you scared of going fast?"

"Not with you driving," she replied easily, leaning her head back.

Spike paused. "Think you got that backwards, pet."

"No, I didn't. Let's go."

Shaking his head, Spike put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He took her at her word, and as soon as they merged onto the freeway, he picked up speed until they were flying along, the wind deafening. He chanced a look at Tara. She'd reclined the seat some, and was watching the scenery blur past them. Her hair was being blown in every direction at once, and there was a small smile on her face.

He shook his head again, smiling quietly, and went faster. Half an hour later he noticed that she'd fallen asleep.

It was almost three in the morning when they got to Sunnydale, and Spike turned the car towards the flat. No matter if they went there or the Magic Box, the others would descend on them like a swarm of wasps. Might as well go somewhere that had a bed Tara could curl up on.

He parked the car in front of the building and retrieved the all-important paper bag from the trunk before going around to the passenger seat of the car. He unbuckled Tara and dropped the bag on her lap, then lifted her in his arms. It was when he was turning around that he saw Olson's SUV parked across the street, and he scowled. The scowl turned into a glare when he stepped into the courtyard and saw that every bloody light in the flat was on and a handful of heartbeats were sounding in his ears. As he drew closer, he could hear Giles' raised voice clearly.

"--believe how grossly unconcerned--"

They'd congregated here instead of at the shop. He got to the door and cursed. His keys were in his bag, which was in the trunk of the rental. Lovely.

Sighing tiredly, he shifted Tara in his arms, and kicked at the door with his foot.

"Home bloody home," he mumbled as the door swung open.

Disclaimer: The characters/concepts of BtVS belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and everyone else who makes money from the show. The rest is mine. Ooh, I bet Joss is jealous.

Part Seven

Spike's jaw dropped open when he saw Dawn on the other side of the door. Her eyes widened and she tossed the door open wide, causing it to slam against the wall and everyone who was in the living room turned their way.

"What are you doing here?" Spike demanded at the same time that an excited squeal of "Spike!" flew from her lips.

She noticed Tara then, and her face fell, becoming young and jaded in a way he hadn't seen since she'd been living with her father. Bloody hell. When he found out who'd told her it would be okay to visit, they were going to get an earful.

"Nothing to worry about," he said quickly, smiling and stepping inside. Faith, Olson, Josh and Giles were all standing in the middle of the room, looking more than a little dumbfounded at his sudden appearance and Tara's condition. Books were scattered everywhere and the tension was just rolling off of everyone in waves.

Giles pulled his glasses from his face, hard eyes settling on Spike. "What happened to her?" he asked, his voice clipped.

Spike shrugged and heard the door close behind him. He shifted so that Dawn wasn't at his back, closed out of what was going on. "Got into a bit of trouble in Tuscany," Spike said offhandedly, then looked at Dawn. "Don't you have school?"

"Spring break," she reminded him, her voice catching somewhere in the middle. Her arms were wrapped around her waist and her lip was trembling. She moved closer and slowly reached out to touch Tara's hair. "Is...is she all right?"

"A little sore, but good," he replied lightly. "Damn knackered, though. Won't give herself a break."

"We were worried," Olson said. Spike raised a brow. "You haven't called since Tuscany and we didn't know what had happened."

Giles slid his glasses back on his face and took a deep breath. "That was incredibly inconsiderate, Spike."

Faith's jaw tightened and Josh glared openly at Giles. Olson clenched his hands into fists and sat stiffly at the kitchen table.

More office politics. It was going to be the death of him. "I'm going to bring her upstairs," he announced, pointing his chin at Tara. He turned to Dawn and grinned. "Come on. You can help me get her settled, if you want."

Dawn's face relaxed slightly and she nodded. Her hair slithered along as she did, and he realized she'd cut it since the last time he'd seen her. It fell to just below her shoulders and shined in the light. She was turning into a heart-breaker, he admitted as they started upstairs. The past months had graced her with yet another growth spurt, and with her long arms and legs, she was almost colt-like in her appearance and movements. All awkward stumbles that promised to coalesce into stunning grace. Her face had lengthened somewhat, as well, taking away some of the babyness of her features and making her saucer sized eyes seem even larger.

The jeans she had on were a hell of a lot lower than waist level, and even though her long sleeved shirt covered her modestly, the way the material clung to her was not modest in the least. He imagined Buffy would have had been having a fit at Dawn's style choices lately, even if it would have been more than a bit hypocritical.

Dawn went directly to his room and turned on the light before hurrying to the bed and turning the covers down. Spike frowned as he set Tara down and brought a sheet over her, taking the paper bag in hand as he did so. He never made his bed, and why wasn't he walking on his wardrobe? He looked around at the neatened room more than a little suspiciously, and Dawn shrugged uneasily.

"I've been spending a bunch of time up here, to get away from them, and I was bored, so..."

"It's fine, platelet," he assured her, glancing back at Tara. She seemed as peaceful as she could be, giving the circumstances. Before standing up, he smoothed her hair from her forehead.

"Have they been pains in the arse?" he asked Dawn bluntly. The eyebrow she raised in response told him everything he needed to know. "Bloody hell. What about you?" She frowned. "You think like Giles does?"

Dawn took a breath and then moved past him to sit on the bed next to Tara. "I thought I did," she said uncertainly. "But when I see her and the others? Without Giles? They're pretty smooth. They've got it together. I mean, don't get me wrong; I still hate the skanky ho," she added quickly and Spike laughed. He sat next to her and slung an arm across her shoulders. "And Olson reminds me a whole bunch of Wesley before he got all hardcore." She leaned against him and sighed. "It sucks--everything about it sucks--but they're doing it. That counts for something, doesn't it?" she asked hesitantly.

Spike realized then that Dawn had grown up a lot more than he'd thought. Maybe because he'd only been seeing her in normal settings of late, and hadn't been able to see her in the middle of what her life used to be like. "Counts for everything," he answered. "And it's all right to hate her." She giggled a little and he touched her shorn locks. "Like the 'do, Bit," he commented.

Dawn shook the shorter waves of hair and grinned impishly. "Now it bounces," she told him.

"That it does," he said, smiling. "You mind staying with Tara while I get interrogated?"

"Nope." She grimaced. "Organizing your sock drawer is on my agenda tonight. Nonstop arguing is annoying. Sure, it's interesting at first. Like a movie. But then you get yelled at for munching on popcorn and then it's no fun."

Spike shook his head, laughing. "Thanks for the warning. Wouldn't want to waste perfectly good popcorn." He got to his feet and went to the door. "You call if either of you need anything, all right?"

Dawn nodded, and he went downstairs to face the firing squad. Halfway down the steps he stopped and had to admit that Dawn was right; it was rather like watching a movie and he now had a sudden craving for popcorn.

Faith and Josh were on the sofa, both of them looking furiously at Giles, who was standing in front of Olson at the kitchen table, glaring at the other Watcher.

Spike continued down the steps and dropped the bag on the coffee table before collapsing onto the loveseat. If his intention had been to get Giles' wrath focused on him, then he'd succeeded.

"What the hell has been going on?" Giles bit out. "You broke contact with us and just disappeared, and somewhere along the way you managed to get Tara beaten."

"Sod off," Spike muttered. "The only reason I didn't call was that we were doing our best to keep going and get the hell back here. As for Tara, I didn't 'get her beaten' you bloody ponce."

"What happened to her?" Olson interjected.

"Florence vamps got a hold of her," Spike said negligently, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "Took care of them, but not before she got a little knocked around. Hospital said she'll be fine in a week or so, 'cept for the ribs."

Giles peered down at him. "You should have returned directly after that, but you didn't," he said suspiciously.

"We had to swing by Paris again," Spike explained.

"Paris?" Faith repeated, speaking for the first time since Spike had arrived. "Thought you took care of that before you found her?"

"Yeah, I did," Spike conceded. "But it turns out that the person who's going to do the ritual has to get everything for it. So we went back to Paris and Tara had to take a dip in Willow's blood, brains and skull for the Onyx Heart." There was utter silence from the peanut gallery and Spike stifled a satisfied smirk. Let them chew on that for a while. "Speaking of which, I'm starving."

They all looked a little green as Spike got to his feet and padded into the kitchen. Truth be told, he wasn't hungry. Hadn't been since Paris. But he needed to eat, so he kept his thoughts shut off as he warmed a packet of blood and drank it down.

"You know, I can't wait to meet Tara," Josh said suddenly into the quiet. Spike raised a brow and he shrugged. "Got to be a tough bitch."

Faith laughed then. "Not that you'd notice," she said dryly. "Looks all soft and sweet, like a shadow would scare her." She tilted her head to the side and caught Spike's eyes. He saw the considering look in them and turned away to put his mug in the sink. "But maybe she's got depth or some shit like that."

Giles frowned disapprovingly. "I'm sure it was unsettling for Tara to have to--"

"Actually," Spike interrupted, heading back to the loveseat. "She was fine with it. Was over in less than five minutes and she kept her chin up through it all." His lips twisted as he stared at the Watcher. "Josh is right; she's damned tough."

"Or still bonkers," Faith drawled.

Spike shrugged. "A little of both."

"Have a little respect," Giles hissed. "That girl has been through hell of late and there is far too much casual disregard from all of you."

He narrowed his eyes at Giles. "I was there for every bit of hell she went through," he ground out, "from the time Glory got to her until now." The Watcher flushed a little and looked away at the reminder of his alcohol vacation the previous summer. "So don't try to tell me what I think, or how I should speak. You don't have that right, not when it comes to Tara."

The sound of Dawn screaming put an end to the "conversation". Spike and Faith reached the steps at the same time, but Spike spun around at Josh's surprised, "Holy shit."

Tara was in a Passageway, and the last of her had just caught up to the first of her. She was face to face with Josh and her eyes went wide. Faith was on the second step and she gaped at Tara. Both Watchers just looked like Christmas had come early.

Dawn came pounding down the steps, frantic and worried. "Spike!" she shouted. "Something happened to--" She came a jerky stop on the fourth step, her eyes on the witch. "--Tara," she finished with confusion.

"Hell," Spike muttered. It was like an effin' farce.

"Oh," Tara exclaimed. She blinked and looked around the room, smiling a little when she saw Spike at the foot of the stairs. "I, uh, didn't know where I was. When I woke up. I got scared."

"You all right?" Spike asked, going to her side. She seemed to be shrinking in on herself under everyone's scrutiny.

"Um," she murmured. "Yeah. It works on people," she added incongruously, and Spike raised a brow. "I told it to bring me to you. And it did."

"Jolly wonderful," he drawled sarcastically. "Bit, why don't you come down here and say hello."

Dawn squeezed around Faith and bounded down the steps, her movement becoming hesitant as she got closer to Tara. "Tara?" she said hopefully, her eyes running over the witch.

Tara smiled at the teenager. "Hi, Dawnie. I'm sorry I scared you."

Dawn's face split into a wide grin and she threw herself at Tara, hugging the witch to her. "Careful of her ribs," Spike cautioned when Tara winced slightly. Dawn adjusted her grip and Tara slowly raised her good arm and wrapped it around Dawn's back. It didn't stay there very long, and Tara seemed to be trying to creep away from the teenager.

"God, I missed you," Dawn mumbled.

"Missed you too," Tara said thickly. She pushed back and smiled softly. "Oh, wow. Your hair looks lovely."

"Yours too!" Dawn chirped. "It's almost as long as mine was. We're swapping hair! And how did you just disappear like that?" she tacked on, her tone demanding.

Giles cleared his throat. "Er, Dawn, I think perhaps Tara should...have a seat."

"Oh! Yeah. Here, we can sit on the loveseat," she said, taking Tara's hand and dragging the witch along with her. Dawn fell onto the cushions, curling her legs under her and sitting so that her back was braced on the arm. Tara sat more slowly, trying not to make her ribs flare up. "So can I keep the mark you gave me?" Dawn asked. "'Cause it's really cool, and my dad won't let me get a tattoo, and Spike pretty much said he'd cut it off me if I got one anyway, and this is probably the closest I'll get."

Tara was officially overwhelmed. Spike saw it in the way her eyes went distant and her head ducked. "You can't keep it and your whining is getting old, Bit," Spike said irritably. "You'll be eighteen before you know it and then you can scar yourself however you want."

"Yeah, right," Dawn scoffed. "Like you'll stop being all over-protective just because I'm legal. Please." She glared at him. "I know you weren't just 'in the neighborhood' when I went out with Jimmy Henson, you jerk." She turned to Tara, long-suffering and pouting. "He jumped out of the bushes when Jimmy was going to kiss me goodnight, all snaggly toothed and yellow eyed."

"Hey!" Spike protested indignantly. "My teeth aren't snaggly. I'll have you know they're considered great chompers, all right?"

"Yes, as fascinating as all of this is," Giles snapped, "I believe now is not the time." His expressions softened as he looked at Tara. "It's good to see you again, Tara."

"Hi, Mr. Giles," she said shyly, not lifting her head.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Right, introductions. Think you already met Faith," he commented, pointing at the brunette.

"Yeah, hi," Faith said. She was still at the staircase, now sitting on one of the steps. "Sorry about when we first met. I was a little psycho for a while, but I guess you know how that goes."

"Faith," Giles hissed.

Tara waved and offered the Slayer a smile. "Um, not really. I was crazy, not psycho. Less violent," she clarified helpfully. Faith blinked, then shook her head, a surprised chuckle issuing forth. "It's, uh, nice to meet you, though. Spike says you're not annoying," she added sweetly.

Spike growled at her. "More of a brat than I thought," he snipped at her. "You also met Olson, over there. He's the one who pissed his pants on your first meeting. Never thanked you for that," he added, smirking when both of them blushed and glared at him. "The pretty young thing sprawled on the sofa is Josh. Don't tell him he's not as pretty as he thinks, because you'll be wasting your breath."

Josh winked at Tara. "So, what did Sexy Vamp say about me?" he asked insouciantly. "Did he comment on my stunning fashion sense? My daring lifestyle? Or did he simply go on and on about my tastefully muscled bod of hotness?"

Spike rolled his eyes and Dawn snickered quite loudly before making exaggerated gagging noises. "Sexy Vamp--um, Spike," Tara corrected when he glared at her, "said that you and Olson aren't entirely incompetent. That means he likes you."

"Yeah," Dawn chimed in. "It's code."

"So, what did I miss while I was, um, sleeping?" Tara asked uncomfortably.

"Arguments," Dawn answered immediately, apparently voting herself their spokesperson even though she'd been upstairs for most of the time. "That's all they've done since I've been here."

"I think that we missed more than you did," Olson said pointedly. Tara's head raised, her eyes seeking out Spike, and he shrugged.

"I'm going to do a last round of patrols," Faith announced, standing.

"Yeah, I think I'll head home," Josh said, glancing at Giles. "I'll leave the car for you, Eric," he told Olson. "Faith can walk me." Olson nodded his agreement and Josh met Faith by the door.

"Er, Dawn," Giles began. "Perhaps you should go with them. You are staying with Josh and Eric."

"But Tara just got back!" Dawn protested. "And Spike!"

"Dawnie," Tara said, "I'm not going to be much company. I'll probably be going back to sleep once we fill the Watchers in. We can, uh, hang out tomorrow okay? Catch up."

"Off with you, Bit," Spike said firmly. "Tara needs rest and you expend enough energy to vicariously drain the rest of us."

"Fine," she pouted. "But I'm coming over early tomorrow."

The three left and Giles sat next to Tara while Spike took up residence on the sofa Josh had vacated. "What did we just see, Tara?" he asked softly.

"Well," she began, tucking her hair behind her ears. "In Tuscany? The woman who looks out for the pomegranate, um, gave us some extra. To thank us for rescuing her."

Giles and Olson shared a confused look. "What does it have to do with what you did?" Olson asked for them both.

Tara looked like a deer caught in the headlights, so Spike gave them the details of what Marianna had told them, which both Watchers just found intriguing to say the least.

"And you say that it worked not just with locations?" Olson asked with interest. "You wanted to go to Spike and you were able to?"

Tara nodded.

"Extraordinary," Giles breathed. "Just extraordinary." But then the Watcher shook his head and shifted to better see Tara, and Spike knew what was coming. "Tara, this ritual is dangerous," he began. "Please reconsider. There are other options."

Tara looked at him for a moment, fighting back the exhaustion and pain. Spike let her at it. His words certainly weren't going to convince Giles of anything. "No, there aren't," Tara said eventually. "Um, maybe we can get rid of the Arcepts, but there will be others. W-w-w-illow had a lot of power," she admitted quietly. "More than she knew, I think. The transfer isn't a natural thing. If the magic was still in Willow, and she was alive, there would be less interest. But it's unstable now, vulnerable."

Giles sat back and studied her. "Tara, how do you know all of this? And how can you be sure the power has been transferred?"

"Willow told me about the transfer," Tara admitted. "I didn't know...I didn't know she was thinking about using it. She kind of, um, found it during a research session. She thought it was--interesting."

"During research, you say?" Giles pounced. "I went through every book I brought back to England with me, and then we searched through the texts that I left behind. There was nothing in any of them."

Tara shrugged. "Maybe she, um, took it?" she offered. "I only know that she told me about the transfer and the Cerno. After the Arcept guy came to the hospital, I went to this store. In L.A. They had a copy of 'Veneficus Ritus' or 'Ritus Veneficus' or...well, something like that. The Cerno is in between two pages, and you need a, um, specific revealing spell to see it."

"Let me guess," Giles said with a sigh. "Willow told you what it is." Tara nodded and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I suppose it would be pointless to comment on Willow's...poor decisions. So instead I shall ask what makes you sure that she did indeed transfer it."

"I...I can feel it, still," she answered quietly. "I know her magic is still here."

"Feel it?" Olson echoed, looking to Giles for an explanation.

"Willow and Tara performed many, er, spells together," Giles said haltingly, and Spike snickered. "Would you be able to...to track it? Back to the source?" he asked Tara.

Tara looked at him, steadily and directly. "What would that accomplish?"

"Yeah, what would that accomplish?" Spike repeated. "Because you have yet to tell us. Come on, and make it good."

"Do shut up," Giles snapped at him. "You've been no help whatsoever, other than in getting Tara injured."

"You're wrong," Tara countered, sitting up straight and lifting her head. "He's done nothing but help me since that...since that night." She took a deep breath. "What have you done?"

Giles was shocked. Spike shared a small grin with Olson. "Well, I've been looking into other alternatives," he stammered self-consciously.

"But Spike told you this is what I was going to do," Tara reminded him. "Did you look into the ritual at all?"

"Well, no--"

"We have," Olson interrupted. They all turned to him. "Our research indicates that only someone of white magic stands a chance of success with the Cerno. We've been pouring through every recorded instance of the ritual being attempted in an effort to find...commonalities for failure. So far that's what we've come up with." He tilted his head to the side. "It's quite like a logic game from one of those puzzle books."

"Wow," Tara whispered. "Thank you. The, um, Guntry said the Onyx Heart was key, as well, even though it's not used."

Olson nodded thoughtfully. "So it's not superfluous. We'd wondered about that."

"Which means we need to know all there is to know about it," Spike pointed out. "Guntry said something about it offering the right state of mind."

Giles was quiet, almost like he was feeling superfluous himself. Good. Might teach him that they were more capable than he thought they were.

"I'm kind of tired," Tara said then, yawning delicately behind her hand.

Olson got to his feet and smiled down at her. "We'll start looking into it first thing in the morning," he informed her. She glanced at her watch and he shrugged good-naturedly. "Later in the morning. If you feel up to joining us, I can pick you up when I get Faith," he offered. "Around ten or so?"

"I'd like that," Tara agreed. She shifted forward on the cushion, in preparation of standing, and Spike got up to take her good hand and help her stand. "I think I'd also like one of those pills," she muttered to Spike.

"Right, I'll get the luggage. Rupes, you can haul your arse back to wherever you're staying," he commented, motioning at the Watcher.

"I was hoping to--," he started to say, but Spike spun around and pointed a finger at him.

"It can wait," Spike said clearly.

Giles' eyes flickered from Tara, who was swaying lightly on her feet, to Spike. "Yes, of course," he said slowly. "We can talk later."

Or not at all, Spike finished silently. "Let's go, then. Try to stay on your feet for another couple of minutes, luv," he told Tara. "I'll be back before you know it."

She nodded absently and waved weakly at the Watchers.

They walked through the courtyard to the street and Olson went right for his SUV without a word to either of them. Spike didn't really blame him. Giles hesitated while Spike popped the trunk and pulled out his and Tara's bags.

"What are you still here for, Giles?" Spike asked negligently, slamming the trunk closed. "If you need a ride, you're shit out of luck."

Giles shook himself. "No, no, I don't need a ride," he said quietly. "I know we have our differences, Spike, but Tara seems to listen to you. No one has been able perform this ritual without dying."

"Listen up, because I'm only going to say this once," Spike said, looking towards the flat. "She's doing it, no matter what you, me, or anyone says. Getting on her case? Trying to bully her around?" He shook his head. "It's not going to do anything but upset and confuse her, and I'm guessing she needs to be calm and centered for the ritual." He shrugged and shifted the bags. "From what we've learned, she's got a chance. A good chance. You want to help make it a better chance, then come by the shop tomorrow and help us. If not, go back home."

He left the man on the sidewalk and dumped the bags by the door in the living room. Tara was having trouble keeping her eyes open, so he dug out the bottle of pills and grabbed the paper bag, then took her arm and lead her up the stairs.

"Your room is really...neat," she commented with surprise.

Spike snorted. "Niblet went to town." He smirked suggestively. "Luckily,

we keep all the kinky stuff in the Slayer's room."

Tara smiled and lay down, kicking her sandals off and pushing them from the bed with one foot. She sighed as her head hit the pillow. Spike brought her some water and she missed the glass when she tried to take it from him.

"Open up," he said gruffly, and set a pill on her tongue when she complied. She lifted her head to take a sip of the water he held for her, and swallowed the pill. Spike turned off the overhead light and stripped to the waist, then climbed over her, taking the dreaded spot next to the wall.

"There's so much anger," she said a short while later. She was draped across his chest, the position awkward and probably uncomfortable for her ribs.

"Yeah, there is," he acknowledged, thinking about the group that had been gathered in the living room.

"It's so exhausting. Anger, I mean." She yawned. "How do they do it?"

"It's not like that at first," he answered. "In the beginning, it's like an adrenaline rush. Before you know it, you're drained. Humans anyway," he clarified. "Vamps get off on it." He paused. "How is it for you?"

She stiffened. "Oh. Well. Kind of...somewhere in between, I guess." She sighed. "I just want this to end."

He pressed a kiss on her hair and listened to her breathing even out when she fell asleep two minutes later. It wasn't going to be as easy as Tara thought, really. The Cerno wasn't the answer to anything except the Arcepts.

When Faith pounded on his bedroom door, it felt like only a few minutes had passed since he'd fallen asleep. When he squinted at the clock, it showed that several hours had passed and it was now nine in the morning. Tara groaned and brought a hand to her head.

"What?" he snarled at Faith.

She threw the door open and her eyes widened in surprise when she saw Tara untangling herself from Spike's arms. She stayed at the doorway, hair tussled and an army green tank top bunched at her waist above a pair of boxers.

"Wakey wakey," she said in a gravelly voice. "Olson's due in an hour."

Tara sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "My tongue is furry," she mumbled with a moue of distaste. "And my head kind of hurts."

"It's the pills," Spike grunted. "Must have given you a bit of a hangover. Shower will fix you up."

"It's not really a shower when I can't wash my hair, or get wet above my neck," she complained. "More like a bath."

Spike sat up and carefully parted some of her hair, examining the stitches on her scalp before checking the other two wounds. "No sign of infection," he said with satisfaction. "Those antibiotics are working. You still in pain?"

She nodded. "Yeah, but it's not as bad."

"You can have the bathroom first," Faith commented, her eyes bleary. "I'm still trying to wake up."

"Didn't hear you come in," Spike commented. "Must've been late."

"Three hours ago," she admitted, rubbing her eyes.

Spike raised a brow. "Yeah? Must've been a hell of a last patrol, then, to keep you out until that time."

She gave him the finger and gestured behind her. "Brought your bags up. They're right out here."

"Thanks," Tara said, standing up and taking a breath. "I'll be quick as I can."

"Give a holler if you need a hand," Spike instructed her, and she slipped past Faith with a nod.

When the bathroom door closed, Faith dragged herself into the room and flopped down on his bed in the spot Tara had abandoned. "Fuck, I'm tired."

"No one to blame but yourself," he reminded her. "Grab my fags, would you?"

She dropped a hand over the side of the bed and he heard the sounds of leather on leather as she blindly rummaged through his duster and tossed the pack and lighter at him. While he lit one, and took an ashtray from the windowsill next to the bed, she tilted her head and looked at him through a tumble of sable hair.

"You two looked cozy there," she said, eyebrows raised. "Something going on?"

"Fuck off," he sighed, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Faith held out her hand and he passed her the cigarette. "She's firmly on your side of the fence, ducks, and even if she wasn't, it's not like that."

Faith inhaled and passed the cigarette back. "How'd it go after I left?"

"Oh, it was a blast," he snorted, handing her the cigarette again. "Giles tried to talk her out of it, but she put him in his place." He grimaced. "I'm sure he's rallied himself by now, though. Come up with new and improved arguments, a better line of reasoning."

"He hasn't found shit," Faith told him. Spike took the cigarette back and got a final hit off of it before putting it out. "Everyone he talks to tells him the same thing: the Cerno. But he won't accept it."

Spike narrowed his eyes on her. She wasn't an idiot. She had to know...but maybe she was too caught up in the arguments to think it through. "He doesn't want to bury another one," he told her quietly, and she flinched.

"Yeah, okay, I get that," she said, blowing out a frustrated breath.

"Tell me something, Slayer," he said casually. "Who told the Niblet she could come here?"

Faith held her hands up and shook her head. "No one told her anything, man. She just showed up. Walked into the Magic Box two days ago and said her father dropped her off for Spring Break."

"Bloody hell," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Refused to leave, didn't she?"

"Loudly," Faith said, grinning. "Pitched one hell of a fit when Giles ordered her to." Spike snorted. That must have been a sight, and he was sorry he'd missed it.

The bathroom door opened and closed, and then he heard Tara's footsteps as she came down the hall. A moment later, she was walking into the room, looking only slightly more presentable than before, and holding all the necessities for her ribs.

"Um, I think my ribs should be wrapped again," she said hesitantly, head ducked and her eyes skittering to Faith. She'd taken off the wrapping the hospital had sent her off with in Paris, just before going to get the Onyx.

"I can do that for you," Faith offered. "I've had to patch Olson up a few times."

"No," Tara said abruptly, taking a step back. "No. I'd...Spike? Can you...?"

"Sure thing, pet," he said quietly, and she visibly relaxed. He remembered when she'd shown him all those things at Willow's grave. The pain on her skin, inside and out. The fire that hurt and burned her. The way she'd shied away from touching everyone but him. He wondered if maybe it hadn't been just because she was coo-coo at the time. Because that night at the grave, the thought of something cool soothing the burn had gone through her head.

"Why don't you hit the shower, Slayer?" Spike said idly. "You're ripe with some poor slop's stench. Hope you went easy on him."

"Fuck off," Faith snapped, getting to her feet.

Giles, Dawn and Josh were already at the Magic Box when they arrived. Josh seemed sullen and pouty. So did Dawn. Spike had the feeling it was going to be a long morning of research.

"We brought breakfast," Dawn informed them limply. Tara went directly to the plate of bagels and snatched one, not bothering to cut it and eating it dry. She spotted several containers of orange juice, took one for herself, then swallowed and mumbled a sheepish hello to the room at large.

"It was supposed to be catch up time, not research time," Dawn said to Tara, eyes hurt and angry. Tara flinched and took a step back.

"That's enough of that," Spike told Dawn, his voice cool. "Not any more fun for her--or any of us--than it is for you."

"I'm sorry," Dawn sighed. "I just...I forgot how it's an all the time thing that doesn't hold off because you have better things to do. I forgot how much it sucks."

Spike didn't know if there was anything left in him at this point, and he stared at Dawn for a long while, the rest of the room astoundingly quiet, until Tara's soft words sounded. "One time? I forgot to put pants on before leaving the house," she told Dawn.

It was such an absurd statement, so incongruous, that Dawn laughed. "Okay, so you win that," she chirped. "I didn't mean to be a brat."

"You never mean to," Spike snarked with a smirk, and Dawn stuck her tongue out at him.

"So...where should we start?" Tara asked, looking around at everyone.

"I thought," Olson said slowly, "it would be best to give an overview of all that we've learned, since you and Spike have been well out of the loop."

"Sounds like a plan," Spike agreed, going to the counter and hopping on top of it. Tara and Dawn sat at the table, and Giles pulled a stool from behind the counter. Faith stayed near the food, leaning against the other table and spreading cream cheese onto a bagel. Olson nodded at Josh. The boy went into the back room and wheeled out a dry erase board whose surface had been divided into three sections by frighteningly straight marker lines.

"This is basically what we've learned about the Cerno's history, purpose and how it works; the snags are on the other side," Josh informed them all.

Spike glanced through the neatly written lists below each header and bit back a curse when Giles decided more than enough time had passed since he'd put in his two cents.

"How can you be sure that the ritual is firmly rooted in white magic?" he asked Olson.

Josh, however, was the one who retrieved a small stack of index cards from a shelf below the board. In a monotone, he recited several texts that backed up the very first fact written on the board. When he began to read off page and paragraph numbers, Olson stopped him.

"That can wait until after we've gone over the basics," he interrupted, clearing his throat. He moved in front of the board and motioned to a small notation. "As it states, the Cerno was created almost a thousand years ago by numerous sorcerers who saw a need to reverse the transfer ritual, which was a good deal older. I believe we're all aware, now at any rate," he expounded, "that the transfer is an erratic measure. The results are unpredictable and the magic never fully meshes with the recipient. Various side-effects include the inability to control the power, being consumed by the power--and I mean that literally; spontaneous combustion is not a joke--and the most troublesome: an intrinsic mismatch between the individual and powers that makes the recipient vulnerable to more than a few lethal ways of being stripped of the power.

"In theory, the ritual is simple," he continued. "It starts with a standard ointment which opens the individual to magicks more fully. The ingredients are mixed in the Anointing Bowl, which amplifies the ointment's effects and increases the user's talent."

Josh took a step forward. "Next is the Immortal Essence," he explained, his tone serious. "This stuff is amazing. It can be used with certain spells or rituals to grant someone partial immortality. But in the Cerno, what it does it make the user impervious to Khentimentiu's knife. Historically, the knife is described as a talisman that summons Khentimentiu, but in reality what it does is kill you no matter what type of wound you receive. So, you get to meet the great Khentimentiu, but not in the way you thought."

"That is seriously fucked up," Faith interjected and Josh nodded in agreement.

"But with the Immortal Essence," Olson picked up, "one is able to withstand the cut of the blade and can call him as one means to. It's ingenious, really."

"After that, you've gotta eat the seeds," Faith told them all. "They let you interact with the dead the way you need to. The details are kinda sketchy, but the gist of it is that you have to ask the giver to take the power back with them to the land of the dead. And you have to be specific," she warned. "Just asking them to take it back could send it into the..." Her eyes flickered to Tara and she frowned.

"Back into the originator's remains," Olson finished gently, clearing his throat at the end. "Where it can still be accessed if the originator is powerful."

The unspoken, "Like Willow" hung in the air and Tara ducked her head again.

"The neatest thing about all of this," Josh exclaimed, changing topics and smiling widely, "is that everything is designed to retreat after the ritual is performed. The objects return to where they came from, and anything that's ingested is cancelled out of you. But that brings us to the tricky part: completing the ritual."

He spun the board, revealing the complications. Spike had to hand it to him; he was more than prepared and certainly knowledgeable.

"No one's been ever been able to finish it," Josh lectured them. "Originally, we only had a vague footnote about that, but we found a shitload of details later on." He pointed to the board. "We've grouped the failures into categories: Lack of Components, which is self-explanatory; User Error, again, self-explanatory; and Unknown, which is the largest. Eric told me about what Tara and Spike found out during the scavenger hunt, and it's already on here.

"I then broke down the unknowns a bit further. If we were able to hypothesize a reason for failure, we did so. If not, I delineated at what point in the ritual things go to Hell. There is a significant pattern of failure after the start but before Khentimentiu makes an appearance."

"Tara found out some other things, too," Spike announced.

Tara tore her eyes away from the whiteboard and blinked. "What? Oh. Yes. Um, the book where I found the Cerno said that there's more to it than performing it, and said that 'gathering the components is the first of many steps'. It didn't...say what the other steps were, but.... Now that I've gone out and gotten everything," she said slowly, thoughtfully, "I feel like there's some kind of, uh, weeding out process woven throughout everything. From gathering the components to performing the ritual." She frowned and shook her head. "At least, that's I think."

"Very possible," Josh said, nodding quickly. "The guys that put this together were uber-good guys. Totally particular and judgmental. And it would explain most of the unknowns. Still leaves us with the problem of not knowing what their standards were."

"But there are things we know for sure," Olson told the group. "Only someone of white magic stands a chance of success, all the ingredients must be present, and one will not survive if they stop the ritual once it's begun."

"Wait," Spike interrupted. "What was that last one?"

"It's all or nothing," Faith explained. "Falls into User Error. We found three instances of gruesome deaths for those who wussed out after they started."

"Really gruesome," Josh stressed seriously. "No matter why they stopped. Apparently, it's a big commitment."

"You neglected to mention the Onyx Heart," Giles said coolly, "which is a requirement for the Cerno that is not actually used. That was supposed to have been our focus today."

"And it will be," Josh snapped. "One of them, at least. With this many people there's no harm in dividing brainpower. Half of us continue looking into the Cerno, the other half look into the onyx." He curled his lip and raised a brow. "Does that meet with His Highness' approval?"

"Josh!" Olson ground out, garnering the boy's attention. "Why don't you separate our texts to accommodate the division of efforts?"

Josh opened his mouth, but thought better of it. "Yeah, why don't I," he muttered, going to the table.

Dawn raised a brow at Tara, as if to say, "See, I told you." Spike shook his head. Things were damn close to coming to a head on more than one front.

Many, many hours later Faith threw a book across the room. "I hate this shit," she said loudly.

She way lying on top of the counter by the register, her most recent settling place. Spike dodged the book on his way out of the back room, closing the door on Tara and Dawn, who had retreated there an hour earlier. Tara's head had begun hurting her with all of the reading, and she was still knackered. Olson had sent them out of the room, instructing Tara to make herself comfortable on the sofa in there while Dawn "researched" in a text that Spike was pretty sure was unimportant to their quest.

Giles, Olson and Josh all lifted their heads from various books at the table and blinked widely at Faith.

"None of it makes sense, damn it," she continued in frustration, sitting up and swinging her legs to the side so that they dangled above the floor. "And half of what I'm reading is telling me to look in other freaking books. It's like Hell or something."

She'd actually lasted a lot longer than Spike had expected. As a rule, Faith tended to become impatient with research, not because she didn't see the point, but because it worked in a way that was contrary to her. She was direct, linear. Research was...not. It was hard for her to wrap her head around it, but she'd been going for six hours strong and it was impressive.

"Stick a fork in me, because I am done," she informed them, rubbing her forehead and tousling her hand in her hair when she lowered it. "I'm gonna do something nice and simple, like patrol. Call when something happens."

Giles removed his glasses and stared at her. "Faith, I really don't believe that's what you should be doing at this moment," he noted. "With Tara...incapacitated, and Dawn distracted, we need your eyes. Get to work on the Gorjian Journals," he ordered her, resetting his glasses on his face and looking back down at his own book.

Faith stiffened and straightened up. "Excuse me?" she asked quietly.

"You heard me," Giles said without looking up. "You no longer have the luxury of opting out of the parts you don't like."

Spike stepped further into the room, then moved to the right to lean against a display case. One thing was about to get worked through.

"Opting out?" Faith repeated dangerously low.

"Faith, go on patrol," Olson said firmly, leaning back in his seat, jaw tight.

Giles' head snapped up again. "Eric, she should--"

"What you think she should or should not be doing is unimportant," Olson said calmly. "I am her Watcher, and I think that we could do without her for two hours while she performs another of her duties."

"Well, of course you do," Giles exclaimed, getting to his feet. He tossed his hands in the air and shrugged. "Because it's what Faith wants, isn't it? And heaven forbid Faith not be indulged in all ways."

The door to the backroom opened, and Tara hesitantly stepped out. Spike raised a brow, and she shook her head and mouthed "bathroom". He nodded and turned back to the floor show.

"That accusation is completely unfounded," Olson hissed, also standing. "Faith's performance has been exemplary in all ways."

"The hell it has," Giles almost shouted. "She runs wild and you have been remiss in every one of your responsibilities by letting her."

Spike traded a look with Josh, who seemed quite smug. You could give Faith all the crap you wanted about her, and you could criticize Olson to his face without a problem. But saying something to one about the other didn't go over well. And Giles was about to learn just how protective they were of each other.

"Wow, judgments and criticism," Faith drawled in a hard voice and slid off the counter. "How unusual." Giles glared at her and she smiled, but it was sharp around the edges. "Why the hell are you here, Giles?"

"I'm here to help," he bit out.

"Well when is that going to start?" she asked smartly. "Because so far you haven't done a damn thing we couldn't have done on our own."

Giles leveled a disgusted look at Olson. "Perhaps if you spent less time mooning over the boy you've dragged into something he should have never been involved in, your Slayer would have her priorities straight."

Olson straightened to his full height, a solid three inches more than Giles. "There is nothing wrong with Faith's priorities."

Giles snorted. "No, of course not. She's just living with a vampire and doing whatever the Hell she wants. I have half a mind to relieve you of--"

And Faith was in his face, her eyes shuttered. Spike rubbed his forehead and watched her force Giles back a few steps.

"Oh, and you were never guilty of dragging young kids into this drama, were you, Giles?" she asked silkily. "Naw, not you. And your Slayer never fraternized with the vamps. Nope."

"That was different," he protested.

"Different," Faith repeated slowly, "Yeah, you weren't fucking any of the kids, and they were a hell of a lot younger than Josh is. Oh, and Angel had a soul...but I heard it was kinda slippery there for a while. And you never trusted Spike."

Giles went still and leveled a scathing look at the Slayer. "If you think that trusting Spike shows your good sense, then you are mistaken. He--"

"Has no soul and is only being kept in check by the soddin' chip," Faith finished for him in a sing-song voice. "Captain Obvious is in the house."

"Trusting him will cause you nothing but trouble."

"You trusted him," Faith reminded Giles bluntly, her eyes narrowed. "Trusted him in your house. Trusted him to protect the Hellmouth. Trusted him with Dawn and Tara."

The color faded from Giles' face.

"Look," Faith said quietly. "I'm sorry that it kills you inside that I'm still alive, and B's not." She paused and shook her head. "But I don't deserve the way you look at me--not anymore.

"As for Olson," she said, shaking her head again in disbelief, "Damn, I remember when Wesley came to town. I remember how he criticized every choice you'd ever made, and had a better idea of how to do everything. Never thought that you'd do the same thing, since you know what it's like to be on the receiving end of it."

Giles' jaw clenched, but Faith kept going. "I trust Spike as far as I can thrown him, and that's pretty fucking far. But it's not total trust, because I'm not a fucking idiot. Whether you like it or not, Giles, you don't have the right to come riding in here on your high horse and making us feel like we're incompetent. We're not. I know where it's coming from, and I sympathize, but you either have to deal or find someone else willing to come check up on us."

Utter silence fell upon the room and Spike frowned. As good as all of this was, something was bothering him. Something was...wrong. Very, very wrong. He just couldn't put his finger on it.

"Be that as it may--" Giles began, but the door to the back room opened again, and Spike realized what was wrong. There was a heartbeat missing.

"Where's Tara?" Dawn asked, closing the door behind her.

"Shit, shit, shit," Spike muttered, pushing away from the display case and bolting past Dawn to the bathroom. It was empty, and the back door leading out to the alley was blocked by two large boxes of inventory that had been delivered earlier in the day.

"Did something take her?" Faith asked as soon as he appeared in the shop area again. Josh and Olson were behind the counter, passing her various weapons which she was stashing all over her person. Giles was rubbing the back of his neck and looking in dire need of a drink. Dawn's eyes were filled with tears.

"No, nothing took her," Spike ground out, running a hand through his hair. "She bloody left. Through the soddin' passageways, if my guess is right. Hell."

"But...why?" Dawn sniffled, coming to his side.

And that was the question. Why had she snuck off and then slipped into a passageway? Why had she run away from them? He closed his eyes and dropped his head to his chest, an awful thought occurring to him.

"Bring me that book you were looking in, Niblet," he said carefully, head still lowered.

"There shouldn't have been anything in there," Olson said quickly when Dawn was out of earshot.

Maybe not, but Spike had the feeling something damn well was in there, and that it had sent Tara off on her own, just like the visit from the Arcept had. Dawn came hurrying back, holding out the book. "We were talking," she explained as he took it from her and set it on the table. "Just about...things, and she was flipping through it. Not really paying attention. Then she said--she said she had to pee and that she'd be right back."

Spike ground his teeth together and forced himself to take a breath. "Show me where she was flipping, " he asked.

The others came to stand around him as Dawn shuffled through the pages, a picture getting her attention. She passed through two more pages and then stopped. "Here."

He bent over the book, scanning through the Latin without much problem. With a growl of frustration at not finding anything, he started to look away.

That's when he noticed it. A small notation at the bottom of the page, whose size detracted not at all from its import.

He slammed his hands on the table and turned to the others. "She's gone to do the Cerno," he informed them grimly.

"Bloody Hell," Giles exclaimed.

"What have we found out about the Onyx Heart?" Spike demanded of Olson.

"Not much," the Watcher admitted, rifling his hands through his hair. "There are no mystical abilities associated with it. It's just an...onyx."

Spike ground his teeth together. "Just an onyx," he repeated. "What do we know about onyx in general then?"

Josh reached for a pad and flipped through it. "It grounds negativity," he read, "and aids in letting go of stress. It is soothing and helps to focus, to banish grief and old habits, protecting the bearer and encouraging happiness and good fortune."

That made Spike blink as he thought about what he'd just read, and what the Guntry had told them about the "right state of mind". Oh, hell, it made all kinds of sense, but there was still too much that wasn't known. They needed more time before Tara attempted the Cerno and she'd just stopped the clock and gone ahead.

"Spike, what is in that book that caused Tara to run off?" Giles asked dangerously.

Going still, Spike met the Watcher's hard eyes and, without looking away, he tore the offending page from the book and shoved it into his duster. "Let's go get her," he suggested icily.

Dawn had insisted on coming, not backing down even when Spike had slipped into gameface in anger at her stubbornness. She'd said she would just follow them, and he knew she would. So she'd ridden in Giles' rental car with Spike while Olson had driven Josh and Faith.

For his part, Spike had absolutely refused to tell any of them what he'd found in the book.

At the cemetery, they poured out of the cars and then Spike was tearing through the graveyard so quickly that only Faith was able to keep up with him. They burst through the clearing near Willow's grave and Spike noticed the small piles of sand that scattered the area. Tara had obviously interrupted some Arcepts trying to get at the grave when she'd arrived.

"Goddamn it, Tara," he shouted at her.

She jerked around to face him, eyes empty and visage blank. "Go away, Spike," she said flatly. "And take them with you," she added when the others joined him and Faith.

"Like hell I will," he snarled, and rushed towards her, only to bounce off of a barrier. Tara looked away, and bent down to pick up the paper bag of components.

"She's started the preparations," Josh said, gasping as he caught his breath. "She cast the circle."

Spike slammed his palms against the barrier and growled at her. "Let. Me. Through," he bit out. "If you don't, I will toss myself against this thing until it tears me apart."

She looked up, her eyes pleading. "Spike..."

"Don't Spike me," he snapped. "Let me through this soddin' thing. Now!"

He didn't look away and eventually she winced and waved her hand, and he burst through the barrier without problem and ran to her, grabbing her wrist and dragging her away from the bag. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked her, tightening his grip and shaking her. "What is going on in that bloody messed up head of yours?"

Tara remained stubbornly silent, her eyes sliding away from his. He reached into his pocket with his free hand and brought out the crumpled page from the book, waving it under her nose. "Is it about this?" he demanded.

Her head snapped up. "Did you--"

"No, I didn't tell anyone," he answered furiously. "But that's not the bleedin' point, you idiot. Do you really think doing this now is a smart idea?" He let go of her wrist and she stumbled back. "Do you have a death wish?" he asked with frustration. "Because if you do, then slitting your wrists is a hell of a lot easier."

She stiffened and glared at him. "We're running out of time," she insisted, ignoring what he'd said. "The sigils can't hold up much longer."

Spike arched a brow. "Won't hold up for twenty-four more hours? Just another day?"

Looking away, she shrugged. "I'm doing it now."

"Damn it," he growled, hands running through his hair. "You're in no shape to do this. You're too tense, and too upset."

"I know, but I don't have a choice," she whispered. Her arm stretched out, her hand turned palm up and shaking. Spike briefly closed his eyes, then took her hand and yanked her to his chest.

"One more day," he said lowly. "Just hold off one more day."

"I can't," she mumbled. "I can't hold on another day. It's too much."

"Then you need to center yourself or something, because you're all over the place right now," he instructed her. "Take a couple of minutes to meditate or whatever."

She was quiet for a moment, then she whispered, "All right."

Pushing away from him, she sat in front of Willow's headstone, cross-legged and wretched looking. She took a deep breath, then closed her eyes. Spike rubbed his forehead and stepped back to give her some room. At the barrier, Giles was glaring at him.

"Don't let her do this, Spike," the Watcher hissed.

"What the hell do you expect me to do?" Spike asked, resigned. "I've seen her like this, and she's not changing her mind."

"Take the components," Giles whispered. "Take them and she won't be able to do it."

"And what if the passageways work for objects, too?" Spike bit out. "Even if they don't, after what she went through to get this shit to begin with, hiding it isn't going to deter her."

"Spike, we don't know enough," Olson said, worried.

He nodded. "I know. She doesn't want to hear it."

"But, she'll pull it off, right?" Dawn pleaded tremulously. "She'll do it."

Spike caught a movement out of the corner of his eyes, and turned his head to see Tara getting to her feet. Dawn wanted him to lie, but staring at the pale witch just a few feet away, the woman riddled with grief and guilt and pain, he didn't think he could do it.

"Let's hope so, Bit," he murmured, walking back to Tara.

Tara watched him approach as she set about mixing the ointment. She must have used the passageways to go somewhere to get the herbs she needed. Probably to the house on Revello, since that's where he'd stored all of her and Willow's stuff.

"About the onyx," Spike ventured. Tara raised her brows and waited for him to continue. "Couldn't find anything special about it at all. Just a really big onyx. Josh said that onyx is used to--"

"I know what it's used for," she said shortly, still mixing the ingredients for the ointment. Once it was done, Tara dipped her fingers into it, bringing her hand to her face and pausing for a long moment while she stared at Spike.

"Good luck," he simply said.

She nodded, then spread the stuff across her forehead and lips. She pulled her shirt aside and touched it to her heart before rubbing the remainder along her hands and arms.

There was suddenly a charge in the air, like electricity. Spike remembered something similar when Marianna had entered the room with the pomegranate. Tara's eyes seemed to glow then, growing brighter and brighter until they were shining in the dark.

"With magic mine and not mine," Tara said loudly, "I enter into the Cerno of my own volition. Let my actions be noted, my words heeded and my will sanctioned by those I call upon."

Her eyes flared brightly again before returning to normal, and she shook her head as if dazed, then reached onto the headstone to pick up the Essence of Immortality.

"Give me not endurance of death," Tara said as she opened the vial, "but proof against a single wound that would be my death. Strengthen my transience, fortify my mortality."

She drank the contents of the vial and was reaching for Khentimentiu's knife when there was a soft exhalation of the wind. Spike's eyes widened at the same time that Tara's did.

Willow had appeared in front of Tara, vaporous and wraithlike. The light of the moon and the dim lamps in the cemetery shone right through her. Tara's hand, reaching for the knife, trembled.

"Tara, baby, why are you doing this?" Willow asked, confused.

"Willow," Tara choked out, her face lit with grief stricken awe. "I-I-I-I miss you. So much."

The apparition that was Willow smiled sadly. "Oh, baby, I miss you too. But you have to stop this. Now."

Spike frowned. "She stops and she dies," he said carefully, staring at Willow. "That what you want?"

"I want things the way they are," Willow answered, glaring at him. "I chose to give my power away. Why are you doing this?"

"I have to," Tara sobbed. "There's so much trouble, Will. So much danger. It's the only way."

Willow shook her head. "No, it's not! You can bring us back. There's a spell...I can tell you were it is. You can bring us back and Buffy can kill this demon, and--"

"Stop!" Spike growled. He stepped behind Tara and held her steady. Whatever this thing in front of them was, he didn't think it was Willow. "You get your after-life rocks off like this?" he asked dangerously, gesturing at Tara's sobbing form.

"Shut up," Willow shouted. "You're confusing her."

Spike ignored her and leaned forward, pressing his head against Tara's. "Listen, pet. If you stop, you'll die. That simple. Won't even be a chance to do that spell."

Tara turned and looked at him, eyes troubled and uncertain.

"He's wrong," the Willow ghost insisted. "Don't listen to him."

"Finish the ritual," Spike said tightly.

"I don't know if I can," Tara admitted. "What...what if she's right? What if I can--"

"Not your place to make those kind of decisions now is it?" Spike interrupted harshly. "And as much as I'd give my life to see her again, Buffy's paid her dues. It's time for her to rest. For all of them to rest."

"But, Willow!" she cried out, grabbing his biceps. "I could have Willow back!"

Spike raised a brow. "And that'd make things right for you?" he asked cynically. "Take the pain away?"

"Yes," Tara replied, nodding. "Because she'll be alive and it'll be right again."

He took hold of her waist and dragged her closer so that he could glare down at her. "Just because she'll be alive again," he said coldly, "won't mean that she never died. And let me say, yet again," he went on sarcastically, "that you won't have a chance to do it, because you'll die if you don't finish the ritual."

Her eyes slid away and he released her abruptly. "I get it," he said slowly, nodding his head. "You've made your choice, then."

She frowned "I don't want to die," she said, but her voice shook. "I just want Willow back."

"Bullshit," he snapped, stepping back some more. "You want the hurt to go away, but it won't ever. Not completely. It'll always be there, even fifty years from now, 'cause you loved her. And you know that," he added, chuckling darkly. "If you want to die, I'm not helping you. You can do it on your own."

"It's okay, baby," he heard Willow say as he walked away. "We'll be together again; don't listen to him.

He crossed the circle with a tight jaw and tense muscles.

"Go back," Giles snarled at him, grabbing the front of his shirt. "Go back and make her see reason."

Faith pulled the Watcher off of him and Spike shook his head. "It's up to her. Can't force someone to want to live."

He faced the grave again. Willow was smiling, and laughing, and babbling a mile a minute. Tara reached out to her, but her hand passed through Willow like nothing was there, and a frown came to her face.

"How did you get here?" Tara asked, interrupting Willow's monologue about what they'd do once she was alive again.

The wraith frowned and her smile slipped a notch. "What do you mean, honey? It's part of the ritual. I need to give you my permission to...poof my magic."

Tara nodded slowly. "I know. But...I, uh, haven't gotten to that part yet."

Spike's eyes widened, and he heard the others gasp. "Shit," Josh muttered. "Shit. She's right. Willow shouldn't even be here until after Tara calls on Khentimentiu."

A small smile pulled at Spike's lips. "That's a girl," he murmured, watching the scene carefully.

Willow started rambling again, doing her best to convince Tara it was really her, but Tara was looking sadder by the word. "The crone told me," Tara interrupted suddenly. "She said...she said that there would be other chances. For me to lose it. She said I would be my own worst hurdle." She looked at the empty vial of Immortal Essence. "You're not Willow," she said flatly.

The apparition looked horrified. "How can you say that?" it cried out. "I chose you over Oz! I brought you an extra flamey candle and--"

"Tell me about the time Spike kidnapped you," Tara interrupted once again.

"He took me and Xander," the non-Willow said hesitantly. "He wanted me to do a spell and I said I would. He left us alone and then Oz and Cordy rescued us."

Tara stared at the ground. "And?"

The apparition frowned. "And, what?"

"And there had to be more to it," Tara pushed on, her body shaking. "More...details."

"Well, yeah, but I don't remember all the details."

"How about just one." Tara lifted sorrowful and hard eyes. "A single detail."

"It was so long ago," the vision said sadly, "and, well, I'm dead and it's hard to remember things."

Tara nodded. "I understand. You can only tell me things that I already know," she whispered. "Because you're not Willow." She took a deep breath. "You're a hurdle, and I am my own worst hurdle."

The apparition was silent for a long moment, and then it shifted until it became Tara for just a second, and then it faded away. It took effort on Spike's part to stay on his side of the circle, but he did it. This was Tara's show, and she was ahead of the game so far.

Tara spent a minute shaking and crying before she wiped her eyes and finally retrieved Khentimentiu's knife from the gravestone. "Hear me, he who rules the destiny of those who have passed," she intoned through her tears. "With this talisman I do call you. Hear my call and appear before me." She brought the tip of the knife to her palm and pressed it to her skin until blood was drawn.

There was a flash of light, and the barrier was visible for a second, and then the light drew together just in front of Tara, drew together until a form became recognizable to Spike. "Khentimentiu," he breathed, blinking.

"You have called and I have answered," Khentimentiu said formally. "What is it you ask of me?"

Tara dropped to her knees and forced her hand into the burrow she'd dug out months ago. When she pulled it out almost immediately, Spike saw the clump of dirt in her hand. She got to her feet again, head lowered submissively and hand held out. "With the earth of her grave, I ask that Willow Rosenburg be brought here, made corporeal and true."

Spike felt himself tense when Khentimentiu didn't respond immediately. Tara's eyes lifted, questions in them as she looked at the god.

"You have come with a true purpose," Khentimentiu finally boomed. "And I will honor your request." He held his hand under Tara's, and she opened her fist so that the dirt fell to his palm. "With the earth of her grave, I call Willow Rosenburg from the realm of the dead to the realm of the living.

He closed his hand into a fist and even through the circle, Spike could feel the tingle of magic that came from Khentimentiu as he absorbed the dirt into his skin. Then the god took a step back, seeming to be pulling himself away from something that now stood where he had, and when he finished moving, Spike saw a blank-faced Willow in his place.

Tara looked away and picked up the seeds. "This sustenance from the Underworld I take knowingly," she recited, and it appeared that all her will power was being focused on not looking at Willow. She placed the seeds on her tongue and swallowed. "Let it bind me to the dead. Let it make us seen and heard by one another." A ripple spread across the area encased by the circle, Willow and Tara at its center.

Tara closed her eyes and took a breath, her words coming in a rush of almost indecipherable syllables. "Willow Rosenburg, will you take your power back and bring it with you when you return to the land of the dead?"

There was no answer.

Tara frowned and spoke again. "Willow Rosenburg, will you take your power back and bring it with you when you return to the land of the dead?" There was still no answer, and Tara opened her eyes and looked accusingly at Khentimentiu. "You said you'd help me," she said angrily.

"I'm sorry, but there's only so much I can do. You can't speak with her," Khentimentiu replied, sounding regretful.

Tara's hands twitched. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, confused and hurt. Spike gave up the sidelines gig and crossed the space between them in four long strides.

Khentimentiu looked meaningfully at Spike's hand on her arm, then stared patiently at Tara until she looked away from the blank-faced Willow. "You have come here with the answers to the questions you had about yourself, and those answers let you get this far. But you haven't taken what those answers have offered."

Spike's eyes widened, and for some reason he turned his head, seeing Olson, Giles, Dawn, Josh and Faith standing just ten feet away. Tara drew his attention back when she yanked her arm away from him. She advanced on Khentimentiu, that closeted rage brimming under the surface. The god stood calmly before her simmering emotions, giving her no reaction.

"I have," she hissed. "I've taken every miserable crumb that they left to replace the huge pieces they took."

Spike found himself staring at the others again, and then his mind felt like it was stretching out, reaching and finally taking hold of something that had been well within reach.

the guys that put this together were uber-good guys

it's about intent

this lying they each did all the while each knowing the truth

it's a journey

it is soothing and helps to focus, to banish grief

"No," Spike said slowly. Tara spun on her heel and glared at him, eyes glittering violently. "No," he said again, shaking his head.

"How dare you!" she shouted at him. "You know I have. You were with me the entire time and you forced--"

He laid his hand across her mouth, holding the back of his head with his other hand so that she couldn't pull away. "Listen to me," he bit out. She stilled in his grip, but her eyes were shutting him out. He leaned forward and bored into them with his own, putting every bit of the ruthless, immutable tosser that he was in the look. "Hear what I'm about to say, pet," he said icily. "Understand it and believe it, because you are going to be screwed if you don't."

She was like a rabbit that had just turned a corner and come face to face with a wolf. All frozen muscles and pounding heart and rolling fear. Good. Perfect. There were scuffling leaves and shouts from where the others stood, but out of the corner of his eye, Spike saw Khentimentiu approach them, one hand held out.

He drew her closer and tilted her head back. "This damn ritual isn't benign, and the White Hat gits that put it together knew what could be done with it. There is only one bloody condition," he bit out sharply. He let a pause drag out, then said, "If your motives seem shady, it doesn't work. That's why it fails." Just in case she didn't get it, he said it a little differently, "If you're not honest, then your motives look shady, and you. Will. Fail."

There was no need to look away when her face seemed to crumble in a mass of confusion; no way in hell he was going to cave on this. He clenched his hand in her hair, and when she made a pained noise he relaxed his hand and pushed her away.

Pale blue eyes went blank as she tried to figure out what he was saying. But she already knew. The little bit of color in her face bled away, and she stumbled back against the headstone, scattering the components.

"Are you choosing to end the ritual now?" Khentimentiu asked.

Spike jerked his head around so sharply that it hurt, and stared at the god, who made a gesture with his hand. Then, Spike could feel death in the air. The stench of it gathered around Tara. Clinging to her and settling down for a good long stay. It came with sounds--screeches and wails and maniacal laughter.

The noise was deafening, and Tara reached for him at the same time that he reached for her. Their hands stopped just a short distance apart, and they stared at one another for a long, drawn out moment until Spike took a step back, and another, and another, until he was standing with the others.

"No, I'm not ending it," Tara said firmly.

Even on the other side of the circle, Spike felt the air clear around Tara. The others were staring at him, their eyes confused and worried. "Just watch," Spike told them. "Watch."

At the headstone, Tara leaned down and picked up the onyx, holding it tightly in her hand. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Khentimentiu raised a brow, and she took a deep breath. This time, the words came.

"I killed Willow," she said lowly.

Giles and Dawn gasped, horrified little sounds that faded into sighs as they realized the clues had been there all along, if only they'd paid attention.

"Oh god," Dawn muttered. Spike drew her to him and she leaned her back against his chest as they watched Tara steady herself once again.

"Glory...Glory knew she was going to die," the blond went on thickly. "So she told me to do it. She wanted to take out as many of us as possible. And I did it. I picked up the pipe and looked for my Willow. I came up behind her, and she turned around. She turned around and she saw me, and she knew what was going to happen. She smiled and told me that she loved me, and I hit her. Over and over again.

"Then...everything went away. I went away. When I came back, I didn't...I couldn't tell what had been real. I saw Willow and the pipe and I still didn't know that I'd done it. And Spike made me say goodbye and then he took me away. It was...I don't know how long until I realized."

She looked at Spike and he lifted a tired shoulder. "Was 'bout a week, pet," he answered. "The first night you went wandering."

Nodding slowly, she took a breath. "I still tried to deny it, tried to pretend it was a...wrong memory. But her magic was in me, and it was real.

She broke off then, unable to continue speaking due to the force of the sobs that were now wracking her body. Spike wanted to go to her, like he had so often, but he knew that what they'd been doing--the silence they'd been getting from each other--had no place there anymore.

"How did you know?" Giles rasped. Spike turned to the Watcher.

He lifted a shoulder. "Dozen little ways," Spike said lowly. "She didn't recover the way she should have, and all of a sudden her magic was a lot stronger than it had ever been."

Dawn shifted in his arms, her face pressed against his chest. "Why didn't you say anything?" she whispered against his shirt. "We would have helped her. It wasn't her fault and we wouldn't have blamed her. God, Spike. She needed us--"

"No, she didn't," Giles said suddenly, his tone knowing. "It would have made it worse for her, wouldn't it? To have us know."

"Yeah," Spike agreed.

"Nefer," Khentimentiu was saying. "You have to ask now."

But Tara didn't hear him. The god studied her for a moment, then cut his eyes to the patient Willow. He moved in front of the redhead and put his hands on either side of her head. There was a subtle flash of white, then his hands lowered and Spike sucked in a breath. His desperate eyes fell on Josh and he spun on his heel, turning his back to the scene, Dawn still in his arms. "Take her back to the shop," Spike ground out. "Now."

"I don't want to go," Dawn argued, hiccupping. "Why do I have to leave? Tara's upset."

Spike stared down at her. "Because it's about to get bad, Bit," he said honestly. "And there's no need for you to get put through the wringer again."

She seemed like she wanted to argue, but she really had grown up. A tired and weary look came into her eyes and she nodded. She kept her head down when she turned away so that she wouldn't see anything. Josh put an arm around her shoulder and they hurried away.

Faith was staring, wide-eyed, at the figures at the grave. "That's--that's Willow," she breathed. "Really Willow. Not a ghost or something. Willow."

Tara was oblivious to it all, lost in finally letting the emotions--the true emotions--out. Willow looked up at Khentimentiu, her eyes asking permission, and he nodded. She took two steps and then sank to her knees in front of Tara. "Baby, it's all right. Shhh."

Willow wrapped her arms around Tara and gently rocked her. When Tara finally realized who was holding her, she pushed away and gaped. "W-W-W-Willow?" she asked tremulously. "Is it--is it you?"

That wide grin of Willow's was plastered all over her face. "Yep, in the flesh and blood." She tilted her head. "Well, kind of. I mean, I am flesh and blood, but it's not like I can stay this way and it's only because Khentimentiu is letting me, but for now I am--"

Spike couldn't help but smile. That babbling finally got through to Tara and she launched herself at Willow, the pair tumbling onto the ground, laughter and crying being carried to Spike on a breeze.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Tara kept repeated, though the tears and through the laughter, just a constant mantra that Willow kissed away.

"Hey, knock it off, missy," the redhead finally said. She sat up and pulled Tara along with her. "You're not going to waste the teensy amount of time we have by telling me stuff that I already know. Of course, some stuff I already know would be nice to hear, but that's not one of them."

"I miss you, Will," Tara whispered, touching the other girl's face. "So much."

Willow's happy expression softened. "That's more like it. I know, baby. I miss you, too." She sighed and pushed Tara's hair from her face. "It's a big old mess, isn't it?"

"Pretty much," Tara agreed, sniffling. "But--but we're going to fix it now, aren't we?"

"Yeah, we are. But I'm stealing a few minutes here before I do the official agreeing." She pulled Tara close to her and kissed the top of your head. "How've you been? 'Cause there's not like a monitor or something where I can see you."

"Not good," the blond admitted. "But...I think that I'm kind of where I should be now."

Willow grinned. "Good."

"What--what about you?" Tara asked softly, clasping one of Willow's hands in hers.

"It's peaceful, Tara," Willow said gently. "I don't think it's a place, just a state of being, I guess. And nothing and everything matters, but it's all good and right."

"There's only so much of a delay I can allow," Khentimentiu informed them.

The women nodded, and Tara's face cracked a little but it should have, and she didn't force it back together this time, just felt it. Spike knew then that it was going to be all right for her, that she wouldn't be running back to Wildwind.

"Baby, I love you. I loved you from almost the moment I knew you," Willow said, her voice thick with emotion. "I loved you when Oz came back, and when your family tried to take you away, and when Glory hurt you." She used her free hand to wipe the tears from Tara's cheek. "And I loved you with my dying breath. I never stopped loving you."

"I know," Tara croaked. "I saw your eyes, and I know. Oh, Will, I love you. Like no one else."

Willow smiled softly. "I don't hate you or blame you. That wasn't you, that wasn't my Tara."

Tara took a deep breath. "I get that now," she confessed. "I didn't for a while, but I do now. It'll always hurt. In here." She pressed their joined hands against her heart. "And I'll always feel bad, but I get it now."

"You have to ask me now, honey," Willow whispered. "You have to ask me."

Blond hair cascaded around Tara's face as she ducked her head. "Will you take your power back and bring it with you when you return to the land of the dead?"

Willow touched her fingers to Tara's chin and lifted her head. "Yes, I will." And she lowered her head and her lips met Tara's. The kiss was chaste, just the brushing of lips, but when Willow pulled back, Tara sighed, and from her mouth came a mist that slid into Willow's with a gentle sigh of sound.

"Love you," they whispered simultaneously.

Then Willow got to her feet and Khentimentiu held out his hand. Willow took it and he pulled her forward, closer and closer, until there was nowhere else to go, but she kept going. Kept moving forward into him until there was nothing left.

He nodded his head at Tara. "It has been an honor, nefer."

"Thank you," she said simply. "For everything."

He smiled. "Think nothing of it. I should be leaving now."

She smiled with gratitude and pulled her knees to her chest, staring thoughtfully at Willow's headstone. Khentimentiu didn't disappear the way he'd appeared. Instead, Spike saw him coming directly towards him, and he frowned.

"Spike," he said graciously. "You did an admirable job of understanding the hint I gave you. You got her here and ready for this."

He shrugged and looked away from Khentimentiu's intense gaze, and the searching stares of the others. "Yeah, well, she would have been able to do it herself."

"No, she wouldn't have," he denied. "Alone, she would have kept herself distant from everything she was supposed to learn." Khentimentiu nodded once more to the assembled group before slipping out of sight.

The barrier stayed in place for half an hour. Spike and the others remained silent, watching Tara gather herself on Willow's grave. When she stood, there was a slight exhalation of air around them, and Olson reached out a tentative hand to find the barrier gone.

Tara came their way slowly, her eyes on Spike. She stopped a foot away, and stared up at him with the clearest eyes he'd seen in months. It was Tara there, for now and for good.

They stared at one another while the others watched with confusion. Things were different now. The silence they had sought with each other, the peace of understanding...they didn't need it. Tara frowned, tilted her head to the side as she tried to figure it out.

And Spike grinned at her, relaxing for the first time in months, and raised a brow at her. She blinked, then looked down at herself before looking back at him. There was awe in her eyes, and he knew that his face reflected it. Things just settled on their own sometimes.

"Pulled it off, did you?" he teased her, and she smiled shyly, her head ducking in that familiar manner of hers. He wasn't just talking about the Cerno.

"Yeah, and so did you," she replied easily, and she wasn't just talking about the Cerno either.

There were answers and explanations that were being demanded, and Tara smiled quizzically at the two Watchers and the Slayer. "Hi," she said, as though just seeing them all for the first time, and they all got real quiet, real fast.

Giles stammered and stuttered, suggesting they go back to the magic shop for the inquisition, but Tara shook her head. "We've, uh, got to do something first," she averred, motioning at Spike.

He frowned at her, but she just raised a brow and he understood. "Yeah," he said to the others, "we'll meet you back there."

Giles started arguing, but Tara and Spike simply started down the path at the foot of Willow's grave and wound their way through the cemetery until they were on the sidewalk. They walked side by side, and for a block they kicked a rock between them until Tara's aim got screwy and it went shooting off into the night.

She shrugged philosophically and they turned onto a dark street that led to one of the older cemeteries in Sunnydale. The most recent official burial there had taken place about eighty years before. Unofficially, it had only been a year since he and Giles had dug six feet into the earth with Dawn and Tara watching.

Tara stayed back as he approached the grave. The headstone made him smile somewhat condescendingly. He hadn't been here since they'd set Buffy's body down and then covered it with dirt. Coming here would have constituted a hell of a lot of thinking, so instead he'd gone to the house of Revello, where scents evoked memories that had required no thought.

Maybe he'd come back again, have something to say at that time. Because he didn't have anything to say now. Tara smiled at him and held out a hand, which he took, and then they started walking.

"This has been a really depressing night," Tara commented. "Uplifting realizations aside."

Spike laughed. "You're a master of understatement, pet," he drawled.

The group at the Magic Box was uncommonly silent when he and Tara stepped inside. Dawn's eyes widened, and she started to move, but froze uncertainly. Tara let go of Spike's hand and went to the girl, smiling gently and wrapping her arms around Dawn.

Spike realized that this was the first time since Willow had died that Tara had initiated a touch with someone other than him. It took a huge weight from his shoulders.

"It's okay, Dawnie," Tara soothed when the teenager began to cry again. "Everything's good now, I swear."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Dawn choked out. "Is it like Giles said? Would it have made it harder for you?"

Tara briefly closed her eyes, tears starting to fall down her face as well. "Yeah, but...I didn't want it to be true, you know? And saying it would make it true." She made a small noise. "That doesn't make any sense, but I wasn't making any sense for a while."

"It makes perfect sense," Giles said gently, staring at Tara and Dawn. "I'm sorry that I was so difficult about everything. I didn't understand."

Tara pulled away from Dawn slowly, letting the touching drag on as long as possible, then crossed the room to Giles. "You don't have anything to be sorry for," she countered. "You couldn't have known."

Giles raised a brow. "Spike knew," he said, somewhat self-deprecatingly.

Tara looked at Spike, smiling. "Yes, well, he's not your average bear."

Spike saw Giles eyes fall on him. "How did you figure out the secret of the ritual?"

He sat at the table and leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "The page I ripped out? Says that only the recipient can do the Cerno. Got me to thinking. Khentimentiu told me that gathering everything was a journey. First I thought he meant a figurative one, and he did," he acknowledged. "But there was more to it." He shrugged. "They were trials, and trials test worthiness. Tara had come through all of them with flying colors, and there was only one thing she hadn't done. I didn't think it made a difference until I thought about where the onyx fit into it all."

"I don't get it," Faith said, frowning. "What didn't she do?"

"I hadn't acknowledged that I...killed Willow," Tara answered, her eyes darkening. "Even though I'd had to face it a bunch of times. I was holding back."

Josh narrowed his eyes. "Oh," he breathed. "Onyx helps you move past grief."

Tara nodded, then looked from Dawn to Giles. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I just couldn't. It was so hard to deal with, and Willow's magic didn't help. It was, um, kind of pervasive and it didn't integrate very well. It...hurt, actually."

Olson frowned. "Was that why you didn't recover like the others did?" he ventured.

"I think so."

"But you're better now?" Dawn asked hopefully. "Sane and everything?"

"Mostly," Tara said, smiling again. "Just the normal stuff going on now."

Dawn launched herself at Tara, clinging to her as she had so often in the past, and this time Tara leaned into it instead of pulling back. "Good," Dawn whispered fervently. "Good."

It was almost dawn by the time they left the shop and went their separate ways. Giles agreed to drive Spike and Tara over to the apartment so that Spike wouldn't burst into flames.

"Gee, thanks," Spike drawled in return, nodding a goodbye to Josh, Olson and Dawn as they made their way to Olson's SUV.

There was still the matter of the Arcepts to deal with, but they didn't anticipate that being such a problem any longer. Tara had told them that the Arcepts would be aware of Willow's power disappearing, as it were, from this plane. Faith was going to head back to the grave, just in case they didn't get the message. Spike was of the opinion that she simply wanted to kill something. He understood that, but he was too damn exhausted to want to join her, and there was also the complication of the coming sunrise.

Faith was loping down the street, strides long and determined, muscles tensed and ready for anything. She raised an arm in parting, not looking around at any of them. That was a woman with a mission, and it made him grin ferally. However he'd felt for Buffy, he could associate with Faith on a different level. Killing made things better. No question about it.

The SUV stopped after Olson pulled away from the curb, and Dawn stuck her head out of the back window. "We're having normal time tomorrow," she said stubbornly. "I don't care what's going on."

Tara chuckled. "No matter what," she promised, waving as Olson drove on.

"Yes, well, my car is...right here," Giles said awkwardly, jingling his keys and gesturing at the sedan just in front of them. "Off we go."

Even though Tara sat in the front seat, thereby forcing Spike to take the non-position in the backseat, there was still a thick tension emanating from Giles as he drove. Spike didn't really care about it. Even with promises that had grown past their initial boundaries. The man had to come to grip with some things, and no one could help him with that. Buffy, Willow, Xander and Anya were gone. Faith, Olson and Josh now handled apocalypses and Slaying. He had to find his own way to accept it.

When they stopped in front of the building, Giles said nothing. Tara glanced from his tight face to Spike, then reached for the door handle. "Um, I'm going to go...inside. Now. Bye."

She scampered from the car as quickly as she could with the busted ribs, and Spike rolled his eyes and got out of the car as well. Giles did the same, and he paused, staring at the man.

"What?" he asked when Giles didn't say anything.

"Faith is right," Giles said lowly, posture stiff and eyes focused on the pavement between his feet. "I don't have the right to tell them what to do, or how to do it."

Spike shrugged. "That's up for debate," he said negligently. "You've got the experience, yeah?"

Giles leveled a scathing look at him. "Don't play dense, Spike; it doesn't suit you."

"Fine," he replied, tossing his hands up. "You're being an ass about it all. Is that what you want to hear? You're riding them so hard that they can't stand the sound of your voice, the sight of your face. " He smirked. "Damn proud of you, Giles. That's how I kept my minions in line, back in the day."

"Yes, and now you can't so much as think about biting someone," Giles retorted sharply. "Get to your point."

Spike glared at him, then forced a whoosh of air from his mouth. "You don't like me, and I don't like you. But you know what I made of that promise to Buffy." He waited until Giles nodded stiffly. "Faith isn't straying back to the other side," he told the Watcher reluctantly. "They can handle this. All of it. But they're not going to be doing it the same way that you and the others did. Can't expect them to."

"I do know that, Spike," Giles replied.

"Then start acting like it," Spike said harshly. "Go on with your bloody boring life and let them do what they have to do. You've been here, mate. You know how hard it is--how much it takes to stay together. They don't need the added fun of your nit-picking."

Giles started to respond, but Spike shook his head. "I'm not a bleeding counselor," he snapped. "And I need to get inside before I'm so much ash."

Once in the apartment, he found that Tara had changed and was getting settled on the couch with a blanket and some pillows. He raised a brow, and she shrugged. "Things aren't the same," she explained, and he knew she was right.

But he walked to the sofa, leaned down, and lifted her without saying a word. He could feel her eyes on him, knew they were wide and filled with questions that he wasn't going to answer. He heard her sigh as he reached the door to his room. "It's not the same," she told him again.

Spike held her over the bed for one long moment, catching her eyes, then let her drop gently. She didn't look away as he shed the duster and then pulled his t-shirt over his head.

"I'm not going to have sex with you," she told him seriously.

He gaped at her, but then he saw the mild amusement on her face, and he laughed. "Right, I'm all torn up about that," he drawled. "Had my mind all set on it." He pointed at her. "And if you keep on talking like that, going back to the loony bin won't be a voluntary choice this time."

Tara adjusted the sheet so that it was on top of her. "You're mean," she said somberly. "Mean like a soulless, evil vampire."

He smirked and turned off the light, then flopped down next to her. "Thanks, pet."

"...so, you don't want to have sex with me, then?"

In the dark, Spike grinned up at the ceiling. "I prefer women who know what to do with my...equipment."

"Hm, I understand that. That's why I stick with women, too."

"Brat."

He woke just after sunset to an apartment empty except for the Slayer and himself. He ran into her in the hallway, as she was coming out of the bathroom with her pajamas tucked under her arm. "Where's Tara?" he asked.

"Out with Dawn," Faith replied. "Giles called a meeting at the Magic Box, though, and they're going to be there for it."

Spike grunted. "A meeting?" he repeated. "For what?"

Faith shrugged. "Who the fuck knows? Maybe we're not breathing right. Anyway, it's in half an hour so you might want to get ready."

She turned away, and he asked, "What's the latest on the Arcepts?"

Only her head moved, inching to the left so that she peered at him through a curtain of dark hair, a satisfied smile on her face. "A couple of them showed up at Willow's grave and did some kind of spell, then had a conniption fit," she told him smugly. "Ran back to their leader, and I followed." She paused, the smile shifting into a smirk. "Don't think they'll be a problem anymore."

Spike returned the smirk. "Like your style," he said approvingly.

He took a shower and got dressed, and Faith was waiting impatiently for him in the living room. "Come on, let's get this over with," she groused, tossing him his duster before grabbing a denim jacket for herself.

"Can we recap?" Faith asked slowly after they'd gone several blocks. "Because I'm still a little confused, and I didn't want to slam Tara with questions."

Spike shrugged and pulled out his cigarettes. "I guess."

"Glory fucked with Tara's head, and the night she tried to break down the barriers between dimensions, she had Tara kill Willow?" Spike nodded. "And Willow--what? Very quickly did the spell for transferring her power?" she asked dubiously.

"Yes," Spike told her grimly. "Don't ask me why, because ferreting out what went on in Willow's head wasn't as easy as it sounds sometimes. Maybe she didn't look into it enough to know how bloody wrong it could go."

Faith snorted. "I don't know much about magic, but I'd think that setting that up would take more than a few seconds. How did she manage it?"

Spike came to a halt, and Faith went a few more steps before realizing. She stared at him curiously and he narrowed his eyes. "Don't think you get how powerful she was at the end," he told her carefully. "Got seriously pissed after Glory got her hooks into Tara." He shook his head. "I don't know the details, but I do know that she somehow managed to go head to head with Glory and walk away. After that?" He shrugged and looked away. "Chit scared the hell out of me and I've seen a lot of mojo get flashed around."

There was silence for a moment, then Faith said, "Are we talking black magic here? Because--Willow? Never struck me as the type. Way goody goody."

But Spike knew that still waters ran deep, and even though no one had ever told him the details of Willow's run in with Glory, he'd seen Buffy give Anya a book of dark arts whose lock had been broken apart. The book had been stashed away in the shop safe and Anya had scowled anytime Willow was in its vicinity. Plus, there'd been a hardness in Willow at the end. Something chilling and off-putting. Not every second of the time, but enough that Spike had begun watching his words around her.

"Not saying that," Spike lied. "Just saying that I've seen the transfer spell, and it's damn possible she was able to do it that fast."

"All right," Faith said with a shrug. "So then Glory dies--and no one knows how that happened, apparently--and everyone goes back to normal. But not Tara, because Will's magic throws her out of whack. She doesn't tell anyone what happened, but you figure it out anyway and send her off to Bellevue."

"Wildwind," he corrected crossly. "It was a damn nice place. And I didn't send her off because she killed Willow. Two entirely unrelated facts, you hear?" Faith held her hands up in surrender, and Spike glared at her. "Right. Then the Arcepts came and she put the sigils on everyone and went off to get the stuff for the Cerno," he rattled off in a monotone. "Simple as that."

"Simple," Faith repeated disbelievingly. "I think you and I have totally different definitions of that word. Is Tara just suddenly...fine?"

"Not even close," Spike said immediately. "But she will be."

The first thing Spike noticed upon entering the Magic Box with Faith was that Dawn was conspicuously missing. "Where's the Niblet?" Spike asked suspiciously. Josh pointed to the training room and Spike relaxed.

Giles was holding court, standing in the center of the room, Olson, Josh and Tara seated at the table. "Why don't you both have a seat," he said, gesturing to the table. Spike and Faith traded confused looks, then shrugged and did as he suggested. "Yes, well, I'm not going to belabor something that really needs to be put to rest, but I feel there are things I need to say."

"What the hell are you blathering on about?" Spike demanded. "Making about as much sense as you did when you were a Fyarl and all 'smash, grab, argh'."

Giles didn't rise to the bait, merely pinned stern eyes on Spike and sighed. "I've been giving some thought to what Faith said yesterday," Giles admitted. He took a moment to meet each person's eyes, and Spike had to admit the man had stones. Not many people would have been able to stand there and do that.

"Hey, look," Faith interrupted. "I know it's hard for you and I'm sorry I went into bitch mode."

"You shouldn't be," Giles said dryly. "It was well deserved, much as I am loathe to admit that. You have all lived up to your duties beyond reproach, going so far as to hold your tongues for months in deference to my feelings." His lips lifted, the smile not reaching his eyes. "The same can not be said for me, however. I don't pretend that everything's sorted now, but I think that perhaps monthly visits here aren't necessary any longer."

"Whatever you think is best, Giles," Faith said seriously. "I wasn't trying to scare you off, you know. Just make you take it down a notch."

"Yes, well, until I feel that I can do that," Giles said, looking away, "I will do my best to keep a distance."

"We appreciate that," Olson told the other Watcher, eyes kind. "Just as we've appreciated all of the assistance and guidance you've offered us."

"But it's time to let the bird leave the nest, no?" Giles finished sardonically.

Faith snickered and stared pointedly at Josh. "Well past time; we've already had baby birds of our own."

"Screw you," Josh grumbled, but he was more at ease than Spike had seem him in the last twenty-four hours.

Spike snorted. "Now that the After School Special is over and done, someone want to tell me why Dawn's in there alone?"

Tara raised her head. "Oh. She said she had some book to read over Break."

Spike didn't particularly believe that. Dawn had put off all of her Christmas break work until the night before school started up again. She'd called him at midnight, begging and pleading for help with a history paper. But maybe she'd learned her lesson and was applying it to Spring Break? He snorted. Not bloody likely.

Maybe she'd opted for sitting someplace where arguments weren't threatening, and the tension wasn't palpable? Yeah, that sounded right.

"What did you two do today?" he asked Tara.

The blond witch smiled happily. "We went out for brunch. "Then we, uh, sat at the Espresso Pump. Talking."

Josh rolled his eyes. "Talking? I bet you did most of the listening," he drawled sardonically. "The girl can talk."

Spike had to laugh. Josh wasn't known for his listening skills, either. Dawn and Josh together was probably a contest of who could talk over who the most.

"Yeah, I didn't get a chance to say much," Tara conceded with a chuckle. "But it was nice. Her talking like that? It means things are good."

"Quite," Giles agreed, leaning against the counter and giving them a small, genuine smile. "Her chattering level was how we measured just how...bad a situation was."

Spike went outside to have a cigarette when the others started shelving books and putting all the research materials away. Tara made do with stacking papers since she couldn't stretch up to put the books away. Five cigarettes later, everything had been put in its place, and Spike deemed it safe to head back in.

"Perfect timing, as usual," Olson commented drolly, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Spike grinned. "I pride myself on it." He started towards the back of the store. "Gonna check on Dawn."

In the training room, he could smell the tears, could hear the stifled sobs that Dawn was trying to hide. Her back was to him, and Spike closed the door with a click, staring at her. "What's the matter, Bit?" he asked cautiously.

"I'm stupid," she said midway between a laugh and a sniffle.

"What? Stupid? Not even close," he countered, trying to inject some cheer into his voice. He didn't quite make it. Something about this scene was making his stomach knot with apprehension.

Dawn turned around, her face blotchy from tears, and her eyes far older than her years. "If you got the chip out, you'd go back to this." She held up an old leather-bound book and he knew, just knew, what it was. "You'd kill and hurt people and I never realized it."

"Bit--Dawn--"

His words stopped when he saw her gaze flicker away. She was locking him out. God, no.

"I always thought Buffy was being unfair, you know?" she went on, her voice sad. "She trusted us with you."

"I never let her down," Spike quickly reminded her, stepping forward. Dawn took a step back and he froze, watching her wrap her arms around her waist and huddle in on herself.

"You didn't," Dawn acknowledged. She wiped her face and tossed the Watchers' Journal to the floor. "But for some reason, I thought that meant you had changed. And no one else thought that. Not Xander or Anya or Willow or Giles or Buffy." She winced. "Not even you." He couldn't think of a damned thing to say then, one single thing that would keep her from doing what he knew she was about to do. "But I believed it. Even Faith knows. She shares her home with you but she knows."

"Dawn, listen to me," he pleaded desperately, willing her to meet his eyes. "Chip or no chip, I'd never hurt you. You know that."

"I know, but that's not really the point, and I finally see that."

Someone might as well have reached down his throat and ripped his insides out. He'd hoped she'd never get to this point. Never see what she'd refused to see for so long.

"I've never denied what I've done, what I am, what I'd do," he said lowly. "Not even to you. Especially to you, actually."

A small nod and a twisted smile. Oh, it hurt to see that look on Dawn's face. "And that's why I'm stupid," she said bitterly. "Because I thought it wasn't the real you. I didn't understand. And I can't--I don't--"

"Dawn," he almost shouted, frantic and uncaring of anything but preventing her from saying what she was about to say.

"You're not going to need that apartment in Los Angeles anymore," she finally said, her voice thick with emotion. And steel. She had given this thought, had made the decision she didn't want to, and there would be no going back. Spike flinched as though she'd hit him. "I can't have you in my life," she sobbed. "I understand now, and I can't pretend that I don't."

He stood there, frozen to the floor as she approached him, and he blinked when she hugged him, and he closed his eyes when she kissed his cheek, and he curled his hands into fists when she walked away with a whispered, "I'm sorry."

Only a Summers could hurt him like this. Spike stumbled to the side, then leaned down and braced his hands on the table against the wall of the training room. It wasn't fair. Just wasn't fair that he'd shoved that other pain out of him, finally, just to have it replaced with this one.

The door opened, and he knew that the throat being cleared politely belonged to Giles before the other man even spoke. "Faith is going to bring Dawn home," he said quietly, closing the door. Spike stared down at his hands, still on the table, and didn't say anything. "I'm sure you don't care, but I'm sorry," Giles offered.

"You're right," Spike replied flatly. "I also don't believe you."

"Yes, well," Giles muttered, clearing his throat again. "Perhaps that wasn't truthful." A moment later, he continued. "For someone with such...insight into others, you can't be entirely ignorant of yourself, Spike. Whether you want to admit it to me or Dawn or anyone else, I certainly hope you admit to yourself that it's for the best."

Spike turned on his heel and glared at Giles. "I would never have hurt her in any way," he spat. "Whether you want to admit it to yourself or not, Rupert."

But Giles didn't back down. He stared at Spike blandly. "You wouldn't have meant to, no, but you would have. You can't relate to her, to what hurts her. You might understand it, but how long would it have been until that understanding--not tempered by the empathy of someone who is hurt in the same manner--led to you dismissing that pain as unimportant? As trivial?"

Spike realized he didn't have a comeback for that. Hell, he'd done that enough with Buffy, hadn't he? Chaining her up next to Dru to prove his love in a way she'd understand. Trying to connect with her over tales of Slayers killed, thinking she'd get it, get him. Only she hadn't, because he was a vampire and she was human, and understanding and connections weren't forged in the same manners.

If Dawn hadn't decided to cut him out of her life, what were the chances that he would never had made the same missteps with her that he had with her sister? Pretty much nil, he acknowledged to himself, laughing bitterly. And wouldn't that have been a kick in the arse, him hurting Dawn and failing Buffy in one fell swoop.

It wasn't difficult to leave without anyone knowing. Faith hit the streets the next night just after sunset for the first round of patrols, and Giles was already on a plane to England. Olson and Josh were taking Tara out to dinner, in an effort to get to know her and try to convince her to stay and add her talents to theirs. Spike already knew what her answer would be to that, but he didn't bother clueing the lovebirds in.

Despite knowing where she should have been, Spike wasn't at all surprised to see Tara leaning against the side of the Jeep when he stepped out onto the street. He and Tara had a knack, didn't they?

She smiled at him, a wide, bright smile that was barely sad. "So," she said teasingly, "know where you're going?"

Spike laughed and tossed his bag to the ground. "Yeah, I know," he answered, leaning next to her and unable to keep the smile from his face. Tara just nodded.

"So you told them you'd stay and begged off dinner," he drawled, and she chuckled, a melodic husky sound that wrapped around him and made him sigh.

She nudged him with her elbow. "They, um, really wanted to do dinner then, but I wanted to see you before you left."

"Did you tell them I was taking off?" Spike asked, staring down the street. She was silent, but he thought he could hear her roll her eyes. "No, no, you didn't."

"If you'd wanted them to know you were going to sort yourself out, you would have told them," Tara said eventually. "You don't need to distance yourself from them, you know. They're really, um, different than the others."

Spike slung his arm across her shoulders and pulled her to him. "I think you're slipping," he teased. "That's not why I'm leaving."

"Oh, I know that," she said with a nod. "I just meant...you should come back. No matter what. We'll all miss you."

Spike sighed. "Not everyone will."

"Dawn will miss you," Tara countered fervently. "Even if she thinks she won't. She's just upset."

"She's right," Spike put in tiredly.

"Well, that too," Tara agreed readily.

"Why don't you feel the same?" he asked before he could stop himself. Tara stepped in front of him and Spike waved his hands, trying to erase the words. "Never mind."

She looked at him for a good long while, gaze measuring and brow furrowed. "Call. When you're gone?" she finally said, and he had the feeling that she had been about to say something else. "So I know you're, um, not dust."

Spike nodded slowly, staring into her secret-ridden pale eyes and wondering for the first time if she'd somehow felt the emotions attached to his secrets too. "Sure," he murmured, then shook his head and pulled her to him for a hug. "Goodbye."

Her face softened and her eyes twinkled. "No," she denied. His lips twitched. "It's just...see you."

She watched with clear eyes as he took up his bag and got into the Jeep, and she waved when he pulled away.

~End Elysium~

The title for this story was taken from the D.H. Lawrence poem of the same name.

Mythical Notes: I've taken complete license with Khentimentiu. There is no record of him having been a shifter or a vampire or anything other than the ruler of the destiny of the dead. What that entails can be interpreted differently, but since there is a god of the dead, I chose to interpret his duties as governing what happens to people after death. Since vampires are kind of dead, I've also granted him some dominion over them, as well as knocked him down from god status to lackey to the Powers.

According to Roman and Greek mythology, it wasn't the pomegranate specifically that tied Proserpina--Persephone to the Greeks--to the Underworld. Historically, anything she might have eaten while there would have done the trick. I chose to bring the pomegranate itself up from the Underworld to act as the catalyst. I also expanded on what being bound to the Underworld means, and played fast and loose with how it works.

The Anointing Bowl, the Onyx Heart, the Crone, Khentimentiu's Keepers, Marianna, the Immortal Essence, the Passageways of the Dead and the Cerno Ritual are figments of my imagination.

Better Buffy Fiction Archive Entry

Elysium