The Problem
by Esmeralda 
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven - Current

Chapter I

Xander flung out his arms to steady himself as his feet skidded in 
the loose gravel. His attacker took advantage of his momentary loss 
of balance landing a brutal right cross followed by a drop kick that 
sent Xander crashing to his knees. Fortunately, the demon was unable 
to pursue its advantage, a sickening crack signaling its sudden 
demise. Its neck broken, the creature slumped to the ground. Xander 
paused just long enough to flash his rescuer a quick grin and then 
rejoined the fray.
Spike watched his lover launch himself back into the battle and 
shook his head. The boy was like a bloody puppy at times - all 
bouncy energy and bright-eyed enthusiasm. He enjoyed teasing the 
whelp over it, patting Xander on the head and making 'arf arf' 
noises. Not that he had any real complaints. It could be irritating, 
but as Xander applied that same hyper-animation to pretty much 
everything, the benefits far outweighed the annoyance factor. 
Anyway, it was kind of endearing...not that Spike would ever admit 
as much. However, puppyish-enthusiasm aside, Spike realized that 
Xander's fighting skills needed some fine-tuning. From this little 
display it was clear that his lover was still finding his feet with 
his Consort abilities - showing a worrying tendency to under or over 
estimate them. 
As Spike looked on a violet-eyed demon attempted to take Xander out 
with a vicious kick. Xander instinctively sidestepped avoiding the 
blow, before grabbing the demon's raised leg and twisting it with 
bone-snapping ease. Concerns momentarily forgotten, Spike crowed 
with delight. Reaching out he snared a nearby combatant. "See him?" 
- Spike pointed to Xander. The demon he'd plucked from the fray 
nodded nervously. "He's *mine*." The bewildered demon responded to 
the proud declaration with an edgy smile. Then Spike's grin widened 
into something more savage and the demon's smile faded. It scarcely 
had time to blink as Spike wrenched its head back, ripping out its 
throat in one bite, releasing a spray of cobalt coloured blood, and 
bringing an abrupt end to its confusion. 
Dropping the body at his feet, Spike pulled a face. "Fuck. Fucking 
tasteless...." He spat and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. He 
spat again; his expression darkening as the demons foul essence 
continued to linger. Spike growled and kicked the deceased demon a 
few times for good measure. However, his expression brightened as he 
took in the fighting still going on around him. Using the dead demon 
as an impromptu springboard, he gave a happy whoop and launched 
himself back into the fight.

*************************************

In the same dark alley, Doyle and Angel fought side by side: Doyle 
setting them up, Angel knocking them down. It was proving to be an 
efficient system; the ground was already littered with those who had 
encountered Angel's devastating jabs. Light and nimble on his feet, 
Doyle weaved in and out, avoiding the enemies’ heavy-handed tactics 
whilst getting in a few jabs of his own. 
In fact the fight was going well - until Spike noticed a Zarog 
demon closing in on his lover. Distracted, Spike failed to sense the 
assailant behind him, and in an instant it had taken hold, yellowed 
talons stretched across his temples. Even as he raised his arms to 
throw the demon off, the darkness was already descending, and Spike 
fell to his knees, pitching face forward onto the asphalt.
Xander watched in horror as Spike collapsed. "Nooo!" Instinct took 
over. He snatched up a piece of wood and swung it blindly at a demon 
zeroing in on him, caving its skull. Without breaking his stride, 
Xander flung the broken slat aside and rushed to Spike's defense. 
Spike lay motionless, the demon's talons gripping his head. Xander 
threw himself at the creature and succeeded in knocking it away. He 
snarled at it and the demon scuttled backwards. Xander ignored it, 
dropping down beside his lover, blind to all else now but Spike.
Angel had heard Xander's shout. He spun around and was confronted 
by the distraught youth and his childe's crumpled form. Enraged, 
Angel quickly singled out Spike's attacker, lifting it up and 
hurling it against the wall. It struck the brickwork with a 
sickening thud and slid down into a pile of crates, but before Angel 
could finish off the job the demon had scrambled to its feet and 
raced away into the gloom. Angel hesitated briefly over whether or 
not to follow, but one glance at Spike and Xander decided him. He 
abandoned the pursuit and crouched down beside Xander, helping to 
ease Spike over onto his back. 
Xander touched his lover's face anxiously; the familiar features 
felt cold and lax beneath his questing fingers. "Spike? Spike, come 
on. Wake up." There was no response. Xander looked to Angel, but 
found no comfort there: Angel looked about as worried as Xander had 
ever seen him.
By now most of their attackers were either dead or unconscious, and 
those that could still stand chose to flee. Doyle kept an eye on 
them as they ran. "Maybe we should think about gettin' outa here?" 
he suggested. "Before they decide to come back with reinforcements."
Angel nodded and lifted Spike into his arms, cradling his childe 
against his chest. He tried to reassure Xander. "Spike will be fine. 
I've seen him handle worse beatings than this." Angel tried not to 
remember how many of them had been at his hands.
"Sure. I mean, he's already dead. How bad can it be?" Xander 
quipped weakly, trying to quell his mounting fears. The knowledge 
that his lover was technically dead brought little comfort. There 
was a world of difference between Spike’s normal level of 'deadness' 
and this eerie stillness. 
As they hurried to the car, Xander fell into step beside Angel. He 
wound his fingers around a corner of Spike's duster, clutching it 
like a security blanket to ward off the fears that swelled within 
him. //He's fine. He's fine. Spike, you'll be fine. *Please* be 
fine. // 
Fortunately, he was too lost in his own thoughts to notice the look 
that Angel and Doyle exchanged. 

******************************************************

They drove back to the office. Angel carried Spike inside and the 
four descended to the apartment in silence. 
Angel took Spike into the bedroom and placed him on the bed. 
"Xander, stay with him. I need to find out what we're dealing with. 
Okay?"
Xander nodded and lay down beside his lover. He waited until Angel 
and Doyle had left, and then he leaned across to place a gentle kiss 
on Spike's lips. Was it his imagination, or were they colder than 
normal? He drew back and waited. After a minute or so he sighed 
heavily. "Guess that only works in fairy tales, huh?" He snuggled 
back down. Resting his head on a leather clad shoulder, he draped an 
arm across Spike's chest and stared up into his lover's face. Spike 
remained unnervingly still; not so much the relaxed repose of the 
undead as the motionless marble of a tomb effigy.
Xander tried to calm the panic clawing at his chest. He told 
himself that everything would be all right, that Angel would fix 
this and his life would go on as before. However, as he recalled all 
the other occasions when life had screwed him over, his fears grew. 

Chapter II
"Got it." Doyle lay the open book on the desk and quickly read 
through the passage beneath the rough illustration. He frowned. "I 
hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, Angel, but this doesn't look 
good."
Angel came to stand behind his shoulder. "What have you got?"
"Our mystery attacker is an Aruubus demon. They're psychic feeders, 
tapping into a victim’s mental energy through touch an’ draining off 
the memories." Doyle glanced across to see how Angel was taking 
this: judging from his lover's expression, not well. He read on. 
"They take the surface thoughts first, then tap into the deeper 
stuff. The longer they maintain contact the more memories they 
siphon off."
"Can the lost memories be restored?" Angel's face remained stonily 
impassive, but the tightness in his voice testified to his concern.
Doyle scanned further down the page. "Erm...Yeah. If the demon is 
killed the psychic energy it's absorbed is released an’ if a victim 
happens to be somewhere nearby, they get back what they’ve lost."
"Good. Then we kill it."
Doyle read on. "Ah."
"Ah?"
Doyle had finished the chapter. "That won't be easy. Seems these 
Aruubus are nomadic; they don't hang around any place for long. 
Plus, after a while the memories they've taken start to fade. Added 
to that, getting the memories back will be the equivalent of a major 
psychic blast. According to this, most of the poor bastards go mad 
from the shock of being whammied with everything they've lost."
"Spike's not that weak-minded," said Angel. "We find this Aruubus, 
kill it, and get his memories back."
"Hey, I'm with yer one hundred percent. I'm just saying it's not 
gonna be easy that's all."
"We have a lead," said Angel. "This Aruubus was working for whoever 
tried to take us out in that alley. We find them, we find the 
Aruubus."
"Fair enough," Doyle agreed. "But how do we find out who set us up? 
I mean, my vision didn't say anything about twenty pissed off 
demons. It was more of a - 'guy summons demonic entity, demonic 
entity slays guy, demonic entity slinks off into dark alley to feed 
on the local low-life' kinda thing." He shrugged. "And I hafta say, 
it didn't look like the hiring and firing sort. I can't see it 
employing an angry mob."
"If it wasn't the entity, maybe what happened tonight wasn't 
connected to your vision."
"Someone else trying to kill us?" Doyle thought about it. "Yeah, 
that could work. We've certainly ticked-off enough evil types for 
one of them to dish out for the heavies. Could even be they were 
after Spike. I mean, he's pretty good at pissing people off."
"Well now they've pissed me off," said Angel darkly. "It's time for 
a little payback."
"All fine and good, but how do we find who's head to break?"
"We’ll find them," said Angel. 
Before Doyle could say anything else a muffled cry rang out, and in 
the next instant they were both racing for the stairwell. Angel was 
already at the bottom by the second shout and Doyle was only a step 
or two behind. They came to a sliding stop in the bedroom doorway. 
Xander stood, clutching his arm, facing an angry and confused 
looking Spike who held a lamp out in front of him, brandishing it 
like a weapon.
"Are you alright?" Angel asked Xander.
Xander nodded. "Oh, sure. Fine." The false brightness left his 
voice as it rose in panic, "Considering Spike just tried to 
rearrange my face with the bedside lamp! What’s wrong with him?" 
Angel met Xander's desperate gaze. "The demon that attacked him was 
an Aruubus."
Xander looked nonplused. "And I repeat, what's wrong with him?" 
"It sucked out his memories," said Doyle, shooting Angel an 
apologetic look. He understood that this was hard for his lover but 
he couldn't see that there was anything to be gained by sugarcoating 
it for the kid. 
Xander understood at once; his dark eyes widened in distress. 
"He-he's forgotten me?"
"It's temporary," Angel assured him. "We'll get his memories back, 
Xander."
"Right," Doyle agreed.
Angel took a step forward. "Spike. It's okay. Just put the lamp 
down."
In response Spike made a clumsy swing toward him. "Stay back! I 
don't know who you bastards are or how you got me 'ere, but you're 
not laying a hand on me, none of yer!"
Angel frowned. "Will?"
Blue eyes widened briefly before Spike managed to conceal his 
surprise. "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded.
"I'm....a 'friend'," said Angel hesitantly.
Spike's eyes narrowed in scorn. "Sorry *friend*, you'll’ave to do 
better than that. I've never set eyes on you before." He glanced at 
Doyle and Xander. "Any of yer."
"Spike-" Xander began.
"Spike? Why do you keep saying that? What spike?"
Xander looked helplessly at Angel.
"It's a nickname," said Angel. 
"A nickname? Spike?" Spike shook his head. "What bloody idiot came 
up with that?"
Angel shrugged awkwardly. "You did."
"Oh yeah, right," said Spike sarcastically. " 'Course I did. That'd 
explain why I've never bleedin’ 'eard it before." He waved the lamp 
toward them. "Just you lot step away from that door, I reckon I'll 
be going now."
"No," said Angel softly.
Spike sneered at him. "You gonna stop me, *mate*?"
"If I have to. I can't let you go out there. Not until you know 
what you are. It wouldn't be safe for you or any one else."
Spike opened his mouth to snap something back, and then changed 
track as he caught onto something Angel had said. "What do you mean? 
- What you are’?"
Xander and Doyle glanced at Angel worriedly.
You're not human," said Angel. 
Spike sneered openly. "Right. So what would I be then?" 
"A vampire."
Doyle winced. So much for worrying that Angel would sugarcoat this.
Meanwhile, Spike's eyebrows had shot up to his hairline. He looked 
like he wasn't sure whether or not to laugh. He stared at each of 
them in turn. They stared gravely back.
"You're all bleedin' mad." Spike muttered. In the next instant he 
darted forward - swinging the lamp madly as he attempted to charge 
past. Angel plucked the lamp out of his hand and threw it to the 
floor, grabbing Spike and holding him fast. 
Spike squirmed and twisted, trying to break free, spewing forth a 
steady stream of obscenities.
Angel shook him until he fell silent. "Listen to me. *Listen to 
me*. Your name is William. You were born in London - over one 
hundred years ago. Look around you, look at that lamp. Have you ever 
seen anything like that before? Look at how you're dressed. How 
we're dressed. This is the Twenty first century, Will: the year two 
thousand and one. You've been dead for over a hundred and twenty 
years."
Spike stared at him. "You're mad. I'm....I'm not dead."
"No?" said Angel brutally. "Then find your heart beat." He dropped 
Spike back onto his feet. 
Spike hesitantly put his hand over his heart. Terror flooded his 
features. Frantically, he pressed both hands to his chest. 
"W-what...what'ave you done to me?"
Distraught, Angel and Xander moved toward him but Spike suddenly 
pushed past them. He ran blindly until he found a door. Yanking it 
open he dived in, quickly locking it behind him. He swore as he 
realised there was no other door and no window - he was trapped. He 
whirled around, staring about the bathroom in desperation. Suddenly 
he stopped. 
His gaze had fallen upon the large oval mirror above the sink. 
Spike slowly walked over and placed his hand upon the cold, flat 
surface. He shook his head in horrified denial. "No...no...NO!" With 
a desperate cry, he curled his fingers into a fist. As he slammed it 
forward the mirror erupted into a shattered spider web; myriads of 
zigzagging cracks and broken shards. His knuckles grazed the 
brickwork behind, leaving smears of scarlet blood and tiny, frail 
tatters of skin.
Sinking to his knees, arms wrapped around them, Spike rocked back 
and forth, moaning piteously. He didn't so much as flinch when the 
door was suddenly kicked open. Angel stood on the threshold, with 
Xander and Doyle directly behind him. Angel took a cautious step 
forward - only to freeze as Spike cried out and scrambled away.
"Sta-stay back!" he wailed. "You've done this, you bastards. Keep 
away! I'll kill yer. I'll kill the bleedin' lot of yer." He glared 
at them briefly, eyes bright with fear and hate, before lowering his 
head to his knees and hiding his face in his arms.
Angel crouched down until he was eye level with his distraught 
childe. "Will. *Will*, look at me." 
Spike slowly shifted his arms and looked up at Angel fearfully.
"I'm sorry, Will." Angel's voice cracked slightly. "You're right. I 
did this, but it was a long time ago. I was...’different’. And you 
have to believe me when I say you can trust us. You *have* to trust 
us."
"Why should I?" Spike snarled. "You say you've done this?" He 
stabbed his chest with his finger. "Why can't feel nuffin'? You're 
saying I'm dead? That I'm some kind of monster?" 
Spike shook his head, his voice dropping to a bitter whisper. "You 
tell me why I should listen to anything you have to say, *friend*." 
"Because you have to," said Angel. "Because we're the only ones who 
can help you get back what you've lost."
"And what'ave I lost?" Spike spat.
"Everything," said Angel softly.
Spike frowned and studied him silently for a moment. At last he 
nodded. "Alright, I'll listen. Can't say I'll believe any of it mind 
you. The way I see it you're all bloody lunatics."
Visibly relieved, Angel stood, extending a hand to Spike - who 
pointedly ignored it. 
Spike waited until Angel and the others had moved before following 
them into the next room. He stood, stance defiant, as the others 
took their places awkwardly. An uncomfortable silence fell. "Well?" 
he demanded. 
Angel suppressed a sigh. Where to begin? "All right, first - what 
*do* you remember?"
Spike regarded him through narrowed eyes. "You're sayin' I've 
forgotten stuff?"
Angel nodded.
Spike gave a snort. "Well now I know you're lyin', mate. Cos I know 
exactly who I am."
"Are yer sure?" said Doyle. "I mean, if you've really forgotten, 
how would you know?"
Spike thought about that for a moment before settling on looking 
daggers at Doyle. "I 'aven't forgotten nuthin'," he insisted.
"So how do you explain the things in this room?" Angel asked 
pointedly. "That lamp you were holding? The way you're dressed? And 
as I recall, you weren't painting your nails back in 1874."
Spike snuck a surreptitious glance at his hands, eyes widening as 
he saw the chipped black polish.
"And what about in the bathroom?" Angel pressed on. "What did you 
see in there, Will? Or was it what you didn't see?"
"Shut up," Spike snarled.
"You looked in the mirror, didn't you? You looked, but no one 
looked back did they, Will? So what's that all about?" Angel 
pretended to think. "Could be a trick mirror I guess." He shook his 
head. "But how would that work? So if it's not a trick mirror....It 
must be you."
"Shut up!"
"So maybe, just maybe, we're telling you the truth. What do you 
know about vampires, Will? Well I can tell you this much, they don't 
have reflections."
"Shut up! *Shut up*! SHUT UP!" The last part came out as a 
strangled growl. Spike's face shimmered, his demon aspect emerging. 
With a snarl he launched himself at Angel. 
Angel caught him easily and spun him round, holding Spike against 
his chest, pinning his arms back. Spike struggled vainly.
"I'm sorry, childe," Angel whispered, soft enough that only Spike 
heard. 
Spike suddenly went still, his head sagging forward. Angel released 
him. 
The three watched as Spike lifted his hands to his face, 
tentatively touching the ridges that had risen in his skin. A pink 
tongue flickered across the razor-edged teeth. A drop of blood 
welled up and Spike swallowed; gold eyes glittered - the rich red 
fluid sending an obvious rush of pleasure through his body. 
Slowly the wild-eyed panic faded from his face. "It's bloody true," 
he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. Then he began to laugh. 
Doyle glanced at Angel nervously. Angel seemed impassive, though a 
closer look into his eyes revealed both sorrow and remorse. 
Xander's expression was agonized as he watched Spike laugh until 
tears rolled down his cheeks. Gradually, the laughter changed, 
growing steadily more hysterical and the tears were accompanied by 
loud, hiccuping sobs.
"I'm a...v-vampire. A b-loody v-vampire." 
Xander couldn't take it any more. He turned and fled. 
Angel watched him go, his expression torn. 
Doyle understood. "I'll go talk to him." 
Angel was left alone to calm his overwrought childe. He sighed and 
reached forward. 
Spike flinched and jumped back. 
"Easy," Angel soothed. Moving slowly and definitely, he eased his 
fingers into Spike's coat pocket and withdrew a battered packet of 
smokes and a cheap plastic lighter. He lit one and handed it to 
Spike - who hesitated, then wiped his face on his sleeve, and took 
it cautiously. 
Angel eyed the remaining cigarettes. Releasing another heavy sigh, 
he lit a second one and slid down onto the floor, legs out, leaning 
back against the sofa. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, 
exhaling the smoke through his nose, suddenly he felt every one of 
his two hundred plus years. 
Then he heard the whisper of leather against the wooden 
floorboards, and knew before he opened his eyes that Spike had 
settled down beside him. The fragile show of trust tightened his 
throat. Angel glanced at his childe and offered a slight smile. He 
received a wary look in return, but Spike didn't move away. More 
than memories, it seemed, bound sire and childe. Theirs was a tie 
woven in flesh and blood; nothing and no one could break it. 
Somewhere deep inside, Angel felt a knot of fear loosen. He hadn't 
lost Spike; this tentative shared peace was proof of that. However, 
his relief was short lived as he recalled the look on Xander's face 
just before the boy had fled. He would restore Spike's memories, he 
vowed. He wouldn't let either Xander or Spike lose the happiness 
they had found together.
First he would restore Spike...
... Then he would find out who had done this and exact payment. 
He might have a soul, he might play for the good guys, but Angelus 
was still part of him, and he could use that to his advantage when 
he chose. He was a Master Vampire, and someone had dared to hurt 
those he called his own. That someone would pay – preferably in 
blood.

Chapter III
After a brief search, Doyle finally found Xander hunched up against 
the filing cabinet. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief, 
having feared the young man might have taken to the streets in his 
distress. However, locating him was apparently going to be the easy 
part. Xander's anguish was palpable and Doyle felt utterly at a loss 
as what to say that could in any way ease it. So instead he slid to 
the floor and sat cross-legged, laying a gentle hand upon a shaking 
arm. Xander raised his head, revealing silent tear tracks glinting 
silver in the poor light. Doyle's breath caught at the raw pain in 
that desolate gaze. "Come here," he whispered, holding out his arms. 

Xander didn’t hesitate, burrowing into the comfort of Doyle's 
slender embrace; shaking with the force of the sobs that tore 
through him. Doyle didn't offer any pointless platitudes. He simply 
provided an anchor for Xander to cling to; the safety of his arms 
bringing some comfort as Xander cried out his grief. Even after the 
worst of it had passed, Xander remained – his face hidden against 
Doyle's shirt – sniffling loudly. Doyle spied a box of tissues on 
Cordelia's desk. "Hang on a minute," he whispered. Gently 
extricating himself, he snared the box and returned to Xander's 
side. "Here." He held out a handful of multi-coloured tissues.
"Thanks." Xander's voice was hoarse and watery.
Doyle made a show of studying his hands while Xander cleaned 
himself up. Doyle knew from experience that it was discomforting 
enough letting down your guard and sobbing all over someone, without 
adding to the trauma by allowing them to see you all red-eyed and 
runny-nosed after the event. 
Dignity somewhat restored, Xander screwed up the used wad of 
tissues and threw them at the waste paper basket. He missed and the 
resulting wild bark of laughter made Doyle jump.
"Story of my life," Xander explained bitterly. "Can't even get the 
rubbish to land on fucking target." 
Doyle didn't know quite how to respond to that, or to the harshness 
in Xander's voice. He had the feeling that he was moving into deep 
and murky waters, and he was wary of putting a foot wrong. 
"Why?" Xander asked suddenly.
Not fully understanding the question, Doyle responded the only way 
he could, with a shrug.
Xander didn't appear to notice. "I mean, why does everything in my 
life have to turn into a sad, shambolic...mess?" The last word was 
flung out after a brief pause; Xander evidently having failed to 
find a word to suitably sum up the utter crappiness of his former 
existance.
Doyle decided that now would be a good time to intercede. "Hey, 
nothing’s turning into anything here. You and Spike have a good 
thing going. This is just a hiccup, that's all."
"A what?"
"A hiccup," Doyle reiterated firmly. "A minor stumbling block; a 
pebble on the path of good fortune; a wrinkle in the weave of life." 
His meaningless diatribe had its desired effect when a faint smile 
ghosted across the youth's face. 
"You're certifiable," said Xander fondly.
"Course I am," Doyle agreed. "We both are, 'else we wouldn't be 
able to put up with the pair of them." 
"Did Angel mean it? When he said he can fix Spike? He's not just 
saying that, right?"
"*We* can fix this." Doyle stressed the 'we'. "Spike's gonna be 
needin’ you; even if he doesn't know it yet. He's got to be feelin’ 
pretty low right now. And my guess is he's probably gonna be feelin’ 
a lot lower before this thing plays out. You’ve got to hang in 
there."
"He doesn't even know who I am!" 
"He doesn't need to," said Doyle gently, keeping hold of Xander's 
arm when the youth would have pulled away. "Look, Angel's been 
explaining some stuff about this Consort gig." Doyle hesitated. "He 
wants me to know, you know…in case…” His voice trailed off. Angel 
hadn’t exactly asked him yet; it had become something of an impasse 
between them. Seeing that Xander was waiting on him expectantly, 
Doyle pressed on. "Now, I don't pretend to understand the half of 
it, but I do know Spike doesn't need to actually know who you are; 
that’s not how it works. He's bound to you. You're sort of a matched 
set. Memories have got nothin’ to do with it. You're gonna have to 
hang in there, cos the way I’m hearing it you don’t get a choice. 
You have to be there for him." 
Xander sat quietly, clearly mulling over what Doyle said. Finally, 
he leaned back with a sigh. "Okay, I get it. Time to stop feeling 
sorry for myself, right? Show some backbone. Give Spike some 
sympathetic support."
Doyle felt Xander was being a little hard on himself. "No one's 
saying you shouldn't be feeling down about this. I mean, when Angel 
had that whole 'no happiness' thing going on; I spent most of my 
nights drinking myself stupid or wearing out my right hand." He 
flushed admitting to the latter, but Xander just shot him a rueful 
smile. He hurried on. “I just think that maybe you need to be 
concentrating on fixin’ the problem.”
Xander nodded, then asked, “An Aruubus?”
Doyle told Xander what he’d got from the book: deciding to leave 
out the nomadic part for now. Xander had enough to deal with without 
any additional worries about finding this thing. Doyle hoped Angel’s 
source would come through; he wasn’t looking forward to overturning 
every rock in L.A. to see what would crawl out.
“Come on, lets go an’ see if Spike’s calmed down any, yeah?”
Xander nodded and the pair made their way downstairs.

Chapter IV
In fact, given the current circumstances, Spike was feeling 
remarkably calm. His earlier level of panic had given way to a 
strange sense of ‘rightness’, as though on some instinctual level 
his body still knew how to be a vampire, even if his mind had 
forgotten. He was even growing accustomed to his heightened 
awareness, so much so that when he heard the approaching heartbeats, 
he hardly flinched.
The boy he’d woken beside earlier entered the room with the Irish 
man at his side. Spike had been too agitated before to really take 
any notice of the whelp. Now it seemed, he couldn’t help but look at 
him, as though he was drawn to him in some way. Spike didn’t want to 
be obvious about it, so he stole occasional glances from under 
lowered lashes, whilst seemingly focused on the smoke smoldering 
between his fingers.
His first impression was young, no longer a child, but barely a 
man. The eyes were large, dark, and somewhat mournful looking. The 
boy’s hair was dark too, thick loose waves cropped close to his 
collar. Spike’s fingers twitched involuntarily. He had no memory of 
its texture and somehow that felt…wrong. His gaze lingered on the 
boy’s pale face. Spike’s eyes narrowed; did the whelp always look 
that sickly?
He was on his feet before he’d even registered the action - walking 
toward the boy, who watched wide-eyed but made no move to back away. 
Spike barely spared the Irishman a second glance; Xander held all of 
his focus. 
Doyle exchanged a brief look with Angel, who nodded slightly. Doyle 
stepped away.
Spike could hear the boy’s heart beating. The sound was soothing 
and he pressed even closer, his body brushing against the boy’s. 
When the whelp trembled in response, Spike made a soft, shushing 
noise in his throat. The boy swayed toward him. Spike smelt soap and 
skin, and underneath, the lingering taint of sex. He hissed, alarmed 
as he suddenly hardened in response. //What the hell? //
He jumped back, and felt oddly chilled as he drew away, as if the 
boy’s body had somehow been lending his warmth. He didn’t sense 
Angel behind him, and he jumped when the older vampire spoke softly 
in his ear. 
“He’s yours.”
Spike jerked round to meet Angel’s gaze. The dark eyes pinned and 
held him. “W-what?”
“He’s yours,” Angel repeated. His voice was too soft for anyone 
else in the room to hear. “Can’t you feel it?”
Spike shivered, the soft tones had a strange, hypnotic quality. 
“Feel?” he echoed.
“You can, can’t you?
Spike’s only response was to lick his lips and look back at Xander, 
who was wearing his best ‘rabbit in the headlights’ expression.


Angel wasn’t deliberately seeking to provoke Spike, or torment 
Xander, but there was more at stake here than lost memories. Spike 
and Xander shared a bond that paid no heed to Spike’s bewildered 
state. Denying it could ultimately destroy them both. Spike might 
believe he was ‘mortal Will’ in his head, but deep inside part of 
him still knew what it was to be a vampire. It was up to Angel to 
guide that part, to see that the Consort ties between Spike and 
Xander continued to grow and flourish. He could do nothing less for 
his childe, and his childe’s Chosen. He had to push Spike, he had 
to force the younger vampire to hold onto and explore this link with 
Xander. For if the worst happened, and Spike’s memories were 
irretrievably lost, Angel didn’t want his childe to lose Xander too.
Whether Spike realized it or not, Xander was probably the only good 
thing ever to have come into his life. Their peculiar brand of love 
not withstanding, Angel couldn’t in all honesty count either 
Drusilla or himself as ‘good things’.
He moved closer, letting his lips brush Spike’s ear as he 
whispered, “Go to him.”
Angel used his ‘Master’ voice to nudge Spike. It was working. Spike 
almost seemed to be held in a trance; his pupils dilated, leaving a 
barely visible ring of gold. Xander was equally caught, hypnotized 
by the actions of his lover – who was now rubbing up against him 
like a cat asking to be petted. The ambiance surrounding the pair 
was distracting. Going by his slightly glazed expression, Angel 
guessed that Doyle was picking up on it too. The green eyes held a 
heavy-lidded, dreamy cast that made Angel want to throw him down and 
fuck him through the floor. Angel clenched his hands, digging his 
nails into his palms. Now was not the time to lose control.
“Touch him.” Angel raised his voice slightly, directing it toward 
Xander.
Xander blinked, startled. Hesitantly, he reached out. His fingers 
ghosted over Spike’s hair.
“Again,” Angel instructed.
Bolder, Xander repeated the gesture, his fingers carding through 
the soft blond waves. A low, rumbling purr came from Spike, who’s 
eyes were now half-closed, with just the narrowest glimmer of gold 
showing.
“Xander, go and sit on the sofa.” When the youth shot him a worried 
glance, Angel smiled reassuringly. “It’s all right, Spike will go 
with you.” Sure enough, when Xander stumbled toward the sofa - Spike 
followed, as though tugged along by an invisible thread. Xander sat 
and Spike curled up around his legs, still purring loudly.


As soon as Xander and Spike were seated, Doyle darted to Angel’s 
side. “Okay,” he whispered. “So are you going to tell me what’s 
going on?” Angel took his arm and led him into the bedroom. “Oh, I 
get it.” Doyle fought to keep the resentment out of his voice. “This 
is another Consort thing, right?” He knew that this wasn’t the time 
to be petty, but Angel’s refusal to even talk about claiming him was 
a mounting source of friction between them. Doyle couldn’t help the 
hurt he felt at the perceived slight, and it didn’t help that Angel 
became totally closed-mouthed whenever he tried to bring it up. If 
Angel would only say why he wouldn’t take Doyle as his Consort, then 
maybe Doyle could get past it; as it was, they were both simply 
circling the problem.
Angel looked slightly uncomfortable as he explained. “Spike’s 
vampire nature is starting to reassert itself. The safest way is to 
let it work through the link he shares with Xander.”
“What about the link he has with you?”
Angel shrugged. “A Sire/childe bond is strong, but it still 
requires some instruction to be effective. We don’t have time for me 
to lay down all the rules for Spike.”
Doyle responded with a slight nod, still swallowing down his own 
hurt.
Angel changed the conversation. “How’s Xander doing?”
“About as well as you’d expect; what with him thinking that his 
world’s ended, and he should have been ready for it on account of it 
being his lot in life, or some such crap.” Doyle’s mouth twisted in 
disgust. “You have to hand it to his folks, they really did a number 
on that kid.”
Angel didn’t answer. (He’d had similar conversations with Spike, 
and had spent a considerable amount of time persuading the younger 
vampire that ripping out the Harris clan’s collective throats wasn’t 
really an option.)
Doyle brought the conversation back to the matter in hand. “How 
long do you think we’ve got?”
“Before Spike’s memories start to deteriorate?”
Doyle nodded.
Angel sighed. “I’ve no idea. The book said that the Aruubus fed 
infrequently?”
“Yeah.”
“Then my guess would be a few days, maybe a week if we’re lucky.” 
“So where do you want to start?” Doyle asked.
“I’m going to pay a visit to Merl, see if he’s heard anything. He 
might know where we can find this Aruubus.”
“Right. I’ll hit the streets too. I’ve got a few names I can try. 
They might give us something.”
Angel frowned, then nodded reluctantly. “All right, but be careful. 
We don’t know that this was a deliberate hit, but if it was we’re 
probably all targets.”
“Hey, careful is my middle name remember.”
“I thought it was Francis,” Angel teased gently.
Doyle jabbed him in the ribs. “I thought we agreed we were never 
going to say that word again.”

“What? Fra-” 
Doyle put his hand over Angel’s mouth; his expression was 
exasperated but his eyes danced with laughter. “Never, ever, again.” 
He smiled as Angel kissed his palm. “We should go,” he said softly 
before removing his hand.
“I know,” Angel agreed. He glanced toward the main room. “I just 
wanted to give them a little time.”
“Will they be all right here do you think?”
“Xander can lock up once we’ve gone.” After the incident with Penn, 
Angel had invested some fairly impressive security measures. The 
apartment was now nothing less than a mini fortress. “I’m taking 
Spike with me,” he continued.
“Is that a good idea?”
“The sooner we expose Spike to this Aruubus the better. If I find 
it and I kill it, I’ll need him with me.” He didn’t add that Spike 
was going to start feeling hungry pretty soon, and a fridge full of 
cold blood might not cut it. Xander was in no danger, but Spike 
needed to feed if he was going to maintain his strength, and Angel 
would rather that he was around to ensure that Spike didn’t just 
drag someone in off the street to slate his appetite.
“So how long do you want to give them?”
“A little longer,” said Angel. He wrapped an arm around Doyle’s 
waist and pulled the smaller man hard against him.
Doyle swallowed sharply. “Have we got time to-“
“-No,” said Angel. “But I need…” He didn’t finish, instead nuzzling 
Doyle’s neck with a breathy sigh.
Doyle understood. Xander and Spike weren’t the only ones in need of 
some wordless comfort. Aside from which, that earlier business had 
left him so hard he hurt. He felt Angel’s teeth graze his throat. 
//Oh please, oh please, oh please// he chanted silently. Funny, 
before Angel he’d never given much thought to biting as an erotic 
experience. He didn’t know if it was because Angel was a vampire, or 
simply because it was Angel. Whatever the reason, biting now rated 
right up there, along with the bone melting blow-jobs and the 
incredible sensation of Angel sinking slowly into him… or visa 
versa. Doyle wasn’t picky, equally happy as a top or a bottom, as 
long as Angel was along for the ride. 
A soft purr reverberated against the sensitive skin of his throat 
barely a second before razor edged fangs nipped him gently. A cool 
tongue followed, soothing away the sting. “Please,” Doyle murmured, 
burrowing his hands into Angel’s short hair, trying to pull him 
closer. “Please.” He all but begged. He almost sobbed in frustration 
when Angel drew back – seemingly heedless of the hands tugging at 
his scalp. Gold eyes regarded Doyle silently. “I need you,” Doyle 
offered simply. A fingertip traced his lips. Then Angel was suddenly 
crushing him close, mouth hard against his. Still careful, still 
holding back: nevertheless, needle sharp teeth nicked Doyle’s 
tongue. 
His shirt was yanked open in one pull, sending buttons skittering 
in all directions. Doyle whimpered as Angel’s hands roamed across 
his chest, teasing his nipples into hardness. His own hands 
scrabbled to remove Angel’s shirt, chanting silent hallelujahs as he 
eventually succeeded. His fingers played across an expanse of cool 
satin skin, while Angel covered his body in playful bites and 
kisses. They clung together as if they were each trying to climb 
inside the other. 
Angel reclaimed Doyle’s mouth, imparting a kiss that all but ended 
Doyle’s ability to think. When Angel finally tore free he fastened 
his lips upon Doyle’s exposed throat, sinking his fangs into the 
pale, warm flesh. Doyle gasped and arched against him, clawing at 
Angel’s back. He moaned, his body jerking with each deep pull as 
Angel drank from him, unaware of being lowered onto the bed until 
Angel’s body lay over his. 
Doyle wrapped his legs around his lover and thrust up against him. 
Fingers fumbled with the fastening of his trousers and then a cold 
hand closed around his weeping flesh. Doyle gave a brief startled 
gasp…then he was coming so hard he almost bucked Angel off the bed. 
His foot kicked the bedside lamp, sending it toppling the floor with 
a dull thud. 
When he’d recovered his breath he reached for Angel, only to have 
his fingers to be caught in a gentle grasp and held away. “What 
about-?”
Angel smiled at him tenderly. “You really think I could hold out 
during a ride like that?”
Doyle flushed. “Sorry about the lamp.”
“We’ll get another,” said Angel softly, clearly unconcerned by the 
lamps sacrifice.
Doyle wiggled free a little and peered over the edge of the bed. 
“Actually, I think mebbe it survived.”
Angel drew Doyle back underneath him. “Fuck the lamp,” he muttered, 
nestling contentedly against Doyle’s chest. 
Doyle knew that Angel was listening to his heartbeat. “Yeah, who 
needs it,” he agreed. Since they both had night vision, actually 
neither of them did… but it was a nice lamp.


Xander heard the sounds emanating from the bedroom, but his 
attention was solely on the figure curled around his legs. Spike was 
always very tactile, and it seemed his loss of memory hadn’t altered 
that. It felt strange – both good and scary – to be held by someone 
who was, and wasn’t, his lover. Xander had guessed that this had 
something to do with their Consort link. Part of him was relieved 
that they apparently still had that; part of him was still 
struggling to hold it together. He recognized the wisdom of Doyle’s 
advice – to concentrate on solving the problem, rather than allowing 
it to overwhelm him. But it was hard. Spike had filled a large space 
in his life, and without him Xander felt hollow. 
Next Thursday was to have been their first real anniversary. A whole 
year since that weird, wacky day when Spike had come charging to his 
rescue, performing an impromptu sex act to free him from the 
clutches of a pasty faced demon. They’d planned to celebrate by 
spending the entire day in bed - which wasn’t really any different 
to how they spent most days - nevertheless, Xander had been looking 
forward to it. Bed meant closeness, and cuddling, and sex – and sex 
with Spike was always something to be savoured. Whether it was slow 
and tender or hard and fast, Xander never tired of it. 
He hurt. He missed Spike. His heart was breaking and he wasn’t sure 
how he was going to survive it.
A sad smile played around his mouth as he gently stroked Spike’s 
hair. Spike was purring softly. This wasn’t ‘Will the gutter-rat’ 
pressed against his legs, nor was it his sarcastic, sniping, 
sweet-edged lover. This was a vampire turning to the ties of Consort 
for reassurance. Doyle was right, Spike needed him whether he knew 
it or not, and Xander wasn’t going to let him down. “I’m here,” he 
whispered softly. “Sshh, it’s all right. I’m here.” Spike’s only 
response was to tighten his hold upon Xander’s legs. 


Doyle and Angel padded quietly into the bathroom, necessity having 
cut short their afterglow. They had work to do. After a quick clean 
up, Angel gently separated Spike and Xander. A somewhat sullen and 
suspicious vampire had replaced the wild-eyed, agitated Will of an 
hour before. Angel was used to dealing with his childe in difficult 
moods, though the fact that this Spike no longer remembered him 
might raise some future discipline problems. 
After a brief, but vocal protest from Xander - Doyle, Spike and 
Angel left - leaving the unhappy youth doing research. Spike 
initially balked upon seeing the Cadillac and clearly only bravado 
got him into the passenger seat. Angel had a pretty good idea that 
Spike was still in denial over the whole ‘missing one hundred years 
thing’. As they drove past the brightly lit sidewalks, Spike 
slouched down, staring blankly at the dashboard, studiously ignoring 
the sights and sounds going on around him. Nineteenth Century London 
to modern L.A. was a scary leap by anybody’s standards; Angel could 
feel the distress enemating from his childe in waves. 
They dropped Doyle off first - after Angel had extracted a further 
promise from his lover to take care – and then went to pay a call on 
Merl. Spike calmed visibly as they descended into the sewers; though 
he practically adjoined himself to Angel’s side, in a way he hadn’t 
done since he was first turned. Angel purposely let his fingers 
brush against his childe’s as they walked through the tunnels, 
recognizing the need for comfort.

*****************************************

While Angel and Spike were calling on Merl, Doyle was questioning 
old contacts, trying to get a bead on the Aruubus. After a couple of 
unproductive hours - disheartened by his failure to discover 
anything - he headed back to meet up with the others. 
Uncharacteristically distracted, he failed to notice the car tailing 
him …until he happened to glance up…just in time to see it speeding 
toward him. It struck him almost head on, sending him spinning into 
the gutter, where he lay motionless.

Part Three  

Chapter V
A little over two hours later……….

Doyle bit his lip to contain a moan. He was fairly sure right now, 
any sound would be a bad idea; even breathing was an unwelcome 
intrusion. His head felt like someone had been using it for 
percussion, and the rest of his body had a well used, wrung out feel 
to it. Since the memory of his last conscious moment was proving 
elusive, Doyle kept his eyes closed and tried to think. 
As he was thinking another little factor wormed its way into his 
consciousness: he was upright - and not by choice; something cold 
and heavy encircled each wrist. Fingers felt upwards and encountered 
heavy chain links, rough with rust. Doyle's eyes snapped open. Not 
that he needed to see to know that he was chained to a wall. He 
shivered - partly in response to his predicament and in partly 
because the water trickling down the brickwork was soaking into his 
shirt.
A quick glance at his surroundings suggested that he was probably 
in an old warehouse, one that had long ago fallen into disuse. Age 
and decay tainted the air, and the once whitewashed walls were green 
with damp. A few oddments lay scattered across the badly stained 
floor: some broken pallets, a frayed tarpaulin, a rotting skein of 
rope, and a number of smashed crates. And he wasn't alone. Standing 
near the far wall, the heavy knuckles of its 'hands' scraping the 
ground, was a Shurub demon. 
Okay, this could be bad. This could be very bad. 
He tried an experimental tug on the chains and winced as the links 
rattled noisily; a nervous glance toward his companion indicated 
that either the Shurub was hard of hearing or it didn’t care. Doyle 
returned his attention to his manacles. They were obviously old, 
coated with rust and stains he preferred not to think about. 
Unfortunately, age hadn’t weakened them, and the brackets and rings 
- which fixed the chains to the wall - were all shiny and new. 
Evidently, someone had taken the time to transfer his or her 
favourite toys to a suitably secure locale. He didn’t want to think 
about all the possibilities that chains and a large, empty warehouse 
conjured up. However, the fact that there was probably no one around 
to hear him scream was playing fairly heavily on his mind. 
Though it had its drawbacks, Doyle had been given cause to be 
grateful for his half-demon status on more than one occasion. For 
one thing, it gave him resilience to pain and shock far beyond that 
of a normal human. He could survive injuries that would kill a man. 
Unfortunately, it could also work against him. Should someone take 
it upon his or herself to deliberately inflict pain upon his person, 
he could expect withstand the torment for prolonged periods…with 
only a forlorn hope of passing out and missing some of the ‘fun’.
Along with a growing sense of panic, his memory had returned. He 
recalled the car that had ploughed into him as he crossed the 
street, and he tried to think if there had been any witnesses to his 
subsequent abduction. Unfortunately, he didn’t remember seeing 
anyone; besides which, in that district, bystanders didn’t exactly 
rush forward with information. 
He shivered again and tried to lean away from the cold, dank wall. 
How long had he been here? How much longer would it be before Angel 
counted him as missing? Maybe they were already looking for him? 
Still, try as he might, Doyle couldn’t rouse much hope for a timely 
rescue; there was just too much stacked against him. Whoever had 
done this had timed it perfectly, with everyone distraught and 
distracted over Spike’s little problem.
Which begged the question – just who was behind this? Someone he 
had crossed? Someone Angel had crossed? Someone they’d both crossed? 
Doyle began a tally of names in his head; it amounted to a 
depressingly long list. However, most were dead or similarly 
indisposed, and of those still unaccounted for he couldn’t really 
think of one who bore a ‘chains and manacles’ kind of grudge.
“So, you’re the little half-breed my Angel’s been amusing himself 
with.”
Doyle’s head snapped up and he stared wide-eyed at the woman 
standing a few feet away from him. He hadn’t heard her arrive and 
her scent was wrong for a human. It only took him a moment to place 
it. 
Oh, god: a vampire.
She was beautiful: deceptively fragile, with pale, delicate 
features and shoulder length fair hair. She wore a crushed velvet 
dress in midnight blue that emphasized the unnatural pallor of her 
skin. Doyle wet his lips nervously and tried to dampen down his 
fear. Vampires were never good news. 
“Erm, hi,” he offered with false brightness, proud that his voice 
barely wavered. She ignored him and moved closer. Doyle fought back 
a flinch as she took hold of his chin and held his face up to her 
cold, assessing gaze.
“He always did like to play with the peasants,” she murmured. “Like 
a cat, toying with a mouse.” 
Doyle was wracking his brains to try and place this crazy bitch. It 
came to him in a rush of terror. Darla. This had to be Darla. He 
hadn’t missed the proprietary tone when she spoke of Angel. He 
stared into pale blue eyes, cloudy with hate. Oh, God. He was going 
to die.
Her voice dropped to a sibilant whisper as she continued. “Of 
course, eventually the cat tires of the game and kills the mouse.” 
Her fingers tightened painfully. “Vermin have to be destroyed,” she 
hissed.
Doyle tried not to wince as her nails cut his skin. “You know, 
Angel told me about you.” He ignored his survival sense, which was 
shouting at him to shut up. “Darla, right? Yeah, he said he felt 
sorry for yer, on account of you being a real woman once, and now 
yer just a cold, hell-spawned-“ He had a fraction of a second to 
brace himself for the oncoming blow, but his head still rebounded 
off the brickwork with sufficient force to bring tears to his eyes. 
He closed them, silently willing himself to absorb the pain. He 
could feel the blood welling into the scratches she’d left upon his 
cheek. 
The initial pain was already fading to a raw sting, and after a few 
controlled breaths, Doyle risked re-opening his eyes. He barely 
checked a shiver of revulsion; Darla was delicately licking the 
blood from her fingertips. However, it seemed to calm her immediate 
homicidal urges. She eyed him disdainfully
“What would a creature like you know? What we share is beyond your 
understanding.” She brought her face close to his. “I made him. We 
were inseparable. If it weren’t for his curse…” Her voice trailed 
off as her gaze became wistful. “I could have freed him, made him 
mine again.”
Doyle decided it would be unwise to point out the contradictory 
nature of that statement.
“But you-” Darla hissed. The savagery had returned to her 
expression. “You’ve ruined him. I know that you’ve done something to 
alter his curse.” She placed her hands on either side of Doyle’s 
face, holding him fast. Her eyes glittered with spiteful glee as a 
pained gasp escaped him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Yeah,” Doyle spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ve saved him from the 
clutches of crazy bitches like you.”
Her fingers tightened like a vice and Doyle was certain he could 
hear his bones grate in protest. He struggled to withhold a sob, and 
very nearly wept with relief as she released him. However, she only 
did so in order to signal to the Shurub demon. It lumbered over; a 
shapeless mass of scale and muscle.
Darla gracefully stepped aside so that the creature could stand 
directly in front Doyle. It looked to her. She held up her hand. 
“One finger.” It reached for Doyle.
“Wha-“ The rest of the word was lost in a wail as the Shurub’s 
meaty paw closed around Doyle’s hand and a finger snapped wetly. 
Doyle could no longer contain the tears that ran down his cheeks; 
the salt pouring like fire into the cuts on his face. “Oh, god, oh, 
god,” he moaned. Blurrily, he could see Darla, her expression now 
one of vicious amusement.
“Ooh,” she murmured. “That looked so much fun.” Her voice grew 
singsong. “My turn.” 
Doyle barely had a chance to breathe a ‘no’. She reached past the 
manacle around his wrist to grasp his unhurt hand. He tried in vain 
to pull away, sobbing as she wrenched his forefinger sharply – 
dislocating and breaking it in one move.
“Mmm,” she hummed happily. “That was *so* delicious. “She smiled at 
the Shurub. “And we still have eight left.”
Doyle would have liked to say that the next few hours passed by as 
a blur. Unfortunately, every break, cut, burn and blow registered 
with agonizing clarity. When eventually he did sink into 
unconsciousness, it was to the sound of Darla berating the hapless 
Shurub….
“…I wanted him awake you idiot!”

Chapter VI
Doyle awoke when the tugging on his wrist jarred his right hand, 
sending shooting pains stabbing down his arm. He moaned in protest, 
but the tugging didn’t stop, and then suddenly his arm was free. It 
fell limply down by his side, accompanied by a gasp of pain. Doyle 
tried to force his eyelids to open – it seemed to be taking an 
unreasonable amount of effort. When at last he succeeded he found 
himself focusing blurrily on the shapeless face of the Shurub. It 
was working on the manacle binding his left wrist, its huge paws 
proving to be surprisingly dexterous
“Ugh?” It was meant to be ‘what are you doing?’ but Doyle found 
that his cut and swollen mouth shied away from forming actual words. 

The Shurub didn’t respond, nor did it stop what it was doing, until 
finally the second manacle clicked open. Doyle would have dropped 
like a stone if the Shurub hadn’t been holding onto his arm. 
However, as he dangled awkwardly from its grasp, the resulting agony 
almost sent him plummeting back into the darkness. He choked back 
the surge of bile that burned his throat, determined to hold onto 
the contents of his stomach. The Shurub adjusted its grip, handling 
him surprisingly gently – considering it had been beating the crap 
out of him only a little while earlier.
Doyle was utterly confused. Somehow the feeling must have managed 
to manifest itself on his bruised, swollen features, as the creature 
appeared to make an approximation of a shrug – quite an achievement 
for something without a visible neck.
“Lady, loud.” The Shurub sounded as if it was speaking around a 
mouthful of rocks.
Doyle frowned, but evidently the Shurub had nothing more to offer. 
Thinking really required more energy than he was able to muster 
right now. Nevertheless, Doyle deduced that Darla had offended the 
creature’s sensibilities in some way by shouting at it – in a way 
that employing it to torture the life out of someone clearly had 
not. It seemed, the creature had decided to retaliate by ruining 
the ‘loud lady’s’ fun i.e. by letting Doyle go. 
Unfortunately, Doyle wasn’t in a fit state to actually go anywhere, 
no matter how much he desired it. This little fact took a while to 
sink through the Shurub’s gnarly skin. It kept trying to stand Doyle 
up, ‘humphing’ in annoyance when he repeatedly fell down: something 
that got old really, really quickly. Doyle’s legs weren’t broken, 
but they had the tensile strength of soggy papier-mâché. Eventually, 
the Shurub got the message, and heaving Doyle up one more time, it 
draped him over one massive shoulder. 
Doyle cried out weakly as his ribs protested the position but the 
Shurub ignored him. Spots swam before his eyes and he struggled to 
hang on to consciousness as the creature shambled away. Every step 
was agony though he was strengthened by the knowledge that each one 
took him further away from Darla and what would almost certainly 
have been his lingering, agonizing death. Still, the question 
remained – where exactly was he being taken? He had no idea how 
badly he was hurt, but he wasn’t at all sure that he would survive 
if the Shurub simply chose to abandon him somewhere.
He wondered if the creature would be open to a little bribery. 
Trying to ignore the nausea-inducing pain in his hands, he forced 
his fingers to comply and groped around in his shirt top pocket. The 
shirt - now more holes and bloodstains than garment - had been a 
particular favourite. Its roomy pocket could hold all manner of 
useful trinket, such as the small silver hip flask he now produced. 
He dangled it in front of the Shurub’s gaze; hold it out for the 
creature’s inspection.
Doyle hoped that the shiny metal would appeal to the simpleminded 
Shurub. It did. The creature emitted a grunt of obvious interest, 
and reached for the flask. When Doyle pulled it away the Shurub 
growled its displeasure and stood still. Its head turned toward 
Doyle – who found that he was staring into curiously expressionless 
eyes. He forced the words past cracked, bleeding lips. “Later. You 
get this later. First, take me to Angel.” His desperate plan hinged 
on two key points. One, the Shurub wouldn’t simply kill him and 
rifle the flask from his corpse, and two, that the creature would 
know where to find Angel.
It regarded him with a flat, unblinking stare. Doyle held his 
breath. It nodded. “Flask, later.” This was evidently acceptance of 
Doyle’s terms; the creature changed direction and ambled onwards 
once more.


Doyle rapidly lost track of his surroundings, as he drifted in and 
out of consciousness. When the Shurub stopped again, it lowered him 
to the ground and Doyle realised he was in a sewer tunnel. He looked 
around and recognized the trap door leading to Angel’s apartment. 
Tears of relief reduced his vision to a dark blur. He pressed the 
flask into a huge, leathery paw with a hoarse but heartfelt. “Thank 
you.” He held no malice toward this mindless, mountain of muscle. It 
had tortured him simply because Darla had told it to. It had taken 
no pleasure in his pain, no satisfaction in his suffering. It was 
almost childlike in its inability to think for itself. Darla had 
taken advantage of that. 
Doyle found it within himself to offer the Shurub a final warning 
before the creature shuffled off. “Stay away from her,” he 
cautioned. “She’s a bad ‘loud lady’, ‘kay? 
The Shurub stared, and then nodded slowly. “Loud,” it agreed, as if 
this were the only reason it needed to avoid Darla’s company. 
Perhaps it was.
“Yeah,” Doyle mumbled softly. “Loud.” He watched the Shurub leave, 
its massive bulk almost filling the entire round of the tunnel. Only 
when it had gone did he realise he was pretty much stuck; there was 
no way he could climb up to the trap door. What little strength he 
had remaining was failing fast, he was fighting now just to stay 
conscious. “Fuck,” he muttered, wishing he’d asked the Shurub to 
knock. He tried to shout “Hey.” But it came out as a shaky croak. He 
tried again. “Hey.” - It wasn’t much better. Doyle slumped weakly 
against the brickwork, heedless of the slime and water seeping into 
his clothes. “Help,” he muttered – only semi-conscious now – “I need 
help, someone. Help….” 
His eyes rolled back and he fell silent.

Part Four  

Chapter VII
The lone occupant of the apartment paused in the process of pouring 
himself a drink. Xander was taking a break from the seemingly 
endless pile of books Angel had left for him; his eyes hurt from 
squinting at the tiny print. He’d found numerous references to 
Aruubus, or Aruubi, as they were apparently known in plural. 
Unfortunately, none offered anything useful, such as an 
oft-frequented hangout or hideaway. 
Xander was trying very hard not to dwell on the painful possibility 
that the Spike he knew and loved might be lost to him forever. It 
was a thought too agonizing to contemplate. After what felt like a 
lifetime of being unwanted and underfoot, all had finally come right 
in Xander Harris’ world. He had a sense of purpose, and even more 
remarkable someone who loved him exactly as way he was, without any 
designs on changing him. Now it seemed all that might have been 
ripped away, and he was once again left floundering.
Perhaps the hardest part of all was that though Spike was lost to 
him, the vampire was still very much here. He looked the same; he 
sounded pretty much the same; it was tearing Xander apart. He wanted 
to be able to joke with his lover, to tease and touch, and have wild 
monkey sex. But sight and sound aside, this Spike was a stranger. 
This was the Spike of a century before, and regardless of talk of 
Consorts and connections, Xander felt very much the outsider again. 
He sighed and sipped at his juice. Halfway through his second 
mouthful he stopped. He’d definitely heard something that time. What 
was that? Xander approached the trapdoor; he set down his juice and 
crouched beside it. After a moment’s hesitation, he drew back the 
bolts and raised it slightly, peering into the gloom. His night 
vision had been steadily improving; he could quite clearly make out 
a shape in the blackness. He narrowed his gaze and opened the 
trapdoor a little more, letting some of the light from the room pour 
down into the darkness.
The light caught the paleness of skin, illuminating it to Xander’s 
curious gaze. He gave a cry of shock and horror and flung the 
trapdoor fully back, leaping down into the tunnel without a thought. 
“Doyle!” The figure didn’t stir, and for one dreadful, drawn out 
moment, Xander feared that his friend was dead. Then he heard a wet, 
raspy breath and his grief settled slightly. He knelt, his hands 
hovering uncertainly, unsure where he could touch without causing 
more pain or harm. However, Xander knew that he had to get Doyle up 
into the apartment. The cold and damp was starting to make him 
shiver, and Doyle’s skin, when he touched it, was already like ice.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered softly; an apology for the pain he knew 
was unavoidable, as he gently lifted the other man into his arms. 
Doyle’s only response was a slight hitch in his breathing – too far 
gone into unconsciousness to fully register what was happening. 
Xander had to transfer the slight figure onto his shoulder in order 
to scale the ladder. The wet, gurgling breaths next to his ear made 
him shudder. 
The last part – exiting the opening - proved a little tricky, and 
Xander was forced to set Doyle down on the floor first, before 
scrambling out after him. In the light of the apartment Doyle looked 
even worse. His face was badly swollen, the features distorted and 
bloody, leaving him barely recognizable. What remained of his shirt 
was sodden and torn, the skin visible beneath coated in grime and 
still more blood. Xander gently lifted Doyle again, carrying him 
through into the bedroom. His teeth worried his lower lip as he 
carefully examined his charge.
Unfortunately, it was every bit as bad as it looked. No more than a 
square inch of skin had been spared; the rest held either cuts, 
burns or bruises. Someone had evidently taken a whip to Doyle’s 
torso, the lash marks clearly visible. Xander moved swiftly; he 
brought the medical kit and a soft, clean facecloth from the 
bathroom. Then he carried through a bowl of warm water from the 
kitchen, grabbing his cell phone as he walked past. Taking out the 
scissors from the kit, he cut the shirt free from Doyle’s battered 
body. Then he soaked the cloth in the warm water, and very gently he 
began to wash away the blood and dirt.
Balancing the cell phone against his ear, Xander pressed the 
speed-dial. “Come, Angel. Come on,” he muttered frantically. There 
wasn’t even a ringing tone; either the phone was broken, or Angel 
was out of range. Xander cursed and dropped the phone onto the 
bedside cabinet; at the clatter, Doyle moaned and moved slightly.
“Doyle?” Xander moved the washcloth up to Doyle’s face, using a 
fresh corner to gently brush away the bloody mess that soiled it. He 
quickly realised that Doyle was trying to draw some of the moisture 
from the wet cloth. Cursing himself for his thoughtlessness, Xander 
raced back into the kitchen and brought a cup of fresh water. 
Knowing that there was no way Doyle could drink from it, Xander 
dipped his fingers into the cup and very gently stroked them across 
Doyle’s cracked, split lips. At first there appeared to be no 
response; then Doyle’s lips slowly parted - just the barest fraction 
- and a tongue cautiously flickered out to claim the precious 
liquid.
Xander repeated the process twice more until – apparently exhausted 
by the effort – Doyle appeared to have had enough. Xander put down 
the cup and picked up the washcloth again. He wiped it gently over 
Doyle’s forehead. “Doyle?” he whispered. “Doyle, can you hear me?” 
He frowned as the lips moved but no sound came out. He knelt down on 
the floor, bringing his face level with the other man’s. “Doyle?”
“Xan-Xander?”
That time he heard it, the faintest of whispers, so fragile that it 
was almost lost behind the sound of his own breathing. He was just 
thankful that Doyle had spoken at all. “Yeah,” he replied. “It’s me. 
It’s okay. You’re safe now.” He didn’t know what other reassurances 
he could offer. “What…what happened?” he asked hesitantly. 
“D-d-d“
Doyle was clearly struggling to force out the words. He seemed to 
grow agitated from the effort. Xander grew alarmed by the rapid 
increase in the ragged, uneven breathing. “Hey. Shush, easy, easy. 
It doesn’t matter. We’ll talk later, okay? When Angel gets back. You 
just rest. It’s going to be all right.” Tenderly, he risked a touch 
to the other man’s face, tracing the poor, bruised cheek with a 
shaking finger. “You’re going to be all right,” he repeated, more a 
desperate reassurance to himself than anything. 
However, Doyle shook his head. “D-d-” he rasped. 
Xander didn’t like the sound of that. “Do you mean danger? We’re in 
danger?”
“D-d“ Doyle began again, and then he broke off on a fit of 
coughing.
Xander reached for the cup of water, but Doyle fell silent before 
his fingers had closed around it. “Doyle?” Scared, Xander shuffled 
closer, and almost collapsed with relief when he detected the 
shallow rise and fall of Doyle’s chest. The other man had lapsed 
back into unconsciousness: a decided improvement on death, but still 
far from a good thing. 
“Okay, right. Danger.” Now what the hell was he supposed to do? He 
couldn’t get in touch with Angel. Spike was with Angel. He was on 
his own. Xander set his mouth determinedly and reached for his cell 
phone again, punching in another number. “Hi, Cordy-I don’t care 
what time it is- I need your help. Get here fast. I’m at the 
apartment.” He glanced back at the figure on the bed. “It’s Doyle, 
he’s hurt. Yeah, it’s bad,” he added softly. He closed the phone. He 
hadn’t said what he had to alarm Cordelia. He just wanted her to 
understand the dire urgency of the situation. Besides, he didn’t 
want her walking in here and freaking out. 
He turned his attentions back to Doyle, refilling the bowl with 
fresh warm water before recommencing the wiping down. Doyle never 
once stirred; though to Xander’s continual relief, his chest 
continued to rise and fall fairly steadily with each rattling 
breath. 

Chapter VIII
“Oh, my God.” Cordelia’s horror reflected on her face.
Xander cut past her questions. “Listen, there’s no time to explain. 
I need you to stay here and look after Doyle-“
“-He should be in a hospital,” said Cordelia interrupted, moving 
toward the bed.
“No.” Xander was vehement. “No hospitals.” At Cordelia’s look he 
offered a hasty explanation. “Think, Cordy. He’s half-demon. God 
only knows what his blood-work would look like. The guys in white 
coats would be carting him off before you could blink.”
It was a valid point. Cordelia conceded, albeit reluctantly. “Okay, 
no hospitals. What do you want to do then? And where’s Angel?”
“I’ve no idea.” Xander gave his cell phone a shake. “I can’t get 
through to him on this thing.” 
“He’s probably switched it off again.” Angel’s hatred for all 
things cellular was near legendary.
“No. It’s on. He’s just out of signal range or something. Maybe 
they’re underground?” he wondered aloud.
“So what are we going to do?” Cordelia had taken up the washcloth 
and was stroking it down Doyle’s arms. Suddenly her face crumpled. 
“He’s unconscious. I thought he was just resting.” She turned to 
Xander in distress.
“He’ll be fine, Cordy.” Xander tried to reassure her. “He’s 
half-demon, remember? He’ll heal in no time.” He crossed his fingers 
mentally, hoping that he was telling her the truth. Even cleaned of 
all the blood and dirt, Doyle still looked terrible. If anything, 
the swelling was even worse, and his usually pale skin seemed nearly 
translucent; there was a dreadful fragility surrounding him. Xander 
didn’t want to leave and only the need to fetch Angel tore him from 
his friend’s side. “Listen, I have to go. Whatever you do, don’t 
answer the door to anyone but us.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find Angel.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know where he was?”
“I don’t-“
“-Then-“
Xander cut her off. “I can’t find Angel; I can find Spike. Don’t 
ask me how. Just trust me on this, okay?”
She nodded, frowning.
Xander placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Stay safe.” 
“We’ll be fine, now go.” Cordelia gave him a little push.
Xander shot one last desperate look toward Doyle, and then left. 
Cordelia called out to as he reached the stairwell. “Wait. Xander, 
wait.” 
He stopped.
“Here.” She held out her car keys. “Take my car.” When he hesitated 
she pressed them into his hand. “Take it,” she insisted. “This is a 
big city. It’ll take you forever on foot.”
Xander took them with a nod of thanks. As he raced up the stairs 
his fears began to prey upon him. He hoped he knew what the hell he 
was doing. He hoped he’d made the right decision in not taking Doyle 
to a hospital. He had to find Angel, now. Outside on the street, 
Xander took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 
There was no way to describe to an outsider what he was feeling. 
This was primeval instinct, power pulsing through his veins, 
charging his body, making it thrum with energy he could neither 
withhold nor contain. He let it rush through him, flooding his 
senses. Xander released another deep, shuddering breath. When he 
re-opened his eyes they glittered gold; though Xander was unaware of 
this as he got into Cordelia’s car – letting the lure of his lover 
guide him to his goal.

Chapter IX.
Angel gave an exaggerated sigh and ground Merl’s face a little 
harder into the wall. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. An Aruubus. Psychic 
feeder. We want to know where to find it.”
“Hmmgphm.”
Angel relaxed his hold slightly.
Merl took a deep breath, and then spoke hastily. “No, no, man. I 
heard you. I heard you. I just don’t know anything, honest. If I 
did, I’d tell you. You have to believe me.” His voice took on a 
whining, pleading tone.
“And why should I do that?” Angel asked, pressing a little harder 
again.
“Aagh, cos it’s the truth. Honest. I don’t know anything., Angel 
man, please.” Merl was in danger of losing his teeth to the 
brickwork.
Angel made a sound equal parts disgust and exasperation as he 
pushed Merl away from him.
“My turn?” Spike asked hopefully. 
Angel seemed to be considering it.
Merl’s alarmed eyes widened even further. Angel might terrify him, 
but at least the ensouled vampire could be trusted to show some 
restraint; he could expect no such clemency from the other one. 
“Please,” he begged. “I don’t know anything, but maybe…maybe I could 
find out. If you let me go.” He turned a desperate, hopeful gaze 
upon Angel, whilst sidling away from Spike.
“All right,” Angel agreed. “You’ve got ten hours.”
“Ten?” Merl squeaked. Twenty-four was the usual going rate.
“*Ten*,” Angel repeated. “Then we’re coming back.” 
Merl nodded glumly. In his mind he was already calculating how far 
he could get in ten hours… Unfortunately, Angel knew him a little 
too well.
As Angel made to leave, he paused and turned back. “Oh and Merl?” 
Merl looked.
“*Be here*.”
Merl sank to the floor, head in hands. He had to find a new line of 
work – informing was playing havoc with his digestive system.


Angel walked back through the tunnel system, Spike followed.
“That’s it?” Spike asked, disgust colouring his voice. “You hardly 
touched him. Aren’t you even gonna make him bleed a *little*?”
“He doesn’t know anything,” said Angel tiredly.
“Well even if he did, he probably wouldn’t cough it up from that. 
We should go back and-“
Angel grabbed Spike’s arm to stop him. “H e d i d n ‘ t k n o 
w a n y t h i n g,” he announciated firmly.
Spike’s face grew sullen. He shook his arm free. “So what are we 
gonna do now then, *mate*?” The last word was sarcastic.
Angel ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I 
was sure if anyone would know anything it would be Merl.”
“You got any other contacts?”
“A few,” said Angel. “But if Merl doesn’t know….” He let his voice 
trail off, but the implication was clear; if Merl didn’t know it was 
unlikely that any of the others would.
Spike shrugged and went through his pockets looking for another 
smoke. 
Angel found it a little odd, not to mention annoying, that out of 
the three of them Spike appeared the least affected by his loss of 
memories. He could only surmise that now Spike’s true nature had 
re-established itself, the younger vampire was calmer, and 
relatively untroubled by what he’d lost, quite literally because he 
didn’t remember it. How could you mourn or miss something, which – 
to your own mind – you’d never had? In fact, Angel had to keep 
reminding himself that Spike had lost his memory. Because, aside 
from a few speech discrepancies, there appeared to be very little 
difference between this Spike, and his normal sarcastic, sniping 
childe. It made Angel wonder just how much of Spike’s character had 
been shaped by his turning, and how much of it had already been in 
place.
However, if Spike was relatively unconcerned, Angel was not. Time 
was pressing on, and he had no real idea how much they’d had to 
start with. Had Spike’s memories already decayed beyond saving? 
Angel refused to accept that possibility – not yet. They had arrived 
back at the car. Angel plucked Spike’s unfinished cigarette out of 
his fingers and managed to get his complaining childe into the front 
seat. They still had a few more name to check out, maybe one of them 
would know something, and if not, there was always the chance that 
one of Doyle’s contacts had come through.
“I’m hungry,” Spike muttered sullenly.
Angel reached over into the back seat and snapped open the cooler 
box, he pulled out a container. “Here, try this.” Spike took it from 
him, removing the lid and sniffing the contents cautiously.
He looked back up at Angel, eyes a little wide. “Blood?”
Angel could see the old Will’s revulsion and wariness waring 
against Spike’s blood craving. “Just try some,” he suggested gently.
Spike looked back at the container. Closing his eyes he, tipped his 
head back and took a long swallow. His face shifted into his 
vampiric ridges – now creased with disgust. “It’s cold.”
“It was in a cooler box,” said Angel dryly; still, he understood 
his childe’s dismay: cold blood just wasn’t the same. 
Spike slumped down in his seat. “I want to go ‘ome.”
Angel reigned in his exasperation; he’d been expecting Spike to 
become more agitated the longer he was away from Xander, but they 
still needed to find the Aruubus. “A few more stops, then we’ll head 
back,” he promised. 
“Whatever you say, mate.” Spike poked a finger into the container 
and then slurped the blood off it noisily. 
Angel started the car. “Try not to get any of that on the seats.”
Spike made a rude gesture and hooked out another fingerful.
Angel sighed. 


They’d visited another three informants and were driving to the 
fourth when Spike suddenly stiffened and sat up in his seat. His 
features had softened back into their human visage; they reflected 
disorientated confusion.
“You all right?” Angel asked.
Spike whined…an actual, animalistic whine, like a dog in distress, 
or a wolf.
Angel pulled up quickly, stopping the car in a quiet side street. 
If Spike was going to have a ‘strange moment’ he didn’t want any 
witnesses. When another car pulled in directly behind them, Angel 
tensed in readiness, and then relaxed as Xander jumped out – well at 
least that explained Spike’s odd behaviour. He went to greet him, 
and tensed up again as a closer look revealed that the youth was in 
a considerably distressed state; glittering eyes huge and dark in a 
paler than normal face. Something was very wrong. “Xand-“ he began.
“-It’s Doyle,” Xander cut in. “He’s hurt.”
For one dizzy, sickening moment the world seemed to lurch, and 
Angel had to place a hand on the car door to steady himself. He met 
Xander’s frightened gaze and the question must have been clear on 
his face.
“I-I think it’s bad.” Xander’s soft voice shook a little. “He was 
really out of it, but he said something about danger and I thought - 
I didn’t know what to do – I didn’t want to leave him alone in case 
whoever did it came there, but I had to find you…Cordy’s with him -“ 
Xander was running out of breath.
Angel interrupted the youth’s frantic rambling. “It’s all right, 
Xander. You did the right thing. Now let’s just go, okay?” He was 
desperate to see his lover’s injuries for himself. Doyle had spoken 
to Xander – so he couldn’t be too badly hurt, right?
Xander nodded, and went back to Cordy’s car. 
Spike had latched onto Xander from the moment he’d appeared, 
keeping one hand on Xander’s arm the whole time the youth had been 
talking. Now he followed Xander, sliding into the passenger seat 
beside him. 
Angel got back into the Cadillac. His hands shook as he restarted 
the engine. For a brief second he stared blankly ahead of him, 
anguished beyond all measure. Doyle was hurt. His Doyle. Someone had 
hurt his Doyle. He wanted to pray that the young man was going to be 
all right…but what deity would listen to a vampire’s prayers?

Part Five

Chapter X
Xander drove as close to the speed limit as he dared; now was most 
definitely not the time to be attracting the attention of an officer 
of the law, not with a near-to-the-edge Spike sitting along side 
him. He kept glancing at his lover. Spike was in human guise, but 
only barely. His eyes shone gold and his features kept shimmering, 
as if he were struggling to hold onto his appearance. His hand had 
settled upon Xander’s leg and Xander could feel the cold touch of 
those long, pale fingers through his jeans. It was familiar contact 
and it soothed his jangled nerves slightly, though paradoxically it 
also made him aware that the comfort he could normally expect from 
Spike was currently beyond his reach. This was still a stranger, and 
now their quest to restore Spike’s memories had been indefinitely 
put on hold. Who was doing this to them? And why? Xander pressed 
down harder on the pedal and tried not to let his despair choke him.
As he pulled up outside the office Angel was already racing inside. 
Xander followed; Spike had taken hold of his hand and didn’t appear 
to be about to let go of it anytime soon. Xander was grateful for 
the physical contact as he re-entered the bedroom. Cordelia moved 
out of the way to let Angel to sit beside his lover. Angel stared at 
Doyle’s battered face, his expression one of fear, grief and barely 
contained rage. As Xander looked on, Angel studied one of Doyle’s 
ruined hands.
“They broke some of his fingers.” 
The raw pain in Angel’s voice made Xander’s throat hurt. Cordelia 
began to cry softly.
Spike peered over Xander’s shoulder. “Bloody Hell. Someone gave the 
poor bugger a right going over, didn’t they.”
Angel carefully lay Doyle’s hand back down upon the bedcovers, Doyle 
murmured softly.
“Doyle?” Angel leaned closer. “Doyle?”
One green eye opened a sliver; the other was swollen shut. 
“A-Angel?”
Angel’s expression melted into one of relief, even as the tears that 
had shimmered in his eyes began to fall. “Yes, I’m here.” He touched 
Doyle’s cheek gently. “I...I.-” His voice broke and he lowered his 
head. Cordelia gave a loud sniffle and practically ran from the 
room. Xander tightened his hold on Spike and received an answering 
squeeze in return. As Angel sat, his head bowed, Doyle’s arm began 
to rise, slowly and shakily, until the half-demon was able to 
clumsily pat his lover’s head.
”Sshh-shh,” Doyle croaked. “I’m-“ He swallowed. “I’m good. It’s 
worse…than…it…looks…”
Spike gave a snort.
Angel raised his head, his expression fierce. “Who did this?”
Doyle swallowed again, wincing as the action caused obvious pain. 
“Darla.”
“Darla?” This from Cordelia, who’d re-entered the room clutching a 
handful of tissues. Her usually perfect features were red and 
blotchy. 
“Who’s Darla?” asked Spike.
“That can’t be right,” said Xander. “I mean she’s dead. Right? As 
in, really dead. As in dusted?”
“Unless someone brought her back.” Angel spoke distractedly, almost 
to himself.
“They can do that?” Cordelia asked.
Angel nodded. “It wouldn’t be easy, and it would take a lot of 
power. But yes, it’s possible.”
“Who’s Darla?” Spike was beginning to sound annoyed.
Xander spoke softly and urgently to his lover. “She’s bad news. Very 
bad news.” He frowned. “And it’s so not fair that they can just 
bring her back.” His frown deepened. “And what re-animator wannabe 
would even want to?”
“I don’t know,” said Angel. “But I’m going to find out.” He was 
holding onto Doyle’s hand, repeatedly stroking his fingers over an 
unmarred section of skin.
Doyle was still clinging to consciousness and he responded to this 
declaration with a desperate. “No.”
Angel looked at him, confused.
“She…she wanted you b-back,” Doyle gasped. “She’s crazy. The 
curse…She knows we changed it.” Doyle was breathing hard as he 
struggled to get the words out. He stared beseechingly at his lover. 
“Please, Angel, just stay away from her.”
“How could she know?” Xander asked.
“She’s been watching.” 
Angel’s words, spoken so flatly, sent a chill down Xander’s spine. 
“Watching? But I thought-? Wouldn’t you have known if she’d been 
hanging around? Like you did with P-Penn.” Xander bit down on his 
lip angrily. One day he was going to say that name without stumbling 
over it. 
Angel shook his head. “I can only sense those I Sired.” 
“Can she sense you?”
“Maybe,” Angel shook his head. “I don’t know. If she can, she’s 
never let on. Anyway, she’ll have to wait.” He looked at his lover. 
“We have to get you comfortable.”
“I’m…oka-“
“-No, you’re not,” Angel cut in gently. “But you will be. For now 
you’re going to let me take care of you.”
Doyle seemed about to protest, but then his face twisted into a 
grimace and he nodded his assent.


Angel knew from Doyle’s expression that the young man was 
uncomfortable with everyone looking on, so he gently cleared the 
others out of the room; that done, he closed the bedroom doors and 
set about removing the rest of Doyle’s clothing. Every wound he 
uncovered magnified his rage, cold fire burning through his blood. 
He had destroyed Darla once, and grieved over it; mourning the loss 
of his Sire…his lover. There had been regret to match the shock on 
her face as he’d driven the arrow deep. This was different. Before 
he’d acted out of necessity – her life balanced against Buffy’s – 
but it had been unpremeditated. Now he wanted to hunt her down. He 
wanted to pay back each cut, burn and broken bone; he would deliver 
this pain upon her tenfold. Then he would kill her. This time the 
thought brought him no grief, no sense of loss. She had hurt what 
was his and she would pay.
He was as careful as he could be - bathing the wounds, binding 
Doyle’s ribs, places splints upon the broken fingers - but he knew 
that he was causing his lover pain and that knowledge tore at him. 
With every sharp breath and grimace he felt his control slipping. 
When he bound Doyle’s ribs the young man gave a choked sob and his 
face erupted into a mask of spines.
“S-sorry,” Doyle gasped. “I’d…I’d forgotten how much ribs hurt.”
Angel’s mouth tightened. He wouldn’t crack. Not yet. “I don’t think 
any of them are broken.”
Doyle took a few shallow breaths and his face shimmered back to its 
human guise. “No. They’re not broke. Bone-wise, I’m p-pretty much 
rubber boy.” His voice, faint and thready, held a touch of bitter 
humour. “Score one more point for the demon ancestry, eh.” He let 
Angel ease him back, lying propped against the pillows – which was 
more comfortable for his chest.
“She was going to kill you.”
Doyle sighed softly. “Look don’t beat yerself up over it. Yeah, she 
was going to kill me – least I think that was pretty much the plan. 
But she didn’t. I’m here. I’m-“
“*-Don’t* say you’re fine.” Angel spoke through gritted teeth. “She 
was going to torture you to death-“
“-I know, I was there.”
“-Because of me,” Angel finished sadly.
Doyle closed his eyes. He didn’t have the energy right now to deal 
with Angel’s guilt on top of everything else. He in no way blamed 
his lover for this, but he didn’t know how to set about convincing 
Angel of that fact. Maybe if he repeated it often enough? “It isn’t 
your fault.”
“No?” Angel’s voice sounded strained. “It’s not my fault that my 
homicidal, jealous ex-lover came after my current lover and tried to 
have him tortured to death?”
Doyle re-opened his eyes and glared at Angel. “*No*, that’s not your 
fault. It’s hers. She chose to do this. She chose you. When did you 
ever have any say?” He could see Angel warring against that little 
hometruth. Doyle struggled to stay awake so he could finish. “It 
happened. Deal with it. But don’t blame yourself, cos I can’t be 
handlin’ a crusade of guilt on top of all this other crap.” He knew 
he was being harsh, but he didn’t know how else to reach his lover, 
and pain was cutting short his patience.
Angel’s face was tight, a mask of suppressed emotion; the demon 
barely held at bay. However, Doyle knew the anger wasn’t aimed at 
him. He recalled Darla’s words- 'do you have any idea what you’ve 
done?' - and he wondered if she had any idea what she’d done. Angel 
wasn’t going to let this go. It didn’t matter if he’d prefer it if 
Angel never crossed paths with his former love. Angel might have a 
soul, but he was still a vampire, and his unbeating heart would 
demand retribution ...justice…vengeance; Hell, whatever you liked 
to call it. Either way, someone was going to end up dusted.
Doyle was afraid. Darla was old and powerful; any hesitation on 
Angel’s part could prove fatal. Doyle knew his lover had been 
fortunate before; Angel had been able to take Darla by surprise, and 
he hadn’t had the opportunity to consider the implications of what 
he was doing. Any regrets and recriminations had come later. Killing 
your Sire was literally a taboo in vampire circles; if Angel hadn’t 
already been a virtual outcast amongst his kind that act would 
certainly have seen him made one. As if reading his thoughts, 
Angel’s soft whisper interrupted his musing.
“I can’t let this go.” A pause. “I can’t…She can’t be allowed the 
chance to hurt you again. Any of you.”
Doyle had been thinking about that too. “You think she sent the 
Aruubus?” Angel’s expression was answer enough. Shit, this was 
getting messier by the minute. “You ever think maybe she’s settin’ 
this up to make you go after her? I mean, Spike’s not gonna be much 
help is he? And she must have reckoned that taking me out would make 
you reckless.”
“She knows I’ve changed,” Angel acknowledged. “She knows how much I 
care about you all.” He touched Doyle’s face gently, sadly. “How 
much I love you. She’s trying to use that against me.”
“You go chasin’ after her and she’ll have succeeded.”
“I have to stop her.”
“How? By dustin’ her again?” Doyle rode out a wave of pain before 
adding. “Yeah, cos that worked real well the last time. Who’s to say 
who ever brought her back won’t just keep on doin’ it. Or are you 
plannin’ on takin’ them on too?” The answering silence alarmed him. 
“No. No way. Angel, think. You said it yerself, this is some serious 
mojo someone’s workin’ here.” Panic gave him renewed energy. The 
last thing he wanted was Angel going after some psychotic sorcerer 
bearing a grudge. He tried to speak again but a bout of coughing cut 
short what he wanted to say. His ribs screamed in protest and he 
clung to Angel for support until the agony receded. 
“Ang-“ he tried once more, but Angel silenced him with gentle 
fingers laid over his cracked lips.
“Shush, we’ll talk more later. Get some rest. I’m here if you need 
anything.” 
A chaste kiss brushed his forehead. Doyle fought hard to stay awake; 
he wanted to hash this out now. He wanted to extract a promise from 
his lover. He didn’t want Angel going after their tormentor alone. 
However, the combination of his injuries and the exhaustion of the 
past few hours finally overwhelmed him, and he surrendered to the 
encroaching darkness. 

*********************

For a while Angel sat, watching over his lover. When Doyle murmured 
in distress, Angel gently stroked the one unbruised part of his face 
until he quietened, smoothing out the frown that appeared. 
Gradually, Doyle’s breathing evened out, and the young man drifted 
into a deeper, dreamless sleep. Angel bestowed a last tender kiss 
before, with great reluctance, he drew away.

Chapter XI
After being ushered out of the bedroom, Cordelia seated herself on 
the sofa, picking up one of the books Xander had left open. In 
between sniffles she was attempting to do some research. Xander went 
over to join her, when Spike suddenly tightened his grip, 
half-dragging him to the bathroom, whereupon he bundled him inside. 
Cordelia glanced up briefly, but she was used to this sort of 
behaviour from them and quickly returned her attention to her book. 
“Hey!” Xander yelped as Spike walked him backwards to the wall. He 
froze as Spike pressed up against him, cold lips nuzzling his 
throat, while an icy tongue lapped at his pulse point. Xander felt 
light-headed as he breathed in the scent of his lover and felt the 
hardness of muscle beneath the soft leather. “Wh-what are you 
doing?”
“Dunno.” Spike sounded almost as confused; though a little of his 
normal cockiness came through as he added, “But it feels good.” 
Xander wriggled, trying to squirm free. Spike growled and held him 
fast. Xander knew it was hopeless; he might be stronger, but he 
wasn’t a match for his lover’s strength. He whimpered – part panic, 
part pleasure – as Spike nipped along his jaw line. This was wrong 
wasn’t it? This wasn’t Spike…But it was, and his body knew it and 
responded accordingly. Even as he melted into the caress, Xander 
made one last valiant attempt. “I -I don’t know if I can do this. 
You’re not you,” he whispered desperately.
“I don’t know who I am.” Spike’s voice was tight and controlled; it 
held both hurt and anger. “Now shut up.” 
Xander shut up. He really couldn’t do much else as Spike’s mouth 
fastened over his, cool lips driving his apart, allowing an icy 
tongue to slip inside. Oh, god, he really… shouldn’t … be … doing… 
this... but it felt so good. When his arms were released Xander was 
powerless to stop himself from pulling Spike closer. Strong, 
impatient fingers tore at his clothing; within seconds he was naked, 
a fully clothed Spike driving against him. Xander decided he really 
needed to remedy that. At first, stripping Spike proved slightly 
problematical; his clothes weren’t so easily torn, fastenings had to 
be addressed. Xander struggled with his lover’s coat, and then did 
battle with the jeans. However, Spike eventually got the message and 
assisted, though he did so without relinquishing Xander’s mouth. 
Finally, Xander succeeded in getting his lover naked. He almost slid 
to the floor as the length of his lover’s body covered his own. 
Trembling, trapped between cold tiles and cool skin, Xander 
surrendered the last of his resistance. This was Spike. This was his 
lover’s smooth, marble white body, marred only by century old scars. 
This was his lover’s scent, sharp, spicy – blood overlaid with the 
taint of leather. This was his lover’s taste, underlined by smoke 
and whiskey. Light headed with want, Xander succumbed to their 
combined assault, drinking in the hard, eager kisses. He thrust his 
tongue into Spike’s mouth, mapping out that cool, moist cavern. 
Spike’s tongue jousted his: each of them vying for control of the 
kiss. 
Suddenly, Spike drew back. Xander moaned, bereft. Confused, he 
looked at his lover - Spike’s gaze pinned him, eyes wild and a 
little crazy.
“Get on your knees.”
The command, issued in a voice thick with desire, set Xander’s heart 
pounding. The cadence of his breathing quickened as he slowly 
dropped to his knees. Spike’s eyes never wavered from his face, 
their colour shifting from cobalt to blue-gold. Xander needed no 
encouragement to take Spike into his mouth; he all but grabbed his 
lover’s slender hips and yanked him forward. Xander happily ran his 
tongue over the weeping tip, tasting the bittersweet fluid as it 
welled up from the slit. He suckled gently, summoning more. Spike’s 
answering groan made his own erection twitch in response. Relaxing 
his throat, Xander took his lover in deep, gripping Spike’s hips to 
prevent Spike from bucking too hard. He liked to think he’d got 
pretty good at this, Spike certainly seemed to appreciate his 
efforts. Xander didn’t know what turned him on more – the act 
itself, or the knowledge that he was driving Spike out of his mind.
A sharp tug on his hair made him reluctantly draw back. Spike eased 
free and literally lifted Xander up, depositing him on his hands and 
knees on the bathmat. Suddenly clued in to what was coming next, 
Xander rifled desperately through the duster, drawing a well-used 
tube of lube from an inside pocket. He thrust it back at Spike. 
“Here.” Thankfully, Spike responded to his breathless urging, 
smoothing the cold, slick gel into his body. Xander was more than 
ready; still, he couldn’t quite prevent a gasp from escaping as two 
fingers replaced one. Barely a breath after Spike was pushing into 
him: hard, relentless, claiming him in one, brutal stroke that drove 
him down onto his forearms. 
Xander moaned. He could feel Spike’s desire merging with his own, 
their shared empathy almost overwhelming them both; he no longer 
knew where he ended and Spike began. Awash in sensation, he drove 
back against Spike, trying to take his lover in even deeper. Spike 
growled in response and began to pound into Xander: harder, faster - 
both of them needing the near savagery of this encounter. Xander 
could feel Spike’s gracile body pressed against his back and 
buttocks, the cool satin of skin overlying whipcord muscle. 
He met his lover thrust for thrust, chanting Spike’s name between 
panting breaths, and when the end came he tumbled over the edge with 
lights exploding behind his eyes. His arms gave way and he collapsed 
forward with an “Oomph”. Spike followed and Xander found himself 
pinned to the bathmat by 150 pounds of horny vampire. His sensitised 
flesh protested, and at his muffled exclamation Spike drew back, 
easing Xander into a sitting position. Spike appeared alarmed and 
wary. Gold eyes glittered catlike, slightly parted lips revealing 
rows of jagged ivory. 
“Who the ‘ell are you?” The accent was thickened with fear and 
mistrust.
Xander was almost relieved. Spike’s easy acceptance of the situation 
had begun to unnerve him. “I’m-“ he began, and then he stopped. How 
could he possibly begin to describe everything he was to Spike? He 
wasn’t even sure there were words to cover half of it, so much had 
to be felt and experienced. “I’m yours,” was all he could offer.
Spike frowned. “Mine?”
“Yours,” Xander repeated, as he knelt up and shuffled forward. He 
hoped he knew what he was doing. He took Spike’s hand – relieved 
that his lover let him – and placed it over his heart, then slid it 
upwards to cover the pulse point at his throat. “All yours,” he 
reaffirmed softly. Xander was only guessing, but he had a pretty 
good idea what was freaking Spike out – aside from the impromptu 
make out session on the bathroom floor. Spike’s vampiric nature had 
to be in chaos round about now, vying for dominance alongside human 
memories and Consort instincts. One craving blood, one recoiling 
from it, while the third demanded Xander be kept safe.
Xander knew it was up to him to show Spike that he could relax that 
brittle control; that he could let go without fear of hurting him. 
Xander wasn’t afraid. He would never fear his lover – whether Spike 
was in his right mind or not. He smiled as long, cool fingers danced 
over his skin, and leaned in closer. Abruptly, Spike tumbled him 
into his lap. A brief pause, then slick, hot pain as fangs sliced 
into his throat. Xander felt himself hardening in response. His 
heightened awareness allowed him to feel the swell of heat as the 
blood rushed upwards, the burn and pull as his lover drank from him. 
He could smell the rich coppery scent as scarlet ribbons trickled 
down his chest. He tilted his head further back, granting his lover 
better access to the arc of his exposed throat. 
He moaned in protest when Spike released him suddenly, but his 
complaints were quickly forgotten when Spike tore into his own wrist 
– proffering the bloody limb. Xander seized upon it with a hiss of 
delight. Spike returned his attention to Xander’s throat, lapping 
almost delicately, while Xander gulped eagerly, the metallic tang 
bursting across his tongue. 
Xander sat, cradled against his lover’s chest, until Cordelia’s 
voice cut short their too brief nirvana.
“Are you two coming out of there anytime this century? Only some of 
us need to use the little girls room.”
Spike pulled back from Xander with a snarl. “Sod off-“
Xander reached back and clapped a hand across his lover’s mouth. 
“We’ll be right out, just give us a minute.” He tried to stand but 
Spike held onto him. Xander managed to squirm around until he was 
facing his lover. “This isn’t getting you fixed.” He placed a bloody 
kiss on Spike’s equally covered mouth. “I want you well again,” he 
whispered, resting his forehead against Spike’s.
Spike grinned and gave his hips a little shimmy. “I feel fine.”
Xander groaned as Spike’s cock brushed against his. “Oh yeah, you 
feel great,” he mumbled, momentarily sidetracked. Then he remembered 
and drew back. “*No*. No more with the distracting sex.” He 
scrambled out of his lover’s lap and began to gather his clothing. 
“And quit ogling my ass.” He glanced at his lover just in time to 
catch Spike’s answering smirk. Clearly, Spike’s brief attack of the 
heebies was already long forgotten. Xander hurriedly wiped his mouth 
on a towel before tossing into the hamper. He threw Spike’s jeans at 
him. “Come on, get dressed. Cordy’s imagination doesn’t need clueing 
in with the naked visuals. ” 
Spike shrugged carelessly, but he put them on and stuck his feet 
into his boots before following Xander out. Cordelia first eyed 
Xander – who stood awkwardly balancing the rest of their clothing - 
then she looked at Spike – lingering on the exposed abs a smidgeon 
too long for Xander’s liking, before giving her head s little shake 
and walking past them into the bathroom.
It wasn’t until Xander heard the tug of the light cord that he 
realised he and Spike had been fooling around in the dark……….

Part Six


They met Angel coming out of the bedroom.
“How is he?” Xander asked, not at all reassured by Angel’s 
expression, which suggested the older vampire was barely holding it 
together.
“He’s sleeping.”
“Well, that’s good, right? I mean, sleep is good. The restorative 
powers of goodly rest and all that.” //and way to go with the 
nervous babbling// 
Angel nodded distractedly. “I need to check back with Merl.” He 
glanced back at the closed bedroom doors.
“Hey,” said Xander softly. “He’ll be fine. We’ll watch out for him.”
“He probably won’t wake up for a few hours. I should be back before 
then. Lock the place down tight as soon as I’ve gone.” Angel spared 
the bedroom one last anguished glance, before setting his features 
into a determined mask and moving into the main room. He handed 
Cordelia his cell phone and the phone book. “Get yourself a taxi and 
a flight. I want you out of L.A. as soon as it’s light.”
Cordelia protested. “You don’t need to do the overprotective 
chivalrous thing you know. I might not be little miss ‘all you can 
slay Buffy’, but I can take care of myself. You don’t have to pack 
me off every time something terrible comes knocking.”
“This isn’t something terrible. This is something personal. Darla’s 
going to come after everyone I care about.” Angel’s voice dropped as 
he added, “I don’t want to see you hurt.”
Cordelia sighed and took the phone and the book. “I guess my 
namesake won’t mind an out of the blue visit from her favourite 
niece.”
Xander raised an eyebrow. “You have an aunt Cordelia?” 
“Great-Aunt,” Cordy corrected. “She’s a new age nut, but-“ a smile 
spread across the young woman’s face – “she has a great condo and a 
convertible.”
While Cordelia made her arrangements, Xander walked Angel to the 
door. He caught hold of Angel’s arm on the threshold. “Be careful.”
Angel brought his hand up to cup Xander’s cheek, Spike growled and 
took a step forward, and then stopped, looking confused. Clearly, he 
was uncomfortable with this show of intimacy, but his own feelings 
for his Sire and his Consort left him in disarray. Angel dropped 
his hand and rumbled a wordless reassurance to his childe, who 
whined softly and cocked his head to one side. Xander took Spike’s 
hand and drew his lover into his arms; Spike didn’t resist and 
Xander offered a brief, comforting hug before setting about securing 
the various locks and charms. 



************************************


Angel stared about the room, a scowl etched upon his features. To 
the undiscerning eye, Merl’s place looked no more or less habitable 
than usual; however, Angel had noticed several key items that were 
conspicuous by their absence – chief amongst them being Merl 
himself. The demon informant had evidently fled, which was bad news 
first and foremost because it meant that Angel would be unable to 
beat anything useful out of him. Secondly, it meant that Merl was 
more afraid of who he would be informing on than he was of Spike and 
Angel…and that was bad, that was very bad.
Angel decided to retry his other contacts, this time seeking Darla. 
He was quite… ‘persuasive’ in his attempts, but it soon became 
apparent that they had nothing to tell him. Angel didn’t know what 
else he could do and an unwelcome feeling of helplessness stole over 
him. He had no one left to ask and no idea where to look. He 
returned to the apartment and tried to bolster Xander’s spirits, 
while his own sense of hopelessness grew.



************************************ 



Next morning saw a teary eyed Cordelia leaving to catch her flight. 
She kissed Doyle’s forehead, hugged Angel and Xander, waved goodbye 
to Spike, and instructed them to ‘dust Darla’s skinny skanky ass.’ 
Once she had gone things fell into a sort of strained routine. It 
consisted of lots of sleep and quiet time for Doyle, and virtual 
house arrest for Spike and Xander. As the former grew increasingly 
more morose and moody, a despondent Xander began to lose hope. 
Angel took to the streets each evening, desperate to find Darla and 
the Aruubus. The sight of his lover’s tortured body, Xander’s fear, 
and Spike’s confusion all but crushed him, weighing him down with 
guilt and despair. 




Chapter XIII
Four days later….
Doyle clutched the doorframe and drew in a shaky breath. He hurt. 
Oh, God, he hurt; but he was determined to do this. He hadn’t even 
been able to take a piss on his own for three days, he had to find 
his feet, get his mobility back. For all the hushed whispers and 
Angel’s insistence that he shouldn’t worry, Doyle knew that the 
problem with Spike was still unresolved. Doyle had an idea that his 
current incapacitation was only adding to matters. Angel was tearing 
himself up inside because he wanted to stay close, but to do so 
meant failing Spike and Xander. Fuck, what a mess.
He slowly released the death grip he had on the doorframe, and took 
an unsteady step forward. He was reminded just how fast a vampire 
could move when his lover seemed to materialize beside him.
“You shouldn’t be up.” Angel’s voice was soft and gently chiding.
Doyle grit his teeth, both against the pain and Angel’s 
mother-henning. “I’m fine.”
“You need to get back into bed. What did you want? I’ll get it.”
It was on the tip of Doyle’s tongue to shout that he just wanted to 
take a piss without Angel having to hold a bottle for him, when he 
looked up - and almost flinched from the pain in his lover’s dark 
eyes. Angel was hurting – hurting because he was hurt. His 
irritation bled away and his gaze softened. “I wasn’t plannin’ 
anything extravagant. I just thought I’d spoil myself with a trip to 
the little boy’s room. Maybe clean up a bit.” //If I can stay 
standing for that long. // Doyle was trying hard not to fall flat on 
his face in front of his lover, something that certainly wouldn’t 
earn him a bathroom pass. He couldn’t quite prevent the bitterness 
from creeping into his voice. He was so tired of hurting all the 
time.
Angel reluctantly agreed. “Okay, but don’t lock the door and shout 
if you need me.”
“Will do,” Doyle promised, though shouting was hardly necessary when 
your lover could hear your heart beating.
Taking small, but increasingly steady steps, he made it to the 
bathroom - closing the door on Angel’s worried gaze. He stumbled 
over to the sink and gratefully clutched the basin’s cool sides. 
With some trepidation he faced his reflection. Fuck. No wonder Angel 
was unhappy at him being up and around. He hadn’t looked this bad 
when his marriage had ended and he’d gone on a month long bender. 
His skin had surpassed its usual striking pallor, going instead for 
a shade of sickly grey, underscored by the dark shadows ringing each 
eye. The swelling had gone down and the bruises had faded, but 
they’d left behind a sort of mottled hue of blues, yellows and 
purples. His hair hadn’t been washed for a few days, giving it 
standing powers all of its own; tufts jutted out at odd and somewhat 
alarming angles. Five miles of bad road had nothing on him; road 
kill was closer to the mark.
Moving stiffly, he first took care of business (which beat using a 
bottle any day of the week.) His broken bones were all but healed, 
however they remained tender and he fumbled with the taps before 
running a little warm water into the bowl. After freshening up he 
brushed his teeth – relieved to find he still had them all. Finally, 
he took the opportunity to run the electric razor over his face. It 
didn’t take very long; being half-Brachen meant he didn’t get much 
of a five o’clock shadow. He’d spent maybe ten, fifteen minutes 
tops, but he was beginning to think that maybe he’d overdone it when 
he looked down and the floor appeared to be shifting beneath his 
feet. He rubbed his eyes; nope, not the floor. Doyle stared, 
alarmed at what appeared to be white mist circling his ankles. Oh, 
please, God. Not a vision. Not now. 
Doyle felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as the 
mist began to move upwards, winding its way around his legs. Okay, 
so maybe not a vision then. “Hey…uhm, Angel, I think maybe you 
should get in here-“ The door flew open before the last word had 
even left his mouth. Doyle looked at his startled lover. “Angel?” 
His bewildered entreaty was met with a desperate lunge as Angel 
attempted to lift him free of the enveloping shroud. Almost as 
though he’d touched an electrified fence Angel was repelled 
backwards, thrown bodily across the floor. Doyle watched as Spike 
and Xander appeared and assisted his stunned lover to his feet. The 
mist now brushed his face…and something else was happening.
Doyle looked down and swallowed hard against the panic rising in his 
throat. There was no longer a solid floor beneath his feet; instead 
it appeared to be a dark, swirling chasm. Doyle had a very bad 
feeling about this. He glanced up again - just in time to meet the 
shocked gaze of his lover – and a fraction of a second before he 
felt himself falling and the world turned black.



*************************************


“Doyle!” Angel’s desperate cry rang out as his lover abruptly 
disappeared before his horrified gaze. He raced forward, but Doyle, 
the mist, and the shadowy rift had all vanished. 
Angel sank to his knees.
Xander couldn’t quite believe what he’d just witnessed. He 
approached the bathroom warily. Standing over Angel, he lay a hand 
on a broad shoulder. He could feel the tremors wracking Angel’s 
frame. “Where..where did he go?” 
Spike stood, clutching Xander’s arm, as if he feared that Xander too 
would suddenly vanish. He was uncharacteristically silent; what he’d 
seen way outside his current comprehension.
“A portal spell,” said Angel dully. “Someone cast a portal spell.”
Xander was unnerved by Angel’s shocked state. “So where did he go?”
Angel shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Xander began to panic. Angel wasn’t just desolate - he was broken. 
He crouched down beside his friend. “Hey, come on, snap out of it. 
We have to find him. How do we find out where he went?” When Angel 
began to shake his head again, Xander seized hold of his shoulders 
and shook him. “All right, enough. We have to find him. Think. How 
can we find out?”
The blankness seemed to lift from Angel’s expression. He looked at 
Xander, and then stood up.
“What? You’ve thought of something?”
“Maybe,” Angel muttered. He practically ran toward the stairwell, 
snatching his coat from its hook. “You two stay here-“
“Uh, uh. No way,” Xander declared adamantly. “Who knows how many 
more of those magic mist thingies are floating about. We’re with 
you.”
Angel nodded. “Come on then.”

Chapter XIV
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Xander nervously.
Angel didn’t answer straight away. He completed the incantation and 
looked toward the door as it appeared, marking the entrance to the 
Oracles chamber. He turned to face Xander. “You want Spike back, I 
want Doyle back. This is the only way.”
Xander offered Angel a faint, unhappy smile. “I know. I get it. I…I 
just don’t want to lose you too.”
Angel glanced at Spike, who stood against the wall glowering. “You 
won’t,” he assured Xander softly. He gave Xander’s arm a gentle 
squeeze. “Take care of him.” Xander nodded, and Angel stepped 
through the doorway.



***********************************


He wasn’t overly surprised to find them waiting for him. 
The male aspect wore his usual disdainful expression. “Why have you 
come?”
“Do you have a gift for us?” the female aspect enquired.
Angel held out his offering. The male ignored him, but she smiled in 
obvious delight and raised her hand – the statuette flew into her 
grasp.
“It pleases us,” she informed Angel; her voice was stately, but her 
face showed almost childlike pleasure in the gift as she clutched it 
to her chest.
“We will not help you,” the male coldly announced.
“I haven’t asked for anything yet,” said Angel, trying to remain 
polite. He reminded himself that these creatures were almost 
omnipotent and pissing them off wasn’t, therefore, a good idea.
“You wish to know the whereabouts of the Messenger.”
Angel wondered if they’d read his mind, or if they just knew 
everything. He nodded.
“We cannot tell you.”
Angel felt his temper flare. “But you know?”
“We did not say that,” said the female softly.
//No // Angel thought darkly //but you sure as hell implied it. // 
He schooled his features into something approaching calm and tried 
to clear his mind, just in case they were reaching into his 
thoughts. “I need Doyle. How can I operate without him? I need his 
visions.”
The male gave him a bored look. “We can bestow the gift upon 
another-“
“-No,” Angel cut in, more sharply than he had intended. “I…I work 
well with Doyle.”
“That is of no interest to us.”
Angel decided he wasn’t getting anywhere being polite. Time to make 
a point. “You want me to work for you? Then give me back Doyle. 
Otherwise forget it.”
This time it was the female aspect that fixed him with a cold, flat 
stare. “You would refuse the tasks you were brought back to 
undertake?”
“Yes.”
The male’s eyes narrowed. “Then you would be returned from whence 
you were summoned.”
Angel met their displeasure with a sharp look. “I’d be sent back to 
hell, right. Fair enough. Do what you have to. I won’t do this 
without Doyle.”
The pair exchanged an unreadable glance. The female turned back to 
him. “The Messenger means that much to you?”
“He means everything to me,” said Angel vehemently.
The male aspect shook his head and turned to leave; he held out an 
arm to his sister, who ignored him to approach Angel. 
“This, ‘love’,” she mused. “It is a strange and powerful emotion.”
Angel didn’t say anything. She walked around him and her hand 
briefly touched his; Angel felt something being pushed between his 
fingers. He met her gaze, which had softened from its usual haughty 
demeanor. He discreetly palmed whatever it was she had given him.
“We do not desire another champion. Now go,” she told him. “You risk 
our disapproval.” She swept back over to her brother; this time she 
accepted his arm. However, as the pair faded away through the 
archway she bestowed a secretive smile over one perfect shoulder.
Angel didn’t have time to examine what was in his hand before he 
found himself flung back through the portal. Spike and Xander met 
his arrival with twin expressions of surprise, though Xander’s 
quickly turned to dismay.
“They wouldn’t see you?”
“They saw me.”
“But you only just went in,” Xander sounded bewildered.
Angel shrugged. “That’s just the way it works.”
“So what did they say?”
Angel’s mouth set in a grim line. “They know where he is.”
“But they wouldn’t tell you, right?” Xander guessed, correctly 
interpreting Angel’s dark look.
“She gave me this.” Angel held up what was in his hand. It was a 
calling card.
“She gave you her card?” Xander asked, incredulous.
“It’s not hers.”
Xander took a closer look at it. “She’s sending you to a lawyer?” 
The card read ‘Wolfram and Hart’, attorneys at law. “Wolfram and 
Hart? Who are they?”
“I think they’re our answer.”
“Then what are we still hangin’ about this bleedin’ hole for?” Spike 
groused irritably. He couldn’t read the card, but he knew lawyers 
and he didn’t trust them, not one bit.