Frowning, Nalph hopped out into the Emporium's passageway from the Charing Cross Road to nowhere. The passage's steel gate was rattling far louder than the interior door hung with Ihioo babies' skulls, loud enough to be heard inside the office and beyond, even though no wind blew through the metal. It couldn't be the cold, not yet, he thought, but he would check again.

He lifted up the cage holding his new Azi demon, Haloo, so that the tiny creature could scent the outside air. Although the brick and ancient stone of the passage kept out the worst of the weather, the Azi should be able to tell the pressure-change even before it happened.

With its first whistling breath Haloo fluttered its striated sandpaper wings against its brass cage, then cocked its head and sharpened its fangs idly against a wing. Not cooperative this evening, apparently.

"Try, Haloo," Nalph said in his best coaxing-the-seer-pet voice. "Read the signs for me."

Whistling mournfully, a sound that sank into brick and stone, Haloo pointed a wing at the boium tree in the circular courtyard. More brown dead leaves fell, hissing when they landed.

"Thank you, I already knew that," Nalph said testily. Despite – or perhaps because of– his application of the Noothian canusses, sprinkling the bonemeal morning and night into the earth of the pot, the tree had continued to wither. The Lady Yeangelt and her minions had scarcely gathered enough leaves to complete their gathering, but for all intents and purposes it was complete.

He dug a claw into a dreadlock at the thought. The sorceress-bitch had been more demanding in the last days, too happy, and he hadn't been able yet to confirm the latest information for... those who were concerned. He didn't permit himself to even think of the words 'Watcher' or 'Investigations and Acquisitions.'

"The dark times are coming," he said, almost to himself. "And so I will remind them tonight."

In the cage Haloo went into a frenzy of whistles and colour-changes, its striae flashing from blue to grey to dark, dark red.

The unlocked steel gate rattled, far, far louder than a door hung with skulls.

***

The end of a late October sunset in London was like curtains falling across windows of the sky. Crimsoned pink draped the west, while cold, unlit grey veiled the east and the north....no, that was utter shit, and Spike knew it. He knew better than to try poetry again. Couldn't suss out what about the Smoke called it out in him.

Or rather, he could, and bloody wished he couldn't. "What did that git Thomas Wolfe say? You can't go home again," he said under his breath, before slouching down in the back seat of the black cab and planting his boots hard against the barrier between driver and passenger.

The cabbie sent a quick, anxious look over his shoulder. "Almost there, mate."

"Right. Yeah." Ignoring the ashy taste in his mouth, he turned to look out the window he'd rolled down.

Streetlight, neon, doors and windows darkening as shops closed for the night, people milling about on the pavements, smells of spicy Indian food and beer like hooks in his skin to hold him in place, more people, pink turning into grey, blood and bone and home – he stopped himself. It was just Upper Street, heart of Islington. Nothing else. Not his home, hadn't been home in years.

The cabdriver turned up his radio -- sports results, brilliant. However, when the announcer began with "Arsenal wins again," Spike had to sigh. Highbury was a sodding Hellmouth, no question. Like home....

He put aside thoughts of lost Sunnydale and looked back out the window.

When the cab slid around a corner, the noise and light-levels outside dropped. Seemed a nice enough neighbourhood: terrace-houses on one side of the street, larger free-standing ones on the other, grasses and colour in the tidy front gardens. It'd suit the old man and ex-demon-girl.

The cab stopped in front of a big white house with vines curling over its front wall. After shoving a couple of tenners at the driver, Spike got himself and his baggage out on the pavement. Rolling his shoulders, he released tension from the long plane ride, from losses and memory. Then, with a flourish of his duster, he opened the gate and went up the walk.

The doorway – pots of tidy greenery on either side, globe light above the Oxford-blue door – looked welcoming enough. Even before he could press the bell, in fact, the door opened, and the master of the house stood on the threshold, his glasses sliding down his nose, a cup of tea in his hand. Was that almost a smile on his face? "Hello, Spike. You're a bit early." He looked over Spike's shoulder. "Er, where are your colleagues?"

"Rupes. I came on by myself, thought I'd get settled first. Wes and Faith are dropping their bags at the Wyndam-Pryce establishment – I think Wes is putting the boot into his mum, yeah, bringing Faith and her together like that." He wasn't going to say anything, wasn't going to – "So, right, you planning to invite me in, or conspiring to kill me again?"

"The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive." And that was a bloody grin. "However, so long as you promise not to kill anyone, particularly my wife, my charges, or my dogs, you're safe and welcome. I invite you in." He extended his hand.

"Fucking hell, old man, you ever going to let that go? But –" he shook Giles's hand – "I do so promise." Using his gentleman's manners made him uneasy as always, unprotected, like a layer of skin sloughing off whether he wanted it gone or not; Wes did the same thing to him all the sodding time. Anyway – "Dogs?"

At which point the gate crashed open behind him, and mad barking erupted. When he turned, a Jack Russell terrier was streaking toward him, its leash trailing behind.

"Cava! Come here," Giles said sharply. The dog jumped up in passing to lick Spike's fingers and then plopped itself, panting, on Giles's shoes. Then: "Hello, darling, look who's arrived."

Anya, glowing and all togged out in exercise gear, was coming up the walk. "I see! Spike, you're early – and, obviously, resurrected!" She slapped him on the back in a familiar demon-girl touch. "We're very happy you're going to stay with us. I'd hug you in greeting as well, but I'm sweaty from my run."

"'lo, Anya," he said, unable to repress a grin. "Appreciate the invitation and the thought."

"Glad you could visit." Smiling, she hit him again. "We also appreciate your vamp-Watcher-hero type help in our time of great crisis. So, honey–"

It took Spike a second to work out that was for Giles. Apparently her worry about sweat didn't extend to a husband of four weeks, because she stretched up for a kiss, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing herself into him. Smoothly he steadied her with one hand, making sure she didn't step on the dog, and balanced his tea with the other. Then she said as if she'd never paused "–Is anyone else here yet?"

"Tom and Zoe. Danny's on some op with Customs and Excise, can't make it." Giles caressed her back before easing her down. "What have you done with Dawn and Macallan?"

"Ian Matthews, at the park," she said. When Giles groaned, she added, "Well, honey, she is a teenaged girl, and although he's kind of wild, at least he's nice enough to walk his father's dog."

"Too much pub time," he said darkly.

She rubbed her thumb over his mouth. "A Watcher can take care of herself. Now I'm going to go take a quick shower, while you show Spike his room and get him a beverage. Spike, we have pigs' blood or beer for you....Hey! Rupert, you haven't changed from work. And you're wearing shoes." Which Spike thought was a bloody literal observation, even for her.

Giles said, "Er, darling, before I left the office, I got a message."

"Oh. We'll be going out after the meeting, huh?" Spike thought he heard a note of panic under her usual matter-of-fact tone. "Okay, we can talk after my shower." One more pat on the back for Spike, then she whistled the dog to follow her as she went upstairs.

"Well, aren't you two cosy," Spike said, trying for casual sarcasm and almost succeeding. Something about their shorthand affection made him feel even more alone than usual–

But from out of sight came the sound of feet pounding down the stairs. Giles muttered, "Dear God, brace yourself," and flattened himself against the door.

"What–"

Andrew hove into view, heading toward him at a dead run. "Spike! Oh Spike, you're really rematerialised and you're here, and – Spike!"

At the same time, from the street came a Summers-girl shriek the likes of which Spike hadn't heard in months, accompanied by deep-throated barking. "Spike! Spike Spike Spike!"

He found himself crushed in simultaneous tackle-hugs from the junior Watchers, with additional help from a second dog, which judging from the long and over-friendly nose seemed to be some kind of collie. Somewhere outside the tangle of arms and burrowing heads, Giles said, "Macallan! Come," and the dog-nose and paws were removed. But Andrew and Dawn held on tight.

The force of their hugs took Spike over the threshold and into the house.

***

"So, your mom hates my guts," Faith said for the fifth time since they'd left Kensington. She'd been nibbling at her lips until they were swollen and red, bright red even in London nighttime –

Not that Wes was paying attention to things of that nature. For the fifth time he replied, "No, but she likes almost no one. For example, you might have noticed she doesn't care much for me." He gestured her in through the gate of the Islington house.

Faith spun onto the walk, her movement as smooth as if, cudgel in hand, she was knocking out a phalanx of vampires. It was characteristic of her, he thought, that every movement looked like dancing. Looked like death.

"She likes you fine, 'son,'" she said, trying to mimic Elinor Wyndam-Pryce's tone. "She's just kinda fucking chilly. In the movies, that's Mom-style in England, you know?"

"Not normally, I believe," he said.

"Huh. Well, coulda been worse, pal."

"Oh, it was. You never met my father."

When Faith came to rest beside him, he rang the doorbell. The action made him recall the first time he'd stood on this threshold, feel again the rain, the memory-loss and confusion, the weight of the loaded gun in his pocket, the headache. Things had changed, if not as much as he'd hoped. The headache lingered, if only a shadow of what it had been. And so did Lilah.

She still whispered in his head, a trickle of hell-smoke in his ears at odd times of the day or night, always asking for release. 'I'd be fucking thrilled if you'd save me,' she said every time – as she whispered to him even now on Giles and Anya's doorstep. Like a fool, he kept searching for the way to do what she asked.

It was only one of the many reasons he'd had to leave Angel's team.

The opening of the door pulled him out of the depression that always hovered – and Anya, haloed by candle flame and lamplight, beamed at them from the other side. "Welcome, Faith and Wes! Come in. We've been waiting for you."

"Hey, Anya, thanks," Faith said, grinning. "Not something me and Watcher-boy hear every day." After the two women exchanged shoulder-pats, Faith disappeared inside, saying, "Yo, it's the married man! What's up, G?"

And Anya pounced. Giving him a rib-crushing hug, she said, "Wesley! Thank you for the Fortnum hamper and the loan of your land on our wedding day; both proved highly enjoyable. Now, tell me – since you've changed jobs and time zones, are you still crazy?"

He found himself chuckling. "If I were, Mrs Giles, would I tell you?" When she pulled back with a frown, he added, "No, joking. I'm fine, really."

"Uh-huh. All senior Watchers use that phrase as a form of strategy. I'll be keeping my eye on you," she said, drawing him in. "Now say hello to Rupert before we have to begin work."

As they entered, he was struck again with the essence of their place: warmth, good smells of food and plants, colours like jewellery. Just like last time, candles flickered on the entryway table – but instead of two pillars, there was now a wrought-iron tree of tapers, at least ten at first glance.

Faith was already halfway up the staircase, saying, "Just a Coke or something for me, man. Thanks."

"All right– Wes, hello, thanks for coming," Giles said, smiling and offering his hand.

As they shook hands, Wes couldn't resist saying, "Hello, Giles. This is certainly a nicer welcome than an elbow to the chin."

"Because this time your gun is holstered, not waved in our faces," Anya said briskly. "I did notice it when I hugged you, Wes."

"Ah, so your warm greeting was just a gun-check."

"Don't be stupid. It was a warm greeting and a gun-check." Letting him go, she said to Giles, "I'm going to go make sure everybody's settled, honey. Could you bring up the food?"

"Certainly – Wes can help me. You might send Dawn or Andrew down to wait for our last group member, though."

"Got it." She left, saying over her shoulder, "Please bring Faith's drink too, Wes."

Giles steered him toward the table. "Drinks and glasses are there – choose something for yourself as well. I've just got to get one more thing before we go up to the study." Then he opened the refrigerator and stared inside, muttering something to himself about cheese.

As Wes poured the drink for Faith, he said, "Actually, should the team leader be left to finish putting together the canapes?"

"Bugger off." But Giles smiled when he said it. "In any event, I'm not running the op, Tom Quinn is. Anya and I and our assistants have all done the preliminary, er, investigations and acquisitions, but by rights the final push should have been down to Special Branch. Shouldn't have to call in the Watchers and a Slayer at all, but with Harry fucking Pearce's nose so far up Downing Street's arse and his refusal to even consider – well, it's the government, you know. Budget woes take priority over minor apocalypse."

"Giles, I have no idea what you're talking about." Choosing a bottle of Bishop's Tipple for himself, he twisted off the cap and took a long drink. His headache retreated, just for a moment, with the rush of bitter down his throat.

Another smile as Giles joined him at the table, carrying a chunk of Wensleydale on a plate. "Missed my report about Her Majesty's Secret Service outsourcing its demon crime enforcement, did you?"

"No, of course not. However, your colourful espionage references aren't really in my line, despite my father's extra-curricular activities." He didn't know why that statement earned such a quizzical look. "In any event, as you say it's a minor apocalypse. This is very much Watchers' business, Giles, always has been."

"Er, right. Watchers' business." Suddenly the tray seemed to hold all of Giles's attention. He added the cheese, set aside the plate, wiped his hands."You ready?"

Wes could see in Giles's actions and hear in the curt words a familiar bruising at the mention of the Council – familiar since he'd spent almost five years aching every time someone said the word. That recognition meant he'd go ahead with the other task he'd been given: "In a moment. I've been charged with a message for you. From Robson."

"Oh? About the juniors, I suppose." Giles glanced at his watch before picking up the tray. "Could it wait? We really should get started –"

"They want you back in the New Council."

Slowly, carefully, Giles put the food back down. "What are you talking about?"

"Robson, Santiago, Wood, the others. They sent Dawn and Andrew here not only because of her strongly worded request to live with you and Anya, but also because they wanted to test you, see where your loyalties stood after the, well, precipitate departure from Cleveland. See what you'd pass on." When Giles stared at him, Wes said, "Well then. Dawn's entrance scores at the new Academy are the highest in two decades." Higher even than mine, he thought with a twinge of bitterness. "And Andrew and Xander got through the Burroths with flying colours in that trip to Stourbridge –"

"I had sod all to do with either."

"That's not what Dawn and Andrew say. According to them, you're their 'best teacher ever' – quite aside from you and Anya serving essentially as Dawn's guardians."

Giles's expression had closed down, an unpleasant reflection of Sunnydale days. "Ah. I've been harbouring a pair of double-agents in my house."

"Can't quite stop the espionage references?"

Giles made a sound that might have been intended as laughter. "Of course. It's what I do." He stared at his hands on the tray for a long moment, his fingers moving along the edge as if inscribing unreadable words. "Or it's one of the things my wife and I do. No, I'm not a Watcher any more, full-stop. But you, Wes – you haven't told me why you've returned to the fold, or why you left Angel's team. I've been waiting for you to explain, but–?" A hazel stare all but pinned Wes against the wall. Yes, that was familiar too.

It took a look away and another drink of bitter before he could get the words past the knot in his throat: "More disapproval, Giles? So much for 'ex-Watchers resurgent.'"

"No, you don't understand. I've been concerned." He paused, selecting his words. "I'm asking you if Angel was, er, difficult when you told him you knew of his lie, or if some misplaced loyalty to Roger Wyndam-Pryce has made you return to the Council. Is this job really what you want?"

Had Angel been 'difficult'....he didn't think that was the right term. Standing in the filtered light from the windows in the Wolfram and Hart CEO's office, staring at the vampire he'd so long fought beside and for, he had found himself remembering the betrayal in scarifying detail. Not Angel's betrayal with the memories, of course, but his own: mistranslation, misguided action, loss, utter loss. He hadn't needed Angel's quiet "I did what I had to for my son, he's the most important thing," because he knew it already, if distantly. The deep emotional reality of a father's love had always been something Wes saw through smoked glass, watching the expression of it in others but never feeling for himself –

"No," he said now. "I didn't rejoin the Council because of my father. And Angel wasn't any way I hadn't expected him to be."

"Expected, once you got back the memory he stole. Hard to forgive," Giles said. But he added, "All right. You'll tell me more when you feel able, I hope. Now we really should get to work."

"Certainly. Oh, wait, the ice in Faith's drink is melting – let me just set that right."

Even as Wes tried to regain his composure by digging in the ice bucket, he heard thunder rolling down the stairs. Already holding the food tray in his hands, Giles shook his head, then shouted, "Macallan! Cava! Slow !" The thunder softened, so Wes could identify the sounds of speeding canine paws even before a collie and terrier careened around the corner of the arch. Tongues lolling out, they sat and smiled at the foolish humans.

Wes let himself smile too. "Now what's this? When we last spoke of this– three weeks ago? – you weren't going to get a dog. You told me that you didn't have the time or the space, that no matter what pleas Dawn tried or arguments Anya used...."

"Yes, well, the rumours of my influence in this household are greatly exaggerated. We went to Battersea the next bloody day. And we got two of the creatures because Dawn feared one would be lonely during the long hours we're at work and she's at school." Yet when Giles leaned down to the dogs, his murmured "stupid beasts, can't find your own arses with your noses" was all affection.

"See, Giles, you love them! Especially when Anya told you why she'd picked Macallan for her very own." Wes looked up to see a tall, lovely young woman grinning from the archway – Dawn. "Hey, Wesley."

They'd never actually met, he knew, even if he remembered her from Sunnydale, hanging about during Scooby meetings and pestering Buffy. But they'd exchanged e-mails in the past weeks, and he could work with what he was given: "Hello, Dawn, lovely to see you. So why did Anya choose this particular animal?"

"It's not important, really–" Giles began.

Impervious to the hint, she giggled and put her hand on the collie's head. "Because she took one look and said–" her voice took on an eerie similarity to Mrs Giles's, "'This is the one for me. He's obviously very smart and handsome and tough, if slightly neurotic and given to herding people. Just like Rupert!'"

Over Wes's laugh, Giles said, "Yes, yes, that joke never gets tired. Dawn, if you'll wait for our last guest and then join us– you should revise for your Watcher History exam in the interim, perhaps?"

"Only you would make me study right before an apocalypse," she said, stealing a slice of cheese and then flourishing the book in her hand."Already got it covered, Giles."

"Well done. You know, Wes, this young woman's going to be the head of the Council some day. I'd mind my manners with her," he said, as he headed up the stairs with the food.

Wes caught Dawn's pleasure at the compliment, a burst of pure energy, before she sent him an inquiring look. "He said 'no' when I asked," he said quietly.

"Yeah, well, he's still a Watcher – like you were?" she said. "Just make him see reality. Don't accept the first answer, you know?"

Nodding, he took the first step up. When his foot touched the stair, once more the smoke-voice whispered in his ear. ' I'd be fucking thrilled if you'd save me.'

***

The sounds of merriment and business, growls and chatter and the clink of demon coin, came from the other side of the curtain. The public space of the Mysterious Emporium was full, it seemed – the Lady Yeangelt could almost taste the spirits of Nalph's patrons, those demons who didn't know what she knew.

Her sleeping partners would be awakening soon. The power of the Xet was coming back into clawed hands and her voice, emanating from what she'd prepared for the night. The two translucent lengths of silk, each made of panels she'd sewn into wholes and marked with the same repeating pattern, draped over her arm until they almost brushed the floor of the Mysterious Emporium's private space. Soon but not now; almost, but not touching yet.

Smiling to herself, she lowered them the final inch. Silk hissed against ground. Then she dragged the edges in a circle around her, acid to mark the earth. When she lifted the fabric up, flame leapt around the circle. It smelled like bitter almond.

In the centre of the circle, she whirled. What lay beyond the flames was blurred, but she could discern Master Hat resting on a chair between the two tunnels, his hood and cloak rippling in the fire-wind. Although he was eager to begin the opening, she knew to wait until time served. Still: "Master Hat, might you pass me a glass to drink?"

"Of course, my lady," he said, before disappearing into her tunnel – the one holding the souls and spirits they'd taken, but more important, the way to the hidden room. Her Pennith and Griffin would be back with her tonight.

Another spin, a burst of chatter, and she saw Nalph standing by the curtain of babies' skulls. Even as she twirled, her arms going out so that the silk could flutter above the flames, she said, "Mikh Lord, not much longer to wait. The day of the Rising Time approaches."

"Not 'night'?" the creature said coolly. She'd noticed earlier the merchant's lack of enthusiasm for their great task, and she would attend to it.

Yet for the moment she would dance – "Night is day in my world, Nalph, as it is in others. All will be able to pass through, once we open the Terminal." The flames reached higher still in her pleasure at the thought. She and her Pennith would be travellers once more, able to go home. Soon but not now; almost, but not yet.

The humans would be dead, and all remaining unbelievers would be dealt with before the Xet set their feet to walking the dimensions again.

"Here is your drink, my lady," Master Hat said from the other side. Bowing low, he offered her the seemingly empty glass jar – but it was already heating from the inside, drawn by her fire, the taken spirit effervescing in pain.

"Throw it to me, Master Hat," she said, spinning faster.

When he did so, sending it through the circle of fire, the glass flared intensely green. With one hand she caught the jar, lifted it to her mouth, and drank the spirit down.

***

Andrew had sat in on most of the group councils in the last days of Sunnydale, so he had pre-apocalypse experience. Still, his nerves were worse now, black oil-worms burning into him from above. Like what happened to Mulder in the X-Files ep "Tunguska."

Nerves hurt more now because he knew more about what loss meant.

"We should begin," Tom Quinn said, from his command post sitting on Giles's desk. "Andrew, would you pass out the materials?"

"Of course!" He would do anything for the gorgeous yet troubled spymaster. Besides, Tom scared him. That guy was intense .

Jumping to his feet, cradling the stack of folders prepared by himself and Dawn that morning before she had left for her maths test, he surveyed the almost fully occupied study. He and Anya had rushed home early from the office, leaving Giles to handle the phones and a few last-minute Investigations matters, so that they could get the food and arrange the proper seating – with charts and everything– in the limited space.

Tom and Zoe, the team leaders for the op, got to perch on the desk which Anya had cleared (Andrew wouldn't touch Giles's papers for anything). The MI5 officers of course already had their folders – they were real spies.

Taking up all available space on the sofa were Faith and Spike, dark and light but identical in the way they sprawled, nursed their drinks, and fidgeted until the leather cushions creaked. The fiercest Slayer and the resurrected Vampire-Watcher-hero weren't really meetings types, Andrew thought, which insight was rewarded by Spike's "Look, we don't need the homework, yeah?"

"What Blond Boy said. Just point us in the right direction tomorrow night and fucking let us go," Faith said.

"I'll give them their folders, Andrew," Wes said, taking the whole team's. He had pulled Giles's desk chair close to the sofa – in a supervisory capacity, Andrew figured. When the two began to mutter, he continued, "It's reasonable to assume that if you two are to work as a team, at least one of you must know what's going on."

Spike and Faith stared at each other for a long, long moment, before Spike said, "Draw for it?"

"Whatever. But Watcher-boy holds the deck."

"I'm a bloody Watcher too, missy," Spike said, even as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cards.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Giles said, making Anya laugh. Because she said she couldn't fit another chair in the room – or because she preferred this arrangement, as Andrew suspected – Giles had been assigned the bigger of the armchairs by the bookcases, and she had assigned herself his lap. "Andrew, please pass us our folders, if you would."

"Even though we already know what's in them, as we've compiled all the data," Anya added.

While Andrew squeezed around to hand off the rest of the folders, Wes shuffled the cards, hissing them together and then snapping them on his thigh.

"Nice one, Rory," Zoe said. That made Wes smile, even though he didn't look up. If Andrew knew his recent spy history, she'd called him by the code name that the dark and dishevelled Watcher two times over had used in a caper with 'Miss Carter,' aka 'Troy.' Spies had many names, Andrew thought, nodding to himself.

Tom, who had still been amnesiac and missing when that adventure occurred, sent her a sharp look. "Can we stay focussed, please?"

"Sorry, Tom," she said, and turned her attention to her work. But she smiled too.

Andrew put a folder on the empty armchair reserved for the late-comer, then said to Anya, "I'll keep Dawnie's. What do I do with Xander's and Willow's?"

"I'll take Willow's for our meeting in the morning," Giles said, holding his hand out. "Xander's train should be getting in after the meeting, he said he'd come by. You can give it to him then."

"Harris is coming by?" from Spike, and a quiet "Xander's still around?" from Faith. So Xander hadn't talked to Faith yet – which was weird, Andrew thought.

"He's been in Devon with Willow," Anya said. "You guys really don't read your preliminary briefing materials, do you."

"No, but they will," Wes said. He held the deck of cards out to them. "Now draw."

Spike went first. "Ten of spades."

Leaning over Spike, and in the process digging her elbow in what looked to Andrew to be a sensitive area, Faith drew her card. "Sucker! Queen of clubs!"

"Of course it would probably be useful to ask first if high card is winner or loser," Anya said briskly, which observation made Giles hide a smile behind his cup of tea.

Andrew sat down on his corner floor cushion as Spike and Faith began to argue about high and low and Watchers vs Slayers and who could actually read. However, Wes stopped them with a cold "Never mind. Spike, you're the bloody Watcher, you take the fucking thing."

"Language, Percy," Spike said with a grin, even as he accepted the file.

"Yes, fine, that's enough. Folders are all distributed, and we'll begin the meeting now," Tom said in his most- intense-ever way. A person didn't mess with Tom Quinn, Andrew thought, making himself smaller against the bookcases. "The op is scheduled for tomorrow night – we'll have confirmation of that this evening, after Giles and Anya–"

"Tommy and Tuppence," Zoe interjected.

Tom sighed. " –Giles and Anya meet with their informant."

Somehow Andrew had missed that the senior partners of Investigations and Acquisitions had to go out again, but it explained why Anya had got so edgy after her run. With a great effort he kept from touching the claw-marks on his cheek.

"However, we'll proceed as if confirmation already has occurred," Tom finished.

Zoe tapped on her folder. "Our target is to stop the Lady Yeangelt's planned terror activity, which, according to our information, is to open an unknown number of pan-dimensional gates. That opening of what she and her followers call 'the Terminal' would threaten all human life in the Thames Valley, and likely spill out into the rest of England. The result of demons being able to pass freely into our world would threaten the safety of those outside the UK as well."

"Wait just a bloody minute," Spike said. For the first time Andrew realised that the vampire-Watcher-hero had put on his spectacles in order to skim the briefing material, and he had to stuff a canape in his mouth to keep from moaning at the sight. He really needed Dawnie to come back upstairs and pinch him so he didn't embarrass himself. "Lots of demons already pass between dimensions, don't need some sodding multiverse version of Heathrow. Anyanka here could teleport with her vengeance amulet, couldn't you, pet? What's this Yeangelt bird playing at?"

Anya said, "Of course individual demons can go through dimensional doors – if they know the code or location, or have acquired the considerable magicks necessary. But there's often an exorbitant price to pay, sometimes physical, sometimes... not. Also, there aren't as many portals as you'd think, and there are far more dimensions." She grabbed Giles's hand, as if the topic itself was painful, and they intertwined fingers. "Only a very few of the strongest demons could cross outside of the standard ways, and we know now the Xet travellers were some of those."

"Still, dimensions can be shut and power drained. The Slayer Judith Cary and her Watcher did it in 1665, trapping Yeangelt and her consort Pennith in our world," Giles said. "I won't rehearse the history – it's in your briefing packet – but they split the travellers' cup, which somehow contained the power needed for the dimension-breaking."

"Nice. So me and the Watcher boys will set this Yeangelt bitch straight and it'll be done," Faith said. "What's all the fucking drama?"

Tom said coolly, "Because even if you set the bitch straight, there are other factors to consider."

"Another informant – a friend – died to pass along the information the Cup of Xet would ' open one and three. ' Three different sites, from which the Terminal would be created. This has since been confirmed by our source on the inside," Giles said. Anya leaned back against him, cradling their linked hands against her stomach in what Andrew could see was comfort. It was their way to ward off the black oil, he thought. "Although it's possible that taking out one site, or Yeangelt herself, would stop the opening, we can't be sure. It might only lessen the impact."

"Further, Slayers are different now than Judith Cary was. Am I right, Giles, in saying that she had a prophetic dream about Yeangelt's arrival?" Wes said. Upon confirmation, he added, "The empowering spell Willow did has had several consequences on the line, one of which being that Slayer-dreams have become even more unreliable. Have you been dreaming lately, Faith?"

"Not about Slayer-shit, pal, but thanks for asking," she snapped. Spike patted her leg, then looked away as if embarrassed by his kindness.

"We know we can't replicate the initial event. However, we do have an edge," Tom said, "since the I and A team has located the broken Cup of Xet and have managed to keep that information from Yeangelt. We'll use that in the op."

Zoe flipped through her folder to a specific page, and Andrew hurried to follow suit. This was the part he'd worked on– he angled the page so the perfection of his copying was clear. She said, "We've also confirmed the three sites of attack. If you'll turn to the first tab, you'll see our targets, two of which are storage facilities for the power Yeangelt wishes to use. The, um, souls and spirits of victims she's already got." Clearing her throat, she continued, "One is in Brixton, the other on the site of the old Council of Watchers headquarters. The third and most important is–"

"The point of the Xet travellers' original entry. Which oddly enough happens to be a passageway right next to Nalph's Mysterious Emporium," Giles said. This time Andrew's hand did go to the claw-marks, as if he could keep the black oil from seeping inside where he was weakest and most frightened.

"The Best for the Most Discerning Demon and Half-demon," Spike murmured. When everybody looked at him, he whipped his glasses off and said, "What? Bloke can't do some shopping in his time?"

"Oh, no. You may be soul-having now, but some of us recall your former less than friendly habits with shopkeepers. What did you steal from Nalph?" Anya said.

"Nothing! Not a sodding – well, yeah, there might have been a thing. An amulet. But it was fifteen years ago, the Mikh-frog won't remember," Spike said.

Giles sighed. "He bloody well will. You violated the Mikh code, you pillock; he feels quite strongly about that sort of thing."

"Which is why Spike will stay here until the, um, op tomorrow night," Wesley said. When Spike started to protest, Wes said in his most Watcherly voice, "Be reasonable. You're still well-known, William – we can't risk your being recognised or even approached by another demon."

"And we do suggest reconnaissance tonight for the Cleveland team," Zoe said.

"However, we should discuss the teams first, and then our strategies for each site. Although Giles, Anya, Zoe, and I have done preliminary op protocols, we're eager to hear objections, questions, or suggestions," Tom said. He flipped a couple of pages in his folder. "Zoe and I, with Andrew and Dawn's help, will monitor everything from the Investigations and Acquisitions office. Giles and Anya will take point at the Mysterious Emporium; they know their way around, they've been preparing their magicks, and they'll be assisted mystically by Willow Rosenberg, the seer...right, Catriona Mortimer, and her husband Randolph, who'll be with us by then."

"They've been working on spells all week," Anya said brightly. Only someone who knew her as well as Andrew did – and Giles, whose hold on her tightened – could tell how scared she was. For some strange reason it made Andrew feel a little better.

Tom raised his hand for silence. "Second: the former Council site in Bloomsbury. Because you, Spike, are now affiliated with that organisation–"

"Yep, done the fancy blood rites and what all."

Tom repeated more coldly, "Because you, Spike, are now affiliated with that organisation, as is Faith as a Slayer, and because we have intel that the muscle of Yeangelt's group will be there, we're sending you in through the tunnels. Xander Harris will accompany you as navigator; he's been studying the tunnel blueprints."

" Shit ," Faith said, sinking deeper into the couch. When Spike patted her thigh again, she shoved his hand away.

Wes, who'd been watching all that, said, "Do you need an alteration to the plan, Faith? If so, tell us now."

"No. Five by five, big guy. Five by five." But she was lying, Andrew thought – she looked at her hands as she spoke, her nails digging deep enough into her jeans to draw blood.

"Third–" Tom began, but he was interrupted by wild barking and the thunder of puppy paws up the stairs.

Macallan and Cava's eruption into the room was closely followed by Dawn, apologising for their misbehaviour even as she grabbed both dogs by the collars and dragged them over to Andrew. "What did I miss?" she whispered, collapsing on the other floor cushion with Mac. Andrew put his arm around Cava, holding her in place.

Before he could answer, the room fell silent – the MI6 spymaster Jools Siviter stood in the doorway. "Good evening. So sorry I'm late, but I had to get a couple of operatives sorted. Small nuclear crisis in Korea." His glance flicked over the two on the desk, and his smile grew. After taking a long drag on his cigarette, he said, "Ah, Tom. Doing your rehabilitation therapy? And assisted by the lovely Zoe too, how jolly."

"Hello, Jools," Giles said, preventing a Tom-explosion. "We've got a briefing folder for you, and if–"

"Good God, old man, surely you briefed me well enough yesterday during our squash game. There's nothing like chatting of apocalypse while smashing a little ball around." He removed the file from the empty armchair and sat down. "But no matter, I am a 'team player'. Might I also mention that I managed the recce of the Brixton site? I've found the way in."

"Oh, no," Wes said softly, as if the words could stop it from happening.

"Didn't you expect me, Wesley? I can't have this Yeangelt creature using my family's land for evil. I care about my family." That fake Siviter smile went away, leaving behind calculation. When he took another drag, the end of the cigarette went red for a long, long moment, and under the man's watch his mark of protection glowed. "Of course you and I shall work together. My boy, try to think."

Andrew had to cuddle Cava closer to keep away the reflected chill. Mulder had been in Russia in "Tunguska" when the black stuff got him.

***

"I won't need you tonight. Either of you," Yeangelt said. "You may go."

After a sidelong stare at Nalph, who stood impassively by, Master Hat began, "But my Lady –"

"Do you pay me no heed, enforcer? Tonight my Pennith and Griffin will awake, and I don't have time for your complaints or questions. Go, attend to your work." She rearranged the lengths of silk over her arm – the fabric so cool, so powerful. She could read the signs with her fingers, feel the knowledge sink into her skin.

And she shut the door of the hidden room, leaving her alone with her sleepers.

Beside each bed, the black candle's light danced as she had. She went to each one in turn; with her free hand she sewed a seam in the air above each flame, and as she drew the power upwards, the fire followed.

She turned to Griffin first. Underneath his old silk coverlet he was moaning, the magick which ran up and down his body almost too bright to be looked at, the tattoos now pulses of energy. She had burned that nasty humanity out of him at last, she thought – although he had started the process with his signs and pictographs and his calls to powers great and small.

He would be a demon when he woke.

Humming a song she remembered from her travelling days, its notes edging the candlelight in cold black, she went to his feet. After a pass to sign her name in the air, she began to work the old silk away from his body – folding it to expose his patterned feet, doubling it to expose his shins, doubling again to expose his thighs, then his groin, his stomach, his chest. Last, she draped the heavy folds over his face. Although the pulses of magick lifted him off the bed, his covered head remained on the pillow.

She returned to his feet with one of the two prepared sheets. Humming louder, she placed it on his feet, then slowly, deliberately, unrolled it over his body. Her sigils on the patchwork burst into flame as the silk touched each new inch of tattooed skin.

When she reached his neck, she stopped. "Awake, Griffin, for the Rising Time," she chanted, repeating it twice – then, in one swift move, she took away the old silk from his face and covered it with the new. "Awake to me."

The pulses of magick died, and the hidden room was darkened for one long moment. But then he stirred, pulling the covering off his face. His eyes were a demon-grey now, as she had known they would be. "My lady, my lady. What happened?" His gaze focussed, sharpened. "Your sacred space – where's Ripper, did you catch the bastard?"

"Don't trouble yourself, Griffin." When she kissed him on the forehead, she felt the burn on her lips. "I took you and kept you safe. You've been asleep for some months, but you haven't missed the day we've worked for."

Sitting up so that the silk and smoke-traces pooled around his waist, he caught at her hand, bringing it to his mouth. "Thank you, Yeangelt. I won't forget."

"No, you won't," she said with a smile. "Now it's time for me to call Pennith out of his sleep."

"Pennith? Was it Ripper that did for him too?"

She laid her finger against his mouth. "Hush. No questions until after my Pennith is awake."

With a lightness she hadn't felt since she'd been trapped in this hell-world centuries ago, she turned to her first and best companion. Under his old silk coverlet he breathed softly, easily. She had expended a great deal of energy in healing his burns, and the silk cascaded smooth and even over his skin, the seams where she had patched him together now enfolded into the weave. Her sigils marked him everywhere, which was as it should be.

She kissed him through the barrier for the last time, taking his breath into hers and giving him hers, before she went to his feet. After a pass in the air to sign her name, and then his, she began to work the old silk away from his body.

For her Pennith, she sang.

***

"Fookin' hell , man, that's ripe!" one sad drunk said, pushing at his equally pissed mate. When that landed them both on a rubbish sack, scattering garbage all over Soho Square, they collapsed together in helpless laughter.

"Honestly, some people are appalling," Giles said sotto voce, as he led Anya around the two writhing bodies.

Her hand tightened on his – he could feel her nerves as if they were his own, a razor's corner sliding along spine and throat – but she said calmly enough, "It's Soho, honey. What do you expect?"

"Good point." A streetlight flickered, and for just a moment he could see into the past – his past, another Soho alley where Ripper and Ethan and Dierdre stumbled magick-drunk into a seedy back-bar. He'd beaten up the bartender when the man had refused service, his fists pounding blood and bone out of the man's face while Ethan and Dierdre had drawn pints for them all. They'd laughed, too.

He fought back a familiar wave of self-disgust, which for some reason brought to mind Wes's offer: they want you back in the New Council . But he had it on good authority that he wasn't a Watcher any more, and he was tired of fighting the memories. No, he'd stay here with Anya where he wanted to be anyway, try to get the job right at last. Assuming they made it through the next couple of days, of course.

He repeated, "A good point, darling. Although it's a little early for that level of idiocy."

"Never too early for stupidity." Her profile was sharp and delicate in the shifts of shadow as they crossed the street; he kept stealing glances, committing the sight to memory. This, he wanted to remember always.

As they entered the dark, almost hidden alley, though, she said, "I think we threw an effective pre-apocalypse meeting, don't you? Except for occasional weirdness from a bleached-blond undead hero and an unnaturally strong brunette woman I won't mention, and also poor crazy Wes. Which reminds me, honey, why didn't you tell me you played squash with Jools ?" She said his name with perfect scorn.

"I did. I told you yesterday morning when I left work to go to the club."

"You said you had an appointment."

"Yes, an appointment with Jools. I clearly recall saying that."

"But you played squash ." More scorn. "What's that about, Rupert?"

A glance at his glowing watch-face showed they had a window of time; he could indulge them both for a second. Using their linked hands, he spun her back against the brick wall, then pressed himself into her, lifted her to her toes. She was so tiny that it worried him in the field – but he knew better than to say that aloud. "Er, you really want to know?" he said.

Even as her arms went around his neck, she said reprovingly, "Honey...."

But she couldn't finish whatever scold she had planned, because he'd taken her mouth. So sweet, this stolen kiss, despite the roughness of the brick and the city smells of garbage and diesel. As it went on, her hands flexed on his neck, nails sharp against his skin, and she ground against his cock. Time to stop it before he lost himself. Lifting himself away, he whispered, "Right. Squash, Anya, is a racquet game, played on an indoor four-sided court–"

Then he couldn't finish, because her hand had covered his mouth. "Wait. Demon," she whispered back. Now that she said it, he could smell something even more pungent than this sodding alley – concentrated, decaying earth.

She hid her face against him, her hands sliding under his jacket to fist onto his shirt, so that she wouldn't shake. He sheltered her as best he could.

Footsteps crumbled by, as if parts of the demon were falling off as it went. It was muttering, "No fresh soil-mash at Nalph's, not for the past fortnight. Don't know what's wrong with the merchant's supplies, can't imagine, unless it's the Lady's plans. And the glory that will be Yeangelt, the soil-mash for all!–" over and over.

Anya held onto him until the alley was empty again. Then: "Sorry, honey. But I knew that demon-guy. And he knows me, which is worse."

"Good thinking. Don't want our covers blown at this late date."

But the sweetness had gone out of the moment with the creature's mention of Yeangelt. They had work to do. After brushing her off, he led her further into the shadows. They'd almost reached the disguised door, in fact, before Anya punched him in the shoulder. "Oh, I almost forgot – 'squash is a racquet game'?"

He managed to smile at her. "Took you long enough, Tuppence. You're slipping." Then he turned his attention to the faintly glimmering entrance. Taking his lock-pick out of his jacket, he worked until it opened. After saying the requisite counter to its ward, they went inside.

The room was pitch-dark. He could hear Anya digging in her bag, rattling keys and wallet and Anya-things he couldn't begin to catalogue, until a click – her torch-beam came on. It played along the dusty floor, over a rickety bed and a few chairs, over the two interior doors and the wall-calendar which honoured June 1985 with the picture of a tabby kitten: normal decor for the least used backroom of Soho's most notorious vampire brothel. Luckily it was soundproofed, so they didn't have to listen to ambient moans of ecstasy.

"You've got the payment, right?" Anya asked.

"A little late to ask, but yes." His hand went to another pocket, feeling for the envelope.

As he got it out, the furthest interior door opened – the one which did not lead to the brothel– and Nalph sidle-hopped through. "London is changing –"

"–In ways surface and deep," Anya finished. "What news?"

Giles took the torch from her so that he could show Nalph the money before tossing it across to the Mikh. "Yes. News, please."

"She's waking them up tonight." Nalph was trembling, something Giles had never seen before, and his claws teased at his throat. "Pennith and Griffin are coming out of sleep. The Rising Time is close."

Anya's hand found Giles's in a convulsive movement, but her voice was steady. "Then will an attack tomorrow night be too late?"

"Just in time, I hope. The Lady likes to move at sunset – your people should be in place before then. Confirmed that Master Hat will be in Bloomsbury, Griffin in Brixton." Nalph was already back at his door, cracking it open.

Giles nodded. As they expected, except – "Why wouldn't Pennith be at the Council site too?"

"Because the Lady will never be separated from Pennith again. Together they will open the gates from the place wherein they were first trapped, unless you stop them." And Nalph was gone, leaving behind only dust and claw-marks.

"Well, honey, at least we know for sure. 'Postern of Fate,' tomorrow night." Her voice was the faintest chime.

"Yes. 'Disaster's Cavern' indeed." 'Fort of Fear'...and he shut off the torch. They'd done this enough times that they could make their way out in the dark.

***

Car horns, lots of them, as Faith and Wes jumped out of the road. Must have misjudged the lights, she guessed.

"Faith, stay with me. The path we want is around here." Watcher-boy had that tone working, that world-weary, Slayer-weary voice which scraped her raw. But everything after that meeting was scraping her last fucking nerve.

So she ignored him, shrugging deeper into her jacket to keep out the arctic wind that dipped around the buildings. They were on a busy street, with traffic and McDonald's and shit, which wasn't what she expected from London-town – she'd always imagined fog or something, old grey stones and tolling bells and horses drawing carriages. Like Wes's house, actually. Elinor Wyndam-Pryce definitely could have been one of the old bitch-queens in corsets or crinolines.

Yeah, during all her time alone in crappy motel rooms, Faith had watched too many old movies. Like those stupid black-and-white weepies where there were mistakes and heartache, but the girl ended up with the guy anyway after she'd atoned for her Horrible Sin. Somewhere inside she must have thought they were real or what the fuck ever.

Goddamn Xander Harris for making her think of old movies. Goddamn him twice for reminding her they were fake at the heart.

And whose fault is that? asked the nagging little voice in her head, the one she couldn't afford to ignore. Who hurt him first and worst? No wonder he dropped your ass this time. Reap what you sow, baby.

A cold hand caught her elbow, and before she could stop herself, she whirled around with a stake ready. It was Wes of course, oh so cold, watching her every move – because that was what he did in the end. You could cut him, she thought with a sick lurch of the stomach, you could do anything you liked, but Wes would still watch. Reap what you sow, baby.

"Faith, would you please stay close." It wasn't a question, not when he used that Watcher-tone, but she nodded anyway. That little voice in her head – what Blond Boy called their 'Jiminy Crickets, and bloody annoying ones too' when they'd first shared conscience stories over a six-pack – pointed out how sick and tired Wes looked. Ever since the day in Cleveland he and Spike had come to meet her, his eyes looked like they'd been dug out with a blue wood-burning pen.

She forced herself to smile, say, "Sorry, pal. I guess I should be paying attention."

"I won't be with you tomorrow night, so yes, it would be a good idea for you to know what the bloody hell you're doing." Without waiting to see if she followed, he turned on his heel and headed down an alley she'd almost missed.

Making sure to check the landmarks – two fast-food joints and a pub, the Marlborough Arms – she went after him. Strange thing, she thought as she dove into a shadow-pool and came up beside him: "Hey, Wes, you know who you sound like? Like that MI6 dude, except younger and not quite so creepy. All you need is the ciggie, man."

Even in the dark she could see those burnt blue eyes shine. "Oh, please. You're just trying to hurt my feelings now." There came a flash of teeth. Wes'd make one scary-ass vamp, she found herself thinking.

"Just sayin'."

"Yes. That's what terrifies me." More teeth, and a laugh that wasn't. "Come on then, we're almost there."

"Almost where?"

He stopped so sharp that she almost fell over him, had to grab his shoulder to stay steady. "Please tell me you're joking."

She put aside her need to smack him upside the head, and said in a good-Slayer voice, "We're almost to the, um, door into the room where we do the thing."

They were so close she could hear him swallow. "Er, fine. Except it would be helpful if you could be more specific than 'room' and 'thing.'"

"Well, as Blond Boy would say, we're spies, yeah? We can't be throwing details around in the street." She hoped that would be enough to satisfy him, because while she'd looked at the pages in Giles and Anya's folder, got a picture of the room and its trap-door and the way the tunnels curved around to the big location, she hadn't got the words. Never had.

Wes would know that if he'd take a sec. He was so close she could hear him swallow, feel his breath. He seemed damned breakable, suddenly. Not like the more solid man she'd thought she could count on, who'd let her down but who'd be with her tomorrow –

She turned away from the thought. And Wes said, "All right, Faith. Show me rather than tell me."

"You got it, big guy." It didn't take her long to find the tiny door, looked like the photo in the briefing. Bending down, she tried the doorknob. It didn't open. She tried again, more roughly.

"Don't break it, Faith." He jingled keys and then shouldered her out of the way, sharp like an unsheathed blade. After a moment, the door swung open, and he put a key in her hand. "Keep it safe."

They were in a bookshop's private space – she could just make out boxes and boxes on shelves against the walls, with every shadow thrown by the blue security lights stretching around corners and edges. The world was blue and black and white.

He shut the door, then gestured her forward. She closed her eyes, calling up the pictures in the folder even though she didn't have the words. The way down was through –"There," she whispered, walking to the nearest shelving unit and putting her hand on the end. "I press this knob, the trap opens, and down we go."

"Good." He was standing much closer than she'd realised. Really moved like a fucking vamp these days, she thought..

She turned around anyway. God, she felt scraped raw, and tomorrow night she'd have to put aside feelings and do her job. Like she always did when the world hurt too much, she reached out–

His hands came around her wrists, stronger than she expected. "Faith, what do you think you're doing?"

Much, much closer than she expected. Trying not to think of that solid frame that just fit hers or the soft leather of an eyepatch pressing into her cheek, she leaned forward for comfort. "Just once, do you think, pal?"

Too close; his voice burned cold. "Certainly. If you wish–" And she was scraped by stubble and cold lips, in a kiss like an unsheathed blade. It hurt more than she could bear, and then he lifted his mouth and whispered, voice a river of longing, "Lilah."

"Wesley, don't ." She could barely get the words out before he pushed her away.

"I'm so sorry. God, I'm sorry, Faith." He stood there, coloured in blue and black and white, and she thought again of old movies and lies and the comfort of leather pressing against her cheek.

Gonna do it right this time, she told herself, and she made herself smile. "I'm sorry, Watcher-boy. My fault first. Now we know how the deck's shuffled, we won't draw to that shit again."

"Thank you. But I'm still more sorry." She could barely hear him, but she could see the shine of his eyes. "Do you want to visit the tunnel now, see how the land lies for tomorrow?"

"Think I got it, Wes." Got the picture, if not the words. "Let's call it a night."

***

Dawn sat on top of the patio table, then took a sip of the Tynant Blue she'd liberated from Giles's stock. Coolness, sparkling inside and out; water might drown her nervousness at the idea of dimensional portals opening. Pulling her coat around her neck, she whistled to Cava who leapt up beside her and snuggled in, and then said, "Hey, Spike, don't touch that."

He was wandering the back garden, restless and prowly in a way she recognised from before the soul, drinking his beer. The solar lights that Anya and Giles had put in shimmered on his jacket and hair; the fallen angel, she thought, not to be confused with Angel himself–

But his journey had brought him to the small laceprig web resting in the far corner, and his hand was too close. She said more sharply, "No, seriously, don't touch it."

His face was hidden, but she could see his shoulders tense. "Sorry, Dawn. Just a bunch of bloody laceprigs, though, yeah?"

"Laceprigs rescued from a horrible demon attack and tended by Anya, who would so dust your ass if you hurt the web. It's like a symbol for her and Giles? It's, you know, about their first night, and them, and...."

He looked over his shoulder at her, a smile touching his mouth. "I do get symbols. Right, okay." Then his head bent again as he scuffed his boot against the gravel path.

"It doesn't have guards either. The web, I mean. Their Kizzyoits were killed, and Anya hasn't been able to find any more."

"No guards. That's a problem." He sent a pebble hard against the fence, its impact making Cava growl.

She didn't know what to talk about, exactly. It was so great to have him here – she'd cried after the Sunnydale crater, even if Buffy hadn't much, and she'd been e-mailing and stuff since she'd heard he was back, but they hadn't really talked since before the whole...thing that sent him to Africa. They were both different people now, she almost a Watcher and he a hero, and it was hard to connect again.

She wished Andrew would get back from the shops with the beer. They hadn't realised Spike (and Wes and Tom) would drink so much at the meeting, so he'd gone off to replenish the supply. She could use her best friend right now.

Another drink of water and another pat of Cava's neck (avoiding the snorting nose and digging paws) for her, and from Spike another kicked rock and swig of Bishop's Tipple before he said, "So, Dawn, you're really in the Council now? Say something in Watcher, pet."

"Nuh-uh, you're a Watcher too. You say something first."

"No, you."

"You."

"No, you–" Breaking off in a laugh, he assumed a pose that looked just like Wes, straight-backed and long-nosed. His voice changed too, went all posh: "As a Watcher, I specialise in demon counter-terrorism measures and special-action situations, as exampled by this Yeangelt bird's attempt to make London one big dimensional roundabout. And you?"

"Archivist or Slayer-management, I haven't decided yet." She grinned at him. "'Demon counter-terrorism measures'...good one, Spike."

But he wasn't smiling now. Oh, hell, she'd said the word – he was thinking of her sister the Queen Slayer, even if he didn't say so. Which reminded her she wanted the inside story: "So, what did Buffy say when she saw you in Cleveland?"

He froze, a second of old-school Spike who could rip a person's heart out with a smile. But he managed to get himself moving, keep his voice warm. "I didn't see her, petal. Wasn't there. I figured you'd know where she is."

"Only sort of; she's been, like, epically bad at checking in. Last I knew, she was still in Mexico. Baja California, actually– leading a group of Slayers to take on a Tchith ocean-demon that's supposed to emerge from the Gulf of California?"

"Oh, right. Training course of bad speeches and aerobics, do you reckon?" A smile, drawn tight like a frown. "I don't imagine I'll be socialising with her, even once the baddie is sent back into the blue. Um, sent her an e-mail but she didn't write back."

She said quietly, "She's not so great with e-mail. Like she doesn't write me for weeks, but then gets all bent out of shape when I don't send her one right back. Doesn't mean much, I bet, Spike."

"No. It doesn't mean much." And he was thinking something entirely different. Before she could respond, though, he did this familiar sweep of the duster, like brushing away the Buffy-angst, and said, "Anyway, how do you fancy London, pet? Rupes and demon-girl keep you safe?"

"Oh, they're great, and I love London, it's totally like my spiritual home. You should have told me!" Smirking at her, he sent another pebble against the fence with an easy sweep of his foot. She went on, "And how do you like working with Faith and Wes?"

His reply was drowned by Cava's explosion of barking, her flying leap off the table toward the French doors. Inside, Macallan was going crazy with barking too – Dawn immediately thought of danger and intruders and the fact they didn't have the wards up. Jumping down, she turned to investigate –

But the doors smashed open to reveal Xander, breathing hard and holding a big bouquet of flowers. "Did I miss her?" he panted. Then he actually looked at the two of them. "Oh, hey! Hey, Spike."

"Harris, you really shouldn't have," Spike said at his smoothest and most obnoxious.

"What the– Oh. Funny," Xander said, sticking the flowers behind his back. But he smiled. "Good to see you. I think."

"I tried to tell you, Xander!" Andrew's voice came from the hallway, just before he emerged with a full sack in his arms. "I tried to say that Faith had already left, but Spike was here."

"Good to see you too, Harris. And you can make up to our Faith tomorrow on our mission – if she doesn't punch your lights out first," Spike said, prowling up to the patio. "Not best pleased you dropped her flat, you know."

"But I didn't! I tried to call, like five times, but you guys were always out Slaying shit in your Mod-Squad-without-the-black-guy way, and –" Xander stopped, sighed. The flowers dropped to the ground. "I screwed it up again, didn't I."

"Yeah. Lesson the first: don't take a sodding 'break' from a glorious woman like Faith." But he grinned, and then he and Xander did this sort of masculine mutual-arm-slapping thing, which was so lame that Dawn couldn't believe she'd ever had a crush on either one. Before they could embarrass themselves further, he said, "Say, Andy, did you fetch more beer?"

"Beer! This member of the Council votes a big fat 'Yea' on a pre-apocalypse beer!" Xander said enthusiastically, and the two of them dove into Andrew's bag for more bottles.

Dawn crossed behind them and bent to pick up the fallen flowers. So pretty, too, rich blooms in oranges and yellows that she bet Faith would like. She'd just rescue them for tomorrow – a night when portals would open. She buried her face in the bouquet, hoping the spicy scent would drown her nerves.

***

Ninety-seven, ninety-eight...."Ninety-nine. One hundred," Anya said aloud, counting the brushstrokes. Then she tossed the brush on the bathroom counter and rubbed at her forehead. The nightly ritual should have soothed her, but she still felt uneasy. Couldn't stay still....

"Did you say something?" Rupert said, poking his head in the door.

"No, just grooming myself."

"Right." He disappeared. After one last look in the mirror, at her own distressed eyes, she pushed away from the counter and followed him into their bedroom.

Shirt open and glasses already off, he stood at his dresser, unloading his trouser pockets – this process could hypnotise her, especially the way he'd get a handful of coins and then drop them one by one into the jar. Pound coins made the best sound, solid like an anchor.

But she couldn't stay still – "Honey, did you put the dogs to bed?"

"Yes." Gold chinked on gold, and again, and again.

"Did you give them their treats?"

One last coin before he stepped away from the dresser. "Darling, there's no sodding reason to give them treats at bedtime."

"Well, there might not be a reason, but it's nice."

"Then you do it, because I think it's insane." As he headed toward the bathroom, he stopped to brush his cheek against hers, the light stubble a pleasant irritation that made her toes curl a little. "Do I need to shave before bed?"

"Depends on what you're planning to do there," she said breathlessly.

"That would be telling. But I'll take that as a 'no.'" His mouth found hers – sweet, but yes, a little rough, and she didn't mean his whiskers. He'd been hiding something from her all night, she thought, he often got Ripperish when he wasn't telling her important marital facts. That made her as nervous as what they were going to have to do tomorrow.

Before she could mention this, however, he disappeared into the bathroom. She took the opportunity to gather two of the bones she kept on a jar on her dresser and then step out into the hall, where Macallan and Cava had their beds. There was a hum of voices from downstairs – Andrew, Spike and Xander were playing poker, with the latter two making significant strikes on the local beer supply as well – but the dogs seemed happy enough, Cava curled up inside the curve of Mac's stomach. She gave them their treats, with Macallan getting an extra cuddle because she did love him best.

When she went back into the bedroom, locking the door behind her, she couldn't seem to settle. She hung up the jacket Rupert had left on the chair, checked the lit candles, turned off the bedside lamps, plumped up the pillows and pulled back the duvet, but it wasn't enough. Wind rattled the windows above their bed, the draught creeping down to chill her bare legs. The seal wasn't holding very well; it was an old house, lots of places for weather to sneak in. They'd have to fix it. After tomorrow, though.

Driven by nerves and silence, she crawled into bed and then sat there, hands folded on the duvet, waiting. Rupert came out of the bathroom, wearing only his pajamas bottoms and licking a bit of toothpaste from the corner of his lips. After he tossed his clothes in the hamper, he padded back to the dresser – he still wore his watch and his father's ring.

And she burst out, "Honey, if I tell you one thing, will you tell me something in return?"

"Oh, God," he said under his breath, but when he looked at her, he was smiling. "Fine. It's a bargain."

"That's why I love you. You understand bargains."

"Really. You keep changing the reason." He dodged the bolster she threw in his direction, then put away his watch. "Go on, darling, you first."

"Okay. Okay...remember the earth-demon in the alley outside Madame Sangre's tonight?" He nodded. "His name's Pim; I knew him when I was Anyanka. And, um, when I ran from one of the many apocalypses –"

"Seven hundred and thirty-six," he said.

Her story broken, she stared at him. "How did you know the number of apocalypses I fled as a demon?"

"Don't you remember? The night, er, triggered Spike attacked you." He came over to the bed and sat down, reaching out one big hand to cover hers. "When I got you that painkiller, it made you a bit... odd before it knocked you out. You told me that you always ran from apocalypses except when you were in love. Then you gave the numbers: seven hundred thirty-six escaped, three present and accounted for." His other hand caressed her cheek. "You were counting the last Sunnydale one to come in the 'present' column, I believe, dearest."

"Wow. Good memory," she said, at a loss for words.

His thumb traced her cheekbone, one more brush of love, before he dropped his hand. "So you're worried about this one? Feel like running?"

"No. And yes. No, because of course I love you, but also because it's our job, and it's what we should do. I'm staying. But I'm scared, and I'm not sure about any of this, so yes. I'm sorry, yes."

"No need to apologise to me." When he looked down at their linked hands, she did too; his father's ring glittered, catching the candlelight. More softly, he said, "I've done my share of running, Anya. I understand."

"But not from apocalypses, because you're brave. Often idiotic, but brave." She leaned forward and kissed him, making him open his mouth for her, let her taste him. Then, she said, "Okay, that was mine. What's your one thing?"

He rested his forehead on her shoulder. "All right. Wes told me tonight that the Council wants me back."

"Oh. Oh, come on, honey, I thought it was something awful, but that's just – Wait. Do they want us to go back to Cleveland?"

"Anya, that's not the point. I'm not joining the Council again, that's why I didn't tell you."

She put her hands on his shoulders to make him look at her. "Why not? That's just silly, especially if you broker a deal to keep us here at home. You are a Watcher; you do the work, you might as well get the title. And possibly a salary."

"For Christ's sake, Anya." He jerked away from her, pulling off his father's ring as he went. "Do we have to go through this every bloody time?"

She could have thumped him. But – "Would my talking about this tonight change your mind in any way?"

"No." He reached over and put the ring on his bedside table. Metal clattered on wood.

"All right then. I'm tabling this topic until after tomorrow, when perhaps you'll be ready to hear reason." When he sent her a narrow-eyed stare, she thought again how very much of a Watcher the stupid man was. But she loved him anyway. "However, if you'd paid attention, I said we'll talk about it later . You're safe for now."

"Oh, good," he said dryly. He looked at the candles for a minute, staring at something in the flames, before he turned back to her. The expression she hated, the one he hid behind, was gone, and he was her Rupert again. "How tired are you, Anya?"

"More nervous than tired," she said, letting her fingers caress his thigh, hard under the silk.

"Ah. Will you let me try to deal with your nerves my way?"

She could feel herself melt at just the soft tone, the intentness in his eyes. Exhaling hard, she said, "Be my guest, honey."

"Then lie back with your head on my pillow, dearest, and close your eyes."

When she did what he said, wriggling back to where he wanted her and shutting her eyes, the candlelight danced in weird patterns on the inside of her vision, coloured by night and blood. She could feel his weight shift, feel big hands trace along the inside of her wrist and up under her nightshirt, follow along blood vessels with a delicate touch. "Lift up your arms, and keep them there," he said. When she did, she felt the metal of the bedstead cold against her skin. The wind tickled her fingers.

His weight left her for a second, but she could still hear him – rummaging around in his bedside table, it seemed, which made her mouth curve in a smile. Then he was back, body pressing against her, and yes, there were the handcuffs she'd hoped for. First he secured one wrist, then did something before attaching the other. An experimental tug told her that he'd wrapped the cuffs around one of the wrought-iron rods.

"May I open my eyes now?"

"You may not." He began to open her nightshirt, kissing every inch that each freed button revealed. The whiskers biting into her skin were sharp, almost painful in the best way, and she arched up into each kiss, her legs shifting on the sheets like the flame in the draught. Lower, and lower, and lower – but not low enough, because right below her navel he stopped. Teasing bastard.

It almost made her want to cry, even more than moan, "Rupert, please –"

Again he left the bed, just long enough so she felt how alone she was, felt the nerves return in a wave of nausea. Not long enough to say anything, though, because then he was back, naked and covering her. So warm and hard, with honey from the tip pressed against her belly. He kissed her neck, bringing the blood to her skin, and then whispered, "Do you feel anchored yet?"

"How–" she had to moisten her lips, she couldn't breathe– "how did you know I was thinking about anchors?" When he chuckled, she could feel the vibration everywhere. She tried again. "Yes, I'm here. But I'm the only one tied up."

"No, you're not." She felt his left hand reach over to her left, felt the tap of his wedding ring against hers even before she heard the gentle but solid chink of gold against gold. "I'm with you. Always."

Then her ankles were on his shoulders, and she couldn't listen any more, could only feel him slide inside, while candlelight danced in weird patterns, coloured by love and blood.

***

Nalph had served patrons all night, giving out potions and merchandise, taking in notes and coin. He had nodded to his faithful, greeted the few newcomers curious about the Yeangelt rumours, heard over and over again the password – There is no password . Nothing would stop anyone from crossing the threshold into his world.

But now he saw a chance to regroup; the events of the evening had troubled him more than he'd anticipated. He needed a moment of peace. He said to his assistant, "Work the counter for a few minutes, please."

"Of course," Dalgen said. Even as he spoke, The Mikh youth hopped toward one of their best customers, who scanned the shelves for ossified Bagog scales.

The babies' skulls chattered as Nalph passed, but once in his private space, the noise level dropped. He could feel the breath return to his body and the trembling he'd suppressed slip away – his space, his home.

He went into his office, lighting the desk lantern on his way to his own perfectly sized chair. The Azi demon stirred in its cage, whistling softly to mark its attention. "Hush now, Haloo," Nalph said as he sank into his seat. "Let me rest."

But when he leaned his head back, a shadow in the doorway took shape. "Hello, Nalph," said Pennith, in that rumbling basso voice.

"You are awake, sir," Nalph said. He locked his claws on his armrests. "A happy day for the Lady and all of us who follow her."

"I appreciate that, Mikh-merchant. But my lady tells me that while I have been –indisposed?– there has been no success in finding the Beresfords. Or the man called Ripper, who wounded Griffin so."

"We all have done what we can." He was proud of his even voice, although the wood of his chair was splintering in his grasp.

"Have you? Perhaps we should talk about these efforts. I want to hear every detail." Pennith took a step forward, then shut the office door behind him.

Haloo erupted in a cascade of frightened whistles, its sandpaper wings beating out a warning against the walls of the cage.