A light knock came to the door of his cramped office and Rupert Giles, taking a sip of now-cold tea, swallowed before calling out, “Come in.” If he sounded distracted, well, he was. Since his phone calls from Buffy the day before he’d done nothing but research and assign two of his aides to searching the stacks and the files for recent updates on the Slayer. There was an entire division dedicated to the training and world-wide supervision of the Novitiate—the assemblage of young girls deemed worthy to someday hold the title of Slayer, should they fall in line to be Called, that is. But he wanted his own private, and trusted aides, to be the only ones involved with this until he knew something, anything at all to present to the Council. Something, spider sense his Slayer would have called it, told him that was the safest route to take.
The door to his dimly lit office opened Regina Cross poked her head inside. “Have a moment?” she asked in clipped British. Regina was perhaps thirty years old, with a mess of wild red hair from the Irish on her mother’s side, and a temperament to match the fiery locks. She was brash, she was bold, but she was intelligent and quick, and loved her work. Giles liked her immensely.
“Yes, yes, come in,” he waved her through the door. “Find a…well…” He looked around at a loss, the only other chair in his closet-sized office was covered in books.
“I’m fine,” she told him, leaning back against the door. She peered over the mess on his desk at the book he was reading. “Still at it?”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “Yes, I’m afraid. And you? Have you found anything new about the Novitiate?”
She shook her head with regret. “No…and that’s what makes me suspicious. The reports on the girls are…clean. Completely. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing odd reported in months.”
“Months?” he asked, wrinkling his brow as he removed his glasses as she handed him a small stack of printouts.
“Not a peep. The reports from the field read like the instructions for assembling my rack stereo equipment.”
Giles had to smile at her example. She spoke so much like Buffy sometimes…perhaps that was why he had taken to her so quickly once returning to England, and the Council. “True…we do tend to be a bit dry.”
“As a bag of flour,” she agreed, and crossed her arms over her chest, the black square-framed glasses sliding down her nose just a bit. “The reports are coming in as steadily as ever, staked a vampire here…escaped a Parthos demon there…but they usually mention…more. I can’t put my finger on it. But it’s just subtle enough that someone reading it wouldn’t notice.”
“Unless you were looking for it,” he mused, chewing on the stem of his bifocals. “What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. But I mean to find out. The reports come over each morning after sunrise, whatever time sunrise might be in a particular country. Another should be on its way momentarily. I’ll bring it back for you.”
She hesitated a moment longer. “Is there something else?” he asked.
Moving the two steps to his desk she tapped a finger on the papers she’d handed him. “Look at the order the reports came over for the past few weeks...look at the dates.”
Giles hurriedly placed his glasses back on his face and picked up the report, eyes moving quickly over the pages. She saw when the connection was made by the way his mouth and eyes tightened.
Dropping the pages onto the desk he looked up at her, gray eyes intent. “Do you think it’s code?”
“It very well could be, but if it is…it’s sloppy. It took me less than ten minutes to figure it out, though the reports say nothing of consequence inside.” She stepped back again and turned the knob on the door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
He nodded and she quietly shut the door behind her, returning less than twenty minutes later with no more than a rap on the frosted glass window before opening it and barging inside. “Rupert…”
She tossed a printout onto his desk and he noted the worried expression on her face. Picking up the paper he scanned it quickly. “This just came over?” Regina nodded. “You’re sure?”
“It came over less than five minutes ago. I picked it up myself, I’m the first one to have looked at it.”
They shared a look of mutual dread before he rose to his feet. “I have to make a phone call.”
She nodded. “I suspect that yes, you do.”
*~*~*
Spike woke to find himself lying on a soft bed with a dull ache in his head. It was until he moved that the real pain started. He’d kill that bitch, what’s her name, next time he saw her. Opening his eyes completely he tried to move as little as possible and take in his surroundings at the same time. Several lamps lit the room with a golden glow much more gentle than the harsh florescent of the cell he’d been in last he remembered. Glancing around he realized he was in someone’s bedroom. And he was untied.
His feet swung over the side of the bed and landed silently on plush carpet. The room was furnished, spartanly at any rate, with a dresser and small bookshelf that housed a few books and a vase of fake flowers. To his left was a night-stand, a glass of blood waiting for him under the glow of one of the lamps. He picked it up, sniffing it suspiciously and put it back down a moment later. There were two doors in the room, and he unsteadily got to his feet, gripping the iron headboard for support as he rose.
“Door number one,” he muttered and crossed to it, twisting the doorknob and opening it slightly to reveal an empty closet. A few wire hangers swung, clanging lightly together from the breeze opening the door had created.
Feeling slightly relieved he turned and eyeballed the second door before walking to it and turning the knob. It was locked, though by the weight of it, not very well. One hard pull would do it. Obviously, security wasn’t a priority.
Unless what was on the other side was security enough to keep him there…wherever there was.
Grimacing he slunk back to the bed and sat, glancing at the glass of blood again. It was fresh…couldn’t have been sitting out too long either. And it was room temperature, which was certainly better than cold.
Peeling back the plastic wrap over the top he sniffed and his eyebrows shot up. It was human. He gazed at the cup brimming with dark red, sticky liquid before forcing himself to sit it back on the table--where he stared at it hungrily for several minutes before letting out a guttural growl.
Pushing off the bed again with force he began to pace angrily, shoving off the walls as he came to them. The pain in his chest that had been reverberating through his body only minutes before seemed to lessen with every step. His time in the Initiative had made him distrustful of strange blood and he was starving. Fervent glances back at the blood as he passed it time after time only made him more angry.
Swinging around wildly he crossed to the door and began to pound on it.
“Hey! Hey! Out there! Wake up call!”
He stopped, listening for a moment, sure he’d heard sounds of life in the outer room. Resuming the pounding his fist was half way to the door when it swung open, and thanks only to vampire reflexes did he stop himself from hitting the cute blonde on the other side smack in the nose. His fist stopped an inch from her pretty face and he blinked, then grinned. She didn’t flinch.
“You’re awake,” she observed coolly.
“Good call,” he grinned saucily.
“It’s about time,” she told him, her voice like ice as she turned on her heel and headed back into what Spike discovered was a comfortably furnished living room. He paused a moment, slightly confused at her reaction, and ambled after her.
“Sorry to inconvenience you,” he muttered. Taking a look around as they walked he found them to be in a modern apartment. “Nice digs. All that’s missing is the cocker spaniel with your slippers.”
“It’s not mine.”
“The firm’s?” he guessed.
She settled back onto the paisley couch and picked up the book she’d apparently been reading before he interrupted her. “Yes.”
He cocked an eyebrow and cast an eye to the front door. Looked sturdy enough. Windows revealed they were pretty high up, probably twenty, maybe thirty stories. And, damn it all, it was sunny outside though some conscientious soul had tinted the windows with heavy screens to prevent direct sunlight from flooding in. His eyes ticked back to the girl. She was a little thing…no more than thirty years old he’d gauge. Dressed in a formal, yet altogether sexy gray suit, with incredible legs he noted. Her hair was pulled up in an attempt to tame the massive waves he imagined it cascaded into when it was down.
“There’s a spell on the door. No one in or out until the boss gets here,” she informed him, apparently aware of both his scrutiny of her and his surroundings.
“That so? And that would be?”
“Lilah Morgan. You met her earlier,” she reminded him.
He smirked and took a seat on the couch next to her in a position that should have been uncomfortably close but didn’t seem to faze her at all. “And if…I just kill you? Who’s here to protect you?”
She closed her eyes briefly and sighed before turning sharp hazel eyes to his icy blue ones. “The chip in your head, I believe.”
The grin slid off his face and irritation replaced the glint in his eye. “Sod it all,” he grumbled, pushing away from her and sitting back on the couch to pout. A new thought occurred to him. “That blood in there…”
“It’s not tainted. Eat. I’d imagine you’re starving.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, rising off the couch.
“It’s been nearly three days since you’ve eaten. There is more in the refrigerator if you’re still hungry.”
He gawked at her. Three days? That meant…the last time he’d eaten had been a pint in the damned school basement, right before he nodded off to sleep with another pint…this one of Jack Daniels. Growling he strode into the bedroom, grabbed the cup off the table and began to gulp it down as he headed back into the living room. Making a quick right he found his way to the tiny, yet serviceable kitchen, and opened the fridge. This time he didn’t care if the blood was cold.
Grabbing one bag, then another as an afterthought, he stormed back into the living room. “You can’t keep me here, luv.”
“I seem to be doing a very good job of it,” she remarked without looking up. “And I’m not even tired yet.”
“It gets colder in here when you speak,” he shot back and was almost sure he caught the glimpse of a smile. “Tell me something, then. Why give me the lap of semi-luxury after you just spent the better part of two days torturing me?”
“It was necessary. We had to be sure you’re really ensouled. Pain is a part of the process. Now that we know there’s no reason to doubt who you are, or your importance.”
He sunk into an easy chair, slapping one of the spare bags of blood down on the coffee table. “I passed the test so I merit good manners?”
“Something like that.”
She seemed to be done speaking to him, not that that mattered, and he allowed her a few minutes of silence as he poured the blood into a coffee mug he’d snagged on his way back to the living room. So the law firm…Wolf and something he vaguely recalled…they’d set him up with an apartment now.
“Where are we?” he asked suddenly.
She looked up with curiosity. “I’m sorry?”
“What city?” he asked testily.
“Oh…yes. Los Angeles.”
He rolled his eyes. Even more perfect. He’d never had luck in this town. “Wonderful,” he muttered. “When can I expect your employer to put in an appearance so we can get this over with? I’ve got a dinner date tonight. Don’t wanna disappoint her now.”
“Ms. Morgan should be returning momentarily,” she said absently and returned to her book. He glanced at the novel in her hands, noted the musty smell, and grew curious.
“What you reading?”
She sighed again and folded the book in her lap. “Do you plan to continue with the questions all day?”
He grinned. “I can.”
She glared. “If you must know, it’s a book on your history.”
Now his eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding.” One look at her gave him his answer. “No, you’re not. Right…what’s it say? Intrigued? Tantalized? Dazzled by my exploits?”
“Repulsed, actually,” she answered him primly. “But I need to learn more about you if I’m to work with you at all.”
He frowned. “I’m your bloody assignment?”
There was that trace of a smile again, gone before it was ever really there. “I’ve been assigned to the team, yes. I work for Ms. Morgan, and you…are her pet project.”
He almost growled before he looked into her eyes and saw that she was goading him. He sat back instead, sipping on the mug. “Know what buttons to push, eh?”
“I’m on my sixth book about you in two days. One thing I’ve learned…you don’t like being told what to do. That and you have an outrageously out of control ego.”
He bobbled his mug of blood. “Six…sixth? he yelped. “Six?!”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I assure you, there are many more. Accessing them this quickly took some doing, I’m afraid, but there’s nothing the firm doesn’t have a hand in or keep an eye on. Even you.” She chewed her lip thoughtfully for just a moment. “The file on Angelus requires its own vault.”
His eyes narrowed and he grinned evilly. Damn if he wasn’t starting to like her. “Yeah, but his fan club’s crap.” She sniffed but he could see the satisfaction under the proper exterior. “So…now that we’re pals…why don’t you let me in on what the big hub-bub is…bub?”
“I think Ms. Morgan would be better suited for that.”
“Oh, come on now,” he flattered. “You’re what? Her right-hand girl? You probably run the place. She’s just the figurehead.”
“Ms. Morgan is the most important member of our staff,” the girl contradicted. “Working for her is a pleasure.”
He rolled his eyes. “Sure, sure. Whatever. Look…let’s be straight. I just want to know if there’s anything here worth sticking around for.”
“You already know,” she said with some surprise. “The prophecies…about the vampire with a soul.”
“Yeah…that. What prophecies?”
The door to the apartment opened with that and Lilah strode in. “The ones that say you’re going to rule the demon world come the apocalypse.” She tossed her briefcase on the couch next to the girl. “And we’re going to help you make sure that happens.” Lilah glanced down at the woman. “Everything go well here, I trust?”
She nodded. “Of course. We were just…”
“The bird and I were just getting acquainted,” Spike cut in. “But now that the big dog’s here…”
Lilah smiled. “Katrina took good care of you? You’re fed, I can see,” she added, glancing at the empty blood bags on the table.
“Fed and bed…though not in the satisfactory manner,” he grinned, raising a suggestive eyebrow at Katrina.
“We can arrange for all your…satisfactions…later,” Lilah informed him. “Right now I thought we’d get some things settled.”
“Such as?”
“Such as…how we can help each other. But first…there’s just one thing I need to know. Personal curiosity, if you have to know.”
Spike was busy looking over the lovely Katrina’s legs again. “What’s that?”
“How you feel about Angel.”
His eyes sharpened and snapped to hers. “The poofter? Like to see his head on a stake,” he snarled.
Lilah’s eyes danced. “The poofter,” she laughed. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
Seeing her delight, he grinned. “Many more where that came from.” He rose and crossed to her, sizing her up a bit. “Tell me…are we going to go see the old boy?”
Lilah licked her lips. “It’s very, very likely.”
*~*~*
With the help of a contact, one that thankfully still retained the same phone number he’d had years before, Angel was able to determine that Faith was still recorded as an inmate in the women’s prison. He wanted physical verification, but given the late hour that would have to wait until tomorrow. His contact was undoubtedly telling the truth, though…Cale didn’t have a reason to lie to him…that he knew of.
“So she’s still there?” Cordelia ask dubiously.
Angel nodded as they made their way up the stairs a short while later, he headed to make up some rooms for their expected guests, she following him more out of boredom than intention to help.
“So they say.”
“But we won’t know until we see her there,” Cordy insisted.
Angel paused at a linen closet and began loading her arms up with sheets, despite her sputter of protest. “Nope.”
“And Buffy and crew are headed here to not only save her, but Spike, too?”
He began to pile blankets into his own arms. “Yep.”
“And you’re okay with that?” she asked incredulously. “What the hell’s happened in the past few years that makes it okay for Buffy to want to save them? Because last time I checked, they were both still homicidal maniacs and you and I were in the good-guy camp.”
“Don’t know.” He shut the closet and continued down the hall, stopping at a set of double doors and wrestling for the keys in his pocket. Finding them he opened the room and flipped on the light switch. It was dusty, and could use some airing out, but was otherwise clean, if not just a bit outdated. It would do. Without a word he moved to one of the queen-sized beds and began to stretch a soft fitted sheet over the mattress pad. Cordelia plopped her armload of sheets down onto the other bed and sat lazily, watching him.
He observed her from behind lidded eyes as he moved around the bed, adding sheets and blankets as he went. She was hedging, and he knew it. He waited patiently and a moment later, wasn’t disappointed.
“Are you okay with Buffy coming here?” she asked finally.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Her eyebrows flew up with irritation. “Because she’s…Buffy! Hello? Ring any bells? Last time you guys met it wasn’t exactly the stuff dreams are made of. And I personally don’t want the responsibility of picking up the tiny Angel pieces. Again.”
“That was a long time ago,” he answered gruffly.
“No,” she countered, “to us it was just a few weeks ago. And it merited a trip to Sunnydale for you, to make things right with her again, although from what I hear you were more the owed than the owing. And you pummeled her new boyfriend in a fit of testosterone to see who has the biggest cajones.”
Turning his face away from her a small grin played on his lips. Yeah…he’d had the biggest…cajones.
“Speaking of…she bringing the new guy with her?”
The smile was replaced by a frown. “No. Apparently they’re not…anymore.”
“Ah…even better. Single Buffy and Angel thrown together in what will probably end up being more fight to the death kinda stuff. My fav.” She yawned and got up as he moved around to the other bed and began to make it. Flopping down onto the freshly done-up bed, she stretched out, closing her eyes.
Suddenly her eyes opened. “Hey…is Willow going to help with the spell for our memories? She was getting all Bewitchedafied last I heard.”
He glanced up at her, irritation in his eyes over the now crumpled comforter Cordelia was sprawled across. “I don’t know. Buffy mentioned it.”
“What else did she say? How’s the old gang?” She looked up from inspecting a strand of hair for split ends. “Did Xander get fat?”
Angel sighed and stopped tucking in the sheet he’d been bent over. “Cordelia…I don’t know. We didn’t talk about that stuff. She said why she called, she told us what she knew about Spike, and filled me in on the stuff with Faith. That’s it. End of story.”
Cordelia arched an eyebrow. “Well…okay then,” she sniffed and headed for the doors. “But don’t expect me to play room-service with them!” she called, sailing out of the room.
Angel was kidding himself if he thought she didn’t know how wigged he was at the idea of Buffy coming to town, and staying in the hotel with them. As she took the stairs slowly Cordelia looked out over the lobby and took a deep breath. Time to assume crash position, she supposed. But first…she was going to find a drug store and get rid of the blonde abomination her future self had inflicted on her head of hair.
