Disclaimer: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much 
everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just 
wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…

Summary: Occurs after Brother, Unfortunately Mine. Rating 18 for sexual 
references. The sibling theme is not entirely played out … 

HOW TO KILL YOUR (PSYCHO) BOYFRIEND IN ONE HARD LESSON


"Unclench, people! It's a beautiful day out there! Look…I bought doughnuts!"

Gunn and Lorne looked at Spike as he opened the box to display the iced 
confectionary and waved it enticingly.

"Does Wolfram & Hart run a staff drug testing program?" Gunn asked Lorne 
pointedly.

"What, can't a bloke just be happy?"

"You?" Gunn challenged, "…And why is this box half empty?"  

"Mmmrph-ummph-glub!"

They looked over to see Fred standing at the doorway of her department's outer 
office, cheeks bulging, with the savaged remnants of a caramel-iced custard doughnut 
in her hands. "Ah," Gunn nodded sagely.

Fred finished devouring the sugar-laden goodie. She was ravenous…speaking of 
which…go Illyria, Poster Demon for insatiable. Fred had only been able to float 
around in the ancient demon's central cortex, squeaking in horrified delight as the 
wonderful, wanton night progressed…not in her wildest dreams had Fred imagined 
being able to drive Wesley so wild and desperate, until every hot, tender millimetre of 
his delicious flesh was slick with sweat and he was hoarse from pleading…down girl! 
Think ice, think lots and lots of ice…

"So why the happy?" Gunn snagged the last cream-filled with a couple of fingers as 
Spike disposed of the box, returning his attention to the blond vampire.

"He's squatting in my hotel." Angel, leaning against the doorpost of his office, 
watched the scene, a distinctly unamused expression on his face. 

"You moved out of Wes's?" Lorne asked, casting a quick look at where Fred had 
coughed over a bit of doughnut and gone bright red; the munchkin was wolfing down 
the sugary treats like she hadn't eaten for a week – she'd be bouncing off the walls by 
lunchtime at this rate.

"Gotta go." Fred withdrew hastily inside her lab like a tortoise into its shell, her 
cheeks flaming. Oh god, Spike! She had given no thought to the fact that Wesley had 
a roommate…or rather, Illyria hadn't. Fred broke into a sweat of relief – Spike must 
have only been gone an hour or so before Illyria decided to…Fred shuddered; Spike 
would have had a ringside seat for Illyria's little hardcore porn show. Illyria didn't get 
subtlety, or discretion, or 'not for public consumption'. It would have carried on 
regardless!

"What do you think?" Spike countered the green demon. "Son of Giles' apartment 
couch versus five-floor hotel, with pool. Did I mention the sauna, and the Turkish 
bath, and the spa pools? Just going begging."

"There are reasons the Hyperion is empty –" Angel put in, his tone quelling.

"Yeah, I got the clef notes from Wes. Paranoia demon; madness and mayhem; spooks 
to the rafters; et cetera." Spike shrugged. "Besides, it's sort of mine anyway, when 
you think about it."

"Not seeing that somehow." Angel glared.

"Me neither. Legally speaking –" Gunn's tongue flicked out and caught a dab of 
cream before it could fall to the carpet.

"Exactly. I mean, Angel's my granddad, so in a way…it's like my inheritance."

"I'm what?" Angel shoved away from the doorpost and stood fully upright.

"Currently ten minutes late for your meeting with the Sen-Hi-Pang representative." 
Chimed in a new commentator.

They looked up towards the voice from above; Wesley pointed at the large lobby 
clock. "See?"

"Aagh," Angel groaned. "Hey," he looked up at Wesley. "Aren't you in that meeting 
with me, to interpret?"

"Not any more. I've got Huang on it – she's the best we've got when it comes to the 
mystical Kung-Sun-Die dialects." Wesley explained. "It's no big. Just smile at each 
other across the table and make vague, ambiguous promises that neither of you intend 
to keep."

Angel frowned and moved forward into the lobby as he remembered the 'few Bihari 
squatters' that had turned into a giant Ts'ikk nightmare. "Where are you going?"

"Gru's asked me to give him the Whistle Stop Tour of LA, so he knows the hotspots 
to hit when he's hunting nefarious beasties."

"Is that a good idea?" Spike spoke up, shrugging when they all turned their gazes on 
him. "Look, I like Gru. For someone who so redefines the concept of 'fashion victim', 
he's a solid bloke, but isn't letting him run around LA on his own kinda like 
metaphorically tying him to the railroad tracks?"

"He's the Groosalug." Lorne responded.

"Yeah, and that's another thing – what kind of dumb ass word is 'Groosalug'?"

"It's Pylean and it means the Unconquerable One." Angel told his grandson tartly.

"Aaah…hence the no big with him wondering around this town on his own."

"I'm stunned that I'm actually agreeing with Sid here," Gunn put in his cent's worth, 
"but Spike has a point. Gru wanting to help is admirable, but do we want him doing 
the demon slice-and-dice without any of us around?"

"We need him." 

Again they looked up as Wesley spoke. Resting both hands on the metal rail of the 
upper walkway, Wesley ignored those going past as he looked down at the four of 
them and went on to say, "We've only been here a few months and we are running 
flat out, pedal to the metal, working both ends against the middle. We're working on 
so many active cases at once that this makes Angel Investigations look like we were 
in a coma, never mind just standing still. Gru roaming the mean streets of LA like a 
real-life Conan the barbarian…although with better hair…he can winnow out the 
chaff from the wheat, deal with the small problems so we can concentrate on the more 
important stuff. Better, he'll stop a lot of molehills becoming mountains because 
we're stretched so tight we don't have time to deal."

"Gru will keep down the rats while we deal with the Bigger Bads, got it." Gunn 
nodded, "When you put it like that…"

Wesley smiled. "I for one would like to be able to leave the office before midnight 
once in a while." Like every night, so Fred can… "Ahem…Angel, when was the last 
time you got to go to a hockey game on a weeknight? Gunn, had the chance to use 
those baseball season tickets lately? Lorne – when was the last time you got chance to 
drop by Caritas and terrorise your bar manager for an hour?"

"Alright," Angel conceded, aware that he was now fifteen minutes late. "Just stay 
frosty when you're out with Gru. He tends to leap before he looks."

* * *

"You've got my cell phone number, and Giles?" Buffy fussed. "Is it charged? Oh, I 
made some sandwiches –"

"Buffy!" Dawn cut off the flow. Plucking the cellophane wrapped food from her elder 
sisters hand, she ignored the nearby Slayers and enveloped her big sister in a fierce 
hug. "Unclench. I'll kick that evil college paperwork into the middle of next week and 
be home by the weekend…do you think I'd miss the chance to see Attack of the Fifty 
Foot Woman when the entire Scooby Gang is going to be in situ. Stop channelling 
mom…try for Bart Simpson instead."

"Hah-hah." Buffy said, but gave over with the twittering, beaming as she still felt the 
warmth from Dawn's hug. 

Waving Dawn off in the little roadster her sister could now operate all on her own 
after passing Driver's Ed…finally…Buffy gave a loud sniff and tried to get a grip.

"Come on, B." Chided a voice behind her. "You survived enrolling at UC Sunnydale, 
I'm sure lil' sis will manage just fine."

"That's what worries me," Buffy pointed out. "College – the Initiative, secret 
government experiments, frat boys…Okay, okay." Buffy shut up as Faith rolled her 
eyes.

Faith. Her Sister Slayer. Until Willow laid her whammy on the Scythe, she and Faith 
had been the only Slayers in the world, a kink caused in the endless line of solitary 
Chosen One following solitary Chosen One after Buffy Summers stuck two fingers up 
to the rulebook and became the first Slayer in history to, as Spike so aptly put it, have 
'family and friends'. The first time she'd died, Xander had revived her in less than a 
minute with CPR, the second time, Willow with the whammy again. But once a 
Slayer died, even if she was only dead for seconds, the next Slayer was Called…Faith 
– torturer, murderer, sociopath - and Champion. Nowadays Buffy could see how 
Faith's eyes were a little less shadowed than they had been. In the kitchen a tall 
handsome black man, Robyn Wood the ex-Principal of Sunnydale High and one of 
the few to survive outlasting that position, was cooking – Faith's lover, and a large 
part of the reason for those lessening of shadows; another considerable factor was that 
Faith now had a focus for her abilities other than just being the other Slayer. She was 
Buffy's PT Instructor, Drill Sergeant to the tenderfoots. She excelled in the role.           

Buffy allowed Faith to draw her back inside the old, sprawling mansion the Scoobies 
had reclaimed as their own. Defeating the First Evil, losing Spike when her Champion 
closed the Hellmouth and losing Anya…that had been a pretty big bang in the scheme 
of things, but it was like the crescendo of a symphony – you couldn't sustain the peak 
forever, else it just became noise. This, however, this what was going on all around 
her redefined long haul. 

Coming up with the brilliant notion of creating a new Slayer-user-friendly Watchers 
Council had been an off-the-cuff stopgap measure. It was something Buffy came up 
with to give the dozens of hyped up Slayers focus and purpose; something to deflect 
that restless light in Faith's eyes as the Dark Slayer's love for Robyn Wood battled 
her fear of letting anyone get close to her because of how she'd been hurt in the past, 
and Buffy could see that Faith's patented flight over fight response was on the verge 
of winning unless she did something drastic.

However, It had taken Buffy less than an hour, and without any hit-you-over-the-
head-with-a-lightening-bolt revelation from the Powers That Be, no less, to realise 
that her 'stopgap measure' would be her life's work. There were vampires and 
demons and evil nasties in a thousand places on this planet, but there had only ever 
been one Slayer, until now. A network of Slayers, criss-crossing the globe, fighting 
the good fight; they would still never be able save everyone, but their success rate 
would go through the stratosphere. 

Completely changing the face of Slayerdom, however, required a lot of hard work and 
effort, and currently those closest to Buffy were scattered all over the place, hence the 
enormous anxiety-over-reaction to Dawn going to UC Sunnydale to register for the 
fall semester. 

After initially settling in Rome whilst rounding up European Slayers, Buffy and Dawn 
had decided to return to Sunnydale, or rather what had been Sunnydale, and set up 
HQ in what little of the town – basically the old mansion and UC Sunnydale campus – 
remained. Eventually the others had drifted back too, though they often went abroad 
on research or Slayer-gathering trips since the "one slayer dies the next is called" rule 
held true; when a new Slayer named Anis Willoughby had been killed in a car crash 
en route to Sunnydale, her hitherto mortal cousin, Andrea Findus, who had been 
visiting, had become a Slayer right in front of Kennedy and Molly's startled eyes.  

Giles had taken Andrew Wells to England since the last surviving member of the 
Troika had decided to train as a Watcher, though Buffy suspected a not-entirely 
healthy attachment to tweed on the youth's part. Despite his supreme nerdiness, 
Andrew had a part to play. He was atoning for murdering his best friend, Jonathan 
Levinson, and opening the Hellmouth in the first place. Also like Giles said, any new 
Watchers they could get, they had to take. The loss of the Watchers in Caleb's 
explosion aside, many of the Watchers came from ancient lineages of the same, and as 
such could be expected to adhere to the small remnant of the conservative, hidebound 
old Watchers Council that buzzed around the edges of the Scoobies like a fly you 
couldn't quite swat. Several of the family members and friends of the new Slayers had 
evinced an interest in such a role as well, and Dawn herself was considering the 
Watcher thing – she had the brains for the role, certainly, Buffy knew with pride. 
Beyond that however, Dawn had told her sister, " 'Look, I know you'd love me to be a 
teacher or something with a degree and job security and normality. But I can't do that 
– I'm not normal. I was an all-powerful energy being for billions of years. I can't do 
something like spend my life teaching a bunch of sixth graders a history of the world I 
know to be a crock when you guys are fighting the good fight and saving the world on 
weekends, even though I'd probably be safer. I'm part of the Scooby Gang, and even 
though I'm not a Slayer or anything, I have to be involved. Being a Watcher is a way I 
can contribute to what we do and still earn enough cash to support my deadbeat 
sister.'"                

Willow was presently in South America on a higher plane of existence seeking more 
Intel from the PTBs if she could get it, her Slayer lover Kennedy waiting anxiously in 
the monastery for her return. After her "shadow puppet show" confrontation with the 
Shadow men, before the Scoobies ultimate battle with the First Evil, Buffy had been 
left with the nagging feeling that she had missed something important in the subtext, 
easy enough to do considering how enraged she had been at the time with those self-
important men who had callously chained a girl to the earth and, for want of a better 
term, committed an act of "mystical rape" by forcibly infusing demonic energy into 
her. Quietly working away in the background as ever, it had been Xander who 
obligingly dropped what he was doing and hot-footed it to Africa following up a 
Shadow Men reference to those shamans who had infused the First Slayer with her 
power and created their line.  Xander had met none other than Oz unexpectedly in 
Nairobi, and being forced to explain the loss of his eye, the pair had teamed up to go 
further into the Dark Continent. 
Right now, as usual these days, Buffy tried not to think about Angel. When Andrew 
had brought back the mentally-ill Slayer Dana, he had been close-mouthed about 
Angel in LA, and Buffy still struggled with the notion that Angel, Wesley Wyndham-
Price, Cordy and the others of Angel's "team" she'd never met were now running 
Wolfram & Hart, the Biggest Bad on the Western Seaboard. While Andrew seemed 
convinced that Angel and his friends were still 'fighting the good fight', Buffy wasn't 
so sure, and that uncertainty frightened her. Angel; Riley; Spike. She'd loved them all 
in different ways, and lost them all in different ways, but Angel…something like that 
most people never even got once in a lifetime, never mind twice. 

Buffy sighed to herself. Spike had been the only one who'd really understood, which 
somehow didn't amaze her as much as it seemed, from appearances, that it should. 
Despite that he had been her lover at the time, despite the fact that he was openly and 
unashamedly deeply in love with her, Spike had grasped her feeling for Angel and 
astonishingly had not seemed to hate it.

"'Look love, you and Angel…it's like the Star of Africa. The world's biggest 
diamond, that's part of the Queen's Crown Jewels back home? If you marry the 
woman of your dreams, the one who's got one hand around your heart and the other 
your soul, and then give her the Star of Africa for your first wedding anniversary, 
that's really great…but how do you top that? Love is joy…and sorrow. When it 
comes to love, most people only stumble across a way into Paradise on the fourth or 
fifth go – if they're lucky. That's your problem pet, with you and Angel. You hit the 
jackpot first go – with Angel, you got into Paradise first time, and trouble with that is, 
nothing that comes after can ever quite match up.'"

Buffy jumped as for a moment Spike's words were so real in her memory it was as if 
he were standing right there next to her, solid and…cold. Okay, enough with the 
wallowing…

* * *

Driving strictly within the speed limit, Dawn carefully watched the exit signs as she 
headed south. Her paperwork was already done, completed on a previous visit: 
notarised, itemized and lobotomised in triplicate, trapped in the bureaucratic black 
hole of the Dean's office. Dawn consciously relaxed her hands on the wheel. She had 
a clear five days; please god, let her be able to fix this mess by then. 

Dawn remembered Buffy's happy face she hugged her goodbye, the Slayer having no 
notion that Dawn was making the gesture…just in case. 'Just in case' was Standard 
Operating Procedure in the Buffyverse. Her first thought had been to go to Buffy 
but…Dawn, on the sidelines, had a panoramic view of the workload. Buffy worked 
twenty-four-seven, and had lost inches she could ill afford to. Giles was getting greyer 
by the hour, even Willow's bright eyes dimmed when she thought nobody was 
looking, and Xander…well he was like the Energizer Bunny, but when he thought 
nobody was around, his face would relax and the lines that hadn't been there around 
his mouth would come back. Faith; Robyn; Kennedy; Andrew…all the survivors of 
the First Evil's attempt open the Hellmouth were working flat out.  

Dawn knew that Buffy – that they all – loved what they were trying to do with the 
new Slayers and the Watchers Council, but it was also clear that they were working 
incredibly long and hard to make it succeed. The last thing Buffy needed was for her 
little sister to come whining to her yet again with more problems, especially as Dawn 
had only herself to blame for this mess. My first boyfriend and the guy turned out to 
be a vampire – you'd have thought I'd develop at least some early warning system, 
but noooo. 

She glanced in her mirror. Yep, beat up old Plymouth five cars back had been on her 
tail since she took the Interstate from Sunnydale. Yeah, come on, Dawn silently 
taunted it, come down to the woods after me, and boy are you gonna get a big 
surprise… She hadn't known where to turn, until…thank god for Andrew the Geek 
and the fact that being a teenager in modern America made adults think that you 
became deaf and blind to the world around you for seven years. Using his cell-phone 
in the vast jungle that was the mansion's garden had probably seemed like a good idea 
to Andrew, except for the fact that an entire army of CIA agents could have been 
hanging on every word, completely disguised by the Triffid-like foliage; or in this 
case, one desperate kid trying to come up with a plan.

Dawn hadn't meant to eavesdrop when Andrew was talking to the LA ex-Watcher, 
Wesley Wyndham-Price, but was curious as she listened, idly pondering whether 
Buffy having an ex-Watcher as her second-in-command and Angel having an ex-
Watcher as his second-in-command was just an amazing coincidence or of mystical 
significance; of course, one of the Scooby Gang's mottos was: There Are No 
Accidents, which probably answered that one. 

Faith rarely talked about the British man who had been, very briefly, her replacement 
Watcher after Kakistos murdered her first, except to slice through the Scooby Gang's 
joking reminiscences of Wimpy Wesley the Dean of Dork with a quiet statement that 
Wesley had changed a great deal. He had been to a 'bad place', and unlike many had 
made it out alive, with his soul – mostly – intact. But like all such survivors, he had 
come through the fire with chunks hacked out of his soul, bits of him burned away 
that he could never get back: "'Mix a chunk of James Bond with a dollop of Bruce 
Lee, add a hint of Terminator – and throw in a whole bag of Angelus with better 
fashion sense,'" the Dark Slayer had advised the chastened group, " 'in fact – just 
think of my evil twin brother on bad acid.'"           

Now there was an image to terrify. At that point, Dawn's heart had stopped when she 
heard Andrew rather coldly tell the Brit that he would keep his word and that Buffy 
wouldn't learn that Spike was back, restored by the amulet he had been wearing when 
he deep-sixed the Hellmouth. Once her heart started up again, Dawn had had to 
restrain herself from bursting out of the bushes and smothering Andrew with kisses. 
She was saved! 

In the end, Buffy had chosen Spike as her Champion to save the world, but what 
nobody seemed to realise was that he had been Dawn's Champion first…

* * *                         

"Hey," Spike greeted Wesley as he strolled into the other Englishman's office and 
discreetly closed the door after him, his eyes taking in with amusement the myriad 
piles of books, scrolls, stone tablets and…Golfing Weekly.

The ex-Watcher laid down his pen. "There were doughnuts?"

"You're sweet enough," Spike apologised.

Wesley rose, but didn't approach Spike as he usually did, instead his face remained 
closed and sombre. Spike opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but then his keen 
nose picked up a scent. Inclining his head on one side, he moved closer, openly 
scenting Wesley, who remained impassive.

Fred. Her scent had been on Wes before, but not as strong as…forget strong, try 
marinated. Fred's scent was all over Wesley; it was as if she had run a marathon and 
used Wesley to towel off – she was in every pore. The oestrogen and testosterone hit 
Spike's nostrils potently, triggering an instinctive response in his groin – and his fangs 
- that he had to instantly suppress. "Oh. Last night?"

Wesley nodded silently.

Spike blinked, "Well is my timing fabulous or what?"

"Not really."

Spike looked at Wesley for a long moment, then turned his head and said over his 
shoulder, "Angel."

Despite Spike barely speaking any louder than a normal conversational tone, 
Wesley's office door opened instantly and Angel walked in, closing the door again 
before his eyes flicked automatically to Wesley's neck, which was still unbitten.

"Take a deep breath." Spike ordered his grandsire. "Just do it."

Angel inhaled a good lungful of technically unnecessary oxygen. "Oh. That's…"

"Practically ground into him, yeah." Spike affirmed.   

"It was Illyria."

Both vampires looked at Wesley as he said the three words in a tone they couldn't 
quite decipher.

"You hurt anywhere?" Spike asked in a tone of voice so caring and gentle that it 
would have had even Buffy slack-jawed with amazement; as it was Angel turned his 
head and looked at his grandson with obvious astonishment.

"Not…only in a good way." Wesley assured him. "Fred – Illyria has access to 
Fred's…to Fred. Before Illyria…me and Fred, you know…as Fred was dying, one of 
her last regrets…one thing she was really pissed about…was not…"

"Getting up-close-and-personal with you. So Illyria decides it needs to integrate fully 
into this dimension in more ways than one, plus gets itself in good with the human it 
killed so it could steal her body by tumbling you." Spike summarised.

"Perfect clarity." Wesley whispered Angel's previous discernment of Spike's greatest 
ability. "In short, yes. Illyria has decided, for the time being anyway, that I am it's 
mate. Fred was able to come back for a while last night…and, for some unfathomable 
reason that makes me want to weep with relief, she's okay with this. But Illyria was in 
the driving seat for big chunks. I just thought…I don't know what I thought." Wesley 
shook his head wearily.

"Preaching to the choir, pet." Spike's lips twisted into a wry resemblance of a smile. 
"Dru'…I was with her for a century…Dru took me when she wanted…and how she 
wanted. Some of the things she did to me…I've fought three Slayers in my time, and 
Drusilla hurt me worse than any of them…regularly."

"I'm in love with Fred and it's Fred's body," Wesley shook his head, "but when 
Illyria – in a crazy way I feel as though I'm being unfaithful to Fred. Am I making 
any sense here?"

"In a way, yeah." Spike answered. "Your problem is that you've got character, unlike 
say…me, who'll shag anything with plump hips and big tits. Instead of being ruled by 
your gonads, you fell in love with the person as well as the body you wanted to 
tumble, that's why it's harder for you to do the Standard Male Bad and go into 'all 
cats are grey in the dark' mode when you get it on with your sweetheart."

"I think I just fell down the rabbit hole. Spike is being profound…and getting it 
right." Angel looked at his second, "Wes' I'd give pretty much anything to be able to 
get rid of Illyria and restore Fred totally. Being a hitch-hiker in your own body…but, 
whatever we can do to help, we will."

"You did what you had to do. If you had sent the sarcophagus back to the Deeper 
Well, Fred would never, ever have forgiven you for letting all those people die in 
agony on it's route there. First thing she'd have done would've been to stake the pair 
of you." Wesley assured them grimly. "It's just – keep quiet about the blood thing, 
okay. Illyria doesn't really get the vampire thing and Fred's not letting on to it."

"It doesn't know that –" Spike paused as he saw the way Angel's jaw tightened 
slightly and a subtle tension suddenly sprang up between Angel and Wesley.

"Illyria's an old one, when it lived, the demon species that became vampires still 
walked the Earth in their original bodies." Wesley pointed out, "There were no 
humans Sired in its time. It was only later when the old ones finally left our 
dimension because of spreading humanity that one of them Sired a human, who bit 
someone else, et cetera. Illyria doesn't comprehend any of that. It just realises that 
you two are supernatural beings whose ancestral origins lie within it's own epoch." 
He looked thoughtful. "That may be part of the reason why Illyria decided to stay 
with our group – the demons within you two are probably the closest thing Illyria still 
has to contemporaries."

Spike and Angel looked at each other, distinctly less than enthused by this idea.

* * *

"Hush, hush." Ffion closed his trembling hands around the hot toddy. "Drink this. 
Poor dear."

Nigel gulped the drink down then surged up from the armchair, pacing around Ffion's 
London apartment, his eyes still wild. Ffion watched him warily, recognising the 
signs of those occasional outbursts of almost psychotic rage that were the only 
occasions when she really feared – and fancied – him. He had tumbled into her 
apartment in the small hours, dishevelled and babbling. It had taken a good half hour 
to get him calmed down enough to be coherent.

"I couldn't let him ruin our wedding. I wanted it to be perfect. Perfect," ranted Nigel 
waving his arms in a way that made her eye the Crown Derby warily. "He stood there 
and let them attack me! He protected them, two vampires, he would have attacked me 
himself to help them! And that skinny freak! He's not a vampire's bum-boy because 
he's her whore, whatever kind of she-demon-bitch she is! She dangled me in the air, 
choking the life out of me, and he just stood there!"

"I heard Winifred Burkle was killed," murmured Ffion, trying to reconcile his 
description with the timid stick figure she had met, but many demonic half-breeds 
looked human on the surface…vampires being a classic example of their ability to 
disguise what they were behind a human façade. 
  
"She. Will. Be." 

Ffion narrowed her eyes at her fiancé as he ground the words out, an ugly light in his 
eyes that she recognised. Ffion came to a decision; she couldn't let Nigel go off on his 
own vengeance vendetta as there was a good chance he would mess up her grand 
scheme, assuming that Angel didn't simply hunt him down and slaughter him if he 
went after Wesley. The vampire creature had proven itself to be rather possessive of 
it's underlings, particularly long-term sidekicks like Wesley, and distinctly homicidal 
towards those who tried to hurt them. Angelus of course would willingly kill Wesley, 
but removing Angel's soul by any means other than him experiencing that 'perfect 
happiness' was complicated, dangerous and had a low chance of working. Ffion bit 
her glossy lips – the perfect crime, whether pick-pocketing or mass murder, was only 
ever the one that you got away with. Nigel was brainy enough as far as it counted, and 
his seething resentment would be very useful.

"I suppose they were still smarting from my visit." She commented idly.

"I – what?" Nigel stopped wearing a hole in her very costly Persian hearthrug and 
stared at her. "What did you say?"

"I went to LA to tell dear Wesley to steer clear of our wedding myself." Ffion 
shrugged.

"But -? I mean - ?" Nigel stumbled.

"Oh come on, Nigel! I have a Pure Mathematics Degree from Cambridge and an IQ 
rating of 130," Ffion lied, deliberately knocking off a score points from her rating so 
she was ten less than Nigel's own score, "did you seriously think I was going to retire 
like a good little brood mare and play the gracious matron, dropping out rugrats for 
the cause in between doing my needlework?"

He watched her with wide eyes as she unfolded her long legs from the armchair and 
stood up, looking at him with amusement. "I have a plan, my dear. A very carefully 
laid out little blueprint." Walking over to the drawer of one of her occasional tables, 
she pulled out the worn sepia photograph of her grandmother with some of the other 
female Watchers taken in 1902. "This is my goal."

He looked at the photograph, squinting at the pendant. "I don't understand. Ffion, the 
pendant is passed down from generation to generation in the Giles family. Only when 
their line from the First Watcher is extinct can the pendant be passed onto the next 
oldest families in the Watcher…"

"Right." She smiled as she saw the light-bulb begin to flicker. "Seen a Mrs Giles and 
2.4 kids around lately?" Leaning in close, she plucked the photograph from his hand 
and tossed it casually onto the coffee table before whispering, "The Stone of Kara-Ma 
is the power of the Watchers, my dear Nigel. Our lineage is the most ancient after that 
of Rupert Giles's family. I am going to hold the Watchers Council in the palm of my 
hand and nothing is going to stand in the way of that. Not a five-foot-nothing 
American whore, Slayer or not, nor her traitorous pet Watcher, nor even a dozen 
vampires with a soul never mind the two who have ensorcelled your pathetic excuse 
of a brother. I'm founding a dynasty here, Nigel, and my descendants – our 
descendents - are going to rule the Watchers Council with the Stone of Kara-Ma 
around their necks. How's that as a plan for you to be daddy's good little boy?"

Nigel licked his lips and blinked rapidly; staring at her for a moment, he suddenly 
jerked forward and before she could move out of the way, shoved her back against the 
wall, knocking aside the standing lamp with one swat of his hand. Automatically 
Ffion raised her hands defensively to push him back, but paused uncertainly when his 
face broke in a very wide, very nasty smile and he said, "Rupert Giles is a disgrace to 
us all." His hands gripped the sides of her skirt and shoved it roughly up her legs to 
bunch around her hips. "He's a traitor to the Council," silk tore easily and Ffion 
gasped aloud as he plunged inside her, "so would it be far off the mark for me to 
venture that nobody would really be broken up if Rupert were to be killed helping his 
Slayer whore, leaving the way clear for the pendant to be passed on a more worthy 
bearer of the stone?" Without care he simply yanked apart her blouse, ignoring the 
buttons that flirted everywhere as they tore holes in the material, pulling the clasp on 
her bra and roughly fondling her freed breasts.

Ffion locked her legs around his pelvis as he began to pump vigorously, clutching at 
his shoulders as he forced her higher against the wall. "Take it from m-eeee," she 
gasped, "Rupert…Giles…won't - make - it – until…C-C-Christmas…"

"And then I shall deal with my treacherous pervert of a brother." Nigel leaned in close 
to her, "Squeeze me…yessss." Panting, he gasped out, "But not too quickly. Speaking 
of Christmas, I'll truss him up like a Yuletide turkey, and him give a ringside view of 
me dusting those two creatures. I think I'll do the nigger next, or the green thing – 
whichever, it doesn't really matter. Then he can watch me fuck that skinny bitch and 
slit her open from belly to throat. He is my brother…so I'll slit his own throat and put 
him out of his misery at that point…"

"Do - it - shallow," Ffion groaned, "if you…oh…cut to just the right depth round his 
neck, it'll take him a couple of hours to bleed to death. Somewhere nice and quiet, we 
can leave him to bleed out next to his whore and surrounded by the bodies or little 
dust-piles…of his friends." Her eyes fluttered closed as the hot, delicious warmth 
began to tighten deep within her stomach, wonderful sensations making her head spin 
as Nigel pounded into her gloriously. As she sped towards her first genuine climax 
during sex with Nigel, she managed to impart, "There – is – ah-ah-aaah – j-j-just 
one…v-v-very small coooomplication…"

* * *

Harmony hit PRINT and watched the brightly coloured A4 sheets of paper grow on 
the pile with satisfaction. Most would consider it a trivial task to inspire pleasure, but 
being a vampire had given Harmony a new self-awareness. Shallow, yes, more than 
tending towards superficial, yes, but Harmony wasn't stupid. 

Being Angel's secretary and working for the Powers That Be (of course that was by 
default, since she seemed to be the only vampire around here who didn't have a soul 
and was therefore Evil) might not be far up the food chain, but Harmony knew it was 
more than she could have hoped for. She wasn't good at any of the things vampires 
were supposed to be good at – the slaughter and the mayhem, the cunning scheming 
and homicidal plotting. Look at how she'd nearly ended up dusted when that bitch 
Tamica had framed her for killing that demon liaison! She was probably the only 
vampire in history to prefer blood banks to the necks of living people because the 
most terrified – initially - human seemed to recognise her ineptness in about a half-
second flat and realise they were more lethal than her –

"I-I-Is this Angel's office?"

Harmony looked up and blinked in surprise; for all their exotic client-base, teenage 
human girls didn't feature. The girl was pretty in that Helen Bonham Carter 'sweet 
rose' way, with waist length brunette hair that wrapped around her like strands of silk, 
bespeaking either very expensive conditioner or else the sort of natural genetic good 
fortune that could make a vampiress go green with envy. She was slender but with 
nicely curved hips and a definite but not too large bosom. Right now however her 
eyes were damp with tears. Someone's probably stolen her teddy bear. "Yes but he's 
in conference – Hey – I said – Hey!"

"Why us?" Angel asked in exasperation. He seemed to be asking that question a lot 
lately, and it was starting to annoy him.

"Traditionally, Wolfram & Hart –" Gunn's explanation got no further as they all 
heard Harmony's yell of " 'You can't go in!'" 

Harmony was on the interloper's heels as the young girl burst through open the 
double doors of Angel's office. However, by that time every occupant of the room 
was facing the door in a deceptively relaxed stance that belied the coiled readiness in 
each one's attitude, or the fact that everyone had a hand on a weapon. This was after 
all, Wolfram & Hart, meaning anything could burst through the door – and sometimes 
did.

The teenage girl took in the occupants of the room with one sweeping glance, as they 
looked at her in baffled confusion. Then her lower lip trembled and her composure 
melted away like ice-cream on a warm hearth.

Spike did a double take and took a step forward. "Niblet?"

"S-S-Spike." The girl hurtled herself forward to bury her face in his black T-shirt 
covered chest and began to sob brokenly.

"Oomph." But Spike hardly swayed under the impact; it took a lot more than an 
adolescent human, former primordial cosmic energy being or not, to put a vampire on 
his ass. His arms came round the shaking girl. "Sshh, pet." Lowering his chin till it 
rested on her hair he began to rub her back. "Harm, get her a mug of coffee, plenty of 
cream, two sugars. Come on, Dawnie." Holding her to himself with effortless 
strength, Spike eased himself back and down onto one of the leather couches in 
Angel's office.

"The Key?" Fred stage-whispered to Wesley as they gathered around, glad to notice 
that Illyria had not stirred yet.

Wesley nodded silent affirmation, not taking his eyes of the girl, his expression 
troubled. Gunn and Lorne exchanged raised eyebrows and oh-oh here we go again 
looks.

Sniffling loudly, Dawn raised her head and rubbed at her eyes until Fred rapidly 
produced a handkerchief. "T-T-Thanks."

Angel looked at her curiously, having only ever really seen her at a distance; he had 
left for LA before she arrived in Sunnydale. She wasn't Buffy's real sister of course. 
A mystical construct by an unknown entity aeons ago, she had existed as pure energy 
for untold millennia until some guardian monks had forged her into human form and 
sent her to the Slayer to be protected from the Hell God Glory. Buffy had done 
exactly that, and died in the process. Somehow, however, Angel found himself unable 
to dislike this slender fawn.

"What's up, Niblet?" Spike asked as Harmony joined the semi-circle of surrounding 
adults, holding out the requested coffee. Taking the mug from her and handing it to 
Dawn, his voice hardened. "You're not in LA on your own?"

Dawn gave him her ultimate Bambi-After-His-Mom's-Been-Shot look, but it bounced 
off like a rubber ball against a wall. "T-the others think I'm sorting out my admissions 
paperwork at UC Sunnydale for the weekend."

"Didn't that get…sucked in or…down…into the crater when I closed the Hellmouth, 
like Sunnydale?" Spike asked.

"Not quite. They lost half a parking lot, that's all, and it's more of a valley actually. 
It's already being considered a special conservation area.  Giles bought that old 
mansion on the hill," Dawn paused as Angel visibly flinched, but decided to go along 
with everyone else and tactfully ignore it, " - it was about the only other thing that 
survived besides UC Sunnydale, so we're camping out there while we rebuild new 
houses at the top. I loved the schooling in Rome, but I thought it was best if I went to 
UC Sunnydale with the other Slayers who are still Freshmen, so Buffy's not worrying 
about me being someplace else." Dawn explained.

"So what happened?" Gunn asked, to the point as ever.

Dawn looked at Spike miserably. "I-I really, really need your help. I-I just didn't 
know who to turn to. Everyone's working so hard, flat out, to get things up and 
running. We've got new Slayers arriving by the busload every day, a lot of them with 
their entire families back to the nth generation in tow; half of them have no idea 
what's happening and most go into serious denial when they find out. Then there's all 
this hassle with the new Watcher Council and the old Watcher Council –"

"Yeah, we've had run-ins with the Old Guard." Angel admitted. "I imagine they're 
even less happy with you up in Sunnydale than they are with us here."

Dawn snorted, "Tell me about it! You wouldn't believe the crap they've tried to pull 
on us, especially messing with Giles' head – can you believe they actually sent letters 
addressed to Judas Iscariot II, c/o Sunnydale?"

"Charming." Lorne muttered sarcastically.

"Yeah…and Giles tried to get this book for us…the something Codex…" Dawn 
scowled fiercely at the memory, "…and somehow the Watchers Council got hold of it 
and instead sent this other book by that famous Italian guy, Dante, you know, where 
he gets taken on a tour of hell…it was the last book, the famous one with the Ninth 
Circle of Hell, the deepest, worst and most terrible pit, which is for –"

"…those who betray." Wesley Wyndham-Price finished for her.

Angel shot Wesley a sharp glance, something in the Englishman's voice making the 
hairs on his dead vampire arms prickle – no mean feat, but Wesley's attention was, 
seemingly, focussed entirely on Dawn.        

Dawn nodded in furious affirmation, "That's right. 'Traitor' is the nicest thing they've 
called him."

"Hey, it's one up on 'perverted'." Harmony interjected, jerking her head towards 
Wesley.

"Thank you, Harmony." Wesley's tone was biting.

Dawn blinked then went on hurriedly, "I-I just don't want to be the cause of another 
problem they've got to run around and fix, they hardly get chance to eat and sleep as 
it is…besides, I feel so stupid. It's all my fault." She appealed to Spike, "I really 
thought I was being careful this time, I swear. I promise, after Justin turned out to be a 
vampire –"

"Jeez, what is it with you Summers women and the undead?" 

There was another frozen silence and Lorne raised his hands in defensive surrender as 
everyone glared at him.

"It was ages ago, and she didn't know." Spike defended her sharply. 

Dawn gave her defender a watery smile and hastened to explain to them, "I met him 
at a party, it was my first date. He was really cool, even though he was a football jock. 
We were in the woods and Buffy –"    

"You parked on a first date?" Angel demanded censoriously.

This time everyone glared at him; Spike raised both eyebrows and drawled, "Hello, 
glasshouse and whacking great boulder?"

Angel cringed; Spike had been the non-consenting recipient of some of Angelus' 
more exotic sexual experiments and knew exactly what sort of debauchery the 
vampire was capable of. Hard-core pornography had nothing on Angelus' appetite for 
perversion.

"Anyway, he was…you know." Dawn shrugged. "This time I was so careful I was 
practically paranoid."

"It ended badly." Lorne stated rather than asked. "The tune changes, but the song 
remains the same."

"That's the problem." Dawn looked at Spike. "He won't accept that it's ended at all. 
That's why I'm here. I'm being stalked, literally by the psychotic demon boyfriend 
from hell."
 
"No problem. Give me a photograph and I'll go eviscerate him." Spike shrugged.

"Wait!" Dawn yelped. "I mean – what about your soul?"

"Allowed to kill evil things, love. I reckon 'psychotic demon boyfriend from hell' 
qualifies." Spike pointed out.

Dawn beamed at him. "I've been so scared." She admitted

"So you skipped on your sister the Slayer and came all the way south to LA to 
find…Spike?" Gunn looked at the peroxide blond vampire sceptically.

Dawn straightened her spine, taking exception to the black guy's disbelieving tone. 
"Spike protected me when nobody else could. He was almost killed protecting me 
from Glory. He was the only one out of all of them who talked to me like I wasn't a 
little kid or a retard, or who got all squirrelly and embarrassed and stuttering when it 
came to me drinking –"

"Spike let you drink?" Fred blurted.

"No, he didn't just let me drink." Dawn glared at them all, her distress and fear 
dissolving into a protective anger. "Spike let me see that a regular hangover is nothing 
to boast about, he also taught me all those lines guys come up with to get girls like me 
into the sack." She looked pointedly at Angel, Wesley and Gunn, who shared 
embarrassed she's-got-us-there glances and wisely kept silent as Harmony and Fred's 
faces also took on unfriendly, we-know-what-she-means-buster expressions.    

Dawn heaved a sigh and her head drooped again. "That's how it began to…well, 
dawn on me, no pun intended…that Stefan wasn't all sweetness and light. At first he 
was cool when I wanted to wait and wouldn't…you know…straight away, but then 
one night he kept insisting on buying me mixers and Jack Daniels instead of beer. I 
got around that – tipped it all into a plant pot. After that, when that didn't work he 
started making these comments about, didn't I love him? How I was just stringing 
him along, and didn't I like him? What was wrong with him? He got really nasty 
when he said he'd been seeing me on my own with just Xander, or Andrew, or 
Principal Wood, or even Giles. I mean, Giles is like, my dad."

"So you dumped him and he went Norman Bates." Harmony finished for her, nodding 
wisely. "What are you people looking at? I went to Sunnydale High too, remember, 
Angel? I lost being able to ever look in a mirror again at my high school graduation, 
courtesy of the mayor who wanted to be a giant demon snake and eat the class of '99!  
Believe me, kid, you're lucky you realised what was happening so soon. That 
possessive machismo bullshit is great for about two days, then it becomes seriously 
terrorizing."

Dawn nodded. "I know! That's why I came. I mean, he's been making threatening 
calls, emails, sending me dead flowers with the heads cut off…he's gone totally off 
the deep end…"

"Don't you think he'll give up and move on if Dawn isn't around Sunnydale for a 
while?" Fred asked Harmony, without much hope; obsessive psycho-stalker guy 
rarely ended well. Look at what Knox had done to her.    

The blond vampiress shook her head slowly, "Sorry, Dawn, but from what you've 
said, this sounds like one of the bad ones." Harmony looked at Spike and Angel, her 
face serious, "I think you'll end up having to kill this one, it's probably the only way 
you're gonna stop him."

"No problem, pet." Spike's voice was casually unconcerned, but his eyes were cold 
and flat and dead.

"The thing is…I don't understand." Dawn shook her head. "Why is he like this? Why 
do guys get like this? Where does all this -" Dawn deepened her voice into a sort of 
cartoonish Homer Simpson grunt, "I'm-superior-'cause-I've-balls-instead-of-boobs- 
and-I-own-you," reverting to her normal tone she finished, "- shit actually come 
from? He was the one in the wrong!"

There was an uncomfortable silence as the male contingent found themselves being 
regarded with unanimous chilly yeah-we'd-like-to-know looks from the female side.  
Showing courage if possibly not much sense, Angel finally attempted, "Well…"

"Fear."

Everyone looked at Wesley as the Englishman spoke with quiet authority.

"Fear?" Dawn looked down at herself. "What is there to be scared of here, exactly?"

"Not you personally." Wesley explained.  "All men fear women for one very simple 
reason. Women don't really need men, and men have always lived in terror of you all 
realising that."

"Well, sure, we can a get bit rambunctious but we're pretty essential to the whole 
continuation-of- the-species thing, Wes." Gunn pointed out.  

"Not really." The Englishman shrugged. "It would need less than twenty men to 
provide sufficient genetic diversity to support a healthy population of billions. Keep 
about a dozen of the best – Nelson Mandela, Dr Stephen Hawking and so forth – and 
kill the rest."

"You're not serious?" Angel asked in amazement.

"As a heart attack. If tomorrow morning all men bar those few were executed, all 
wars on this planet would instantly cease. You would also get rid of over ninety 
percent of the world's murderers, rapists, paedophiles and all-other-criminals in one 
fell swoop. All the billions that male-dominated military organisations poured into 
making nastier and bigger weapons would instead be used for things like medical 
care, education, housing, ecological conservation, space exploration and so on. Every 
hundred years or so they could let a few males mature enough to harvest fresh DNA 
to maintain biodiversity before they killed them."

"So we're only needed for our sperm and the heavy lifting?" Gunn challenged before 
realising he had uttered the s-word in front of Dawn, who merely looked fascinated at 
Wesley's theory.

"We're not needed for either. Microwaves, washing machines, lawnmowers you can 
ride and the motorcar – just for a start - mean a woman doesn't really need a lot of 
muscle anymore. Sperm banks and IVF have removed the need for a man to be 
actually present for procreative sex and as for recreational sex, Hanson's Double 
Ridged Big Boy vibrator is all you really need for multiple orgasms without the mess 
and ego-massaging drawbacks."

"Hanson's what?" Dawn blurted.

"Okay!" What little blood in Angel's body there was dashed to his face so he could 
flush in deep embarrassment, "We really don't need a sociological debate, here. This 
Stefan is a Big Bad, that's all we need to know. Dawn, you can stay –"

"No." Dawn cut him off. "No offence to anyone, I mean, I'm sure you're all very 
nice, but I intend to be Spike's shadow…Unless you and Harmony..?"

"Uh, no. Great timing of yours though, Niblet. Up until a few days ago I was having 
to crash on Dr Strangelove here's couch and he's only got one bedroom. Fortunately 
for you, I now – "

"Squat uninvited and non-paying in the hotel that I own." Angel interjected.

"Can't believe how I forgot about your fun dog-in-the-manger deal." Spike shot back. 
"It's got five floors, sixty-two inhabitable bedrooms, plus Olympic sized swimming 
pool with sauna, spa pool, and health suite. Just ignore my grumpy granddad -"

"Stop calling me that."    

Wesley hastily cut in, "If you could give us a photograph or drawing of 
your…er…ex…so we know who to look for and I'll see what I can dig up on his 
species, stat." 

"Thanks." Dawn beamed at them all gratefully.

"Er…not to rain on this parade or anything, children," Lorne inserted at this juncture, 
"but aren't we forgetting the Slayer?"

"I don't want Buffy to know about this!" Dawn exclaimed almost jumping off Spike's 
lap in alarm. "I feel enough like a naïve idiot as it is. I want to deal with this on my 
own. I've got to learn to – I can't go whining to Buffy every time I do something 
stupid."

"That's admirably adult of you, cinnamon bun, but I've been around the block enough 
times to know - it ain't gonna happen." Lorne contradicted. "These things have a way 
of taking on a life of their own and going public at – usually – the worst possible 
moment for certain parties to become aware of what went down. I'm sure I don't need 
to recite some of our more spectacular low points?" 

There was a charged silence as Lorne looked very pointedly in turn at Angel, Gunn 
and Wesley. None of the three men could look at the other two as each one recalled 
less than shining hours, as the empath demon intended.  When Wesley's informant the 
demon Merl had been murdered, Gunn's loyalties being torn between his old crew 
and Angel Investigations had nearly gotten all of Team Angel killed at Caritas – he 
had lied to Wesley and stolen evidence from the crime scene; Angel had flat out lied 
about having sex with Darla and had reaped a whirlwind of repercussions; instead of 
turning to his friends, Wesley had tried to avert the father will kill the son prophecy 
on his own, leading to his own personal road trip down the famous highway of good 
intentions straight to hell.

Satisfied that he had made his point, Lorne continued, "Take it from me, chocolate 
muffin, your big sis and her company are going to find out at some point what is 
going on, and not only is Buffy going to be very angry and deeply hurt that you didn't 
go to her or the Scooby Gang for help, but I'm guessing she's not going to be 
enthralled that your first alternative choice was to scoot for LA and hook up with her 
two ex-squeezes for help."

For a moment the uncomfortable truth hung in the air, then Dawn Summers slowly 
stood up, tall and straight, from where she had been huddled against Spike. Her voice 
was quiet but firm as her chin tilted up; she met their eyes squarely: "Then Buffy will 
just have to deal. Spike is the only one who has always been there for me, even when 
my sister and everyone around her were treating me like just one more problem that 
they had to deal with to get rid of." 

"One disaster at a time." Angel answered quietly. "Psycho boyfriend first, pissed off 
Slayer and Co next."

"You got a picture of him, pet?" Spike asked Dawn, looking up at her determined 
posture with pride. She was growing up, his Niblet.

Fumbling in her purse, Dawn pulled out a large colour photograph that was a bit 
ragged around the edges and uncertainly held it out to Angel, who took it, looked at it, 
shook his head negatively and passed it to Wesley. Getting up off the couch, Spike 
took his turn as it passed around the group, but didn't recognise the species either.

The photograph had been taken at the Student bar on UC Sunnydale campus at some 
party. Clearly the place was now the usual hangout of local youth, though that made 
sense since the Bronze was at the bottom of the crater with the rest of Sunnydale. It 
showed Dawn was standing as part of a group of grinning young women and men 
with what appeared to be a band in the right corner. A tall man had his arm tight 
around Dawn's waist, hoisting a glass in the air and grinning at the camera. The 
man's skin was a slightly unnatural shade of orange-gold, and like the Groosalug and 
Lorne, his eyes were solidly coloured around the pupil, unlike human eyes. Whereas 
Lorne's eyes were red and Gru's purple, this guy's were also a sort of dull gold-
orange. The fingers on his hands were a bit longer and appeared to be more bony than 
a human's, but other than those minor indicators, there was nothing about him that 
yelled 'evil', except possibly his questionable dress sense.

"Harmony, take Dawn to the kitchen and get her something to eat," Angel ordered. 
"After that, Spike will take you to the Hyperion - stay with her. Lorne, you go with 
them. You know the Sanctuary spell that the Furies put on Caritas, lay the whammy 
on so that even if hell boy gets in he can't touch Dawn…"

"My pleasure," Lorne handed back the photograph as Dawn prepared to go with 
Harmony. 

"I'll hit the books," Wesley told Angel. "Dawn, what did Stefan say his full name 
was?"

"Stefan might be an alias?" Dawn hadn't thought of that.

Wesley's expression was bleak. "Leopards rarely change their spots. The unpleasant 
thought occurs that Stefan may have done this sort of thing before."

"Hate to say it, cupcake," Lorne nodded agreement of the Englishman's assessment, 
"but this Stefan's M.O. sounds nastily well-practised."

"Stefan Ulrich Ologugoff." Dawn recited. "He said his grandparents were Ukrainian.  
He told me when I asked what the U. stood for. S-t-ef-a-n, U-l-r-i-c-h, O-l-o-g-u-"        

"G-o-f-f." Finished Wesley grimly.

"Uh-oh, I know that face," Gunn groaned.

"Stefan and Ulrich are real names. 'Ologugoff' bears a close resemblance to a real 
Russian surname, but not quite," Wesley told them. "If you rearrange the surname and 
add the 'S' from Stefan and 'U' from Ulrich you get 'Gulffosouog'. It literally means 
'small-horned ones'. It's the collective term for about ten or eleven demon sub-
species that's created quite a little niche for themselves in the mercenary-stroke-
killers-for-hire line. Thugs, heavies, kill-their-own-spawner-for-a-buck types. They're 
born with little vestigial horns on their heads, similar to Lorne, but they just saw them 
off when they move into our dimension. As long as they hide their eyes, they look just 
like fat guys with bad tans."

"Speaking of tans," Fred put in, "do you have anything of Stefan's? Handkerchief he 
wiped his face with, anything that might have a few cells I can analyse? I might be 
able to narrow it down from ten or eleven to just two or three." 

"Way ahead of you, "Dawn chortled, "and Willow says I don't pay attention to the 
science!" Reaching into her purse again, she pulled out one of those re-sealable small, 
clear plastic bags, inside which was a cheap plastic disposable razor.

"Ooh, clever girl." Fred took the bag.   

"I asked to use his bathroom, swapped his razor for mine." Dawn explained with a 
grin. 

"What would you have done if he used an electric shaver?" Gunn asked.

"His toothbrush had replaceable heads." Dawn countered.  
  
"I'll go hit the books too." Gunn decided, "See if I can make things all nice and legal 
for when we whack this son of Norman."

As Dawn allowed Harmony to lead her from the office, she had to blink back tears of 
gratitude. She had gone to find Spike and the whole lot of them had just dropped 
everything to pitch in. Harmony took hold of her wrist and tugged her along, babbling 
excitedly to distract Dawn so she didn't notice Angel jerk his head back, silently 
telling Lorne to stay.

"How long do you think before Buffy figures it out and the entire Scooby Gang turn 
up on our doorstep?" Angel asked gloomily.

Lorne shrugged. "Four days, maximum. Realistically, I think you got two." The green 
demon indicated Angel and Spike, who had remained as Gunn, Fred and Wesley left 
to do their thing. "I've been reading the Watcher Diaries on the web, kiddies, and the 
key word here is: loss. Buffy lost you to LA and then she lost her mom to the vicious 
vagaries of Just Life. Next she lost Riley to the Initiative – again – 'cause the boy just 
couldn't deal with Girl Power, and she lost Spike to the First Evil when he saved the 
world and got toasted extra crispy – no offence."

"Dawn is the centre of Buffy's world," Spike acknowledged, "and because of that 
she's hyper-sensitive to everything in Dawn's life. There will be hell to pay when 
Buffy realises Dawn's done a bunk and come down here. Buffy's going to be angry, 
hurt and seething with jealousy."

"Jealousy?" Angel frowned at Spike doubtfully.  

"Oh yeah, take it from this big green monster," Lorne told him. "No matter how old 
we get, there's a little bit of us that still wants to be the most important person in the 
life of our child. Buffy is the closest thing Dawn has to a mother, and big sis will be in 
an almighty snit over the fact that Dawn's first port in a storm wasn't her." The green 
empath demon growled, "You know - what really makes me so pissed off at those 
ancient Shadowmen we-know-all idiots is that they knew they were creating a long 
line of little girls who wouldn't live to grow up, and they didn't care. I looked up the 
stats, boys. Buffy Summers is the first Slayer in forever to live to twenty-five, and one 
of only four in all history that made it past twenty-one. Buffy's lived sticking two 
fingers up at the fact that statistically, she shouldn't have made it past eighteen, and 
she's determined beyond paranoia to give Dawn the freedom and happiness that her 
teenage years should have consisted of, but didn't."

"She'll be furious with herself for not spotting Stefan the scumbag from two miles 
distant, and me and Spike are going to be her whipping boys for all the anger she 
can't vent on Dawn." Angel translated. "Joy."

"Sometimes being the good guys really sucks." Commiserated Spike as he left with 
Lorne to go hurry Dawn along; he wanted her safely in the hotel with that big 
Sanctuary spell humming.                 

Gunn hurried off towards his office, his thoughts on his own sister Alannah, whom he 
had failed to save. Dawn had that same springy step, bright gaze and can-do outlook 
of his baby sister. Damn, he missed her.

Wesley reached out a hand and carefully tugged Fred around a support pillar as the 
Texan held the plastic bag up and examined it with totally focussed interest. "I think 
there may even be a little blood on this. Go, Dawn!"

"Indeed, a true chip of the Buffy block." Wesley grinned at her enthusiasm, unfazed 
when she blobbed her tongue out at him. "I'll see what I can find – what Dawn's 
given us should be enough for us to make a positive ID." 

"Between my science and your creepy source books, we'll have it wrapped up in no 
time." Fred assured him cheerily. "I don't know if this'll help, but there is one thing 
you might need to know…"

"What?" Wesley asked in concern.

"I'm not wearing any underwear." She turned and walked into the lab, desperately 
trying to hold back her giggles as he stood staring after her, slack-jawed.

* * *

"Whoa." Dawn tilted her head right back. "Can we say Roaring Twenties? Surely the 
floor and the walls and these columns can't be real marble?" She pressed her hand 
against one of the lobby's supporting columns. 

"Yes they are. Welcome to my humble abode. Mr Grumpy here's casa su casa." 
Spike jerked a thumb at Angel.

"A whole hotel?" Dawn looked at Angel. "Did you win the lottery?"

"It wasn't that expensive to buy." Angel mumbled as she went over and peered into 
the office and then behind the reception desk before going over to the elevator. He 
could almost see the translucent shade of Cordelia at what used to be her desk. "It was 
closed down in 1979 and scheduled for demolition in 1998 when the holding 
company couldn't find a buyer."

"Condemned? But it's beautiful. What's the skinny?" Dawn folded her arms and 
glared at her Champion and his two sheepishly faced friends. Sheepish was not a good 
look on anything with green skin.

Spike smiled, "Okay, you got me. You'll be as safe as houses here, pet, but you'll 
have to be prepared for things that go bump in the night…and clatter, bang, groan, 
moan, scream, rattle –"  

"The hotel was built at the height of the Art Deco period," Lorne cut off the blond 
vampire with a glare, "by a very wealthy hotelier who spared no expense. He'd done 
the same in half-a-dozen U.S. cities and hit gold every time. The Rockefellers, Astors, 
Hiltons, U.S. Presidents, all those types practically lived in his hotels."

"So what went wrong here?" Dawn looked down at the lobby floor in alarm. "Don't 
tell me this thing's built on a Hellmouth too?"

"Close but not quite." Angel admitted, casting a nostalgic glance around the hotel's 
lobby. If these walls could talk…it would be a very bad thing. "There was a paranoia 
demon living on the site. The construction disturbed it but instead of leaving for a new 
home, the demon just moved into the hotel when the building was finished and spent 
the next near-on eighty years driving the staff, long-term residents and guests to 
suicide, murder or both. I lived here for a while in the Fifties. In 1952, at the height of 
that idiot McCarthy's Communist Witch-hunt, I was lynched from that balcony by the 
hotel guests because they thought I was a government spy who'd murdered the guy in 
the next room to mine."

"Right there? I'll put up a plaque." Spike taunted, avoiding Lorne's attempt to kick 
him.

The green demon admitted to Dawn, "Basically, my apple Danish, this hotel is 
haunted with a capital 'H'. In 1979 the hotel closed down for good when the manager 
murdered the guests with a shotgun one morning. The company who owned it by then 
couldn't sell a place with a murder rate higher than New York City, so…"

"So when you say a lot of ghosts," Dawn put her hands on her hips and glared at 
them, "you mean –" 

"This is Spook Grand Central Station." Spike confessed.

"Okay."

"That's it?" Angel questioned.

"Guys! I was a mega-powerful energy being for billions of years. I was only human 
for a week before an awesomely powerful Hell God tried to turn me into calamari. 
I've lived on a Hellmouth for four years and survived three Apocalypses. The restless 
dead I can deal with."      

There being no effective counter-argument to this, Angel nodded to Spike to let Dawn 
pick a room, while Lorne got ready with the Sanctuary whammy while he headed 
back to the office. Uncomfortable as it would be, he intended to swing by Cord – the 
Groosalug's apartment and ask Gru to stay at the hotel overnight with Spike and 
Dawn. Assuming the worst, that Stefan was already here, they didn't really expect 
him to make a move until tomorrow or the next day if he was, hopefully, really stupid 
enough to let them dig in their defences.   

* * *

Fred sniggered as Wesley fumbled with the very expensive tumbler lock on his 
apartment door, a very un-proper curse escaping his lips until he caught it. Pushing 
open his door, he snagged her wrist and pulled her inside. Fred back-heeled the door 
shut with authority so that the lock engaged automatically then pressed herself back 
against the solid wood as Wesley moved in close. She wound her arms around his 
neck and returned his passionate kiss, smiling inside as she felt his hands slide her 
dress up, up…

Wesley paused as his fingers caressed cool silk at the top of her warm outer thighs. 
"You said you weren't wearing underwear."

Fred tugged gently at one earlobe with her teeth. "I lied."

Wesley's fingers tightened and the destroyed silk thong fluttered unnoticed to the 
floor. Fred deftly unbuckled his belt and drew down his pants' zipper until she freed 
his straining arousal from his briefs. "Now." She ordered.

Wesley cupped her buttocks, raising her up slightly as she parted her legs so he could 
ease inside her before gently lowering her back down onto his fully swollen organ. He 
pressed kisses to her throat and jaw but they were both too excited to last long and he 
came a few seconds after she did. Breathing heavily he gently slid from her slick heat 
before nuzzling her neck. "You're a very naughty girl."

"You bet." She kissed him again. It had really turned her on, knowing the effect her 
words had had on Wesley, making him wait all day. "Besides, we deserve it. We 
found Dawn's nasty, so yay us!"

Laughing he finally stood back and pinched her backside. "Open the wine, you fiend, 
then shoo!"

While Fred took care of the wine, Wesley expertly threw together a pasta salad with 
the speed of someone used to living alone. It was ironic, Fred cooked up all sorts of 
weird stuff in her lab, and she adored food – she could eat three times her own 
bodyweight in one sitting – but cooking was as much a mystery to her as tri-
dimensional super string theory was to Harmony. Pick the culinary cliché of your 
choice – burn water, etc., - that was Fred.

They ate dinner and settled on the couch with the rest of the wine, their conversation 
inevitably turning to Dawn and by extension, the Scooby Gang. 

"I'd like to meet an actual Slayer." Fred admitted. "A reasonably sane one," she 
amended with a frown, thinking of Dana, and that scary Faith, the Vampire Slayer.

Acutely aware that Fred still retained Angel's false implanted memories, and 
therefore her memory of meeting Faith was fuzzy (because when the Dark Slayer had 
come to the hotel to help them recapture Angelus so Willow could re-ensoul him back 
to being Angel, Faith had had quite a lot of interaction with Connor, who of course 
had been airbrushed from the picture), Wesley quickly picked up the conversational 
thread. "Buffy Summers is an extraordinary woman. She didn't just break the Slayer 
mould, she smashed it and then jumped up and down on the pieces."

"From what I've read of the so-called Slayer Tradition, I don't blame her." Fred 
scowled. "No offence, Wesley, but I'm reading those web Watcher Diaries like 
everyone else, and the Slayer's existence was beyond bleak. She had no family; no 
friend; no lover. She lived and died alone except for her Watcher, who usually did 
nothing but stand there and tut-tut when she was finally killed."

"Yes, it was wrong. That's why I'm fully behind what Buffy and Giles are trying to 
do. I was assigned as Faith's Watcher fresh out of the Academy and made a complete 
balls-up of it. I was greener than Lorne and completely at sea. Giles said I was a 
blithering idiot and he was right. Faith was in terrible emotional pain, but all I did was 
spout pompous lectures about the very same 'hallowed' Watcher traditions that 
helped give each Slayer a life expectancy lower than that of a severely depressed 
lemming." Wesley told Fred very firmly.

The last thing he wanted was for Fred to find out how Faith had tortured him after 
fleeing Sunnydale upon awaking from her coma, and if Fred did, he wanted it clear 
that he largely had only himself to blame, which might enable him to talk down Illyria 
if the warrior-demon took issue. Although…Wesley was under no illusions, Faith 
would have tortured him to death if Angel hadn't…which brought another issue to 
mind. Angel was still clearly in a huff about the fact that Spike fed directly from 
Wesley while Angel had his daily mugs, supposedly from the flask in the kitchen that 
Fred's tests determined was still being doped with Luaric. Of course he had fed Angel 
after he rescued Angel from the ocean, but that had been from his arm, not his neck, 
and as far as Angel knew, Wesley didn't really remember it because of course, yet 
again, Connor had been responsible for Angel being in the ocean. Wesley would have 
to sort the matter out with Angel, because the vampire could romp home with 
Olympic Gold in Brooding for America -

"You did your best." Fred soothed, then reluctantly placed her empty glass on the 
table. "I'd better go. The traffic on Belmont's a bitch at this time. I should invent a car 
that flies, like Marty McFly's DeLorean, right over their heads." 

"You should just move in." 

The words bypassed Wesley's internal censor and passed his lips before he had 
chance to realise he'd actually said them. Beside him Fred went very still and Wesley 
swallowed as his throat suddenly turned drier than the Sahara.

"From tonight?" Fred asked brightly.

"Yes. W-Whenever you want to." Wesley instantly responded, trying to sound as if he 
wasn't begging.

"What about the times that Illyria emerges?" Fred asked, very softly.

"Two sex-maniacs for the price of one," Wes joked feebly, "I'm a man; you think I'm 
about to complain?"

She punched his arm. "You wish. In that case, I bags the rest of this wine, you clean 
up these plates, sex-slave."

Jumping up, Wesley adopted a grossly hunch-backed posture like Igor in a bad 1950s 
Hammer House of Horror movie, lisping, "Yeth, mithtreth. Ath you command." 
Taking the plates back into the kitchen, he was able to release the huge, happy smile 
he couldn't contain, aware that Fred had deliberately given them both space to regain 
their composure. 

What had just happened was far from a minor decision for Fred to make. Wesley had 
no conflict – he would abide by whatever Fred wished, but she was a prisoner in her 
own body, subject to the vagaries and whims of Illyria. He knew her greatest fear was 
that Illyria would seriously injure or kill him, because Fred knew that while ever the 
demon was in Fred's body, Wesley would never fight back – he had, did and would 
allow the demon to subjugate his body in whatever way it chose. Since that first night, 
Illyria was gradually becoming more sexually adventurous and sometimes had left 
Wesley with faint bruises or scratches that really were nothing to him – he'd had 
worse; even Lilah had hurt him more. But Fred looked at each bruise with an ocean of 
guilt brimming in her eyes even though he reassured her they were nothing more than 
any enthusiastic couple might inadvertently inflict upon each other.

Illyria wasn't the problem as long as he ensured it remained ignorant of him feeding 
Spike and Angel – keeping Fred clear of the Scroll of Niamh was the real trick. It was 
too valuable, and fragile, for him to move to Cordy's place, even assuming the 
Groosalug didn't use it as a tablemat or some similar innocent goof. He needed it 
ready to hand, because Wesley didn't intend to ever be caught out again. 

He had ignored a holed section where considerable text had been lost, leaving a tear in 
the scroll, the only few words left being, cryptically, 'ancient sovereign' 'chosen 
vessel' and 'the rebirth'. Wesley would have bet his soul that the missing section had 
detailed how an ancient Warrior Demon named Illyria would resurrect itself in the 
body of the 'Mahju's Queen', and in doing so, kill her. If it weren't for that fact that 
even Fred's neurons were way smarter than anyone else's on the planet, she would 
have been truly dead. 

Fred lacked the in-depth mystical knowledge Wesley had, but it wasn't that great a 
leap from Mrs Einstein to Willow-ville. She certainly knew enough to figure out what 
the Scroll of Niamh was and there was too great a chance that it would tear apart both 
Team Angel and the Scooby Gang. Most prophecies were reassuringly cryptic and 
vague, whereas the Niamh read like a Watcher's Diary, with about as much subtlety. 
Wesley turned back to where Fred was looking at him from the couch, such a look of 
love in her eyes that for a moment he could barely breathe. Smiling back, without 
hesitation he let her take his heart from his chest in one hand, and clasp his soul with 
the other. He walked back to the couch. The first precaution he would take would be 
to tear off the portion of the scroll that dealt with the Mahju's eventual suicide.

* * *
                     
With a growl, Staavuz bounced the other demon's head off the brick wall until it was 
a spongy consistency and then dropped the battered creature before striding off; he 
wasn't really satisfied – the thing's head would grow back in an hour. He was tired, 
fed-up and increasingly wondering whether this job was worth it. 'Whack the pouting 
jailbait' had never been a problem. Staavuz had his Stefan persona down pat by now. 
Inveigle the adolescent hormonal hottie into being his honey, show her a good time in 
the sack for a few weeks, then go all psycho-boyfriend and do the crime passionale 
bit before doing a runner and letting the cops corner him in some fleabag motel. Re-
enact the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, leaving Stefan sprawled on the floor with a 
chest like a sieve. The cops went away happy that it was them one, scumbag nil, and 
Staavuz got some rest while his flesh re-generated because his vital organs were in his 
head and legs. Some dude pulled him out of the meat-locker freezer eventually and 
Stefan just hopped off the slab, blew Lethe dust in their faces and exited after faking 
the paperwork appropriately; the humans came around after about fifteen minutes 
with no memory he'd ever been there.

It was a sweet deal, every time. Except for now. He'd been looking forward to 
popping this one's cherry. She had strong thighs and a real cleavage. But she'd proven 
unusually mature, way brighter than most of the giggling gaggle around her. Instead 
of melting into his waiting arms, Dawn had dumped him. Fortunately that played even 
better into his psycho-stalker gig, especially as the kid apparently had no family, other 
than a deadbeat older sister who apparently lived at work, some brain-numbing fast-
food joint. Not a problem. So what had the little slut gone and done? Scampered to 
LA like a terrified rabbit. Staavuz growled again, wanting to kill something. He 
couldn't believe he'd been able to follow the little cow all the way into LA, only to 
lose her within two intersections. It was obvious she had fled here for a reason. 
Probably someone she thought could help her. He chuckled – some puffing, preening 
kid with baby fluff on his face, acting the Big Man to impress. Staavuz grinned – he'd 
kill them both and set it up like the kid did it; it would make a change from him 
having to stage his usual gory exit.

* * *
    
"The Rosita Museum!" Announced Dawn gleefully, bouncing on the circular couch 
that was the centrepiece of the Hyperion lobby.

"Eh?" Spike looked up from where he was ferreting about for a screwdriver. 
Cheerfully indifferent to the Hyperion's plethora of poltergeists, Dawn had fallen in 
love with the whole Jimmy Cagney/Humphrey Bogart/Edward G. Robinson air of it 
all, wondering aloud if any famous names of yesteryear had stayed there – had Bette 
Davis, Joan Crawford, Katherine Hepburn or Lauren Bacall ever sashayed down those 
stairs in full evening wear, dripping with jewellery and furs, cigarette smouldering in 
one of those elegant holders to prevent smudging of scarlet lips? 

She and Spike had spent a pleasant morning exploring as much they could, though 
some of the rooms clearly needed major renovations. Showing a good grasp of 
interior renovation, Angel had started work at the roof, making his way gradually 
down so that all the grime, dust and dirt went downwards. 

Dawn glared. "Spike, I'm on a timetable here. I've got to be back to Sunnydale by 
Friday – everyone will back home and we're going to veg out and watch Attack of the 
Fifty Foot Woman."

"Of course, I can really see the urgency there."

"It's no good just staying cooped up in here waiting for Stefan to finally track me 
down. He's not bright enough to figure it out until next week." Dawn retorted. "We 
go out somewhere nice and visible, he tracks me back to the hotel, and when he tries 
to pounce, we're ready to whack him. I go home and everyone's happy. Besides, I 
wanna ride in the Viper!"

Though in agreement, Spike was too sensible to say so before checking with mon 
Capitan. Calling Angel's direct line from the reception switchboard phone, he 
explained Dawn's plan to Angel, who while far from thrilled saw the merit. Spike 
reassured his grandsire that he would take Gru along as a precaution on the off-chance 
that Stefan might realise Spike was a vampire, and try to force Dawn out into the 
sunlight. Spike didn't bother to mention to Angel that he would not hesitate to follow 
the scumbag and ensure that Stefan was also consumed by the inferno that would kill 
him.

* * *

"Aw, Connor, come on man!" They urged, though they knew it was futile; they had 
seen that look before.

"I'll catch up later." Connor assured his friends, before turning away and instantly 
forgetting them as they continued on.

They had been to planning spend the day at the mall, eating burgers, checking out 
girls and picking up some of the latest CDs. However, Connor had awoken this 
morning feeling distinctly strange and aroused with a capital 'A'. Wet dreams were 
just one of the many excruciatingly embarrassing side-effects of being a teenage male, 
which convinced Connor that the universe was secretly laughing at humanity, but this 
morning he had been as hard as a rock and in some actual pain. To his relief his 
problem had gradually deflated, but the prickling awareness had increased – his skin 
had been unusually sensitive, his clothes full of static electricity. The desire to go to 
the Rosy had become an overwhelming compulsion far faster than his normal 
impulses became certain knowledge. As he hurried along the sidewalk, compelled to a 
speed he did not understand, a word he would ever have though to utilise persisted in 
floating around his brain: mate.

* * *

"Come in, Wes." Angel remained staring out the window, his hands in his pockets as 
he contemplated the situation, having caught his second-in-command's scent and 
heard his familiar heartbeat as the Englishman approached.

Stepping inside, Wesley came to stand beside him and Angel inhaled Wesley's unique 
sandalwood-with-lemon, overlaid by Fred's odour, which actually made the man 
smell better. "What've you got?"

"Stefan is Staavuz, a member of the Gulff-Osok sub-species. They're as easy to kill as 
humans, as long as you know that their vital organs are one in each upper thigh and 
one in their heads."

"He's got a rap sheet?" Angel questioned.

"Reams. Usual mid-level-thuggery and murder-for-hire the Gulffosouog set go in 
for." Wesley responded, keeping silent about the conclusions he had come to 
regarding Stefan's motives for coming after Dawn since he as yet had nothing other 
his gut instinct to go on; he added, "And yes, Stefan's had 'relationship issues' before. 
Doesn't handle rejection well."                      

 "Who does?" Angel muttered. "Spike and Gru have taken Dawn to the Rosita 
Museum, they've got that big Spanish Links exhibition on today. Hopefully Stefan or 
some goon of his will spot her and he'll walk into our welcoming crossfire."

"She'll be all right, Angel." Wesley tried to reassure his friend. 

"Yeah, I know. Just remembering…stuff." Angel's tone was wistful.

"Your drink's getting cold." Wesley decided to take the bull by the horns.

"Later." Angel glanced dismissively at the #1 Boss mug on his desk, returning his 
gaze to the file on Staavuz/Stefan that Wesley had brought in.

So much for subtle; taking a step back, Wesley unfastened the top two buttons of his 
shirt, taking care as the material rubbed against his nipples, still slightly sore from 
Fred's play of the night before. Inclining his head slightly on the right, he ordered, 
"Spike drinks on the right side, so you go left."

Angel recoiled a few steps, his tone becoming hard. "I said I'd drink it later, Wesley."

Lifting his head back up straight again, Wesley folded his arms. "How much later? 
Tomorrow? Next week? The fact that you've gone from drinking three mugs a day to 
barely one since you found out it's mine is just an amazing coincidence?"

"Yeah, life's full of them." Angel let a bit of the lion's growl seep into his tone. 

Wesley ignored it. "Bullshit. Make up your mind, Angel. You're in major pouting 
mode because Spike gets to sink his teeth into my neck, literally, while you have my 
haemoglobin microwaved in a mug, yet you barely deign to sip my apparently inferior 
red-cells."

"They're not inferior." Snapped Angel angrily, trying to back away from Wesley and 
throwing the file on his desk as an outlet for his desire to hit the Englishman.

"You're sure acting like it. What's the problem with my blood, Angel?"

"There is no problem, that is the problem!"

"In something approximating actual sense?"

Angel was tired.

Tired of trying to fathom the Machiavellian conundrum of Wolfram & Hart. He was 
tired of fighting a war in so many directions he had lost count. Tired of always having 
to make a choice between grey and greyer. Tired of having to make sure his back was 
covered against the good guys as well as the bad. Tired of losing his friends, like 
Doyle, then Cordelia and now Fred, to fates worse than death.
He was tired of veering between hope that Buffy would come to LA and hope that she 
wouldn't, after Andrew Wells revelation that the Scooby Gang no longer trusted him. 
He was tired of constantly hearing in his head, like a song on permanent loop, the 
words thrown at him and Wesley by Andrew before the young Watcher had snatched 
Dana from their grasp: " Who do you think my orders came from? Newsflash! Nobody 
in our camp trusts you anymore…nobody. You work for Wolfram & Hart. Don't fool 
yourself…we're not on the same side.'"   

And Angel was damn tired of Harmony bringing him that damn mug of blood three 
times every day and being unable to drink it because every time he raised it to his lips, 
he got a Technicolor image of Spike biting deep into Wesley's neck. He was, in short, 
royally pissed off, and not in the mood for snotty Englishmen. 

Moving forward with the preternatural speed of his kind, he was inwardly pleased 
when Wesley tensed slightly. "You think I don't want your blood, Wes? Wrong. I 
want it too much." He leaned in close, locking his dark eyes with Wesley's. The 
smoky eyes held his own gaze blandly, and Angel allowed his teeth to show slightly 
as he went on, "Every human being's blood is unique, did you know that? Like their 
DNA or their fingerprints. Some people are sweet like candy, some are sour like 
crème fraiche; some are spicy; some are bland. Do you know why a vampire just 
doesn't pick some schmuck and keep them alive indefinitely as their own personal 
little grocery store?" Angel was so close that he and Wesley were almost chest-to-
chest as he whispered the question in Wesley's ear.

"Enlighten me." Wesley invited in that prissy, clipped English accent of his, exuding 
that British sang froid that drove you nuts.

"Because we crave. If the blood tastes really good, you get so that you don't want 
anyone else's, so if your pet gets dead, hello, anorexia vampire-osa." Angel snarled. 
"I've got the taste of you now, Wesley. You're a good vintage. You taste like dark 
honey taken straight from the hive, like that bitter continental chocolate, like really 
old cognac." Angel fastened his attention on the pulse jumping in Wesley's neck, 
recalling how Wesley had fed him from his arm when he had rescued Angel from the 
ocean floor, how Angel had wanted with all his being to drag Wesley's throat to his 
mouth and feast on that rich, powerful bounty. "You've got a bit of spice, too, just the 
right hint of fire. I like them feisty, Wes, you should know that." He deliberately 
smiled in an attempt to intimidate.

"That's why you insisted Spike feed on me here." Wesley countered coolly, "It wasn't 
because you were afraid he'd lose control, but because you're afraid you will."

"Walk away, Wes. Be content with whatever kind of thrill letting Spike feed gives 
you. I'm out of your league."

"Oh, get over yourself." Wesley's lips curled as he finally stepped back from Angel's 
deliberate crowding of his personal space, but not because he was duly chastened. 
"This tortured hero refrain is really getting old. I feed the pair of you because it's my 
job; I'm sidekick-in-chief. It's my responsibility to get the Champion to his 
Apocalypse on time and being able to guarantee nobody manages to poison you just 
makes things a bit easier. If Spike can stop himself from draining me, you certainly 
can, but that's not why you insist on this public chest-beating." Wesley lowered his 
tone to a bass profundo, sounding like an Italian mobster in a bad B-Movie, "'I 
daren't feed on people, because I'm Angel - I'm so baaaad I might not be able to 
stop.'"  Turning on his heel, Wesley walked away, tossing over his shoulder 
derisively, "Save the tortured self-flagellation for Buffy, Angel. It might make her 
wet between the legs, but it's not my thing -"

Having subconsciously automatically calculated to within a millimetre the distance 
between himself and his prey, Angel jumped forward, yanking on Wesley's arm and 
spinning him back around, the Englishman hissing as the action caused the material of 
his shirt to drag across his nipples, but he had only time to clench his fists before 
Angel gripped his hair and forced back his head to expose the left side of his throat, 
the vampire using his other hand to grip Wesley's left forearm and force it down. 
Unable to maintain his centre of gravity, Wesley was forced to grab onto the back of 
Angel's jacket with his right arm to keep from falling. For a fraction of a second 
Angel's lowering head paused, but then his nostrils were full of the rival scent of his 
grandson, and he could sense the magically healed bite marks the other vampire left.

He wasn't gentle as he bit down, holding the Englishman still. The arterial blood 
carried warmth no microwave could match, a texture and richness that made him 
growl in delight. Angel did not gorge, but instead carefully lessened the flow to a 
trickle, sipping the nectar with a leisurely pleasure that both knew was punishment. 
Wesley remained perfectly still with the ease of practice. The only time Spike had 
inadvertently hurt him was when he had moved more sharply than he intended and the 
blond vampire had reacted instinctively to pin his prey. Very carefully Wesley flexed 
his hand, making small rubbing motions on Angel's back like a parent comforting a 
distressed child.

That dissipated Angel's anger at the man. Tender action towards someone who is 
within an inch of ripping your throat out takes a great deal of compassion. Releasing 
his grip, Angel took a step back, panting slightly with the intoxicating after-effects of 
Wesley's blood, his eyes fixed on the wound as Wesley simply hitched his collar up 
and buttoned his shirt, Angel battling the desire to feed again. He could, Wesley 
wasn't strong enough to fight him. 

Seeing the tidal wave of guilt rising in Angel's eyes, Wesley said casually, "I'll call in 
every day, about two o'clock, and you can feed."

Angel reared back as if Wesley had punched him in the jaw. "No! Look, I'm sorry…"

"Angel. Deep. Six. The. Guilt." Wesley enunciated snappishly. "No more sackcloth 
and ashes, you've already cornered the market in brooding remorse."

"What I did doesn't bother you?" Angel shot back.

"Considering how much I was goading you, I can't claim any high ground, here." 
Wesley pointed out. "Let's not forget who decided to walk up to the starving grizzly 
and whack it in the face."

"Thanks…I'm not that broody." Angel protested.

Wesley gave him a who-are-you-kidding? look.

Angel tried again, "Wesley, I'm trying to achieve redemption here. Feeding –"

"Is what you have to do, so the Powers That Be will just have to deal." Wesley 
instructed his friend and any listening-in astral plane inhabitants. "People don't hate 
the lion because it kills the gazelle. It has no choice, it's what it has to do to survive. 
You and Spike weren't doomed because you need to feed off people. What got you 
condemned was that you tortured and murdered innocents – that was evil."

"You're trying to say that a vampire who fed on people without hurting them or 
killing anyone wouldn't be classed as evil by the PTBs?" Angel scoffed.

"I am saying it. Such a vampire would be a lion, hunting gazelle. Birds fly, fish swim, 
vampires need to ingest mammalian blood, preferably human, to survive. End of 
discussion. Get over it and get on with it." Wesley grimaced. "Speaking of which, we 
have twenty minutes maximum before Dear Dawn and her two knights in dented 
armour get here for this afternoon's council of war. Snap out of it and snap to it, 
Boss."

* * *

"Knock if off, Spike." Dawn ordered.

"What?" Spike asked with wide eyes.

"The 'I'm just dumb muscle' attitude. Anyone who can quote the Iliad at six a.m., in 
Greek and then translate it into good old U.S. is not lacking in the little grey cells 
department. Look, stop hovering and educate Gru." Dawn pointed to where Gru was 
examining every exhibit with intense fascination and deep interest. "I'm here to flaunt 
myself, remember."

"No flaunting," Spike vetoed sternly, "not with Buffy on the same continent, at any 
rate. You can mingle, but stay close."

Dawn nodded obediently; she wasn't stupid, despite recent evidence to the contrary. 
The Rosita had a lot of visitors today, due to the Spanish Links exhibition. The mill of 
people went a long way to preventing anyone noticing that Spike cast no reflection in 
the myriad glass display cases, and also made it nice and public for her to be 'noticed' 
by the right – or in this case hopefully the wrong – person. Conversely it also made it 
not as easy for Spike and Gru to be her bodyguards should Stefan display unexpected 
boldness. 

They worked their way around the exhibition, Dawn listening as Spike filled Gru in 
on some of the more salient historical facts. After Drusilla Sired him in 1880, 
Angelus, Darla, Spike and Drusilla had eventually left London and actually gone to 
Spain, gradually working their way East through France, Germany and Poland until 
1898, the fateful year they were in Romania, and Angelus became Angel when the 
Roma cursed him with a soul. Dawn had rapidly discerned that Spike was a lot 
brighter than he acted anyway, but beyond that he knew the interesting snippets of 
historical sex-and-violence scandals that the textbooks all glossed over in the dry 
recitation of monarchs, dates and annual wheat yields of Carolina circa 1903. 

Spike pointed out a brooch in a display case to Gru; a present from the Prince of 
Wales, later King Edward VII, to the Infanta of Spain, the King Alfonso XII's 
daughter, in 1881. However the devout Catholic princess had given the brooch to the 
Spanish community of Los Angeles the same year, as she in no way wished to have 
anything remotely associated with Edward VII or his eldest son, Albert Victor, Duke 
of Clarence & Avondale and possibly Jack the Ripper.

"Was he?" Dawn asked, fascinated.  

"Not sure, never met the real Saucy Jack, not as I know to anyway." Spike admitted, 
"I thought it was Angelus myself, until one of the killings happened while me and him 
were together up in Yorkshire – turns out he thought it was me. But young Albert 
Victor gave his grandmother conniptions. I felt for Queen Vic in a way, actually. The 
girl spent her whole life trying to survive, sometimes literally, the machinations of her 
libertine uncles - who stood to get the throne if little Vicky took a fatal header down a 
flight of Windsor Castle steps," Spike explained, "then her eldest son and his eldest 
son both turn out to be chips from the same debauched block. Faced with having two 
successive kings who had the morals of alley cats, it's no surprise she bit the bullet 
and had him done in."

Gru frowned. "Are you saying this Queen…Vic…assassinated the son of her son?"

Dawn saw a flicker of something reflected in a display case and tried to get a clear 
look while listening to Spike's tale.

"More like nudged the process along. See, her heir, Edward, well he was into the 
drinking and bedding of servants deal, but at least his bed mates were strictly female. 
Edward's heir on the other hand swung both ways," Spike told Gru. "He mated with 
males as well as females and as well as not being very particular, he wasn't very 
discreet. Official version is he died of pneumonia; unofficially he actually had 
syphilis and a few other sexually transmitted nasties. In reality, his grandmother 
uttered the Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not kill, but thou shalt not strive 
officiously to keep alive. So the doctors sort of nudged him off the mortal coil by 
being a bit too enthusiastic with the laudanum, under the protection of the Queen and 
with the compliance of his dad, the Prince Wales."

"Wow, it's almost as if he was there."

Dawn took great pride in the fact that not only didn't she end up having to be peeled 
like a banana off the ceiling at the voice unexpectedly sounding in her ear, but neither 
did she scream, do the high jump, or wet herself. Sucking in a deep breath and trying 
to calm the hammering heart that was trying to jackhammer it's way through her 
sternum, she instead turned to the speaker, her heart picking up the pace again when it 
laid eyes on…helllloooo.

He was tall and slim, wearing faded jeans and a green T-shirt under a denim jacket. 
He had gentle eyes, a smiling mouth and dusky blond hair that fell in bangs nearly 
over his eyes. He smiled at her tentatively.

"Spike's travelled a lot." Dawn commented weakly.

A dint appeared between his eyes as he looked from her to the peroxide blond. "You 
two are…here together?"

"He's my step-brother." Dawn lied without missing a beat. "We always got a long 
better with each other than our parents did with each other, or with us. I'm visiting 
LA, I live in Sunnydale, my name's Dawn Summers," and I'm about to start 
babbling, oh shoot me now.

However he spoke, "I'm Connor. I live in LA. So your brother's into this kind of 
stuff, huh?"   

"No, this is my gig-" Dawn blinked as Connor seemed to light up inside.

"Really. Have you seen the mummies?"

"They have them here?" Dawn asked warily, remembering the story of the life-force 
sucking Incan Princess mummy who had gone within an inch of turning Xander into a 
raisin.

"Oh yeah, they're great, really well preserved..." As they chatted, drawing away from 
the crowd slightly, Connor found he didn't want to look away from her eyes. 
Something about this girl resonated with something deep inside him.

"You alright, love?"

Connor blinked, startled, as the voice suddenly cut through their conversation; nobody 
had been able to sneak up on him in years – his family joked he had ears like an 
elephant. It was as if Dawn's blond step-brother had just materialised next to him. Just 
as in the UCLA library, the hairs on Connor's body stood up in warning. The blond 
man had a smile, but his blue eyes were cold, and as Connor looked into them, he 
knew without doubt that something not entirely human was looking back. Just like 
with Sky, he was in the presence of something very old, and very dangerous.

Dawn smiled at 'Spike' and introduced Connor. Spike remained amicable but Connor 
knew those eyes were trying to see right through his skull, and then the blond man 
reminded Dawn that they had to go and meet 'Angel and the gang'.

"Yes, and then there's Stefan at two o'clock." Dawn nodded, smiling apologetically at 
Connor.

Who, acutely attuned to the situation in a manner far more deeply than anything he'd 
experienced before, instantly recognised that what Dawn was saying was of far more 
importance than the words coming out of her mouth. Spike's eyes turned even more 
frightening and just for a second, his eyes flicked towards his right, looking in the 
direction…of where two o'clock would be on a figurative clock face.

Connor watched as Dawn and Spike made their way towards the exit, being joined by 
a tall, well-muscled man with a broad grin. A grin that faded as Connor's sharp ears 
heard Spike tell the man, 'Gru', that 'Stefan' was at two o'clock. Glancing 
surreptitiously in the direction indicated, only from the spot where Dawn had been as 
she said it, Connor spotted a tall, muscular type with a bad tan furtively lurking in the 
background. Bad tan also made his way to the exit and headed for a nondescript 
brown car that he got in and started up. Acting on impulse, Connor jumped into a cab 
just as a way-cool Viper came up out of the underground garage and turned right, 
followed a moment later by Bad Tan. "Follow that car."

The can turned his head and regarded him. Pulling a twenty-dollar bill from his 
pocket, Connor thrust it at the cab driver. "Now. Keep back."        

* * *

"WHAT!!" 

Later on in retrospect, Buffy admitted to herself that suddenly letting out a banshee-
like shriek while in close proximity to her Scooby Gang and a bunch of Slayers was 
probably not the most sensible of things to have done. These were people who lived 
their lives on the edge and as such tended to be constantly twitchy – and armed. 
Making unexpected, very loud and violent noises right next to them was liable to 
provoke rather unfortunate auto-reflexes. Fortunately, Buffy was also a Slayer, so she 
was able to avoid the accidentally loosed crossbow bolt and the thrown knife.

The unexpected return of Willow and Kennedy, Giles and Andrew and finally Xander 
on the same day was a cause for welcome and cheer, especially as they hadn't been 
expected back for another couple of days and all were able to report at least some 
success in their endeavours. Buffy had phoned Dawn's roommate-to-be, the Slayer 
Ebony Saville, at UC Sunnydale, to pass on the good news and get Dawn and the 
Slayers back to the mansion for an earlier than planned 'back home bash'. That 
conversation had been when Buffy discovered that Dawn had completed her 
admissions paperwork a week ago and had taken a 'quip trip' to LA as she had some 
problem she wanted 'a friend' to help her with. Cue the unwise furious screaming.

"What could possibly be wrong that Dawn would need Angel's help, instead of ours?" 
Willow asked Buffy, tactfully substituting 'ours' for 'yours' as they all gathered 
round the fuming pre-eminent Slayer.

Xander, unaware of how his black piratical eye-patch gave him a rakishly handsome 
appeal, narrowed his remaining eye, and spoke without even bothering to look 
around. "Andrew, I can feel the guilt washing over me from here. Spill."

Giles looked at his protégé, his features taking on a hint of 'Ripper'. The youth gulped 
as he found himself the cynosure of all eyes, a lot of them very unfriendly. 
"I…er…don't think she's gone to get Angel's help."

"You don't?" Buffy frowned; what on earth else would her sister be doing in LA, a 
place she had never evinced any interest in before.

"Seliv." Andrew mumbled.

"Andrew," Xander growled, "don't make me hang you by your ankles from the stair-
rail again…"

"Spike's alive."

Buffy paled, but then shook her head. "Spike…died. I saw the…fire…coming before 
he made me get clear."

Faith slung an arm round Andrew's shoulders and smiled at him in a way that made 
his stomach roil in fear. "Fill in the spaces with words, babe, fast."

Andrew sucked in a deep breath: "Wolfram & Hart legally owned the amulet that they 
gave to Angel that he brought you in Sunnydale because they thought he would the 
one to use it turns out that the amulet somehow stores the life-force of whoever wears 
it so when Spike's physical body was incinerated he himself was in the amulet when 
it was returned to Wolfram & Hart offices Angel opened the amulet and Spike re-
materialised in non-corporeal form –"

"Whoa. Breathe." Xander raised his hands as Andrew gabbled a single sentence 
without pause. "Spike's a ghost?"

"Not anymore." Andrew gratefully drew in oxygen, and went on in a more measured 
way, "He was a ghost, and couldn't leave Wolfram & Hart. Then somehow he got 
made corporeal again and could leave LA if he wanted."

"So why didn't he come back with you and Dana?" Willow asked before she thought, 
casting a quick glance at the still-timid girl who looked like a frightened rabbit at the 
mention of the blond vampire's name.

"I…think he was." Andrew told Buffy, whose face, though shuttered, couldn't quite 
hide the hurt. "Sometimes I call…Wes…Wesley. You know, for advice on Watcher 
stuff. Wes wouldn't really talk about it but that girl, Fred, one of Angel's 
Team…apparently she tried really hard to make Spike solid again, and anyway, later 
on something bad happened to her – she was injured, real bad, and Spike and Angel 
couldn't help her…she must have made it 'cause she's still alive though, I'm not 
really clear on that part…Anyway," Andrew consciously tried to stop his babble, 
"Spike vowed to spend the rest of his life fighting at Angel's side for the Powers That 
Be, because he failed to stop Fred being terribly injured."

"Dawn's gone to Spike." Giles clarified.

"What could Dawn be so afraid of that she wants Spike's protection?" Xander mused 
to himself.

There was a pregnant pause as the Scooby Gang looked at each other and all went a 
whiter shade of pale.

"Gear up." Buffy ordered.

* * *

Connor watched the old hotel from the shrubbery across the road, feeling slightly 
ridiculous. That way cool Viper had gone to the impressive offices of Wolfram & 
Hart, driving not into the general parking lot but straight down into the CEO's 
personal underground parking garage. The Plymouth had pulled up along the block 
and simply sat there with it's engine idling, indicating that Bad Tan believed the 
Viper would shortly re-emerge. Connor had sat in the back of the cab, torn as to what 
to do, something about the Viper's tinted windows and the fact that Wolfram & Hart's 
windows were all tinted the same way nagging at him for a reason he couldn't really 
put into words. 

The phlegmatic cab driver let him run up another twenty bucks as they just sat there 
before pointedly suggesting that maybe he should make a decision whether to get out 
and go. However, just as Connor checked out how much money he had left and 
reluctantly decided to exit the cab and hope he could hail another one in time should 
the Viper come back out, the luxury sports car had done just that, emerging from the 
parking garage and hanging a right. Without prompting, the cab driver tailed the 
Plymouth as it tailed the Viper until they reached this huge old hotel, where once 
again, the Viper had gone straight down into the hotel's underground parking garage.  

This time, the Plymouth's driver turned off the engine, so Connor got out of the cab 
and let it leave. He had spent nearly fifty bucks and was feeling rather idiotic, but 
could not break the compulsion that kept him here, lurking. Connor looked at the 
building, recognising it vaguely but not sure why. Taking up most of the block, the 
hotel was five-storeys high. It consisted of two long wings that faced out towards the 
sidewalk, separated by a narrow section in the middle that was set back between the 
two wings – a brick paved path that separated to curve around a fountain before 
merging again led up to a short flight of stone steps and a set of glass double doors 
that must lead into the lobby. Rather than being built right on the sidewalk, the hotel 
was set back slightly. A wall twice the height of a man shielded it from the view of 
pedestrians, with two wrought metal gates underneath a stone arch barring the way up 
the brick entry path. 

Connor frowned. What little he could see of the hotel's front gardens seemed to be an 
overgrown tangle; the fountain certainly hadn't been cleaned in a decade, though it 
was working. Even from here he could see some of the bricks were cracked and had 
grass growing up through them. Each of the double doors that led into the lobby 
consisted of a narrow border of wood around an almost full-length vertical rectangle 
of glass, which had been divided into eight separate panes, two each side by side from 
top to bottom, but the outside was blotchy with age and in serious needed of rubbing 
down and re-varnishing, likewise the panes were smeared with grime. The name sign, 
'Hyperion' was faded and looked so old it might have been there since the Fifties. 
Connor looked up at the hotel, his stomach twisting uneasily, though he couldn't for 
the life of him have explained what about the place set his teeth on edge. It was now 
late afternoon, but the only light seemed to coming from the entrance lobby on the 
first floor; Connor was never going to win any Nobel Prizes for his math, but he knew 
that for every window to be dark was stretching the 'coincidence' factor a bit, and 
why was Bad Tan, having sneaked up that brick-path, now sort of loitering in the 
trees, occasionally bobbing up to peer through the glass doors like some second-rate 
Peeping Tom?

Blessing his exceptional eyesight, Connor caught a glimpse of the second man, 'Gru'; 
there was also another man, his face half turned away, dressed into a vivid yellow suit 
who had to be standing under some sort of fluorescent lighting, since his skin 
appeared green under it. Then Dawn and her step-brother came into view at the 
double glass doors, seeming to 'rise up' as they obviously walked up a short flight of 
inside steps. Spike pushed open one of the glass doors wide, the light from the lobby 
lights making his distinctive bleached blond hair possess a sort of halo effect, moving 
out onto the porch slightly as he turned his head back over his shoulder, saying 
something to Dawn that made her nod earnestly, her face serious.

Abruptly, Bad Tan sprang up onto the porch, and before Connor could move or shout 
a warning he already knew would be futile from this distance, Bad Tan lunged at 
Spike. Even as he was dashing across the street, Connor felt his jaw drop – instead of 
a gun or even a knife, Bad Tan drove a sharpened piece of wood directly into the 
blond man's chest –

Or tried to.

Connor skidded to a halt. What the hell? Thrown with all his strength behind it, Bad 
Tan's blow never landed. In front of Spike the air seemed to shimmer a sort of 
crystalline gold-bronze for a second, and Bad Tan was tossed backwards like a rag 
doll as he rebounded off some sort of invisible barrier. Connor looked desperately at 
the porch, but there was nothing, it was like one of those force-shield things on Star 
Trek. Dawn folded her arms across her chest and looked at Bad Tan with a 
contemptuous expression, while Spike, completely unfazed by the fact that he should 
have been brutally impaled, looked at him with clear amusement. His face working 
furiously, Bad Tan snatched up the wooden stake he had dropped and hurled it 
viciously straight at Spike's chest again. The blond man didn't even blink as the wood 
hit the same invisible barrier as before a few inches from him, this time the force 
shattering the wood into kindling. Connor felt the flesh on his arms creep as, for a 
second, there seemed to be something distorted about Spike's face, but when he 
blinked and looked again, Spike's face was as it had ever been as he said something to 
Bad Tan who scrambled backwards, hauling himself to his feet and taking off at dead 
run, his face a mask of fury.

Connor remained, shielded by a parked car, as Dawn and Spike went back into the 
hotel, where 'Gru' and the still-green man, though he couldn't still be standing under 
a fluorescent light, crowded round. "Okay, what just happened here?" Connor asked 
the universe at large.     

   
Continued in Part 2…

     
© 2004 C. D. Stewart

Author's Note: "mystical rape" is a quote from Clea Saal's website (that can be 
accessed via Cascade Library [The Sentinel Fan Fiction Archive]. It is from her 
Watcher's Universe series of stories, which is a multi-Crossover between Buffy The 
Vampire Slayer, The Sentinel and Highlander: The Series…it's brilliantly written 
and well worth reading!