Chapter One

Willow Rosenberg stood on the poured concrete porch of her cousin Rebecca’s house on St. Catherine Court with a broom in hand. After she had gotten off the bus from work she had walked two blocks to her cousin’s small house, collected the mail, checked her messages, and changed into a more casual than casual Friday pair of denim overalls and a t-shirt. She didn’t want to stay in the house. When she got off the bus she noticed, for the first time that day, that the sky overhead was an extraordinary shade of blue. Cloudless. The leafy greenness of the trees lining the street stood out crisply. It looked like something out of a postcard. It was an unseasonably cool day, a vacation from summer heat kind of day that was rarely to be had in Sunnydale. San Jose was six hours north of Sunnydale, and the climate was noticeably milder.

She thought some of her appreciation had to do with it being Friday, the end of the third week of her internship at a small ISP in San Jose that was angling to be bought by a bigger ISP. At lunch she had received her first paycheck—actually an email advising her that her paycheck had been direct deposited in the checking account she had opened a few days after high school graduation, swelling her account balance in a gratifying way. She had gone out to lunch with her boss and some of the guys from tech support who had told her to consider herself permanently invited to their Friday night dinners.

She heard about the Friday night dinner ritual from her boss, Sara Engstrom. Sara was a former intern who had been with the company for two years and supervised the interns. She had pointed her finger at Willow on the first day when she met her in the lobby and sternly advised her to refuse any job offers and go to college at the end of the summer. She also explained that she was the middle of three children spaced exactly two years apart, and the internship had suckered her with the prospect of fulfilling all of her bossy older sister longings. Willow thought she was kidding, but after two weeks of contact with Sara and overhearing her side of conversations with her sisters Jennifer and Elizabeth, Willow was a believer.

Sara had plans for Friday night that didn’t include, as she put it, geeking with the boys in tech support. She suggested that Willow wait for next week. Payday Fridays meant that before dinner everyone would hit the computer and gaming store. The conversation would be heavy on the world of on-line gaming and D&D.

“You just haven’t lived until you’ve been to Buca d’Beppo with a dozen guys who are shouting at each other across the table about the hit points to kill a lytch, the downside of the find familiar spell if the game master is a sadist, and the pros and cons of enchanted weapons. Next week, it will be movies, and less weirdness,” Sara explained.

Willow had smiled to herself. She could imagine, and she had participated in those kinds of discussions, only they hadn’t been for a game.

The prospect of the weekend seemed much more tangible than she ever recalled. Just having the weekend seemed more meaningful after working a fifty-hour week. She had made friends, too. No backsliding into shy girl mode as she feared she would. Stopping at a used bookstore on the way home, she had treated herself to a long browse and a couple of purchases that she was looking forward to enjoying on Rebecca’s porch.

Rebecca was spending the summer in Israel, working on her dissertation. Willow loved the house. It was small, built in the 1920s. The porch had been added later. There was a small, tiled entry hall that led into a narrow living room with a scarred hardwood floor and a Spanish influenced tile and plaster fireplace that was almost too big for the room. A sunroom that Willow thought had probably been another addition to the original house since the tile wasn’t even a close match to the tile in the entry, was off to the right, making the living room look bigger and filling both rooms with light filtered through the trees that grew down the center of St. Catherine Court.

Through an archway at the end of the living room there was a small dining room that Rebecca had used as a home office. The office space was connected to the kitchen, which could also be reached by entering the hall on the other side of the fireplace. The kitchen hadn’t been touched since the 1960s. The cabinets were plain honey colored oak with brass pulls, and the counter tops and appliances were white. Rebecca had a breakfast bar table and two stools crammed in between the back door under the only window. The back door went out to a small fenced in patio that was bordered on all sides with flowerbeds. There was a pair of Adirondack chairs painted mint green on the paved portion of the patio and Willow liked having her coffee there in the morning, surrounded by plants. The privacy fence was high enough that she could go out and lounge in her pajamas.

There were two bedrooms, so small that Rebecca used both of them. Willow was using the spare, overflow bedroom where Rebecca had a daybed set up. The other bedroom was on the other side of the bathroom, barely big enough for a double bed and dresser.

There was a basement under the kitchen and the larger bedroom where the washer and dryer, hot water heater, and furnace were located. It was small, but more than enough room for one person, and the smallness of the house made it feel like a cottage to Willow. She liked the porch best, though. It was a concrete slab framed in painted brick, wide enough to sit on comfortably. Rebecca had a cushioned wicker couch spray-painted navy blue on the porch and a citronella candle lantern on a tile topped table on the porch. When the living room drapes were pulled back there was plenty of light, even at night, on the porch. She swept the porch off, feeling grateful to Rebecca for trusting her to take care of her home over the summer.

With her chores completed she opened one of the living room windows so she would be able to hear the phone if it rang and lugged her used bookstore treasure to the porch. The book was titled 20,000 Years of Fashion, a topic that might reasonably be assumed to hold little interest for her, but when she had paged through the book, the gorgeous full color plates had made her heart beat faster. There were works by dozens of artists, most of whom she had never heard of illustrating the book. A portrait of a girl by Petrus Christus used to illustrate a chapter on changing headwear during the northern renaissance tugged at her imagination. There was something so striking about the way the artist had captured the compelling stillness of a plain, ordinary, almost colorless girl, looking at the artist out of the corner of her eye. She looked weighed down in clothing and by a fez-like headdress that framed her small head, but she seemed indifferent in the portrait, her careful lack of expression rendering her an eternal mystery.

Willow spent a happy hour or two turning the pages, studying the paintings more than reading the accompanying text. When she started to loose the light and feel a pang of hunger, she closed the book and went into the house to get her bag. The cafe beckoned. She locked the door behind her and went down the stairs, startling one of the cats that claimed the court. It was a big, fluffy marmalade tabby cat with large brown eyes that glowed in the fading light. For a moment they stared at each other and then the cat threw back his head and issued a full-throated yowl. Willow grinned at him. The first time he had done that to her, she had jumped a foot in surprise. “Right back at you,” she told him, continuing down the sidewalk.

St. Catherine wasn’t a street. It was a closed court with houses on either side facing each other across a strip of common ground that was covered in grass and mature trees that loomed over the houses. It sat up, above Morton Street by nearly ten feet and a pair of stairs led down to Morton flanking a curved retaining wall where two park benches were arranged. The coffee shop was on Morton Street on the other side of St. Catherine, and Willow crossed the open space to the door, pushing it open. It was still early, so she had her choice of seats, but she went to the bar out of habit and took a bar stool, leaning forward on her elbows, offering a quick wave to the rumpled looking gray haired man behind the bar.

“How’s my favorite little red headed girl?” Mike demanded.

Mike was Willow’s father’s age. He owned the coffee shop, a used bookstore, an art gallery, and a novelty shop on either side of St. Catherine Court, Rebecca had made a production of introducing Willow to her neighbors, and in retrospect, Willow was grateful. It had felt like a geek girl moment when Rachel had been leading her around, but she was glad that she knew some people in San Jose other than the people she worked with.

“Hi, Mike,” she waved, forgiving him for the little girl business because she knew it was a reference to Charlie Brown’s little red headed girl, and that was okay. She took a seat at the bar as he started whipping up a drink for her. Her first coffee, prepared by Mike, was always a surprise, defeating her tendency to re-order things she knew she liked. Mike brought her the coffee, served in an apple green cup topped with whipped cream dusted with cocoa. She took a cautious sip, inadvertently getting whipped cream on her nose, tasting chocolate, orange, and cloves with the coffee.

“What’s the verdict?” he asked with a small smile, handing her a napkin and gesturing to her nose. Rebecca Hoffman was a good neighbor and he had agreed to keep an eye on her house sitting teenage cousin when she asked.

“I like it,” she said with the mild discomfort of a girl who didn’t know how to deal with being the center of attention.

“Hey, Willow,” Angie, one of the waitresses, gave her a hug and swiped the whipped cream off her nose. The counter and wait staff had taken Willow out last Saturday night and they had gone to a gay bar for the cabaret. The men dressed as beautiful women had fascinated Willow. There was something about the idea of remaking yourself so completely that she found interesting. Not that she was going to go get a blonde wig and a sequined dress. She didn’t want to remake herself so much as go back and remake the person she was when things had gone wrong.

Make her a little more like her present day self. A little more confident. More sure of herself and what she wanted. There were things that she was sure she could improve on, or at least have enjoyed a lot more. Like finishing the curse to re-soul Angel before Drusilla killed Kendra, and Giles was tortured. Taking more study time for her SATs. Buying a Wonder Woman outfit from Ethan’s the Halloween when they turned into their costumes—she didn’t know if there was a Wonder Woman costume, but she had missed her chance to be a super hero. And number one, never, ever, try on formal wear in the same room as Xander Harris, setting in motion a cascade of lust, illicit kissing, and bad break ups. She frowned at herself. She was still, technically, a teenager, but she knew that putting her brief, secretive, smoochie-fest with Xander before re-souling Angel was a little selfish.

She was almost sure Angel wouldn’t mind, being guilt ridden and all. It did weird things to your priorities. She was Jewish, and she so got that. Willow sipped her coffee and started thinking more constructively about her list of things that she would do-over. Clearly, it was incomplete, and she needed to give serious thought to the underpinning principals and develop a prioritization system. She could base it on outcomes, she mused. She got her notebook out of her oversized purse and started making notes to herself as the coffee bar started filling up.

She had come to San Jose to house sit and intern at a small Internet company. She was also trying to get some distance from Oz. At least that was the idea when she applied for the internship. If he had picked up the application that she had labored over so ostentatiously and ripped it up, declaring that he couldn’t bear the thought that she was exiling herself to a corporate suit summer, that would have been good. Nothing like that had happened. No one at work wore suits either. It wasn’t right. She was hopeless.

She had applied for an internship after they had broken up, while Oz wasn’t exactly talking to her, or looking over her shoulder at her internship application. She accepted the first offer she received, that made in a fit of pessimism dressed with parental approval sauce, after she more or less threw herself at him at Christmas. She had thrown herself at him almost immediately after he said he wanted to try again, Oz had been so sweet and caring, insisting that they wait. They had spent the evening together, on the couch, listing to music and, later, standing in the falling snow. He had stayed over, because of the snow, and the fact that they had been awake all night and most of the morning. Snow in Sunnydale was not an event you slept through. They had fallen asleep together on the couch around noon, and when her parents came home in the late afternoon they were still asleep.

It probably looked bad, but sleeping on the couch with Oz was not the worse thing she had ever done, even if her parents didn’t know that. Her mother, connecting the dots between teenage daughter and musician boyfriend, sat her down for one of their ‘talks’, a record two in one year, and made an appointment for Willow to go to her gynecologist for an examination. Dr. Franks, who belonged to the same synagogue as her parents, showed her pictures of sexually transmitted diseases and talked to her about birth control. The whole thing had been humiliating and a little ridiculous.

She had been taking Depo-Provera injections for over a year, though it was not for birth control. Giles had sent Buffy to a doctor for the injections after she had come to Sunnydale because they tended to lessen if not entirely stop menstrual cycles.

Willow had accompanied her to the doctor’s office, wondering what was going on since the magazines were all women’s magazines, or Mother and Child back issues. After the injection, the nurse had told Buffy to sit in the waiting room for fifteen minutes and given her a pamphlet to read about the injection. Buffy gave it to Willow and had some quality time with an issue of Vogue, working on one of the questionnaires and checking out perfume samples.

Willow had read the fifteen-page pamphlet cover to cover. They put it together, after getting past the stunned disbelief that the Watcher’s Council was so rude as to put Buffy on birth control without so much as asking if she needed or wanted it. Patrolling during her monthly cycle would be awkward, because of, well, the blood, attracting vamps. After a few mutually grossed out eeeews, Willow decided that she wanted to go on the shots too. Supportive best bud thing, and the thought of being a vampire magnet three days a month really freaked her out. This was effected the next time Giles reminded Buffy she had an appointment after school for one of her ‘special shots’ and Willow piped up with a request to have a ‘special shot’ too. Giles had looked mildly uncomfortable, but he had nodded, and muttered something about it being wise.

Her parents had not insisted that she accept the internship, but they had pointed out the advantages. She would earn college credit, and they offered to match whatever she earned from the internship to help her buy a car—though Willow had been thinking new computer, maybe a souped up, ultra thin PC notebook with a docking station to do some serious number crunching database work to compliment her beloved Apple laptop. They had made the connection with cousin Rebecca—Willow’s mother insisted on calling Rebecca Rachel—who had a place in San Jose. It wasn’t just Buffy’s name that escaped Shelia Rosenberg. The fact that Rebecca would be out of town all summer, making Willow a house sitter rather than house guest, shared during a cozy family conference call, made them get that funny look on their faces. The look that Willow could hear in their voices, like the idea of her being on her own in San Jose all summer was not what they had in mind.

Not that they had anything to worry about. The thought had flashed in her mind that Oz could join her, and they could spend the summer together house sitting. When she suggested it to him he had gotten his thoughtful, slightly worried look. He had forgiven her for her indiscretion with Xander. More or less? She was the one who kept pushing for more, not daring to believe that he could put it behind him. He kept telling her not to try so hard. She was so stupid. Her lame little seduction attempts had only made him look . . . bemused. She had tried to get him to have sex with her after prom, mostly because it was prom, and she was grateful that he had forgiven her, and it was prom . . . sort of expected. And she was an idiot.

They finally did it graduation day. With the impending apocalypse—total eclipse during the Mayor’s commencement speech triggering the ascension looming over them. The whole time she could hear Xander, in her head, saying something about an exception for impending death scenario the way he did when they were kidnapped by Spike. After the school had been blown up and the dust settled, Oz sat down with her for a ‘talk’. He had thought about what he was going to do over the summer while she was in San Jose, and as he said it Willow’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. She knew he hadn’t jumped on the idea of spending the summer together enthusiastically, but she thought after they had had sex the relationship was moving towards more sex and closeness and being together, not spending the entire summer after graduation apart. He was going to spend the summer with the Dingoes.

Did he think that they needed time apart? She chewed on her thumbnail considering that. Was she overeating? Hmm. What was the likelihood of that based on precedent?

Oh, why couldn’t she be normal and run away to wait on tables and need to be rescued? Why couldn’t she pick a boy who would get it that she wanted to be saved? Instead, she was practical and smart, and maybe even a little ruthless, and she had gone all needy. He probably sensed that. He probably thought that she was planning their wedding and naming their children—not that she hadn’t thought about that in a more distant after we finish college sort of way. Did that freak him out? That she was thinking about things like that? Wasn’t she supposed to be thinking about things like that? Trying on the idea, so to speak, because they were in love? Mutually, in love? Falling in love? In really deep like with a dollop of sex on the side?

The house band interrupted an Angel class brood, or at least making Willow aware that she was heading for the land of brood. She frowned at her notebook. No. She was not going to launch a systematic re-hash of her mistakes, she decided. She was going to be brave and not be obsessive, she told herself sternly. Oz loved her. She loved Oz. They were good, and she had her freshman year of college to look forward to, with Oz. He was going to UC Sunnydale too. It would be Oz, Willow, and Buffy at UC Sunnydale, with Xander staying in Sunnydale, maybe, though he had been talking about doing a Jack Kerouake. It was all good. She was not going to let herself ruin her own summer of independent living.

With that settled, Willow found herself bouncing in her bar stool to an acoustic version of ‘Hazy Shade of Winter’ followed by ‘Train in Vain’. The bar was a beautiful thing of carved wood and brass foot rails with floor to ceiling cabinets fitted with mirrors. Between tall bottles of flavoring and exotic liquors she could indulge in a bit of unabashed people watching as the coffee bar slowly filled up. It seemed to happen in waves. She wondered if this was what the Bronze looked like to strangers wandering into the club.

She sipped her coffee as darkness fell outside. She was a half a block from her cousin’s small house. The caution after dark that was so much a habit in Sunnydale never seemed to reach her here. She sipped her coffee and felt herself relax in anonymity that was completely comfortable.



The sidewalk was thick with Goth punk and skinhead kids, except this was America, and twenty years too late, so it was purely fashion statement adopted by bored teenagers. Colin’s bird, Georgia, discovered the intersection of Morton and St. Catherine Court, an indentation on the broad swath of Morton Street created by the closed court where teenagers gathered.

The coffee shop doors were flung open and the sounds of a girl singing, accompanied by a piano, reached the street. Spike didn’t go in for folky girl soft rock, but he liked her voice. It had teeth. It had that passionate conviction that teenagers were so good at before they started to see the world as bigger than their petty issues.

He didn’t know it, but under the wash of streetlights, to the flock on the street, he and his companions appeared to be everything that was embodied in a fashion statement. The streetlights gave them a preternatural glow, and they parted the crowd effortlessly, drawing stares. The daft chit that Pete had turned was preening, sensing admiration. The great tragedy of her undead life was being deprived of a mirror, which she prattled on about ceaselessly. Since his acquaintances had spent decades cheerfully overlooking Dru’s more loopy observations, Spike was forced to ignore the misnamed Harmony and her whiney nasal intonations, which hit a new pitch inside the coffee bar.

“Oh. My. God,” she clutched Pete’s arm, squealing, “I know her,” as she initiated a frantic round of waving.

Spike saw the girl she was waving at, sitting at the bar. She looked familiar; the way people you know look when they are somewhere completely unexpected. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He knew her. He distracted himself by glaring a cluster of teenagers out of their seats at a table that suited him.

“Willow. Willow Rosenberg! I can’t believe it,” Harmony said.

Ah, fuck. Neither could Spike. Willow Rosenberg. Slayer’s girly mate and pet witch. He checked her out in the mirror that ran behind the bar. The flash of red hair, the startled way she drew herself from her notebook and looked around, blinking like a startled kitten. What in the name of hell was she doing in San Jose?

“Harmony,” vampire hearing being what it was, he picked her voice effortlessly out of the hum of voices in the crowded bar. He found himself smiling at the patently fake social voice. “Wow. Haven’t seen you since graduation,” she said.

Harmony laughed. “Yeah. Graduation.”

“Big snake,” Willow said. It sounded like a non sequitur, but it could be some obscure teen code.

“That’s Sunnydale,” Harmony said. “What are you doing this summer?”
Willow stowed her pen and notebook. Could her life get any more sucky than this? “I have an internship with a dot.com company here in San Jose, and I’m house sitting for my cousin,” she said. “What about you?”

Pete tugged Harmony towards the table and she insisted that Willow join them while the girl protested feebly. “Oh that’s—you’re with your friends and all, um—okay,” she gave up, sounding like she was consenting to having her teeth drilled without Novocain.

Spike grinned. This was going to be interesting. Colin and Georgia had already joined him at the table and Colin was looking for a waitress. Harmony kept the witch talking. “I was going to France,” she told Willow.

“I’d like to here bugger all about sodding France,” Colin sighed, doing a credible spin on Spike’s more explosive version of this declaration.

Georgia ran her hand over his bald head. “Poor baby,” she said, giggling, winking at Spike.

Georgia was a little bit of all right in his book. She flirted, but it was pure reflex, didn’t mean a damn thing. She had been with Colin for nearly twenty years. Colin was an odd bloke. His mum was a vampire. She had turned her son when he was in his late forties. Colin’s mum ran a vampire brothel in Newcastle, and there wasn’t much Colin hadn’t seen or done, but he and Georgia were a bit vanilla. Very comfortable and cozy together. For this evening’s excursion, Georgia was got up in blood red leather pants and a little nothing of a top that tied in back. She looked like the child of Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall; Tall, leggy, blonde, fashion model thin, with a pronounced southern accent, and a mouth that was made for sin.

“Uh, thanks,” Willow was saying as she sat in a chair that Pete had liberated for her, looking a little startled by the operation. Less so than the sod that had been sitting in the chair, and was looking more astonished than outraged at being ejected from it. Picking back up on Harmony’s meandering train of thought, she was rambling about shopping. Again. “France,” Willow said, prepared to appreciate. “Yeah. And the museums,” she said with a trace of real enthusiasm.

“Huh?” Harmony looked puzzled.

“Museums,” Willow repeated, a goofy smile making an appearance. “I heard they had them,” she said. “Some crazy rumor,” she placated, her gaze shifting from Harmony to her companions until she saw him and froze. Deer caught in the headlights.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Harmony said. “You’ve changed. It’s your hair, right? You got your hair cut!” she pretended to admire it. “It’s a good look for you,” she said, sounding patronizing.

Spike held her gaze, watching the small changes in her eyes. Her pupils had constricted, and the color, deep, true green, not hazel, seemed to sharpen a bit. She was startled and scared. Fear rolled off her in waves. Her heart was pounding; making the pulse in her throat increase in a very attractive, bite me, sort of way. No doubt reliving their most recent terrifying encounter, he thought smugly, before remembering with an inner wince that he’d been falling down drunk and mostly pathetic, weeping and carrying on about Dru. Nice of her to go straight to terror, it was rather a relief to know that was what she had taken away from the experience. She had handled herself pretty well, as he remembered it. What had she said? ‘There will be no bottle in face or having, of any kind, with me.’ Not bad for a piss scared seventeen year old. He was curious about what she would do. He watched her bloodless lips form his name.

The waitress spoiled the moment, coming over to take drink orders. She fingered a lock of Willow’s bright hair, tugging on it playfully. “Hey, kiddo,” she said. “Want me to bring you a sandwich or some soup?” she asked. “You’re looking a bit pale,” she noticed.

“What?” she tore her gaze away from Spike. “Uh, no. Thanks, Angie,” she managed.

“Raspberry mocha?” Angie guessed. It was her favorite.

Willow nodded. Harmony snapped out an order for a tall, skinny caramel latte. The others ordered ales. Harmony rolled her eyes after Angie left to fill their orders. “Gay much?” she sniped. “So, Willow? You and Oz? Still together?” she asked. “Where is he?

I am in hell, Willow decided. Sitting with four vamps, including Spike, and Harmony—hello, clueless. No stake. No holy water. Holy crap. And Harmony was asking about Oz.

“Still together,” she said, “Only, I’m here and he’s with the band. They are in LA this weekend.”

Harmony smirked. “Oh. A break,” she said archly, injecting just enough skepticism to sting.

Willow considered, briefly, just leaving her there. Harmony had picked on her since kindergarten and she hated her. Loathed her. With a sinking feeling, she knew she couldn’t do it. She had sized up the situation. They were in a public place, too many witnesses. Spike was not crazy or stupid and he did not appear to be drunk. In fact, he looked relaxed and amused by all of this. She just had to get Harmony away from the table. How?

“How have you been, Red?” Spike asked, studying her face. He liked her hair longer. She had probably gotten it cut to make herself look older. It didn’t work. The soft cut framed her face, an old fashioned pretty, creamy skinned cameo face.

Harmony looked from Willow to Spike and back. “You know each other?” she was surprised.

“Yeah,” Spike said. “We know each other,” he agreed. “Red’s got a good shoulder to lean on,” he said mischievously. And she smelled like oranges, cloves, innocence, magic, and blood, he remembered. He had not been that drunk.

He saw her eyes soften slightly in sympathy.

No Dru, she realized. When Buffy had explained what had taken place at the Magic Box Willow had been—well, horrified, actually—but willing to concede that it was romantic in a creepy demon demolition sort of way. He really loved Drusilla, and had clearly forgiven her cheating on him, unlike some she could name at the time. Sheesh. It was just a few kisses! She gave her mopey backslide a mental glare—she and Oz were not on a break, he had forgiven her, and everything was fine! Take that, mopey voice in my head. She had kind of hoped it would work out for Spike, and not just because a Spike and Dru far away from Sunnydale was a good thing. He looked like he was dealing, though.

“You seem . . . okay?” she said, the soft lilt of her voice making it a question.

That drew a laugh out of him. God love her, she was a ridiculous little thing. “I’m swell, pet,” he mocked. “Colin, Georgia, Pete—you know Harm,” he pointed out, “this is Red. Willow,” he corrected himself, surprising her. “Say hello, precious,” he prompted.

“Hello,” Willow said, nervously as Angie returned with their drink orders. Spike knew her name? Her given name? That was not of the good.

Harmony was trying to puzzle out how nerdy Willow Rosenberg knew Spike. Spike was a big deal. He had just shown up in San Jose, and everyone fell in line behind him in some mysterious pecking order that Harmony had not figured out yet. Colin was twice his size and scary looking, and kind of lazy, but he seemed to defer to Spike.

“You must be from Sunnydale,” Georgia said. Harmony was from Sunnydale, and Spike had spent some time there, so she connected the dots without effort.

“Yeah,” Willow agreed. “Sunnydale,” she said. Where she ought to be right now, instead of here. Where there was a Slayer. She sipped her mocha, and regretted it, sure that it was going to back up on her or give her horrible indigestion considering the way her stomach was churning.

“Oh, sorry,” Harmony said, belatedly realizing that she had not bothered with introductions, mostly out of habit. She usually did not want to admit she knew Willow, much less introduce her to people. “Willow. Everyone,” she waved at them, following up on Spike’s introduction. “Sunnydale?” she said with a whiney laugh. “How is everything in Sunnydale?” she asked. She licked foam off her upper lip, inadvertently smudging her lipstick.

Willow seized on the smudged lipstick. “Oh, no,” she said with fake concern. “You smudged your lipstick,” she said.

Harmony looked horrified. “Damn it,” she said. “Is it bad?” she asked.

“Uh . . . kind of,” Willow lied. “Let me show you where the bathroom is so you can fix it,” she offered. She cast a hard and pardonably triumphant look at Spike, who was smiling as Harmony got up and left the table with her.

“What the hell was that about?” Colin wondered as the two girls maneuvered through the crowd.

Spike was laughing. “She’s rescuing Harm from us,” he said. Silly bint. “Georgia, be a love and go after them before Harm drains her dry,” he requested.

“What? Is this catch and release night?” Pete asked.

“The little redhead is the Slayer’s bestest girly mate,” Spike said. “We’ll have one incredibly brassed off Slayer here if Red turns up minus a few pints,” he explained.

Colin nodded to his girlfriend, who followed Harmony and Willow.

Willow realized her mistake as soon as they got to the bathroom. The bathroom, with a huge mirror, behind two sinks. “You know what sucks?” Harmony asked.

Willow looked into the mirror, hearing Harmony’s voice. No reflection. Crap. No reflection. Harmony vamped out.

“Actually,” Willow figured out what distressed Harmony most about her undead state, the lack of quality time with a mirror. She backed away from her, saying with nerveless cheer, “On the plus side, you can’t see yourself like this. Its not a good look for you,” she muttered. Way to go, Willow, insult the vampire who hated your guts when she was just a mean, annoying teenager.

Harmony pouted, stomping her foot. “That’s just mean,” she whined before lunging. She slammed Willow against the tile wall with enough force to make her mind go blank for a merciful second before Harmony bit her. Hard.

She fought, but the other girl was much too strong, greedily drawing on the wound, making weird little moaning sounds that sounded . . . sexual. Willow felt herself becoming light headed, and knew in a distant, disbelieving way that she was dying. The irony of it made her grimace. Was it ironic? It was not listed in the non-ironic elements of that Alanis Morrisette song, Oz liked to grumble about. Should have been. She should have gone with her less charitable impulse to leave Harmony with the vampires. Her last thoughts, defining irony, were unsettlingly weird, even for her. As her vision dimmed, she saw the shadow of the bathroom door opening against the ceiling through the blond cotton candy cloud of Harmony’s hair, and then nothing.

For Georgia, it was a split second decision. She had known Spike going back almost twenty years, so if he did not want the girl dead, that was reason enough for her. Punching Harmony in the face was simply a bonus. Harmony dropped the girl and she crumpled, bonelessly against the wall, her head smacking the tile floor, bleeding like a slaughtered sheep. Georgia felt her face change as the rich smell of blood reached her, and shook off her true face, grabbing a wad of paper towels. She applied pressure to the wound while Harmony mewled about her broken nose.

“I’ll break your damned neck, fledge, if you don’t shut up,” Georgia snapped. “Wash your face and go get Spike,” she said. “Now!”

Harmony splashed some water on her face to rinse off the blood. The cold water restored her human features. She felt her face to reassure herself that she looked human again. She was pouting when she came back to the table. “Everyone spoils my fun,” she said.

Pete patted her ass. “We’ll get you something yummy on the way home,” he promised.

Harmony smirked. “Tummy’s full,” she said slyly. “This place sucks,” she rubbed against him. “Let’s go somewhere else,” she cooed before looking at Spike. “Oh, yeah,” she said, “Georgia told me to get you.”

“Fuck,” Spike finished his ale with one long pull on the bottle. “I’m assuming that there is a back door,” he told Colin. “Get the car, and meet me around back,” he ordered, heading off in the direction the girls had taken. There was a chubby dark haired girl outside of the ladies room. She looked excited. “There’s a girl in there, passed out,” she reported. “I bet its X,” she said.

He pushed past her, the rich scent of blood hitting his nostrils, burrowing to the back of his brain as he pushed the door open. Willow was on the floor and Georgia had her. “This is stupid,” she told him.

“Yeah,” he acknowledged it. The wisest thing at this point might be to finish her off and dump her body somewhere where it would not be found anytime soon. He stripped off his coat, wrapping her limp body in it, lifting her in his arms. “Find us an exit, ducks,” he ordered. Georgia was a century his junior. She had enough common sense and smarts to stay undead above a few decades, so he wasn’t a prat about it, but he was her senior, and he expected unquestioning obedience.

She responded to the change in his tone of voice. Stuffing the bloodied towels into the trash can, she moved ahead of him, prepared to fight if it came to that. She let her nose guide her to fresh air and found the back door into a narrow alley as Spike followed, carrying the girl.

Colin appeared a moment later, in the adjoining street, getting out of a gunmetal gray BMW long enough to open the back door. Georgia went around to the passenger side as Spike bundled the girl in and shut the door. “Go,” he said curtly, and Colin moved back into the flow of traffic, following the speed limit, taking a few meandering turns, waiting for Spike to clarify what was going on.

Spike was busy. The bite mark at the base of her neck was a nasty mess of torn, bruised tissue. The stupid fledge had made a botch of it, missing the sweet spot by centimeters, so the girl wasn’t likely to bleed to death. He probed the back of her head, feeling the sponginess of swollen tissue and the stickiness of blood in her hair. She was out cold, but her heart was still beating. Left unattended she would probably survive.

When she woke up? She would call her good friend Buffy, no doubt. Just when he was starting to get settled in San Jose. It wasn’t a bad town. No Slayer. No Master. Small, reasonably civil vampire population. And him, more or less what passed for the biggest bad. Damn it. Stupid little chit.

“Spike?” Colin prompted.

“Thinking,” he said, eyes narrowing on the middle distance as he considered his options and assets.

Not the follower or leader sort was Colin. Kind of a loner, which was rare amongst vampires. He had his set that he would hang out with, and his bird, but no minions to protect or master to answer to. He was the go along get along sort. He was going along right now, but that might not last.

What to do with the girl? He could finish her off and dump her body, but she had been seen with him. The waitress was going to remember that, he realized, remembering the affectionate way she had played with Red’s hair. This was getting complicated. When she disappeared, questions were going to be asked and he was certain the Slayer would put it together, which would set her on his trail, probably with Angel backing her up. Same to be said if he left her at a hospital. Somehow, he doubted he was going to earn points for not killing her.

His eyes narrowed. That left . . . keeping her. The Slayer might come looking for her, but she would want her friend back alive and in one piece. That gave him some bargaining room. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips as he thought of Buffy and Angel’s mutual panic when he had kidnapped the girl before. They had gotten downright helpful. They would loose their fucking minds over this. The thought of their distress made him chuckle.

“What’s the plan?” Colin asked. That laugh was full of wicked intent.

Spike sifted the girl’s silky hair though his fingers. He bent his head to the oozing wound, licking it experimentally, and nearly tossed his latest mind fuck plan right out the proverbial window. Delicious. “I think I may just keep her,” he said.


Willow’s Email (Unopened)

To: Rosenw@clangeek.com

From: b.summers@uscs.edu

Re: You-hoo!

Hey Wills!

Xander and I put together my new computer—graduation present from Dad. Our college email accounts are active. Woo hoo! Xander says that since you have had an email account since email was invented this might not be a big deal to you.

We miss you. Tons. Sunnydale is boring without you. I don’t see why you can’t come home on the weekends. Just say the word and I’ll ask my Mom to come pick you up for some weekend bonding and Bronzing. Xander misses you too.

How is everything going with your job? I hope its not all Oz missage. Have you made any friends? Met anyone interesting? I want details.

Buffy