Chapter Fifteen

Willow had lost track of all that she had had to drink. Tart, tangy cranberry juice with vodka. Yummy shots of something chocolate that made her forehead feel slightly numb. It was all good. The alcohol took the edge off the pure terror. She was in a fear free zone, and the absence of fear after so many days of being on the edge made her feel like she was unfettered, floating in the unreality that was a demon bar in San Francisco.

Just the notion of getting out of the series of stale, depressing, dusty motels, crypt and abandoned office building had made her feel giddy and reckless.

She had gone shopping with Harmony and Georgia at a mall after dusk. Georgia got nostalgic over the presence of a Talbots, though trailing in her wake, Willow had a hard time reconciling the notion of Georgia dressed in preppy southern day or evening wear. Harmony found a pink tafetta dress on the sale rack. An hour later, Willow was cheering her former mortal enemy’s shopping instinct, fast and deadly, swooping in on the taffeta in less than twenty minutes, Harmony knew exactly what she wanted. She could size up an entire shoe department in less than ninety seconds with a sweeping look. It was impressive.

The mall was closing when Georgia was finally satisfied with her selections and Willow found herself changing into a dress in the Nordstrom’s dressing room, tags and security buttons removed.

Thoughts of a suicidally daring escape tingling in her head as they sped down the highway. She hadn’t been quite desperate enough to do more than think of throwing herself outside of the Desoto doing eighty down the highway. Apparently just thinking it had been evident enough that before they reached the first ramp, slowing to a less death defying speed, Spike had hooked his arm firmly around her neck and dragged her to the center of the front seat.

He had kept her tethered to his side since they had entered the city. “Misbehave, and you will pick my next meal, pet,” he warned her in that special way he had when he was threatening to kill people.

She tried to resist the threat with logic. He was going to kill someone anyway, but seven vampires backed him up and the description of Prague from the Watcher’s Diary was fresh in her mind. She and Buffy had stolen the Watcher’s Diaries to find more information about Angel in more innocent days. The knowledge that Giles had tried to protect them from was a two edged sword.

Inside the club, she did not need to be told to stay close to Spike. She expected something like Willy’s—not that she had ever been there, but she had heard Willy’s described by Buffy and Xander. Floors sticky with God knows what, the reek of blood and cheap alcohol, dimly lit with cheesy décor. Evil went for low rent banality in Sunnydale.

The Temple reminded her of parts of the mansion on Crawford Street that she had seen. Impressive architecture and spare luxury furnishings. Aesthetically pleasing until you noticed the odd note that was a pair of manacles on a short chain dangling from a ring bolted into the wall that was emphatically not a decorating eccentricity. Only at the Crawford Street mansion it was an odd note. At the Temple, it was a fully developed decorating theme. The flagstone floors were appropriately dungeon-y, and even in the dim light, Willow picked up enough of the wall hanging theme to think of an Applebee's done up for the S&M crowd.

It was mostly vampires, she deduced as a banquette and several tables between the banquette and the dance floor were appropriated for their use. She could almost pretend she was at the Bronze on Friday night. Spike avoided the banquette, choosing to sit on one of the bar stools. He kept her standing by putting his hand on the back of her neck and keeping her next to him. Her first drink, courtesy of Georgia, came in a shot glass and tasted of chocolate.

The corners of Spike’s lips turned up as she sipped it, like it was sherry, instead of tossing it back. Georgia had done her up in a pretty little slip dress. She had pulled Willow’s hair up into a twist in the back that was maintained with a couple of strategically placed hairpins. One long lock of hair had been left to swing free, curving around her face. A dusting of pale green eye shadow played up the color of her eyes, and a sparing use of eyeliner, at the corners, emphasized the almond shape. No blush. Her pallor wasn’t vampiric, and because of that it was too exotic to spoil with artificial color. She was wearing lipstick that was close to her natural lip color.

After she nursed her way through a third shot, she had started to lean against his thigh and he no longer had to keep his hand on her to remind her to stay put. “Friday night,” she said over the music. “No live band. No vampire bands?” she guessed.

Even drunk, or getting there, she was the little social anthropologist. If she had any idea how much the center of attention she was, she would have been terrified.

“There are a few,” he told her. “There’s a great swing band that plays in a club in New Orleans.” He didn’t bother to mention that entertainment in vampire clubs tended to run to more exotic acts than music.

Her eyes lit up as she recognized the song cued up. “This is a great song,” she said. She sang along with the Bosstone’s ‘Someday I Suppose’

“There was a place
And the name of the place escapes me
When I can't remember
It irritates me
Could be I can't remember
Could be I choose to not,
Let's move the song along
And try to find the plot”

A small, amused smile played on her lips.

“There was a girl and I don't know her name either
She gave me love and I swore I'd never leave her
If I did I'd come back someday and find her”

Her eyebrows lifted in a pantomime of skepticism as she sang along. She threw in a shrug, grinning, and followed along with the lyric.

“Maybe I will I should write down a reminder” And shouted the next line with the singer. She had had all of three drinks, and she was loosening up to a surprising degree. Spike watched as eleven days of fear and tension went on holiday.

“One day! One day who knows
Someday I suppose”

Georgia joined them, drawn by the minor spectacle of Willow enthusiastically singing. She waved a waiter over with another round of drinks, draping her arm around Willow’s shoulders and singing with her.

“There was a verse that I was gonna write I haven't yet
But there's still a chance I might
An open book That I still want to close I'll find the time
Someday I suppose
A place and time,
I wanna be and spend a storyline
That's happy in the end
Plans are made with promises so certainly uncertain
I can't wait to set things straight before they close the curtain”

The next chorus was joined by a few more voices, and toasts to the song.

“One day! One day who knows
Someday I suppose”

Following Georgia’s example, Willow tossed back the shot she was given, feeling a little silly when she realized that the little chocolate drinks weren’t sipped the way she had sipped the others.

“The more I sort things out
The more it gets distorted
I sort of think I'm better off just leaving it unsorted
The more I try to change it's course
the more off course it goes
Of course I'll reach my destination someday I suppose
Sort it out,
Get distorted
One day who knows
Hide behind,
Someday I suppose”

The alcohol hit her system with a vengeance, and she felt almost dizzy in a pleasant, warm sort of way. Dimly, she realized that she was kind of petting Spike’s thigh, and she made herself stop, frowning at him for being attached to her armrest. It was his fault, after all, that she wasn’t sitting in her own seat and not leaning against him.
Georgia insisted that she dance to burn off the alcohol she had consumed. Dancing was good. Willow liked to dance.

The music changed to the Clash, ‘Rock the Casbah’. Georgia was swaying sinuously. It reminded Willow of Buffy’s sexy dance with Xander when she had been trying to get Angel’s attention. She backed up to give her more room and bumped into Harmony who was dancing with someone other than Pete who snapped into game face and grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Hors d’oevres,” he growled. Before she could scream or defend herself, Spike was there.

“Back the fuck off, mate,” he growled right back.

She was released so promptly that she almost fell, and Spike’s arm around her waist caught her. He spun her around towards Georgia, who caught her. Hands on her hips, never really breaking her own rhythm as she guided Willow’s body. Then there was someone behind her, his hands on her body, joining Georgia’s. She knew that it was Spike, even as he moved closer, bringing her closer to Georgia. She felt a pang—of something that could not be jealousy—as they shared an open mouthed kiss with her sandwiched between them.

She knew she looked good. The dress Georgia had picked out for her was a sea foam green slip dress, sparkly with beadwork. The thin straps meant she had to wear it without a bra, which made her uncomfortably aware of the silky material of the dress. She never went without a bra, though she didn’t need the support so much. The fitted fabric of a bra kept her clothes from rubbing against her sensitive nipples, a problem that could have been solved by more fitted clothing, but then her nipples would be more visible, and that had always made her feel too exposed. She remembered being teased about her small breasts and protruding nipples in middle school when she had finally started developing.

Georgia’s purchases—or acquisitions—had included a pair of lacy panties that matched her dress, stockings that made her aware of the bare expanse of her upper thighs above the grippy lace banding at the top of the stockings, and a pair of low healed fabric pumps. She was wearing a choker made out of stretchy velvet with pale green and gold glass beads. When she had seen herself, all dressed up, with her hair pulled up in a sleek French twist, one long lock left free to curl at the end under her chin, she had been surprised and strangely gratified at how grown up and pretty she looked.

If only she had had Georgia to help her get ready for prom, she thought wistfully. Her last minute upswept hairdo for prom had looked messy and made her face look round, but she had fussed so much with the last minute changes to her prom look that it was too late to do anything else but pose stiffly for the pictures that her father had taken of her with Oz before they left. Her parents had made a point of being home for her prom night, and she worried that they were disappointed with her for picking out a dress that was low cut after she had been trusted to buy a prom dress on her own.

Georgia was beautiful. She looked like a fashion model, tall and thin. She was wearing a black dress that looked like it had been poured on and she had a long strand of pearls, wound once against her throat, the length left to hang down nearly to her waist. As Georgia and Spike kissed, it occurred to Willow to wonder where Colin was. Did vampires get jealous? Spike did. She remembered how furious he was about Dru and her cheating.

Georgia caught the trailing lock of hair from Willow’s temple and let it slide through her fingers as if to include her in the kissing. Her gray eyes shone as she tore her mouth free from Spike. “So pretty,” she purred. “Isn’t she pretty, Spike?”

Pandering? Spike turned his attention to the girl. Her eyes were huge, pupils blown. He could smell the alcohol on her breath and in the sweat that made her skin look dewy under the club lights. He found himself unable to resist sampling a mouthful of her warm, damp, slightly salty shoulder, running his tongue under one of the thin straps anchoring her dress. A little bit of fang and he could have easily rent the strap.

To Willow’s shock, Georgia kissed her. It was totally unexpected. The first touch of another woman’s lips against hers was a revelation. Her lips were so soft. Sticky with lipstick, flavored by lemons and whiskey. At the same time, Spike was kissing her shoulder, mouthing her skin in a way that sent sensations rippling down her chest, his cool tongue stroking her skin. Shock and sensory overload held her as much as the press of bodies. She felt one of Georgia’s stocking clad legs between her own, and a slight friction of nylon. Her head fell back under the pressure of the kiss as Georgia’s tongue invaded her mouth and she felt Spike’s hard shoulder behind her head as someone’s hands rode up, under her breasts.

By the time the song finished, she was breathless and trembling. Georgia stroked her face. Confused tears filled her eyes as the danger she was in reached her. With a small smile, Georgia took her hand and led her off the dance floor. That was good. She needed to put some space between herself and the two vampires. Maybe get a drink. Something cold. Ice water. Her whole body tingled like she had been dipped in something cold. Spike said something to a passing waiter as they wove through tables off the dance floor.

The opening piano chords of The English Beat’s ‘I Confess’ felt like they were playing in the pit of her stomach. The croon of Dave Wakeling’s voice burrowed in her brain. “Just out of spite, I confess I've ruined three lives. Now don't sleep so tight. Because I didn't care till I found out that one of them was mine,” he sang.

Oz had introduced her to bands like The English Beat. Like a connoisseur, he had pointed out the complexities of so many instruments combining, picking out the ska and jazz influences. The words reached her. The story in the song that wasn’t quite complete that teased her brain. Georgia was leading her into a small room, away from the main floor of the club, with Spike behind her, leaving her no escape.

“Night after night time after time.
Done too much of both types of whining.
Still wasn't right fight after fight
Till "Get out of my life get away from me get away from that gun"

This was a really bad idea, she thought, turning back to the dance floor, and running into Spike who was right behind her. “Um . . . The English Beat. And your English,” she added helpfully. “We should dance, right?”

He laughed. “Sure, kitten,” he said, dancing her through the door, kicking it closed behind him.

The sounds of the music were muted as a door behind her was closed and a drink, another drink in a slim column of a shot glass, was placed in her hand. Georgia pushed the drink to her lips. “Drink up,” she invited, playing with the lock of Willow’s hair that was left free to swing against her jaw.

She wanted to resist. Her hands were resting on Spike’s chest, holding him off the tiniest bit. His hands were on her waist, keeping her close. She looked around the room, stalling. It was little more than an alcove, the walls hung with heavy drapes that fostered intimacy in the space. The floor was covered with thick, hand carved rugs and pillows in jewel toned colors and luxurious velvets, silk, shiny taffeta. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, almost low enough for her to reach, black, with branches like an elegant spider web holding candles that flickered and glowed in the gloom.

"No it's not a joke it's cards on the table time
Yes I could have phoned
I could have wrote”

Willow was almost surprised to hear her own voice joining the singer’s as she finished the verse with him. Not really dancing, just swaying slightly without much coordination inside of the narrowing universe encompassed by Spike’s hands on her waist.

”But how to break the news without breaking your heart
Being dead don't hurt,
No only dying
Cards on the table time,
Sometimes it's right to say goodnight."

“You should have been there,” Georgia said, watching her. The only music Harmony knew was atrocious bubble gum pop, boy bands, and Brittany Spears. Willow was obviously familiar with The English Beat. Georgia had started un-living in the late seventies and had spent countless nights in CDBG’s in New York as the punk, ska, and new wave bands played the venue, a whole new world laid before her enhanced senses. She had been parted from an all too ordinary existence living paycheck to paycheck without skills, haunted by hunger for more than a hand to mouth existence.

Colin had changed all that. Georgia knew that he had been a little bored when he had turned her, finding in her something young and curious, and eager to see the world and make it all new again for him. On the twenty-second anniversary of her death, she fully appreciated that as she looked at something young and curious, and she felt a little grateful to Colin for picking her without all of this girl’s obvious advantages. She was smart, and it was obvious that she had been brought up right.

There was a discreet tap on the door and the waiter Spike had waylaid came in, laying out a champagne bucket and tall flutes on a sideboard. A platter with crackers, cheese, and fruit around a silver bowl filled with crushed ice, a shallow dish of caviar nestled in the ice was placed beside the champagne bucket. He released her to supervise the operation and Willow found herself laughing, reminded of her own ridiculous attempt to seduce Oz, only she had filled her parents' ice bucket with two chilling bottles of soda. Hot tears slid down her cheeks and she tossed back the shot in her hand, feeling sick inside.

“You’re smearing your mascara,” Georgia said, wiping the tears off Willow’s face with her fingertips. “Your eyes are so pretty.”

Oz said things like that, and it had meant so much to her that he thought it.

Georgia took the shot glass from her nerveless hand. After her stomach stopped churning, the fresh infusion of alcohol began to seep into her. She was starting to feel numb again. Almost sleepy. She flinched at the sound, like a shot, of the champagne bottle being uncorked. Georgia went to set the shot glass down on the sideboard. Willow made herself concentrate on the muted sounds of the song playing. She stumbled a little, having lost track of the song while Georgia had been touching her face.

“Out like a light,
Another boy who's given up trying,
Blinded by fright,
He screams my life's not open,
Please get out,”

Then her favorite part. She sang it with a certain amount of angry satisfaction, “I know I'm shouting, I like to shout.”

Georgia and Spike exchange glances. “I know what I want for my present,” she told Spike.

He raised an eyebrow at that. “No sharing with Colin?” he made it a question. There would be no sharing with Colin, that wasn’t in question, but whether Georgia was interested in doing this without Colin was.

She grinned. “That’s his present to me,” she said wickedly.

Spike nodded, filling a fluted glass, frothed to the rim. Georgia dipped her index finger into the caviar scooping a taste on her fingernail. She brought it to her lips and grimaced at the saltiness.

“It's not a joke it's cards on the table time
It's not a joke it's cards on the table time
I could have phoned
I could have wrote
But how to break the news without breaking your heart
Being dead don't hurt,
No only dying
Cards on the table time,
Sometimes it's right to say goodnight."

She had a good voice. That was not that surprising. Her speaking voice was nice, soft, resonant, and a little throaty. Knew all the words to a song that hadn’t even been a hit on this side of the water twenty years ago. Her eyes were half closed. Spike knew she was a little more than drunk. She was drunk, frightened, and lost. Poor little girl. Georgia came up behind her, sliding her arm around Willow’s waist, her lissome figure swaying to the music, which was much less muted to their hearing. She was placing little kisses on the back of her neck.

”Always searching for paradise,
I'll admit that I'm good as blind
Darling I confess yes I've ruined three lives
And didn't care till I found out that one of them was mine.”

She knew it was Georgia kissing her from the moistness of her lips. Would she have lipstick prints there from the wicked, blood red slash of color on Georgia’s mouth? She felt the zipper down the back of her dress parting and squeezed her eyes shut. She kept singing, pretending this was not happening. There wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it.

”I confess
I deserve some type of punishment
I confess
If it's all the same to you I'll stay indifferent.”

The weight of the beading made the front of the dress sag as one thin strap was lifted off her shoulder and eased down to lay tensionless on her upper arm. She felt a cold hand slip inside, between the dress and her skin, drifting over her ribs as Georgia swayed against her like they were dancing.

Her voice cracked. “I confess I confess I confess . . .”

The other strap was released. The arm that had been loosely wrapped around her waist was gone and Willow’s arms came up to hold the dress to her in a futile attempt to shield her nakedness. The song was almost over and it hadn’t saved her from the awareness of what was happening to her. Georgia’s hand cupped her breast, her fingers finding her nipple. She made a purring sound, and Willow felt a sense of shame because she knew Georgia was reacting to the fact that the nipple she was pinching lightly was already hard.

She felt the beading on the dress scraping her hands as the garment was tugged out of her grasp, sliding down her waist. It fit loosely, and she had liked that. When Buffy had talked her into ‘come as you aren’t’ for Halloween, the tight, skin baring crop top and skirt had made her feel too exposed to enjoy the overall effect of the outfit. The loose fit of the sparkly dress made her feel pretty. It was so loose that there was nothing to catch on as it slid to her waist, the straps catching on in the crook of her elbows.

She tried not to look down at herself, half naked, but both of her breasts were being cupped and she got a glimpse of her small breasts in pale, long fingered hands tipped with scarlet fingernails as Georgia pinched and lightly tugged on her shamefully hard nipples.

“Oh, stop that,” she scolded herself.

Georgia nibbled on her earlobe, laughing softly at the fretful sound of her voice. “No,” she said, thinking Willow was talking to her. “You’re skin is so soft and warm,” she told her, rolling her peaked nipples between thumb and forefinger.

Duh. Willow mentally smacked herself. Instead of scolding her body for reacting, or trying not to react, she ought to be trying to free herself from this embrace. Was she going to go down with a whimper like a ninny, or at least put up a fight—that she couldn’t possibly win—but that would at least afford her the satisfaction of knowing that she had fought. That she hadn’t just allowed herself to drink too much, be dressed up and used.

Spike saw down to the second when Willow decided to put up a fight. Right now she was more scared of what Georgia was doing to her than she was of being hurt. She moved her foot to get her bearings, and then raised it, swiftly, probably with some idea of bringing it down hard on Georgia’s toes. Only Georgia was faster, snaking her leg around the leg bearing Willow’s weight, and pulling it out from under her. She lost her hold on the dress and her balance all at the same time, going down in a clumsy fall with the dress falling below her hips and tangling in her legs. She half sat up, reaching for the dress to pull it back up, but Georgia leaned over her, pushing her back with one hand loosely gripping her throat as she shook her head at Willow. “No,” she said firmly.

Spike swallowed a mouthful of champagne. “Remember your lessons, pet,” he admonished coolly. “You hit, you get hit back.”

She was breathing hard, feeling panic set in as Georgia loomed over her. The pearls Georgia was wearing swung free, glowing coldly. She didn’t look mad. She looked like she would enjoy whatever she was planning to do whether Willow fought or not. Spike sounded unconcerned. So far, he had been her bulwark between the harm that the other vampires represented. No one had touched her, or abused her, if you didn’t count Harmony’s lame attempts to insult her. He wasn’t going to stop Georgia, she realized. In fact, he was probably going to watch whatever Georgia planned to do to her.

That made her furious, burning off some of the drunken stupor. Okay. Her brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders, but she wasn’t going to tamely submit to some vampire version of seduction. Unfortunately, Georgia was a lot stronger than she looked. Willow’s attempt to sweep her legs out from under her was blocked when Georgia simply straddled her hips, her fingers tightening warningly on Willow’s throat. She just looked amused.

Spike dropped a fat strawberry into an unclaimed champagne flute, refilling his own glass, before he strolled over to where Willow was unsuccessfully trying to dislodge Georgia. Splashes of pale pink mottled her skin from her exertions. The trailing end of Georgia’s long pearl necklace caught on the tip of one crisply erect pinkish brown nipple. He handed Georgia the champagne flute with the strawberry resting in the bottom and she took it as he stretched out on the floor, arranging a fat pillow under his armpit to support his weight. He toasted her silently, appreciating the picture they made, the sweetly flushed, distraught, half naked girl, and the tall blond goddess controlling her effortlessly. Dru would have spoiled the fun. She would have drawn blood by now, or used her uncannily effective gift for thrall to take all the fight out of the girl.

Georgia sipped the champagne. Every furious heave of Willow’s hip rocked her soft abdomen against her already wet cunt with just enough pressure to tease. She considered holding the girl’s wrists down and kneeling over her, legs spread in an open invitation for Spike to mount her from behind and fuck her with Willow under her. Her gaze drifted from Willow to the deceptively relaxed vampire watching them. He was in his usual costume of red shirt, unbuttoned, over a black t-shirt, and jeans. He had taken off his boots and was barefooted. She smiled at the telling stress of the denim over his crotch. It would be more fun to tease him.

She caught the strawberry from the bottom of the glass between her lips. She almost tossed the empty glass aside, but at the last minute she changed her mind and upended the flute, letting the last few drops of champagne the glass held drip on Willow’s bare chest, watching her small, firm breasts bounce as she squirmed delightfully. Spike took the flute from her, not wanting to distract her from her little game.

She sucked on the strawberry, pressing the fruit between her tongue and upper palate until the flavor was squeezed out of the berry and into the recesses of her mouth. She swallowed it automatically. Some vampires ate for the sheer pleasure of having food in their mouth. Georgia was not one of them. Food had never quite tasted the same to her after she was turned, and the strawberry was a pale imitation of the berries she remembered from visits to Florida when she was a child, sun ripened, warm strawberries, small and dark red, tart, sweet, and full of juices running down her throat. Only blood tasted that good. Her eyes flashed gold. She wanted to bury her fangs in the girl’s throat, drink her one mouthful at a time. The pulse beating under her fingers called to her.

Spike saw the change coming. “No biting,” he warned.

Georgia heard him. Old and powerful, his will compressed into two words, forcing her to heed him. The girl heard him too. The warning made her eyes get wide, as it occurred to her that Georgia wanted to bite her. Fear flooded her scent.

Georgia took her hand off her throat, leaning forward, capturing her wrists when Willow put her arms up to fend her off. She pinned them effortless to the rug beneath them and nibbled on the girl’s jaw line following it to her ear as she turned her head sharply to the left. The lingering flavor of the strawberry went well with the taste of her skin. “I’m going to kiss every pretty inch of you, sugar,” Georgia whispered.

Willow didn’t know what to feel. With Georgia’s weight across her hips and her hands on her wrists, she was maddeningly aware of how helpless she was. Her ears and neck had always been sensitive, and now they seemed more so. Her skin was hot with exertion and Georgia’s lips and tongue were too cool to ignore, and what she was doing felt . . . it just felt. The coolness of the pearl necklace rolling against her skin brought up gooseflesh.

She wasn’t even sure when Georgia had stopped holding her wrists down until she was touching her breasts with feather light strokes of her fingertips. Now that her hands were free she tried to get her elbows under her to try to worm her way out from under the woman. Georgia shifted positions, no longer straddling her, no, she had shifted around until she was lying between Willow’s legs, her abdomen pressing against the juncture of her thighs where her dress had been forgotten. Then Spike was behind her, slowly dismantling her French twist, his hand in her hair, tugging her head back so that more of her waist rested on her elbows, effectively trapping her in that position.

He said that he wanted to kiss her, and she had hoped it was a joke. He took her lower lip between his, sucking on it as Georgia brought her lips to one nipple, taking it into her mouth. The sensation of two equally cool mouths working on her sensitive lips and nipple made her close her eyes. Her head was spinning.

Spike’s tongue invaded her mouth, teasing her with fleeting caresses as he explored the inside of her mouth and Georgia nibbled and sucked on her nipples, moving from one to the other almost at random. His hand snaked down and his fingers tugged on a nipple wet from Georgia’s mouth as she nibbled on its mate. The weight between her legs lifted, and to her horror she felt it as a loss, moaning into Spike’s mouth.

Georgia tugged her wrinkled dress down over her hips and Willow felt her sliding her shoes off. She was very ticklish. The few times she had had sex with Oz, he had inadvertently distracted her from her pleasant state of arousal by accidentally tickling her. Her flinches always made him stop to reassure her. She woke up from her daze and turned her head sharply to escape Spike’s all too effective assault on her mouth.

She couldn’t escape his gaze. Blue eyes, heavy lidded, nearly slumberous with arousal bore into hers. “This is going to happen, pet,” he told her, his fingers gripping her jaw, holding her face. “No choice, in that,” he informed her without a shred of remorse. “If you fight, I’ll hold you down,” he smiled.

Georgia’s thumbs hooked the lacy sides of her panties, easing them down over her hips. Willow felt the slight scratchiness of the rug on her tender bottom as Georgia pulled her panties down. She grimaced at the sensation and at the humiliating position she was in, loosely restrained by the physical presence of the two vampires, pinned like a butterfly by Spike’s cool stare and the intimidating knowledge that he was holding himself in check, not actually hurting her, but more than willing to if she made an issue of it.

She gritted her teeth as Georgia pushed her legs apart, tensing. She felt her hands on the insides of her thighs, silky and cold over the stockings and then on her bare upper thighs, pushing her legs further apart. Spike’s hand moved over her abdomen as Georgia kissed the inside of her thigh, rolling one stocking down to lick the skin beneath the irritating band of elastic that had held the stocking up. His fingers tightened in her hair, dragging her attention back to him as he licked and sucked on her kiss swollen lips. She felt his fingers drift through the soft curls between her legs and tried to close them. Georgia laughed, holding her legs apart easily.

“Oh, baby, we are going to make you feel so good,” she said as Spike’s fingers parted her.

“No,” she moaned, eyes closing, humiliation closing her throat as the touch of his cool fingers brought home the fact that she was wet. She could feel it spreading with his touch, his fingers stroking her open like a flower, circling the slick gulf of her vagina, moving upward in a long stroke to the sensitive bundle of nerves jutting out slightly. His tongue swept inside her mouth as he rubbed her clitoris.

“Pretty, pretty kitty,” Georgia breathed. “With her sweet, pretty pussy.”

Willow stopped breathing as Georgia’s tongue swiped over her from anus to clit, dueling with Spike’s fingers. He pinched her clit, and Georgia’s tongue flicked over it. The sensations made her gasp and Spike released her lips to let her breathe. Spike’s fingers left her, and Georgia moaned, seizing Willow’s clitoris with her lips, tugging on it, sucking. Spike ran his hand through Georgia’s long hair, tugging on it to get her attention. She lifted her head and smiled at him, her lips shiny with the girl’s juices. She levered herself forward, her hands on the inside of Willow’s thighs. Spike met her halfway, tasting Willow on her generous lips, a little residual warmth and the sweet honeyed taste of her wet cunt on Georgia’s lips and tongue combining deliciously with fruit, whiskey, and champagne. Delicious.

The pearls from Georgia’s necklace brushed against Willow’s cunt. He found them there when his hand returned to explore her while he kissed Georgia. He eased one finger into her, feeling her involuntary movements as she felt his finger penetrating her. With his other hand still in Willow’s hair, he drew her up until she was half sitting, so Georgia could kiss her. His finger moved in and out of her roughly, enjoying how tight and hot she felt wetly gripping a single finger. He hooked the trailing end of the pearl necklace with his thumb, rubbing the smooth, round pearls over her clitoris. Georgia stopped kissing her to watch what he was doing, making an approving sound as he started pushing the pearls into Willow.

Willow was slow to realize what he was doing. Georgia was kissing her way down her abdomen, as Spike eased her back down on her back. When it reached her that he was finger fucking her with Georgia’s necklace wrapped around his finger, the idea bloomed in her head and she bucked against his hand, fruitlessly, still held down firmly by Georgia who was now tethered to her by the slack in the necklace. A pillow was shoved under her hips just before Georgia’s tongue slid over her clit again, and Willow arched her back moaning at the tormenting feel of the pearls shifting inside of her as Georgia sucked on her clitoris.

Spike yanked his shirts over his head, standing up to unbuckle his belt and take off his pants. For a moment, he stood over them. Willow’s fingers were digging into the rug on either side of her hips, her eyes tightly closed, her face contorted in the throes of passion. Soft, desperate moans wept from her throat. Georgia no longer had any reason to hold her legs apart, and her hands were on the girl’s breasts, plucking at her hard little nipples as she writhed under Georgia’s mouth. When she started to come, Georgia tugged on the necklace, and Willow’s back arched like a tightly strung bow, her legs shaking with the force of the orgasm Georgia was literally tugging out of her. Her voice broke on a long, mewling whimper of pleasure.

Looking up at Spike, Georgia licked her lips and afforded herself one last lingering lick, tasting Willow’s fresh climax. “Who do you want to fuck first?” she asked him, sure that he wanted the girl first.

“Her,” he said. “Get undressed,” he added as she moved from her post between Willow’s legs.

Coming down from her stunning orgasm, Willow heard them, and her heart slammed in her chest. She still could not believe that she had had an orgasm. What was wrong with her? A girl, a vampire girl had gone down on her and she had come harder than she ever had in her entire life. It meant something, didn’t it? She had never thought about having sex with another girl before. She hadn’t been thinking about having sex with Georgia because this wasn’t sex. This was . . . rape. Rape wasn’t about sex. It was about power and control and humiliation. It was not sex. But it made her come.

Too late, she tried to roll away and pull her legs together, but Spike was kneeling between her legs, and he just brought her back to her former position, pushing down on her hips, angled steeply from the pillow under her.

Georgia moved to one side to get a better view. She unwound the pearls from her neck, dropping them on the floor and kicked off her shoes. She paused before tugging the stretchy, supple knit dress over her head to admire the two naked bodies before her. Willow was almost as pale as a vampire, but with freckles sprinkled over her milky skin and a flush of color. Her auburn hair was fanned out around her head, damp with sweat. Spike’s hands were moving from her hips over her long, lean torso to her small, perfect breasts. They had tasted so sweet with the champagne.

He wasn’t as big as Colin. Actually, he wasn’t as tall as she was in heels, but Georgia knew that they would be almost perfectly matched. He was all lean muscle and intriguing angles. Naked, she strolled over to the sideboard, pouring another glass of champagne. She watched a kneeling Spike grasp his cock, his hips jerking as he thrust into his hand. Willow was pushing back, looking panic stricken and overwhelmed. Poor baby. She was trembling, and tears stood in her eyes. The look on her face was forlorn and full of the depths of her betrayal. She had, without meaning to, gotten used to thinking of them protecting her.

Georgia walked back over to them. “My turn,” Georgia told him, after all it was her party, and she had had the girl and was less interested in her at this point. She handed Spike the champagne flute she was carrying and pushed him back into the only chair in the room with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

He had left Willow in a sweaty, boneless heap on the floor and she had rolled over on her side, hugging her knees to her chest, probably crying soundless tears of mortification at her winning performance on her back. He toasted the smooth expanse of said back, rubbed raw from rolling on a rug. As fucking with your enemy’s head experiences went, Red was top shelf. He felt pleasantly buzzed with lust.

She was probably comforting herself with the notion that this was a one-time, never to be forgotten, object lesson in the dangers of drinking and playing with the immoral undead. She would be wrong. He had every intention of improving on Georgia’s performance with lots of variations. What better way to while away his idle hours until the Slayer made the trade?

Georgia knelt in front of him, and he obligingly opened his legs to make room for her. Her lipstick was mostly gone, and he grinned at her, admiring her mouth, well aware of where this was going. She wanted to play. “Miss me?” he teased.

Her fuller breasts pressed into the inside of his legs. She grinned. “We should have gotten a video camera,” she told him. “You’ll look good together,” she elaborated, her fingers cupping his balls. His cock twitched.

He took a deep, completely unnecessary breath as Georgia took his cock into her cool mouth, hungrily licking pre-cum from his shaft. He leaned back, sipping his champagne, stroking Georgia’s bobbing head, and watching the girl. He saw her stiffening up as the unmistakable sounds of the blow job Georgia was administering reached her. If anything she curled up more tightly into herself, as if she could hide from what was happening.

Sensing that he was distracted, Georgia scraped the underside of his cock with her teeth and his hand tightened in her hair momentarily as he growled at her, and then purred as her tongue laved his abused flesh. Almost casually, he used his fingernail to open a small wound near the base of his cock and she whimpered lustfully, taking more of him into her mouth to reach the blood that smeared his cock. It wasn’t hardly anything, just a taste, but—she moaned as the rich, coppery tang hit her tongue, trying hard to control her true face, feeling her fangs elongate fractionally. Male vampires were notoriously sensitive about having their cocks sucked by a vampire with a mouth full of razor sharp teeth, though it was one kink Georgia had seen indulged in. Line of Aurelius. Blood of the line of Aurelius, she thought wildly. At that moment, she would have done anything for him for giving her such an intimate gift of blood.

No need though. He wasn’t a domineering prick like some masters she had heard of, accepting sex and blood as tribute without giving anything back but abuse. He was much more generous than that, and soon he was pulling her up into his lap, kissing her mouth and throat as she positioned herself over his cock, his thumb stroking and pinching her clit as she rode him hungrily.

Willow buried her head in her arms, vainly trying to block out the sounds of Spike and Georgia having sex. Oh, God. She had had sex with both of them, in this room, one watching the other as they . . . had her. She had a flash of memory, holding Spike off with her foolish ‘there will be no having, of any kind, with me,’ and she had been so proud of herself for backing him off like that. As if that would have stopped him. She had been so stupid. How could she have been so stupid? Her fisted hands struck her head, at too close a distance to hurt, but it got her attention, and her heart sped up.

They weren’t paying any attention to her, from the sounds of it. She opened her eyes and saw her dress, crumpled in a heap on the floor. Moving carefully, she uncoiled herself and made herself reach for the dress, pulling it on with hands that shook so badly that the zipper seemed beyond her and for a moment she was blinded with tears of frustration at how useless she was. Her only thought was to get out of the room, get as far away as she could from what had happened here. Outside. She had paid attention to where she was most of the night, hyperaware of her surroundings. She was in a city. A big, crowded city, full of people, and police, and phones. Oh, God. Phones. She had to get to a phone to tell Giles where she was, because they would come, they would come get her.

She looked for her panties and shoes, and mentally slapped herself. Underwear would have been nice. She could feel the sticky fluids from oral sex on the insides of her thighs, but this was for her life. She could not afford to hesitate. She needed to go and go fast before they noticed that she wasn’t lying on the floor in post debauchery shock like the besmirched heroine in a cheap novel. Get a grip, Rosenberg, she told herself, resolve face snapping into place without an appropriate audience to appreciate it. Inwardly she wondered where that had been before she had started rolling around on the floor with Georgia and Spike.

With what she prayed was noiseless stealth and speed she stole to the door and threw caution to the winds, jerking it open and shooting through the space. She had just enough presence of mind to thumb lock the plate button, hoping that it would lock the door, before she pulled the door shut behind her and started walking as fast as she could for the nearest exit, her heart pounding so hard that she was sure everyone would hear it. She got no more than ten feet before her resolve slipped a notch and she ran, silently damning the panic that would draw attention to her. Someone was bound to notice the human that had slipped her vampire leash.

Spike had seen her moving out of the corner of his eye and had tensed. She retrieved the dress and was struggling to get back into it—complete waste of time, since he planned on having it off when he was less occupied, but no need to tell her that. She was shaking so badly that it was a wonder she didn’t fall down. Georgia demanded his attention, leaning in for a brutal kiss. She used her fingernail to open a wicked gash above her breast, and at the scent of blood, his game face slammed into place. He didn’t bite her—she belonged to Colin by her own preference, and he respected that, but he wasn’t going to turn down such a pretty offer and he nuzzled and sucked on the oozing wound, the little girl forgotten for the moment as Georgia’s movements became increasingly urgent.

Distantly he registered the door opening and closing in rapid succession, but blood was under his lips, and he was so close. He opened his eyes as Georgia started keening, grinding herself down on his cock. He gripped her hips, giving back as good as he got. ‘Why couldn’t he go for a hot little number like Georgia?’ he thought ruefully, feeling his balls tighten. A fun, smart, sane, leggy blonde who sucked cock with all the enthusiastic efficiency of a Whitehall prostitute and shagged like a Goddess. He really was an idiot.

He came with a hoarse shout and like the team player she was, Georgia followed him right over the edge.

Unable to believe that no one had stopped her, Willow scrambled up the cold marble steps, winding a turn and a half. She hesitated only a second. Freedom was on the other side of two demon types and a black door that Spike had pushed her through only a few hours before. Okay, there was an alley to get through with God knows what lying in wait, but it was only a half block to the street. She had no money. These were problems with solutions, and she had gotten this far.

The two demon bouncers turned to stare at her, obviously surprised to see her unaccompanied. There had been some kind of conversation at the door when they came in about the inadvisability of bringing a human into the lower level club. Something casual had been said by one of the bouncers to the effect that they would not guarantee her safety. She hurtled up the last step. Panic she had in abundance, so she went with it. “They’re killing each other,” she blurted out, pointing down the stairs.

Almost expecting something like this, the bouncers started towards the stairs with thoughts of property damage and pandemonium. Before they thought about stopping the girl, she was out the door, and not really their concern in the first place. The blond vampire who had brought her in could deal with her, providing that whomever he had provoked hadn’t already dusted him.

Spike’s eyes snapped open at the unnatural quiet. He had gotten used to hearing Willow’s heart beat, and it was gone. Belatedly, he remembered hearing the door open and shut. “God damn it,” he swore. “I’ll beat her feet until they bleed for this. Teach her to run away,” he snarled as Georgia scrambled off him. He grabbed his pants and pulled them on swiftly, then his boots. Forget the shirt. She had a helluva head start. Stupid, stupid bitch. Wandering around alone in a demon bar full of vampires. Even the stupidest fledge would smell them on her and tread warily with her, but she didn’t know that, did she? She just lost her head over doing something she sure as hell had enjoyed and ran.

He reached the door and found it locked. Disbelief. He thought she was stupid? He took a half step back and kicked the door in, moderately grateful that he had stopped long enough to put on his boots. Points for locking them in, he thought grimly as a few vampires and demons wisely made an opening for the half naked, enraged vampire in game face stalking across the club trailed by a disheveled blond smoothing her dress down and hopping from one foot to the other as she put her shoes on.

A youthful looking vampire with brown hair gallantly offered his arm as she struggled into her shoes and she shot him an appreciative if distracted smile and an accented “thanks, sugar,” before she hurried after her companion.

Where was she? Her scent was fading fast in the bar. He reached the table that they had staked out earlier, finding only three glum, drunk minions left to their own devises and grabbed his coat. “Find the others. The girl is on the loose,” he snapped at them. “We’ll be picking lazy, stupid bastard out of the ceiling for weeks if I don’t find her in the next five minutes,” he added.

“You’re paying for the door,” one of the club bouncers caught up to him, concluding that whomever had started a fight, had lost it and was probably going to be swept up with the trash in the morning.

Spike pointed at Georgia. “Deal with this,” he ordered. “There’s a girl I came in with,” he reminded them. “The first stupid git that touches her dies hard. I want her found. Now.”

“Then you better get moving. She didn’t look like she was slowing down when she went through the door,” the bouncer sneered. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Georgia digging through a handbag, producing a wad of cash.

Before she could hand it to him, Spike kicked him hard, finding the universal pain center with unerring instinct. Prick. Who the hell did he think he was talking to? “Feels like you want to puke or die, doesn’t it?” he observed. He snapped the demon’s neck with a wet, popping sound and looked around. “Did I stutter?” he demanded. “Move. Find her. Now.”


She stubbed her toe on a curbstone, and the pain brought fresh tears to her eyes. She had to keep moving. On some level she was finding it hard to believe that she had gotten this far. A hand holding couple sidestepped her nervously and she stumbled past them. She had no idea where to go now. Any concept to the geography of the city from the interstate off ramp to the club was lost with the change in orientation from the moving car to the sidewalk. Lost was not altogether bad. Lost was okay. If she could just loose herself in these streets so thoroughly that Spike couldn’t find her, then she had a chance. She had to stay lost or in a crowded place, as public as possible, until dawn.

No. Not crowded. People. What had Spike told her? Misbehave, and you’ll pick my next meal. She would be putting other people in danger. For a moment, for one awful moment, she didn’t care. She was more afraid of being found, being alone, of what would happen to her, than of anything that would happen to anyone else. She pressed her fisted hand against her mouth to keep from screaming. No screaming. No drawing hapless people into the circle of her disaster. Move. Move. Move. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Find a phone.

She rounded a corner and made herself run across the empty street, feeling the pavement sting her bare feet. About two blocks away she saw the neon lights of a Shell sign and concentrated on it, hurrying toward the sign. The gas station was, not surprisingly, closed. She hovered uncertainly outside the door. She had hoped to find a payphone, and she could see one. On the other side of the glass door.

“C’mon, Willow. Think,” she admonished herself, looking around for anything that might be used as a weapon. In a world full of junk, where was a pointy stake when you really needed one? There was an old fashioned pedestal ashtray next to the door that she could probably pick up and swing at Spike if it came to that, but it wasn’t exactly practical for walking through the streets. Probably get her arrested on general principals.

Crazy girl, barefooted, with a makeshift ashtray cudgel—her eyes widened. Arrested. Holy crap. Now, that was a workable plan. She needed to be arrested. The last of her alcohol daze evaporated. Ashtray. Glass door. Gas station. Hello. Get arrested.

She picked up the ashtray by the slender metal rod that held the tulip shaped receptacle. It was heavier than she thought, but she could do it. She took a step back and swung for all she was worth, releasing at the last moment. Her ashtray missile cracked, but did not shatter the heavy plate glass door. She stared at it in amazement for a moment, and then she got mad. God damned door. She couldn’t even break a God damned glass door. Pathetic, is what she was. She picked up the ashtray again and swung it like a bat.

“I-“ the crack widened, “don’t” she felt her second swing up to her elbows and a spider web of cracks began to show, “do,” she hit it again, “pathetic,” she screamed at the still intact door. It hung together for fifteen seconds and then collapsed in a tinkling shower of glass.

She waited for the wail of an alarm system, and started laughing when it didn’t happen. No alarm. No way! I pick the one gas station in America with no alarm system, she thought. Didn’t that just figure.

What the hell. She went to the door. Most of the glass was inside on the floor. This was going to hurt. Then she stopped, and looked around again, back tracking to the service island. There was one of those squeegee things for cleaning your window and a paper towel dispenser with the special blue paper towels only found at service stations. Armed with a fat wad of blue paper towels that made her hand feel sticky and a squeegee, she pushed as much of the glass as she could out of the way and stepped into the jagged hole in the glass, ducking under the metal bar that bisected the door. Once inside she saw a service counter with a phone and her knees almost gave out.

Squeegeeing her way to the phone and out of the range of the glass she went around to the back of the counter and pulled the phone off the counter, sitting on the floor. There wasn’t enough light to actually see the buttons, but she wasn’t risking a light or being out in the open. Running her fingertips lightly over the buttons she forced herself to visualize the position of each number on a keypad. She picked up the phone and a sob broke from her lips at the dial tone. She dialed the Sunnydale area code and then Giles’ home phone number, holding the receiver to her ear, cradling the bulky shape of the phone as she drew her knees up. She listened to it ring once, twice, a third time, and then she heard a man’s voice, a little scratchy, a little annoyed at being called so late, but still polite enough for, “Hello?” And not Giles.

Willow rocked herself, biting her lower lip. Had she dialed the wrong number? “I—I think I have the wrong number,” she managed to get out. She felt like she could not breath.

“Willow,” the voice on the other end of the phone sharpened. “Willow?” he strained to hear her.

She hadn’t dialed the wrong number. She had dialed Rupert Giles number and got Angel because he was staying there. Rupert had been asleep less than an hour, and he had answered his phone because, well, he was awake and the Watcher was exhausted. She sounded frightened. The harsh sound of her breathing was full of tears and hysteria.

“Where are you?” he asked. Was this some new form of torment Spike was inflicting on them? Hurt her, put her on the phone, and then threaten them some more. “Don’t answer if he can hear you,” he said hastily, afraid that she would say something that would put herself in greater danger.

“I got away,” she whispered into the receiver. “I’m in San Francisco.”

He snapped on a light hearing the Watcher stir above. “Okay,” he said. “Where in San Francisco?”

It suddenly struck her that she recognized his voice. “Angel?” she asked slowly.

“Yes, Will, it’s me,” he confirmed, trying to sound reassuring. He heard Giles on the stairs and looked up at him. “Pick up the extension in the bedroom. It’s Willow,” he hissed.

That woke Giles up, and he turned and went back into his bedroom. “Where in San Francisco, Will?” he tried again.

“I-I don’t know,” she stammered. “What are you doing at Giles?”

“Willow!” he groaned. “You’ve been missing for twelve days. I’m trying to help,” he said. “I need you to focus.” Giles had picked up the other extension, but he had wisely refrained from muddying the waters by trying to speak to her. “Where was the last place where you knew where you were?”

“The Temple,” she responded to his steady questioning. “It’s a demon bar, I think, I don’t know the street, but we got off the 101 on 5th Street.”

“That’s okay, Wills, I know where the Temple is,” Angel assured her. “Where are you right now?”

“In a gas station. A couple of blocks away,” she was trying to keep her voice down.

“What kind of gas station? An all night place?”

“No,” she told him. “It’s closed. It’s a Shell. I saw the sign,” she said. “Angel?”

“What, Willow?”

“I broke in,” she confessed. “I broke the glass in the door.”

Giles made a small sound, suspiciously like a groan at the sound of her guilty, little girl voice. Angel nodded. “Well, yeah, it was closed,” he pointed out as if this was entirely reasonable. “It’s okay, Willow,” he assured her.

“No, it's not,” she contradicted, her voice steadier. “I’m not nearly far enough away and the door is all broken and that can’t look normal, and there isn’t an alarm, so no one is coming. Except, Spike. He’ll be coming, won’t he, Angel? I don’t know what to do next. I keep thinking of new things, but I’m afraid of what happens when I run out of ideas,” she admitted.

“Hang in there,” Angel said. “You’re in the city,” he reminded her. “It’s probably a silent alarm,” he improvised. “Willow? Can you drive?” he asked, while he took out his cell phone and keyed 911.

“Of course,” she gasped indignantly. She was eighteen and about to go to college. Of coarse she could drive.

“Right,” he had never seen her drive anywhere. He knew Buffy had never gotten a driver’s license. “I need you to look around, okay. See if you can’t find a peg board or something with keys on it. Check the service bay if you have to,” he instructed.

“Willow,” Giles understood where Angel was going with this. She needed to put some serious distance between herself and Spike as quickly as possible. “Do what Angel says, now, child,” he told her.

“Giles?” her voice rose hopefully. “Uh, okay.”

She had to put down the phone and cross in front of the glass front of the gas station, but she peered carefully out across the quiet street before she made a dash for the service bay. To the right of the door was a peg board with keys, each position numbered.

The local 911 operator answered the phone, “Please state the nature of your emergency,” he said.

“Assault in progress. It’s in San Francisco. I need the San Francisco police,” Angel stressed.

“Transferring you to San Francisco County 911,” the operator stated, as if he received local calls about crimes in jurisdictions four hundred miles away all the time.

The phone rang and was answered, almost identically, “911. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Assault in progress,” Angel said. “My friend is calling from a Shell Station in San Francisco. It’s near a club on Canal called The Temple. She’s hiding from a guy who has beaten her up,” he improvised. “She’s really scared. She broke in to try to get arrested before he finds her. This guy is really dangerous. He’s threatened to kill her.”

“Please try to keep her on the phone with you,” the dispatcher said.



Willow took off the keys in order, hooking them over her left index finger before starting on her middle finger, and then she hurried back to the phone, a soft cry escaping her when she stepped on a bit of glass. She got back to the phone safely and picked it up. “Angel? Giles?” she said, heart pounding.

“Angel is on his cell phone with the police in San Francisco, Willow,” Giles told her. “Are you hurt?” he asked. He had heard her cry out.

“I cut my foot,” she said in a small voice, hoping that Giles wouldn’t ask why she was barefoot. “Are the police coming to get me?”

“Yes,” Angel said quickly, listening to the dispatcher organizing things. It sounded like they were dispatching four squad cars to converge on the area with lights and sirens. Lots of attention. That would back Spike off.

The dispatcher returned to him. “Okay,” she said. “We’ve got help coming. Now, you need to tell your friend that she needs to stay quiet and let them come to her. They’ll have to take her into custody. She’s broken into a private business,” she pointed out. If this was some stupid tiff with a boyfriend, this girl had bitten off more than she could chew, she thought, but she didn’t say that. “I need a description of the girl,” she added.

“She’s about 5’4 and she has red hair,” Angel said.

“What is she wearing?” the dispatcher asked.

“Willow? What are you wearing?” Angel asked her, going back to the land line.

“A dress. It’s green. Sparkly,” she said.

Angel shook his head. Right. Spike had taken her to The Temple. She was dressed to be a cute little vampire accessory. “Green dress,” he told the dispatcher.

“Got it,” she was typing the description. “We need a description of the assailant,” she prompted.

“5’10, 160 pounds, short bleached blond hair,” Angel described. “He’ll be wearing a lot of black, and a long black leather coat,” he said. “English accent.”

In his other ear he could hear Giles telling Willow that everything would be alright, and she shushed him. “I think I heard something,” she whispered. The top half of the glass door finally gave in a shower of glass. “Never mind,” she dismissed as she peered over the counter, sounding relieved. “It’s just the rest of the glass. It fell.”

“You know this guy? Is he a boyfriend or something?” the dispatcher asked, smelling domestic dispute.

“God, no,” Angel was vehement. “He’s a stalker,” again with the half-truths, all in the service of rescuing Willow. “He’s been after her for weeks. He’s threatened to kill her,” he added, which was true. Spike had not out and out threatened to kill her, but that was the general idea.

“Tell her to hang on. She should hear us any second now,” the dispatcher said.

“Willow,” Angel spoke to her. “They are close. You should—“ he heard distant sirens wailing over the open phone line. “Willow?” he couldn’t hear her breathing. “Willow?” he shouted.



“Search the alley. Every car, every fucking corner,” Spike was not underestimating her anymore. She had slowed him down with the lock, and then with some quick thinking about claiming that there was a fight in the club. It was a dead-end alley with a solid brick twelve foot high wall that he ruled out her being industrious enough to climb. That meant she headed for the street. He walked out, cheekbones hollowing as he breathed in air trying to pick up her scent.

He scanned the street. Left took her back towards the club, and she would be trying to get away, so he would go right. The little dark haired girl he had trusted to keep an eye on Willow from time to time was at his elbow, trembling with dread over his palpable anger and the pleasure of hunting.

“Go left, two blocks, doorways, alleys, both sides of the street,” he ordered, fishing his keys out of the pocket. “Then come back, get the car. I’m going east,” he said. Georgia joined him, followed by Colin.

“What the living hell happened?” Colin asked. He had been pulled out of a highly profitable card game.

“She’s taken off,” Spike said. “Industrious little chit,” he nodded in the direction he planned to take. “We move. Now. San Francisco’s going to be too hot,”
Colin’s arm circled Georgia’s neck in a light embrace. “I’ll round up the children, then,” he agreed. “Where are we going?”

It was closing on three thirty in the morning with dawn coming in two hours. “Find us a haunt,” he ordered. “The little dark haired bird’s got the keys to the Desoto. I’ll find the girl,”

He could see that Colin wanted to argue, but he watched the other vampire work out the improbability of winning. He shrugged. “I’ll follow her,” he said. “D’you want to go with Spike?” he asked Georgia.

She understood what he meant. Do you want to go with Spike or do you want to stay here with me and wait until he’s gone and then drive as far and as fast away as they could get. Easy going and lazy, was her Colin. “Sure,” she said. “Better chance of finding her.” She made a face, smudged lipstick stained lips pouting. “Poor baby. She’s probably scared to death,” she looked up at Colin. “Find us someplace nice, please?”

He kissed her cheek and released her, patting her on the ass. He accepted her decision for both of them. He knew she was trying to tell him that it wasn’t just Spike holding her here, though he suspected that it was mostly Spike. He had plans and he was onto something big, and Georgia got a kick out of that, and she smelled of both of them. She was interested in the meek little human girl. You didn’t get to be unliving going on twenty years without developing a yen to taste and turn something truly tender. He would probably hear the details later.



Georgia prowled down the street a few steps behind Spike before crossing to the opposite sidewalk. Where would Willow go? She had no money. She was barefoot. Frightened. Possibly pissed off. It was always possible that she had flagged down a car and gone off with a stranger, which would make it impossible to find her before sunup. She didn’t want to think about what Spike would be like if they didn’t find Willow. Georgia used her senses to get a bead on her. The empty streets helped but the wind blowing in from the bay stirred up a confusing stew of smells. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Spike squat down in front of a curb. He waved her over and Georgia crossed back to him. “This way. She cut her foot,” he said quietly.

There wasn’t a lot of blood, just a small, almost imperceptible smear, but she would be hurt. Looking for a place to hide. He was relatively certain that she would shy away from people right now. They reached an intersection. Decision time.

“Go right,” he told Georgia. Stick to a pattern. He took the left, damning city blocks. If she went straight he was loosing time.

His block offered no hiding places. There was just one big, solid, darkened brick building the length of the block. He was starting to regret his decision to check the side streets. Shit. She had probably run on a straight path until she collapsed in an effort to put as much distance between them as possible. She wasn’t familiar with cities. What would she recognize in the streetscape that would offer sanctuary? He had already considered the idea that she might have flagged down a driver, but after her last attempt to escape had almost gotten her rescuer killed, he thought it was unlikely. She would have to slow down to think through how much of a lead that she had and how hard it would be for him to catch her the way he had the first time, and she was running.

“C’mon, Red,” he muttered to himself. “I’m not going to kill you all at once,” he said grimly. He was at the next intersection, another four-way decision, when the Desoto pulled up to the curb next to him. The girl behind the wheel looked like she needed a phone book to sit on. “You’re on a quarter tank,” she informed him when he stooped to the open passenger window. “There’s a Shell ahead. You want me to fill up?” she asked.

Helpful and cheerful minion, wonderful. He was in hell. “No, you silly bint. I want you to find my fucking girl. Are all you people brain dead?” he snarled at her. Then his head snapped around. Big assed neon sign. Shell. Familiar. Gas station. Ladies room. Phone. Shit! He walked over to the driver’s side and shoved the girl over, adjusting the seat. He drove within sight of the gas station. It was closed. And the front door was smashed all to hell. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You—helpful chit—what’s you’re name?”

“Jeanie,” she said, looking at him in that hungry way fledges had.

Christ on a fucking crutch. He wasn’t a God. It annoyed him, but she had, in a way, led him here, so he was prepared to be charitable. “Take the wheel, pet,” he said. “I want you to go back, pick up Georgia, and then hit the Shell parking lot. Engine running. Got it?”

“Yeah,” she nodded vigorously. “I can do it,”

Of course you can. It’s not bloody complicated, he thought. “Good,” he said, getting out of the car.

Within ten feet of the building he could smell her and hear the frantic beat of her heart as well as the muffled sound of her voice. Got to a phone? He went through the lower half of the door and his coat snagged on something, bringing the rest of glass down. He heard her moving about, and stepped back against the wall, expecting her attention to be directed to the door. Her head appeared from behind the service counter.

“Never mind,” she spoke into the phone. If she turned her head just a bit to the right she’d see him. “It’s just the rest of the glass. It fell,” she sounded relieved, her head dropping forward.

Gotcha. Spike glided across the small room and his hand covered her mouth before she could make a sound. He pried the receiver out of her hand and set it on the counter. Her eyes were wide with shock. He let his true face emerge and pulled her towards him, sinking his fangs into her jugular, feeling her go stiff with the pain of being bitten, a pitiful little cry of defeat trapped behind his hand, vibrating in her throat under his greedy mouth.

For the first time in Willow Rosenberg’s largely terrifying acquaintance with William the Bloody, she fainted.

His head came up, and he went utterly still. He caught her slumping body before it hit the floor, retracting his fangs. He licked the bloody wound, almost as an afterthought, though he found himself, savoring the taste he had of her.

He could hear sirens, faint, but closing fast. There was the sound of a familiar voice on the phone he had set on the counter, and for a moment Spike hesitated.

It was Angel. She had called the great poof? Who knew that Willow and Angel were on so close of terms that she called him first? His lip curled at the repellent notion. He wasn’t sure why it was repellent. It just was. The one thing Angelus and Paingel had in common was their precious little girls. Dru. Buffy. Adding Willow to the list? Bastard. He considered picking up the phone and saying something just to take the piss out of him.

On the other hand, he rather liked the notion of leaving him to rage like an impotent wanker on an open line.

The Desoto was pulling into the service station, making his decision for him. He gathered Willow’s limp body and kicked the metal bar that was all that was left of the door, making it fly open. He went through the open door and strode purposefully to the car like a poncey git on the cover of some idiotic bodice ripper, carrying the swooning virgin off. Only with Red’s stupid luck—astonishingly bad luck, even from his point of view—he was not heroic or misunderstood. He was just an evil bastard with a plan. The small girl driving hopped out and ducked into the back seat while Spike tossed the girl in, relying on Georgia to fend for herself versus an armful of unconscious girl.

He got in. Adjusted the seat again, growling softly at the fresh annoyance, and put the Desoto in gear, driving at an unrecognizably sedate pace away from the Shell station. He even politely pulled to a complete stop at the curb as a police car came roaring up behind him. Glancing over at Georgia for a moment he saw her cuddling Red, stroking her head and rocking her like she was a little lost lamb.

Lost lamb, indeed. Georgia just wanted another go at her. Caught coddling the girl, Georgia gave him a sly smile. “Did I remember to thank you for my present?” she asked.

“Sod off,” Spike retorted.