Quiet as a Mouse

by Miranda

Copyright © 2006

mirandaflynn@hotmail.com

Rating: R
Disclaimer: Based on characters from Buffy The Vampire Slayer and Angel the Series, created by Joss Whedon.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse: http://mysticmuse.net
Author's Site: http://home.nc.rr.com/miranda2/
Feedback: Yes please.
Pairing: Spike/Tara

"Mouse. Listen to me."

She hadn't heard that voice in three years, but it was written on her back brain somewhere, and she knew the gentle, drawling tones instantly.

"Mama?"

"Shhh. There's something you've forgot. Something you need to remember."

"Mama….What?" She turned, trying to find the speaker, but there was nothing around her but darkness.

"The lock, Mouse. The day we got locked out. It's all right to remember it now."

There was a sudden warm pressure, as of arms closed around her, then it whisked away and she was alone and afraid in the dark.

"Don't go. Please don't go."

"Tara?"

Startled, she opened her eyes and looked into Willow's anxious face. Morning sunlight poured into their room, and she could hear the sounds of the other girls on their hallway heading to the showers. "Willow," she said slowly, trying to clear the cobwebs from her mind.

Willow shifted closer and put an arm around her shoulders. "Are you ok? You were talking in your sleep. Did you have a bad dream?"

The word 'dream' brought things into focus. "Dreaming, but not bad. It was about my Mom."

"Probably because of Joyce, huh?"

"Probably."

Willow's smile faded and Tara felt again the tension between them.

During the course of apologizing for a) attempting to resurrect Joyce and b) her anger with the witches, Dawn had let slip that Willow had shown her which book to take. Tara had forgiven her lover the lie – it wasn't as if she were innocent in such matters, herself – but Willow was still feeling guilty.

"It's ok," Tara whispered, stroking back the red hair. "You were trying to help."

Willow burrowed against her, hiding her face in Tara's shoulder. "But I didn't," she said in a muffled voice. "I was about as far from helping as you could get."

"You did help, just not the way you meant. Dawn trying the spell made her and Buffy reach out to each other. That's important."

"I guess," Willow raised her head and smiled a little despite watery eyes. "But I sure thought Buffy was going to kick my ass."

Tara smiled back, "She's not angry anymore. Everyone's forgiven you but you."

"Well, I still think I need to be grounded for awhile. No Bronze for me, young lady. I need to sit home and think about what I did."

Only part of Tara's attention remained on her morning classes, and she remained preoccupied as she walked back to the dorm. Something she had forgotten. Something her Mama said she should remember.

Despite their renewed closeness, Tara was reluctant to tell Willow the details of her dream. She had learned early to keep silent - children, particularly girls, were to be seen and not heard – especially about what lay close to her heart. Her silence had led her mother to calling her Mouse, although only in private because nicknames were frowned on as silly.

Even though she was learning to trust Willow, Buffy, and the rest, it was still hard for her to speak. And really, what had she to say? She knew nothing of the killing of monsters. She hadn't even been able to find the words to sway Dawn from her destructive path.

Speaking of Dawn, Tara was snapped out of her thoughts by the sight of the younger Summers jigging impatiently up and down outside their dorm room door.

"Dawn?" she said, quickening her step. "Is something wrong?"

"No, everthing's fine. I just picked up my stuff so I could start my homework before going back to school, and I thought I'd stop in a minute."

"Ok." Tara opened the door and led Dawn inside. "You know, Willow's in a lab and won't be back until late this afternoon."

"I know. Actually, I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh," Tara blinked in surprise. "Uh, sure." She sat down on the bed and waited.

Dawn watched the toe of her sneaker dig into the floor then sighed and said, "Are you and Willow fighting about her giving me that book? Because it was my fault, and if I made you guys fight, that would really suck. So if you have to be mad at somebody it should be me."

"Nobody's mad at anybody," Tara said gently. "It's all over, and I'm just glad you weren't hurt."

"Promise?" Dawn asked suspiciously.

"Promise."

"Good," she took another deep breath and said in a rush, "Buffy told me about your Mom, so I guess you did understand what I was going through, and I'm sorry I was a bitch."

Tara shook her head. "You don't have to apologize. It's different for everybody, so I didn't know what you were going through, exactly. Besides, none of us were thinking straight."

"Guess not." Dawn's eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she managed a twisted smile. "It's funny hearing you say not to apologize. Lots of the time it seems like you're really sorry to be breathing air somebody else might want."

"I'm s…" Tara started, and they both laughed.

"Can I ask you another question?"

"Sure."

"Do you think you'll see your Mom again when you die?"

Tara shot to her feet, her eyes wide with horror. "Dawn, why are you asking that? Y-y-you wouldn't…. You aren't th-th-thinking of,"

"No, no! Geez, calm down. I'm not going to off myself, ok? I promise. I just meant when you die in your bed at 98 of really, really natural causes, do you think you'll see your Mom again?"

Her heart slowed a little. "Yes. I think I'll see her again."

Dawn's eyes were back on the floor. "You think your souls will find each other or something?"

"I'm not sure how it works," Tara said puzzled. "But love doesn't die, and souls are how we love, so something like that."

"But maybe I don't have a soul," Dawn whispered. "And Mom was good. If I'm not, I won't find her again."

A feeling rose up in Tara. It was so unfamiliar that it took her a moment to realize that it was anger, and not just anger, but wrath. "Who said you weren't good?" she asked in a shaking voice that brought Dawn's eyes up.

"One of those crazy knight types that were trying to kill Glory. He said God wanted me dead."

She sought desperately for the right thing to say, but it was hard to think under the onslaught of memory. Angry shouts: "Women brought sin into the world, that we all must pay for." Flashes of pain as the belt striped across her back and legs and buttocks, "I will punish your sinful flesh, girl. Purify you of the sin of Eve."

"People said the same thing about me," Tara managed at last. "For all kinds of reasons: because I'm a woman, or a witch, or gay." She swallowed, "Sometimes, I still believe them."

"That's not true" Dawn protested. "You're not evil. You're one of the best people I know!"

Tara spread her hands. "And you're a good person too, Dawny. Don't let anybody say you aren't. Nobody gets to decide what you are but you."

The girl crossed the room and hugged her awkwardly. Tara held the thin form close. "Your Mom loves you," she whispered. "You'll find her again. Besides," she pulled back a little and smiled, "We're a package deal. If they don't accept you, I won't go either."

"Thanks," Dawn pulled back and sniffled. "Can I decide I'm really rich and don't have to take stinky old PE?"

Tara grinned. "If you want. And if that works out, let me know."

Dawn headed out with a considerably lighter step, but paused in the entrance. "You know, you should talk more."

After Dawn left, Tara made sure the door was locked, then went to her cache of witchcraft supplies for chalk and incense and candle. She placed everything on the floor and prepared to settle herself for meditation, then paused. She didn't normally use a focus, but the morning's dream had referred to a specific event from her childhood.

She opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and dug under a pile of tie-dyed sweaters until her fingers encountered the battered cigar box. Tara had given Willow the rock, but there were other treasured mementos; marbles she had won from Donny (so angry to lose to a girl), a feather, dried flowers, and the tiny curled-up mouse, small as the end joint of her thumb that Mama had carved long ago.

Smiling a little sadly, Tara placed the carving on the floor in front of her as she drew the protective circle and lit the incense. Then, she held the mouse loosely in one hand and closed her eyes.

The familiar peace of meditation washed over her and she relaxed into it joyfully relishing the sense of freedom. In this state, the uncertainty and doubt that shackled her earthly body were non-existent. It was just she and the universe and the sense that she loved it and that it loved her right back.

Regretfully, she turned her mind from its dance and focused on the reason for the meditation. Her breathing slowed, deepened as her focus turned inward. Mama, she thought, her hand tightening on the carving. What should I remember? The lock…The day we got locked out….

There was a sensation of falling, tumbling end over end until Tara found herself standing on sandy, bare earth bleached almost white by the unforgiving sun. It took her a moment to realize that she was in the front yard of the farmhouse where she grew up.

How plain and sad it looks, she thought, seeing it almost with a stranger's eyes. The house was neat, clean, and in good repair, but there was no color, no flowers other than the marigolds used for cow feed, no swing to soften the uncompromising lines of the front porch. Buffy's house had some peeling paint and her yard could stand a good mowing, but there was the sense that people lived there and were usually happy.

She turned as an old station wagon pulled into the yard, and her sadness over the house turned to joy at the sight of the woman who climbed out. Her mother had never been conventionally beautiful with a stocky, sturdy farmwoman's body and brown hair skewered into an uncompromising bun, but there was kindness in her eyes, and despite the hardness of her life, her mouth seemed ready to smile.

The little girl who climbed out after the woman had no such inclination to smile, and Tara felt a sudden desire to rescue the solemn-faced child before realizing she gazed on her own younger self.

"Can you carry that bag for me?" Mama asked, and small Tara nodded gravely and held out her arms for the lightest grocery bag. "Thank you. You're a big help." She smiled encouragingly, but it faded when the child only regarded her expressionlessly for a moment before starting toward the house.

"Oh, no," she murmured, following along behind the child and sorting through her keys. "Oh, no, I've lost my house key!" She thought a moment, then sighed. "I took it off for Donny to use and forgot to put it back on. I've got to get this food in the house or it'll spoil and go to waste."

The child's eyes widened. Even then, Tara had known it was a sin to be wasteful.

Her mother looked around swiftly, making sure they were alone, then knelt down by the door. "Want to see a trick?" she smiled as she put her hands on the deadbolt and closed her eyes. Both Taras watched in fascination, the older version recognizing that magic was being done. After a moment, the child reached out and touched the lock with one finger.

And she was inside the child's head, seeing what the child saw, seeing the interior structure of the lock down to the cellular level, although of course, she had not known such a word existed. She only knew that she understood how the lock worked, that she knew how to talk to it, and when she told it to open, it did.

Her consciousness split back off and Tara saw her mother regarding her smaller self with surprise as the door swung open.

"Well," she said. "You are just full of surprises my Baby Mouse."

At that, the child Tara did smile, an engaging gap-toothed grin, that made her mother's eyes shine with sudden tears. "What a pretty smile. I wish I saw it more." She shook off the emotion. "Let's get these groceries in the house before they go bad."

As they started back for the car, her mother said, "Tara, why don't we not tell Papa about what happened today? He'd think it foolish."

The child stopped. "Tell a lie?" Her chin began to quiver, and even the older Tara felt a chill. Liars went to hell, and if you got caught in one, sometimes hell came to you.

"No, no, not lie. If he asked, we'd tell, but if he doesn't…." her voice died off as a tear fell down the child's cheek. "You're going to fret, aren't you? Well, never mind." She put a hand on the child's head and closed her eyes again. "You won't have to lie to Papa because nothing strange happened today. Nothing at all. We went to the store and came home, and nothing was different."

Before Tara could try to process what happened, the scene shifted. Now, she was watching her mother and another version of herself, about 13 this time, her own hair tied back severely, in a hot close room where Sarah Watkins was struggling to give birth.

"There's something wrong," Sarah's mother-in-law was saying, sounding almost pleased. She jerked her chin at Tara. "The child ought not be here."

"She's old enough to learn the mid-wife trade," her mother said shortly. "That means knowing sometimes things go wrong. Not that I know there's anything wrong yet." She patted Sarah reassuringly. "He could just be taking a rest in there."

But that was a lie. Tara knew it, and so did her mother. The cord was caught around the baby's neck, and there was no time to get to a hospital even if their group held with such things. Still births were God's will.

"Tara, bring the lamp and stand right here so I can see."

The girl, ungainly in her long dress and apron, obeyed silently, taking a position that blocked some of Mrs. Watkins' view.

Her mother met Tara's gaze deliberately, before her hands moved to the curve of Sarah's lower belly and she closed her eyes. Instinctively, Tara leaned even closer, angling her body to further prevent Mrs. Watkins from seeing what was happening. Cautiously, she let her arm brush Sarah, just in time to watch the cord unwrap from the baby's neck.

Her mother straightened. "I think we'll be just fine. Push!"

Another change. It looked like a laboratory, or an operating room, with a bare metal table fitted with restraints in the center, but the walls were lined with empty cells Where is this? Tara wondered, confused. She had never been here, and never seen the two men who were arguing. "What the hell do you think we can do? We've lost all our funding. Ever since Adam…"

Tara eyes opened wide with fear, and she had to fight the instinct to run, even though she knew they couldn't see her. The Initiative. But I thought they were gone.

"We just need to prove we've still got something. Prove the project's still viable. They want to start up again, if we can give them an excuse."

"We can't give them one. We don't have anything. There aren't any chips left, and all the hostiles got away. Even the notes were destroyed. There's no way to recreate the work."

he first man grinned. "You're not quite right, my friend. We don't have much, but we do have a little. I know where one chip is, and a hostile to go along with it."

"Yeah?"

"Hostile 17."

She was back in her dorm room, staring at the guttering candle and shaking with panic. Hostile 17.

Spike.

Tara's mind stuttered and quivered as it tried to sort out what she had seen. The significance of the first two sightings escaped her. Did the lock have something to do with Dawn being the Key? That seemed likely, but it didn't feel right somehow.

There didn't seem to be any question about the last image. Some left-over bit of the Initiative was coming for Spike to use him to open the project again, and apparently she was supposed to do something about it.

Buffy, she latched onto the realization with relief and hastened to her feet. I should hurry and tell Buffy. She'll be training at the Magic Box by now.

The Slayer didn't like Spike, but she didn't like the Initiative either and would take action. Mr. Giles could help too. He always had good ideas. Anya would be there, and Willow when she finished her lab, and Xander when he finished work. There would be lots of people between her and Spike.

Who terrified her.

Tara sighed as she locked the dorm room door. It was true, shameful though it was to admit since he had actually helped her once. Being around Spike hushed what words she had and made her cleave to Willow's side like a shadow.

Most men made her slightly wary. It had taken a long time for her to relax even a little around Mr. Giles, although she recognized his fundamental goodness. There was darkness there, though, buried beneath the surface, and it peeked out now and then. It had taken all she had to face the Watcher's Council, and if she ever met Angel, she would probably run, screaming.

Even Riley had sent off a bad vibe. He was nice enough, but something about him made her shoulder blades prickle. He meant well, she knew, and he had loved Buffy, but he always knew what was best for her and for everyone. And if what was best wasn't what you wanted to do, he got angry.

Xander had never frightened her, however, and she smiled a little at the thought of him as she reached the sidewalk. He was a stream that ran clear, no malice or cruelty to be found. Kind without being weak. The true meaning of the word 'gentleman'.

And the opposite of the vampire.

"He can't hurt anybody now that he's got the chip," Willow had said reasonably when she had tried to explain how she felt.

"But he wants to," Tara had responded. Rage and the desire to cause hurt warred with some inner pain of Spike's own, and the whole thing stood out around him like a cloud. A true Wiccan would probably have tried to reach out and dispel that cloud, but she just wasn't that far along the Path yet. Lately the cloud seemed to consist mostly of pain, and she knew he had done some good things, but the habit of avoiding him was strong.

Still, she didn't want the Initiative to capture him either. They had been wrong themselves, imprisoning non-humans, keeping them from a free choice. They hadn't cared that Oz had never hurt anyone. Probably some of the others hadn't caused harm either, but that hadn't mattered. They had been designated non-human, evil, less important. She knew how that felt.

I'm not abandoning him, Tara reminded herself as she waited impatiently for the light to change. Telling Buffy and the others is the best thing to do. It's not like I can go in there with my broomstick blazing.

A blue van drove past her, and she found herself staring at the profiles of the men from her vision. The passenger glanced toward her, and the molecule of her brain that hadn't started to panic kept her face bland and uninterested.

After it was safely past, a whimper came out of Tara's throat as she stared miserably along the 10 blocks that separated her from the Magic Box. There was no time to get there, explain what was going on, and get to the cemetery which lay in the opposite direction. The men would be there and gone and Spike with them.

She began to run, cutting through alleys and back ways, taking the short cuts that nights of helping patrol had taught her. Tara was sure she would be too late, but the area was clear when she finally staggered into the street that contained the cemetery.

Even if you get there in time, a cold voice sneered as she hurried through the gate, what will you do? It's daylight. There's nowhere to go. You weren't quick enough to act after the vision. You failed as always.

"Shut up," she muttered, startling herself. A distance behind her, she heard an engine cut out, and the fear gave her new energy. Tara raced the last few yards to Spike's crypt and lunged against the door.

Locked. Oh, God, and she was no Slayer to kick it down. Frantically, she hammered with her fists.

"What the hell is it, now?" Spike dodged, barely missing getting decked as he yanked the door open. "Can't a bloke go a day without one of you breaking down…." He broke off as he got a better look at her terrified features. "What's the problem?"

"The In…in," exasperated with her tangled tongue, Tara shifted phrases. "Riley's group!" she gasped. "Coming…."

Spike's eyes narrowed and he caught her arm, dragging her inside and slamming the door. "The Initiative? They collapsed, I thought. Soldier Boy went off with the last bit."

"Not all of them," Tara found with relief that her mouth had started to work again. "They want to start it again. They're right behind me. You have to get out!"

"Right. Tunnel," he nodded, heading for the trapdoor. Then he stopped, scenting the air. "Too late. They're just outside." His mouth tightened and he jerked his head at her. "You get down there and be quiet. If they take me here, they shouldn't search."

At the realization of what he was offering, the unfamiliar feeling of righteous anger that she had felt when Dawn said she had been condemned settled around Tara's heart. This wouldn't happen. She would not permit it.

"No," she said, and without giving herself time to think, she grabbed Spike's hand and pulled him to stand with her flush against the crypt wall. As she heard the scrape of the crypt door, she whispered her mother's old mantra for safety. "Be quiet. Quiet like a mouse," and reached down inside herself.

Spells of unimportance swept around witch and vampire as the two Initiative members entered the crypt. Tara was only vaguely aware of Spike at her side, his hand held tightly in hers, as she extended the spells to cover them both. Her focus was on the men as they searched, their eyes always turning away when they glanced in her direction.

One of them ended up directly in front of her, less than two feet away, his cold and assessing eyes scanning their area, almost as if he realized there was something wrong.

He stared into her eyes, and it was so much like her father trying to determine which sin she'd committed that particular day, that it was all she could do not to break out crying and begging for mercy. Sweat soaked Tara's back and she was amazed he couldn't hear the pounding of her heart, but she clenched her teeth and poured her strength into the spell even as her knees and chin quivered.

No one's here. she projected. This is boring. I'm hungry. I need a bathroom.

"We'll come back tonight," one said to the other. "He won't go far. Word on the street, he's hot for the Slayer."

The other one laughed, and they left, pulling the door shut behind them.

"They've gone," Spike said in a hushed voice a few moment's later. "Not a bad bit of spell-casting, witch."

She dropped his hand and covered her face, shaking all over. His face. His face had been everywhere looming over her, compelling obedience…

"Look, sit down before you faint," Spike said, and he put a hand on her shoulder.

What happened next was a blur. Tara thought she heard someone screaming, then realized it was her own voice she heard. She snapped out of her fugue to find herself curled in a ball on the tomb with her back to the wall and her arms around her knees, staring at Spike in absolute horror.

He looked back at her, nonplussed. "It's been awhile since I've got that reaction out of somebody. You do know about the chip, right? I'm not a huge threat at the moment. The Niblet could take me."

"I'm sorry. It's not p – per – per – you," she muttered, leaning her head back against the wall tiredly and closing her eyes in shame over her foolishness.

"Didn't really think it was," his voice was quiet, and when Tara dared a look at Spike, his expression was not unkind. "Growing up wasn't quite like one of those paintings by that Rockwell chap, was it?"

"No, not quite." She shook her head, shook the memories away and turned the subject. "Those Initiative men will come back. We should go."

"Go where, Pet? It's day, remember?"

She frowned. "They probably won't come back for awhile, but you could wait in the tunnel just in case, and I'll get Buffy and Mr. Giles. Then, we can figure out what to do." Spike's expression tightened. "Yeah, I can put myself under Buffy's protection. Again." "You know she'll help you," Tara said gently. And she would. Buffy was incapable of refusing to help someone despite her feelings for them.

"Yeah, she would, but the Slayer's got a lot on her plate right now, what with Glory and Dawn. I don't think I'm quite at the top of her list. And I shouldn't be. So what does that leave, move in with Giles again, or Xander?" He smiled painfully. "Room for one more in that dorm of yours?"

"You could leave Sunnydale. Go somewhere else." She wasn't really listening to her words as she watched him carefully. Spike's aura was murky and dark, roiling with pain and frustration and anger, but it didn't scare her anymore. He had tried to hide her from the Initiative, with no thought to his own safety and no possible benefit for him. He didn't have Xander's clear soul, but he wasn't a threat.

"What's the point?" His voice threatened to break, and he turned away from her, snatching a cigarette from a pack on the table, and using the business of lighting it to get himself under control.

When he faced her again, his expression was neutral and his voice flat, hacking the words out around the cigarette. "I don't have anywhere to go, all right? I can't hunt. I can't fight. You think there's some sort of neutralized vampire underground where I can hide? Where I can find food? The closest thing I've got to friends is here, which is so bollixed up, I don't want to think about it. If the Initiative wants me, they'll get me, and I really can't do a bloody thing to stop them. They've seen to that."

It clicked in her mind, all the pieces fitting together like a jigsaw. Seeing how the lock worked and letting her understanding manipulate the pieces, watching her mother do the same thing with the unborn child.

She could neutralize the chip. She knew she could, knew it down in her blood and bones. But should she? It wasn't fair that Spike couldn't defend himself, but would he stop there? He was a vampire. While he seemed to have changed, wasn't it in his nature to kill? If she freed him those deaths would be at least partially on her conscience.

But despite her worry, there really wasn't a choice. She had told Dawn to decide for herself what she was and would be. Spike must be able to make that same choice freely.

Tara shook her head to clear it, and saw that Spike had stopped ranting and was looking at her warily.

"Are you going off again?" he asked politely. "'Cause I'm standing way over here not being scary or anything."

"No," she said vaguely. She scrambled off the tomb and crossed to his television, laying her hands lightly on top of the console, sinking her awareness into its circuitry.

"Missing a show are we? You know, you're starting to remind me of Dru…." His voice died away as the television came on, flipped through its cycle of channels, then turned off.

"I can see it would be handy to have you about if the remote got lost."

Tara sighed and took the plunge. "I can stop the chip. Make it so it doesn't work any more."

Spike didn't need to breathe, but air hissed through his teeth all the same. She didn't even see him move, but he was suddenly beside her, staring down, making her nervous despite her new trust of him. "You wouldn't lie to a fellow, would you?"

"I'm not lying." Tara made herself meet his eyes. "I'll be able to see how it works, Spike, understand how it works, and that will let me shut it down."

"How long have you been able to do this?" he asked, anger in his voice. He raised a hand as if to grab her arm, but when she flinched, he seemed to think better of it and stepped back.

"I had a strange dream last night," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "And I meditated this morning and had a vision that reminded me I did something like this when I was a child. I wouldn't have…wouldn't have not…."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't have. Sorry."

His voice had softened and when she chanced a look up at him again, his eyes had softened too, causing an unfamiliar and somewhat alarming flutter down in the pit of her stomach. Stop that, she ordered it. We're gay, remember? Not to mention in love with somebody.

"We'd better go ah-ahead," she stammered. "I don't kn-know when they'll be back."

He nodded and held still as she raised a trembling hand to his forehead.

Gray. Circuits. Nerve endings twisting and turning every which way with little flashes running along them that might be thoughts. Tara resolutely kept her eyes away. This wasn't mind reading, and she wouldn't violate his privacy. Besides, she wasn't terribly sure she wanted to know what he was thinking.

The chip lay in the center, easily visible to her psychic eyes, although she knew it was tiny in reality. She curled her awareness around it, sinking in, careful not to touch the surrounding tissue. She watched the millions of thousands of tiny commands flicker past, saw the wiring into the nervous system that tracked the adrenaline associated with anger. Watched and learned and understood it all.

And when she told it to shut down forever, it did.

Tara pulled her awareness back and hastily dropped her hand from Spike's forehead. "It's done," she said.

He frowned. "I don't feel any different."

"I guess you'll have to test it out. You could hit me in the nose again," she offered timidly.

"Pet, you rescued me from the Initiative and at least tried to fix the chip. I'm not particularly annoyed with you at the moment."

"Oh." She thought for a moment, then said, "You know it was, uh, pretty stupid of you to let the Initiative catch you to begin with. You're an…an idiot! No wonder Buffy doesn't care about you!"

Spike stared at her a moment then burst out laughing. "Oh…Oh, God," he howled. "Pet, I've been insulted by everyone from Angelus to Buffy and back again. You are just not that vicious."

She felt vaguely annoyed but saying, "I am so vicious!" seemed a little silly.

"Go home," he said more calmly, wiping his eyes. "I'll find out soon enough if it worked." Tara bit her lip, troubled but not knowing what to say.

"Don't say anything to the others," Spike said quietly. "I won't attack Buffy or the Scoobies. Beyond that, I can't promise, especially about the Initiative blokes, but I'm not sure what will happen. And it's not on you anymore, it's on me."

She nodded silently and turned to leave.

"Tara."

She stopped at the doorway of the crypt and looked over her shoulder. He smiled at her, a real smile, about as far from his usual sneer as it was possible to get.

"Whatever happens, thank you. For giving me the chance."

She woke with the strong feeling that someone was waiting for her.

Gently disengaging herself from the sleeping Willow, Tara padded to the window of her dorm room and looked out.

Spike was leaning against one of the trees, smoking. She was a little surprised at the depth of her relief. True to his request, she had said nothing of what had happened and hadn't even gone back to the cemetery. She had a feeling she would have known if something happened to him, but it was nice to have the confirmation.

Tara whispered a quick phrase to deepen Willow's slumber and slid open the window.

At the sound, Spike straightened and smiled up at her. They couldn't speak without shouting, but he jerked his head toward the street and she followed the motion to see the black van parked at the curb. He held up a backpack and grinned wickedly.

She shook her head. Apparently the chip was defunct now, and he had defeated the Initiative remnants. Now, he was on his way.

She would miss Spike, she thought. Would miss him and worry and hope that he found peace. Tara held up a hand for him to wait and hurried to her dresser.

She felt a slight pang as she watched him catch the tiny object but it eased while she watched him study the sleeping mouse then raise his head to favor her with one of those actual smiles as he slipped it into the pocket of his duster. She didn't need a talisman to remember her mother's love, but perhaps he could use it to remember a friendship.

Spike started to turn away, and Tara began to close the window, but then he stopped and raised his own hand, kissing the palm and blowing it to her. And she caught it with a smile and pressed it to her heart.

Tara leaned back against the soft leather seats and tried to relax. She would have been happier with a taxi, but Sophie wouldn't hear of it, and her agent's Mercedes and driver were better than the limo she had been greeted with after the first book came out.

"It's the least I can do for my genius girl," Sophie had said firmly. "You won't let me wine and dine you and show you off at the clubs. You won't let me put you on Oprah. You won't let me take you shopping. That's ok. That's fine. But the hottest thing since Anne Rice is not going to ride around LA in a smelly taxi cab."

Hottest thing since Anne Rice. Goddess. She closed her eyes and wondered again when someone was going to show up, call her a fraud, and take everything away.

"We're here, Ms. Maclay," Tony said deferentially.

"Thanks."

Tara remembered to stay seated until he raced around the car and opened her door. The first time she'd ridden in the car, she had gotten out by herself and almost made him cry.

The doorman held the door wide and almost genuflected as she entered the condo's spacious lobby. She knew that by herself she wouldn't have rated more than a sniff, but Sophie lived in one of the penthouse units, and as a friend of hers, Tara automatically inhabited the same rarified atmosphere.

When she stepped off the elevator, Sophie was lounging in her doorway wearing her concept of casual - a silk blouse and very tight jeans - that probably cost around $500.00. In an effort to look slightly more put together than her usual jeans and sweater or Indian-print skirt, Tara was wearing slacks and a blazer, but the agent always made her feel frumpy. Of course, she would have been more than happy to take Tara on a shopping spree, but Tara was fairly sure that wouldn't work out. Sophie's work clothes ran toward Chanel and Armani and her after-hours attire toward spandex and leather.

Despite her wardrobe, which could make Buffy look repressed, Sophie was kind in her way and honest and her smile for Tara was warm.

"Sweetie," she crooned as she engulfed Tara in a perfume-scented hug. She waited until they were inside the large, stark condo with the door shut before she grinned and said, "How's my favorite author?"

"Good," Tara said, gamely perching on a large piece of pastel-colored metal and plastic that she knew from past visits was supposed to be a chair. "Was the book ok?"

"Oh, my God," Sophie collapsed onto her large fur-covered sofa and fanned herself. "Ok? OK!? Honey, the entire staff had to knock off early and go home to their SO's or toys. You've started a couple of office affairs because some of them just couldn't wait." She leaned forward, hands on her knees, and looked pleadingly at Tara. "Tell me, PLEASE, that Jane and Shiv are going to actually fuck in the next book, because I can't stand it. Although, if one dream sequence and some fondling have this effect, actual sex may make the book combust on the shelves."

She felt her face turning hot. "I'm…uh…glad you liked it."

Sophie shook her head with a grin. "How can you blush after writing that scene where Shiv spies on Jane in the shower. And when she imagines herself with him after he seduces that female vampire! Do you know how hard it is to turn me on? I can make Internet porn-site hosts blush, and almost any chapter of The Underworld makes me need a cold shower. And don't get me started on Death Waltz!"

Tara shrugged, desperately uncomfortable. "I guess those who can't do, write books."

The woman gave her a sharp look and turned the subject. "Anyway, I have good news beyond the fact that Death Waltz has a shot at the Top 10 list. If the next book has a guarantee of Jane and Shiv getting it on for real, they want to go hardback."

"Hardback?" Tara gasped. "For a thriller? For my third book?"

"When you're hot, you're hot. And you are definitely hot, sweet pea." In her excitement, Sophie's Southern accent grew stronger. "I knew you would be, when I read that short story you sent for the writing contest. I said to myself, 'this girl's gonna go far' and you have." Her smile broadened. "Underworld's up for the World Horror Award."

Tara's reaction was not the overwhelming pleasure that her agent had anticipated. "An award? Would I have to go somewhere to accept it? Sophie! No tours! No publicity!"

"Easy, easy," her agent soothed with the expertise of someone who had spent years holding authors' hands. "It's a convention, not anything mainstream. Convention people won't hurt you. They just stand around worshipfully or nit-pick everything to death. You won't have to give out anything personal. Trust me, the only thing those people are going to want to know is whether Shiv is based on a real person, and if so, can they have his phone number. "

Based on a real person. Tara shuddered.

Thomas' (known as 'Shiv' to an adoring public), scar was on his jaw, accentuating one of his prominent cheekbones and making his icy blue eyes even more fascinating to a young social worker named Jane who had found herself mixed up with the occult and far too attracted to an enigmatic, dangerous man who had revealed himself a vampire.

Tara hid her head in one of the pillows. How had she gotten into this? More importantly, how did she get out? And did she even want to? Even now, despite the panic, part of her brain was trying to map out the next book. Jane and Thomas' finally sleeping together would need some heavy motivation and a really great setting.

She hadn't written the first story, the one that had drawn Sophie's notice, with any aim in mind. It had only been a sort of exercise, something to think about other than the pain that had been her constant companion since leaving Sunnydale. She had submitted it to the contest on a whim, and Sophie's ecstatic call had been a complete surprise.

Now, four years later, she was sitting in the room of the elegant hotel that Sophie insisted on putting her in, wondering what she was going to do. Wondering what she would do if Buffy or Dawn or someone picked up one of her books and realized that 'Claudia Harris' was writing about someone that sounded one hell of a lot like Spike. Not that there was too much likelihood of that. As Buffy had once said, why read Stephen King when you could live the dream. The only members of the gang likely to read the sort of book she wrote would have been Joyce or Anya, so….

With a sigh, Tara flipped open her laptop and plugged in the modem, the thought of Buffy reminding her that she owed a response to the Slayer's latest email. She pulled up the message to remind herself of its contents:

Hi, how are you? How's the working socially?

Everything's the same here. Training, killing evil. That's pretty much it. No apocalypses in a while, which is nice.

Dawn says 'hey' and to tell you college sucks. She hates being older than the other Freshmen and tells them it's because she was in Europe having affairs. She likes living at the dorm because Angel can't loom at her dates. Kids today, huh?

She's thinking about majoring in Criminal Justice. Angel almost fainted until she promised that she didn't mean law school. I said the only way she was being a cop was if she wore full-body Kevlar all the time, even in the shower. She called me a dork. Did I mention kids today?

Seriously, I think it's great that she wants to help people. She always looked up to you. So do I, and I bet the kids you help really love you.

Will and Xander are ok, I guess. You know I'm bad with the emotion stuff. I still want someone to blame. When I think about how hurt you were, I can almost get mad at them, but then I remember how miserable Xander was over losing Anya and the baby, and I see how worried they still are over you, and I can't.

We miss you. I wish you'd come home to Sunnydale. I hate to think of you out there by yourself. Even though Will doesn't bug me for your address anymore, she knows we write once a month, so answer this soon please, or she'll keep on me 'til we know you're ok :)

Tara took a steadying breath and put her hands on the keyboard.

I think Criminal Justice is a great major for Dawny. Sunnydale could use some decent police :) Body armor is your friend.

Of course, you shouldn't be mad at Willow and Xander! I'm not. They didn't mean to fall in love. You might as well be mad at Anya for getting killed. Please tell them not to worry. I'm ok, really, just not quite ready to come back yet. I'll get there one day.

A few more platitudes, and Tara hit 'send' before shutting down the computer.

She sighed in disgust with herself. Social work had burned her out, bringing up memories she'd mostly repressed, making her want to kill herself or one of the men who seemed just like her father or brother. Court, that seemed to consider everything but the needs of the children, reduced her to stammering rage. And then had come the day…no, best not think of that. Large portions of her money went to battered women and children's shelters, but it wasn't the same. She felt as if she'd failed, but there hadn't been any choice. She'd had to leave before it was too late.

Idly, Tara crossed to the window and looked out. It was only 9:30, and the city pulsed with life below her. Sophie had wanted to take her out, but they had very different ideas of what constituted a good time, and Tara had said she wanted an early night. Now, she felt restless, edgy…

…aroused. All that discussion of Jane and Shiv and put ideas in her head, awakened long dormant sensations in her nerve endings.

She had slept with men. Eight years ago, after her mother's death, she had decided that if she was going to be called 'whore' anyway, she might as well take advantage. Memory of her reckless behavior then made her shiver.

She hadn't liked it much though, despising the boys and men even as she lay beneath them. Rough, brutish, reminding her of her lowly status. She had much preferred being with women. Willow had fulfilled every need she'd ever had, both for love and pleasure. Then…

Along with the pain, the writing had been supposed to exorcise the feelings that had swirled around in her head since she had neutralized Spike's chip five years ago. He had vacated Sunnydale immediately thereafter, and she hadn't seen him since, except in her sub-conscious where he seemed to have settled in permanently.

She had been terrified of him when she first took up with Willow and the others, then fear had gone to sympathy when the Initiative came back. Now, she didn't know what she felt, but desire seemed to make up a large portion of it. The writing hadn't helped with those feelings any more than with the pain. The more she wrote about Jane and Shiv, the more she dreamed of Spike.

She found herself smiling a little at her reflection in the window.

Finally she turned and caught up her fanny pack, buckling it over her long skirt. Then, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and headed out into the night. She wasn't going to sleep, and LA must offer something better to do than pace her hotel room.

The soft night air loosened strands of hair from her waist-length braid as she moved like a shadow through the hustling figures. Sophie would have fits if she knew what Tara was doing. The agent had lived in LA for 15 years but only acknowledged certain parts of the city, and even those were to be reached by car. Walking was what treadmills were for. Tara understood that LA was dangerous, but she still needed to feel the life around her. As for protection, she was securely wrapped in spells of "don't notice me" and "look somewhere else". Spells she had developed as a survival skill during her youth, spells that had shielded her and Spike from the Initiative.

She flexed her fingers, feeling his cold, strong grip on her hand.

Normally, she didn't think about Spike that much. Yes, she pictured him in her writing, and there had been a few…intense…dreams, but he didn't usually haunt her waking thoughts. Maybe writing Buffy had brought back the days she lived in Sunnydale, and her mind was trying to find something else to think about. Spike was better than remembering the grief of those last few days. Grief that had been unmixed with anger.

She had known the moment they fell back in love, known when Willow's attempts at comfort after Anya's death became something more. The misery and guilt pouring from both minds had been almost palpable. Not that either had acted on it or betrayed her in any way. Xander had spoken with manic cheer of a new job opportunity and a chance to make a fresh start. Tara had looked at him, known that he would soon be dead by his own hand, and made a decision.

Tara shook the memory off, eyes stinging with tears. So far, there hadn't been a need to call Buffy, but it was good to know she was there even if emailing made her sad and guilty. Maybe it was selfish, but without the contact, she would have felt like a kite blowing in the wind. She needed somebody out there with a hand on the string.

She looked around to see that her wanderings had taken her to a quiet street, occupied mostly by shops that were closed now. She could only see one place that was lit with people going in an out.

With a mixture of caution and curiosity, she crossed to the far side of the street from the active building, pouring more strength into her shielding spells. Directly opposite the door, Tara saw that her first impressions were correct. A mixture of demons and humans were going in and out of the building, whose pale blue neon sign proclaimed it Caritas.

She watched closely for a while, seeing no real animosity between the different species of clientele. Everyone seemed friendly enough, talking and clapping each other on the back Even the ones that her reading and experiences as Scooby told her were traditional enemies were at worst ignoring each other. It seemed a place of truce, of neutrality.

A burst of music came through the open door.

"I think I love you, So what am I so afraid of?
Afraid that I am catching,
A love there is no cure for…"

But she was smiling even as she thought it. Whoever was singing had a great voice, if questionable taste, and even more importantly sounded happy, almost overjoyed. It had been a long time since she heard that level of simple pleasure in something. Longer still since she felt it. Tara dithered on the sidewalk, the desire to go in warring with the desire to go unnoticed that had been hard-wired into her psyche so long ago.

Nothing bad could happen in a place where they sang Partridge Family songs. With a deep breath, she dropped her shields and crossed the street.

No one was on the door, and she slipped inside quietly. There was minimal décor - just a bar and some small tables and chairs. Stools were dragged around for extra seating. The obvious focus was the stage and red velvet curtains and a large karaoke machine. It seemed a popular place, though. All the tables and most of the stools were full. Several waiters were hurrying around with drink orders.

The singer that had attracted her attention wasn't on stage now. Instead something large and scaly was singing about the 'bright, elusive butterflies of love' in a voice that made Tara want to stick her fingers in her ears.

However, as she took a seat on a stool by the wall, she noticed that no one was heckling the singer. Despite the horrible voice and butchered notes, everyone kept straight faces and listened, talking softly if at all, and applauded politely at the end of the song. A second demon, his horns and green skin contrasting with the cream silk coat and trousers, strolled onto the stage and slung an arm around the singer's shoulder.

"Wasn't that great folks? This is Geronk's first time, so let's give him a big Caritas welcome!"

The applause increased with a couple of whoops and some whistling. Tara thought Geronk blushed although it was sort of hard to tell. The demon in the coat, she realized, was the singer she had heard from outside.

"The house band's going to take over for a few minutes while my friend and I chat then we'll hear Linda tell Jack to hit the road!"

A smiling human woman waved to the audience but remained in her seat as the curtain pulled back to reveal a band comprised of humans and non-. Several people got up to dance, and the two demons exited the stage and took a seat by the bar where they began to talk intensely.

A woman was leaning against the wall nearby, and after a moment, Tara nodded toward Geronk and the demon and asked softly, "What are they doing?"

"You're a newbie?" the woman asked with a grin. "What do you know, my very own Caritas virgin."

Tara flushed as the woman continued, "Geronk's getting a little guidance. That's the deal here. You sing and the Host helps you find your destiny." She smiled and leaned closer, her eyes soft, "If this isn't your kind of place, we could…"

Vampire.

Senses honed on nights of patrol screamed a warning, and without thinking, mental shields snapped into place. Instead of the soft layers of concealment, these were bright and shiny mirrors that reflected back the attempts at bedazzlement, giving the demon no hold. The woman's mouth tightened as she realized her loss of control.

Tara frantically tried to figure out what to do next. She had neither cross nor stake to hand, and with part of her abilities shielding her mind, the vampire would be on her before she could get a spell off. Besides, when she tried to think of one, a fog seemed to cloud her mind, making her unable to focus adequately.

"Oops. Somebody over here doesn't look like they're having a good time."

The voice was bright and cheery, but before either woman could react, the Host had glided between them.

"I wasn't doing anything violent," the woman pouted.

"I know, sweetie, but Hunting is also a big no-no. We've talked about this. Now, say you're sorry, and mind your manners, or much as I'd hate it, I'll have to ask you to leave."

She scowled down at the floor, but to Tara's surprise, muttered something like an apology.

"There," he put an arm around each of them and squeezed encouragingly. "That's better. We're all friends again. Ellenore, why don't you mosey on over to the bar and have a nice round on the house?"

Ellenore went sullenly and the Host turned back to Tara with a smile.

"Sorry about that. She gets a little cranky sometimes. Not that you didn't have a handle on it." He squinted at her suddenly. "My goodness. You do give the Marianas Trench a run for its money, don't you?"

"I'm sorry," Tara said cautiously, trying to decide if she were being made fun of. "I don't know what you mean."

He flapped a hand. "Still waters running deep. But, no, no, I'm the one who's sorry. Here I stand, flapping my jaw, and you don't even have a drink. What can I get you?"

"A glass of white wine?" Her knowledge of alcoholic drinks was limited, but that seemed safe enough.

The Host wrinkled his nose. "If that's what you like, fine, but, and by the way just slap me if I'm out of line, 'cause, hey, I'll enjoy it, you don't seem like a white wine sort of witch. Now, don't be shy. If you could have anything in the whole world you wanted to drink, what would it be?"

It was completely unsophisticated, but she hadn't had much supper, and something about the Host made her think he didn't care about sophistication anyway. "Hot chocolate?"

"With little marshmallows? Just what I was craving. Now," he guided her off the stool and over to a newly-vacant table in the corner, "I'll put your order in with Raoul. I'd love to share a mug, but I've got to listen to some more folks. You sit here and enjoy yourself, maybe think about doing a number."

"Me?" Tara gasped. She liked to sing, and Willow had told her she had a good voice, but her mouth dried up at the thought of getting up on the stage. She started to rise. "Oh, no, I d-don't th…"

The Host put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "No pressure," he said quietly, and his face was suddenly serious, even a little sad. "The whole point of Caritas is that it's safe here. You sit and relax, and I'll light a fire under Raoul."

She sat and to her surprise, felt herself relaxing in the unquestioning atmosphere. Her hot chocolate swiftly arrived, strong, sweet, and almost sludgy with marshmallows, just the way she liked it. Tara drank it down hungrily, then settled back in her chair to listen to the singing.

After awhile, the Host got up to do another song. His voice wrapped around her like a blanket and Tara rested her head against one of the walls that made up her corner and let herself drift….

"Hey. I hate to do this, but you're gonna get a stiff neck."

She blinked awake, confused at not being in her hotel room, then saw the cheerful face of the Host and sat up hastily. The club was empty, chairs piled on the tables except for hers. Her eyes dropped to the watch at her belt and she saw that it was 1:30 a.m.

"Oh! Oh, God, I'm sorry!"

Tara sprang out of the chair, almost knocking it over, and groped wildly through her fanny pack for her wallet. "What do I owe you for the chocolate? I am so sorry! I don't know how I did that, and…"

"Whoa, whoa, easy Marianas!" he held up calming hands. "It's no big. You didn't rob the joint, you took a nap. If that were the worst thing anyone ever did in here, I wouldn't need Raoul. As for how you did it, I got the impression you were sleepy."

She made herself breathe. He was right. The stress of seeing Sophie and the odd tension she'd been under had kept her from sleeping. It was all right. Everything was all right.

"Anyway, I should go now and let you finish up. And, how much for the chocolate…"

He shook his head. "On the house. I did that much for Ellenore, and you didn't try to eat any of the clientele."

"Ok." She tried a smile, found it worked. "Thanks."

"Anytime, Marianas. Come back again."

"Tara," she said shyly. "It's Tara."

"That's pretty. Means 'Hill of the Kings', if you're at all interested. I'm Lorne."

That wasn't what she expected. "What does Lorne mean?"

"That 'Krevlornswath-of-the-Deathwok-Clan is a crappy name'."

Tara burst out in a startled laugh, feeling safer than she had since she'd been with the gang. "Goodnight, Lorne. I'll try to get back here sometime." She thought she was done, but her mouth apparently had other ideas and continued talking without consulting her brain. "Maybe I'll sing then. I…I think I'd like to."

"Why not now?" he said quietly. "I'd really like to hear you."

"It's so late," she murmured, embarrassed.

"Here's a Lorne life lesson. It's never too late to sing."

The panic tried to resurrect, but it wasn't possible under his kind gaze. "Do I have to get on the stage?"

"Not if you don't want."

"Well. All right," she thought a moment, trying to remember something that didn't involve fire, brimstone, or being left behind during the Rapture. "This is one my Mom used to sing to me." She closed her eyes, recalling the words, and sang softly.

On a summer day

In the month of May

A burly bum came hiking

Down a shady lane

Through the sugar cane

He was looking for his liking

As he roamed along

He sang a song

Of the land of milk and honey

Where a bum can stay

For many a day

And he won't need any money

Oh the buzzin' of the bees

In the cigarette trees

Near the soda water fountain

At the lemonade springs

Where the bluebird sings

On the big rock candy mountain

She went on through the other verses, then opened her eyes and looked at Lorne expectantly. To her surprise, his eyes were bright, and he almost looked as if he were trying not to cry.

"Is everything ok?" Tara asked timidly. "Didn't it work?"

"Yeah, it worked. Just…Marianas is a good name for you, or maybe Dierdre." He took a deep breath and said rapidly. "Anyway, guidance time. You're stronger than you know, than you've been let to be. Most of that was done when you were a tot, but one of the people holding you back now is you. Deciding you can't do something gives you permission not to try. You're withdrawing from the world, Tara, using those shields too much. Some stuff, you have to face."

She looked away. He was right. Over time, she had found it easier to walk with shields over her mind and her heart if not her body.

"You've done good things," Lorne continued. "Trust yourself. You didn't actually kill that guy, you know."

Her head snapped back around to face him in wide-eyed horror.

It was the thing she didn't talk about, the thing that had made her leave social work. Sitting in court and listening to suave, polished Raymond Jenner talk about his wife's vindictively accusing him of molesting their daughter, seeing the jury believe him and not the hysterical woman, she had been filled with a white-hot anger. Something in her mind had screamed STOP LYING and before she realized what she was doing, Tara had shoved that thought at him with all her strength.

And he had. Sitting in the witness box, he had stopped mid-sentence and started to tonelessly recite chapter and verse of each incident of his molestation of his daughter, despite the pleas of his lawyer and the banging of the judge's gavel, until he was hauled away.

Even that hadn't scared her. Watching him, Tara had known she could order his heart to stop beating and it would obey, and she had wanted to. Which made her no better than the monsters.

Lorne shrugged. "I'm a psychic, what can I say? But you didn't do it, and smart ol' you got out before the temptation became too strong. Finally, you've spent the past few years dealing with fantasy. Reality would like a word with you."

"I don't understand," Tara said, confused. "I write fiction. Should I stop? Or should I go to the convention?"

He spread his hands helplessly. "Sorry, that's all I've got. And now, Marianas, let's call it a night, shall we?"

"Yes, it's late," she agreed hastily. "I should call a cab."

"There's usually one outside. I'll walk with you. Caritas has an anti-violence geas, but it doesn't cover the sidewalk."

Her earlier inability to cast spells became clear. "That's why I couldn't do anything more than shield against Ellenore."

"Right. It affects everybody. You can fight the good fight outside, but indoors is safe for all."

They stepped outside and looked vainly up and down the street, but it was empty of cabs as well as all other traffic.

"Hmph," said Lorne. "So much for my psychic powers. Wonder where Shirley is…"

"I told her she'd have better luck on another street," said a deep, slurred voice.

She felt Lorne stiffen beside her, and both turned to see a large, reddish demon with scales and tusks standing uncomfortably close. Two others stepped from the shelter of his bulk. One looked something like a large, ambulatory weasel, and the other was a man who smiled at her unpleasantly as he strolled to block a possible retreat into Caritas.

Despite the fear radiating from Lorne, his voice remained almost steady if slightly higher pitched. "That was nice of you, Nefrexx," he said evenly. "How's life treating you?"

"Varishka left and took the kids," the demon grunted. "I don't know where they are."

Lorne sighed. "That's too bad. I hear they can do a lot with counseling these days. You crazy kids can…"

"She left because you told her to. She was MINE." Nefrexx growled. "You interfered in our personal business."

How many times had she heard those words from human throats during her time as a social worker? This woman, this girl, these children belong to me. I can do what I want with them. It seemed some things were common across species.

Of course, there were certain differences between her former job and tonight's situation. This time, there were no police to call for backup. The office wasn't waiting for her to check in. Most importantly, there were three of them, and they had occult powers. Tara's hand slid into her pocket and closed around the small vial she kept there for emergencies.

Anger momentarily overcame Lorne's fear. "If telling Varishka that you planned to sacrifice her and marry your oldest daughter was interfering, then color me guilty, but not all that sorry." He took a breath, seemed to remember the precariousness of their situation, and made his voice more placating. "Still, I'm sure we can work this out over a drink. Let me put my friend here in a cab, and we can talk inside."

The human-looking man smiled, "A drink would be nice, but I think she should stay." Abruptly his features shifted, fangs descending. "She's so sweet and pretty and scared. You handle the singer, Nefrexx, while she and I get better acquainted."

He moved forward, eyes on Tara. Lorne tried to get between them, and she gripped his arm, hoping the gesture made her look like somebody who was afraid rather than somebody who needed a clear shot.

Another step brought him close to Nefrexx and Weasel-guy and she threw the vial at them with all her strength, pouring her fear and anger into the spell.

"Fiat Lux!"

It went off like a flash grenade, blinding all three demons and scorching the vampire's hands and face. The Caritas entrance was still blocked, but at least the confusion gave them time to get a head start.

Tara raced after Lorne. Behind them, she heard the shouts break out and then the sidewalk seemed to quake under the pounding of Nefrexx's feet.

"You know how I said you should stop using shields?" Lorne called over his shoulder. "Don't listen to me. Shields are great. Love 'em."

"We've got to get further ahead," she panted. "It takes me a few seconds to form one, and I can't cover both of us while we're running."

He groaned, then said in a determined voice. "Just do you then. I'm the one they're after anyway."

"Oh, stop it," she said crossly. "I won't leave you. Besides, there are three of them and the vampire wants me."

"Ok, ok. Excuse me for trying to be heroic. I might know somewhere we can go for help."

Lorne swung abruptly across the street and darted into an alley. Nefrexx would have to go around, but the vampire and the weasel weren't far behind them. Tara seized boxes and trashcans with her mind, flinging them behind her, but most of her force had gone into the light spell.

It felt like they were running across the whole city. A city wiped out by some sort of plague. They were deep in the industrial district, and everyone had gone home. Any night watchmen didn't seem to want to get involved. Tara couldn't blame them. She didn't dare look over her shoulder to see how close their pursuers were. All she could do was fix her gaze on Lorne's back and hope he knew where he was going and that her breath held out until they got there.

They swung around the back of a warehouse, and he leaped onto a loading dock.

"This is where they were supposed to meet," he gasped as she scrambled up behind. "If they haven't left…how much cash are you carrying?"

"About 50 dollars," she panted, staring behind her. It was quiet. Maybe they'd lost them. "Who are you talking about?

"I've got about 100. That might be enough to get us an escort." Lorne said, rattling the lock furiously.

Tara pushed him aside before he could start pounding on the door and took the lock in her hands, sinking her awareness into it. This was one of the first magics she had ever done, this 'seeing to the heart of things'. It was a sort of meditation that let her understand how things worked on almost a cellular level and then manipulate them. Ordinarily it was easy for her, the ability instinctive rather taught, but she was physically and mentally tired which made it hard to focus on the inner workings of the lock. Also, she had to block out Lorne's chatter. When he was nervous, the Host was worse than Willow for babbling.

"It's a gang, offering occult protection for a price. They don't usually work out of LA, but were in town for a few days on business. The leader approached me, but I said I didn't need them."

The lock sprang apart in her hands, and she sighed in relief as the door swung open to reveal the dark interior of the warehouse. Lorne charged in eagerly, but as she started to follow, there was a stirring in the air and fingers like steel cables clamped around her upper arms.

"Miss me?" the vampire breathed in her ear. He threw her to the side, into the darkness and away from Lorne. Unable to stop, Tara crashed into a pile of what felt like crates. They rained down around her, striking her head and shoulders, until she fell heavily to the floor. A final blow to her forehead made her see stars.

The door crashed shut, rendering the darkness complete. It didn't seem to bother her attacker, however: he yanked her up against him unerringly, laughing at her feeble struggle.

"I think I've found a new friend," he called to the others. "This one's too interesting to be just food."

"Whatever," Nefrexx rumbled. "Time to die, Host."

The vampire's words pierced the pounding in her head. He meant to Change her, and she wouldn't be able to stop him. The demon she became would probably think it was really funny to go for Willow and the others….

No.

Tara tried to summon her magic and found only a feeble guttering that wouldn't increase unless she rested. The end of hope gave her a sort of calm. She would die tonight, but that was all she would do. Her strength was almost gone, and her head rang and throbbed from the blow she had taken, but she was only dealing with herself, and mind and body allied willingly to protect those she loved. With the last dregs of her energy, Tara reached down inside, seeing into her own heart of things. Literally. It was there in her chest, snug amidst veins and arteries, pounding fast with fear. She closed her mind around it and began to tighten.

Her concentration shattered as Lorne produced the most horrible noise she had ever heard, bursting the windows along the first floor of the warehouse. The vampire let her go with a howl, and she staggered a few steps away, too weak and disoriented to go any further.

Lights abruptly flooded the first floor of the warehouse, and an irritated male voice shouted "What the hell is going on? We're trying to hold a meeting!"

Lorne cut off mid-screech and said urgently. "I want to hire you. Starting right now!"

The man grinned at him unpleasantly. "Aren't you the one who told the boss you didn't need hired goons?"

"Yeah, and boy, is my face red." he pulled bills from his coat and flourished them. "Look, just get us under cover, or at least take my friend out of here, and…"

"She's mine," the vampire snarled, and his tackle bore Tara to the floor. A knee slammed into her back, pinning her, and he wrapped the end of her braid two turns around his hand, using it to wrench her head back painfully.

"Tara!" Lorne cried.

The lights along the railing of the second floor blinded her, making her eyes water, but she thought a second figure approached the edge of the warehouse loft. Still, it didn't seem likely that her captor was going to wait on negotiations, and she drew a deep, painful breath and reached again for her heart.

"No. She's mine."

The voice brought everyone to a halt. Tara's concentration fell apart a second time, but she thought her heart might stop anyway as the cold British tones registered on her mind.

He leaped from the loft to the first floor in a swirl of black leather and pale hair, and the tiny part of her mind that wasn't busy being hysterical tried to take notes for the next book.

As Spike landed, Tara's captor tightened his hold, pulling her head back even further, and bending until his fangs were by her neck. "One more move," he snarled. "And she's gone."

"You'll follow her," Spike said icily. He held still, but every muscle was tense, his body a coiled spring. "There's a whole city you can feed from, mate. Let this one go. I won't stop you if you walk away now."

The vampire growled, Spike's features shifted in response, and Tara knew how a bone felt when it was caught between two dogs.

"C'mon, Paul," Nefrexx whined suddenly, eying Spike and the other four or five cronies that were now lining the second floor of the warehouse. "It isn't worth it. You can find another witch."

Paul's grasp on her hair loosened, and he straightened, lifting his knee from her back, "You're right," he said. "There's other's out there."

She was beginning to think it might actually be all right when he suddenly wrenched her up on her knees by her hair. "But this is the one I want," he laughed, and his fangs tore into her throat.

There was barely time to feel pain, just the one flash as the bite struck home, before Spike was there, ripping the other away from her and flinging him back. Lorne's cry was drowned out by roars of anger, howls of pain, and the thudding of feet as the rest of Spike's gang descended.

She could feel the blood arcing out of her neck even as Lorne knelt over her, desperately trying to stanch the flow with one of his coat sleeves.

"Don't do this, Marianas," he said frantically. "It's your blood. Make it clot. You were going to stop your heart before, so this should be a piece of cake."

He was right: normally stopping the bleeding would have been simple for her, but this wasn't normally and she had nothing left. Blackness washed over Tara, and she couldn't even summon the strength to mind. Instead of frightening, it felt warm and welcoming, like resting in her bed after a long, hard day in the fields with Mama's hand-stitched quilt snug around her.

Another touch on her neck, cold this time and wet, moving over the bites. The feeling that awareness was draining away from her slowed as she teetered on the edge of consciousness. Someone slapped her lightly on both sides of her face, and she reluctantly opened her eyes to meet an expressionless blue gaze.

Spike sat back on his knees and regarded her. "Would someone like to tell me what's going on around here?" he drawled.

The Host opened his mouth, hopefully to provide some explanation for the circus act he had led through Spike's door, but before he could speak, Tara's eyes closed again, and Spike heard her heart-rate plummet alarmingly.

"Never mind," he growled. "Tell me later."

"Right."

The Host took Tara's hand, murmuring to her urgently as Spike stood and jerked his head at Phil. When his second-in-command reached him, Spike said briefly, "Meeting's adjourned. You know what to do, so clean this lot up and get to your assignments." He selected a key from the ring and tossed it over. "I'm taking the van. Use the car as needed. Check in with any problems. Questions?"

Phil looked at the Host and Tara, opened his mouth, caught Spike's expression, and altered whatever he had been going to say to, "No questions."

Spike smiled humorlessly. "Good boy. I'll be in touch."

He watched Phil walk away, calling orders as he went. Having learned his lesson with Harmony, Spike had been careful when forming this group. Rule one: no idiots. Other rules included no one who'd either be attracted to or have a grudge against other members due to sex, species, or whatever, and no one with some holy or unholy mission that would bollocks up paying cases.

He was careful in how he treated them as well, being only as nasty as he had to be to maintain order and his position as leader. A certain amount of fear led to a healthy employer/employee relationship, but too much, and you had to worry about a stake in the heart, 'accidental' exposure to the sun, or being sold out. He shared out pay fairly, didn't kill anyone simply because he was in a bad mood, and didn't tolerate mistakes.

Spike turned back to the Host and Tara, ignoring the pang he felt at the sight of the witch's pallor, contrasting harshly with her blood-soaked blouse and hair. He kept both face and voice matter-of-fact as he knelt and slid his arms under her shoulders and knees. "Where's Willow?"

The Host blinked. "A better question might be who's Willow?"

"Her girlfriend."

The demon shrugged, "No idea. She showed up at Caritas alone."

That was odd. They had been inseparable, and he would have thought it impossible for them to break up. He'd only seen her alone once. When… Spike dismissed the thought and headed for the door, Tara in his arms. "There's no time to look. We'll have to leave her at the hospital and let her sort it out. The cops will be all over this when they get a look at her, and I don't fancy greeting dawn from a cell."

"Dawn," Tara murmured. "Glory." She stirred slightly, frowning, and he held her closer.

"I know where we can go," the Host said, hurrying after Spike. "A druid who's a retired doctor. She runs a clinic for the occult types."

"Not some quack, is she?" Spike asked suspiciously. He shifted Tara enough to hand the key to the Host who unlocked the back doors of the van and scrambled inside to help steady Tara as Spike climbed in.

"No, no. Very reputable." He smiled and touched the witch's hair with a gentle green-skinned hand. "I wouldn't trust Marianas with just anybody."

"Fine," Spike said briefly. He laid her down carefully on the hard floor of the van, shrugging out of his duster to slide it under her head. She flinched at the movement, and her eyes fluttered open. She looked at him in some confusion, moving a hand weakly towards her neck.

"Easy," he said smiling. "I'm not the one bit you. You're safe."

A faint smile crossed her face before she slid back into unconsciousness. He caught her hand before it could fall and laid it gently back by her side.

Straightening, he found the demon looking at him with bright-eyed interest. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing. Look, one of us should keep her steady. Why don't I drive, since I know where we're going?"

Spike scowled at the innocent-looking Host but couldn't find anything wrong with the statement. It did make sense for the one who knew the area to drive and someone did need to keep Tara from rolling around in the back of the van. Still, he had the feeling that something else was going on.

He tossed over the keys with bad grace, and the Host scrambled into the front seat while Spike settled with his back against the wall of the van. Not seeing any other way, but still feeling manipulated, he rearranged the witch so that her head was in his lap and laid the duster over her, putting an arm around her waist to keep her in place.

He didn't dignify the Host's "Comfy?" with a reply, mostly because now that he wasn't dealing with an immediate crisis, Spike had to concentrate to keep his fangs from descending and the rest of his body from reacting to the scent of Tara's blood. He had a 50% success rate. Incarceration by the chip had given him a strong control over the demon, and he shook the fangs away with little difficulty. As for the rest, Spike had gained ample practice in ignoring that in Sunnydale as well, and simply made sure that Tara wasn't leaning against anything that could poke her in the back.

Spike had rather less success with avoiding thinking about who was lying in his lap and looked down at her pale face. Five years hadn't made much of a difference, longer hair maybe and he didn't remember those circles under the eyes, but it wasn't as if he'd looked at her that closely.

There had been hints she was something more although he had ignored them in his obsession. Through the occult gossip mill, he'd heard that Tara had been the first to realize something was wrong when Slayer Faith did her body-switching act. He was also fairly sure he hadn't fooled her when he tried to drive the Scoobies apart to make them fodder for Adam. Will had been angry with his 'trendy' comment, but Tara had merely suggested speaking with Buffy.

Then had come the day she'd stepped from Will's shadow once and for all and shown up at his door, white with terror but resolved to help. And help she had, first with the invisibility spells, and then…

None of the others, not Buffy or even Dawn, would have neutralized the chip if they could. They didn't trust him, which Spike supposed he couldn't really blame them for, although the pain of having his efforts rejected had been sharp. But Tara, whose only contact with him had been a well-timed punch in the nose, had done it because it was necessary for him to survive.

Marianas, the Host called her, that deep and deceptively quiet Trench. Not a bad name.

Tara was drifting in and out of consciousness as they rode, and when the van bounced over a pothole, her eyes opened and she looked at him with recognition. Spike expected her to be frightened or upset, but before he could reassure her, she sighed contentedly and snuggled against him, before slipping into sleep again. He swallowed hard, unprepared for the wave of protectiveness that went through him.

"Yours, huh?"

Spike jerked. "What?" he said, pulling his hand away where it had somehow come to rest against her jaw.

"That's what you said to the guy in the warehouse. That she was yours."

"Just vamp talk," he shrugged irritably. "Bit of posturing and such to get his attention."

"Oh," Lorne said politely. "I thought maybe…"

"You thought wrong. I used to know her is all. She did me a good turn once. Some mojo type you are," Spike added in derision. "Didn't even see she's not into blokes. I said she had a girlfriend, did you forget?"

"Hmmm? No, no. I didn't forget. Here we are."

As he spoke, he parked the van in front of a small building that appeared deserted except for a small light over the door. "Rose likes to keep a low profile," he explained holding the van door while Spike climbed out with Tara. "The people who need to know where she is can find her."

Spike's skin prickled as they crossed the parking lot, and he was fairly sure a ward had been triggered. His guess was proven correct when, despite the lack of windows, the door swung open as they approached, revealing a woman in her 60's, gray hair cut uncompromisingly short.

"What have you brought me, Lorne?" she asked.

"My friend here got bitten by a vampire. Not him," he added hastily as Rose's eyes flicked to Spike. "Got bashed on the head too."

"And something else I think," she said, her eyes on Tara. She stood back, gesturing them in and through a small lobby.

He was relieved when they entered a sterile-looking examining room, and he saw the standard doctoring equipment. Spike knew the efficacy of magic, but all that New Age crystal-waving and chanting gave him a headache.

He laid Tara on a padded table as Rose directed, then gritted his teeth as she traced the contours of the witch's body, hands held about an inch above her skin.

"Minor concussion," she said. "Just enough for a headache. She's lost a lot of blood though."

"No kidding," he said sarcastically. "Her aura tell you that? Or did the bite-mark and blood-stained shirt give it away?"

She looked at him coolly but spoke to Lorne. "She's also burned herself out spell-casting and needs to rest. I'm going to start her on some fluids and a little blood to begin putting back what she's lost. What's her type?"

"A positive," Spike said without thinking, the tang unmistakable on his lips.

The druid's eyes narrowed, and her hand dropped to the squirt bottle resting in her belt. He realized it must be holy water, and his fangs began to descend as he shifted into fighting stance.

"Why don't we just wait outside?" Lorne said hastily, moving between Spike and Rose.

She smiled humorlessly. "Why don't you?" She turned back to Tara, unbuckling the pack the witch wore at her waist and handing it to Lorne. The demon urged Spike back into the lobby as she began pushing the witch's sleeve up to bare her arm.

"Do the words 'flies and honey' mean anything to you?" Lorne asked in exasperation. "As in you catch more of one with the other?"

"I ever want to catch flies, I'll keep it in mind." He twitched the pack from Lorne's grasp and unzipped it.

"Hey!" Lorne protested. "Privacy issues!"

"Sod privacy issues," Spike said absently as he nudged aside a business card, wallet, and hotel key. "Ah, here we are." He held the cell phone up in front of the demon's disapproving visage. "Willow's probably tearing the city apart. I can contact her, hand Tara off to someone competent and be on my way."

He ignored Lorne's sniff and punched the speed dial. To his surprise, the call wasn't immediately answered with urgent cries for explanation and location. Instead, the receiver was picked up after three rings, with sounds indicating at least one fumble, and a very sleepy voice said something like, "Wazztfl?"

"Willow?" he said cautiously. Maybe she didn't know her lover had gone wandering. That was the only reason he could fathom that she would be asleep. Still, it didn't quite sound like the witch.

After a moment of somehow threatening silence, a cold voice said, "Who is this?"

Spike stared confusedly at the phone. What was going on?

"Slayer?" he said cautiously. "Is that you?"

"Spike." Yep, no question of identity now. No one but Buffy could give his name quite that venomous twist. "What the hell do you want?"

"I've got Tara here," he said, not thinking of how his words could be interpreted. "She's hurt and…"

He wrenched the phone away from his ear, wondering for a moment whether it was going to explode from the force of the Slayer's reaction. Fury ran her words together, but the general gist seemed to be that all previous kickings of his ass were going to be mild in comparison what would happen when she got hold of him.

"I didn't do it!" he shouted into the phone. "What, you think I'd call you if I was the one hurt her and…?"

"Gloat? Sneer? Gee, how would I ever get the idea you'd do something like that? Oh, wait. Because you have!"

"Well, I'm not this time," he said, trying to calm down. Lorne was staring at him wide-eyed, and Rose opened the door, glared at them both impartially, and closed it again. "I saved her as a matter of fact, and I'm trying to reach Willow, so if you don't mind…"

He could hear a deep voice talking to Buffy, apparently trying to quiet things on that end. Angel. And given the time of night and the Slayer's sleepiness, he'd been in bed with her. There wasn't time to think about how that made him feel or even to feel anything.

"Willow and Tara aren't together anymore," Buffy said, obviously making an effort to control herself. "Where are you?"

"What happened? Is Will all right?" he asked, surprising himself.

He seemed to surprise Buffy too. "She's ok. Look, Spike, just tell me where Tara is."

"Trouble in Paradise then? Some wicked temptress pull the lovebirds apart?"

Even as he said the words, Spike didn't know where they came from. He didn't mean them. He was, in fact, sorry that the two women had parted. They had seemed genuinely happy together, their relationship something he'd envied if he let himself think about it.

"Spike…"

So why this anger he couldn't control? Why the urge to taunt and tease? "Oh, wait, maybe that's what this business card is about." He fished it out and squinted at it. "Sophie. New friend perhaps."

"ANYA'S DEAD!" Buffy's voice broke on the shouted words. She drew a long sobbing breath and went on more quietly. "You complete son-of-a-bitch, Anya's dead, and Willow's with Xander. Ok? That clear it all up for you?"

Pain struck him unexpectedly, the quizzical face of the former demon rising up before him. She had been funny and direct, her precise voice pointing out the home truths that the rest of them thought but didn't say.

"I didn't know," Spike said quietly. "Sorry."

There was a pause broken by sniffling. He heard her say, "No, I've got it," in response to a query from Angel. Then to him, "Yeah, it sucked. So, for the last time, where are you?"

He paused, thinking. "If Tara wanted you to know where she was, she'd have told you." Buffy started to expostulate again, but he cut her off. "She's not in immediate danger. I'll have her call."

Spike cut the connection and dropped the cell phone into the pack. Looking up, he met Lorne's gaze, which was serious for once.

"That was interesting," the demon said. "I thought she was going to crawl out of the phone and kill you."

He smiled a little painfully. "We've always had an…intense relationship."

"You bring out the worst in each other," Lorne shrugged. "That happens. Two people are fine apart, but put them together and boom! Instant apocalypse. Fun sometimes, but not the best basis for a long-term relationship." He looked Spike up and down. "Of course, that's not a problem for you anymore, is it?"

Spike slammed the pack down on a coffee table. "Have I asked for guidance? Did you hear me sing at any point tonight?"

Lorne patted the air consolingly. "Sorry for speaking out of turn, but you're giving off body-language a blind person could read. You've just had what's known as a moment of clarity. I know the look. You used to love her, but now you don't."

While Spike was still dealing with that one, Lorne retrieved the pack and withdrew the cell phone again. "Since her friend isn't in the picture any longer, I'm going to call my sweetie and have her bring something for Marianas to wear."

"Your sweetie," Spike said flatly.

"Yes, my sweetie. Why wouldn't I have a sweetie? I'm quite a catch. Own a business, good company, sharp dresser. The girls just line up. She's very competent too. We'll take Tara wherever she's staying," he said kindly. "You can tend to that really important business you were mentioning."

"I'll wait," he said aloud. He headed for the door. "But outside. I need a smoke."

"Good idea," Lorne smiled. "You've got some thinking to do."

Outside, Spike lit up and leaned back against the wall of the clinic, drawing desperately on the cigarette. As the calming smoke filled his lungs, he closed his eyes and let the tight grip he'd kept on his features relax.

After he'd left Sunnydale, he'd deliberately blocked all of its inhabitants, including the Slayer, from his mind. It was the only way he could survive. Twice before he'd left, and twice returned, both times to the tune of his significant pain and suffering. So this final time, he'd refused to think about it at all and filled his mind with the business of survival, coldly keeping emotion at bay.

He'd no interest in ending up chipped and helpless again, scavenging and living in crypts, so he'd been careful. His profile had been so low it had almost been subterranean, and he'd waited and watched for opportunities in various hotspots such as New Orleans, New York City, Orlando (hard to believe what went on at Disneyworld). Opportunities had come slowly but surely, the chances to do favors for important, and more importantly rich, people who'd run afoul of demons. Favors for demons too. And slowly but surely, he'd built up a clientele along with employees who had skills he needed.

It was a two-for-one deal sometimes. Phil, for instance, had been a necromancer who was fond of dead people. Really fond of dead people. A woman he'd graced with his attentions had been marked for zombiehood by a former admirer. Phil's gratitude had provided Spike with a reasonably powerful mage who was too poufy to be a real threat, but who had contacts with the magic community. As long as he kept his relationship issues to himself, Spike didn't care what Phil did on his off time.

Only once, had his control slipped. Despite his deliberate ignoring of all things pertaining to the Slayer, it would have been hard to miss the apocalypse started by Wolfram and Hart and thwarted by Angel and Angel's subsequent transformation to human. Hating himself, he'd called in a couple of markers and found that the former vampire had returned to Sunnydale and the Slayer.

Even now, he couldn't recall the entire sequence of his reactions. He'd only awakened a week later, sodden with drink and possessing an entire notebook filled with the most gods-awful poetry he'd ever been privileged to read. He'd read it, burned it, and gone on, shoving the whole subject of Buffy into a box at the back of his mind.

And somewhere along the way, he'd fallen out of love with her. It didn't even hurt to know Angel was in her bed. Now what?

Spike shrugged, saw that he'd gone through an entire cigarette without noticing, and lit another.

He was comfortable with that safe and painless nothing, and he didn't let anything get past it. There had been several affairs, all of which he'd been careful to keep separate from business, but nothing that engaged him on any level other than the physical. Not that there was anything wrong with the physical. The Kali priestess had almost ruptured his pleasure center, but he'd still left without a backward glance.

It was better that way. Traveling light, empty-handed really, made it impossible to be weighed down. Although he wasn't quite empty-handed was he? Spike reached into a jeans pocket and pulled out the one thing he'd brought with him from Sunnydale that wasn't essential for survival.

The tiny mouse, smaller than his thumbnail, still slept with its carved tail curled over its nose. Tara had thrown it to him from her dorm window the night he left, and he'd carried it ever since. He didn't even think about it anymore, transferring the mouse from pair of trousers to another automatically. A gift, one of the few he'd ever received that didn't involve someone trying to buy him off. A gift from the woman who'd saved him in more ways than one, and whom he'd saved now. He'd blown her a kiss in return, and she'd smiled and caught it.

Spike was smiling a little himself, turning the mouse in his fingers, when a blue car pulled up and he hastily stuck the carving back in his pocket.

The woman who exited the car was pretty enough, mid-thirties, neatly dressed in jeans and crisply-pressed blouse with her blond hair pulled back in a clip. Spike tensed, recognizing the no-nonsense walk and the eyes that constantly scanned her surroundings as she crossed the parking lot, a bundle of clothes under her arm. She might as well have had "COP" tattooed on her forehead. She strode up to him with an expression that made Rose look friendly, and the light from the door glinted off the large silver cross she wore around her neck.

He nodded towards it. "Y'know, that wouldn't stop me if I really wanted to bite you."

"I know," she responded calmly. "I have a crossbow in the car. Lorne told me you were all right or I would have just shot you."

She started to brush past him then suddenly stopped and stared at him intently, blue eyes sweeping over him. Her inspection started at his hair, paused a moment at his scar, and then continued down him until she reached his boots. She blinked, and Spike could have sworn that a look of recognition crossed her face.

He reacted automatically, propping an arm against the wall, raising an eyebrow, flexing various muscles and resting his other hand on his belt buckle. "Like what you see, Pet?"

The woman's expression settled back into a scowl. "You got a name?"

"Uh-huh."

When she realized that was all he planned to say, her eyes narrowed even more, and she strode into the clinic. Spike flicked the cigarette into the parking lot and followed her.

Personally, he would as soon have bedded down with an iceburg, and a less-likely partner for Lorne would be hard to imagine, except perhaps for Rupert Giles, but when she caught sight of Lorne, her eyes softened, and the demon looked up with a smile.

"How's my Katie?" he said fondly.

Her mouth curled, and she tossed the clothes on the couch. "What stray kitten did you pick up this time?"

"Be nice." He took her arm and turned her towards Spike. "Did you meet Spike?"

That assessing expression crossed her face again, and she nodded as if checking something off a list. "Spike, huh? Yeah, we've met."

"Katie," he smirked.

"Kate," she said coldly. "That hers?" she added, nodding toward the pack.

"That's right, and am I the only one who doesn't snoop through people's property?" Lorne said crossly as Kate caught up and unzipped the pack in turn.

"No, you stick to snooping through their heads," Spike said, and Kate grinned slightly.

"He's got you there."

"That's to help," Lorne huffed.

"So is this. At least, it's not to hurt." She held up the hotel key and squinted at the design. "Your stray's got money. This key is to the Regency. That isn't cheap."

The business card seemed to tell Kate something too. "Sophie Carstairs. That explains the Regency."

"Who's Sophie Carstairs when she's at home?" Spike asked.

"Chief publishing agent for Blackhawk books. Your friend write?"

He shrugged. "I've not seen her in years."

"Hmm. You might want to ask." She tucked the things into the pack and picked up the clothes. "I'll see if Rose is ready for these."

She rapped at the door and the druid put her head around, the guarded expression fading when she saw Kate. The women vanished behind the door, and Spike looked at Lorne, who was staring after Kate with a besotted expression.

"Beauty, brains, and her own handcuff key. What more could one ask?"

Aloud, he said "What indeed? Likes her men horned does she? That's a plus."

Lorne smiled. "You know what I said about some people bringing out the worst in each other? We bring out each other's best. She keeps me on my toes, keeps me from getting too much 'more in touch with the universe than thou' and I…I can make her laugh."

Spike opened his mouth to say something cutting, but nothing would come, the truth of the demon's words robbing him of his ability to think of a quip.

"Look, I've got to go," he said, turning away from Lorne's sympathetic gaze. "It'll be day soon. I assume between the three of you, you can get under cover safely enough."

"We'll manage," Lorne said gently. "But you've got a few minutes. Won't you wait and tell Tara goodbye? I think she's awake. Or stop by Caritas tonight."

Spike could hear the witch's soft tones added to the other two women's voices but shook his head. "Nah. Stuff to do. And singing for my supper isn't quite my thing. Say goodbye for me."

He swept out of the door and headed for the van, unclear as to his need to escape, but knowing that it was important.

As he pulled to the edge of the parking lot, his gaze involuntarily went to the van's side mirror. Tara stood in the doorway of the clinic, leaning on Rose's arm. He knew she couldn't see that he was looking at her – sometimes not having a reflection was handy – but her hand raised slightly in farewell before she stepped back and the closing door hid her from his view.

That was that; or it should have been that; for any intelligent being it would have been that. However, the following day as he rested in his lair, reviewed the specs for his own next assignment, and checked in with Phil, Spike found he couldn't let go of the previous night's encounter.

He supposed the realization that he was no longer in love with the Slayer qualified all right. For years, Spike had defined himself by her, hating her, loving her, missing her, always resenting her. Now, he felt adrift. If he no longer measured himself by the Slayer or her absence, what was left?

Spike shifted in his chair, trying fruitlessly to find some position where that damned wooden mouse didn't make itself known. Finally, he dug carving out of his pocket and glared at it.

Seeing the carving brought its giver to his mind again, collapsed on the floor of the warehouse, watching as he drove away, content in his arms in the back of the van. He hadn't gotten that reaction in years, not since Dru, and he wasn't sure that even his first love had ever relaxed so trustingly with him.

He felt again that surge of protectiveness and growled, "Bleeding stupid Angel-wannabe wanker!"

There was no need to check on Tara, Spike told himself. She'd been on her feet last night, and despite his sneering comment, he knew Lorne was able to get her back to her hotel. If he wasn't, Kate was. And if Kate couldn't manage, Tara had magical resources of her own. There was no reason for her to not be perfectly fine.

Except there was fine and fine, wasn't there? Physically, she might be ok, but the rest? Sitting in her hotel room, alone and sad wasn't all that fine. Not that there was any reason to assume she was alone. For all Spike knew, she was having an orgy up there. If not, well, since when was nursemaid in his job description?

Admit it, said a voice in his head that sounded a hell of a lot like the Host. You don't have a reason. You just want to see her.

He could sit there and mentally argue and curse himself for a fool all day, but he knew the truth, which was that he did want to see her. The possible reasons why terrified Spike if he thought about them. Homesick? Lonely? Those were human emotions that served no purpose and should have been discarded years ago.

So, as he stood in front of the hotel Kate had identified as Tara's, Spike refused to dwell on why he was there. Instead, he considered more practical things, like the fact that this was a big hotel with a doorman and that he didn't even know Tara's last name.

He had anticipated and dealt with the appearance issues. His current business occasionally required him to wear something other than t-shirts and jeans, and his white silk shirt and dark slacks and jacket kept him from drawing too many looks as he scoped the hotel. As for the rest, this was Hollywood, where bleached hair wasn't that uncommon, the sunglasses hid his scarred eyebrow, and the cockiness and arrogance exhibited by so many of the rich and important had been his persona practically since he'd been turned. Unfortunately, he was fairly sure he wouldn't be able to bully Tara's room number out of the desk clerk even if he had her last name, at least not without drawing undue attention. Which left the old-fashioned way.

A large group of men in suits entered the hotel, and Spike sauntered along behind, giving off the aura of one without a care in the world other than getting his TV pilot picked up. The doorman didn't give him a second glance, and he strolled casually through the lobby, smirking faintly as he caught the admiring glances of three women and two men.

Fate must have been smiling too, because one of the men he was following pulled out his room key as he spoke with the others, but before he could head for the guarded elevator, his cell-phone rang. Grimacing, he pulled out his phone and headed for a semi-private area near the restrooms. Spike aimed toward them as well, and it was the work of a moment for his long fingers to twitch in and out of the man's pocket, faster than a mortal eye could track. A neat count of ten in the men's room and he was headed toward the elevator, flashing his key at the guard as he boarded the car and pressed all the buttons.

Now it got tricky, since there were cameras in the elevator. Spike looked down, pretending to fumble with something in his pocket and let his features shift. As he changed to full predator state, his senses extended. He'd tasted her blood, and blood was the key to finding her. It was something like tracking by scent, but more like tracking her force or energy. Her life. He found it among the hundreds that had ridden the elevator, some combination of scent, taste and psychic twang that spelled 'Tara' unmistakably. At each floor, he sniffed the air of the corridor, and on twenty-five, he found her.

He exited the elevator and trailed her essence down the corridor until he reached 2513, which he could tell was hers. He started to knock then froze with unaccountable nervousness.

The door opened, making him jump, and Tara peered out at him, looking as tense as he felt. "Spike?"

Hastily, he dropped his hand back to his hip and managed a grin. "Evening, Pet. Thought I'd come by and see how you were."

There was a tiny pause, as if she were thinking over what he'd said, and then she stepped back and opened the door. "Come in."

Spike entered the hotel room and nodded appreciatively as he took in his surroundings. They were standing in the sitting room of a two-room suite, an open door showing a king-size bed. "Posh setup you've got here. Whatever you're doing, it seems to be working."

"Yeah, it's nice," Tara said, hastily crossing to a large table that contained a stack of papers and a laptop. She threw the papers into a briefcase and shut down the computer, then turned back to him with a nervous smile and perched on the edge of an armchair, waving a hand for Spike to sit on the couch.

He obliged, watching her as he did so. She was somewhat shy of him, which he'd expected, but seemed to be trying to relax. Her jeans, sweater, and bare feet didn't go with the room's decor, but somehow she looked fine while the room seemed overdone.

"So," he said, trying to ignore the fact that he hadn't been good at small talk even when he was alive, "Kate says Sophie Carstairs is some sort of publishing agent? Have you written a book or something?"

"A book?" she squeaked, going first white then red. She swallowed. "Yes, a book. I wrote a book. A history book…tying in witchcraft and feminism."

His bullshit meter went off like a fire alarm.

"Sounds like a real page-turner," he drawled. "Topped the best-seller list did it? Which is why you get the fancy hotel room?"

"Sophie liked it. Anyhow, I'm glad you came by," Tara said abruptly. "I wanted to thank you for helping me last night. You saved my life."

It was an obvious subject change, and he normally would have called her on it, but Spike found that he didn't want to tease her. Let her keep her secrets. If she was secretly Danielle Steel or Mike Hammer, so be it.

"Helps make us even then, doesn't it?" he said, following her lead. "You saved me from the Initiative. 'Course you turned off the chip as well, so that puts you still ahead by one."

"No, you helped me twice too," she pointed out. "You proved I wasn't a demon, remember? So, we are even." Tara frowned a little. "I don't think I ever thanked you for helping with my family. I'm sorry. And thank you."

"Don't worry over it. I'm used to my good deeds going unnoticed," he said with a slight bitterness and saw her face go troubled. "You were a bit busy at the time," Spike added more gently. Recalling how frightened and miserable she'd been facing her father made him angry. Her reaction to the ex-Initiative member had given him a clue as to what her life had been like.

"Still," Tara was saying, looking at him worriedly. "I should have said something."

"I forgive you, especially since you helped me out and all. And if you forgive me stuff like working with Adam, we can call it square."

"Square is good." She smiled. "I guess that means we can quit keeping score."

The words were meant to be light, but sounded heavily in the room, and she looked down at her hands, cheeks flushing. Spike felt a little uncomfortable as well, suddenly aware that the blue of her sweater deepened the color of her eyes, and made her hair look even paler. It had obviously been washed recently, the mass of it slightly damp as it flowed loosely down her back past her waist. It was pretty hair, silky and fine, and he found himself wondering what it would feel like.

Actually, she was pretty herself in a quiet way that could pass unnoticed compared to the flamboyant beauty of the Slayer or Drusilla. She was much curvier than they were, the strong delineation of breast and hip not disguised by her loose clothing. Tara looked…natural, very much Earth's child.

"So," he said hastily, making them both jump. "You're all recovered then?"

"Oh, yes," She touched the bandage that covered part of her neck. "I'm a little tired, but much better. I rested a lot today, and drank about a ton of juice. Rose and Kate were very firm about that."

"I would imagine those two are very firm about everything. Speaking of which, did you let the Slayer know I wasn't torturing you to death?"

She nodded silently, looking away from him again.

"It's all right," he said, surprised to realize that it actually was. "I can see where she'd think it was me hurt you. There was a lot of hate between us, and even when I tried to change it, I didn't do a very good job."

The corner of Tara's mouth quirked. "The chaining her up thing was sort of a bad call."

Spike gave a startled bark of laughter. "Very bad. I don't know what I was thinking."

"You weren't. You were just hurting, and you do wrong-headed things sometimes when you're like that. Things like casting spells to make demons invisible. Still, I'm sorry stuff didn't work out for you."

He waved it away. "We'd have been at each other's throats all the time. She can have that with Angel."

Tara cocked her head. "You don't think they can make each other happy?"

"I don't know that anybody can make each other happy, Pet," Spike shrugged. He leaned back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. "Particularly not those two. I remember they thought they could just be friends once, which was a laugh. Too much passion and heat for that. No, it's fighting and shagging and hate for them. I'm well out of it."

He looked back at Tara and saw that she was regarding him with a horrified expression. "Is that what you think loving someone is like?" she asked incredulously. "Tied up with anger and pain, and…and ferocity?"

"What, you think I'm different? You think it's got something to do with me being a vampire?" Spike shook his head. "Look at the rest of them. Buffy tried normal with Captain Cardboard, and we saw how that worked out. Xander treated Anya like some sort of extra-smart pet. Oz left Willow for the wolf-girl and then later had to leave again because Willow called out the wolf in him. You and Willow seemed good together, but here you are, and she's with Xander. He's who she betrayed Oz for earlier. He's the one who calls out her passion and anger."

"Willow didn't betray me," Tara said steadily. "Not with so much as a kiss. Xander was leaving so it wouldn't grow into something more. I looked at him the night of his farewell party, and I knew…I knew that he would kill himself within three months, and that would destroy Willow. So I left, because I loved her and because Xander was my friend. Part of me will always love her. She was the one person I felt…safe with. Maybe that isn't the passionate love you were talking about, but it was enough for me."

"But you left," he pointed out. "If it was all perfect love and perfect trust and such, you could have set up some sort of group thing. Or been content to be their friend…."

He trailed off as her eyes filled with tears. Tara rose hastily from the chair and walked to the window, arms tight across her body.

"I didn't say it didn't hurt," she said unsteadily. "Maybe if we'd been better people, if I'd been a better person, we could have…but I couldn't watch… and I couldn't let him die, there'd been too much…"

Spike didn't remember moving. He was just suddenly behind her with his hands on her trembling shoulders, unbearably moved by her tears.

"Don't talk to me about you needing to be a better person," he said roughly. "Buffy's right, I am a complete son-of-a-bitch. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Her voice was a whisper, but he heard it plainly. "I've tried hard not to think about any of it. You're right, Xander didn't always treat Anya as an equal, but that was changing. They were so happy for a while. Anya was pregnant, did you know?"

"No," he said, gently turning her to face him. "I didn't know."

"Willow and I looked and we saw it was a girl." She smiled suddenly. "After they found out, Anya would walk up and just stare into strollers and then say 'I'm sure ours will be better looking than that' or 'I hope ours won't be as noisy'. Very loudly."

"That sounds like her." God, if she didn't stop, he was going to start crying too. He'd told Tara once that the closest things he had to friends were the Slayer and the Scoobies, and it was true. Other than Dru, they were what constituted family.

"And then one day she went to the bank, and a man came in waving a gun and telling everyone to get down on the floor. A baby started crying, and he pointed the gun at it and threatened to shoot. He probably wouldn't have, but Anya didn't understand that and tried to get the gun, and he shot her, and she was gone, and we couldn't even say goodbye.…"

Her voice broke, and he pulled her into his arms. Tara buried her head in his shoulder as the sobs shook her.

"Here now," he whispered, rocking her slightly. "It's all right. Don't cry."

He knew it was nonsense even as he said it, but he had to say something to keep his own tears back. With stunning irrelevance, he noted that her hair did indeed feel silky against his jaw as he hugged her, the faint scent of herbs teasing his nostrils.

She pulled back from him at last, scrubbing at her face with her sleeve. "Sorry. I don't know where that came from."

"Nothing to be sorry over." Spike pushed her hand down and brushed his thumb across her cheek, and she looked up into his eyes and tried to smile.

He felt the change as her breath suddenly caught in her throat, her heartbeat became hard and staccato, and her pheromones engaged, sending out the ancient signals of arousal and desire.

But he knew he wasn't. To a human, the changes were subliminal, but to vampire senses, they might as well have been flashing neon. Involuntarily, his body responded, hardening with need. The hand that still rested lightly on her waist slid further around her back and tightened and his other hand moved from her cheek to grip the back of her neck.

He was waiting for protest or anger or denial that he had sensed any such thing in her which would have let him leave, telling himself that she was a tease like the others. Instead Tara's eyes darkened and her hands slid up his arms to his shoulders, twining in the fabric of his shirt.

And then her lips were warm and sweet beneath his, parting even as he thrust his tongue between them. He pulled her closer, and she came willingly, pressing herself to him and returning his kiss with a fervor and passion that startled him.

Her response aroused him still further, sending fire and lightening through him. Spike shoved Tara back against the wall by the window and leaned into her, his hips pressing insistently against hers. She made a sound in the back of her throat, one hand twisting into his hair.

He had a hand on the hem of her sweater when the taste of salt reminded him of her tears a few moments earlier. His brain pointed out that her willingness was no doubt based on the fact that she was lonely and unhappy, and that it was wrong to take advantage of that.

The thought was so alien that it made him break the kiss off without really meaning to and pull back to stare down at her red cheeks and swollen lips. Everything from the neck down wanted to know what the hell his problem was, but his brain continued to insist that he shouldn't hurt Tara or coerce her into something she'd regret.

He shook his head hard, trying to dislodge the thought, but for one of the few times in his existence, his brain refused to give up control, and the thought stayed where it was.

"Spike," Tara asked cautiously. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." He forced himself to release her and step back. "I…I have to go."

She frowned. "No, you don't." When he didn't come back to her, she said as if to clarify her statement. "I don't want you to go."

Panic and desire warred in him, panic emerging the clear victor. "Yeah…well…thanks. But I've got to leave."

He grabbed his jacket from the couch and headed for the door.

Hesitantly, she asked, "What is it? Did I do something wrong?"

Spike forced a smile as he fumbled with the knob. "No, Love. You didn't do anything wrong. I just need to go." And he tore out of the door at something close to a run.

He hurried through the city, not sure which was bothering him more: the fact that he'd wanted to make love to Tara or the fact that he'd stopped. Wanting to make love to her was bad enough. Shy, bookish, gay Wiccans were about as far from his type as it was possible to get. He liked girls with an edge, a dark side. Girls who wore leather and wanted to go out and spend the night clubbing and drinking. From his time in Sunnydale, he remembered that Tara and Willow's idea of a great time had involved a really complicated jigsaw puzzle.

But he'd wanted her, wanted her about as badly as he'd ever wanted anyone. Not because she'd represented home or friends, or some psychobabble thing like that, but just because she'd been her. The lush strong body, the shining blue eyes, the fall of winter wheat hair, he'd wanted to lose himself in all of it.

She'd been fine with the whole idea. It hadn't been some kind of rape situation. He was the one who had stopped because he hadn't wanted to hurt her, because he had thought it was wrong. William the Bloody, who used to employ railroad spikes in interesting fashion, who had killed two Slayers, and made a good try on the third, who had had his very own reign of terror, was considering the moral ramifications of his actions.

Alcohol. He needed alcohol. Now.

Spike emerged from his blind fog and found, to no great surprise and some bitter amusement, he was standing directly outside Caritas.

Why fight? He shoved open the door and stomped inside.

The crowd was reasonably light, it being Sunday, and they were all listening quietly to Lorne.

"Lips as sweet as candy,
Your taste is on my mind.
Girl, you've got me thirsty for
Another cup of wine."

He was swinging around to leave – cadging a bottle off a wino was better to this – when a waving arm caught his attention and he saw Kate sitting at one of the tables. He considered leaving, but that would let her win in some obscure way, so gritting his teeth, Spike went to her table and sat.

"You look…overwhelmed," Kate commented in an amused voice. "Things not working out like you thought they would?"

"I thought he was the psychic," Spike sneered.

A waiter appeared, setting a bottle of dark English beer before him.

"I'm used to reading people," she said mildly. "Goes with what used to be my territory."

"You're not a cop anymore?" he said surprised. It seemed to inform everything she did.

"Nope. It was a hard change." Kate shrugged. "But it didn't kill me. Not quite anyway."

"So, now what do you do?"

"Private agency. Normally, they'd be here, but one of our associates is opening in a new play and the guys went to cheer her on. We all agreed that I wasn't intellectual enough to appreciate the depth of her acting, so I came here."

Lorne exited the stage to applause and swept through the tables beaming at all and sundry. He reached Kate and Spike, took a look at the vampire and said, "Hoo, boy."