She glanced at Rupert, who was sitting beside her with his gaze fixed straight ahead. When she followed his look, the windows on the other side of the carriage reflected the two of them: window-Rupert so tall and distinguished, silver and sex and a frown, and window-Anya, brunette at the moment although she was considering a return to dark blonde, fitting against him perfectly. A matched set, she thought.

Window-Anya laid her head on window-Rupert’s shoulder and put her hand on his leg, smiling at him. Window-he did not smile back; in fact his frown deepened, although real-Rupert’s hand covered hers. Anya didn’t think he was seeing what she saw.

Also, this reflection and self thing was starting to annoy her.

As she linked her fingers with his, she sighed. His state of mind was kind of worrying. After their excellent role-playing sex on the conference table, and their initial discussion of their spy problem over the consequently late and not very good meal – she’d have to remember that cold, congealed lamb vindaloo wasn’t a optimal luncheon choice – he’d gone all quiet.

After disposing of the dead remains of lunch, he’d plunged back into the pixie report, while she confirmed that there was no directory or ex-directory listing of an Ian Gold in Lambeth. Rupert wrote so fast behind his barricade of texts that she’d been able to start typing the report within an hour. Then, while she clicked away, he’d sat down at his desk in the outer office and gotten out his address book.

It was his Watcher address book, the one with practically every name crossed out – the one that always upset him. She made a mental note to transfer the few remaining names to a new book, or possibly a personal digital assistant if she could both talk him into the purchase and force him to learn how to use it.

However, he’d flipped through the marred pages calmly enough, then placed a call. After reaching Roger Wyndam-Pryce – the retired Watcher who’d contacted them for the job at the Traditionalists’ Club – he’d told him that the report would be faxed soon, then asked him a general question about what was known about the Xet prophecy. Although she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to hear what the other man had said. But that was when Rupert started frowning in earnest.

She’d asked him what was going on, of course; he’d just said that Roger Wyndam-Pryce was an old man who knew nothing about anything. Then he’d made two more calls. One was to Miss Harkness of the Devon coven, to whom he’d put the same question as to Wyndam-Pryce, with the same irritating lack of resultant detail; the second was to Willow.

He’d taken the phone into the conference room for that one. Not that Anya minded; she had gotten over her jealousy of Willow a long time ago. Well, "a long time ago" translated as "the minute the plane touched down in England," which meant that she and Rupert were a continent away from the Scoobies and their constant tugs on him.

However, she still had a sympathetic heart-flutter when he came back into their main office, ending his conversation with a soft "Take care of yourself, Willow, and say hello to Buffy for me." He did miss them terribly, although he never admitted it.

She’d smiled at him, said "Everything all right in Cleveland?" He’d passed his hand over her hair, said everything was fine, he’d just wanted to check on a little spell in case they had to revisit the Peckham ghoul. This seemed unlikely, but whatever. She could work on his skills in the sharing of information later.

Their matched-set reflection in front of her changed, disappearing into light as the train began to slow. "Highbury and Islington Station," the mechanized female voice said. "Highbury and Islington Station."

"Come on, darling," Rupert said, with a squeeze of her hand. The frown was gone.

When they walked out of the station into a pink-grey sunset, she realised that it was turning out to be a pleasant night. The mist had finally lifted, leaving behind warmth, people outside of pubs chatting, and the smell of food in the air. Some of the shops along Upper Street were closed already, but – "Honey, do we need to stop and get dinner?"

"Not for me. I’m not very hungry," he said, making the turn into Cobble Lane.

Good enough. She was already thinking about how soon she could return to her Agatha Christie book; she had decided that she could learn from these characters how partnered spies should conduct themselves. Her skim of the first couple of chapters indicated that Tuppence sometimes went out and investigated things herself in a safe and practical manner, which seemed to work well.

As they walked up to their big white house, she found herself thinking that not only did it look like a real home, it felt like one. A lamp in their living room window, timed to come on at dusk, shone brightly onto their small patch of front garden. They were going to need to weed soon. "Rupert, when are you going to start working on the yard?"

"Never," he said, opening the front gate for her. "I kill anything that’s green – remember the plants by my apartment door in Sunnydale?"

"Oh, yes. Then you’re not allowed to touch any of the herbs that I’ve started growing for commercial purposes in the back."

"All right, that was easy enough." He got his keys out of his pocket, unlocked their door. "After you."

"Are you saying you’re a liar, and you can garden?" she asked as she went in. She dropped her purse and the bag on the front table so she could light the good-luck candles she always burned upon first arrival and before they went to bed. One match, one flame for two candles, two wishes for safety and love. She still believed in wishes – and in hedging her bets.

He dropped a kiss on the back of her neck. "Not a liar, but, er, a strategist. And no, I really am a plant-killer." She turned just in time to see the mind-blowing grin that only she ever got to witness. He seemed fully returned to the new normal – also, he was already halfway up the stairs, saying, "I rather think I’ll have a quick bath, wash off the day."

"Do you want me to fix you supper?"

Waving a negative, he disappeared into the shadows of the upper corridor. A minute later, she could hear the bath running.

Her book in hand, she wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. In fact they’d done a major Tescos shop yesterday, so food and drink was everywhere, homey abundance practically falling off every shelf. She cut herself a portable hunk of Stilton; one very nice thing about living in England was the availability of good cheese, regardless of a certain ex-fiancé’s insults of her taste for the smelly stuff.

She nibbled on it as she went upstairs to change her clothes. Rupert had turned on their bedside lamp, which made their newly painted bedroom glow in softly shaded rose and blue. Brighter yellow spilled out of the en-suite bathroom, a splash of light to match the splash of water inside.

Peeking her head around, she saw a lovely sight: Rupert in the old-fashioned bathtub, arms draped over the sides, head back and eyes shut. Water lapped on his body, tiny waves caressing him like she suddenly wished she was doing. Yet the light pouring from the ceiling fixture revealed bruise-like circles of weariness under his eyes. She said, "Honey, I’ll come back in a few minutes to make sure you don’t fall asleep and drown yourself by accident."

"Thank you, darling, but I’m fine. I’ll be right out." Although he didn’t open his eyes, he smiled.

Obviously he needed comfort and coddling at the moment, not stress. "We’re going to take tonight off," she announced. "No work, just relaxing. Demon uprisings and informant problems can wait until tomorrow."

"Um-hm," he said, sinking deeper into the water, eyes still closed.

Changed into jeans and an old shirt she’d stolen from him, she went back downstairs. After putting together a nice reading supper – more Stilton, crackers, an apple– she settled herself with sustenance and book on the couch. "The Affair of the Pink Pearl" had just started, and she hoped that arrogant Tommy would realise that he was all wrong about the thief and his own methods.

The fictional Tuppence was interrogating a suspect and the code-named Tuppence was halfway through her apple when Rupert came down, his boots heavy on the stairs. Wearing that nice black shirt she’d bought him at Selfridges and quite well-fitting black jeans, he stopped in the arch between living room and hall so he could smile at her and say, "You look comfortable."

"I’m extremely comfortable, and I’m also improving my mind and eating well. Do you want to share my supper, or should I get up and get you something?"

"No, no. We’re both relaxing tonight – I’ll find something." His footsteps went into the kitchen, but in a moment he came back. "Darling, we’re, er, out of beer. I think I’ll go down the pub, have a swift half. But you stay there. I don’t want to disturb you."

"Are you sure, I –" However, he was already out the door, and it was a crucial moment in the mystery, and anyway he’d be right back. She returned to her book, only a little peeved at his abandonment of her, and a little troubled although she didn’t know why–

Until, at the end of the story when Tommy gloated about putting one over on Tuppence, it came to her. Rupert had been wearing boots, but he never wore shoes when they were in for the night, it was one of his things. More to the point, they’d bought six bottles of beer yesterday, all of which she could see clearly in her mind’s eye, sitting untouched on the top shelf in the fridge.

Stilton and cracker crumbs, apple core, and Partners in Crime went flying as she leapt off the couch. He wouldn’t, she told herself. He wouldn’t go off investigating without her. Wouldn’t dash into danger all alone, wouldn’t be that stupid.

But the empty space where their Saab should be in front of the house indicated quite clearly that he would.

***

Headlights flared in the rearview mirror, a splash of white so blinding that even if he tried, he couldn’t see his reflection.

Squinting against brightness ahead and behind him, Giles made the turn onto Tottenham Court Road.

The new direction didn’t help his vision. Not that he needed to see himself in the mirror, of course. He could feel the change, the return of the man he’d been – not just a shell between himself and the world, but a layered, tensile spiral of names and stories and shadows.

The first layer had slid back over him when Anya had leaned forward over that vile lunch, gesturing precisely while she made a point. "It’s important to control the flow of information, don’t you think? Isn’t that a spy thing to do?"

He had realised she was quite right; he couldn’t wait for someone else to blow his cover. It was the only way to hope to get out of this and retrieve his source. But at her enormous smile, her completely Anya beam of joy and calculation and focus, he also had realised he couldn’t let her know what he was planning. It was indeed vital to control the flow of information: keep her out of it, keep her safer that way.

Bright lights, ahead and behind him. He turned off on a side street before he reached Oxford Street, heading for a car park he’d always used when he was David Blackburn. For the moment, no car followed; the rearview now was blurred black, so that he could barely see his moving shadow. Names and shadows blurred together. He’d been David Blackburn...who else? James Sedgwick. Robert Gordon. Giles the school librarian. Ripper.

And now Tommy Beresford, for fuck’s sake. He found himself almost smiling for a second.

He pulled into the lot, finding a space right away. The central London congestion charge really was changing things, he thought; in the old days, he might have had to search for a while. He killed the engine, then stared straight ahead into the emptiness.

The second layer of the shell had snapped into place that afternoon when Roger Wyndam-Pryce had barked down the phone, "The Xet legend should be taken seriously, Giles – if you remember it rightly, that is. It’s too bad you didn’t steal that source-text when you took the others before the Council exploded, wouldn’t you say? Not that your pitiful efforts meant much in the end. We shouldn’t be surprised they don’t mean much now; pixies are more your level of expertise, aren’t they."

Bloody old man. But Wyndam-Pryce had a point: did he remember the legend rightly? Gillian Harkness hadn’t been much help, either. "Isn’t it something like, The Xet means the rising time, when humankind will fall. The river-valley will go dry, but blood will run? Something like that. I never really studied this, never took it seriously. But if you like, I can ask for more help, search our own histories and group memory." She hadn’t sounded encouraging.

With the loss of the Council, he had to rely on himself. Wyndam-Pryce was right, of course: his efforts hadn’t meant much, might not mean much now. Yet he still had to try to do his duty, and he had to protect Anya from the mess he’d created.

After turning on the light, he checked over the few supplies he could bring: the specially prepared dagger, the stake, and a small token for his informant. He’d always brought his informants a little something, trade for trade. Perhaps even in the old days he had wished that he was a simple businessman. And partnered.

He stared at the dagger for a moment. That evening, lying in the cooling water, he’d kept his eyes closed when Anya spoke to him. He couldn’t look at her. Yes, he could give her a smile; whoever he was, whatever he was called, he loved her in the same way, painful and warm and deep. But if he looked at her, he might see the shadows and the names ripping at the delicate fabric that joined the two of them. Worse, he might see her own change, her retreat. God knew it was entirely possible for him to have put too much between them.

Not a liar but a strategist, he’d said. What a fucking fool he was.

After getting out of the car, he stowed his gear away: weapon in the back of his jeans, under his untucked shirt; stake up his sleeve; gift in his front pocket. Then he pulled out his cigarettes, lit himself a smoke with the lighter he’d had for years. The first drag burned in his lungs just right.

Then he started walking. It was just across Oxford Street and down Charing Cross, so he wouldn’t have to go very far. The streets were busy tonight, he noticed, and not just with people. A vampire limped along outside the entrance to the Tottenham Court Road; looked like one of the less prized workers in a Soho vamp-brothel. And Giles saw a couple of Nuyy demons slithering along the brick ahead of him. Going the same place he was, he reckoned, although he preferred to get there ahead of them. Hurrying his pace, he passed them, taking care not to breathe in their hunting stench. Yes, he certainly needed to get there first.

The small blue wooden door, set into brick, hadn’t changed. He took the time to breathe in one more lungful of smoke, pinch out the flame, crush the sparks under his boot. Then, with a muttered "Oh, sod it," he rapped twice on the top of the door and twice on the bottom. The door swung open.

From inside came a hum of demon voices, growls and purrs and sounds he still couldn’t identify. He crossed the threshold into the warm red glow of Nalph’s Mysterious Emporium, The Best for the Most Discerning Demon and Half-demon.

It was a full house tonight, the aisles and tables crowded with customers and goods, fangs and claws. In the centre of it all, perched on the glass counter was Nalph himself. He looked up, indigo lips stretching into a tooth-displaying smile. "Ah, if it isn’t the long-lost David! What is the password, my human friend?"

"Nalph, there is no password," he said, closing the door behind him.

Names and shadows, same as it ever was.

***

There were times that Anya still believed in vengeance. Not the Arashmaharr-approved, blood-and-guts-and-death type any more, but the human kind, where a stupid partner who did an exceedingly stupid thing was forced to suffer in untold hideous domestic ways for the crime of scaring the other partner.

"I’m sorry, but can you hurry?" she said, leaning forward so that her nose almost pressed the glass between the cab driver and herself.

"Can’t go faster than the traffic will bear, miss," the man said. He pointedly turned up his radio, which currently was broadcasting sports news to the uncaring world. Or at least she didn’t care who won the latest damn match at Lord’s.

Forcing herself back in her seat, she watched the lights of the Euston Road as they passed, slow blurs of white and dark, as she nervously wound her fingers in the bottom of Rupert’s old shirt. See, there was yet another reason to be furious. In her hurry to find him and make sure he was all right, she hadn’t even thought to change her clothes. She probably should be glad she’d remembered to put on shoes.

Stilton-flecked at-home wear was going to look really unprofessional when she walked into Nalph’s.

Rupert had to be there, she thought, even as the cab made a sharp turn and she collided with the door handle. She had checked the closest pubs to home, but neither Bradley at the Moon Under Water nor Jo at the Duke of Nowhere had seen him. While it was possible that Rupert had ventured off to speak to another of his contacts, for example Grittnak in Greenwich, she doubted it very much; also for example, Grittnak specialised not in creepy and ambiguous prophecies but in demonic insects and fungi and their practical applications. Which reminded her that he had been selling his own version of the Giles/Jenkins laceprig formula, and she needed to figure out how to send a multi-dimensional cease-and-desist letter.

As the cab took another corner, she grabbed her purse. It was heavier than usual, since she’d put a stake in there in case of random vampire attack, as well as their new MI5 mobile phone.

She hadn’t called their handler Zoe on this matter, although she’d considered it. What could she say? "Hi, this is ‘Tuppence,’ and ‘Tommy’ said he was going down to the pub except he didn’t, and I think he’s doing something incredibly dumb if espionage-oriented. Can I have backup while I look for him?" It just didn’t seem like a proper agent thing to do. Of course the person in their partnership who would actually know about proper agent things to do wasn’t there to consult, because he was being an idiot. In further proof of his idiocy, he’d left his non-spy cell phone at home and she couldn’t call him.

Yes, there were definitely times that Anya still believed in vengeance.

Brakes screaming, the cab came to a halt. "Foyles," the driver said. "Eleven pound forty, please."

After Anya gave him the fare and an appropriate gratuity, she scrambled out onto the pavement. Oh look, there was Nuyy trail, a line of some nasty stuff along the sidewalk and a matching smear along the display window.

Big night at Nalph’s, then. Those pickled entrails would be selling like crazy.

She pressed her nerves inside, her hands clutching the soft, worn fabric of Rupert’s shirt. To keep him safe, she would walk into a crowded, dangerous demon shop and act like it didn’t bother her. She was a spy now, too.

The requisite raps on blue wood, and the door opened on noise and a stench that only Nuyy demons hunting a light snack could produce. Breathing through her mouth, Anya went into the Mysterious Emporium. There was no sign of Rupert, but no sign of Nalph either, which was unusual on such a busy night.

A second Mikh demon, lighter blue and far less impressive than the proprietor, hopped off the counter. "May I help you, human lady?"

"That’s no human, that’s Anyanka!" slurred a thick, muddy voice from near the bulletin board. Although she turned and gave him a Magic Box smile, she inwardly groaned. It was Pim, an earth-dweller from the dimension with four hundred and thirty-six names for dirt: a good-hearted demon as demons went, but not her type, as she’d expressed in several different ways over several different centuries. His cheery, demon-grog-soaked face fell when he got a good look at her, however, and he said, "By clod and by claw, you are human!"

"Yes, I am," she said. "You’re here for some fresh soil-mash, I take it?"

"The Best for the Most Discerning Demon, in or out of five hundred dimensions," he agreed. "But what are you doing here, traitor to demonkind?"

"I wouldn’t put it like that." Then, hastily turning to the Mikh: "I was hoping to speak to Nalph. I was here earlier today and left my business card – Anya Jenkins, of Giles and Jenkins, Investigations and Acquisitions?" When he inclined his head, hopping a little in inquiry, she pointed to the displayed card as evidence. "Could I speak to him? On business."

He said, "He’s with another human now. Wait here, and I’ll see if he’s free to talk to you." With a couple of bounds, he was over the counter and through the ‘beaded’ curtain into the back area. She’d never actually been past the public area of the shop.

Dropping the occasional fingertip of mud, Pim slid closer to her. She gave him a pleasant yet off-putting smile, then turned her attention rather desperately to the cards on display. Nalph was with another human now. It had to be Rupert – but what exactly was she going to say when or if she got back there? She didn’t even know if he was going by his real name or one of his cover names ... oh, this wasn’t good.

"What’s your business, then, Anyanka no longer?" Pim said into her ear.

She moved a little further away. "Investigations and Acquisitions! We research demon-history questions and find objects of desire." As she stepped back, she returned her gaze to the board. Cards for love potions, for human blood, for disaster and mayhem; names like Mairdom and Cluth the Gifted. Taking up most of the space in the centre was a huge, boldly lettered flyer for one Yeangelt (no service specified), with conveniently both a human phone number and a sigil-and-word combination to call him.

Yeangelt...wait. Could that be any relation to Ian Gold, or might the previous MI5 operative have misheard what really was being said? It was an 0207 number; she memorized it, lips moving silently. The sigil and word she also committed to memory, although she wasn’t very good at drawing and might not be able to replicate it –

"What kind of desire might you satisfy?" Pim said, far too close. He exposed stained brown choppers in a would-be seductive smile.

"Not sex, but thank you for asking." She edged away.

"No, no, you only have to reject me a couple hundred times before I get the message. This is a matter of business. Can you acquire me some good earth? Specifically, a cupful from the dead Hellmouth in California?" He licked his lips, leaving mud behind. "I hear it could sustain a demon like me for days, with the heart’s-blood and the hell-traces and the fire."

Hisses and screams and the flash of Rupert’s sword, terror and tears and blood. Repressing her shakes and her memories, she said, "I was in Sunnydale when it fell. I don’t think what’s left is fit for any demon."

"So you are a traitor, human woman." Luckily he didn’t speak the accusation very loud, so that no other demons could hear, so that she wouldn’t be torn into shreds where she stood.

She held his gaze, then speaking as fast and sharp as she could, she said, "No, Pim. I think the earth there is poison. After all, the Hellmouth closed, didn’t it? It was a definite loss for demonkind. Might bring you bad luck at best, kill you at worst. Do you want to risk it?"

"Oh. Oh, well, that is a point," he said.

The curtain parted again, and the lesser Mikh appeared just in time. "Come with me, Anya. Nalph will see you now."

Sending one last fake smile to Pim, she hurried behind the counter. The Mikh hopped once, put a claw on her back, then pushed her through the doorway. The Ihioo babies’ skulls chattered as she went through, and she swallowed hard.

The private space of Nalph’s Mysterious Emporium was easily three times the size of the shop space, an earthen-and-concrete box sloping down toward the back. It was full of packages, wooden containers, glass jars filled with the exotic and, well, mysterious. Scents of blood and power swirled all around her, dark and light intermixed. She felt a brief quiver of envy – oh, what she could have done in the Magic Box with access to merchandise like this. Mostly, however, she felt terrified.

At the back of the huge space were three doors. The blue centre door was half-shut, so that she could see its Office sign. The other two doors opened onto dark tunnels. Before she could worry about what lay at the other ends of those long passages, the lesser Mikh pushed her across the room. "Nalph, here is the woman," he announced, as one last shove sent her into the office.

Rupert stood in the middle of the lantern-lit room, his hands fisted at his sides. Oh God, there was blood on his lower lip, his shirt had been clawed, there was more blood underneath–

Without turning around, Nalph growled, "How many is that, man?"

Cold, focussed, and a little scary despite the fact that he was clearly in trouble, her Rupert stared down at the demon. "That would be twelve."

"Three more, then, Rupert Giles, for each year you have traded with me under a false name. We must keep our accounts current." Then Nalph leapt. Blue claws out, he backhanded Rupert’s face twice and ripped across his stomach once.

Her man took the blows without flinching, even as Anya cried out, "No, don’t! Honey–"

Nalph didn’t turn around. "It is redress for double-dealing. Of all creatures, she who was Anyanka should remember what rightful vengeance is."

But she didn’t believe in vengeance any more, she thought. Not in the real thing.

***

It was done. Giles could let himself exhale through the pain – which could have been much worse, Nalph had gone easy on him – and turn to Anya. The second that the Mikh minion had said her name, a rope of terrified anger had banded around his chest and pulled tight. Even as Nalph had struck at him, his mind kept turning over the same phrases: what the sodding hell was she thinking, it wasn’t safe here, what the fuck was he supposed to do now –

But in a blur of fluttering shirt-tails and loose hair, she was with him. "Careful, darling," he got out, just as she threw his arms around him. The scratches on his stomach opened up at the impact, and he had to breathe himself through the sharp, flaring hurt.

As she shifted her clasp to a less painful area, she whispered, "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Fine." After he managed to unclench his jaw and slip an arm around her shoulder, he looked at Nalph. "Is honour satisfied?"

The demon had pulled up a Mikh-sized chair and sat down as if to watch a play. At the question, he shrugged. "You have come to me freely, you have spoken truth at last, you have accepted due punishment. My anger is appeased. But let me put a question to your partner. What did you know of your Giles’s lies, she who was once one of us?"

His knotted panic constricted his chest, almost snapping him in two. They hadn’t talked about this, hadn’t gotten their stories straight. He was meant to do this sort of thing on his own.

Anya said evenly, "I told you he was an ex-Watcher, remember? I didn’t know until today, after I met with you, that he had once used a false name to liaise with demons for the Council. But of course there is no more official Council of Watchers based in England, and he doesn’t work for them any more. He’s my partner, a reasonable man."

She’d said just enough, truth and lie intermixed, to make the cover work. God, she was going to be bloody good at the game. But just to make sure: "Anya had nothing to do with my past, Nalph. She’s my present and future. Good accounting would not make her responsible for any of my crimes committed before we were partnered."

"Oh, certainly. I’m a peaceable demon, and I ask only what is my due." Nalph groomed himself idly, straightening out a dreadlock or two with a blood-stained claw. "Besides, I always rather liked you, he who was once David."

"And I you, Nalph. I hope we may continue to, er, associate?"

"We shall see." Over his words, however, came a pounding from nearby– it was like the footsteps of a giant, shaking the earth all around them. The demon went a light fear-blue, and he hopped to his feet. "You both should leave. At once."

Before they could move, however, the office door crashed open. A bulky, hooded, unrecognizable figure posed itself in the doorway and said in a register just below bass, "Where is the tribute for my master, Nalph?" After a pause: "And who are these humans?"

"Investigators and traders, new to London," Nalph said. "And I already paid my tribute this morning, per prior arrangement." Anya’s arm slid around Giles’s stomach at that; he repressed another groan.

"We make new arrangements as we please, merchant," the figure said. It extended a pale, long-clawed hand into the light. "Tribute. And then a little more information on these humans, who are where they shouldn’t be."

"It’s bad business to make such changes without warning." Nalph made no move toward the desk behind him, nor did he seem inclined to barter with the creature. Nevertheless, he seemed far more nervous than Giles had ever seen him.

The creature thudded into the office, both hands now outstretched. "Tribute."

"No," Nalph said. But the claws of one hand dug convulsively into the back of the chair.

Perhaps it was time to intervene. Biting back a groan, Giles reached back to grasp his dagger and brought it into the lantern-light. At the same time he pushed Anya behind him. Ignoring her protest, he said, "I don’t believe Nalph wishes to trade with you at the moment – er, sorry, didn’t catch your name."

"Nor did I catch yours," the creature hissed. "And I wouldn’t meddle, human."

"I shouldn't call it meddling –" Concentrating, he pointed his dagger, then whispered the spell that he’d consulted about with Willow during their phone conversation, the one for just such an emergency. A line of white light ripped along the blade and off, flashing into the creature’s eyes; breath stopped, it stopped. Holding the magick steady, he said, "Nalph, what would you like to do with this, um, visitor?"

"You’re certainly a bundle of surprises this evening, Rupert Giles. If you could keep him there for just a bit –" He was already leaping toward a file cabinet. In three motions he got out a bag of powder, dug his claws into it, and threw a goodly portion in the creature’s face. There was no reaction, but Nalph smiled thinly. "Now let him go."

As he lowered the dagger, his cuts sent out one more wave of pain. Anya must have felt his shudder, for she whispered, "I’ll take care of those when we get home. Just hang on."

The creature trembled once all over, then blew out its held breath. Nalph said, "Now that you’ve been given your second tribute, tell your master that he must negotiate next time."

Patting itself absently, it nodded as if it felt what wasn’t there. "You’re wise to comply, Merchant Mikh. We’ll remember this well." After one last puzzled glance at Giles and Anya, it thudded out of the room. The three of them stood still as its footsteps pounded down the lefthand tunnel; glass jars along one wall rattled to mark its passage.

"‘Remembering’ is just what he’ll have trouble doing. That should buy time, which is always such a useful commodity," Nalph said. He closed the file drawer, then leaned back against it, his gaze darkest blue. "Tell me why you helped me."

Anya answered for them both, "We helped you because we know you, because we want to associate with you. Also, that guy seemed unpleasant and overly melodramatic."

"You have proven yourselves worthy enough of association, both in understanding the proper way of things and in demonstrating loyalty. Eventually." Nalph smiled. "And the messenger was indeed unpleasant and melodramatic. So, in recompense I will whisper a warning. Does the phrase ‘land’s death’ mean anything to you?"

Giles felt an odd thrill, as when one random word shot across synapses to blow up into a bright, fiery conclusion. Lambeth, ‘land’s death,’... but he said, "No, I haven’t heard it."

"In due time you will, Rupert Giles and Anya Jenkins. For London is changing, in ways both surface and deep. Take heed as you go." The demon’s voice dropped on the last words, and his gaze went to the concrete floor. Then he looked back up and said more normally, "I need to get back to my customers. Shall I escort you out?"

Giles didn’t know what burned more – the cuts on his bottom lip, the scratches under his shirt, or the look Anya threw at him before following Nalph. Sighing, he made his painful way after them both. He caught up to them at the appalling curtain of baby skulls, just in time to hear Nalph say, "You know, Anya, I am in fact interested in acquiring a Nri-encrusted cup, such as the one last sighted in Morocco."

"I knew you were," she said brightly. "Call me, and I can get to sourcing!"

Pushing Giles through the chattering heads, Nalph said, "I think I will. And of course I do have your work number on display."

What with the revealing his (mostly) true identity and attendant nerves, Giles hadn’t had a chance yet to see the card she had left. One look at the bulletin board made him catch his breath.

As soon as he and Anya had said their goodbyes, gotten past the vampire who’d been far too intrigued by his bleeding mouth, and gone through the door, he said, "Did you see the flyer for Yeangelt?"

"Yes I did, and I thought the same thing. The number is memorized, and I’ve got a rough idea of the magicks used to summon him." Hair flying, she whirled around, then grabbed his upper arms. "So that’s all you have to say to me? ‘Did you see the flyer for Yeangelt?’"

A lingering flicker of his own anger at seeing her there made him say, instead of the apology she was waiting for, "No, that’s not all. Did you catch the resemblance of ‘land’s death’ to Lambeth?" At his words her nails dug into his skin, marking ten new points of pain. Before she could start shouting at him, he said, "Oh sod it, Anya, let’s not even begin. We shouldn’t argue in the street."

"Fine, fine. Where’s the car?"

"This way. Come on." He managed to catch hold of her hand and pull her away from the demon growls and stench of the Mysterious Emporium. Traffic on Charing Cross was still heavy, a night-bus belching out fumes as it passed, two drunks singing football songs as they reeled by, a pile of rags in a doorway which actually was a man sleeping rough. Transient pools of light and dark, safety and treachery, marked the pavement.

In one of those pools of darkness, he got his handkerchief out and pressed it to his still bleeding mouth. It stung, worse now than before. As they passed back into light, he caught Anya’s gaze on him. She took the handkerchief away, then examined the bright red already dotting the white cotton. "Rupert, this isn’t stopping. Does the Mikh’s claws have some kind of anti-clotting agent?"

"Yes. Part of an ancient alliance with blood-drinkers, I understand. But your basic salve should take care of it," he said. Although her fingers tightened on his, she said nothing – just kept staring at his blood. Her hair shadowed her face so that he couldn’t see, couldn’t read it. Not that he needed to. "Anya, I know. I know, I’m sorry, but that was, er, a scene that had to be played out. I had to tell him, and I had to accept his vengeance. He’s too good a source to let go."

Without answering him, she dropped his hand and re-folded the handkerchief to make a clean surface. Then gently, so gently, she staunched the wound again as best she could. He bent down a little, despite the scratches, to make it easier for her. Her eyes on her work, she said, "How old are you?"

What the bloody hell? "You know how old I am."

"Just answer me."

He leaned into the press of her hand, into the pain he deserved. "I’ll be fifty in January."

"Yes. Almost fifty, and you know every damn thing about everything – yet apparently you still don’t know how relationships work."

He deserved that too, but Christ it hurt more than his wounds. She took her hand away, stuffed the handkerchief into her own pocket, then headed off on her own for Oxford Street.

This was why he hadn’t wanted to look at her earlier, he thought, with a shudder that made his torn shirt flutter against his skin, made his cuts bleed even more. He couldn’t bear to see her walking away from him.

***

The door creaked as Rupert unlocked it and pushed it open for her, and Anya felt strangely grateful for the sound. She couldn’t stand silence any more.

He had gone completely quiet – like that frightening, don’t-touch-me-I’m-holding-in-too-much quiet of the previous winter – after their initial discussion of his bad partner behaviour. He’d led her to the car, he’d silently gotten into the driver’s seat despite her protests, and he’d driven them back to Islington without saying anything. He hadn’t commented when she’d called Zoe on their extremely cool new spy phone and given her the new information about the London threat. He hadn’t even turned on the CD player, which made her nervous, because he did love his harsh and aggressive music.

She looked at the candles on the entry table, ready to be lit, but she didn’t have the heart to perform her ritual. She hadn’t been able to bring him back from the silence like she usually did, because she was too torn between simmering rage and deep, horrible guilt. She knew that despite his words earlier, he wouldn’t have felt it necessary to go off and get himself sliced up if she hadn’t just blurted out his real name to Nalph that morning. And he was so sliced up.

She couldn’t make a wish when he was still bleeding.

The scattered remains of her interrupted supper were all over the floor in the living room. As she went in to pick up the trash, she glanced over at the answering machine. A red light was blinking. "Hey, somebody called while we were gone."

He followed her into the room, retrieved the message. A rich English voice barked out of the machine, "Giles? Roger Wyndam-Pryce. It’s important that you call me back. It’s... important. You have my number."

Before she could do it for him, he went back to the entry and picked up his briefcase; she could hear him try, and fail, to suppress his grunt of pain at the motion. After collecting his address book, he flipped through to the number and then made the call. She went into the kitchen with her hands full of book and apple core and crumbs, but from there she could hear more silence, then him leaving a brief message in return. Whatever Wyndam-Pryce wanted must not have been really a big deal.

"Honey –" But he was in the kitchen before she finished her sentence. Another groan as he reached up to get the bottle of Scotch and a tumbler, and she said, "What do you think you’re doing? How can you have a drink when your mouth is all bloody?"

"Very, very carefully." He splashed a hefty amount into his glass. Putting her hand on his back, she reached over and got herself a glass, then held it out for him. Although he raised his eyebrows, he poured her a significantly smaller portion.

When he took his first sip, she could see the blood on the glass, mingling with the traces of amber liquid. He shuddered, then took another sip. Still bleeding.

"Here. Let me get this shirt off you," she said. "Then come upstairs so I can fix you." He almost chuckled at that, she didn’t know why, but he let himself be turned around, let her unbutton the garment and shrug it off his shoulders. Like his drinking, she did it carefully – but she still got traces of blood on her hands. That’s what real vengeance did, she thought.

Glass of Scotch in one hand, his tattered shirt in the other, she made her way upstairs in the dark. She could hear him behind her, hear him stop at the foot of the stairs so he could take off his boots. He always took off his shoes when he was in for the night, it was one of his things.

That was when the tears started, hot pinpricks that hurt her eyes. He had left her but he’d come back, and he was sorely wounded, and this beautiful expensive shirt she’d bought on a very good sale was ruined, and he lied to her but he did understand that it was wrong, as wrong as vengeance, why hadn’t the book covered any of this – she had to gulp down some alcohol to make herself feel better and distract herself from crying.

Then she coughed for thirty seconds straight.

"For fuck’s sake, are you all right?" He caught up to her at their bedroom door. Reaching around with an audible wince, he flicked the switch so that the bedside lamp glowed on. Then he put a finger under her chin, lifting her face so he could examine it. "Darling, what happened?"

"The Scotch choked me," she sniffed, hoping he’d ascribe the fresh tears to overly enthusiastic liquor consumption, rather than to delayed trauma or the fact that he’d called her ‘darling’ for the first time since they’d started fighting. She hadn’t realised how much she counted now on being his darling.

He looked a little dubious, but he said, "Right. Well, be careful next time."

"Oh, you can tell me to be careful, after you just put yourself in danger – no, never mind. I want you to sit on the bed and wait for me while I get the salve and some bandages." When he seemed set to argue, she said, "Now. Don’t question me."

Once alone in the bathroom, she allowed herself one more little bout of tears and some less toxic sips of Scotch. After splashing water on her face and collecting herself, she also collected a towel, a roll of bandages and a tiny plaster for his mouth, and the healing balm she made.

When she went back out, he wasn’t on the bed where she’d told him to be. Instead, he was standing by their bedside table, messing around with a match and cursing under his breath. "Rupert, whatever are you doing?"

He glanced back over his shoulder, all shadows and silver in the light. "You always, er, light these candles when we’re in here." He smiled, even though the movement obviously hurt his lip. "Although I don’t know why it’s so important to you, you’ve never said. But since it is...."

"You’re trying to make me cry again, aren’t you?"

"Of course not, darling," he said, a little alarmed. "Is there some sort of problem if I light the candles? Some ritual disturbed?"

She dumped her armful of medical aids onto the bed and crossed to him. Putting one hand on his broad back and the other covering his hand with the match, she helped him strike it into fire. Together they put the flame to each wick; as the spark caught each one, she made her wish. Then she blew out the match. "Not a problem," she said.

"And, and why do we do this?" he said, finally sitting down on the edge of the bed as previously instructed.

"That’s for me to know and you to find out. Some day." She curled up next to him, after angling him so she could see all his wounds in the lamplight. There were eight long scratches on his stomach above the waist of his jeans, at least three of them quite deep. After opening the salve, she began to dab it along the cut line of the worst scratch. He drew in a harsh breath, but stayed still for her. The medicine did stop the bleeding.

When she got to the next to last scratch, he spoke. "I’m sorry for lying to you, Anya. So very sorry."

"And I’m very sorry for telling Nalph who you were without asking, and even more sorry for saying you were bad at relationships. That wasn’t fair." Stupid, stupid tears. Blinking hard, she concentrated on what was important, on him. His skin warmed under her hands; the candle flames on the table leapt higher.

"No. No, I deserved it." When she pressed too hard on the last scratch, he bit down on a groan, and his hand gripped her shoulder. But his words were deep and soft. "I’ve been alone most of my life, Anya, worked alone most of my life. Partnership won’t come easily to me, I’m afraid."

"Do you want me to lend you my book? Although it doesn’t seem to cover certain difficult aspects of our life together, I have to say."

His laugh broke in the middle. "Ow. Well, maybe I’ll reread the bloody thing, just to be on the safe side."

It only took her a moment to bandage him up, in case the scratches opened again. As she started on his mouth, caressing the salve onto his cut lip, he mumbled, "Anyway, though you shouldn’t have been there, you did extremely well. You’re a natural, Tuppence."

"Stop talking so I can fix you. But Tommy, I had no idea how stoic and spy-like you could be. Very sexy. Also, that new spell worked great."

"Um-hm." He brought his other hand up so that he was holding both her shoulders; then, as she tried to put on the plaster, his big, competent fingers started to massage. Those fingertips, so attuned to her, so skilled – "Dear Lord, you’re tense."

It was very difficult to tend to his wound when she was puddling onto the duvet in muscle-relaxed ecstasy, she thought. But she managed to finish, wipe her hands, and set aside her materials, saying with only a little moan, "Oh, that’s....oh, you’re good at that. But you’re supposed to be resting from your injuries."

His eyes smiled, even if his mouth didn’t curve, what with the plaster. "I thought I’d apologise to you first. See if I could figure out this relationship thing after all." One more probe into a knot high on her back, making her arch with pleasure. "Why don’t you get ready for bed, darling? I’ll be back in a second."

When he disappeared into the bathroom with his Scotch, she leapt for her nightwear. She had taken to sleeping in whatever pajama top went with the bottoms he wore. Of course the first time she did this, he’d frowned and explained that such a custom was ‘twee,’ or some other equivalent stupid British term. Not that she listened to him; she liked his silk against her skin almost as much as she liked him there. She took off her clothes and slid into the top, then took another drink of Scotch. It went down smoothly, a lick of fire like the candles she burned. She could get used to this.

Her battered man came out of the bathroom wearing the right pajama bottoms and carrying a folded bath sheet over his arm. Brows knitting together, he said, "Take off the nightshirt, Anya."

"A command is neither partner-like nor apologetic," she said, even as she pulled it over her head.

"Then I’ll, er, rephrase. If you’ll please take off the nightshirt, I’ll take care of your tension. In way of apology, of course." He threw back the duvet, then spread out the bathsheet for her. Oh. He had massage oil. And his eyes were smiling again, just for her.

She crawled onto the bed and positioned herself on the bathsheet, pillowing her head in her arms. Her eyes closed on the sight of the bedside candles, flames still leaping high. But: "You don’t need to, Rupert. I mean, even I wouldn’t make you have sex when you’re sorely wounded, and besides, we had very fine sex in the office this afternoon–"

"Darling, shut up." So she did.

There was a distinct grunt of pain as he climbed onto the bed, but she chose to overlook it for the moment. He straddled her hips – he was nicely flexible for a man his age – and then she could smell the oil as he poured it into his hands, hear the slickening whispers as he rubbed his hands together. Leaning forward, he drew a warm, smooth double line with his fingers, an experienced traverse over tensed muscles and the valley of her lower back. Then he went back over old ground. She moaned.

He paused on his travels, his palms rotating along her shoulder blades, easing out every fear and worry she’d had for days. She could feel herself loosen everywhere, feel her start to moisten between her legs. Her breasts swelled against the rough bath sheet, the tips almost unbearably sensitive. The light intensified against closed eyelids. As he slid down her sides and up around, she murmured, "Oh honey. Oh, you’re very good at this."

"Mmm. As a wise woman said tonight, I do know every damn thing about everything." Fingers tested, then unlocked a muscle group near her neck. As she whimpered, he said, "I have certifications in at least four types of massage. Perhaps we’ll try Rolfing next."

Under his hands she sank into the mattress, nothing but wetness and desire and the last remnants of bone, nothing but sparks in her shaded vision. He moved across her like ripples on water, and she lost track of time. When his hands dipped below her, a slick touch on her nipples, she liquified completely. But she managed to say, "You’re lying, aren’t you."

"Yes. But we spies call it strategy." One last smooth down familiar ground, and then his weight lifted off her. "Turn over, darling."

Muscles didn’t want to respond, but she managed to slide onto her back. Still straddling her, he was pouring more oil into his hands. Although his pajamas draped over a quite respectable erection, the light reflecting from lamp and candle-flames clearly showed new lines of hurt cut into his face. Even as she reached up to caress him, his hardness swelling under the silk, she said, "Honey, don’t do this if it’s painful."

"It’s my pleasure. Now lie still and be quiet." After smacking her hand away from him, he sent his slick fingers up her stomach, pressing into muscles she didn’t know she had. Then those big palms covered her breasts.

As if it were possible to stay still or quiet for that – she arched up into his touch, moaning. When he pinched her nipples, a sharp flare of desire travelled down. He said sternly, "No moving, Anya."

"First, you’re out of your damn mind." Her hands went to his forearms, caressing the bunched muscles there. And she scrutinized his face, seeing the pain he couldn’t hide from her. He wouldn’t be able to hide anything from her any more, she determined. "Second, you are hurting. So we’re going to change the rules."

"Anya, stop."

She slid up to meet him, careful not to touch his bandaged stomach, and brushed against his jaw. He tasted of smoke and Scotch, heat and all the things she loved. After a kiss, she whispered, "Apologies go better with intercourse, Rupert."

"Um. Yes. There are certain, er, technical difficulties – "

The fingers of one of her hands travelled up his shoulders, along his neck, and settled at the nape of his neck. The other hand dipped below silk, so that her thumb could begin to sweep over the sweet, soft head of his cock –silk there too, wrapped over hardness. Shivering, breathing hard, he had to work to keep his balance. She said, "Partners like us can figure out a way through any problem."

With a minimum of discussion or disturbing his injuries, he lay down on his back. It was her turn to straddle him, to slide down and take him in. So hard, so deep – and she vowed to keep well away from his hurts. It was her turn to lean down over him, to link fingers with his as she started to move, rippled on him like water. So hard, so deep.

The lines of his face had sharpened into pleasure now, the shadows fading more each time their bodies met, each thrust and each tightening of the holds they had on each other.

And as the first wave hit her, she thought: God, yes, we’re a matched set.

***

Angling the umbrella to cover them more effectively, Giles shepherded Anya toward their house. The evening rain was really coming down hard, he thought, although it couldn’t hope to compete with his darling’s bell-like voice lifted in complaint.

"I hate it when the Tube’s that crowded and we have to stand. I wanted to sit with you, and I’d been looking forward to reading the Telegraph on the way home. It was the only thing keeping me going when I was negotiating with that idiot Iezz."

"But you got the cup for Nalph in the end, and at a bloody good price."

"Yes, but you know how I love to read the Telegraph’s obituary page. I hate to miss a day." Smiling, she put her head against his shoulder. "You did great today too, honey."

"I hardly think discovering all the people and places that Yeangelt isn’t counts as a successful work-day. And you can read the Torygraph over supper, I don’t mind." He looked down the street; a strange hire car with tinted windows was parked in front of the Bannisters’ house next door. Idly noting the plate number, he opened the gate for Anya.

She pulled him along their gravelled walk. "Honey, get serious. Junkyard Wars is on tonight."

"Oh for fuck’s sake. I can’t believe you like that programme." He handed her the umbrella, then fished around for his keys. As he unlocked the door, he said, "You probably like those monster trucks too, don’t you."

"Yes! The way the very large machines bash against each other – it’s highly entertaining." She reached up to kiss him, careful of his still healing mouth; it had only been two days, after all. After a second butterfly-brush against his lips, she said, "Why do you ask?"

"Because, darling, I inevitably fall in love with women who like monster trucks. Some sort of vengeance, I believe." Taking back the umbrella, he said, "In you go."

After he dumped the wet umbrella in the requisite container, he headed for the phone. He’d been trying to reach Roger Wyndam-Pryce for two days, but no luck yet; he’d try one more time, then give it up as a bad job. Still, seemed odd to him.

Anya stayed in the entry to do her mysterious ritual. From his vantage point he could see her get out the match, strike it into flame. Before she could light the candles, however, the doorbell rang. "I’ll get it. You finish that," he said.

After he opened the door, he stopped short; the dripping, unshaven man on the threshold was perhaps the last person he’d expected to see. "Wesley! Er, hello – "

"Hello, Giles." That soft voice didn’t sound like the young prat he’d known in Sunnydale, but it was unmistakably Wesley Wyndam-Pryce on their doorstep.

"Who is it?" Anya poked her head around his shoulder, smiled at their visitor. "Oh, hi there! Can we help you?"

"Yes, actually, you could. I was wondering what the fuck you did to my father."

And Giles suddenly realised that Wesley was carrying a gun. One pointed at them, in fact.

END

(The story will continue in the next Investigations and Acquisitions tale, coming soon...)