Fortress Around Your Heart - Part Seven
NOTES AND SUMMARY: When last we left our heroes: Anya got Imran in on the research party; Dawn revealed Wesley-love to Buffy and (via phone) Willow over pastries; Spike and Wes got into a bar fight with the Nullats and their mercenaries, and even though Buffy came to help, Wesley was kidnapped. Eek, Lilah. This part: Please be warned. This chapter is a dark ride. But you can trust me, really....
20 DECEMBER 2007. LONDON. EVENING.
The wind blew hard and cold off the Thames. Spike reached over and pulled Buffy's coat collar up around her neck, trying to shield her from the worst of the blasts. Bloody hopeless, of course.
"Thanks, honey," she said. But she wasn't really paying attention to him. Her eyes obsessively scanned the lighted areas and the shadows of the Embankment, just as they had done at the Piazza and through a good stretch of the Strand. He knew that somehow she hoped they would just see dark hair and a familiar overcoat strolling by, and then they'd smack Wesley Wyndham-Arse for being wanker enough to scare them so.
He wished that he shared her hope.
"Can we get any higher? Not the greatest vantage point down here," she asked quietly.
He looked behind them, up. "Yeah, love, we can." Catching her hand, he retraced their steps to a large tree. "Follow me."
He clambered up, cursing when his weight jolted the still tender wrist; once high enough, he pushed off hard. The momentum was just enough to get him to the right level. Scrambling, he made it over the stone railing onto the terrace of Somerset House.
Buffy was right behind him.
It would have been harder to see in the summer - the trees along the riverside face of the famous House would have been in full leaf then. In December, though, the street several stories below was still visible. He and Buffy could look up and down the Embankment for several blocks. They even could check the Thames, although he strongly doubted that Wesley had taken a fancy for a December night-swim. The South Bank opposite threw bands of light into the darkness, illuminating a series of ripples on the river.
The Thames was up tonight, he thought. Not quite as it had been five years ago, when the Lady of the Fissure had threatened to drown London, but the water was definitely rising. He didn't quite like the sound of it against the walls.
Cars passed below on the Embankment road, all growling engines and flashing lights. Up here on the Terrace, though, was a pocket of peace in the restless city. "Time passes sweetly there," he'd once told Giles.
But then he heard Buffy's breath catch hard in her throat, not quite a sob. Sliding his arms around her waist, he pulled her back against his chest. Trust him to have lived in the sodding city for five years and never have brought his wife to his favourite place until a crisis, when they couldn't enjoy it. When they had no time.
"Love." He kissed the top of her head. "You have to call them. Tell them."
She touched her hair against his shoulder in what Dawn called a kitten-brush. Ah hell, his Little Bit. He knew exactly why Buffy had been avoiding the mobile: he couldn't bear to think of Dawn's pain when she heard that Wes was gone, all through Spike's own fault. Couldn't bear to think of any one of the family's pain, all through his own fault. The rage which had carried him through the bar fight had abandoned him early in the search for the pompous human git. His colleague. His friend.
He bloody well wanted the anger back instead of the remorse. And with the thought, he could feel the red sparks flare.
"You're right, Spike. We can't put it off any longer." She moved out of his arms, reaching into her pocket for the phone.
Restless, starting to burn, he shook out a cigarette and lit it while she made the call. The smoke curled up into the night when he blew out the first lungful. He watched it dissipate into the sky, grey against grey.
If he angled his head a bit further, he could see lights in the windows of the highest skyscraper on Temple Place; the top floor in particular was lit up like a sodding Christmas tree. Somebody must be working late.
***
"Now let me tell you how this is going to work, Wesley," Lilah said. She flipped a lock of his dark silky hair away from his brow. "I have a few minutes to pitch an idea to you, one I've suggested before."
Wesley swallowed. Oh, she so hoped it was his own blood slicking down his throat. She'd seen him bite his tongue as she'd started taunting him. And then there was his mouth, all bruised already: the chains had been a good choice. But Wesley Wyndham-Pryce was a stubborn boy. "Not interested, Lilah."
"Oh, but darling, you should be." She moved in and teased at his ear. "You have no idea what the alternative is."
Blue eyes glinted. "I rather think I do."
"Well, that's right, you probably do. You've seen Wolfram and Hart's work, you know our methods. And we'd like to bring you on board, if we could."
"Not interested, Lilah."
She curled herself around the back of his chair. What could he see from his vantage point? She'd taken his glasses, and she didn't actually know what his vision was: the file definitely needed updating. Or it had. It might not be an issue much longer.
Wesley could see black, she thought. And he could see the two of them reflected in the wall of glass, the files and computers and power of Wolfram and Hart behind them. What he couldn't see was the fall on the other side of the glass: the fifteen stories down to Temple Place, the slightly longer plummet to the Thames.
"Your little group- the Slayer and her Watchers- has been preventing, shall we say, investment in London for a few years now. My people are interested in growing their territory, however, and London is a logical place for expansion." She drew a chair to face his and then sat down. Her fingers toyed with a second length of chain, to use when logic failed. "We'd like someone on the inside to help us, well, remove obstacles."
"Not interested, Lilah." She whipped the chain across his shoulder hard; it cracked against bone. He compressed his lips, but made no sound.
"Are you sure? We've got an extensive business plan, predicated on tapping into the power that's fueled London for two millenia. Well, I say 'tapping into'; it's more like bringing it back." She coiled the chain in her hand, then let it begin to fall like drops of liquid silver toward the floor. "You see? The power's there, but needs to be set free--" she caught the chain in her other palm- "and then controlled for our purposes."
Wesley looked at her, unyielding. She sighed.
"Ah, well. Wolfram and Hart would like the Slayer and her Watchers out of the picture- you people, using that term loosely of course, are quite an irritant. Would you like to assist us in distracting them? We could send you in, you could divert their attention, then we'd bring you back to us once we were in power." Lilah touched the back of her hand to his cheek. How irritating that he didn't flinch. Slowly, deliberately, she traced his cheekbone. "Wouldn't you like to be back, Wesley? Your talents would be appreciated here."
Then she joined in, parroting the words along with him: "Not interested, Lilah."
When she slashed the edge of the chain across his neck, she drew blood.
***
"All right, Buffy. You and Will should come back- everyone's with me and Anya, so meet us here. We'll plot our strategy for the search when you arrive. And please be careful," Giles said. When he clicked off the phone, he drew in breath, drew in one quick hit of panic, before forcing himself to expel it. He had to keep himself together.
Dawn had gone white. "Someone took Wesley?"
"Yes." As Giles spoke, Anya slid her arm around Dawn's waist, holding her up. "There was a fight at Muskat's- a trap, Will thinks. The attackers were trying to dust him, he says, but not hurt Wes. For some reason he was a target. Buffy didn't reach them in time to stop the kidnapping."
"I would theorize that Wolfram and Hart is the connection," Imran said. He moved back to the desk and looked at the torn card. "Does anyone have any names, any background, to explain why the law firm would choose to take Wesley?"
Giles rubbed his forehead again. There was something- a memory lingered just out of reach, teased him. Logic, Giles, logic: when might Wesley have mentioned this firm, he asked himself.
Dawn said quietly, "Please excuse me," and left the room. Anya caught his hand and squeezed- their signal for 'this one's mine'- then headed out after her.
Imran didn't look up. He seemed fascinated by the card on the desk, his fingers tracing the tear. "How did Buffy sound, Rupert?"
"Frightened." Giles paused. Frightened... Dawn's huge eyes in a pale face... Wesley's huge eyes in a pale face... a phone call before the wedding, a 'nuisance call', Wes had said. "Five years ago. Who was the Los Angeles lawyer that Wesley, er, dealt with five years ago? When Will and I were Below?"
Imran's hand went to the phone. "Rosemary will know. She and Emily questioned the woman."
***
Dawn slammed into the kitchen, Anya right behind her. "What are you doing, sweetie?"
"Something. Anything." Dawn paced the length of the room. "I can't stay here, Anya. I can't stay here when he's lost."
Anya caught her by the shoulders, then by the chin. Brown eyes were supposed to be sympathetic, Dawn thought, but Anya's were sharp and focused. Their gaze made Dawn stop and focus, too. "Don't be stupid about this."
"I can't stay here when he's lost." The repetition anchored her; the waves of fear smoothed out. More steadily, she said, "I have to do something."
"And you will." That brisk, practical voice demanded a mirror response. "But I said, don't be stupid about this. You can't go find him if you don't know where he is. Can you?"
"No." Dawn would have crumpled, or cried, or screamed, had it not been for Anya's grasp and her eyes. "What can I do?"
Anya hesitated, just for a second. "Sit here." She pushed Dawn into a chair, then went over to the kettle. "I'm going to make you a cup of tea, which you're going to drink. Then I'm going to ask Rupert's and Imran's advice on what might be going on with Wesley."
At the silence that followed, Dawn swung around in her chair. "And? That can't be enough."
The vengeance demon looked up, her mouth firm. "And then I'm going to teach you what Buffy once taught me, how to connect to your man's emotions. I know you love him, Dawn. With your gifts, that should be enough to get you a location. I assume you'll go get him then."
Even in the midst of her misery Dawn laughed, a sound that surprised herself . "Oh, Anya. Aren't you going to try to protect me? Tell me I'm too young?"
"I see no reason in that. You're the right woman for the job." And Anya poured the water for the tea.
***
Wolfram and Hart certainly knew what they were doing when they chose Lilah Morgan for this job, Wesley thought, swallowing hard. No blood this time, surprisingly. She was very good at torture, was Ms. Morgan, and he should know; he'd been worked over by the best.
He blinked away a wave of agony, then focused his gaze on the black glass. It mirrored his chained form, so incongruous in the modern conference room. He was alone at the moment. After Lilah had given up on the standard abuse, she'd left for 'reinforcements'.
He decided not to think about what that could mean.
Of course there wasn't much else to think about. He could wonder why Wolfram and Hart had chosen him, beyond Lilah's own craving for vengeance. She was too good an operative to let that be the only reason to take him, he thought coolly. There had to be something else. Something about distraction, did she say?
God don't let it have anything to do with the family, don't let it have anything to do with the family, please sweet God don't let it have anything to do with Dawn-
His hopeful incantation broke off at the sound of the door opening. A smell, which he tentatively identified as ash and blood, choked him, and a shudder ran up his spine. So Lilah had brought in the uncanny to assist her, Wes thought. Lovely.
"How are you doing, darling?" Lilah asked, crossing to her chair in front of him. She inspected his face, which he made as expressionless as possible. This wasn't terribly difficult, since every muscle there felt as if it had been bruised. "Don't want to talk?"
With some effort, he lifted his eyebrows. He trusted that this sufficiently signaled the "No, bitch" he was thinking.
"Ah, well." She motioned to someone behind him, and a Nullat demon wearing a slightly torn Burberry joined her. Wes remembered his own dagger ripping through expensive fabric during the bar fight, and he smiled.
Not that the Burberry demon registered any emotion at all - blankness of course being the raison d'etre of that particular species. A strange pall of smoke, the source of the odour, hung about its person, and Wesley shuddered again.
"Well, Wes, I've been thinking. It's been fun teasing you, but I'm convinced that you're not going to do the intelligent thing. You seem awfully committed to the little group you hang out with; I admit, they also seem more committed to you than Angel's happy family was." She looked at him, hoping for a reaction, and he was bloody well pleased not to give her one. She was raking up dead history. "So we're going to do an experiment. Test what happens to your group without you."
The Nullat, hands in his pockets, said softly, "Be as you were, solid first; yet threefold vicious, threefold cursed."
In front of Wesley's eyes the pall of smoke and ash coalesced into the form of a bent, withered woman, dressed in 18th-century servant's clothes. Wes almost gagged on the stink of blood and rot that accompanied her. Her fingers curled into claws when she saw him, and she said in a shockingly raucous voice, "Is this the gentleman?"
"Yes, this is the gentleman," the Nullat said. "But we'd like you to take your time with him. This shouldn't be quick."
The revenant crouched in front of him, staring into his eyes. Though it cost him, he held her gaze. "Oh, look at the pretty man. I do believe that he might have stomach enough to withstand my favourite. Still, you never knows with poison."
She reached into the pocket of her smock, pulling out a fistful of... needles, it looked like. "Do you know what these are, pretty man? Death."
His eyes narrowed, assessing. It helped to think, rather than allow himself to feel the terror at the creature's presence and words. "Common yew leaves. Which, of course, are not leaves at all."
"You recognize them, Wesley?" Lilah asked. He couldn't spare her any attention, though. He was concentrating on the hell-creature holding his mortality.
"This one's wise as well as pretty." She selected out five needles from her handful, then put the rest back into her smock. "These were always my first choice - so easy to find, so hard to live through. We shall try a small dose first, my handsome. Might make you just a bit ill. Or might be enough to have you choking, puking your guts out, shaking. Dying."
Somehow, as if possessed by the spirit of Will, Wesley found himself tilting his head and smirking. "Well. You never know with poison."
The revenant cackled, then lunged forward. Those hands, reeking of ash and blood, pried open his mouth, and she stuffed the poison inside. The hands clamped over his lips, smothering.
He tried not to, he truly did. But in the end he swallowed it down.
***
Buffy tried to summon up a smile as she and Spike approached the Cheyne Walk house. She was the Slayer, and by God she would inspire the troops. Not by making speeches (Spike more than once had pointed out that she lacked a little something in battlefield rhetoric, although she was his Queen at the quip-and-stake); no, by example. They'd rally around and find Wes and-
She clutched Spike's hand. Only his presence kept her from screaming.
He opened the door for her, and she called, "We're here." Giles answered from the study, and they headed that way. Anya was in the hall. She stopped, silently kissed them both, and just as silently went on into the kitchen.
When Buffy and Spike went into the study, Giles was making notes on a pad, while Imran was looking up something on the CoW database. But Giles threw his legal pad down when he saw them. "Buffy, Will." He went over and grasped their shoulders. "You're safe."
"Yeah. Couldn't keep Wes that way, though, could I," Spike said.
Giles punched Spike in the arm. "No brooding, old son. We're making progress."
"What have you found, Giles?"
"We know that Wolfram and Hart, Hell's own law firm, is behind the kidnapping," he began.
"And Lilah Morgan is likely the person connected to it." Imran tapped a bit more on the keyboard. "She has a history with Wesley; Rosemary and Emily are reviewing their notes from an, er, interview five years ago, at which time Morgan was here to investigate the Lady's attempt to open the Fissure."
"The sodding Fissure again?"
"Remind me why we don't just close the damn thing," Buffy said. She pulled Spike onto the couch with her; seemed like Research Boys had a lot of lecturing to get through.
Spike fell onto the couch, then snorted. "Love, I've told you a hundred times, it's not like the Sunnydale Hellmouth. The Fissure itself is in a proximate dimension, one that feeds this one. If you close the bloody Fissure-"
"You could end the energy that drives London, blah blah. I heard you each and every time, honey. It's just-- people keep trying to mess with it."
"Yes, but this time it's worse. The prophecy Imran's been working on suggests that there might be an attempt to resurrect the Lady. Who, I need hardly remind you, was trying to destroy London when last we met." Giles picked up his legal pad, looking at his notes. "So our hypothesis is that Wolfram and Hart wants to distract us."
"Sod a bloody dog. That's what Pete said at Muskat's." Spike leapt off the couch, unconsciously assuming his battle stance. "Word on the street was that someone wanted Watcher-Slayer United 'dead, dust or distracted.' And stealing Wes would accomplish that."
"Which one? Dead or distracted?" Buffy asked quietly. At the question, Spike started to do his prowly thing, as if he could move past the bad thought. She grabbed his hand, though, and brought him back to her. His nearness gave her enough comfort to ignore her own question, to focus on the larger problem.
Even with the two of them united, she needed everyone on the team there. Which reminded her-- "Oh no, Dawnie. Is Anya taking care of her?"
***
Under the warm kitchen lights they joined their raised hands, palm to palm. "Concentrate, Dawnie. Concentrate on him."
She already was following Anya's instructions, every molecule of her body tuning to him. Wesley, Wesley, Wesley-- oh God, he was sick he was hurt he needed her.
"Don't let it shake you, Dawnie. Concentrate, concentrate." Anya's voice steadied her, and Dawn re-focused.
She could feel him. Suddenly, focusing on the energy between them, the space separating them, she locked onto where he was. She lifted her fingers away from Anya's. Suddenly, feeling the shimmer of power, she-
Found herself in an almost empty conference room in an office building somewhere. The fluorescent lights flickered, buzzed. The merciless white revealed a prisoner, tied to an office chair with what must be several yards of chain.
Wes looked so cold. Eyes closed, he was trembling and breathing erratically. Oh God. She bit off her instinctive scream and fell to her knees in front of him. "Wesley? Sweetheart?"
He opened his eyes, struggled to focus. Recognition lit those blue eyes. His throat working, he managed to speak four words.
"Get the hell out."