"Wesley, wake up," Anya said sharply. His light but unmistakable snoring was distracting her from finishing the preparation of the final Peckham not-actually-a-ghoul report. Besides, she didn’t think a client sleeping in the reception area set the right tone for Giles and Jenkins.

Their client didn’t heed her. If anything, he sank further into the armchair, breathing out what sounded like a moan.

She sighed. The poor man did look exhausted, and also stubbly and uncombed. She felt sure he hadn’t slept much last night despite her instructions. Maybe –

"Maybe we should let him sleep just a bit longer," Rupert said softly.

She threw a smile at him over her shoulder. He was standing in the doorway to the conference room, cup of tea in one hand, the Bympit reference work on demon-derived potions and poisons in the other. He also was sporting a black shirt and black jeans, or what she now considered his "No, really, I am a spy" wear, for their forthcoming investigatory errand.

Which reminded her to check her watch. "Our delivery is supposed to be here any minute. I don’t think it looks right for the FedEx guy to walk in on a handsome maniac crashed in one of our chairs." When Wesley snorted in his sleep, she added, "Anyway, if he’s surprised he might whip out his firearm, and then we’d be in trouble."

"Yes. He might." Rupert’s frown went deeper. She realised that he’d been frowning all morning, in between cups of tea and work on their various cases, and nervously she wondered if it was because of last night.

After a quick save of the information she’d just input, she whirled herself out of her chair and at him. Stepping back into the conference room, he set down his mug on the table so he could catch her. She said just for his ears, "Honey, are you okay? You’re not upset or anything?"

"I’m fine, Anya." The frown eased when he looked at her, she thought. She hoped.

Still – "Are you sure? Because although last night was amazing, since it was the first time I’ve ever actually blacked out from a series of orgasms, I know that you had to finish for yourself in the bathroom since I was briefly unconscious and couldn’t take care of you. Non-reciprocal sex isn’t exactly–"

His finger on her lips stopped the flow of her words. Oh, and there was her favourite smile. "Darling, you’re insane." A brush of his mouth against her neck, a hit of his bay rum aftershave and body-warmth, and a whispered, "Don’t you think I enjoyed your pleasure as well? The taste of you, the sounds, the way you melted in my hands?"

"Oh, honey. Oh, honey. But with the unconsciousness, I wasn’t sure." Her hands went to his shoulders and squeezed, as she beamed at him. "You know what? When you least expect it, I’ll return the favour with interest."

"Er, really?" His hand travelled a few inches to play with her hair, a finger creating a curl by her ear. "I rather wish you hadn’t told me. I won’t be able to stand the suspense." After a little tug and a grin, he said, "Now, Tuppence, is the report for the Peckham councillors ready to fax? We can’t ignore our other cases, you know."

"You’re right, Tommy, and I’m almost done. Now you get back to work on the possibilities for that green gunk until we have to leave."

"Right. Meanwhile, we’ll let the poor bastard sleep. See if that sorts his headache."

However, Wesley was stirring when she went back into the main office. "Oh, Anya," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I’m sorry, I must have dropped off again."

"This is a signal that you need more rest, which I believe I already told you." She sat back down and started to type again. The Borough authorities needed to be clear on the non-ghoul qualities of the psychic manifestation on the Peckham High Street; Rupert had determined that there was some sort of ectoplasmic energy spill, so that cleansing rather than exorcism would be called for. A sorcerer in Glasgow, Randolph Mortimer, would be their best bet for that task –

Wesley was speaking over the click of her keys. "Yes. I suppose I haven’t been taking care of myself." He wrapped himself up in folded arms, stretched out his legs. "Does Giles need any further help with the research, do you think?"

Her eyes on the crucial paragraph outlining their expenses, she said absently, "No, he’s happy, let him be. Besides, it’ll be a nice rest for him before our spy–" She caught herself, too late.

Wes said, "Your spy–?"

"Nothing. I said absolutely nothing. Go back to sleep." Anya kept her eyes on the screen and her fingers on the keyboard, all the while cursing her honesty and lack of thought. The money had distracted her, she decided.

Wes got up and prowled over to the desk, a move which she saw out of the corner of her eye because she was typing very fast and concentrating, yes she was. Thirty pounds, forty pence for food, petrol, and parking; see attached – "Anya, what did you mean, your ‘spy’?"

"Excuse me, I’m busy on work related to a case that’s not yours," she said. Then she stilled. From out in the hallway came the sound of footsteps and a swirl of expensive smoke under the office door. That was odd, she thought: the FedEx guy usually didn’t smoke on duty.

But the man opening the door – who was about Rupert’s age, extremely tall, more extremely well-dressed, with a lit brown cigarette between his long fingers – was in no way a deliveryman. He sauntered into the front office as if he owned it; also, as if he would be asking a minion to clean it up soon. "Hmm. A tiny little place," he said in an upper-class drawl. "Still, everyone must find his level, what?"

"Uh, okay. Hi, I’m Anya Jenkins," she said, rising and smiling professionally. "This is Giles and Jenkins, Investigations and –"

"Acquisitions, yes, yes," the man said. She noticed that his gaze went to Wesley and stayed there; for a long few seconds the swagger dissolved, although she couldn’t read the expression that replaced it. Then with a deep breath he shrugged back into his attitude. "I’m looking for the Giles half of the firm, if you don’t mind."

"No, we don’t mind." Rupert’s voice came from the conference doorway. The glance she stole at him revealed him at his scariest, just as tall and cold as the visitor was. "Hello, Jools. This is a surprise."

"Ah, Rupert, there you are," the man said. The two met in the middle of the room, hands outstretched as if to cross swords. But they simply shook hands. "Had to look you up, see what an ex-Watcher does with himself after the dust settles."

"This one goes into trade, as it happens," Rupert said, a half-smile on his face. "Which you know already. May I assume that you, er, approve of the work my partner and I did at the Traditionalists?"

"Oh yes, pixies all taken care of, the supply of port safe for future generations of drinkers, well done." The man took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing smoke into the air in a thin blade-line. "But actually, I came to see you regarding that other business of yours."

"Oh?" she said at the same time Rupert did. Beside her – how did he get there? – Wesley tensed in his reaching-for-a-weapon way. Don’t go for the gun, idiot, don’t go for the gun, she thought hard at him. This must have worked, because the hand he’d raised dropped back to the desk. Maybe she had psychic gifts after all. Maybe they could put that in the brochures.

The man said, with another sidelong glance at Wesley, "Yes. I’ve got an asset in hospital, don’t think he’ll be coming out. And Harry tells me that you’re back in the game for the little sister service again. Perhaps you should be brought in on the op I’m running, we thought."

Rupert had caught his breath somewhere early in the man’s speech. "An asset in–?"

"Yes. Well, death blows almost everyone’s cover. And although he’s not dead yet, I hear he soon will be." Another drag, another blade of smoke. "My condolences in advance, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."

"Do I know you?" Wesley’s voice was soft yet ice-edged. With a start, Anya realised just how much he could sound like the visitor –

Who at the moment was staring at Wes and saying, "No. I shouldn’t think you’d remember. And Roger never brought you into the club, did he? For obvious reasons."

She had to put her hand out to Wesley and grab his arm on that one. Even she could feel the hurt in him, like this irritating spy-person had dug into his gut with a knife. But he didn’t move or speak.

Although for a second Rupert looked like he was going to belt the spy-person, instead he said, "Ah, yes. I’ve been impolite. Introductions are in order: Anya, Wes, this is Jools Siviter."

"And I’m sure we’ll all be best friends," Siviter said indifferently. "I know you have clearance, Ms. Jenkins, um, demon history and all." He flicked his gaze over her in a very unpleasant way, then went back to Wes. "And your father no doubt told you of his liaison with MI6, Wyndam-Pryce."

"No. He must have forgotten to mention it."

"Did he now. Well, long story short: the Council of Watchers – Mark One, anyway – always knew on which side its bread was buttered. The juniors were good enough for MI5, but the chiefs talked to us at Six. And who better to liaise with us than the Chief of Wetworks? A bit of demon-torture here, a spot of judicious brutality there, and thus a great deal of information came our way." He paused. "I assume that you’ve got a ward of some kind on this place, Giles, so that our discussion is private?"

"You know I do, or you wouldn’t have started this conversation," Rupert said. "By the way, I can see your own mark."

"Ah. Good eyes." When the Siviter person extended his arm, Anya gasped. That was an extremely powerful sign of protection tattooed on the man’s wrist, just visible under his Phillippe Patek watch. "And my God, look at the time. Can’t stay here chatting all day."

His entire aspect changing, Siviter said, "Right. Roger Wyndam-Pryce had been trying to find out a bit about this Xet-legend nonsense and Ian Gold, or, as you’ve learned, Yeangelt. So far, Rupert old boy, you and Ms. Jenkins have done more in that area than Roger had. However–" he dug in his pocket, then tossed out a piece of paper –"Wyndam-Pryce did find out that there’s some crucial spot of demon-related real estate here in London, called ‘The Terminal.’ Don’t know where it is, but we assumed a link to Yeangelt and whatever nastiness the unknown fellow is planning."

Rupert watched the paper fall. "Thank you. We’d already found the name."

"Yes, when you searched Roger’s desk. Such industry," Siviter said.

"How did you know–" Wesley began.

"My boy, try to think." The man was already at the door by that time, one hand on the doorknob. "Oh, and don’t worry about further contact; Harry will keep me briefed. But I shall say one more thing to you, Giles and Jenkins. Don’t forget about the tribute."

‘Tribute’– Anya remembered the hooded figure at Nalph’s and his demand for the same. Clearly Rupert did too. Not that it mattered, since Siviter had disappeared out the door in a puff of expensive tobacco. She could hear his voice from the hall, saying over-loudly, "And good day to you!"

A FedEx person, holding a small box, replaced him in the last traces of smoke. "Package for Ms. Jenkins?"

"Oh, yes!" She went to the door, a hand on Rupert’s back in passing. His muscles were drawn tight in tension-knots, even though he looked okay. But she couldn’t worry about him at the moment – she had to sign for their important package.

Once the deliveryman had gone, she ripped into the box, down through the layers of packing. "Let’s make sure it made it safely...." Then she pulled out the Nri-encrusted cup she’d ordered from Iezz. The tiny, beautiful object fit into the hollow of her hand, more like a beaten-gold bowl than an actual cup for drinking. However, the small demon-jewels around its lid – for focussing financial power, for calling prosperity – glittered in just the proper way. Nalph would be very pleased.

And she and Rupert had the perfect pretext for visiting the best source of information in central London. Well, they had to deliver the acquisition and collect the bill themselves, didn’t they?

She turned to share her pleasure, but when she saw Wes, all words dried up. He had sat himself on her desk and buried his head in his hands. "Oh God. Why can’t I remember?" he said, in a voice all the more disturbing for its cracked quiet.

Rupert put his hand on Wesley’s shoulder – Giles-speciality comfort, she found herself thinking, she’d seen him do it a hundred times to one Scooby or another. "Remember what?"

"Nothing. Everything. Still the headache." Wes shrugged off his distress in a way that seemed familiar, although she didn’t know why. With an attempt at a smile: "So you’re a spy, Giles? As apparently was my father. So very interesting, the things I’m learning on this visit."

Anya exchanged looks with Rupert. Then she said brightly, "Well, learning is good! So why don’t you just stay here, possibly search the Bympit volume for the green gunk ID or maybe go back to sleep because frankly you look like hell, while we’ll go learn more about this Terminal and tribute business."

At Wesley’s glacier-gaze, she sighed again. Stupid ex-Watchers, as stubborn as a summer day was long. He was going to be difficult about this, she just knew it.

***

Staring out the grimy restaurant window at Oxford Street, Wes thought once again that Giles’s partner was possibly the most hardheaded female he had ever met – and he could claim acquaintance with super-beasts, hell-demons, and Cordelia Chase.

Although he’d managed to accompany them out of the Giles and Jenkins office and on their walk through Bloomsbury, she’d stopped outside this dark, almost empty café, a relic from a less mass-marketed time. "As I said, you aren’t going with us to the Mysterious Emporium," she’d announced. "Your head hurts, you’ve not had enough sleep, and you don’t know what you’re doing in this particular matter. Nalph requires special treatment, and Rupert’s got the inconvenient injuries to prove it. So you wait here – I’ll provide a way to keep you occupied in the meantime."

When appealed to, Giles had said, "Anya’s quite right. We’ll call you in when you’re needed, but this is our job. Er, did I hear you mention earlier that you wanted to research?" After digging in the bag that contained the cup for Nalph, he’d tossed him a book and pushed him into the café, while Anya pulled out a mobile from her purse and made some call he couldn’t hear.

Sighing, Wes set aside the small stack of napkins he’d shredded – taking care, however, not to disturb his cup of tepid, flavourless coffee, the crumbs from a truly terrible cake, or his Palm Pilot and its list of Los Angeles appointments he wouldn’t be keeping. The Accounts of Demon-Derived Poisons and Magick Potions, by Arthur Bympit, Council of Watchers, 1887, lay in front of him, open to "Distillations of Uih Blood." The Bympit volume still held the most complete information on the topic, he thought. Strange how some traditions held on.

As the door opened on a new arrival and a blast of warm, humid air – a storm had passed, but more rain was coming -- he checked his watch. His mother hadn’t called him in hours; what that meant about his father’s condition, he couldn’t think.

"My boy, try to think" – Jools Siviter’s words had been far too familiar to Wesley. Those memories burned through the fog that choked his thoughts, although he wished they wouldn’t. Dipped in disdain, his father’s voice had spoken through the other man. Wesley even knew what would come next: "Try to remember who you are. You’re –"

"Wesley? Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?"

He looked up to find a young woman, lovely even with tired eyes and dressed in nondescript business clothes. She managed to sip at her own cup of coffee and tuck a bit of short reddish hair behind her ear at the same time, before she said, "You are Wesley, aren’t you?"

"As far as I know. And you would be—?"

A smile. "Miss Carter will do. I’m a colleague of your, um… what would you call them?"

"Well, I would call them Giles and Anya, although you might not." When she looked faintly surprised, he added, "I met an MI6 agent today, so I have a fairly good idea of what kind of colleague you might be."

"Ah. I don’t work with him, actually, but yes." She indicated an empty chair. "May I?"

"Of course. I seem to have forgotten my manners," he said with some irony. He rose until she’d seated herself, then sank back down.

"I’m not only here to meet with your friends; I’m also here to – how did she put it-- ‘occupy’ you." Her smile, and her mixture of grace, shyness, and competence, somehow reminded him of Fred – Fred whom he had once longed for, whom he expected to long for still, yet whose smiles and chatter no longer affected him as they once had. When had it all changed, he wondered, and what had he lost?

And why did his headache intensify so suddenly, so viciously, at the thought?

Miss Carter’s gaze went to the various items scattered in front of him, her fingers toying with the pages of Bympit. "Interesting reading you have here. ‘ Potion to render a human unconscious, with Uih-blood base: first bleed the Uih with a dagger, cursed twice….’"

As her voice trailed off, he said, "Are you not familiar with such resources?"

"I’m new to this side of the job. My section recently suffered a loss, so I’ve taken on some new duties." A look away, then another Fred-like smile from her; another disorienting lack of feeling from him. "And I hear you are new to a certain notorious law firm in California, with a rather unusual employer?"

"Yes. And that was a smooth turn of subject." He signalled the waitress for another cup of coffee, even though he didn’t really want it. For some reason he didn’t want to think about Angel and his responsibilities at the moment. "I’ve been vetted, I suppose. Do I have a security-service file?"

"Yes. Several, from the Watchers Academy to Los Angeles and steps in between." As the waitress arrived to top off their cups, Miss Carter shut the Bympit – a casual move, but one that hid the lurid illustrations of demon blood-loss from any passersby. He hadn’t even thought about it; in L.A. he didn’t bother to hide who he was. Not like a spy would, at any rate. Not like Giles, not like his father.

"How is your father?" she said, as if reading his mind.

Wes took a sip of his fresh coffee. It remained vile, but it served to take the chill off his memory of a dark, machine-filled hospital room. "He was still with us this morning. Should I guess that my vetting had to do with him, not Giles and Anya?"

A curve of her lips was his only answer, then she turned to look out the window. "Speaking of whom – I see there’s a battle in progress."

He followed her gaze to see Giles and Anya standing in a sheltered shop front across the street. In the interstices between passing traffic and pedestrians, the weak afternoon sun illuminated a fight well underway.

In the voice of a television presenter, Miss Carter said, "The bout seems evenly matched at the moment. She’s impressed her point upon him with a nicely stabbed finger, while he seems to be using his height advantage to add substance to his own arguments. Now, oh dear, she’s raising her hand to him."

"Um-hm. Yet he catches her hand before it can fall. Yes, that attempt was an error on her part. She’s just made him angry, and she appears to have lost ground in the actual discussion." He found himself smiling at the woman. For one moment, he could forget his own troubles and…well, play, which he rarely indulged in. Not since Cordelia and Gunn and the Hyperion. Not since –

A pain behind his eyes knifed through fog. He could hear a woman say Oh, you lost the bet, now pay up, could almost touch the lush female body sliding against his, could smell money and feel soft laughter from them both–

A cough brought him back to the present, where Miss Carter was inspecting him. "Wesley?" she said quietly.

"It’s nothing. I’m sorry." He forced another smile before he looked back outside.

Still holding Anya’s hand, Giles pulled her across the street despite her obviously heated comments. As the two stepped onto the kerb on this side, Wes saw that something discoloured Giles’s jaw. Looked like a fresh bruise was forming. The excursion to see Nalph had been difficult, then.

The two came into the café on another wave of heat and damp. Anya managed to be quiet until she and Giles sat down and ordered two coffees from the bored waitress, but then, in a small explosion: "Okay, we have a few things to report, and then I need to take Rupert somewhere to explain in detail and with illustrations just how wrong he is. So, Zo—wait, am I supposed to call you that?"

"It’s terrible tradecraft. But since we’re among friends, you may call me Zoe," the woman who obviously wasn’t Miss Carter said.

But Giles was speaking over her – "Anya, stop. You know bloody well I’m right." To Wes and the Zoe woman, he said, "We had some small problems with Nalph. The concerns about tribute has put him on edge – enough, er, to react violently to one question too many."

"I don’t know why he hit you. It was my question," Anya muttered. Her hand went to his shoulder and clutched as if she were trying to keep him with her by force.

"He hit me because he knew that if he touched you, I’d forget his sodding rules. Perfectly understandable." When she huffed out an angry breath, he frowned at her. To the others, he said, "Never mind. The situation is this: whatever the ‘tribute’ is, it’s being taken from a large number of London demons, and it’s going to whoever or whatever Yeangelt is. We assume it’s to fund whatever activity he’s planning – and it seems as if this is a long-term project."

"The number on his advertisement isn’t a phone number, by the way, Nalph let that slip. Which explains why it didn’t turn up in any of our searches or your databases," Anya added. "We’ll see if there’s some kind of code involved."

Zoe leaned closer. "Your next step?"

"Still under discussion." After sending Giles a filthy look, Anya patted her purse in an alarmingly loving manner. "Nalph apparently pays his tribute in human currency, which is why he wanted the cup; I think he plans to do a magick to make up his losses. Anyway, he has access to pounds sterling, as in the cheque he just paid us. But from what he mentioned just before he hit Rupert very hard in the face, not every demon’s tribute is the same. We need to check with at least one other source, see if they’re being affected, what’s being asked of them, and why they’re going along with it. And—"

"And I thought of an informant of mine in Greenwich," Giles said. Looking at Wes, he put his hand on the book. The meaning was clear: there they could also investigate why his father had the sleeping potion, and perhaps what the green liquid on the windows had been.

Anya’s explosion this time rocked the table. "Rupert, I should go, not you! First, look at the trouble you already got into with me at your side, and I can just – "

"Anya—"

"—imagine what idiocy you’d commit on your own. And besides, you’ll be too easy on Grittnak; since he’s been stealing our formula, our own e-Bay sales are down. That needs to be attended to—"

"Anya!" Giles’s voice was sharp enough to give Wes pause, although it didn’t seem to have much, or indeed any, effect on its target. "You know better than this. For one thing, you haven’t even met the individual in question." Then his hand went to hers, still on his shoulder. Their fingers intertwined, and there was an exchange of glances – a public display of irritated yet loving communication that seemed utterly unlike the Giles whom Wes had known in Sunnydale – before he finished more softly, "Really, Tuppence. You have a cheque to deposit, a report to finish, and that other lead to follow."

"You know, Tommy, sometimes I really dislike you," she said, even as she tightened her hold.

"But I’m doing so much better at the relationship thing," he said, with a private smile for her.

Wesley didn’t know why the word relationship made his head throb again.

When the waitress arrived with the new coffees, conversation lagged. Once the table was theirs again, Zoe said, "Leaving aside any procedural issues and the question of using code-names as endearments, which is even worse tradecraft – you’ve been gathering information on the tribute. What about the other issue?"

"We’ve got a lead on that, something we saw at the shop," Anya said, her eyes never leaving Giles’s. "I’ll make some calls while the idiot here goes off on his own."

"Well, not quite on my own." Ignoring her feminine snort, he looked across the table. "If you’re feeling at all better, Wesley, you’re welcome to join me."

Despite the headache, Wes smiled.

***

At the fifth nasty look from Wesley since they’d crossed Tower Bridge, Giles finally turned down the volume on the car stereo. Despite the new rough-and-tumble grooming and addiction to weaponry, the prat’s taste hadn’t improved since Sunnydale.

On the other hand, perhaps Warren Zevon singing about the indifference of heaven wasn’t exactly the best of omens. At the thought, he touched a finger to his painful new bruise. God, he’d thought Anya was going to fly at Nalph when the blow fell, and what the fuck he would have been able to do then –

Wes coughed once to recall his attention. "Giles, what exactly happened to you in the shop? I didn’t like to ask before."

"Oh. Well, although we managed to complete our business first, there was, er, an error made. The merchant tribe of the Mikh has a strict code of behaviour: cross the line in any direction, and vengeance is exacted." Blinking away the flash of blue claws striking out, he said, "Anya brought up the Terminal directly after we’d initiated some friendly conversation about the rise in tribute, and Nalph wasn’t at all happy about it. Therefore, I assume –"

"—That the Terminal has something to do with the tribute, either the gathering or the distribution. Or at least it has something to do with Yeangelt." Wes nodded, then turned to gaze out the window at the passing scenery.

Not that rainclouds over the lower part of Deptford were the most edifying sight, Giles thought. He could feel the coming weather in his bones. Must be getting old.

"So what’s your plan for this meeting?" Wes said.

"I’d like to keep the interview on a friendly footing. Of course Anya will kill me if I don’t bring up the issue of our formula, which I’ll do first, but I want to hold onto this informant if I can. Long-term plans, you know."

"Sensible." Then he laughed under his breath. "Your partner’s quite…formidable. She rather reminds one of Cordelia, don’t you find?"

"Please, Wesley. That comparison is extremely disturbing any way one looks at it." As he negotiated a tricky turn: "By the by, how is Cordelia? I haven’t heard; is she enjoying the perquisites of Wolfram and Hart?"

"Giles, don’t you know anything that’s been going on? Cordelia’s been in a coma for – I don’t remember exactly."

He forced himself to keep his attention on the road, on the white van pulling out in front of them and the changing lights. When he could, he said, "I’ve heard nothing that’s gone on in L.A. since your apocalypse. Part of my, er, distance from the Sunnydale group." From Buffy and from who he’d been, he silently amended. "Is Cordelia going to recover?"

"We don’t know." Wes spread his hands out on his knees, staring at them as if he’d never seen them before. Then, in a torrent of desperation the likes of which Giles had never heard come out of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce’s mouth, he said, "I don’t know anything any more. My memory… it’s as if there are layers and layers of reality bleeding into one another. I have one clear set of recollections of how we survived the strange appearance of a prophecy-derived godhead and took over Wolfram and Hart. But increasingly I’ve been getting flashes of another reality – of a Beast, of Cordelia who wasn’t really Cordelia, of pain and suffering and horrible loss. Images of a young man I’m sure I should know. It’s been worse here in London. And…." He swallowed hard, fingers going involuntarily to his throat. "I’m hearing a woman’s voice I should recognize, I know I should, but I can’t identify her."

"Dear Lord, Wes." Giles didn’t know what else to say; he’d known that the man was struggling with a heavy burden, but this was more than he could have guessed. It could be psychosis, of course, yet somehow he didn’t think so. Cautiously he said, "Does your current environment at work offer you any clues to this, er, layering of memory?"

"No. I’m the only one who seems troubled. Fred’s happy enough, and so is Gunn – oh, I’m sorry, you haven’t met them. They’re part of Angel’s team." His fingers rubbed at his throat, as if it ached. "Angel’s not entirely satisfied with the choice he made, I believe. But part of that also could be the strain connected to Spike."

"Could be what?" He slammed on the brakes when the white van ahead of them stopped abruptly. He told himself that his far too loud voice was because of the bloody horrible traffic, not the bad memories.

"Pay attention to your driving, please," Wes said. "And you know. Spike."

"I knew Spike, yes. I wouldn’t have thought that Angel would have mourned him."

Wes stared at him. "Mourned? He’s back, Giles. The second souled vampire, um, unliving in Los Angeles."

Time to make the turn away from the river and up the hill toward Grittnak’s. Methodically Giles checked the traffic, took the turn. He controlled his temper and his sudden lurch of heart in the few moments it took to wind around to the narrow, dirty, and aptly named Demon Street. Once he’d found a parking space, he said, "Wes, could you explain? Spike died in the course of saving the world, when Sunnydale fell."

"Yes, but he’s returned. A mystical resurrection, which is tied somehow to Angel and an amulet," Wes said. "You mean no one told you all?"

Images from the last months in Sunnydale caught at him : his love bleeding on the cellar floor with Spike’s marks on her; that berk’s smug grin changing to an honest smile days later, as Spike and he came to a better understanding over a cigarette and Iggy Pop; sunlight burning down on ruin and dust, and Buffy’s wounded eyes. "Anya and I weren’t told. Does Buffy know?"

Wes said evenly, "I have no idea if Angel’s spoken to her. Or if Spike has, for that matter."

"Good God," Giles said. He glanced at the eighteenth-century houses on either side of the street, the rubbish collecting along the railings, the not-quite-humans hanging on the gate a few doors down. "Never mind, we can discuss this later. We’re here."

In answer, Wes got out of the car and slammed the door.

When Giles got out, he pulled his pack of smokes from his shirt pocket. He could do with a cigarette to calm his nerves. When he got his lighter too, however, he caught Wes staring at him again. "What?" he said around the cigarette in his mouth, then put flame to paper. He inhaled tobacco and coming rain, exhaled smoke and a momentary ease.

"Nothing." Wes half-smiled. "It’s just…we’re not in Sunnydale any more."

The words echoed as Giles opened the gate to a moss-covered house, the most dilapidated on this street of disrepair. What stone was visible was discoloured like his new bruise; windows were set askew, the door wasn’t fully hinged. If one looked up at the edges of the roof, one could see alien leaves, yellow and green and a strangely shimmering purple, curling around the chimneys.

Beside the front door was a small, battered sign: Potions for Use and Pleasure. Please ring. Of course there wasn’t a doorbell visible, which was part of the security process. Giles rapped out the secret code, then whispered into the keyhole, "A friend come to seek entrance, Grittnak." One more rap, high against the door –

Inside, a bell tolled.

Heavy footsteps followed the strokes of the bell. When Wes raised his eyebrows, Giles smiled non-committally and said, "Just let me handle this. And remember I’d like to stay on good terms with him -- no unnecessary gunplay, please."

The door cried itself open, and a seven-foot, vaguely humanoid shape dressed in rags peered out. A smile creased the already wrinkled face. "Oh, it is you, Robert! Long, long time since I’ve seen you, although I’ve so enjoyed your letters, you’re such a charming correspondent… Come in, come in."

"Robert?" Wes whispered as they crossed the threshold.

"Er, yes. He knows me as Robert Gordon. Let me handle this," Giles repeated.

Although the hall was encrusted with damp and dirt not of this dimension, as always the staircase was swept clean for visitors. They followed the trailing rags up the steps past the third floor to a ladder leading to a round hole in the roof. Grittnak was halfway up the rungs before Giles could take a breath. "Leave your smoke-stick in the receptacle provided, it’s bad for the plants," the demon said over his shoulder, "but then you may come up to my office."

As he had done a hundred times before, Giles crushed out his cigarette in the ashcan before stepping up on the ladder. Wes was on his heels.

Swirling up to meet the blue-black storm clouds, the rooftop scents were overpowering. Grittnak cultivated a few earth-plants, but most of his growths were demon- or extra-dimensionally derived. In rows along the edges of the space and in its centre were spills of purple, green, and yellow leaves; misshapen fungi from various dimensions poked out from the corners; even a small laceprig web rustled in the corner, with a cheerfully growling Kizzyoit underneath it. The late Arthur Bympit would have had a bloody heart attack if he’d ever seen this source of raw materials, Giles thought.

Grittnak had ensconced himself on a mossy bench. With a wave of claws and rags, he said, "I have chairs, Robert and friend. You are a friend, I trust?"

Wes said, "Yes. I believe you’ve traded with my father – Roger Wyndam-Pryce?"

The claws steepled, and Grittnak bowed his head over them. "Such an angry human, with so many idle questions. The anger and lack of answers kept him awake at night, I fear. Yes. But he never mentioned a son."

"Wesley has been living elsewhere for many years. By the way, Roger’s unlikely to visit you again, as he has fallen gravely ill," Giles said, taking the seat closest to Grittnak and gesturing Wes to a place slightly further away. As the Nakgut, humming, courteously pulled his rags closer to his body, Giles added, "Also, er, you might not want to call me Robert. I have another name, you see." He took a moment to prepare himself. "Rupert Giles, of Giles and Jenkins, Investigations and Acquisitions; formerly of the Magic Box."

"Oh. Ohhh." Grittnak flushed a deep orange. "Nalph just mentioned… ohhh. You are the Giles whose partner Anya trades on the humans’ internet and who, I am given to understand, was once Anyanka?" He said her old demon name with a drawn-out sigh that lifted up dirt in the pots all around them, spinning tops of dust that hurt to breathe.

"She is indeed my partner and companion," Giles said, once he could speak. "And she hasn’t been entirely happy about the laceprig formula for sleeplessness you’ve been selling, I must admit."

"So I hear as well," Grittnak said. "What do you think about that, Robert Rupert?"

"I think that you and I have known each other for a long time, Grittnak. I further think that we can reach an agreement that allows you to trade but doesn’t ignore my partner’s and my claim. For you know as well as I do how you got the idea for the laceprig formula; as you say, I have been a faithful correspondent."

The brown eyes, lashed with long sharp spikes, gazed at him unreadably.

This was the tricky bit – Giles extended his hand, palm up, the Nazgut’s symbol of openheartedness. The lashes brushed blood and alien dust against Grittnak’s wrinkled cheeks as the creature considered, but then he gripped Giles’s hand. "I have always liked you, Robert Rupert. You understand complication and ambiguity."

"I have always tried to understand such things," he said, ignoring the claws biting into his hand.

Before the negotiation could continue, the bell tolled again. Grittnak moved to peer over the roofline, then shrank down behind a chimneypot, exhaling a series of plosives that despite their long association Giles couldn’t translate. The import, however, was clear: Grittnak was terrified of what he saw below.

"Hide," the demon said urgently. "Hide behind the boium tree and do not show yourself, unless...." Without finishing, he whisked himself to the hole in the roof and looked down.

"Which is the—?" Wes began.

"Come on." Collaring him, Giles pulled him behind the elephant-eared, yellow-and-green plant, twice as tall as they were and lushly leafed, which stood in the far corner of the roof garden. Under his breath, he added, "Don’t touch it. Acid-burn."

They crouched together as something or someone heavy thudded up the flights of stairs and started up the ladder. Those thuds were familiar; he’d heard them upon another demand for tribute.

Gingerly he eased around so that he could see. Grittnak, shaking in his rags, stretched down a hand through the opening; after long claws reached up to wrap themselves in fabric, a bulky, hooded figure jumped onto the roof. The impact shook the whole building. "Where is the week’s offering for Yeangelt, you quivering son of a Nazgut?" the newcomer demanded in a register below bass.

"I have already paid, Master Hat, as you may remember." Grittnak cleared his throat. "These constant demands are becoming excessive –"

"Yeangelt has promised to change your life, farmer, in ways surface and deep. Why are you kicking at a little more tribute?" The figure stepped closer; in a blur of movement Grittnak was caught, held up in the air. Yes, he did kick. "Where is the boium leaf we require?"

The boium – bloody hell, he hadn’t even put it together. There was a fucking good reason Grittnak had put them behind this plant. Wes whispered, "Oh. In Bympit. Uih blood with boium leaf…."

"Um-hm. Coma," Giles whispered back. He noted that Wes knew enough about surveillance not to pronounce any ‘s’ sounds: the man had acquired some field skills in Los Angeles. "Wait."

Grittnak struggled in the punishing grasp, his claws flailing at the arm that held him, his rags fluttering in the wind from the approaching rain. "Master Hat," he wheezed, "if I give you more too soon, the source may die."

The hooded figure’s hand tightened. "Then you will have to find another source, won’t you. My master needs it." At Grittnak’s nod, he let him down. "Tribute now, farmer."

Grittnak stumbled toward their hiding place. There were dusty tear-tracks on his wrinkles, and he appeared to be having difficulty breathing. As he came closer, Giles could read the lip movements he made: ‘Help, help.’

Wes said softly, "Now?"

Giles nodded. "But don’t fire if you don’t have to. I have an idea."

They burst out from either side of the boium tree. Out of the corner of his eye Giles saw Wes pull his gun and level it at the creature, heard a chill "Stop." But he had his own goal – the laceprig web. Dodging the enraged Kizzyoit, he pulled off a handful of leavings and then crushed them in his hand.

The collector-demon growled, "What is this defiance, Grittnak?" Before the sentence was finished, he leapt toward them all, claws out and fangs gleaming through the hood.

"Wes, hold!" With three steps Giles was close enough to the charging demon to throw the powder in its eyes and shout "Dorma."

The creature’s collapse, inches from the others, shook the roof once more.

When Grittnak toed at the demon, dust rose. "Ohhh. Very good thinking. Master Hat should sleep for several minutes, which gives me just enough time to work Lethe’s Bramble and to substitute a little something for the accursed tribute." Then he turned to them. "I thank you both for your help. You understand friendship, Robert Rupert, and Wesley. In return, I will aid you as far as I can."

Giles coughed at the dust, but managed, "Will you answer some questions I have about why you’re having such inconvenient guests?"

"Ohhh. As far as I can." A gust of wind carrying the first scent of the storm fluttered the rags. "But let me take care of this one first. Wait."

As Grittnak disappeared down the ladder, Giles said, "Well done, Wes – but, er, you can put your weapon down now."

"Oh. Oh, of course." As he checked the safety and stowed the gun, he said, "That was… interesting. I had no idea that you could move that fast."

"Well. Changes, you know. As you rightly said, we’re not in Sunnydale any more." At Wes’s laugh, he put out his hand. "I’m rather glad we’re not."

"Ex-Watchers resurgent?" Wes said coolly. But he took Giles’s hand and hung on.

"Ex-Watchers resurgent," Giles said.

They shook on it, even as the sky went dark, as rain began to patter on the alien leaves all around.

***

Rain gleamed like tear-tracks on the bedroom windows. But it wasn’t storming yet.

As Anya wriggled into her extremely tight new trousers, she reviewed her completed to-do list. Nalph’s payment deposited, yes. Peckham report finished and sent off, yes. Background check initiated on the two exciting new clients who’d called that afternoon, yes. Futile follow-up call to Dawn regarding Willow-angst and sigil-research, yes. Investigation of their Terminal lead, yes. New spy-appropriate clothes bought to be worn on their business outing tonight and to stun her errant partner, oh very much yes – and also hah.

Time for the next step. "Honey?" she called. "Do you want a drink before we go?"

An affirmative mumble came from the direction of the study, where, after his nap post-afternoon-adventure and their light supper, Rupert had gone to e-mail more consolation to Willow and research tips to Dawn.

She clattered down the stairs to get their Scotch. From her continued reading in detective fiction, it seemed right that partners drink the same thing, and anyway she had begun to enjoy the liquid burn.

In passing she cast a glance at her candles in the entry. She had lit them as soon as she had gotten home, before Rupert returned from his annoying outing with Wesley. Touching flame to wick, she’d wished that he would stay safe – which of course she always did, but it meant more today. Her stomach had kept knotting whenever she remembered the way Nalph’s hand had struck at his face, the way he had stood up straight and absorbed the blow that should have been aimed at her.

He always tried to do that. She thought sometimes that he was over-compensating, not just for the time Spike had tried to kill her in Buffy and Dawn’s basement but also for all the times he hadn’t been able to save his loved ones – the person who’d died when he was Ripper, the dead girlfriend Jenny, Buffy (twice), even Willow trying to end the world.

That habit was going to have to change. Maybe she could get Cassa to make a call tonight.

As she reached up to get the tumblers and the Scotch, she considered the lead she’d worked that afternoon. During their Emporium visit she and Rupert had both seen the same new card pinned to Nalph’s bulletin board; it advertised the services of Cassa Dreams, a self-proclaimed "contact medium," now available for nightly consultation and multi-dimensional calls from her office near Waterloo Station.

Where the terminal has no meaning, the slogan on the card read.

After some background research, which revealed that the human Cassa had just emigrated here with some powerful if unnamed demon backing, Anya had called her. Tommy and Tuppence Beresford now had a late appointment to learn more "about communicating with the lost." She’d had to make a second call, too – Wesley had insisted on going, which Rupert stupidly had supported, and Zoe had wanted to participate as well. Anya had booked them under the code names Rory and Troy Alleyn, just for symmetry’s sake. Actually, she hoped Roger Wyndam-Pryce lived through the night, or it could be an uncomfortable evening.

And thinking of discomfort, she also hoped that Rupert had made his decision about the latest news. Time to find out.

"So," she said as she walked into the study, "did you decide to tell Buffy about the miraculous vampire return or not?"

"Er, yes. In a way. She wouldn’t want me to interfere in her life, you know," he said. He sat at his father’s desk, staring at his open laptop, the study lamp gilding his hair and profile in the way she loved best. Without looking at her, he shut down the computer. "I sent an e-mail recommending her to call Angel at once to check on a, a new arrival."

"But I thought Angel might be one of the ones keeping the information from her? And why not call her directly?"

"I don’t have the number. She’s not in Cleveland at the moment; she and Faith are escorting Marta Aguirre to Qui--" His words broke off when he did look at her. His eyes widening behind his glasses, his hands grasping the edge of the desk, he said just above a whisper, "Oh dear God."

Hah, she thought. And— "Breathe, honey." After she set down the Scotch and tumblers on the desk, she spun around so that he could get the full effect of the black leather jeans, fitted black leather vest, and skyscraper-heel boots which she’d purchased that afternoon at a shop in Covent Garden. She’d left the matching short trench coat for later. "Doesn’t this outfit look like something a spy should wear? Andrew told me that all the best female spies were partial to black leather."

"Bloody hell." He grabbed for the liquor bottle and splashed a goodly portion into his tumbler. After he swallowed a third of its contents, he exhaled hard. "Darling, that’s, er…."

"Do you like it?"

"Come here." Pulling her into his lap, he threaded the fingers of one hand through her hair and then kissed her, all heat and oak and Rupert-taste. Although she briefly considered her purpose, the thought wisped away like alcohol in flame. She loved the way he kissed, loved the way he was already stirring beneath her.

Then, lifting his mouth a millimeter away from hers, he said, "I like it very much indeed. But is this some form of vengeance?"

"Oh yes," she said, closing the distance between them. More, more, more—

"No, stop." He held her back. "All right, Anya. You’ve made your point."

She stretched against his lap, enjoying his immediate response. "What point is that, Rupert?"

"That is – I, I don’t actually know." He dragged her back for another fast, hard kiss, then slid his free hand down to cup her bottom. "However, I’m sure I could discover it if I put my mind to it."

"Think carefully about your bad behaviour today." She nipped at his ear. "Your extremely bad behaviour in several areas."

"Darling, let me explain something. Your wearing this gives me great pleasure, which in turn might encourage further behaviour of the sort you find ‘extremely bad.’"

"Even if I wear it to our work appointment tonight?" At his narrowed eyes, she smiled. "Yes. Thought so."

"Right then, let me explain something further." Leaning back in the chair, he took another sip of Scotch, which reminded her to pour her own drink. Then she rearranged herself more comfortably on his lap, ignoring the creaks made by her clothing. Even as his hand stole up to caress her back under her vest, he said dryly, "Lovely listening position."

She took her first swallow. Actually, she liked the taste better on his tongue, but whatever. "Okay, go on. You were going to be pompous about something, I think."

"Ha." He took another sip, then cleared his throat. "Let’s set aside the fact that it’s going to be rather difficult for me to concentrate on work if you wear this. As you might realise if you thought for five seconds about the source –"

"You really don’t like Andrew, do you?"

"-- correction, the utterly irritating source of the information – your outfit fairly shouts your new vocation. As Zoe would say, it’s not good tradecraft."

"You always wear black when you’re playing spy, honey."

"I do not. I—" He looked down at his shirt and jeans, then sighed. "Fine. Fine, I’ll bloody change, and by the way, it’s not the colour that’s the problem with your fetish-wear. But further, darling, how do you propose to run in these?" He slipped his hand down to her boot and grasped its four-inch heel.

"We’re going to be running? Anyway, I assume that you would throw your manly body between me and any danger, so I wouldn’t have to sprint."

"Er, of course I would, but we have to plan…. Oh for fuck’s sake, that’s it. You’re still angry about the Nalph thing."

She brushed her fingertips against his darkening bruise. Although he winced, he didn’t move away. "Although naturally I prefer not to be hurt, Rupert, I don’t want you to be hurt either."

"Accidents happen. Trouble happens. And since you wouldn’t be doing this job if it weren’t for me, I’m responsible for you." Funny how he could go so still and cold, faster than the flutter of an eyelash. "This is not negotiable, Anya."

"Rupert—"

"No. Wear the sodding outfit if you want, but it’s not going to change my mind." He took another sip. "Is punishment being meted out for anything else?"

She considered pursuing his duty-and-honour-and-martyrdom neurosis, but – "You took Wesley to Grittnak’s instead of me."

"Think for a minute, darling." With hands and a shift of his body, he encouraged her to snuggle back against him. "Wesley can’t control what’s going on with his father, and apparently he can’t control what’s going on with his memory either. He needed one thing he could handle. He did quite well, too: only pulled the gun when it was necessary, didn’t fire."

"But from what you say as well as my own observation, he’s going crazy."

"I don’t think he is. Unfortunately, something else is putting pressure on him. A spell, perhaps."

"Oh great," she sighed. "We’re taking Mr. Mystically Impaired with us to see the medium. Frankly, I don’t think Zoe’s going to be enough sanity to balance this out."

He pulled her closer, arms banding against her stomach in warmth and protection (and the creak of leather). When she murmured about his scratches, he said, "I’ll be fine if you’re careful. Anyway, Anya, I have a feeling that Wesley’s presence may be the key to tonight’s investigation."

"You have ‘a feeling.’ Uh-huh. Because you’re so intuitive." A deep breath. "That was sarcasm."

"Thank you, darling, I caught it." Then he chuckled. " You know, I was just thinking – you’ve picked the most ridiculous code-names in the history of espionage for Wes and Zoe."

"Honey, my reading should be good for something."

He laughed out loud at that. Leaning back and resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder, she took another drink. Oh this was just great, she found herself thinking. First, their appointment suddenly seemed far more ominous, what with Wesley being insane and/or enspelled. Second, it was exasperating how Rupert kept winning arguments with that unfair mixture of logic and cajoling – and it annoyed her how much she loved him anyway. Third, leather chafed like hell; she had no idea how Buffy and Faith Slayed in the stuff.

A sudden thunderclap rattled the windows of the study, the lights flickering with the impact. The storm was here.

***

The black cab splashed through the puddles on Waterloo Bridge, sending water up over the windows. Even as Wesley rubbed at the glass, the lights of the South Bank and the reflections off the river seemed to merge together. Layers and layers of reality, layers and layers of pain.

"You’re not needed, Wesley," his mother had said. He’d gone to the hospital after the Greenwich trip, but there had been no change in his father’s condition: still weakening, but hanging on. When he’d offered to take over so that she could rest – although she looked her usual elegant self, she seemed frail and dead-white in those horrible hospital fluorescents – she’d stared at him. "He doesn’t need you to watch him after all these years."

Broken words about fathers and sons and devouring kept scrolling across his mind, a message from nowhere. God, his head ached. It had felt better this afternoon, but now—

"You’re not needed right now," Gunn had said. After the hospital, he’d gone home to change for the evening’s investigations; once there, he’d found himself ringing Wolfram and Hart. He knew Angel wouldn’t be in yet – a vampire CEO had some flexibility in his hours – but Gunn would be working. There had been a pleasant exchange of shoptalk, something about a wolf-girl and a nineteenth-century spell which Wes had vaguely remembered. When he’d told Gunn that he could return at any time to assist, however, Charles had said kindly, "We’re fine, English. Got it covered. Angel doesn’t need you to watch him after all these damn years, you know?"

The glass was fogging up. He couldn’t see much of anything. Couldn’t–

"We’re here, mate," the driver said. "York Road."

When he got out of the cab, he had to wipe the rain out of his eyes. Waterloo Station loomed across the road; umbrellas and pedestrians jostled in front of him, heading for the Underground; their hands clasped, Giles and Anya – what on earth was the woman wearing? – stood in the sheltered doorway of a sleek, modern office building. "Hey, ‘Rory’! Over here!" she shouted.

Giles sent her a quelling look over the top of his glasses, then grinned. The man was besotted, Wes thought. He couldn’t understand why he suddenly wanted to smile too.

"Where’s our fourth?" he asked when he reached them.

"Inside. Come on," Giles said, shepherding them into the building.

The lobby was quiet polished stone and glass, its gleaming surfaces reflecting themselves. It was deserted, like any normal office building at ten o’clock at night, except for the security guard playing cards at the reception desk.

Zoe – no, she needed to be addressed as Troy now – stood just inside the door. The way her hand touched her ear suggested that she was communicating with someone through an earpiece. Under her breath she said, "Okay, Fox, we’re going," before leaning up to brush her lips against his cheek, soft and sweet and utterly surprising. When he startled, she said, "Sweetheart, you don’t want to greet me properly?"

"Actually, in the book Troy was scared of physical – oh, got it. Tradecraft," Anya said, before she led the way to the reception desk. When the guard looked up over his hand of spades, she beamed at the man. "Hi! We have a ten o’clock appointment with Cassa Dreams. The Beresfords and the Alleyns."

Another card snapped onto the stone countertop -- the queen of hearts, staring at nothing. "Yeah right, you’re on the list. Second lift‘ll take you right to her."

The doors of the lift hissed open even before Giles touched the call button.

As the four of them crowded inside the mirrored space, Wes began, "What floor—" However, instead of numbers, the lift keypad had the names and logos of the firms in residence. Where the sign for the seventh floor should be, the legend "Cassa Dreams" was printed in bold, in the centre of a decoratively rendered woman’s scarf. Underneath the main image was a small Old English word he couldn’t quite see.

"It’s ‘call,’ Rory," Giles said. "A match for the one on Yeangelt’s flyer."

When Anya pressed the button for Cassa Dreams, it lit a dark, poisonous green. Wesley could almost hear the mirrors crack.