Author's Note: Since this chapter takes place long before the Angel Season 5 episode "Damage", Buffy & Co haven't necessarily yet traveled to the places that Andrew reports them being in when he visits LA. Ergo, I'm taking the artistic liberty of assuming that they haven't yet split up and gone their separate ways (to Rome, England, Africa, etc). It just makes things easier. As always, feedback is welcome.

23/05/07: I accidentally replaced this chapter with Baguettes And Other Good Things when I uploaded the third chapter. Sorry about that. :-P And thanks to Timeless Traveler for the heads-up.

2. A Psychic, A Seer And A Song

There is a rapture that my soul desires
There is a something that I cannot name.
I know not after what my soul aspires
Nor guess from whence the restless longing came.

---

He'd been wandering for a long time. He wasn't quite sure how long, or in which direction, or why. By the time he became fully aware of his surroundings, he was already out of Sunnydale (or rather, what used to be Sunnydale) and was walking on the dusty, sun-baked ground alongside a motorway

He was thirsty, but the thought of drinking blood physically repulsed him. For the first time in over a century, all he wanted was a glass of water. And maybe something to sit down on. His legs would probably be able to carry him for a while yet, but already they were beginning to ache with the monotonous exertion of walking. Perks aside, this humanity business doesn't seem to be good for much.

He tried to think of what a human would normally do in this kind of distressing scenario, and an image popped into his head of a man standing by the road with one arm extended, his hand clenched except for his thumb, which pointed upwards. Yeah, that's right. Hitch-hiking. It was as good as an idea as any, so he decided to try it.

It felt fairly ridiculous to be standing by the side of the road with his thumb in the air, but less than a minute passed before a car slowed down. The driver, a heavily made-up middle-aged woman wearing a short black dress and stiletto heels, leaned across her seat to push the passenger side door open. "You need a ride, honey?"

'Honey'? And what's with that get-up? "Uh, that depends. Where are you off to?"

The woman gave him a broad smile. "Now that's not really something you should be asking, is it? Beggars can't be choosers, after all." She nudged the door open further. "Hop in."

Spike was about to comply, but then he hesitated. The woman's stare reminded him of the way he used to look at human throats. Like a cat cornering a fat mouse. "No, I don't think so."

"What?"

"You heard me. No thanks." Spike turned and started walking down the road. To his annoyance, the woman drove the car forward slowly along the hard shoulder, following him. The door was still open.

"Aw, come on, now. You're not likely to get many more offers." She gave him a sugary smile. "I'll take you wherever you wanna go."

Yeah, I bet you will. Cradle-snatcher. Spike was probably two or three times the woman's age, but she couldn't possibly know that; for all she knew, he was a spry young twenty-something-year-old. "Look, Mrs. Robinson, I said no. Now stop violating traffic laws and get back on the road."

The woman managed to keep up the smile. "Mrs. Robinson? So you think I look like Anne Bancroft, hmm? I'll take that as compliment."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Take it any way you want and get the hell away from me." Then he realized what he'd just said and, from the lascivious smile spreading across her face, the woman had realized it too.

"Any way I want? That sounds like fun," she said coyly.

This is just unbelievable. Been alive for a few hours and already I'm being picked up by a bloody geriatric sexual predator.

He bent down to look at the woman's face. "Turn up that hearing aid, grandma. I'm not interested, so bugger off."

She finally had the sense to be offended and drove off without another word, leaving Spike extremely relieved but still pretty much stranded. He didn't have any choice but to stick his thumb out again and hope for the best.

---

The pick-up truck was extraordinarily dilapidated and smelled like live chickens (which made sense, since cages full of the poor things were stacked back in the truck's bed), but there was very little chance that the hefty male driver was planning on making any sexual advances at Spike, so he wasn't about to complain.

The man was headed for San Diego and as far as Spike was concerned, it was as good a destination as any other. He had no idea where to start looking for the ex-Sunnydale group – and most importantly, Buffy – but there was more than one psychic in San Diego and with the right amount of not-so-gentle persuasion they'd probably be willing to help him out.

---

"No."

Spike couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What? Why not?"

The psychic woman who advertised herself as Lady Mortolla but had been born Janice Alvin Walker rolled her eyes and rearranged the many shawls wrapped around her shoulders. Her Eastern European accent was incredibly thick and incredibly fake. "I am a psychic – a medium. I communicate with the spirit world and Things From Beyond." This was said with suitable dramatic emphasis, so that it sounded more like "Thiiings From Beyooond."

"Yeah, I read the bloody poster. That's why I'm here. So what's the problem then?"

"You are looking for a living person," Lady Mortolla huffed impatiently. "I cannot help you. I see only what has been, not what is."

Spike was surprised at how different anger felt to him as a human being. He was used to anger as a cold, thrilling feeling: fuel for the demonic instincts of his vampire side. Now it was a far more immediate emotion. "Listen, I don't have time to mess around. If you can't help me, tell me who can."

"You need a seer," she said, spitting out the word 'seer' in a tone of extreme disgust. "One of them can help you find this Fluffy."

"Buffy," Spike corrected her.

"Really? Oh, the poor girl." She caught sight of Spike's murderous expression and added, "But I'm sure she's perfectly charming, despite her … unusual name." His scowl deepened and she continued in a hurry: "In any case, there is a seer on Cobalt Street who is reputed to be less of a fraudulent maggot than the rest of his kind. He's in the Rosemere apartment building; number 14. If you must consult one of them, go to him."

---

Spike stood in front of the door of apartment number 14 and took a deep breath (a process which continued to amaze him) before ringing the doorbell. He waited, rang it again, and waited some more.

Eventually heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the door, accompanied by giggling. The door slid open a crack and Spike was surprised to see the face of a brown-eyed little boy staring up at him from about waist-height. He looked up at him questioningly and asked, in a breathy lisp, "Quiénes son usted?"

Oh, great. Spike wasn't quite sure why this child had answered the door, but he had a vivid image of an angry parent coming out, baseball bat in hand, to ask him what the hell he was doing talking to their kid. Let's hope this seer bloke is at home.

On top of that, his Spanish was embarrassingly bad and so there'd be little chance of making himself understood unless someone in the place spoke English. Might as well ask Junior here. "Uh… Do you speak English?"

The boy gave him an oddly solemn, searching glance. "Yes," he said finally, in the same lisping voice. "I do. You are William and Spike," he added suddenly, his eyes now fixed on the ex-vampire's hair.

Spike raised a hand to his platinum blonde hair self-consciously. "That's an odd way of putting it. But yeah, that'd be me. How do you –?"

"I am Miguel," the boy interrupted, with a childish grin that revealed two large gaps in his teeth. "I know where she is."

"She? She as in Buffy?" Spike was so interested by this declaration that he bent down until his face was level with the boy's and forgot momentarily that he was speaking to a six-year-old. "Where is she?"

To his complete surprise, the boy opened his mouth and began to sing in a sweet, high-pitched, slightly off-key voice. "I love Paris in the spriiingtime, I love Paris in the faaall…"

Spike quickly overcame his shock. "She's in Paris? Are you sure?"

Miguel looked him straight in the eye and continued to sing. "I love Paris, why, oh why do I love Paris...?" And then he paused, as though expecting Spike to answer him.

"I don't know this song," Spike told him. "Sorry, mate. Would you mind just telling me?"

A few moments passed and then the boy sighed. His voice dropped to a low, solemn whisper and he spoke rather than sang: "Because my love is near."

He tilted his head so that his dark brown curls brushed against his shoulder, and gave Spike another gap-toothed, childishly sincere smile. "Hotel Elysees Opera, Rue de Turin. But only for nine more days."

"Where'll she go after that?"

Miguel shrugged, a slightly troubled expression crossing his face. "I don't know. It's … cloudy. Usted debe apresurarse. You must hurry. Sí?"

Spike found himself feeling relieved for the first time in what seemed like an age. "Sí," he repeated, smiling.

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