211: So Not a Team.

“Looks like we’re out for a moonlit stroll,” Spike set the scene of their walk into Glebe Park where a few stragglers were lingering in the lamplight or heading for their cars. “Hold my hand. Make it look good.”

Buffy pressed her lips into a tight line, tried not to take the bait, and failed. “Touch me and I will make you regret it.” She slapped his hand away thinking he should feel lucky he wasn’t left with a bloody stump.

Ribbing her was all part of the fun. “Y’know I’m always up for a tussle, Slayer.”

“Save it for later.”

“Promise?” Spike chuckled as she muttered something about dusting him. He bantered on like there was no real threat to be concerned about.

“Ugh. I don’t want to put up with your usual crap tonight,” Buffy huffed over the tragedy that was her life at that moment. A vampire slayer teamed up with a vampire—not just any vampire either. “You’re only here because I don’t have a choice. I don’t have to like it, or you.”

Spike clasped his hands to his heart as if she had dealt a harsh blow. Begging dramatically, “Say you don’t mean it.” After her hard, unimpressed stare, he added in his usual voice, “Your mum likes me. A regular knight in shining armor here to protect you from the big bad wolf, or tiny little demons, and whatnots.”

No way was she going to let her mom think Spike was actually a good guy. “Talk about wrong impressions. First chance I get I’m telling her what you’re really like.”

“Handsome? Charming? Think she’s got the idea.”

“Annoying!” Buffy corrected. “Murder-y!”

“Being murder-y is just my nature. Can’t fault a guy for that.”

Totally not so. Buffy muttered, “I can stake one.”

Snipping at one another distracted them from movement ahead. Both jumped into a defensive posture when a strange little demon suddenly stepped onto the path. “You two should just get a room.”

Buffy ignored the comment instantly giving him the once-over trying to assess his threat level. He wasn’t that tall, carried no weapons. Two stubby little horns pierced through his balding scalp along with choppy whiskers and a beard that gave him a goat-ish appearance. “You the guy?” Buffy asked noting that there were no books in sight.

“Depends. You’re not the Slayer I was expecting,” he said nervously inching back.

“Faith has other business. Does it matter?” The books they were supposed to buy from this demon had something to do with the mayor’s super-secret evil plans for Sunnydale. Was he trying to sell them to Faith because she was Mayor Wilkins’ favorite spy or because he thought she really needed to know what her boss was up to?

Glancing over his shoulder he checked out the deserted path behind him before saying, “Not if you have the money.”

Spike asked, “Got our books?”

The demon shook, both head and shoulders, managing to look a little adorable in his outrage. “Not here. You think I’m stupid? You see the books, you do what Slayers do.”

Buffy shrugged like killing him would be no big deal. “Maybe I should.”

“Cough up the books,” Spike suggested they make it easy. “We’ll be on our way.”

“You weren’t part of the deal. Neither one of you. It was supposed to be the other one.”

Spike asked, “Got a thing for brunettes?”

Snorting, the demon answered, “Nah! I like my money. I’ll take that now.”

“Show him.” Buffy gave the go ahead and Spike pulled out the envelope of cash flashing the green bills.

The demon’s eyes lit up and he grinned widely. “We got a deal. Hand it over and I’ll bring you to the books. They’re stashed close by.”

“We’ll give you the money when we get there,” Buffy promised. The demon practically skipped in place from excitement that his deal was going through.

“I’m Skylar,” he introduced himself as they headed down the path to the other side of the park. There was a block of apartment buildings only halfway through construction. The work looked abandoned for a while. Long enough that a few squatters had moved in. Buffy made a mental note to patrol the area the next time she had the chance. It looked like a great place for a vampire den.

Skylar’s apartment was a mess, but pretty much what she expected. Mismatched furniture gathered from the street. Just enough to have a place to sit and sleep. A pile of little bones—hopefully chicken or rodent— on a makeshift cardboard table next to the couch.

“Looks… cozy,” she said for the sake of saying something that wasn’t, ‘Ew!”

Spike only nodded, either missing or ignoring her sarcasm, “Quite nice. Been in worse.”

“Going somewhere, Skylar?” Buffy noticed two suitcases all packed up.

“Out of the Hellmouth before its adios, Slayer Loco.” Moving the cardboard box aside revealing the hiding place of several leather-bound tomes, presumably the promised books, Skylar told them, “I’m using the money to buy a plane ticket before the mayor decides his plans are fully cooked.”

Buffy pointed out his asking price was steep. “Five thousand is a lot more than a plane ticket.”

Grinning, Skylar leaned in, “Gotta find a new place. Live a little,” and he winked.

“Buy some skin lotion while you’re at it,” Buffy added noting his bumpy leathery face up close. “Wilkins is kind of dodgy, but can he really be planning something awful enough for you to get out of town?”

“The Hellmouth isn’t the quaint little town it used to be,” Skylar says. “Things have changed in the past few years. I’m not just talking about you Slayers. Read the books. You’ll get it.”

Books in hand, Buffy and Spike headed back toward Crawford Street. Nothing stopped them from taking a shortcut through small wooded area connecting the neighboring yard. Rounding the side of the mansion, they walked up the steps and opened the door. Buffy walked through first. Spike hesitated a moment wondering if the new spell would result in some painful energy barrier designed to keep people and monsters like him out, but he stepped over the threshold without a hitch. “New spells aren’t active yet.”

Quickly defending her friend, Buffy told him, “Willow’s still new at this level of magic. Getting it right is better than doing it fast.”

Changing his tone, “Fast or slow, I’d get it right,” Spike leaned close earning a quick jab of an elbow in his side. It wasn’t full force because Buffy’s arms were laden with a couple of heavy tomes.

Buffy hissed, “I was talking about magic, not. . . that.” Oh, she knew exactly what Spike was hinting at. As if she would ever consider letting him near her, or want him close for any reason other than to pulverize him.

“Let’s call it a bit o’ fun,” Spike teased enjoying every moment she squirmed over the ideas he put in her head.

They made their way down the hall toward the office finding Giles buried in research. “You’re back! Any difficulty with the demon?”

“No,” Buffy told him as she placed the books on his desk. “He just wanted to make a quick buck and get out of town.”

Spike plopped his burden on top adding a warning, “Mayor’s plotting something that makes demons run. Might want to get on with your reading.” He patted the top of the stack knowing that Rupert Giles could not rope him into aiding his research tonight as he had tried to do on one occasion. The watcher claimed to be finding something productive for him to do, but Spike was not there to wade through a pile of old scrolls or dusty tomes.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Giles obviously wanted him gone. His look of annoyance faded when he turned back to Buffy. “Since you both returned in one piece I assume there was no fighting.”

Quizzically, Buffy cocked her head, “No fighting. Skylar was cool about it.”

Giles’ lips pursed. “Fighting him,” he glanced toward Spike and back again.

“Oh. Well—,” Buffy was cut off by Spike as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight. “Fighting? Nah. We make a great team, don’t we luv?”

Buffy stood stiffly as she directed her response to her watcher, “Can’t say. Spike hasn’t really shown me anything yet.”

Cockily, Spike took the bait, “Show and tell, Slayer?” and ran with it. Proving once again that he could not open his mouth without an entendre. “I’m up for it. Impressing you.”

Buffy’s teeth gritted together as she managed to hold back the urge to ball up her fist to punch something he might imagine would impress her. Instead, she stared daggers at him until he let her go. He stared back a little longer than felt right causing her to move away first.

Giles pushed his reading glasses down to the bridge of his nose to stare at them over the top edge. “Baiting a Slayer cannot be the smartest idea you’ve ever had, Spike.”

“Dunno. I’m quite good at it.”

An unintelligible sound emerged as Giles pressed his lips closed and swallowed down his next response. Those two were quite disturbing. Changing the subject, he admitted, “You’ve both done well to acquire these books. No doubt Wesley will want to get started with an analysis as soon as he is free to do so.”

“How’s it going?” Buffy asked glancing toward the open door. Voices sounded from other parts of the mansion. She couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.

Spike sniffed the air, “Werewolf?”

“Willow asked her boyfriend to help out,” Buffy explained realizing that he had not been around when Spike and Drusilla moved in. “Oz has been busy with his band, Dingoes Ate My Baby.”

“Werewolf rocker? Sounds like the little witch could do better.”

Offended, Buffy squirmed away from his light hold. “Hey! Oz is great.”

Giles ignored their snipping by responding, “They are still making preparations and practicing the incantation. There is a lot of area to cover with the spell.”

“Stinky herbs and chanting,” Buffy shuddered. “Better them than us.”

Spike agreed, “Give me something to kill. Mayhem and a bit o’ gore makes for a good night.”

Oddly enough, Buffy felt the same way. Energized by the idea of slaying something—even if it wasn’t Spike—she was suddenly eager to get on with the second half of their mission. “Ready to send that demon swarm back to its own dimension?”

“Who says they get to make it back?”

212: Sunnydale Mall. The Crystal Hunt Continues…

One step outside and Angel’s eyes adjusted quickly from the artificial light inside the mall to the gloom of the parking lot. The rain had come and gone barely slicking the asphalt leaving the air sharply scented by metal, oil and a hint of ocean breeze. The grey clouds overhead rolled in a sluggish pace across the night sky offering up rare glimpses of moonlight. The sight provided a momentary respite from the cacophony inside with sounds, sights and smells coming at him all at once, both distracting and compelling, reminding him why crowds were a bad idea.

“How weird is this?” Cordelia stared down at her empty hands. “I used to never leave the mall without a shopping bag or two— or ten.”

Tonight’s mission to find the Shards of Ahli-Tah required Cordelia’s presence otherwise risking her would never have been a consideration. Every shadow was a possible threat. Protecting her came instinctively being more than just his self-assigned role as her guardian. She was so much a part of him already. What would be left of him without her? The passing thought left a crushing sensation in his chest, a debilitating ache that reignited his determination to see this night through.

Shaking it off, Angel urged, “Let’s get out of here.”

Cordy hooked an arm around his pulling closer and laughing at the growl in his voice. “Lighten up, King of Scowls. One day soon everything you want will magically appear on your doorstep. Until then, shopping at the mall is a way of life.”

Angel gave Cordelia credit for having an interesting way of seeing the future. This was different. He could have argued the point. Locating mystical shards was a far cry from escorting her to shop for the latest fashions. That would be different. Somewhere private would be preferable, and just the two of them. Alone in some exclusive shop worthy of her interest as she selected her favorites. Watching her try them on only to remove them layer by layer. Definitely with his help. Shopping with Cordelia might not be such a burden in those circumstances. Something to add to the very long list of moments he imagined for their future. Hopes, not just fantasies, that still seemed out of reach.

After today’s talk with the watcher, he thought things would be settled between them. That despite the ongoing danger, the prophecy, and risks involved there was a way for them to be together as more than just lovers. A sudden rap of knuckles against the car door snapped Angel’s gaze to Faith who stared him down before asking, “Gonna let us in?”

Drusilla sniggered at him as if she had taken a stroll through his thoughts and enjoyed every moment. She extended her hand to clasp Cordelia’s and pulled her away to the passenger side.

Sunnydale Mall faded into the darkness behind them as the Plymouth pulled away. Angel gave it a final glance in the rearview mirror satisfied that the time for shenanigans was over. Tension that had knotted up in his neck and shoulders was already easing up. No more shopping, fruit swirl refreshers, squealing Cordettes leaning over railings claiming that they’d found something cool. So much for slipping in and out under the radar.

One by one the storekeepers had shut their doors or rolled down the metal grates to close their stores. The lights had dimmed and an overhead announcement cheerfully encouraged them to get out. “We’re not ready to leave. We haven’t found the treasure yet,” Harmony whined to one of the mall cops who tried to usher her out the door.

“The tags are still on that purse, Miss. You got a receipt?”

“Oh, it’s here somewhere. I think. I just threw the old one away. The craziest thing happened.”

Angel felt certain he did not want to know why Drusilla giggled as they had walked by. He was just glad they had gotten through the mall experience without bloodshed. Was there any hope the rest of the night would be just as uneventful?

“How about cruising down Main Street?” Cordelia suggested. “We can check out the display windows to see if anything catches my eye.”

Finding the Shards of Ahli-Tah on display in a store front seemed as likely discovering them at the mall, but Angel simply turned left on Oak Park Street heading to the cut-off for Main. They were nearly to the corner lot where April Fools Dress Shop was lined up with a few other small businesses when Cordelia suddenly shouted, “Stop!”

Fortunately, there were no other cars in the vicinity as the Plymouth screeched to a halt. Angel scanned the area, but saw nothing to merit the outburst. No road hazards. No stray animals or small children running into the car’s path. Nothing dangerous. No neon signs declaring a sale on crystal shards.

“What is it?”

Faith scooted up to ask, “You see something?”

Cordelia shook her head slowly while staring toward him. “Creepy much?”

“Me?” Angel asked, confused by her reaction.

Blinking, Cordelia let out a huff. “No, doofus. I’ve got goosebumps. This time I think my Spidey senses are really tingling.”

Drusilla declared from the back seat, “They call to you, the crystals.”

Rubbing at her arms, Cordelia agreed. “Yeah, they do.”

“Which direction?” Angel asked ready to go forward or turn around.

No easy answer came. Cordelia was not able to discern a direct path. “Keep going. Slow for a while. Maybe I can get a fix on it.”

Main Street was the wrong part of town. “This isn’t right,” Cordelia decided. “I don’t know how I know. I just know.”

“The more you listen, the more secrets you will hear,” Drusilla murmured closer to her ear in the seat behind her. “Sweet little secrets and dark ones drenched in blood.”

“Hey!” Faith warned, “Don’t say things that make me want to stake you.”

“Bloody little secrets,” Dru hissed back.

The last thing he needed was to settle a fight. Angel growled, “Let Cordelia focus.”

One side street and another passed by in uneventful silence as they concentrated on letting Cordy try to make sense of what she was feeling. “Keep going,” she gestured for Angel to move past the Weatherly Drive turn off. The marble memorial stones at Restfield Cemetery brightened momentarily in the glare of the headlights as the car rolled toward the next cross-street, Revello Drive. “Ooh! That way. Definitely that way.”

Angel’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as he realized their likely destination was a familiar one. He didn’t need to announce it because Faith spoke first, “Hey! Buffy’s house is on this street.”

Glancing Cordelia’s way, he saw that she was already staring back. “Not even here and she still makes my night out about her.”

His ex-girlfriend was still a touchy subject at times. “Buffy won’t be there,” Angel reminded her. The place was full of memories he would rather not churn up, but if going there meant finding the Shards of Ahli-Tah he would suffer in silence.

“But, my Angel—” Dru reached forward to touch his shoulder her sharp nails digging into the sleeve of his leather coat. “The bad men have come. I see them there.”

Walking into a dangerous situation was always on the cards tonight, but this wasn’t just some random place, nor was it empty. Realizing it, Cordelia cried out, “Buffy’s mom!” While Faith let loose a more colorful expletive from her seat in the back, Angel slammed his foot onto the gas pedal putting the Plymouth into higher gear. Blazing a path straight down the middle of the road toward the Summers’ residence they reached number 1630 in under a minute screeching to a halt just outside.

As the mother of a slayer, Joyce Summers would never be completely safe, but this situation somehow made Angel feel responsible. Not directly. It wasn’t as if Angelus was knocking at her door tonight. With Buffy living at the mansion to protect Cordelia, he should have considered Joyce’s safety, too. He could have insisted that she stay. The brake was on and Angel was out of the car before any action plan formed. His human facade shifted away and his preternatural senses kicked into overdrive.

The others scrambled from the car. “Stay with me,” Drusilla pulled Cordelia back to her side when she tried to run join him on the front lawn.

Dru remembered her role tonight. Angel glanced back long enough to catch her eye, but she was focused on maintaining her grasp as Cordelia argued her case about getting to help. All Drusilla had to do was hold on long enough for him to verify that the house was secure.

The only other vehicle in the driveway belonged to Joyce. Only one heartbeat sounded from within the house, Angel determined as he took the steps onto the front porch. A steady human heart beating faster than the norm. Just as one far more familiar came closer as Cordelia ran up behind him, her shoes clicking on the steps. Dru was suddenly there, too, dark eyes wide in anticipation of his annoyance.

Had Cordelia’s athleticism allowed her to escape Dru’s stronger grasp, or had she simply convinced her to let her go? Angel decided to forgo arguing about it. “She’s alone in there.”

“Are we early?” Faith sensed what he did. No sign of prey. “Maybe they’re not here yet. Does Looney Bins have a timer on those visions?”

“They were already here,” he announced grimly. No obvious signs of a break-in, but he could still catch the lingering scent of them in the air. Human scents. “Joyce is alive, but scared.”

Cordelia instantly darted for the door, but Angel grasped her hand as she reached out for the doorknob. There was that look he was getting to know well, but Angel held steady. No way was he letting her charge in first. She let out a little snort. “You didn’t actually think you were getting in the front door, did you? Hello! Vampire guy. Buffy totally disinvited you.”

Too bad he didn’t have a pithy comeback on the tip of his tongue. Angel simply nodded toward the door taking the only strategy possible by ordering the slayer to move. “Get in there.”

Following his lead, Faith stepped in blocking the entry and managing to settle Cordelia down in one go. “Lemme check it out first, ‘kay?” Cordelia told her to hurry. The door was closed, but unlocked, so it was a simple matter for her to get inside.

Angel hated being stuck outside when there were things to be done. He saw worry on Cordy’s face as she realized, “Buffy’s going to blame me for this.”

Threading his fingers through hers, Angel squeezed her hand. There was plenty of guilt to go around. “Don’t put that burden on yourself, Cordelia. This is Kalesh’s doing. She was going to come after the crystals no matter who had them.”

A soft scoff followed.

The all-clear came quickly. Faith jogged back to the door with Joyce Summers moving slowly, still out of sight in the kitchen. “Dudes are gone,” the Slayer confirmed even though Angel had already determined that much. Warning them, “They roughed her up. She was tied up down in the basement.”

“Oh no!” Cordelia shuddered as she moved past Faith into the foyer. “Not that place. It’s got Creepy Bug Man vibes. I was once stuck down there with Xander.”

Angel had never heard that story and did not want the details. Reminders about Cordelia and Xander’s relationship were something he was happy to forget. He could hear every word of the conversation as Joyce reassured Faith and Cordelia that she was going to be fine. “Great.” Faith took her at her word, but Cordy was not quite ready to move on.

“Your face! Faith’s thick skinned enough to take a punch or two without leaving a bruise. She doesn’t get our trauma. That cheek needs some ice. It’s swollen and gross.”

Angel paced outside the Summers’ open front door listening as they moved about the kitchen. He heard the rattling of ice just before Joyce asked, “Are you two here alone?”

“Nope,” Faith told her. Angel could almost imagine the smirk as she said, “Got two more stuck outside.”

Joyce got the picture. Vampires. “Which ones?”

Cordelia quickly gave their names. “We’re here to look for the crystals.”

They were closer now walking to the front of the house. Angel caught Joyce’s eye as she said, “Oh, I don’t think I can help you on either count.”

“You could just invite me in,” Angel prompted. After all, just hours earlier, she had been invited into the safety of his home and offered hospitality and protection.

Joyce slowly shook her head. “Buffy wouldn’t like that.”

Drusilla suddenly moved close, propped her head on Angel’s shoulder while smiling sweetly, “We’d be ever so nice.” No matter how innocent Dru could appear in some moments there was no way Joyce’s already limited trust was going to extend that far.

Angel assured Cordelia that, “It’s fine,” when she tried to argue the case for allowing them to come inside. The whole ‘Angelus isn’t a threat anymore’ argument didn’t help. Reminders of the past only served to make her more determined to keep both of them outside. Perturbing, but he understood.

Angel pushed his annoyance aside to get back to the purpose of their visit. In that, Joyce was as helpful as she could be in describing the events of the night.

“When the doorbell rang,” Joyce explained how it all began, “I assumed it was you. That you had changed your mind about coming here first.”

Three very tough looking men stood on her threshold. Stunned, Joyce managed a little laugh, “You’re not Cordelia.” Their unexpected presence caught her off-guard and for a moment all she stood frozen staring at them.

“No, I’m not,” chuckled the bald man in front. He was muscle-bound and brutish, garbed in black leather and jeans, with hints of a dark tattoo peeking out of the neckline of his undershirt. The other two appeared just as menacing.

Wary, Joyce tightened her grip on the doorknob. “Are you Buffy’s friends?” Considering the type of company her daughter kept these days, it was never certain who might show up at the front door, friend or foe.

This time they all laughed. “We could be. Buffy sounds like fun, but she’s not why we’re here.”

Joyce had a few dark thoughts choosing to keep them to herself. “Then you should leave. You must have the wrong house.”

His demeanor changed, all amusement vanishing from his eyes, mouth sneering. “Got that one wrong. Best you let us in, give us what we want.”

Chills ran dow her spine, but Buffy had told her what to do if vampires ever came knocking. It was simple enough to deny them entry. They hadn’t flashed any fangs or furrowed brows, but it was worth a shot. “No, you can’t come in.” She gave the door a hard push hoping to slam it in his face.

The door vibrated at the force of his fist coming up to meet it flinging Joyce back as it swung the other way. She stumbled onto the foyer floor, a cry of shock and pain escaping as she crashed down. One by one the men stepped across the threshold, the last one shutting them in by calmly closing the door.

The one in charge dragged her to her feet, jerked her close enough that she felt his breath against her cheek. “Stupid bitch, we’re not vampires.”

Joyce wanted to tell them that it wouldn’t matter. That her daughter Buffy would show up any second to kick their collective asses. Only she wouldn’t. Buffy was dealing with the demon swarm down at the Piggly Wiggly. There wasn’t going to be a last second rescue, she realized. These were also no ordinary thugs aware of the haul of valuable collectibles inadvisably placed at her home instead of a guarded storage facility. The mention of vampires put them in another category altogether.

“Check upstairs,” the bald one ordered the taller bearded man. His underling, Joyce supposed as he grunted a response before tracking his dirty leather boots up her carpeted stairs. “Got a husband with a shotgun hiding up there?”

A little shake of her head was the only answer she gave pressing her lips together tightly. Joyce knew what they wanted. The crystals. The Shards of Ahli-Tah.

“You’re all alone.” The third man who had a creepy kind of vibe stepped close, whispering the words like it was their little secret. Joyce tried not to stare back as his eyes caught hers. The corners of his mouth quibbled into a smile the longer he stared until her skin crawled with the sensation that he knew the truth. “You could just tell me where you’ve hidden the crystals,” he teased. “I know they are here.”

Joyce swallowed nervously. How did he know? Although she didn’t understand how this man was so certain, Joyce considered that there were a few cases from the antiquities collection still at the shop. If these Shards were part of the inventory, they might have been stored there instead of among the items brought to her home.

No matter. She could not let these men get their hands on the Shards. Only one thing to do, Joyce decided. Cooperate. Misdirect. “The crates are stored in the basement.”

Instantly, Mooney’s big hand closed over her upper arm as he jerked her along beside him down the hall toward the kitchen. “This way?”

The stairs creaked on their way down to the basement. The back wall near the stairs contained a white Kenmore washer/dryer set and a water tank. The clothes line hung there tied to a pillar serving as reinforcement for the floor above. An old wooden table and set of chairs made a convenient spot to fold laundry and as a workspace whenever she brought gallery work home with her.

“No one upstairs, Mooney,” a deep voice sounded just behind them as his underling returned.

Joyce noticed the leader didn’t admonish him for revealing his name. Either he didn’t care that she knew or it was a bad sign about what he planned to do with his witness.

Wooden crates of various shapes and sizes were stacked neatly against another wall. Most of the store’s regular inventory had to be removed during the festival. Despite recommending to her boss that they rent a more secure storage facility, he thought he would save a few bucks instead. This was the last time Joyce would agree to that plan, assuming she still had a job when this was over.

“Take care of Susie Housewife while I open these crates,” Mooney ordered.

Joyce tried to run for the stairs, but the tall guy was faster than he looked. He grabbed her and a chair scrapping it along the concrete floor until they reached the pillar. One strong push sent her down onto the chair. “Stay put.” He didn’t trust her to comply because he ripped down the clothesline sending her recently cleaned clothes down onto the basement floor. “That wasn’t necessary,” she hissed in his ear as he tied her up.

After opening and searching through a few crates, usually while tossing precious objects out of their protective coverings onto the concrete, Mooney let out a frustrated roar, “Where the fuck are they?”

“Maybe she knows, boss.”

Joyce stopped trying to wriggle out of her bonds the moment their attention turned her way. “I didn’t pack those crates.” Of course she had packed the crates. She had a general idea of the contents simply from the size or shape of the crate, but she also had the inventory book that detailed every item and its location.

Mooney moved to stand in front of her. “We’re looking for crystals.”

Denying their existence didn’t go over well. “There are no cryst—,” a hard slap to her cheek Joyce’s head sideways, heat and blood rushing to fill the void of the handprint. Tears burned her eyes.

“Want another?” The malice staring back at her made Joyce shrink away pressing her body into the hard rails of the wooden chair.

It was painful to shake her head much less speak. She barely recognized her own voice as it came out. “There are no crystals in those crates.”

Mooney raised his hand again pausing only as he met the defiance in Joyce’s gaze. It was the truth. He could see that. He didn’t enjoy beating women, but wasn’t against it either. “Sims led us here like there was a trail of breadcrumbs leading right up to your doorstep. Said he saw us here. That the crystals were here.” He glanced over his shoulder to ordered the other one, “Go get that prick Sims. His job’s not done yet.”

Clomping back upstairs, he followed orders. Joyce heard a short scuffle in the kitchen, low voices, and after a few moments the sound of more footsteps on the stairs behind her. “Tired of your treasure hunt, Mooney?” The man named Sims sounded as though he was playing a game the other one took far too seriously. He lifted a chocolate chip cookie pilfered from her kitchen to his mouth taking a big bite.

“Careful, SIms.”

Glancing her way momentarily, Sims audaciously winked as though they shared a secret. “Do you ever do things the easy way, Mooney? You’re a bulldozer.”

“Shut up and find the crystals.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, Sims pulled out a cylindrical roll of handworked leather, placing it on the wooden table before them. “Already done. Found this upstairs.”

Wanting to do something to help Buffy’s friends, Joyce had returned home with a plan of her own for the evening. She would gather all of the crystalline objects from the collection in order for Cordelia to examine them. There was no way for Joyce to know if any of them truly held mystical power, if they were the Shards of Ahli-Tah, or not. Before these three arrived Joyce had already separated anything potentially meeting the description and placed them into a decorative box on the coffee table.

Mooney opened up the bundle to reveal its contents. He did not seem impressed. “What’s the fuss all about?”

“Don’t concern yourself,” Sims rolled up the leather bundle and tied it securely before handing it over to the burly man. “Just get it where it needs to be.”

As they moved toward the stairs, Joyce tried hold as still and quiet as possible. Maybe they’d forget she was there. Halfway up the stairs, the other one asked, “What about her?”

A long pause dragged out as Mooney contemplated her fate. On the stairs behind him, Sims spoke up. “Leave her. Best cookies I’ve had in a while.”

Joyce finished recounting the events of the night, “Then they left.”

“Good thing we came along,” Cordelia said. “Buffy’s definitely got a lot on her plate tonight. It might have been a while before she found you down in the basement.”

This was the second time Joyce Summers had been injured today, the superficial scratches on her face now swollen and surrounded by a darkening bruise. Angel had a feeling Buffy wasn’t going to take this news well and decided it had better come from him and not Cordelia. Taking the blame wouldn’t be pleasant, but it wouldn’t be the first time Buffy took him to task when it came to her mother.

“No, I don’t need to go to the Emergency Room,” Joyce insisted they leave her to handle her own First Aid. “Shouldn’t you be going after the crystals?”

Angel hadn’t forgotten, but he had to offer. “You should consider staying at our place until this is over.”

“I’ll be fine,” Joyce refused wincing as she adjusted the ice pack against her cheek. “Now that they have the Shards they won’t have a reason to return.”

“We’ve got a room for you if you need it,” Cordelia insisted.

Joyce shooed them out and shut the door turning the locks until they clicked firmly into place. “Let’s get in the car and keep driving. Far outta town. Cancun or Vegas, maybe,” Faith jokingly suggested. “We’re catching hell for this one.”

Angel held open the passenger door for Cordelia who paused long enough to cast doubt on their theory about the Slayer’s reaction. “Pfft! We totally rescued her mom. Buffy has no reason to go all Category 5 on us.”

With everyone seated inside the Plymouth, Angel turned on the engine and maneuvered the car back onto the street. Glancing at Cordelia, “Can you still sense them?” If the men were on foot, there might be a chance of catching up to them, especially if they were on foot.

Taking in a deep breath, Cordelia released it slowly, centering her thoughts and feelings to hone in on the crystals. “Nope. I’ve got zilch, nada, nothing!” Whatever their mode of transportation, Mooney and his sidekicks had already gone further than Cordelia’s shard-sensing ability could reach. “We can keep going though. Right?”

Faith reminded, “Wes says headquarters might be cloaked by magic. That’s why we haven’t found it yet. If we’re going to get the crystals, we’d better find them before they get there.”

“Maybe I can track down down their evil lair!” Cordelia laughed at the notion. “This way to Goosebump Central.” She waved at the roadway ahead.

Nixing that plan, Angel pointed out, “Three thugs wouldn’t be a problem. Running into Kalesh or Nico where they are least vulnerable would be. They need you, Cordelia. I’m not going to make it that easy for them.”

Momentary as it was, all the fun instantly got sucked away leaving Cordelia a little breathless and gloomy. She sank back against the leather seat. “I was joking, dumbass.”

Stepping on the gas, Angel turned the car in the direction of the mansion. “I wasn’t.”

A bright flash of colorful light burst skyward from ahead, drawing their reactions as it lingered for a moment before fading from view. Estimating the location ahead, Angel realized, “That’s our place.”

Cordelia was still gaping. “An explosion?”

“It’s just light,” Angel said listening for the accompanying rumble of an explosion.

“Gotta be Willow’s witchy hoodoo,” Faith figured. “Maybe that’s what’s supposed to happen. Ya think?”

213: Glebe Park on the way to the Piggly Wiggly

The flash lit up the night sky like a magnesium flare, bleaching Glebe Park white for a split second. Buffy raised a hand to block the blinding light, then lowered it when the glow faded to a faint shimmer above the treetops. No question where it had come from—Angel’s place.

“Maybe we should head back,” she said. “Check it out.”

Spike shook his head. “Got other fish to fry, Slayer. Little witch is just castin’ spells an’ what. Wards, probably. Or she blew up the telly again. Either way, not our problem.”

Buffy’s stomach did a slow, uneasy roll. Something felt wrong. She could feel it gnawing at her. Trusting her instincts had always been vital. “Bad feeling, party of one.” Spike didn’t seem to get it. Sky explosions were never good news, and always her problem.

Ignoring him, she kept staring forward, unknowingly giving Spike the chance to drift closer. He was suddenly inches away. In the next heartbeat Buffy snapped back to full clarity. A vampire within reach. Her fingers tightened around her stake. Realization hit a split-second later: it was just Spike. Not that it should matter.

The stake’s tip pressed into the Cannibal Corpse logo on his faded black t-shirt, the gory red lettering like fresh carnage across his chest. One more ounce of pressure and he’d be dust. Buffy stared into his eyes, full of intent and restraint. Spike didn’t flinch.

Reeling back that urge to strike, Buffy snapped, “That bad feeling I’ve got? It’s you.”

Spike’s grin flashed in the dark, all teeth and trouble. “Save the compliments for later, Slayer. We’ve still got demons to dust and a night ahead of us.”

Buffy didn’t answer. She spun on her heel and headed for the Piggly Wiggly. Spike fell in beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Broken glass glittered under the blood-red glow of the Piggly Wiggly sign, the bold white lettering and smiling cartoon-pink pig looking absurdly cheerful above the chaos. Inside, the store’s fluorescent lights were having a worse night than she was—some smashed to sparks by the scrambling imps, some flickering like dying fireflies, the rest completely dead—turning the aisles into a stuttering patchwork of harsh glare and sudden darkness. Chaos was everywhere: on the shelves, in the air, and somewhere in the middle of it all lay her mother’s missing purse, half-buried beneath a scattered pile of groceries.

Buffy ditched her stake for the first decent blade she spotted in the cookware aisle—a long, wickedly sharp carving knife. She dropped low, blade flashing in the erratic light. Spike took the high side without a word. Their backs brushed once, twice, perfectly in sync. One demon lunged at her; she dropped it clean. Another leaped for Spike; he spun and cleaved it mid-air, grinning like they’d rehearsed the whole damn thing.

For one sickening second it felt like déjà vu—like they’d done this a hundred times before.

It was over in under five minutes. Almost fun.

And that was the part that made Buffy’s stomach twist the hardest.

That bad feeling from earlier? It was back tenfold. Fighting alongside Spike had been so seamless, almost instinctive, like they belonged on the same side. That mind-numbing idea wasn’t hers alone. Spike noticed it, too. He leaned in, close enough that she could smell cigarette smoke and leather and the faint copper tang of demon blood. “Admit it, love. We make a helluva pair.” His grin was pure cocky vampire. “Go Team Us.”

Buffy jabbed an elbow into his ribs—harder this time. “Don’t.”

He just laughed, low and rough, and fell into step beside her as they headed back toward the mansion. “Too late, Slayer. You felt it too.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Because he was right. And that scared her more than any prophecy ever could.

214: Back to the Mansion

The black convertible cruised along the winding stretch of Prescot Lane, headlights cutting through the thin coastal fog that had rolled in after midnight. They had reluctantly given up on finding Kalesh’s lair. No glowing trail of mystical energy, no helpful demon snitch, no convenient “Evil Hideout—This Way” sign. Just miles of empty roads and the growing certainty that they were chasing shadows.

Angel kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting along the door. “Powerful wards,” he said quietly, eyes on the dark tree line. “That’s my guess. Something strong enough to bend perception, scramble a locator spell, or just plain hide the place from anyone who isn’t invited.”

Cordelia slumped lower in the passenger seat, arms crossed tight over her chest. “Great. So the bad guys get an invisibility cloak and we get… what? The magical equivalent of a ‘Sorry, We’re Closed’ sign?” She glanced over her shoulder at Drusilla, who was curled in the back seat like a cat, Miss Edith perched on her knee. “I hope Willow’s witchy-woo worked the same way for us. You know—big protective bubble around the mansion, keep the nasties out, let the good guys in. Easy-peasy.”

Drusilla traced a finger along Miss Edith’s porcelain cheek. “The little Willow tree is clever. She planted seeds of safety. But roots can be tricky. Sometimes they forget who belongs.”

Cordelia’s stomach did a little flip. “Speaking of forgetting… Joyce Summers is still out there. In her nice, normal house. With zero wards, zero Slayer babysitters, and zero clue her daughter is going to freak out that we left her there.” She turned back to Angel, voice sharpening. “We should have brought her back to the mansion. Or at least left Faith there until Buffy got home from her book-buying field trip with Spike.”

Angel’s jaw tightened, but his tone stayed even. “Joyce refused. Repeatedly. And the enemy already has the crystals. They got what they wanted tonight. There won’t be any further trouble at her house.”

Faith’s fancy new flip phone—silver and shiny, a “perk” from her recent City Hall errands—chirped from the back pocket of her jeans. She fished it out, glanced at the tiny screen, and rolled her eyes so hard it was practically audible.

“Wrong number,” she muttered, snapping the phone shut without answering. She sat up straighter and tapped on the leather driver’s seat. “Drop me at the next corner. I’m just tired of being cramped up in this car. Need to move around.”

Angel slowed the convertible. “You sure? We’re almost back.”

“Yeah. Gotta work out the kinks.” Faith flashed her usual cocky grin. “Besides, someone’s gotta make sure the Hellmouth doesn’t throw any surprise parties while you kids are playing house.” She hopped out the second the car stopped, gave Cordelia a quick two-finger salute, and took off at an easy jog toward the east.

Cordelia watched her go, frowning. “Sure it’s not a hot date, y’know… working out the kinky?”

Faith just grinned wider over her shoulder and kept running until the fog swallowed her silhouette around the corner.

Cordelia glanced at Drusilla, half expecting some wicked little comment on the “kinky” slip. But the vampire was staring after the slayer, head tilted, eyes distant. Only when Faith completely disappeared did Drusilla glance down at Miss Edith.

“Naughty little slayer,” she murmured, voice soft as silk, “running off to the serpent’s garden. City Hall keeps such pretty lights on after dark. Do you think she’ll bring back a shiny new promise for us, Miss Edith?”

Miss Edith, of course, said nothing.

Angel’s mouth twitched—the closest he ever got to a full smile when Drusilla was being cryptic. He didn’t ask about the phone or the caller; the strange little silver device was still mostly a mystery to him. “She’ll be fine,” he said simply, and turned the car toward Crawford Street.

They reached the mansion a few minutes later. It loomed ahead, lights glowing warmly in a few windows despite the late hour. Angel parked in the circular drive and killed the engine. For a second nobody moved. Cordelia stared at the heavy front door, suddenly tense.

“What if Willow’s spell actually locked us out too?” she asked, half-joking, half-serious. “Like… poof. Instant demon-proof force field. No key, no password, no nothing. We just stand here like vampires who forgot they were invited in.”

Angel gave her a small, reassuring look. “Nothing seems obvious. The wards are meant to feel natural. Let’s find out.”

He climbed out first. Cordelia followed him up the stone steps. Drusilla drifted after them, Miss Edith tucked safely under one arm, the stowaway she had brought along despite the potential dangers of the night. Angel reached for the doorknob.

Nothing happened. No zap of magic. No invisible wall. The door swung open on recently-oiled hinges without alarm bells. Warm air and the faint scent of burnt herbs spilled out to greet them.

Cordelia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Okay. Witchy-woo: one. Paranoia: zero. For now.”

Inside, the scent grew stronger—scorched herbs and something faintly metallic. Voices drifted from the living room: Wesley’s clipped British tones, Oz’s quiet drawl, Xander’s unmistakable sarcasm. They tracked the sound down the hall and stopped short at the sight that greeted them.

Willow lay stretched out on the long leather couch, pale and still, one arm flung over her eyes. A damp cloth rested across her forehead. Xander sat on the floor beside her, looking rumpled and exhausted, while Oz leaned against the arm of the couch, a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw. Wesley stood nearby, polishing his glasses with a handkerchief that had seen better days.

“Problems?” Angel asked, voice tight with concern.

Wesley replaced his glasses and offered a weary but triumphant smile. “No problems at all. 

Quite the opposite, actually. The wards are up and functioning beautifully. We tested them on a local demon who had the misfortune of wandering too close.” He gestured vaguely toward the back garden. “It was… rather messy in the end. But effective. Only those of us inside the radius may come and go freely. Everyone else will find themselves quite unwelcome.”

Xander grinned up at them, though it looked like it cost him. “Willow was amazing. Totally Hermione-level stuff. We just tried to keep up.”

Oz nodded once. “She’s wiped, but she’ll be okay. Just needs rest.”

Cordelia’s gaze softened as she looked at her friend. “You guys look like you went ten rounds with a wrecking ball.”

“Close enough,” Xander admitted. “But hey—mission accomplished. Mansion is now officially 

Demon-Proof Central.”

The momentary relief lasted exactly three seconds.

Angel stepped farther into the room, his expression darkening. “We lost the crystals.”

The words landed like stones in still water. Wesley’s shoulders sagged. Xander’s grin faded. Oz’s eyes flicked toward the hallway as if expecting more bad news to follow.

Everything Kalesh needed was falling into place. The only bright spot was the Amulet still safe in the mansion. Cordelia sank onto the arm of the couch beside Willow and squeezed her friend’s hand. “We’ll get them back,” she said, voice fierce. “We have to.”

Willow stirred, eyelids fluttering open just enough to show how drained she was. Her voice came out hoarse. “It’s worse than that, Cordy. Remember what we figured out about the Varstrae? Kalesh already had Karla. Now she’s got the crystals and whatever else those shards are for—one for each of us. Five elements, five Varstrae. She’s basically got three in her pocket already, maybe four if Marko’s playing both sides. We’re down to the wire and we just handed her the last pieces.”

Xander rubbed the back of his neck. “Way to sugar-coat it, Will.”

“I’m just saying… the Rites of Tavrok don’t need us to be nice and tidy. They need all five in the same place at the same time. And right now? She’s winning the collection game.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Even Oz looked grim.

Angel’s hand brushed her shoulder, a silent reassurance. “We still have the Amulet. That’s one piece they don’t control. And the wards are active. We’ve bought ourselves time.”

Drusilla drifted past them to peer down at Willow, brushing a gentle hand across the witch’s hair. “The little tree is strong,” she murmured. “She will bloom again when the moon turns.”

Wesley cleared his throat. “We’ll need every advantage. The Shards are powerful, but they are not the only tools in this ritual. We must focus on what we can protect.”

Cordelia nodded, though the knot in her stomach refused to loosen. She glanced toward the front door, half-expecting Buffy to burst through any second demanding answers about her mother. She half-expected Faith to reappear with more cryptic excuses. And she definitely expected the next crisis to arrive before sunrise.

But for tonight the mansion held. The wards hummed with Willow’s hard-won magic. Angel stood at her side. And somewhere out in the darkness, the pieces Kalesh still needed remained just out of reach.

It wasn’t victory.

But it was something.

215: Buffy Learns About Joyce

Buffy shoved open the heavy front door of the mansion, Joyce’s purse slung over her shoulder and her expression stormy. Spike sauntered in right behind her, happily crunching away on a box of Weetabix he’d “liberated” from the Piggly Wiggly during the chaos.

The familiar scent of burnt herbs and magic still lingered in the air from Willow’s earlier spell-casting. Voices drifted from the main room. Buffy headed straight toward them, Spike trailing along with zero sense of urgency.

“Oi, we’re back,” Spike announced around a mouthful of dry wheat biscuit. He preferred to eat it mixed with a bit of blood. “Cleared out a whole bloody swarm of those little red impy bastards at the grocery. Dozens of the nasty things tearing the place apart. Go Team Us.”

Giles looked up from his desk as they entered, taking in the pair. “Excellent news.” It was about time they had some. 

“How about those books? Worth it?” asked Buffy.

The heavy tomes Buffy had handed him earlier sat neatly stacked to one side, still unopened. 

Giles’ gaze flicked briefly to the stack. Though he had planned to have the younger watcher conduct a review of the books at a later date, he remembered the warning the demon Skylar had issued when handing them over. “I may need to examine them myself.”

The thought of research made Buffy shudder hoping he wasn’t looking for volunteers to help. She lifted the purse like a hard-won prize. “Mom asked me to look out for this when we went to the Piggly Wiggly. It got left behind during the demon attack, so I grabbed it for her.”

Before Giles could inform Buffy about her mother’s whereabouts, Angel stepped through the office doorway, Cordelia following to stand beside him. Her fingers slipped through his, either offering support or seeking relief from the tension apparent on her face. Not that Buffy had expected a ‘thank you’ or congratulations from Cordelia Chase on handling a horde of impy demons from another dimension. A snarky comment about her mother’s non-designer purse might be more in line. Her brows scrunched in sudden suspicion. Something was up.

Angel’s voice was low and careful. “While you were dealing with the imps, we had our own situation.”

They’d been searching for those crystals. Buffy’s stomach dropped. “What kind of situation?”

Cordelia jumped in, her words coming fast. “It’s Joyce. She’s mostly okay, but she got roughed up. Kalesh’s thugs showed up at your house looking for the crystals. They found them first! She had them with the gallery stuff she had boxed up.”

The world seemed to tilt for a second. “My mom?” Buffy’s voice sharpened. “They went after my mom?”

Angel nodded, jaw tight. “By the time Cordy was able to sense the Shards, it was already too late. The attackers were already gone by the time we got there. We tried to bring Joyce back here where it’s safer—especially now that the wards are active—but she refused. Said she wasn’t going to let ‘some mystical nonsense’ shut down her gallery or her life.”

A faint, rueful smile crossed his lips. “She sounded a lot like someone else I know.”

Buffy’s hands tightened into fists. Shock gave way to hot, immediate anger. While she and Spike had been fighting dozens of imp demons and rescuing her mother’s purse, Joyce had been attacked. And they had just… left her there?

“You left her there?” The accusation flew out sharper than intended. “Alone? After they already got to her once? My mom!”

“We couldn’t force her, Buffy,” Angel said quietly. “She was very insistent. And with the crystals now in Kalesh’s possession…”

Spike let out a low whistle, crunching another piece of Weetabix. “Team Chase strikes out on the shiny rocks, but hey—at least you saved the Slayer’s mum. Zero wins for the crystal hunt, one big save for the mom rescue. I’d call that a wash.”

“Shut up, Spike,” Buffy snapped. Her pulse was pounding in her ears. The image of her mother being manhandled by Kalesh’s goons made her feel sick. She’d been so focused on the fight at the Piggly Wiggly that she hadn’t even considered her mom might be in immediate danger elsewhere.

She turned on her heel, already heading back toward the door.

“Buffy—” Angel started.

“I’m going to check on her. Now.” She didn’t wait for a response, her stride carrying her out of the office practically brushing past the clingy couple without another glance. 

Spike’s amused voice drifted after her. “Want some backup, Slayer?”

Buffy gritted her teeth and didn’t answer. The front door slammed behind her as she broke into a full sprint toward Revello Drive, purse in one hand and stake in the other. The cool night air hit her face as she raced down the driveway. Her mom had been hurt tonight, and she hadn’t been there to protect her.

That was going to change. Right now.

216: Angel’s Mansion, Crawford Street

Scents of scorched hellebore and candle wax lingered in the lounge. Drusilla drifted through the room like a shadow given form, her long skirts brushing the floorboards as she paused here and there to examine the remnants of Willow’s spell. A scatter of chalk sigils still glowed faintly on the hardwood. A half-melted stub of black candle listed sideways in its holder. Pinches of powdered herbs lay in careless arcs where the boys had fumbled their parts. She trailed one fingertip through the ash, lifting it to her nose, inhaling the faint bite of magic that still clung to the air.

All the while her ears—sharp as any predator’s—followed the conversation drifting down the hallway from Giles’s makeshift office. The Slayer’s voice cracked like a whip.

“My mom was hurt? And you didn’t bring her back here?”

Angel’s low reply, calm but weary. Cordelia’s softer interjection. Then Buffy again, fury sharpening every word until it sliced through the quiet mansion like a stake. Footsteps—angry, rapid—headed for the front door. The heavy slam echoed through the house, rattling the old chandelier and sending a puff of spell-dust drifting from the mantel.

Drusilla’s lips curved in a small, secret smile. Run, little Slayer. Run to Mummy.

Spike’s voice cut in from the hallway, casual as ever but with that undercurrent of something almost… helpful. “I’ll go after her, yeah? She’s in a right state. Might be useful having a set of fangs around for extra protection—for her mum.”

The front door had already banged shut again. Buffy was gone, but Spike remained, his plan to follow rejected and dismissed in silence.

Only then did Spike notice Drusilla. He loped into the lounge with that familiar swagger, boots scuffing over the chalk lines, a half-eaten box of Weetabix still in one hand like a victory trophy from their earlier patrol. His gaze flicked from the spell remnants to her face. “How’d you enjoy your night out, pet?” he asked, voice low and teasing, the way he always did when he was trying to coax her back from one of her moods. “Shopping with the birds, was it? All those pretty frocks and shiny baubles?”

She gave Spike a faint, dreamy smile, though her eyes remained fixed on the couple. “It was ever so much fun, Spikey. The dresses whispered secrets, and the sparkly things danced like fireflies. But the Slayer…” A theatrical pout. “She wouldn’t let me play with the beastly mean girls. Said no biting. No fun at all.”

Spike chuckled, leaning an elbow on the back of the settee. “Night’s still young, luv. Both Slayers are busy now—one off to play nursemaid to mummy dearest, the other… well, who knows what Faith’s up to whatever she gets up to.” The others, meaning Angel mainly, were busy with the Watcher. “We could slip out for a bit. Find some proper fun. Long as Peaches doesn’t stick his nose in and ruin it.”

For a moment her eyes sparkled with the old wicked delight—the promise of moonlight hunts and screams that tasted like candy. Then her demeanor shifted, sudden as a storm cloud swallowing the stars. The playful light drained away. She looked back at Cordelia and Angel, and something fragile cracked open in her expression: a profound, aching sadness that made even Spike’s undead heart twist.

“Why must the pretty hearts always break, Spikey?” Drusilla murmured, her voice a fragile whisper laced with prophecy and pain. Her fingers traced invisible cracks in the air between them, as if the very space might shatter. “Like fragile little teacups dropped on stone. They can never be glued back quite the same, can they? All jagged edges… missing bits… singing a different song when the night wind blows through.”

Her gaze softened on the couple by the fire, voice dropping to a singsong hush. “The doll and her dark knight… they’ll cut themselves on those edges soon enough. Blood will bind the pieces—oh yes, warm and bright—but the scars? The scars will whisper of cities of angels and streets that swallow the stars. Broken things don’t mend with kisses, my sweet. They only learn new ways to bleed.”

Spike straightened, the easy smirk faltering. He reached out, brushing a curl behind her ear with surprising gentleness. “C’mon, luv,” he said, voice rough but soft around the edges. “Let’s go outside. We’ll find you someone to eat. Make you feel better. Nice and warm, just how you like ’em.”

Drusilla let him take her hand, rising with eerie grace. Miss Edith dangled from her other fingers, head lolling as if listening. But even as they moved toward the French doors leading to the garden, her gaze lingered the empty fire seeing it in ways only she could—where the future danced before her eyes. They were huddled together, Cordelia’s quiet laugh making him smile just enough to raise the corners of his mouth, Angel’s protective stance, the way their shadows almost merged on the wall.

“Poor broken things,” she sighed, almost too softly for even Spike to hear. “They don’t know yet how much it will hurt.”

Spike guided her out into the cool night air, the door clicking shut behind them. The mansion’s wards hummed faintly at their backs, keeping the world at bay—for now. But Drusilla’s words hung in the air like smoke, a warning wrapped in madness.

Somewhere in the distance, a scream waited to be born. And Drusilla smiled, just a little, as the hunger stirred.

217: Angel’s Mansion

Angel couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Cordelia stood near the desk in the office, arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring at the floorboards as if they might suddenly reveal the location of the missing Shards of Ahli-Tah. 

Giles remained hunched over his research at the far end of the desk, quietly turning pages and muttering notes under his breath. Down the hall Angel could hear the faint clatter of plates and low voices—Wesley and the boys snacking in the kitchen after the long night. Willow was already resting in her room, recovering from the spell’s drain. Faith was still out. He couldn’t sense Drusilla or Spike anywhere on the grounds, which would normally set off every warning bell he possessed, but right now he could only focus on Cordelia and the burning need to take care of her.

She looked cold, her body wound up tight, hands clasping her crossed arms. Not that he could feel the chill the same way she did, but he saw it in the protective hunch of her shoulders, the way her fingers dug into her own arms. Was it the cold, or something else? Even with the wards now humming protectively around the mansion, she didn’t feel safe. And tonight’s loss had everything to do with that.

“Cordy,” he said quietly, crossing to her side. “Come with me.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, gently taking her elbow and guiding her out of the office and down the hall into the large lounge. The room was cool and dim, heavy velvet drapes drawn tight against the night. The instant they stepped inside, a shiver ran through Cordelia from the weight of her disturbing thoughts. Angel moved straight to the big stone fireplace. He rarely lit it—smoke curling from the chimney of Sunnydale’s supposedly abandoned haunted mansion had a way of drawing unwanted attention—but tonight the wards changed everything. They were secure inside these walls. Or as safe as anyone ever got on the Hellmouth. He wanted her comfortable, safe, and cozy, even if only for a little while.

He arranged kindling and logs with quick efficiency, struck a match, and watched the flames catch. Golden light spilled across the hardwood floor—still scattered with the remnants of Willow’s spell components—and the long leather couch. The firelight flickered across the room, casting their huddled shadows on the far wall where they appeared to blend together into one dark, intertwined silhouette.

He stayed crouched a moment longer, feeding the fire until it crackled steadily, then rose and turned back to her.

Cordelia hadn’t moved far from the doorway. Her arms were still wrapped around herself, but her gaze had shifted to the growing blaze.

“Better?” he asked, stepping closer.

Cordelia looked up as if she were just coming to realize what he had been doing—lighting the fire purely for her comfort. For a moment her inward thoughts seemed to unwind, the tight coil of denial loosening. Then she straightened, arms still crossed, and said firmly, “I’m fine.” Denying any problem at all, much less that she had been feeling cold.

Angel closed the distance and gently unfolded her arms so he could take her hands. Her skin was cool against his. “Talk to me. I know losing the Shards tonight hit you hard. It hit all of us, but… you seem like you’re somewhere else. Not feeling safe, even with the wards.”

Cordelia let out a shaky breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It’s not just the shards. I feel it too, Angel. This… need. Like something inside me is burning up and only you can put it out. I can’t explain it. It’s not the prophecy or the Pure One stuff or even the fact that we keep coming up short. It’s you. Us.” She finally met his eyes, frustration and something fiercer burning there. “But after what Wesley told me the other night… about what it really means if you claim me the vampiric way… the bond, the consequences… I can’t. I won’t. Not if it puts us both at risk.”

He brushed a thumb across her knuckles. “Wesley explained the risks. I know them too. The bond isn’t something either of us can take lightly—it could change things for you, drain you, tie you to the demon side of me in ways we might not control. And for me… it could pull me under just as hard.”

“And what if it does?” Her voice cracked. “I won’t be the reason you lose control. Or the reason I lose me. I won’t let that happen to either of us.”

Angel’s hand slid up to cup her cheek. “I don’t care about the risks if it means being with you.”

“I do.” She pressed her palm flat against his chest, right over the silent place where a heartbeat should have been. “You said this was my decision. So I’m deciding. No claiming. Not the full bond. Not the bite. Not the forever mark.”

A sharp pang of distress twisted through Angel, instinctive and deep. The need to claim her—to mark her as his in the way only a vampire could—had been tugging at him for weeks, more than he should have allowed himself to think about. It pulled at every part of him: the man who loved her, the demon that wanted to possess her, the soul that knew better. He had turned the idea over in his mind in the quiet hours, knowing full well the time and place for it was not here and now. Certainly not without her full consent. But the wanting was still there, raw and undeniable.

He let none of it show when he answered, voice steady and gentle. “I would never force a claim on you, Cordy. You don’t have to fear that. Not from me. Not ever.”

“I don’t.” The words came out fierce. “I trust you. With my life. With everything.” She swallowed hard, gaze dropping to his mouth for a heartbeat before meeting his eyes again. “But… can we still…?”

The question hung between them, raw and hopeful.

Angel’s answer was to pull her in, mouth claiming hers with weeks of pent-up hunger. A small, rational voice in the back of his mind warned that they really shouldn’t—not here in the lounge with Giles still buried in research just down the hall, Wesley and the boys snacking in the kitchen, and Willow resting in her room. They could be interrupted at any second.

Yet neither of them could stop. The need that had been building between them for weeks finally took over completely.

She gasped into the kiss, fingers twisting in his shirt, and he backed her toward the long leather couch until her knees hit the edge and she sank down, tugging him with her. Clothes came off in a heated rush—his shirt, her blouse, the lacy scrap of her bra—hands impatient, mouths never parting for long. Every creak of the ancient couch made them freeze for half a heartbeat, listening for footsteps, but the firelight and the overwhelming pull between them drowned out caution.

When he finally settled between her thighs, skin to skin, Cordelia arched up with a soft, broken sound she tried to muffle against his shoulder. He took his time anyway, tasting the salt of her throat, the curve of her breast, the dip of her navel, until she was trembling and whispering his name like a plea and a warning at once.

“Angel—now—we can’t—”

“I know,” he breathed against her ear, voice rough. “But I can’t stop.”

He entered her slowly, eyes locked on hers the whole time. She was tight, warm, alive in a way that made every inch of him ache. Cordelia’s nails dug into his shoulders, breath hitching, but she didn’t look away. When he was fully seated she let out a shaky laugh that turned into a moan she quickly bit back.

“God, you feel—” She rocked her hips and they both groaned, the sound too loud in the quiet lounge. “Don’t you dare hold back.”

He didn’t.

The rhythm built fast and hard, urgent and reckless, the ancient couch creaking beneath them, firelight painting their skin in shifting golds and reds. Cordelia met every thrust, legs wrapped around his waist, whispering encouragement and half-formed protests against his ear—“We shouldn’t… they’re right there…”—but the need had them both in its grip. The demon in him snarled with delight at the risk, at the way her body clenched around him like she never wanted to let go. When she came it was with his name on her lips, body shuddering as she buried her face in his neck to stay quiet. Angel followed seconds later, burying his face in her hair, fangs grazing but never breaking skin—no claim, no bond, just the two of them lost in the fire they couldn’t put out.

Afterward they stayed tangled together, sweat cooling, breaths slowing, hearts still racing from more than just the pleasure. Cordelia traced idle patterns on his back, her voice a soft murmur against his chest. “So… that was… wow. And really stupid.”

Angel pressed a kiss to her temple, a rare smile curving his mouth despite the echo of distant voices from the kitchen. “Yeah. Wow. And yeah… really stupid.” He brushed damp hair from her cheek. “But I don’t regret it.”

She lifted her head enough to look at him, eyes soft but serious. “We’re doing that again. A lot. But somewhere with a door that locks. And the claiming stays off the table. If anything ever feels like it’s pulling us toward that edge—if the need gets too strong—you tell me. Immediately. No hero crap.”

“Deal.” He held her closer, the fire crackling low. “And if the prophecy tries to take you from me, we fight it together. No running. No sacrificing yourself. You and me, Cordy. Whatever comes next—on our terms.”

She settled back against his chest, listening to the silence where his heartbeat should have been. “Whatever comes next,” she echoed.

Outside, the night pressed against Willow’s wards, but inside the lounge, for one stolen, reckless hour, the world narrowed to the two of them—skin, breath, and the fierce promise that love, even in Sunnydale, could still be worth every risk.

218: North Central Sunnydale

The fluorescent lights in Sunnydale City Hall buzzed like dying insects, casting a sickly yellow glow over the empty hallways. Faith slipped through the side entrance she’d used a dozen times now, boots silent on the polished tile. It was well past midnight, but Mayor Wilkins kept vampire hours when it suited him. She’d let his call go to voicemail, but checked it as soon as she was out of sight of the Plymouth’s passengers. The message was short, cheerful, and impossible to ignore: Time for a little chat, Faithy. My office. Bring your appetite for cookies.

She hated how much she still wanted to like the guy. There was just something about him that seemed so compelling and trustworthy. He smiled like a favorite uncle. Took an interest in her day. Even offered her home-baked cookies on par with Joyce Summers. And he was planning something big and evil. Life in Sunnydale never let you forget the fine print.

The outer office was dark, Miss Mabel’s desk neat as always, but the inner door stood ajar. Faith pushed it open without knocking.

Mayor Wilkins sat behind his big wooden desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, looking for all the world like he’d just finished balancing the city budget instead of plotting world domination. A plate of cookies and a glass of milk waited on the blotter like a trap. He beamed when he saw her.

“Faith! Right on time. You know, I was starting to worry you’d forgotten your old pal Richard.” He gestured at the plate. “Fresh batch. Oatmeal raisin this time—figured you might be tired of chocolate.”

She didn’t sit. “Cut the June Cleaver routine, Mayor. It’s late. What’s so important it couldn’t wait till morning?”

His smile never wavered, but his eyes sharpened. “Things are getting a little… unruly out there, aren’t they? All these new faces in town. Foreign visitors, I’d call them. Demons, vampires, that whole solar-vampire crowd with the fancy European accents. They’re not from around here, and they’re not playing by my rules.” He picked up a cookie, examined it, then set it down again. “I don’t like it when people don’t play by my rules, Faithy. Especially not when I’ve got plans of my own that have been in the works for a very long time.”

Faith crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, well, they’re not exactly here for the sightseeing. Kalesh and her crew are after something big. The prophecy, the crystals, the whole end-of-the-world enchilada.”

“Precisely.” Wilkins steepled his fingers. “And while I admire ambition—truly, I do—I’d prefer my ascension not get stepped on by some interdimensional has-been and his pet priestess. Which brings me to your… social circle.” He let the word hang, amused. “You’ve become quite chummy with that Angelus fellow. I hear the soul was a gypsy special. One moment of perfect happiness and poof—evil again. Worked on a Slayer once, I understand.”

Faith’s stomach tightened. She kept her face blank. “His name’s Angel. And the gyspy curse is permanent now. No loopholes.”

Wilkins chuckled softly, the sound warm and grandfatherly. “Is that so? Because from what I’ve heard, a Slayer’s… assets can be very persuasive. I thought perhaps you might—”

“Are you trying to pimp me out, Mayor Wilkins?” The words snapped out before she could stop them. Heat crawled up her neck. “Jesus. You really went there.”

He spread his hands, all innocence. “I wouldn’t put it that way. Merely suggesting a mutually beneficial arrangement. You’ve got the right… skill set to get his attention. Convince him to join the winning team. Wouldn’t he like to know what I’ve learned about Priestess Kalesh and her little cult? Where they’re holed up? Their place of refuge?” His smile turned sharp. “Quid pro quo, my dear. Bring him to me, Faithy, and that information is yours.”

Faith’s mind raced. Angel—Angel, not Angelus—wouldn’t fall for it. Not anymore. Not with Cordelia in the picture. The way he looked at her, the way he’d torn half the town apart to keep her safe… yeah, no amount of Slayer charm was going to flip that switch. There’d been a time—hell, a couple months ago—when Faith would’ve jumped at the chance. Tall, dark, broody, and built like a god? Sign her up. But now? Now she knew him. Knew what he was fighting for. And she knew Cordelia would rip her face off if she even tried.

She swallowed the sour taste in her mouth. “I’ll think about it.”

Wilkins picked up the glass of milk and took a slow sip, watching her over the rim. “You do that. And while you’re thinking, remember: those who aren’t on my side… well, they tend to become problems. I’d hate for you to become a problem, Faithy.” The smile returned, bright and harmless. “Have a cookie before you go. They really are delicious.”

Faith stared at the plate for a beat, then turned on her heel. The door clicked shut behind her, cutting off the mayor’s cheerful humming.

Out in the hallway, she let out a shaky breath. Giles would expect her report tomorrow. Cordelia would probably want to know why she really left so suddenly. Was it actually patrol, or a hot date? Not exactly. Then there was the whole seducing Angel to the Mayor’s side? As if! Angel would ever go for it, tempting as it was to try. But the offer was out there now, dangling like bait.

She shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and headed for the exit, the taste of cookies she hadn’t eaten lingering like a threat.

Quid pro quo.

Yeah. She’d think about it.

219: Regrouping at the Mansion

Cordelia’s fingers stayed laced with Angel’s as they slipped out of the lower level and started up the stairs. They had dressed in a hurry—her top still twisted at the hem, his shirt buttoned one hole off, her hair a wild tumble and his dark strands rumpled from her hands. The new wards hummed faintly around them, a low protective note that felt almost alive.

In the main hall, Wesley, Xander, and Oz stepped out of the kitchen. The air still carried the sharp scent of burnt herbs and spell residue. Oz shrugged into his jacket, keys jingling softly. “Heading home. I’m not on anyone’s radar, so I should be fine. Tell Willow I’ll check on her soon—I don’t want to wake her. Van’s outside if you need it. I’m in for whatever comes next.”

Xander waved him off with a yawn. “Yeah, man. Get some sleep. We’ve got the mystical fortress covered.” His gaze flicked upward to the landing where Cordelia and Angel had paused. One look at their flushed faces and askew clothes and Xander’s eyes widened in horrified understanding. “Nope. Don’t wanna know. Goodnight, folks.” He beat a hasty retreat down the hall toward the room he shared with Willow and Buffy.

Through the cracked door they could see Willow zonked out on one of the beds, face buried in a pillow, dead to the world.

Wesley adjusted his glasses, scanning the empty hall. “Buffy and Faith aren’t back yet?”

“Giles can catch you up,” Angel said, voice low and steady. “Or Cordelia and I.”

Wesley nodded and turned toward the study where Giles was undoubtedly still buried in research.

Outside, the mansion’s overgrown gardens had long since swallowed the once-pristine stone paths and planters. Wild shrubberies pressed close, moonlight silvering the leaves. Spike and Drusilla walked slowly, her arm looped through his. Their hunt had ended early—slim pickings tonight, or maybe just the quiet pull to return.

A car engine growled closer. Distant voices drifted from the front of the house. Buffy, returning with Joyce. All resolved. Mummy was safe now.

Drusilla tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Should we say hello? A little Slayer torment might be fun, my Spike.”

He gently tugged her closer, lips brushing her temple. “Not tonight, pet. Let’s keep it just us. You like it like this, yeah?”

She smiled dreamily and rested her head on his shoulder as moonlight filtered through the leaves. “Yes. Just the two of us.”

Their solitude lasted only a moment longer. Faith cut across the grounds, coming from her late meeting with the Mayor. Despite the hour she spotted them and lifted her chin. “Hey. Giles still awake?”

Spike shrugged, lighting a cigarette. “Not sure. Was a while ago. Probably tucked into bed by now with those books of his.”

Faith gave a short nod, the Mayor’s proposition about Angel still churning in her gut. She needed time, space, and some loud music to work it out. No way was she spilling any of that to these vampires. “Think I’ll head to the Bronze until closing. Clear my head.” She kept moving, veering toward the street instead of the house.

Upstairs in Angel’s room, Cordelia curled against his chest on the bed, her head resting where a heartbeat should have been—only the steady silence of his undead chest. The quiet wrapped around them like the wards outside.

“Whatever comes next,” she whispered into the darkness, “we face it together.”

Angel’s arms tightened around her, one hand stroking slowly down her back. “Together.”

Outside, the Hellmouth waited. Inside the wards, for a few quiet hours, they had peace.

But the storm was only just beginning.

220:  Clues and Confessions

Morning light filtered weakly through the heavy drapes of the mansion’s library, turning dust motes into lazy golden specks. Giles stood at the head of the long oak table, shadows pooling under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all—which, judging by the empty coffee pot and the scatter of open books, he probably hadn’t. The new tomes Buffy and Spike had brought back from Skylar lay spread before him, pages marked with hasty slips of paper and penciled notes.

The gang had gathered, most of them still rumpled from sleep or the long night before. Buffy leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight, stake tucked visibly into her belt. Wesley sat neatly at the table, polishing his glasses for the third time. Xander slouched in a chair, nursing a mug of coffee that had gone cold. Willow was curled up on the couch nearby, pale but awake, a blanket tucked around her shoulders. The efforts of yesterday’s spell-casting remained etched on her face.

Cordelia stood beside Angel near the fireplace, close enough that their fingers could brush out of sight whenever they wanted. After last night the small contact felt like a lifeline—warm, steady, and secret.

Giles glanced around the room and paused, brow creasing. “Has Faith come down yet?”

Unsurprised, Buffy shook her head. “Not yet. She’s not exactly an early riser.”

A flicker of concern crossed Giles’s face. Cordelia spoke up before it could settle. “No worries. I think she had a hot date last night. Ran off when her phone rang like it was some secret.”

Spike sauntered in from the doorway, unlit cigarette between his fingers. “Saw her last night. Decided to hit the Bronze until closing. Pro’lly sleeping it off.”

Wesley slipped his glasses back on, mouth tightening. As Faith’s Watcher he had already learned the hard way that she answered to no schedule but her own. The girl was a law unto herself—brash, unpredictable, and far too comfortable dancing along the razor’s edge between duty and disaster. He had spent half the night wondering whether her absence was simple rebellion or something more dangerous. “Faith is Faith, after all,” he said, the words carrying equal parts exasperation and reluctant admiration.

Cordelia folded her arms, chin lifting in defense of her friend. “Could be she’s just blowing off steam.” Enviously, she let out a big sigh. “I’d so hit the Bronze if I could—dance till I drop.”

Giles gave a short nod, setting the worry aside for now. “Very well. I would rather have done this with Faith present, but I can delay no longer. It’s time to come clean with everyone about her undercover assignment.”

The room went still.

Buffy’s head snapped toward him. “Her what?”

He gave her a stern look and pressed on before the questions could start flying. “For some time now, Faith has been working with me—feeding Mayor Wilkins just enough to keep him believing he’s using her, while reporting back everything she learns. He approached her when she was… vulnerable. We’ve been using that to our advantage.”

Willow’s eyes widened. “The mayor is kinda cheesy,” she said, thinking of the smiling billboards from the last election. “Why should we care if he’s shaking hands and kissing babies?”

“Election fraud is not our concern,” Giles answered. “But the rest of it is. Wilkins knows far too much about demons and vampires. He doesn’t merely cover up the messes—they’re often of his own making. And he’s only getting started.”

He tapped the topmost of the new volumes, the old leather tomes Buffy and Spike had bought the night before. “These aren’t prophecy texts as we’d hoped. They are the Books of Ascension—detailing the rituals the Mayor must complete to transform himself into a pure demon.”

Cordelia gulped. “That sounds of the not-so-good.”

Giles nodded grimly. “Wilkins intends to ascend on graduation day.”

“Another demon god?” Willow asked, wide-eyed.

Buffy’s jaw tightened. “Great. One apocalypse at a time?” Slayer duties never ended. So much for that day on the beach she was planning when this one was over. 

“Precisely,” Giles agreed, dry as dust. “The Mayor will have to wait his turn. Our immediate concern remains Kalesh and Amolon.”

Giles unrolled the brittle scroll across the oak table, the lamplight catching on the faded ink. The group leaned in—Buffy perched on the arm of the couch, Angel’s hand resting lightly on Cordelia’s shoulder, Willow and Xander sharing the loveseat, Wesley polishing his glasses for the third time, and Spike lounging against the doorframe with Drusilla curled beside him like a cat.

“‘When the beasts of the wild rise under false stars,’” Giles read, voice steady but edged with worry, “‘the Varstrae shall gather at the place of cages.’”

Wesley’s eyes lit with recognition. “The place of cages—Sunnydale Zoo. Literal beasts, literal cages. It fits the symmetry of the prophecy too cleanly to ignore.”

Buffy straightened. “So Kalesh is planning to hit the Zoo? Tonight?”

“Or she’s already there,” Angel said quietly. “The ‘false stars’ could mean the planetarium show—they run it after dark. Or a new exhibit opening under artificial lights. Either way, it’s a trap waiting to spring.”

Cordelia’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. “Another Pure One. One of the last two we still don’t have names for. If she gets them all in one place…”

Willow rubbed her temples, still pale from the ward spell the night before. “The ritual needs the Varstrae together. The Shards are keyed to them—one crystal per sacrifice. She’s already ahead on the collection. But the Amulet was supposed to bind the whole thing. Without it she might improvise—something messier, something that doesn’t need perfect alignment.”

Drusilla tilted her head, eyes distant as she traced a pattern on the tablecloth with one fingernail. “False stars don’t lie, pretty bird. They only pretend. The cages will sing when the wrong stars burn.” She smiled dreamily at Cordelia. “Miss Edith says we should bring the lions cakes. Or perhaps the lions will bring cakes to us.”

Spike snorted. “Right. Zoo stakeout it is, then. Reckon we slip in quiet-like, before the beasties get any ideas about rising.”

Giles nodded, tapping the open Books of Ascension. “Precisely. Faith’s absence tonight is unfortunate—she’s still feeding the Mayor just enough to keep him complacent—but we can’t wait for her return. We move at dusk. Reconnaissance only. Identify any Varstrae targets, locate potential ritual sites, and get out before Kalesh’s people scent us. The wards will hold here, but out there…” He exhaled. “We stay together. No heroics.”

Xander cracked his knuckles. “Zoo after dark. What could go wrong? Besides, y’know, everything.” A tense chuckle rippled through the room, but the weight of the prophecy lingered.

“You’ll be staying here, Harris,” countered Angel forming the plan as he spoke. “Cordelia isn’t going anywhere near that zoo. She’s not leaving the safety of the new wards.”

Cordelia had already figured he would say that, choosing not to argue, her shoulder brushing Angel’s in quiet solidarity. After everything they’d shared last night, she was sticking to her promise.

Xander’s eyes narrowed on the two of them. “Just Cor and me?” They’d worked hard on those wards, but spells could be broken. Things of the scary and demonic variety—or just the kind with fangs—might get in.

The shadows behind Spike suddenly moved. Drusilla stepped forward having been listening the whole time. “No, silly boy, I’ll be with you—and Miss Edith, of course.”

Xander gulped, “Great, I feel better already.”

Decisions made, Buffy address the group, “Then we go in quiet. Find what we need. Get it, get out. No heroics. ”

“Heroics?” Spike grinned from the doorway. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Slayer.”

Giles closed the book with a sigh that carried the weight of the night behind it. “We move tonight. Prepare yourselves. And someone locate Faith the moment she surfaces. She needs to be fully briefed as well.”

Cordelia exchanged a quick look with Angel. His hand found hers again, hidden between them, a silent promise. The Zoo was just one more step to overcome—trap or not. They had the Amulet. They had each other. But the Zoo was Kalesh’s next chessboard, and the game was speeding up.

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Story Status: Completed April 2026

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