CHAPTER 10: IMPACT

We sit in the same room
Side by side
I give you the wrong lines
Feed you

Look into my eyes
We both smile
I could kill you
Without trying

That's accuracy
Practice all day for accuracy

Mirror mirror on the wall...

            ~Accuracy, The Cure
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"A big stupid poof with even stupider hair?" the man asked with a smirk, finishing her sentence.

She took a step back, uncertain. He looked familiar, and he had probably saved her life… but who…?

The memory clicked into place with sudden certainty. "I remember you. William the Bloody," she said with a shake of her head. "I'll be damned. Wow, you just never know what's gonna happen next around here." She folded her arms over her chest and grinned.

His eyes narrowed, fixing on her intently, suddenly suspicious. "Have we met, luv?"

"Once," she said shortly, deciding it would be too difficult to explain, not to mention much more fun to keep him guessing. "So!" She put her hands on her hips and nodded toward him. "I guess that chip's really working out for you, huh? Turned to killing your own kind. Hunh. And they said electro-shock therapy didn't work."

He edged forward, the suspicion spreading from his eyes to permeate his entire posture. "How do you…?" He stopped, looked at her again, rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Wait a minute," he said, realization dawning. The transformation was startling, his eyes brightening with understanding and just a touch of gloating. "I know you." She could hear the bitter irony creeping into his tone. "You're Faith. Bloody hell. And here I thought you were a new Slayer."

"Wow. You've heard of me. I'm impressed," she remarked with disinterested, biting sarcasm.

"Heard of you? Oh, I've heard all about you, luv," he said with a cynical laugh.

Thrusting his hands in the pockets of his coat he walked up to her, surveying her with a tilt of his head, the scrutiny of his gaze unsettling her. Shifting her stance, she tightened her grip on her stake.

"Yeah, well, good for you," she said tightly, her eyes hardening. She wondered what he knew, how he knew it… from the tone of his voice, none of it was good. "Guess we can skip the pleasantries, then."

"Right down to business then, is it?" he asked, looking pleased and amused. He nodded his approval, giving her a slight smile. "I like that in a gal."

"Know what I like in a vamp? Wood," she said, stepping up to him and lifting her stake.

He raised his brows and tilted his head back, looking at her as if he were offended. "I just saved your life," he said, sounding indignant.

"Right," she scoffed, half-laughing. "I totally had it under control."

"Oh, and I suppose you were going to use the new holes in your neck for better ventilation?" he asked snidely.

Annoyed, she shifted her shoulders and glared at him. "I don't have time for this. There are real threats wandering the streets out here. You know, the kind that can actually hurt people?" she asked pointedly, her voice dripping sarcasm.

He blinked, looking baffled, then snorted and shook his head. "You're a right bitch, aren't you? Fine. Go on, then. Get yourself killed," he dismissed her with a derisive wave of his hand.

After a moment's hesitation, she sheathed her stake, gave him a disgusted look and then pushed past him, following the direction the vampire with the books had gone.

"Oh, by the way…"

She spun, something in the tone of his voice making her turn, body suddenly taut, coiled and ready to spring. She saw several objects flying through the air at her and reached out with her arms, managing to catch two of them on instinct alone. The other two hit the ground with solid thuds, and looking down, she realized they were old books.

"I killed the other one before I came back to… 'not help' you." He lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "Good luck figuring out what they wanted 'em for," he said in a tone of voice that suggested she'd have better luck trying to sprout wings.

Slowly, she looked up from the books at him, eyes thoughtful. Something about the way he spoke… the way he'd said that… the way he knew that the books were important…

"You know something about this, don't you?" It was barely even a question, she was so certain of what she said.

He had already turned to walk away, but he paused when she spoke, shrugging again. "You don't need my help, remember?"

She dropped the books and was on him in seconds, grabbing him by the back of his coat and spinning him around into the wall. She put one forearm across his collarbone, pushing against his throat and yanked out the stake with her other hand, holding it up and back, poised to strike.

"Tell me what you know and I won't stake you," she said threateningly.

He chuckled and shook his head, eyes looking heavenward. "Don't you Slayers ever come up with any new techniques?"

She pushed harder against his collarbone, her eyes cold and dangerous. "Why should we when brute force works so well? Come on, Spike, spill. I know you're dying to, that's why you came out here in the first place, right?" Her voice was mean, taunting.

Incredibly, his eyes filled with sadness, and then quickly, as if catching himself, they hardened with anger, his face tightening. For a moment she was struck by the raw power of emotion she saw in him, and then the moment passed, so fast that she began to doubt it had ever happened.

"Oh yeah, because I just can't wait to spill my bloody guts to you, who I've known all of five minutes and already can't stand." Yeah, big talk, Spike, keep the sarcasm heavy, he thought. Did he even know why he was here? Only in the vaguest sense… a feeling he couldn't quite explain.

"You wanna know about the Undead Summer Reading Circle?" he asked petulantly. "We don't do it like this."

"Really?" she asked flatly, never relaxing her grip. "How do 'we' do it, then?"

"Like civilized people; in chairs, with a table, some atmosphere. And beer," he added defiantly, as if daring her to question him.

She looked at him for a long moment, dark eyes searching his light blue ones. At last, she dropped her arm from him and stepped back. Stuffing the stake down the front of her jeans, she grinned at him in a way that was not altogether pleasant and shrugged her indifference.

"What the hell?" she asked with rhetoric whimsy.

He pushed away from the wall and straightened his jacket indignantly, giving her a hard look. "And you're buying."

She raised her brows at him and smiled in genuine amusement.

"Aw, and here I thought this was gonna be a real date."

She turned and began walking down the street. Spike stood, bewildered for a moment by her comment, and then followed after.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

They found a seedy little bar toward the docks side of town, dank and dimly lit, sparsely occupied. Perfect for people who wanted to drink and didn't want to be seen. Faith hadn't been able to read the weathered sign hanging over the door, and she wondered if the place even had a name.

They were sitting in a worn leather booth in a dark corner of the club, such as it was, Spike sipping his beer and Faith growing more impatient by the moment.

"So," he said, giving her a last once over with his eyes. "I hear you're evil."

"I prefer the term 'heroically-challenged'," she said, affecting bored sarcasm. "How about you? They got a term for guys like you? Besides 'has-been', I mean."

"Ooooo," he said, exaggerating being impressed. "Kitten's got claws. Guess I'd better watch my manners."

"Screw manners," she said abruptly, leaning over the table toward him. "What do you know, blondie?"

"That you're an insufferable, arrogant sod," he said smoothly, eyeing her over the rim of his glass as he took another drink. Bloody hell but she was irksome. Her very voice set him on edge.

She blinked in surprise, and then smiled in wry appreciation, nodding her head. "Wow, I bet you're a real ladies man, pick-up lines like that."

"Well, I'm saving, 'nice boots, wanna have a go?' for someone who's actually desirable," he said bitingly, setting down his mug.

"Your loss," she said with a shrug.

Could she be real? With her alternately bright and somber moods, light and dark humor, and volatile temper, she could be anyone or anything at any given time, and he had absolutely no idea what to make of her. He was used to being able to read people, to see into their hearts. It was a talent he'd used to his advantage back when he'd been the big bad… now he mostly relied on it for survival. But this girl… she was something else all together. He would have sworn that she used her smooth, tough front to cover her pain, but there was something about her that rang true. She was pretending, hiding, and yet… in every word, every moment, every gesture, there was something very real, very revealing, and completely sincere.

"So, are we gonna get down to business, or are you gonna continue to seduce me with your dazzling charm?" she asked, and he could tell her tone was pitched to project exactly how unimpressed she was.

He snorted and shook his head, looking away. The faint sound of country music drifted on the smoky air, a sad woman proclaiming that somebody done somebody wrong, and the entire room reeked of loneliness, shadowy patrons sitting alone at their shadowy tables, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. They might have been the only couple in the room… but somehow, he felt even lonelier than he imagined those others did.

"I don't even know why I bloody came here," he muttered, running a hand through his platinum blond hair.

"Because I threatened to stake you if you didn't, remember?" she said bluntly, her tone growing threatening again.

"Oh yeah. Right." He nodded emphatically. "Suddenly I'm feeling much more chatty."

She cut her eyes at him and set her jaw, and despite himself, he couldn't help but notice the delicious, dark electricity that emanated from her when she was pissed. There was something about her that reminded him of both Drusilla and Buffy… a strange, mismatched and somehow intoxicating blend of womanly power… he found himself drawn to her, and yet strangely and strongly repelled at the same time.

"Just make with the explaining," she was saying, dark eyes flashing him a warning. "My therapist says people who beat around the bush set off my psychosis. It's a whole impatience thing."

"Yeah, I'd heard that you were a real gone bird," he said with a nod.

"You don't know anything about me," she snapped menacingly.

"I know you're a Slayer who's tasted the dark side of life. Gave up the noble goal for a slice of power…" he said, seeming to gloat. "Only it didn't work out so good, did it? Got yourself stuck in a coma for a year, then went to jail." He leaned forward and took another drink from his mug, eyes surveying her with a mocking gleam. "They make 'after-school specials' scarier than that," he confided with nasty glibness.

She glanced furtively around the room, and he suspected that if there'd been no other patrons present, she'd have staked him then and there and been done with it. He suspected she was thinking about doing it anyway.

"Ah, ah. Temper, temper," he said mockingly, shaking a finger at her. "You'll never get what you want, that way."

"What I want, vampire, is to know what you know about these books," she hissed through clenched teeth.

"Don't you know how to dance, Slayer?" he asked, a smile playing about his lips. "Buy a bloke a drink… make with the niceties."

Her eyes fairly burned with hatred, and for a brief instant, he feared for his existence… then she pushed up violently from the table, turning to leave.

Fine. Let her go, spoke up the voice in his head, and he was tempted. It would be a lot easier to let her walk away, to stay disentangled from her life. But another part of him, the part he more and more often berated for its idiocy, found him reaching out after her, grabbing her by the hand and turning her about.

Her eyes blazed righteous fury down at him, and he couldn't help but smile.

"All right," he said quietly. "I'll tell you. Just sit down."

She yanked her hand from his, looking at him guardedly, seeming offended that he had dared to touch her… then she hitched up her shoulders arrogantly, hardened her eyes and nodded once. "It better be good," she said roughly, not bothering to sit. "And it'd better be fast."

"I bet you say that to all the boys." He smirked, and then, catching her glare, he nodded, taking another drink, gazing down into the mug, as if gathering his thoughts. The mood between them changed almost imperceptibly, and he could almost see his image in her mind, his status shifting from mistrusted stranger to… what? Mistrusted informant, maybe?

"I cut a deal with a demon a few days back… a Biblohsak, real literature type… he said he's had lots of vamps hitting him up for goods lately… spell books and such. He thought that was kind of odd, seeing as most vampires aren't 'Little Reader' types, asked me if I knew anything about it. Said they were looking for Ancient Sumerian restoration rituals." He raised his eyes to hers, curious to see if she knew what to make of that.

"Ancient Sumerian…" she echoed, and he could see the spark of recognition in her eyes, her focus suddenly going far away as she pondered, making some sort of connection in her mind. Then she seemed to snap back into the moment, eyes focusing on him in a belligerent, demanding manner. "So? What's the big deal about that?"

Smirking without humor, he raised his brows, looking at her intently. "Restoration rituals are serious powerful mojo. The kind of stuff that makes that "power of three" crap look like Romper Room. Any creature brave enough to play around with that kind of magic... must want something really bad. Probably looking to give power back to some big nasty, maybe even bring somebody back."

"Back from where?" she asked, confused.

"The plane of fluffy puppies and fairy dust," he answered with a roll of his eyes. "From the dead, Slayer," he clarified, annoyed.

She stared at him, seeming bewildered by the information, and in that moment, he actually felt sorry for her. Poor girl probably had no idea how to handle something like this. Street-fighting and gutter sniping seemed more her style than foiling evil plots, from what he'd seen.

"Why are you telling me this, Spike?" she asked, her voice edgy.

"You're the one that threatened to stake me if I didn't, remember?" he asked, uttering a disgusted snort of laughter.

She stood there, her face set as if carved from stone, but he could see the vulnerability creeping in. She was worried… scared, maybe. He could hardly blame her; it wasn't good news. And perhaps he'd been too forthcoming with the helpful information, because she was looking at him like she didn't believe his flippant answer.

He sat back in his seat, tipped his mug up and drained it, then set it on the table with a dull thud, shrugging his shoulders and looking away from her. "You are the Slayer right? One girl chosen in all the world and all that rot? Figured this was your gig."

"I meant why are you helping me?" she asked, more forcefully. There was a desperate note beneath her hard voice. "You don't even know me. What do you get out of this?"

What was he getting out of this? Here in this dismal place, drinking watered down beer, helping the Slayer, of all people. He bit the inside of his cheek and chuckled bitterly at himself. Oh, he knew why, knew how pathetic it was, too, and be damned if he was going to share with her.

He shrugged. "Big nasties around here have a tendency to want to end the world a lot, and I don't fancy shuffling off this mortal coil just yet." It was an easy answer, a pat reply that she probably wouldn't question.

She looked at him intently for a long moment, as if weighing his words, her eyes flickering with indecision. Then her gaze grew suddenly distant and cold again, and she nodded, giving him a bleak smile. "Well, you get to live another night, anyway," she said, as if she were granting him a personal gift. "Lucky you"

Grabbing the knapsack he had loaded the books into, she turned and strode out of the bar.

In the end, Spike ended up paying for his own beer.

He didn't feel lucky.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

He successfully resisted the urge to follow after her, making his way back to his crypt for the night. Maybe there'd be some good old black and white movie on the telly, something cheerful and mindless. Lord knew he hadn't had enough of those two things lately. Of course, his tastes regarding happiness had changed a lot since the chip had been inserted into his brain, and more often than not, the things that used to bring him joy—killing, feeding, fighting—were impossible to enact now, and their memories only filled him with helpless anger.

Of course, for a while, there had been Buffy… but he tried not to think too much about her. It was hard enough to bear her absence, worse to be consciously aware of it every moment.

It seemed like the only thing that brought him any pleasure anymore was trailing this new Slayer, and at first, he'd thought it was because it reminded him of the old days, when he had hunted Slayers for the fun of it. He had hunted many more than he had killed; most had died before he'd gotten the chance to kill them himself. Going through the motions of hunting had seemed to bring him some comfort, so he had accepted it at face value… he hadn't really wanted to think about that, either… but he guessed that even then some part of him had understood exactly what was going on.

He'd seen her fight for the first time more than a week ago. That was when he realized there was a part of him that cared what happened to this girl, whether she lived or died, and he had been so stunned by the idea, so stupefied in the face of such an illogical feeling, that he'd missed the rest of the battle. Luckily, that night she'd won without his help. He'd stumbled home in a daze, unable to understand what was happening to him, why his life kept throwing him such strange and twisted turns, and at first he'd been horrified that he was falling in love with her. He'd spent hours feeling terrible, guilty, as if he were betraying Buffy's memory by caring about anyone else… but at some point during the night, in the wee hours, he had figured out the truth of the matter.

Stupid as it sounded, somehow, being around this new Slayer, in some strange way, made him feel more connected to Buffy… as if a part of her spirit lived on in another, and in some bizarre sense, he supposed that was true. What was the Slayer power if not a spirit that passed from body to body?

Buffy… it always came down to her, didn't it? Ever since that moment four years ago when he'd come back to Sunnydale, everything had been about her. Slayers had always been a passion of his… he'd hunted many of them in his time, but always with the fascination of finding an equal predator, always with the intent to kill them, never with a care for them as a person. It wasn't until her that his fascination had given way to love, and letting her into his heart had forever changed the way he viewed Slayers.

They had simply been a challenge for him, the ultimate enemy to best in combat so he could add another notch in his belt… but after knowing Buffy, after fighting against her, after standing and fighting by her side, after seeing all she had suffered and sacrificed and given up, he had a whole new understanding of what it meant to be a Slayer. A poor little girl, forced into a world she barely understood, ultimately destined to die at the hands of some monster, fighting a war that would go on long after she died. All she had to look forward to was constant struggling, fighting, and fear while she waited for her inevitable death, which would come far too soon.

Once, he would have seen the dark beauty in that, appreciated the futility and inevitability of it. Now it only made him feel bitter and sad and empty. The chip in his head had begun his sea-change into something rich and strange, but the loss of Buffy had added a new dimension all together. He didn't know who or what he was anymore… no one did. And all of that left him somewhere in the middle of the field, fighting next to the people who'd once been his mortal enemies.

The Scoobies… he'd told them about the evil afoot in Sunnydale, of course, and Giles had been researching his books here and there. But they were all too caught up in their own grief and suffering to be much use fighting against the forces of darkness just now… better to let them sort things out, he thought, let this new gal have a go at the mystery. Each of the Scoobies had their own area of expertise, but when it came to hitting the streets and knowing what was going on around town, no one had a better line on things than the Slayer herself—except for the creatures of darkness she fought against.

Creature of darkness… is that what he was? Not anymore. Not even if he wanted to be. In the end, Buffy had seen that, had treated him like a man… but she had been the only one. He missed her like a vital organ, every day an exercise in dying by inches.

He didn't watch the telly. He didn't even turn it on. He crawled into his stone coffin, trench coat and all, wrapping it around him like a shroud as he curled up in a ball and fell fast asleep.

In his dreams, she lived.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Faith barged into the mansion, startling Angel from his seat.

"I didn't expect you back," he said, half-questioning.

"They're looking for a restoration spell," she said simply, not bothering to waste time prefacing the explanation.

Angel blinked, glanced down at the book in his hand, and then slowly looked back up at her. "You're sure?"

She nodded. "As sure as I can be, considering the source."

"The source?"

"Your old pal, Spike," she said casually, walking past him and dumping the knapsack out on the table, the old books sliding out in an untidy heap.

This time, his whole body jolted, just slightly, with shock. "You're serious? Spike told you this? And you believe him?"

"He didn't have a reason to lie." She shrugged.

"He's Spike," Angel said darkly, as if that explained everything. "He doesn't need a reason."

"Well, he is all chipped in the head. Killing his own kind and helping out the heroes. He…" she trailed off, looking at Angel as if suddenly seeing him in a new light. Then she grinned, realizing how much he was going to hate this. "He was actually a lot like y—"

"Don't let him fool you," he cut her off quietly. "He's a killer."

"So are we," she shot back.

He flinched as if the truth of her words had struck him, his gaze falling to the floor. "You can't trust him."

"Not really a problem," she said dryly. "I think he was on the level about this ritual though."

Angel thought about it for a moment, and then nodded, as if dismissing his doubts, or at least, setting them aside for now.

"I think I saw something not long ago about a restoration ritual," he said, and now that the moment of conflict had passed, his voice betrayed a touch of excitement. He crossed the room to the bookshelf where all the old texts now resided, put away the book he'd been perusing and pulled down a thick volume bound in cracked brown leather. He brought it to the table and opened it, motioning Faith over to next to him.

"I think it was somewhere in here," he said, turning about a quarter of the way through the tome. He scanned each page briefly with the cloudy magnifying glass, and Faith leaned over his shoulder, trying to see if she could catch any of the words.

"It translates to Latin," he explained, never taking his attention from the book; turning pages, skimming paragraphs and turning past gruesome depictions of rituals—

"Here," he said, and this time there was no mistaking the excitement in his voice. "'The Ritual of Rebirth is a restoration ritual with origins in the various rituals of blood and soul…'" he skipped further down the page. "'Other, lesser-known restoration rituals include Rejuvenation of the Heart, Restoration of the Soul…'" he trailed off, scanning further down the page. "It gives a list… no details, just the names and some notes of origin and a lot of stuff I can't make out."

He turned his head to look at Faith, and she could see the thoughts rushing through his mind. She had no idea what any of that crap meant, except in the broadest sense, but it seemed as if Angel might.

"Damn," he swore, shaking his head and looking back down at the text. "I wish I had my books here… I'll have to call Cordelia, have her do some cross-referencing online."

"And what exactly will she be looking for?" Faith asked with a confused frown.

"The location of an ancient Sumerian restoration ritual."

"But we don't even know which one," she said, exasperated.

"Yes we do," Angel replied, picking up a pen and beginning to write out the list of rituals. "Any of them that might be in Sunnydale."

She thought about that for a second, not sure she understood him. "You mean you think this ritual's right here in town somewhere?"

He nodded. "It might be in one of the books that have been stolen, but that's not likely. Spell casters don't allow powerful secrets like that to become common knowledge. For that kind of ritual, they usually make scrolls because they're easier to hide and destroy. Chances are, our bad guy found a reference to a spell's existence here in Sunnydale, but probably it didn't say exactly where."

"So they're checking all the ancient Sumerian books first, just to make sure?"

"That's my guess." He stopped, frowned, looked up at her. "Who are they trying to restore?"

She folded her arms over her chest and shrugged. "Beats me. Spike didn't know." She glanced away, hesitating, and then looked back to him, her voice faltering slightly over the next words. "He… he said they might be trying to bring someone back from the dead."

His frown deepened and he returned his attention to writing. "We'd better hurry, then."

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A/N: Sorry all who've been asking or were hoping for Faith's meeting with the Scoobies this chapter. Stay tuned! A few more things have to go down before that will happen, but it will happen soon enough!