Hi all!

This was inspired by the Locked Room Challenge over on the WA forum, but I finished it too late to enter. It will eventually have another one or two chapters, but not until I've finished Crash and Burn. Timeline wise, it's set roughly after From Dead to Worse and post-season 3 for Buffy. It's my first attempt at a crossover, hope you enjoy it.

...

Chapter One

Eric Northman, with wisdom gained over many centuries, knew something was wrong before he opened his eyes. The air smelt dank and musty, not at all like his room; and the surface he was lying on was hard and cold, not at all like the comfortable bed in which he had died for the day.

He could also smell another supernatural. It smelt distinctly odd, something not quite the dry, papery scent of a fellow vampire mingled with the sulphurous aroma carried by those of demon blood. The scent of a creature he couldn't immediately identify added to the alarm bells ringing in his head, bells that only rang louder when he heard said creature stir.

Keeping otherwise still, Eric cracked open his eyes. He saw only a dark vaulted ceiling, high above him. No help there. The creature was a threat of unknown magnitude. Time to chose a strategy: caution or attack?

The creature groaned.

Attack, while it was vulnerable and surprise was his. In an instant, Eric was on his feet and launching himself at the half-prone figure in the shadows. Stone walls and a chequered stone floor were all that registered of the place he'd risen in as he shot forwards. His target had begun to sit up, still groaning, a hand to its head. He hit it hard, his shoulder slamming into its chest, his arms closing round it like a steel trap.

Locked together, they tumbled across the flagstones. Snarling and hissing, the creature put up a spirited resistance, but far too late to make a difference. Eric's superior strength told quickly and the struggle ended, as he'd planned, with his back to a wall and his opponent pinned beneath him. As it struggled uselessly against his hold, his hand clamped around its windpipe. He squeezed hard, forcing it still while he scanned the area for other threats. None he could detect. Good. Only then did he look down.

What the fuck?

Its face was furrowed; its bone structure contorted, alien; its furious eyes an ugly yellow. Yet it had looked perfectly human as he leapt at it.

Was it a shapeshifter? A kind he hadn't come across, one of those fabled were-reptiles from South America perhaps?

He inhaled its scent again. No trace of that animal musk all shifters had, be they mammalian or reptilian. But still that pervasive brimstone stench. A demon then, a full blood? Those kept mostly to their realm, being too other to pass as human. But of the three he'd glimpsed in his long undeath, none had looked anything like this creature. And it had lost too easily. A full demon would be a challenge to subdue even for a vampire of his years.

What was it? Not fairy or elf, or the like. Looking at it closely, he would swear…

Yes, the face was familiar. How? He had not met it or its kind before, or he would know that scent. He loosened his grip on its throat, enough to let it speak, and the creature, a male, spat a string of abuse at him.

In an Irish brogue. The voice clicked, unlocking Eric's memory like a key. The actor. That ridiculous TV show. But that was fake, it couldn't be—

"Pam," Eric said softly, baring his fangs. Of course. One of her pranks.

"I don't know any Pam," came the quick denial.

"You would say that." Darling Pamela would have instructed this fool to keep the joke going as long as possible. Sometimes his child was a royal pain in the ass.

"I don't—"

Eric tightened his grip again, cutting him off. Pam was lucky he hadn't snapped this idiot's neck or there would be hell to pay. Killing a celebrity would be disastrous now the human authorities knew about them.

Hmm. Killing an unknown supernatural, now that was different. That, he might get away with. The actor was human, he was sure of it, but this male, whatever the hell he was, was not. Pam had obviously found a supe look-alike for the part.

One who smelt like nothing Eric knew. One who could transform his face in a way Eric had never seen. One who also, now he had time to take in what he was hearing, didn't breathe and lacked a heartbeat.

Just like a vampire. But that scent was all wrong. A supe who'd been fed vampire blood? Pam would never be that stupid. A turning gone bad, another Bubba? A spell, some kind of illusion?

His gut said no. With a sudden hunch that this was no prank, Eric raked a nail across the Irishman's bulging forehead, earning himself an indignant hiss. Ignoring that and the baleful glare that followed it, he leaned down, sniffed the thick blood welling in the scratch and, when he could detect nothing harmful, touched his tongue cautiously to it.

Hmm. There was power in it, and that couldn't be faked, but it tasted foul. This was no vampire.

The scratch he'd made healed before his eyes in a very vampire-like way, taunting him.

Well, Eric amended, it certainly wasn't the kind of vampire he knew. But there were more kinds of supernaturals in the worldthan were dreamt of in any philosophy. So many that even he hadn't encountered all of them in almost a millennium of existence. And then there were the ones from other dimensions, like the Britlingens…

That hunch got stronger and, belatedly, he thought to checked his blood for his child. Pam was near, and not feeling the muffled anticipation that usually accompanied her pranks. She was confused, wary even. And up earlier than she should be; she typically rose half an hour later than he did. Sookie was close too, when she should be miles distant. His lover was fit to be tied, but not in immediate danger by the feel of it, thank fuck. What the hell was going on?

And where the hell had he risen anyway? He looked around. A large, dark hall. No windows. Alternating red and black flagstones. Stone walls, thick ones by the chill in the air, hung with tapestries too faded to make out anything useful. Iron brackets mounted between them, empty except for a few blackened wooden torches, long burnt-out. A narrow slit in the centre of the ceiling let in the only light, an unhealthy grey-green glow as pale as moonlight that fell in a shaft across the flagstones. Flagstones on which a circle of dark symbols had been scrawled, in what looked to be a mix of chalk and old, dried blood.

Ah. Eric inhaled deeply, sampling the stale air. There it was, the earthy tang of magic, fading fast.

Fucking witches. The bane of his existence. If this was Broadway's doing—

Without warning his forgotten captive bucked violently, almost throwing Eric off. But even distracted, Eric was fast. Growling, he grabbed the Irishman's shoulders and slammed him into the floor, hard and repeatedly, until the fight went out of him.

"Be a good boy and yield," Eric rumbled, baring his fangs.

When all he got in reply was a frustrated snarl, he began to laugh. Ah well, if his night had gone to shit at least someone was worse off than he was. That vamp-face really was absurd.

"You win," muttered the Irishman through gritted fangs. "No need to be a prick about it."

Judging his foe sufficiently cowed, Eric released his shoulders and cautiously sat back, careful to keep his weight on the other male's thighs. "Tell me," he drawled, "do the ladies take to that scowl of yours, Angelus? Or is it Liam, this fine evening?"

"You know my name. Who the devil are you?"

Eric smirked at the surprise that had elicited even as he hid his own. Something exceedingly strange was afoot, so strange that he would doubt his senses if he was susceptible to hallucinations. But he wasn't, so he would adapt to reality as always. And when he found out who had fucked up his night, he would extract appropriate and bloody revenge. Rising to his feet with inhuman grace, he dusted off his sleep pants as he answered: "A vampire who is not ashamed of what he is. You may call me Eric."

"And I prefer Angel, if it's all the same to you." The Irishman sat up, his face morphing back to human as he rubbed his shoulder and winced.

Eric chuckled. "Sore, are we?"

"Some pretty boy with fangs got the jump on me," he grumbled.

"Pretty perhaps, but no boy." Eric let his power roll out, curious to see if it would have an effect. Angel's shoulders dropped and his posture became less assertive, yet he seemed unaware of the change himself. Interesting.

"No, you're no boy," Angel agreed, glancing at Eric's muscular chest. "Nice robe."

"Isn't it." He made no move to close it. It was black silk, a present from Pam. That and the sleep pants were all he had on. More than he usually died in, but Sookie had spent the previous night at his house. Her scent was still pleasantly perfuming his skin.

Angel, in contrast, was fully clothed in shirt, pants, boots and long black coat. He looked up at Eric and commented: "Hair's a bit eighties, though."

"I like it long," Eric said dismissively. "To business. Any idea where we are?"

Angel got to his feet, stiff and wary. "None. One moment I was in California, the next I woke here. With a splitting headache."

"We are not in our world." Or worlds. But if this Angel was anything like his on-screen alter-ego, telling him about the TV show might trigger an existential crisis and Eric had no patience for those. No need to give away his advantage until he had to, either.

Angel glanced at the shaft of light and grimaced. "If this is a Hell dimension, it's a pleasant one so far. What summoned us here?"

"Witchcraft, I believe." Eric gestured at the marks on the flagstones.

Angel crouched besides them and trailed a finger across one of the symbols, smearing it. "Wasn't these. Too old."

"I smell magic."

Angel wiped his finger on his coat and stood up, eyeing Eric suspiciously. "You smell magic?"

"You cannot." Shit. Questions were beginning to form behind those dark, brooding eyes. That called for a distraction. Eric gestured across the hall to a pair of large stone doors. "There's a way out."

"So there is."

They stood in front of it. The doors were carved with a circular design and fitted flush with the walls. No handles, no keyhole, no bar. Not even a hinge. Eric ran his fingers lightly over them and the surrounding stones, looking for a mechanism. There was nothing.

"Brute force?" Angel suggested.

"Be my guest." Eric leaned against the wall, arms folded, and watched silently as Angel threw himself at the doors a few times. Eventually, a distinct crack indicated he'd broken his injured shoulder. Amateur.

"No good," Angel snarled, face rippling again. "Your turn."

"You realise they probably open inwards," Eric said lazily.

Despite his comment, he uncoiled from the wall, walked past a tapestry to the nearest torch bracket and casually ripped it down, a shower of stone fragments and dust cascading to the floor. The bracket was cast iron and sturdy enough to make a reasonable battering ram. He yanked the fraying tapestry down too, and tore strips off it, wrapping them around the bracket's cup so he could use it as a grip.

Striding to the middle of the hall, he spent a few seconds investigating that unearthly grey-green light. As he expected, it neither burnt like sunlight nor did it impart a glow to his skin like moonlight. Then, thrusting his improvised and too-short lance out, and feeling faintly ridiculous, he aimed for the crack between the doors and charged at them like a knight of old — but a knight with considerably more momentum than a man in plate armour on a war horse.

He hit with a loud, reverberating clang.

And bounced backwards a good dozen yards, landing on his feet like a cat and hissing like one too, fangs extended. The bracket was crumpled, the tip glowing slightly from the impact. He threw it to the floor in disgust and sped to the doors.

"Not a scratch," he growled. "It must be warded. Fucking witches."

An instinct flared and shouted: Danger!

He looked sharply at Angel, who was leaning on the wall, hands in his pockets. A non-threatening pose, but those hands were balled and every line of his stance was tense. He was staring, too. Not at the door, but at the back of Eric's hand.

"You're bleeding." The predator glowed in his eyes and Angel swayed, straining forwards. "It smells … delicious."

Eric, never one to waste an opportunity, held out his arm.

Angel was on him at once, sucking at the shallow cut, soft animal noises rising from the back of his throat. Over his bent head, Eric showed his fangs in a wicked grin. Nature would out, no matter how vehemently it was denied.

And their nature screamed to feed. It seemed they had that much in common. Now, would his blood work as it should? He was the elder, and by a good margin if the TV show was accurate, so there was little risk in the gamble. Once the cut healed, Eric pushed Angel away and tested his blood. Yes, he had a hook in him; he could sense his abating hunger clearly. How long had the idiot denied himself fresh blood?

Angel backed up a step, eyes yellow and slitted, unfocused. "That was … It shouldn't taste like that. So appealing. I shouldn't be able to tolerate it at all. What the devil are you?"

"Vampire."

"No, you're … different." Angel wiped his mouth and his face hardened as intelligence returned to his eyes. "You're an ancient. You must be to be so fast and strong. Yet you've kept your looks and I've never heard of you. You're no vampire. What are you?"

Shit. Angel was becoming rebellious, hostile even. He would have to explain.

Ah well, he could always break his neck if the whining got too irritating, Angel would heal soon enough. And if Sookie got mad about it when she arrived, he'd just charm his way out of it as usual.

…

Eric ripped down a tapestry, uncovering another alcove and sending up a cloud of dust that matched the ones Angel was creating on the other side of the hall. Angel had taken the news that he was a fictional character surprisingly well, once he was convinced Eric was telling the truth. He had also been pleasingly practical about their predicament and hadn't baulked at Eric taking command. Yet. They were searching for clues as to what brought them here and anything that could get them home, or at least get those fucking doors open.

Hell, Eric would settle for something that told them where here was.

The alcove was about six feet or so deep and twelve wide, and unlike the last three he'd found, it wasn't empty. Two large wooden chests sat inside it.

Intact, closed and promising.

"Over here," Eric called, stepping through the dust to examine the nearest one and noting grimly that it was long enough for him to fit inside, should the need arise.

Angel was there and looking over the other before the dust had died down. Neither of them coughed of course, having no breath to choke.

So far, the chests were all they'd found. The hall was empty apart from a square stone altar at one end, where they'd begun their search. The altar had yielded no clues except for some ominous stains that suggested it had been used for sacrifices, but the residue was too old to confirm that, or indeed what or who had been sacrificed. The whole place was thick with dust and smelt long abandoned. Even that trace of magic Eric had caught earlier had faded.

Who or what had brought them here was a mystery. Eric broke his chest open and threw back the lid only to curl his lip at the mess inside. A pile of rotting fabric was unlikely provide any answers.

A splintering crash announced Angel had broken into his too, and he set about rummaging through it. Not to be out done, Eric resigned himself to dirtying his hands and began shifting through mildewed garments, throwing them onto the floor one by one. Ceremonial robes, in various styles and fabrics, all long past their best. Boring. There was no reason he couldn't amuse himself while they searched, was there? He looked up. Angel was examining a stack of off-white linens speckled with rusty red stains. Altar cloths from some dark ritual, probably.

"So," Eric began innocently, pretending to focus on the faded red robe he was shaking out. "You really can't fuck her ever again?"

Angel's head snapped up. Result.

"The Slayer," Eric supplied unnecessarily, in a helpful tone. He tossed the robe on the growing pile of discards after nothing more than dead insects fell out of it.

"You have Slayers in your world?"Angel asked, keeping his eyes on the linen he was unfolding. But he'd tasted Eric's blood and that telegraphed his true discomfort.

"Not as such. But our women can be fierce." Eric smiled to himself at a cherished fantasy: Sookie staking Lorena. Oh, to be a fly on that wall. He continued teasingly, "An interesting trigger, that curse. A perfect moment of happiness, found only in the arms of your true love. How … sweet."

"What would it be for you, tearing throats and killing innocents?"

The hint of anger in Angel's tone echoed loudly in his blood and Eric's smile became visible. These holier-than-thou mainstreaming types were so easy to bait, weren't they?

"My perfect moment," he said, tapping his chin. "Hmm, what to pick? The slice of a blade through flesh, the spill of hot blood, the endless dance of battle. Or another dance entirely." He wiggled his eyebrows and leered. "A soft body, warm flesh, and blood fresh from the vein."

"Violence and lust," Angel said drily. "You're a shallow guy."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. What is eternity worth without the joy of the moment? Boredom is the kiss of death to our kind."

"The kiss of death." Angel smiled sourly. "Isn't that our bite?"

"Yours, maybe. Mine brings pleasure as easily as death." Eric discarded a mass of shapeless brown hessian, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Then he poked the bear again. "This great love of yours, are you content to let it go?"

Angel tossed the question right back. "Wouldn't you? If you could love, that is, and it was the only way to protect her."

Yes he would. And how he hated that. His reply was harsh. "In your place, I would hunt those gypsies down and persuade them to lift the curse. Forcefully." He let his fangs run out to make the point.

"I have enough blood on my hands."

Eric did not buy that hand-wringing emo shit for a second. If a soul was all it took to quell the taste for blood, human serial killers would not exist. "You are a vampire," he snapped. "Act like one. The last witch to curse me died for it. Messily."

"Really?" Angel looked and felt intrigued. "What did she curse you with?"

"Amnesia, but I got over it," Eric said shortly. The parallels with his own situation were unsettling. A heart's desire forgotten, a moment of pure happiness never to be repeated. Tomato, tomahto. With a sneer, he directed the conversation back where it belonged. "You will give the Slayer up then, without so much as a fight."

Angel shrugged. "Buffy is young. She'll find someone else."

Eric looked at him intently and saw right through his façade. "You do not wish that. They say that if a lover is truly yours, once set free she will return. That is what you hope for."

"No. When it's over, it's over." Angel said with determination. "I think we're both old enough to know that."

"Bullshit. It will never be over for you, I see it in your eyes." Eric felt it in his blood too, and for a moment couldn't tell who it came from, Angel or himself. A question came to him unbidden: if he was forced to give up Sookie, would it haunt his eyes too?

Never, he denied fiercely. He was a vampire, and above all a pragmatic one. He did not believe in that sentimental claptrap about true love and the mere idea he would ever be so pathetic left him seething. His hands tightened on the heavily-stained shift he was holding, straining its blue silk.

"Call me a liar all you like, but we should concentrate on finding a way out of here." Angel nodded at the pile of clothes Eric was glaring at rather than searching.

"Of course," Eric snapped, irked at the reprimand but also glad of the distraction from his fucking feelings. The blue silk flew from his hands and he snatched up a heavy cloak. Its wool was a dingy grey that had once been black, the fur at its collar was mangy and matted. It was clearly of no use to anyone and he cast it carelessly aside.

Too carelessly. A dagger fell out of it and skittered across the stone, stopping near Angel's feet.

"Careful," he said, picking it up. He tested the point on a finger and then traced over the runes on its blade. "Ceremonial. Runes to power a blood sacrifice. Might be useful for reversing the magic that brought us here."

Eric, senses prickling, watched Angel's hands like a hawk as he spoke. That, and the spike of resolve he felt from Angel, gave him enough warning before the dagger flew at him. Ducking to the side with preternatural agility, he snatched it from the air and hissed in pain. Silver! He'd caught it by blade and his palm was blistering.

Cursing, he transferred his grip to the hilt and snarled, "Your aim needs work."

Angel, who had dropped into a crouch and was in full vampire mode, rose to his feet slowly. His vamp-face melted away, leaving only puzzlement. "It burned you. How?"

"Yes," Eric said gruffly. This was something he'd hoped to keep hidden."Silver is toxic to my kind."

"But not mine. And you knew that," Angel said slowly. "From the TV show."

Eric shrugged, relaxing as his blood told him Angel was more intrigued than murderous. "Fiction is not always accurate. I could not be sure."

"Why the difference, I wonder." Angel frowned. "The weaknesses you have might tell us something. I don't suppose you'll tell me what they are?"

Eric was amused. "No."

Angel nodded at the dagger."No offence?"

"Oh, there is offence. But it will take more than a silver dagger to end me, so I will let it slide… For now."

He couldn't fault the lovelorn fool for acting like a vampire. Resolving to be more guarded around him, Eric tore a piece of velvet from a dress, wrapped the dagger in it and tucked it into his pocket. He searched the remainder of the dress, only to be interrupted by a hiss and the sight of Angel leaping backwards like a scalded cat.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A damn cross." Angel was nursing his hand, which was smoking slightly. "I didn't see it."

"Really?" Eric blurred over to investigate and chuckled. Yes, there was a large wooden cross poking out from the linen. He picked it up and turned around, holding it out.

Angel took a step back, then held his ground with visible effort. "Crosses don't affect you."

"No." Not unless they were wooden and thrust into his heart, but he wasn't about to plant that idea. Keeping Angel, who sensibly stayed where he was, in the corner of his eye, Eric leaned the cross against the side of the chest and looked over the religious paraphernalia that had been hidden underneath the linens. He catalogued items as he tossed them into the open lid: "A Jewish menorah, a Sikh Kirpan, a Buddha, another cross—"

"Someone was hedging their bets."

"Anything else strike you?" When Angel shook his head, Eric continued. "They are all from Earth. None of the other realms I know use these symbols. What of your Hell dimensions?"

"No, they don't go in for them, either. You think we're still on Earth."

"Yes." He very much hoped so, it would certainly simplify things. The question was which Earth, his or Angel's?

His abilities all worked as they should. Pam and Sookie were here. That all pointed to his world, but it wasn't proof. Deep in thought, Eric tossed a few more items out of the chest. Amongst the jumble of odds and ends was a glass bottle, delicate and filled with slightly brackish liquid. Having an idea of what it was, he fetched it out, opened it and took a cautious sniff.

"Careful, that's—"

"Terrible cologne. It smells like pond water," Eric said calmly, splashing a little on his palm.

Angel started forward, but stopped and gaped when nothing happened. "That's Holy water."

"Perhaps it can determine where we are. In my world, no prayer can give water the power to burn." Screwing the cap shut, Eric threw the bottle gently to Angel, who caught it gingerly. "Indulge my curiosity, would you."

"You're still pissed about the dagger, aren't you?" Angel muttered as he uncapped it. He let the smallest drop fall on his wrist, and his face contorted in pain as it sizzled into his skin. As the smell of burning flesh filled the air, he let the rest splash harmless on the stones.

"That shoots that theory down," Eric said, disappointed. A witch could have spelled it against vampires, he supposed, but that was unlikely if it only affected Angel. "It seems we are on your Earth. Or another world like it."

"I hate parallel universes," Angel grumbled. "That doesn't help us escape this place."

"No." Eric was well aware of the urgency of that. He went back to his search. There had to be something in these robes.

Angel sat on the corner of his emptied chest, frowning thoughtfully. "Immunity to crosses and Holy Water. Is that true for all of you?"

"Yes. Except for those few who were extremely devout in life," Eric said absently, shaking out a moth-eaten monk's cowl with distaste.

"I'm guessing you weren't much of a church-goer."

"I have never been Christian."

"It doesn't depend on your faith. It's the demon inside us, it can't abide the symbols."

Eric snorted derisively as he discarded the cowl. "There is no demon inside me."

"Is there not?"

"No." Eric balled a fist and hit the chest, which scraped noisily against the floor as it moved a few inches. Fuck. He was at the bottom, with nothing to show for it. He looked up to find Angel staring, his eyes wide.

"The way you talk, react… You've a soul, haven't you?"

"I neither know nor care," Eric said tersely. He didn't have time for this. He wanted something positive to report when Sookie got here and he had nothing. Nada, zip, zilch, and a big fat zero, as she would say in that delightful way of hers.

"You have it still," Angel insisted, his voice and blood full of yearning. "You're no ravening monster."

"My kind are killers," Eric said in clipped tones. "Deadly, dangerous and cruel. There are sadists and psychopaths among us who would curdle your blood." Then he relented in the face of that yearning. Angel was not the only one who hated being controlled by something other than his own will. "But no, most of us are no more monsters than sharks are."

"You aren't driven by the thirst for blood." Angel was doubtful and, yes, jealous.

"Not all the time. Control comes with age. The newly turned are still … volatile." Eric cocked his head, comparing the inside of the chest to the outside. Yes, the bottom was higher than it should be. He put his fist through it and set to removing the smashed wood, revealing a layer of filthy rags. "This one has a false bottom. Check that one."

Angel got off his perch and thumped around inside his chest for a moment. "No such luck, this one's solid. So no bloody rampages, no massacre of innocents for you?"

"Not if we want to survive. Such things endanger us all." There was something under the rags — flat, rectangular parcels wrapped in oil cloth. Eric picked one at random and unwrapped it carefully. It was a book. He flicked through it as he spoke. "To go on a bloody spree of the kind you once enjoyed is to risk being put down. That has always been so, even before we went public."

Angel came closer, halting at a respectful distance when Eric lifted his head and gave him a sharp look.

"Went public?" he asked. "People know about you?"

"We came out of the coffin, as the breathers term it, a few years ago." Eric peered at the text scrawled on the pages. It was gibberish to him. "Hiding was no longer feasible given the advances in technology. It was felt best to go public on our terms."

The hint of disapproval in his tone was lost on Angel, who focused on one thing. "On our terms. You're organised. Vampires co-operate, they work together?"

"Yes. Speaking of which, can you read this?" He threw the book to Angel and unwrapped another, scowling when it proved just as incomprehensible.

"Sure. It's a demon tongue, I know it." Angel ran his finger down a page, skimming. "Rituals to enhance magical power. Nothing useful to us."

"What about this one? Persian, I think." He passed it over.

"So it is. I don't know it well enough to translate." Angel flicked through it anyway, stopping at a diagram and turning the book sideways. "Binding rituals. Not what we're after either."

"You understand magic. You can cast spells?" Eric asked casually as he picked out another parcel, a larger one. He was unsettled by the idea Angel could do something he couldn't.

"Some. If I have instructions. Rituals, that kind of thing." Angel looked up and smiled. "And you can't."

Damn. He'd been too casual. Angel was no fool, despite his sentimental wallowing, and it wouldn't do to forget that he had decades of experience handling vampires, albeit a different kind. Eric unwrapped a third book, feigning nonchalance. "No, I can't. Magic in my world uses living energy. Thus it is a power closed to vampires, even ones who were witches before turning."

"Oh. That sucks."

Eric blinked and gave him a hard stare. "Was that meant to be funny?"

Angel smiled again. "Touchy about vampire jokes, are we?"

"You wouldn't believe the shit the breathers come out with. I've heard them all, and far more times than they bear repeating." Eric squinted at the book in his hand, and then across at the marks on the flagstones. There. That one was the same. And those two. He might not understand magic, but he had an excellent memory. He held the book out, tapped the page and pointed across the room. "This is the one we want."

Angel took it and Eric waited patiently while he skimmed through it.

"This is… That makes no sense. Wait... Okay, that's…" After a longer pause, Angel looked up. "My Sumerian is rusty, but it's a wish spell, I think. Powerful stuff. Looks like they were using the religious symbols to create a portal to Earth. Every demon's favourite vacation spot. Sun, sand, and plenty of tasty human snacks."

"Which Earth?"

"I can't tell. The book is vague on that, and, like I said, my Sumerian is rusty. Looks like they used a reverse summoning spell, added some elemental incantations, that's always risky, and then they —"

Eric, uninterested in arcane magical theory, cut to the chase. "And we came through this portal?"

Angel looked between the marks on the flagstones and the book doubtfully. "I don't think so. That summoning circle hasn't been used in some time, and this implies—"

They both turned at a faint noise from across the room. Angel was far more surprised than Eric, who began to smile. Finally.

A deep clanging came from the doors and then the groan of metal shifting. Eric blurred towards them, Angel following. In front of the doors, the younger vampire dropped into a crouch, game face on and hands clawed, ready to rend.

Eric growled menacingly and when that wasn't effective, he let his power unroll with a decided snap and hissed, "It is friend not foe. Stand down."

"How do you know?" Angel straightened up, his face beginning to smooth.

"Trust me, I know." His blood was singing with her presence and he couldn't help grinning around his fangs. "Know this: touch her and I will end you."

Angel, face human again, raised his eyebrows as the doors swung open a few feet, eerily silent. A narrow beam of light swung wildly through the gap and then a blonde woman stepped through it, dressed in blouse, jeans and sneakers.

"Eric?" Her torch swung unerring towards him and her face lit up with a wide smile. "There you are."

"Lover. What took you?" Eric opened his arms and when Sookie took a running jump into them, he preceded to kiss her silly.

A throat cleared, bringing Sookie back to her senses. She pulled away, biting her lip and blushing. Knowing that signalled an end to his fun, Eric squeezed her butt for good measure and reluctantly set her down. Giving him a stern look that only made him smirk, she stepped away from him and blushed even more when she spotted Angel in the shadows.

"Sorry about that, y'all," she said in a strong Southern accent. Her torch pointed at the ground, she turned to the smaller, younger blonde standing in the doorway. "Eric, this is…" She trailed off, staring at the girl.

"The Slayer, I presume," Eric finished. Stepping forwards, he pushed Sookie firmly behind him and carefully positioned his body between her and both potential threats.

Angel, who was tense and on the verge of vamping again.

And Buffy, who was holding a stake, with menace and intent to slay, her eyes hard and her jaw tight.

…