AUNTIE DRU by Fojiao2

by Babyverse Krewe

AU--Pride & Scourge. As Connor grew up in the Hyperion and at school, Drusilla has had an effect upon his life. These are small peeks at various important discussions between Connor and his Auntie Dru.

3. Age Fifteen

AUNTIE DRU
by Fojiao2 (Kevin A. Poston) and Ebony Silvers
A tale about Connor from the Babyverse
DISCLAIMER: None of the characters used here belong to me; most of them belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy; Baby, The Pride, Jean Claude, René, and Claudia belong to Ebony Silvers. I profit from none of this.
RATING: R
SPOILERS: "Highway to Hell," "Slept So Long Without You," "Bed of Roses."
DEDICATION: For Ebony, who encouraged me in the writing of this.

AGE FIFTEEN – September 13, 2017
The whispers Connor heard at night were not a nightmare, but came from memory. That made them all the more terrifying. They always began with the same scarily familiar voice, cast into the subtlest of Irish lilts.

[OUTSIDE]
ANGELUS: Pathetic, really. A cock is not a hot dog, Cordy; you have to show it a little care, some energy and flair. Not that weak little tongue-twirl thing. Jeez, didn't you learn ANYTHING on that cheerleader squad? Harmony told me some of the things that Coach Andrews got up to with you girls.

BABY: Aw, that's sick. Next you're gonna say that Snyder was— yeeurch, I don't even wanna think about it.

ANGELUS: Those Sunnydale kids couldn't've taught you a thing, my girl. You actually know how to give a blowjob—I'll bet that bastard do-gooder grandchilde of mine taught you all those lovely tricks, eh?

BABY: All of which you probably taught him. Ooh, now there's a nice picture. Sorta gettin' me interested over here.

[INSIDE]
CORDY: I can't take much more of this.

DRU: They want you to scream. Daddy wants us to open up. We can't let him. If Angelus gets his hands on Connor the world is over. Over!

[OUTSIDE]
ANGELUS: Interested, eh? Maybe if Cordy could HEAR a great blowjob being given it'd give her some incentive.

BABY: Again? I've given you two this morning, Sire. You're getting greedy.

ANGELUS: I know. It's a bastard, I am. Lucky I have a whore like you around, eh?

[INSIDE]
CORDY: Are you sure he can't get in?

DRU: I changed the combination on the lock.

CORDY: But Baby could do it, couldn't she? I mean, that's the sorta thing she does!

DRU: Only if Daddy can give her a reason to. She's an empty fish now, she doesn't really care.

CORDY: He's her sire and— and she's his consort now, too. She'll do it if he tells her to. If he thinks of it. What then?

DRU: I'll take them.

CORDY: Angelus is your sire and he's a hundred years older.

DRU: It doesn't matter. He has no idea how to do thrall. I could take them all at the same time.

CORDY: So you can do that thrall to them whenever you want? Why can't you do it through the door?

DRU: You have power of your own, Cordelia. Why can't you use that through the door?

[OUTSIDE]
BABY: This isn't working. Maybe we shouldn't focus on Cordy.

ANGELUS: What do you suggest?

BABY: Come here, Wes.

WESLEY: Yes, Sire?

BABY: Talk to your woman. Get her to open the door.

WESLEY: (sigh) Must I?

ANGELUS: We wouldn't need to if your barrier spells weren't so effective. And if you didn't hide the anti-spells inside the safe-room!

WESLEY: Drusilla had told me to do it, old man. It was that damnable prophetic talent of hers. (leaning against the door) Drusilla? Pet, why are we involved in this at all? You're risking your life for Cordelia, that hairbrained twit? Or is it the boy? I tell you now, my princess, he's already dead. If you dared to look into the future you would know this. There is no reason for you to be hurt, my dove, not when I am here for you. We'll go away together, you and me, far from these laughable battles over what's 'right.' You know that we have no loyalty to anyone besides ourselves. Come, precious, come away with me. Open the door and we'll disappear into the night. Open the door.

[INSIDE]
DRU: Oh, my Wesley, my darling lost boy. Oh, they've stolen him, they've set him adrift. Oohhhhh. I must sit down, I must.

[OUTSIDE]
BABY: It's still not working. Try again, Wes.

WESLEY: I don't see how it will do any good. She saw me upstairs, she knows I've changed. Drusilla may be many things but she's not stupid.

BABY: So what do we do?

WESLEY: We could kill Angelus.

BABY and ANGELUS: What?!

WESLEY: It would get them to trust us. I certainly have no love for my grandsire. Just say the word, Sire, and I'll dice him up for you.

ANGELUS: It'll take a lot more than that switchblade to kill me, boy.

WESLEY: Well, I do have all night.

BABY: Boys! Have you forgotten that Spike is on his way here? He doesn't need to wait for night like we do. And do any of us want to be here when he arrives?

[INSIDE]
CORDY: Oh God, Connor, baby, why won't you talk? You're not even blinking!

DRU: Don't touch him.

CORDY: Why not?

DRU: That axe he holds is thirsty for blood. Whoever touches him first may feel its touch.

CORDY: Connor would never hurt me. I'm—aagghh!

Connor bolted up in bed, holding his scream in his throat through will alone. It was getting easier to hold it all in. He'd been doing this for nine months, after all. The whispers always started as they had in his memory, and then spiraled into nightmare at the end. They didn't decrease in their power to harm him—he just got tougher as the months went on.

It was strange—and what in his life wasn't strange?—but he was actually grateful that the nightmares were so horrible. Because the rest of the day was easy in comparison. Nothing else he saw or heard during the day could bring those memories to life in the same way. So he was grateful to see the early morning sun shining through the Venetian blinds. He'd stay in the light and forget himself for a while, before being drawn back to it with nightfall. And he would fight to stay awake as long as possible.
Beside his bed were the first happy images he focused on each morning: a photo of his dad with Cordy sitting in his lap and her arms around Angel's torso, both of them grinning out of the frame directly at him, it seemed. Beside it, in a larger frame, was a group photo of the entire family—the Pride and the Scourge all in the lobby of the Hyperion—made when he was 14. There was Spike and Baby in the exact center, flanked by Angel and Cordy on one side and Wes and Dru on the other. Behind Spike, Claudia was looking at her sire, René was rolling his eyes and looking skyward, and Jean Claude looked forward resolutely. This was how he wanted to think of the family, the image he wanted to keep in his head through the daylight hours.

He knew that his father was in fact somewhere in middle America committing some vague evil, that his beloved Aunt Baby was at his side helping him, and that Uncle Wes was using magic to make sure that no one could stop them. And, oh yes, it seemed that good ol' René, who didn't have the excuse of losing a soul, had betrayed the entire family and sided with Angelus. Things had gone from blissfully perfect to this constant waking nightmare without any preparation, and now Connor was on his ninth month of living in denial. The big lie that he told himself every morning was that the family would get past this, that things would eventually return to normal when his dad got his soul back and the family was able to be one again. Deep within himself, where the memories that supplied his nightmares lurked, he knew that would never happen, but he had to get through the days somehow without crying hysterically and huddling in a corner. Drusilla was filling the quota on crying and self-torture, after all.

At least he had the comfort of staying in Spike's home. He was in the room he normally took when he visited, but this visit had been different from all others. He'd been removed from the Palmerston Academy in mid-term, only a year short of graduation, just as he was making a name for himself there, just as he was making that bastard Li Peng pay for pushing him around. Still, when he saw the shape that Ma was in, and imagined her having to stay in L.A. by herself to keep him in that school, he didn't regret it. And the Remillard School allowed him to audit classes at Tulane University, so his education wasn't suffering. In fact, he'd made more than a few discoveries here in New Orleans that he hadn't known back home. Chief among them was the time he spent with Jean Claude, who had become the young man's hero figure since Spike had gone all somber and depressed. And another treat was waiting across town.

He rose from bed and started toward the bathroom down the hallway. Just outside of his door one of his bodyguards sat on a chair leaning against the wall.

Mr. Pierce tsked. "Up so soon?" he asked. "That's barely three hours."

"It's also none of your business," Connor groused. He didn't look back as he continued down the hall and performed his morning rituals in the bathroom. The bodyguards, three of them, were his chief annoyance these days. They were thankfully not too noticeable in school, because they were professionals, but the very fact that they were necessary reminded him of how bad things really were. Pretending wasn't nearly so easy when they were around.

He returned to his room, the bodyguard silent as he passed. He dressed quickly and slipped out, moving silently through the halls. Mr. Pierce would normally have followed him, but Connor was safe inside Spike's household—it was when he left that they went into action. He still had a few hours until he was expected at school, but they knew Connor wouldn't leave until he made one visit.

It was just after sunup, so the building was stunningly quiet. There were a few live servants moving in the kitchen, Connor could hear that, but he was the only one moving on the second floor. He stayed just as quiet moving up to the third floor and made his way to the room at the far end of the hallway. He was a bit surprised to see Shelley exiting the door he was headed toward. She had sensed him when he first entered the hallway, and already had her finger to her lips asking him to remain quiet.

"What's wrong?" Connor whispered to her so softly that only a vampire could hear.

The beautiful vampiress, who looked like she could be Connor's age, shook her head sadly. "She's very bad this morning," she told him. "Up all night and still not calmed. I had to put her in restraints." The boy's face went hard—a sure sign that he was inwardly distressed but not willing to show it. The expression outlined the dark circles under his eyes even more, and Shelley reached out to cup his chin. "You look like you could do with some sleep yourself."

Connor shook off her hand; he hated any treatment that made him seem like a child. "I can still see her, can't I?"

"I'm not sure—she can be violent."

For a moment, Connor considered running to Spike and waking him: his uncle would definitely give him permission to enter, and maybe even reprimand Shelley for the reason he was awakened. If he'd been facing one of his bodyguards he wouldn't hesitate—he went over their heads all the time to get his way. But Shelley was family, and though he'd learned last year that family could indeed be taken away, losing four members in the same year was just over the top. He wouldn't give her any more headaches than those she already faced. "Shelley, she's the only aunt I have left," he said, letting Baby's name remain unsaid but echoing between them. He stepped forward and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I really appreciate how you're helping her. And I won't cause her any more distress. I just wanna see her for a few minutes."

Shelley looked directly into his powerful, expressive eyes, one of the better things he inherited from his father. "She's my grandsire," she said. "It's no trouble." She sighed. "Besides, your attention is good for her. I'm gonna get some blood from downstairs, okay? I'll be right back."

"Thanks," Connor said, watching her slip down the shadowed hallway. He took a deep, calming breath and opened the door. The room would have been pitch black if not for the soft blue fluorescents on the ceiling—the windows were boarded up. There was also no furniture here, as it had been broken apart time and again when the room's occupant became violent. Connor turned to his left and saw her: Drusilla was chained to the wall. Her manacles were padded at the wrists, but her arms were still drawn above her, and he was disturbed at seeing her so bound and helpless. She was dressed in a crimson slip, so that her white arms were bare, and her lithe legs drew the silk up to her knees because they were constantly moving, bare feet sliding across the bare wood floor. Her head rocked back and forth, lost in its net of thick dark brown hair.

Connor moved to her side quickly, sweeping the hair from her face. "Dru! Can you understand me, Dru?"

Drusilla's large, expressive eyes rolled. "Connor?" she trilled, and grinned drunkenly. "Where's Nina? Why isn't she with you?"

Connor sighed. "Dru, I've told you: I don't know anybody named Nina. And you won't tell me who she is."

Dru frowned. "Hmm, that's right, that's right. Not time yet, still the boy, not the man. Not the man Kevin is. The boy . . ." Her eyes wandered; but she'd not met his eyes yet, hadn't been entirely drawn from her interior world in nearly four months. She'd been lucid for the move to New Orleans, but after a few months started to drift away from the world around her. One day would see her resting quietly, singing to herself; then, without warning, she'd be experimenting with sticking her hand into sunlight, or pulling at Spike and begging him to take her back to Daddy. Finally she'd been confined to this room, and in her quieter and more sane moments Drusilla agreed with this decision.

"The boy . . ." Drusilla crooned. "The boy and . . . the dragon!" She sat up straight and stared him in the eye. "The dragon's death will kill our boy! We have to— have to do something!"

Connor closed his eyes and pulled Drusilla close to him, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the particular scent that was her. He had thought many things about Auntie Dru over the years, ascribed hundreds of qualities to her. But he hadn't seen her as weak, not once in his life . . . not until he saw her without Wesley, that is. Her utter collapse in the last few months showed him more about the couple than their words of love ever did. Cordy was handling it much like himself, having buried the pain and wearing a brave face. Spike seemed to have put himself on hold, teetering on the knife-edge of making a decision that would change his life forever. Drusilla alone was the vivid, screaming voice of the pain they all felt. If this was what love did to a person, Connor wasn't sure that he wanted it.

"He has a toy," Dru whispered, voice shaking in fear. "A little doll. His favorite."

"Willy," Connor said into her hair, still unable to open his eyes, not sure that he could do so without crying. "Willy Bloody."

"Yes," Dru said. "Make sure you get it, too. He'll be heartbroken without it."

"Okay," he replied, pulling away. "It's done." He opened his eyes and was glad to find that he could keep his tears at bay.

Dru looked at him in wonder. "Are you Stephen?" she asked. "How did you get here?"

Ah. He knew this one: Stephen was the alternate-Connor, the warpaint-wearing sociopath he remembered seeing when he was five. "No, Dru, it's me: Connor. I grew up. Remember?"

Drusilla smiled and nodded, obviously not listening to him. Connor sighed. He looked behind him to where the key hung on the wall. "You haven't been violent," he muttered. Then he said directly to her, "Do you want me to free your hands, Auntie Dru?"

She turned a brilliant smile on him and pulled twice on the manacles to emphasize her state. "Yes, please," she told him, her eyes begging.

Connor nodded and retrieved the key, then reached up to free her left hand. The instant he did, faster than he'd seen anyone except his father move, her hand was around his throat and she'd shoved him to the floor. She loomed over him, one arm still tied to the wall but seemingly forgotten, her game-face roaring into Connor's surprised expression. "Where's my daughter?" she hissed.

"I don't—" he was able to choke out, then she slammed his head onto the floor twice more. He put his hands around the wrist at his throat and could just barely budge her iron grip.

"Where is she?" Drusilla demanded. "I send my mind out and she isn't there. She wouldn't leave Mummy here to be held with chains. So why can't I feel her with my mind? Why can't I feel— Wesley?"

As suddenly as the rage had overtaken her, she was empty again. "Wesley-my-Wesley?" she peeped quietly as her fingers lost strength, her hand pulled back to her, curled and clutched to her breast. "Oh my sweet love, I can't even taste your ghost. You swore you'd never leave me. You swore."

Connor scrambled away from her, gasping, but she was somewhere else, her eyes and voice lost to the sea of spacetime that always swam around her. On his feet once more, Connor approached her cautiously, but she didn't notice. He took her left hand and returned it to the manacle, all without any resistance from the limp, mumbling woman he so loved. He stroked her cheek, wishing for the thousandth time that there was something he could do to help her. Then he crossed the room and stood by the door, staring at the tableau of Drusilla chained up in the blue shadows. It seemed like hours until Shelley appeared again.

"Was she active?" the vampiress asked.

Connor just shook his head once, then was out the door. Even his growing control over his emotions and his memories had its limits. He walked stiffly down the hallway, but instead of taking the turn to the left kept going straight to the window. The regular exit from the house didn't appeal to him suddenly—he felt a strong need to get out as quickly as possible, in a way that only he could. He pulled the dark curtains back, allowing sunlight to flood into the hall. He opened the tall windows and stepped onto the sill, looking at the street below. The second-floor covered balconies made it impossible to see the sidewalks, much less jump down onto them, so he'd have to land in the middle of the street. Luckily, it was still too early for the Vieux Carré's morning tourist traffic. He could hear only one person on the sidewalk, and could smell the whiskey surrounding him like an aura. He jumped from the third-floor window and landed on the street quietly, lightly, already in a fighting stance. There were no cars coming, and as he'd sensed, there was only one man on the sidewalk, staring in wonder at the young man who'd seemed to appear out of nowhere. The drunk looked at the building he stood next to, recognized it as the Master's, then looked at Connor once more. He very carefully nodded at the boy and then went his way. Connor smirked and stepped onto the sidewalk, heading for the building's front. He loved that he could sometimes show off in public in New Orleans, since the locals knew about and respected the Pride. As he stepped up to the corner he saw the silver convertible that was kept for his use, and Mr. Gibson, another bodyguard, sitting behind the wheel reading a newspaper.

Gibson noticed Connor the minute he landed. He put a hand to his comlink in his ear and said, "Pierce?"

"Pierce here," came the reply.

"Subject's on the street. We'll be schoolbound in seconds. Can you call Mr. James for me?"

Pierce's yawn was long. "Sure. Did you know he only slept three hours last night?"

"Did you know he's within hearing range of this comlink?" Gibson said. "Just make the call. Gibson out." With the newspaper still up, he could feel Connor rounding the car's hood and then taking the passenger's seat.

"It's early," Gibson observed. "You want to stop somewhere for breakfast or go straight to school?"

Connor shrugged. Gibson started the car and pulled away from the curb, thinking that Dru must have had one of her bad mornings. "I feel like bagels," he said. "I know just the place."

Connor unclenched at the thought of food. "Thanks," he said. He'd enjoyed beignets, but after living in New Orleans for nine months he was a little sick of them. He'd been raised on bagels, however, and preferred them.

They pulled into a bakery and Connor took a table while Gibson ordered some cranberry bagels, knowing they were Connor's favorites. Gibson handed him a plate with two toasted bagels and some cream cheese. Connor was halfway through one before Gibson could even bite into his single dry bagel. They ate in silence for a few minutes before Connor said, "I'm gonna take one of my lunches today."

Gibson swallowed a thick mouthful. "One of your off-campus lunches?"

"Yeah."

"And I don't suppose I can convince you not to?"

"Not likely."

"Well, at least you warned me this time. It gets tiring chasing you—especially since I can never win." Gibson chewed a few times. "Can I offer you a ride?"

Connor met the bodyguard's eyes for the first time in their meal. "You'd do that?"

"I'd have to follow you anyway. It certainly beats having you duck out and hide from me." He sighed. "We really are here to help you, Connor."

"'Help,'" Connor said. "Considering that I'm faster, stronger, and able to give you the slip whenever I wish . . . how can you 'help' me?"

"Just by being there," Gibson answered seriously. "By being a resource you can draw on, an option that someone else will have to consider. Sure, sure, you're a better fighter now than I'll ever be, and you're still growing into your full skills . . . but experience counts for half of a success, and that's what I have. When you get out of this one-on-one attitude of yours, you'll see that there are lots of advantages to having someone back you up. And that's what we're doing here, kid—backing you up should an attack happen, not locking you into anything."

Connor gave him an annoyed look and bit into a bagel. "The lunch'll be in broad daylight, y'know."

Gibson sighed. "As I've said before," he droned forth, "Angelus is likely to attack personally, but Baby is smart enough to hire a wide assortment of agents to kidnap you."

"And yet they haven't. Not once," Connor said around a mouthful of bagel.

"They only have to be successful once," Gibson replied. He was always careful to use the pronoun "they," demonstrating that it was a trio of soulless vampires who were their problem, not just Angelus. He was under orders to never say anything specifically negative against Angelus, never to call him a murdering bastard or a scumbag crazy-ass vampire. He would have liked to vent his feelings about Angelus in private, but one never knew how good Connor's hearing was, so he kept himself and his team under tight control. He owed it to Niemczyk to act professional in every way. The AD had gotten him this job with Spike, after all, which was why he'd been reporting the goings-on in the Rue Royal household for months. So he owed something to Connor as well, and with all the paternal feeling in his soul said, "You'll find that you can't get through this life all alone. You'll have to open up, have to trust someone to watch your back eventually."

But Connor was not listening; he kept eating, his already-dark mood darkening. "Wouldn't they be using Wes to teleport me or something?"

"As far as we've seen, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce's magic appears to be used primarily for defensive maneuvers rather than offensive action. That would explain why he hasn't been a factor so far. We don't know if that's Angelus' plan . . . or the mage's choice. Psychics and sorcerers we've been working with are having their vision blocked. And the most powerful psychic on our side—"

"Is chained up in a room with blue lights," Connor finished, and stood up abruptly. "Let's get to school," he said in an imperious tone he was accustomed to using with the bodyguards, and Gibson hopped up to follow him out the door.

The transfer of custody was as humiliating as usual. Gibson stayed with the car, already nibbling on the remainders of his breakfast and once more opening the newspaper. For the hundred yards from the parking lot to the front door of the school, Connor was completely free. He walked this span as slowly as possible, looking at the trees and the birds' early morning activity, peering at windows of various empty classrooms, and looking straight up to the cloud-decked Louisiana sky. He wished that he could fly, because although his vampiric abilities made him Superkid, he still longed to be more, to have x-ray vision and flight and invulnerability. He was still lost in these dreams of escape when he came to the school's front steps.

There stood Mr. James in his black suit, red tie immaculate, black sunglasses gleaming, blonde hair slicked back, his sharp hatchetblade of a face still and yet alert. He couldn't get away with some of the more slovenly dressing choices Gibson or Pierce could with their private detail at the boy's home; he was always in the public eye and had to dress the part of the perfect bodyguard. As Connor slammed in through the front doors, Mr. James swung in behind him, following his every move.

Morning classes seemed specifically designed to put the average student to sleep. Trigonometry at 8:30 AM? Connor suffered through it so he could get to his Biochemistry class, where he was fascinated every minute. Then to English and an hour on Camus and the Theatre of the Absurd. Finally it was noon and he had two free hours. In the hallway he blew Mr. James a mocking kiss, then pointed to his ass, and in the next second was racing down the hallways far faster than the gangly man in black could hope to be. The bodyguard merely watched him go, though, having been apprised by Gibson of what was happening.

He was outside before any other student, and was happy to see that Gibson had the car sitting near the entrance. Sitting shotgun, he jumped into the convertible and they sped into traffic. Connor looked over to his bodyguard and had to smile. Gibson had a real addiction to speed, and the only time he loosened up was when they were speeding around traffic. And of course, it was good practice for the day that they might be running from assassins. Lunchtime traffic in New Orleans provided plenty of chances for breakneck turns, weaving through slower cars, and lots of other challenges that Gibson saw too rarely for his tastes.

He was grinning widely as they pulled into the lot at Buonissimo, the Italian place that Tanya favored, and Connor hopped out as soon as Gibson turned the engine off. He didn't even look back to see if the bodyguard was following. He threw open the doors, stepped into the dining area, and looked to what he considered "their" corner. And sure enough, she was there, already standing when she spotted him. Tanya Renfro: a 5'10" pretty brunette with sparkling brown eyes, dressed in her Catholic schoolgirl uniform. But he knew that underneath that beat the heart of a Wiccan, a girl who dabbled in magic and had an understanding for and appreciation of the world of demons and vampires. She was the first girl he felt he could be himself with . . . to a certain extent, at least.

Connor quickly covered the space between them, taking her in his arms and holding her off the floor, just savoring the feel of her once more. He loved to bury his face in Tanya's hair, because she smelled better than anyone else in the world. She was the most beautiful, smartest, funniest, most insightful and most profoundly cute girl in the world to him. She was the first girl he ever loved, and it would never be this good again.

"Good GOD I missed you," he said huskily into her ear.

She giggled at him, appreciating the feeling of being held so tenderly in arms that could bend steel bars. "You act like we weren't on the phone for hours last night."

"Talking is one thing," he said. "The phone can't do this." So saying, he set her down, cradled her face tenderly, and kissed her with all the gentleness, love, and caring in a young man's heart. She responded enthusiastically, and the kiss became much more heated and powerful.

Then Gibson, standing behind Connor, cleared his throat. Having his charge standing and kissing, oblivious to anything else in the room, was dangerous. When his first attempt got no response, he tapped on Connor's shoulder. The teenagers finally broke their kiss, still looking deeply into each others' eyes. Connor was panting, but he managed to say, "I think this is the day I finally kill him."

Tanya looked over Connor's shoulder at the muscular man in his sunglasses, doing his best to look impassive and unaffected while straightening his ginger hair, and gave her boyfriend a sly smile. "Naah," she said. "It'll be a lot more fun to make him squirm while we smooch at the table."

"Brilliant idea."

"Besides, I have something to tell you. C'mon, let's sit down," she said, already moving back to her seat at "their" table. He kept her hand in his. When they were seated Gibson finally settled himself at a table against the back wall, two tables away from Connor and Tanya, so that Connor and the entrance were in his line of sight at all times but he still gave the young man a little privacy.

"I already ordered, I hope you don't mind," Tanya told him as a waiter approached their table with a platter.

Connor couldn't take his eyes off hers and barely noticed the waiter arrive. "Whatever you say," he told her, squeezing her hand. He had to let go while the waiter placed the dishes on the table, and he saw his usual spaghetti Bolognese set before him, and Tanya's small plate of ravioli. Then there was a third place set for a plate of lasagna. He looked over to Tanya with confused eyes.

"Uh, I invited my friend Laurie. You don't mind, do you?"

And Laurie chose this moment to arrive from the bathroom. She was in the same uniform, obviously a classmate of Tanya's, a chunky redhead with freckles everywhere and far too much makeup. "Hey!" she said, putting a meaty hand on Connor's shoulder. "You Connor? Ooh, you're cute!" She dropped into the chair in front of her lasagna and picked up her fork. "Thanks for the lunch."

Connor nodded blankly, looking from Laurie to Tanya. "Um, I thought it'd be just us." It looked as if Gibson was about to get up and approach, but Connor waved him off.

"Yeah," Tanya said through a strained smile, "I know, I would've told you last night if I'd known. Laurie just wanted to come along."

Laurie had stopped, fork in mid-motion. "Uh, is there a problem? I thought you were paying."

Connor looked at her through half-lidded eyes. "It's cool," he said. "I have a credit card."

Laurie smiled and tucked into her food again. "Yeah, Tanya said you were rich," she told him between mouthfuls. "I didn't figure it'd be a problem."

Connor finally wore a small smile as he looked at her. "Really? And what else did she say?"

Laurie waved a hand airily. "Aw, you know— how you got bodyguards 'cause your father's some hot-shot, that you live in a mansion on Rue Royal, how you take her to these fancy restaurants all the time."

By now, Tanya had her hand over her eyes. "Laurie, you can shut up now."

"What?! What'd I say? What, you ain't rich, you're just lying to her?"

Tanya slammed a fist onto the table. "No, he's— he's—" She looked up to find Connor watching her with raised eyebrows, curious as to how she'd finish the sentence. "C'mere, you," she said, getting up and pulling Connor with her, until they were in a far corner of the restaurant, leaning against a wall. Gibson had gotten up to follow their progress, but he still stood far enough apart to allow them privacy.

"Okay," Tanya started, her face inches from Connor's penetrating eyes. "So Laurie isn't the most discreet girl."

"Neither are you, it seems," he replied.

Her response was a sharp frown. "Don't give me that shit. Are you even going to listen to what I'm saying?"

"Am I shouting? Am I exploding? Nope. I'm listening."

She let out a long sigh. "Con, I know you think we have to keep everything secret, but I just can't live like that."

"It's not just me. It's dangerous for you if you're too involved with my family."

"You've told me that before," she said, "and it's just as vague now as it was then."

"Because there are things happening in the family, things I can't tell you," he growled. Tanya moved back and he made an effort to calm himself. When Connor opened his eyes he looked more pleading than angry. "I introduced you to Tara and Mama Claire, didn't I?"

That stopped Tanya short. She had to admit that Tara was one of the most wonderful people she'd ever met, the perfect example of what she wanted to be when she grew up. Tara was wise, compassionate, and had taught her more about the truth of Wicca than any book she'd ever found. "Yes," she said, "Tara's been wonderful."

"Well, that's the limit," Connor told her. "She's on the outer fringes of the family, and if I try to let anyone else know about you . . . you could get hurt." He took her hands into his own. "It's just temporary, though, I promise. Someday I want you to meet my mom. And my Auntie Dru. And . . . I hope you'll get to meet my dad."

Tanya leaned forward, concerned. "Is it hurting you, baby?" Connor solemnly nodded. "Then you'll know how I felt."

Connor's mouth fell open in surprise, and Tanya continued: "I've been hurt every time you've made us hide around a corner because one of your family members was on the street. I've been hurt whenever we had to change plans because someone who knows you is at the place we planned to visit. I've been hurt every time you start to talk about your dad or Uncle Spike, and then stop yourself."

"It's risky. I've told you!" Connor hissed.

"Well guess what—if I'm choosing to be with you I'm choosing to take that risk."

"Only because you don't understand the risk. If you'd seen as many people die as I have—"

"Oh God, is this still about Joseph?! I'm not going to die on you, Con!"

"How do you know that?" he demanded, and ran a hand gently across her cheek. "You're not somebody I can take chances with, Tanya. I love you. I'm sorry I've been a jerk about this, but don't we have a relationship here? Isn't it worth a few sacrifices?"

"Always good with the words," Tanya mumbled, leaning into his hand. But when she met his eyes again her attitude was sharp. "Yeah, we have a relationship. And believe it or not, it doesn't belong to YOU. It's OURS, Con, and that means I get to call as many shots as you. If it's a little inconvenient to you that we go public, well guess what: it's been a little inconvenient to ME to keep us secret. I'm not like you, Con—I have friends, I have normal parents in a normal house, and the biggest secret I'm keeping from them is that I'm not quite as Catholic as they are. So you're the one who's going to have to start making sacrifices."

She cupped his face with her hands and tried to get past his natural reticence. "You're hiding from me, Con. I've never known you when you weren't hiding, but I thought the day'd come when you'd trust me and open up a little. I'm still waiting for that day. So things have to change. I have to be able to bring friends with me when we're together, and talk about you with them. And you have to be able to hang out with us! They'd love to meet you if you just gave 'em a chance. Until you're ready for that . . . I think we should take a break."

Connor gaped at her and clutched at her hands with his own. "But I— I'm fine with Laurie! Bring more friends, it's no problem! Tanya, you can't leave!"

She pulled back, whimpering, "You're hurting me!"

He looked in horror at where his hands were bruising hers, clutching at her desperately. He let her go, and she started back to the table, looking back at him with hurt eyes.

What he wanted to say stuck in his throat. There was so much he wished he could share with her but didn't dare reveal. She understood about vampires—but how could she understand that his father was a murdering, raping monster . . . and that Connor desperately wanted him to return? Could she ever watch Spike or Jean or whomever drain a murderer and not cringe? He suddenly understood with a flash that even if Angel returned, even if Ma were herself, even if everything were as normal as it could be, he would never invite Tanya totally into his life. Could he really not trust her that much? Would he ever be able to trust any girl with the complications of his family?

"Wait!" Connor said, stepping toward her. He produced his credit card from his pocket.
"I was gonna pay for lunch?"

Tanya looked with distaste at the card in his hand. "No thanks, I'll cover it." She met his pleading look and couldn't quite keep her hard attitude. "Think hard about this, Con. You have to open up to someone or it'll kill you."

When Tanya finally took her seat beside Laurie, Gibson stepped up and put a hand on Connor's shoulder. "I think we should be going, don't you?"

The boy looked up to the tired older man's eyes for some hint of understanding. His world had just spun upside down on him without warning and he needed some reassurance that it would right itself once more. But the bodyguard's gray gaze held no promise that anything would improve. Connor would have to find his hope from elsewhere.

After school, late afternoon, and Connor was back home at Rue Royal but not in his house. The Pride owned several houses on either side of the street, from points west down to the Starry Wisdom Occult Bookstore (a place Olivia never entered out of superstitious dread). One of these buildings housed the gym and training facility that family members used to hone their superhuman skills. Connor now sat in the corner of the sparring room, silent and brooding, as he had been since lunch. If he didn't favor the lighter coloring of his mother, he'd have resembled his father to a frightening degree. He squatted in contemplation, his hands resting on the end of a sword before his face, its point stuck into the tumbling mat at his feet. In fact, it was Joseph's sword, a weapon he had claimed since the handsome vampire had sacrificed himself for Connor only a few years before.

When Jean Claude entered the young man didn't notice, which in itself was a sign that something was wrong. But Jean didn't have to wonder what that something was: he had already gotten a full report on the day's events from Mr. Gibson. He'd known about the girlfriend for months, of course: no unmonitored phone call left the Rue Royal house, except on cell phones. And he smelled the girl all over him, too, but Connor's sex life was not his business unless it affected Spike or Roxton business dealings. At the moment he wanted only to help the boy through his current depression.

Jean Claude approached the squatting figure quietly. "Connor?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

Connor looked up in surprise, as if the older man had suddenly appeared. His face brightened immediately. "Hey Jean," he said. "Sorry—I know this is your private time for training. But remember when we used to spar, when I first moved in here? I was hoping you might wanna try that."

Jean had to smile. When Connor had first come to live at the Rue Royal house Jean had still had time to spend a few afternoons a week supervising his weapons training and even sparring with him for a few fights. They had the most wonderful conversations while fighting, giving Jean the feeling that Connor was his own son. Having only had daughters, it was something new for him, something he hadn't experienced while alive.

Jean strode to the weapons cabinet inlaid in the wall, wanting to select just the right sword. "So I'm guessing that you have something you want to talk about?"

Connor was now standing, but looking at his feet, the sword's tip planted between them. "Yeah," he muttered.

Jean Claude selected a beauty of Damascus steel with a nice hand guard. He silently strode to one end of the room opposite from Connor. The young man was already in a fighting stance, the sword held forward in both hands. Forcing himself not to smile at Connor's too-serious pose, Jean stood at attention on his end of the room, his face severe behind the sword he'd raised. "What's to be our subject today?"

"It's simple," Connor said, stepping toward the room's center. "Love: what is it good for?"

Jean approached his opponent. "Excuse me? Are you serious?"

The young man made a dramatic slash through the air and closed on the vampire quickly. "Deadly serious."

Jean moved just as fast, coming around Connor's right and using a feint to spin the human around. "You're questioning why we love? It's a basic human emotion, Con."

"What, you can't handle existential questioning anymore?" Connor asked. "Besides, that's not what I'm talking about."

Jean moved inside Connor's range of attack and used the flat of his blade to knock against the young man's chest and shove him into the wall. "I was debating existentialism when it was still 'impossible' for vampires to have children," Jean said through a wicked grin. "You need to clarify your argument if you expect to hold your own, sonny."

Connor's sword came up and clanged against Jean's hand-guard. Chuckling, the vampire spun away, giving Connor some latitude with his sword-swinging. "Fine," the human said grimly. "I wasn't questioning love itself—just the way it gets expressed. I mean, the way we do things in America isn't the only way to do it! What about arranged marriages? What about . . . I dunno, polygamy?"

Jean laughed out loud. And Connor took that moment to lunge forward and bring the edge of his sword sliding right past Jean's ear. The vampire jumped away and looked at Connor wild-eyed. The young man smirked behind his sword and said, "I said: deadly serious."

Jean answered him with a smirk of his own. "All right. So you're looking for other options."

Connor shook his head in frustration, but the two circled each other like predators and he kept his eye on his uncle's every move. "Sorta. It's more like I'm wondering if everything I've been shown is everything there is." He said a word with each step: "Husbands. Wives. Mates. Consorts. Companions. Marked Lovers. Pets. Childer. Minions. It's a system, Jean, and I don't want any of it."

Jean decided to get something out of the way. He slipped forward, forcing Connor to move back, but not so far as the wall. Their swords clanged, but Connor remained on the defensive, continually backing up. "It's the system you grew up with," Jean said. "What's happened to make you change your mind now?"

Connor nodded his head, as if Jean's question confirmed what he knew. "You know about Tanya, don't you?" Connor asked. Jean nodded slowly, not sure if the young man would blow up at the news. "And you know what went down today?" Again, Jean nodded. He watched as the young man slashed the air twice in frustration, still ten feet away from his opponent.

"What confuses me," Connor said, "is that if you'd asked me yesterday, or a month ago or whenever, I'd have said that I loved her. I really thought I did. But today it occurred to me that I didn't, not really. I didn't trust her. I condescended to her. And I never would have let her know more about the family than she already did—I would've broken up with her if she'd given me any ultimatum about that." He "hmphed" to himself. "Heh, I guess I already did. She laid down an ultimatum, and I'm never going to see her again."

"It doesn't have to be an 'either-or' situation, Con," Jean said.

"Doesn't it?" the boy shot back. He leapt forward and struck desperately at his uncle, the force of his strike driving Jean backward. Connor's anger was making his form sloppy and jean could've easily knocked the sword from his hand, but he felt it more important to let the young man express himself. "Am I ever going to be with anyone while I'm a part of the family? And will I have to leave the family just to meet a girl I can trust?"

"I don't know," Jean answered tightly, knocking Connor's sword away from his face and leaping to avoid a replying strike. "I can't tell you your future, Connor."

"Yeah? Well I think about it all the time, 'cause thinking about my past doesn't do me much good these days," Connor sneered. "Here's a question for you, Uncle Jean: will I be allowed to leave if I want to? I mean, if we never catch up with Morderer, he's gonna keep coming after me, and so you can't just let me wander off, even when I'm eighteen. Already got a cell made up for me? Or will you chain me to the wall right next to Dru?"

Jean Claude surged forward and slipped past Connor's flailing strike. With one blow he knocked the sword out of Connor's hand and stood eye-to-eye with the tall young man. "We'd never do that," he growled, the temptation to slip into game face strong in him.
"You know us; if the family's insensitive at times, we're never cruel."

The teenager's anger flared in his eyes, but against the yellow fire in Jean's eyes he couldn't stand. He ducked his head and lowered his voice. "I know you wouldn't do that, Jean. But I think about all these things. I imagine all kinds of futures for myself. But when I think of them, I always see myself as alone. Always."

The vampire stepped away from the young man and walked to the other side of the sparring room, lost in thought, his anger flown away as it often was when he got Connor to start being honest with him. Without turning his back to the defeated human, he said, "Pick up your sword."

Dispiritedly, Connor stepped over to where his sword lay on the training mats and picked it up. The instant he was standing once again, Jean Claude spun around and shouted, "En garde!" He rushed toward the shocked, unprepared teenager and leveled a flurry of blows on him that had Connor almost running backwards, defending all the way, the sound of their clanging swords deafening. When he reached the edge of the training mats, however, Connor made himself spin around and leap over Jean's head. The vampire stood with a small smile and watched the boy fly over him.

Connor landed in a fighting stance, sword up and ready, his face a mask of determination as he stared furiously at Jean. The older man smirked and said, "So. Are you ready?"

Connor nodded once. "Ready," he replied.

"Good." Jean strode forward purposefully, and as he closed on Connor he raised his sword . . . and swiftly threw it to his right so that it stuck into the wall. Weaponless, but with a look as determined as Connor's, he faced the young man down.

"I didn't really know love when I was alive," he told his opponent. "Not the love you're talking about. I thought I did, sure. I had a wife and I cared for her. And I loved my daughters as surely and strongly as any father loved his children. But I had never had love capture me and take me where I never expected. I was too rational for that. I wasn't lucky enough to know it until I entered this undead existence.

"Here, with this unbeating heart, I've known as much true love as anyone could ask for. I've known the pleasure and pain of it. And I can tell you this: your reason and logic fall to the wayside when it comes to love. The true feelings, they'll overwhelm you and lead you where reason would never dare to tread."

"Is that how it is with you and René?" Connor asked. At Jean Claude's dour look, he rolled his eyes and said, "C'mon, Uncle Jean, I'm young but I'm not blind."

Still looking seriously at his young charge, Jean said, "All right then. Yes, I love René, and it's been Hell living here and knowing that he's out there with Angelus. But I wouldn't have changed a thing, Con—that's what you need to learn. You should already know that you can't be loved unless you can learn to love someone. Well, that can be risky . . . as risky as walking into a swordfight without a sword. But it has to be done. It's as true if you're looking for a mate . . . or if you have a child who you love dearly. It's the heart of caring that unites us all in love."

Connor slowly lowered the flat of his blade to Jean's shoulder. "And if you get cut?"

Jean Claude brought his left hand up and closed it around the blade. "That comes with the territory." His fist tightened, and with a quick yank he pulled the sword out of Connor's hand. "But experience helps you win in the end."

Connor looked seriously into his dear uncle's eyes. "I don't know if I can do that, Jean."

Jean had tossed the sword aside and now stepped forward to put his right hand on his young charge's shoulder. "You're not even sixteen, Con, even if that's just a few months away. You have time. There's no need to rush these things. And it's not like any member of this family to just quit before you've even started, is it?"

Connor shrugged. "So what now?"

"Now?" Jean Claude looked around the sparring room. "You get to pull that sword out of the wall. Then you get to clean and polish both the swords we used. And I'm going to bind this hand before I bleed all over the mats. Then, I guess we can go have dinner."

"Sounds cool," Connor said, already rushing to do his uncle's bidding.

By the time they were done it was dark, and the two swordsmen crossed Royal Street back to the main house. Just as they reached the sidewalk to the other side, Jean stopped abruptly.

"Uncle Jean? What—?"

"Shh!" Jean shushed him. He canted his head to the side, obviously listening for something. Connor tried to listen, too, but sensed nothing more than the increasing noise from traffic and people that came every evening. Finally, Jean shook his head, as if to clear away clinging thoughts. He put a hand on Connor's shoulder. "Ah, it's nothing. I thought for a moment that I heard René's Firebird."

Connor snorted. "Now, that's impossible."

"I know, I know. But didn't you just learn that love works outside of reason?"

"It might take time to sink in."

The two were smiling and chuckling as they entered La Maison du Rouge s'Elevé. They saw Spike in his parlor, staring into space, and their mood turned serious. They both hated seeing the Master brought so low.

Connor was one step up on the stairs, and Jean Claude was angled toward entering the parlor, when they both heard the sound of running footsteps approaching the front door. They turned to look at the door, and so saw René Beaumont kick it open, carrying a bound-and-gagged Wesley with him. He looked exactly the same: coal-black hair, teal eyes, frowning countenance, his shirt torn open to reveal his chest, and too-tight jeans topping silver-tipped cowboy boots. His eyes swept over his brother and the young human, and though they stopped on Jean, René was clearly moving directly toward Spike's parlor. He wasn't stopping to greet anyone, to apologize or even acknowledge his older brother. He shoved Wesley toward Jean and said, "Hold him and don't take that gag off. He'll turn you into a frog or something if you do." He then continued into the parlor, directly toward Spike, throwing himself down at Spike's feet with neck bared, showing complete submission to the Master.

René's back, Connor thought excitedly. But he won't be here for long. More importantly: Wesley's back! I have to tell Dru. Casting out all thoughts of René, he rushed up to the third floor.

In the minute it took him to get up the stairs there were minions stirring throughout the house, pushing past him to get downstairs and witness what was going on between René and Spike. To see one of Spike's first four childer dusted in a ceremony detailing his betrayal: it had to be one of the most exciting things they could ever witness, since most of them had not been there for Philip's execution. Connor had only one goal, though, and earned more than a few growls from minions he shoved aside. But finally he was knocking on Dru's door and Shelley opened it, looking surprised. "What?" she demanded.

"I need Dru!"

"Not now. She's agitated."

"For good reason. Wesley's here!"

Shelley's mouth dropped open. "He's back?"

"Trussed up in the parlor, but yeah, he's here. We've got to get Dru down there and let her see him."

The vampiress looked back into the room, then at Connor, indecision clear in her eyes. "Are you sure? Does he have his soul? Will Dru be okay around him?"

"I don't know," Connor honestly replied. "I just know that they belong together! We've got to get her downstairs." As Shelley continued to dither, Connor pushed past her into the room of blue lights.

Dru was chained as she'd been that morning, her head dropped forward and her hair draped over her chest, hiding her face. She moaned, and her head moved back and forth, but her arms didn't strain against the manacles. Connor headed toward the spot on the wall that held the keys—but they weren't there! He spun around and saw Shelley walking toward Drusilla with the keys in her hand. She took the cuff on Dru's right hand and unlocked it, looking at Connor as she did, silently telling him that he would have to face the consequences. But Dru's arm fell limply into her lap. Shelley stepped over her and unlocked the other cuff, and Dru's other hand dropped from the wall loosely.

Connor stepped over to his aunt, lifting her head up, looking into her closed eyes. "Dru?" he said. "Are you there? Are you okay?" He put an arm around her and lifted her onto her feet, but she was dead weight.

"Grandma Dru?" Shelley asked in her little-girl voice.

Drusilla jerked her head free from Connor's hands and balanced herself against the wall, her hair once more covering her face. She moaned and straightened, finding her footing and stepping forward. She put out a hand to Shelley's shoulder to hold herself up. The young vampiress hadn't expected to see Dru so weak, and looked with concern to Connor, who was also looking worriedly at Dru.

"Dru?" he asked. "You okay?"

Drusilla nodded, then whipped her head up, showing that she was in full game-face. Her hand on Shelley's shoulder tightened. The other one came up in a fist that slammed into Shelley's face, throwing her across the room. Before Shelley's body landed Drusilla had leaped onto her, slamming them both down and knocking Shelley's head against the floor over and over. It took Connor a few seconds to get over his shock, but then he was on Drusilla's back, pulling her off the unconscious Shelley.
But he was just as easily tossed around by the powerful old vampire. Drusilla slammed him against the wall, yellow eyes glaring, one cruel hand wrapped around his throat. "You're keeping me from my Wesley," she hissed.

"No!" Connor choked out. "I'm here to bring you to him!"

"Liar!" she shrieked. "Wesley-my-Wesley is gone! Gone gone gone, lost and bone-white, far away as the moon!" She tossed him across the room, slamming him into the opposite wall. "Who ARE you? Where is Wesley?"

Connor levered himself into a sitting position. "I'm Connor. And Wesley is HERE, Dru. He's just downstairs."

She squinted at him. "No. I can't recognize you. My Connor is a boy. And my Wesley . . ." She teared up suddenly—Connor had never seen a vampire in game-face cry before. Drusilla turned and stepped over Shelley's unconscious form. Connor rose suddenly, because Dru was heading toward the open door. She stopped at the entrance, though, and gripped the doorframe. Connor slowly approached her from behind, just in time to see her fingers dig into the frame and pull a strip of wood free from it. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, stopping her hand as it brought the impromptu stake to her chest. He had to hold her wrist with both hands to keep her from slamming the stake home in her heart.

"Dru! NO!" he shouted, panicked now that he wouldn't be able to stop her.

"Why not?" she asked, her face now turned to its smooth and lovely human mask. "I'll never see my Wesley again."

"He's just downstairs!" Connor insisted. "Reach out with your mind, you'll see it's true."

"Too tired. Haven't slept in days," Drusilla moaned.

Connor gritted his teeth and tugged, still unable to draw her hand away from her chest. "You don't feel tired to me," he grunted.

She smirked at that. "Alright. Tell me why. Why should I bother? Why shouldn't I jump from this ledge of pain? Why shouldn't I give up?"

Drusilla's entrancing blue eyes pierced his, and Connor found himself powerless to turn away from her gaze. He could tell nothing but the truth, from everything he'd learned that day.

"Because . . . because your love isn't real if you're not willing to fight for it! Keep going, no matter how risky it is! It doesn't matter what experience tells you, or what you see around you, or any of it. You have to believe in love itself, 'cause without that . . . it's all empty. And if you don't believe in your love for Wesley—" He let go of her wrist. "Then go ahead. Because I've never seen anyone as in love with each other as you two, and if you don't have any more faith in it than that then I don't want to see you anymore."

Drusilla's bright eyes still held his, but her hand made no move to press the stake further toward her chest. Her other hand rose and fell onto Connor's shoulder. She smiled, her entire countenance warming. "Connor," she breathed, the word holding more than fifteen years of memory and meaning. "Can— Can you keep your hand on mine? I can focus when you're touching me, baby boy."

Tears welled up in Connor's eyes at the look of full recognition she wore, a look he hadn't seen in months. He removed the stake from Dru's hand and took her palm in his own. "Of course, Auntie Dru."

She continued to smile indulgently, nodding her head. "Wesley is downstairs, you say?"

"Yeah. He's tied up, because I don't think he has his soul. But he's here, Auntie."

Dru's eyes took on a faraway look. "Yes. I see him. But the stairs are choked with minions. And my Spike would try to stop me." She hummed quietly, still smiling, and abruptly stepped into the hallway, pulling Connor behind her by their linked hands.

"You know what is below us, don't you?" she asked, looking at the floor beneath her feet. Now that she was out of her room it looked wrong to Connor to see her in bare feet and her ripped, thin nightgown. But Drusilla obviously had greater worries.

Connor followed her eyes. "The second floor?" he answered her.

"Below that. The kitchens, my dear, which will be empty now."

"They're gonna be kinda hard to get to."

"One thing you learn after your first century of life," Drusilla said, speaking more to herself than Connor, and squatting to study the carpeted floor between her splayed toes, "is that undead flesh can often be stronger than wood and plaster. Especially in these cheap French colonial towns." She released Connor's hand and pulled up a part of the carpet, tearing it and exposing a section of hardwood. Then, making two fists, she slammed them into the floor between her knees. Splinters flew everywhere, some as long and jagged as knitting needles, and Connor threw himself against the wall to avoid the debris. But Drusilla hardly noticed, and slammed the floor again with all her strength. The wood creaked, the plaster crumbled with a sound like sand crashing into stone, and then there was a gaping hole to the second floor.

Drusilla looked up to a wide-eyed Connor, and reached up to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. Then the stood straight, making herself as tall and thin as possible, and hopped through the hole. Connor looked through it and saw Dru straightening her nightie, since it seemed to have caught on a stray splinter on her way down. She looked up with a smile and waved him down. Connor took one long, careful breath and jumped through the hole as well, landing in Dru's arms.

"Very good, my dearie-dear," she said, kissing him on the cheek and chuckling as the young man blushed. "You want to try to break the next one?"

"Won't I get in trouble?"

"You can always tell them that crazy old Dru did both holes."

Connor smirked at her. "You're right," he said. He bent deeply at the waist and lifted the carpet, tearing it as Dru had done the one above. He then stood straight once more, brought his hands together into one large wrecking ball of a fist, lifted it above his head and brought it down forcefully onto the wood at his feet. The pain shot up his arms, since his living flesh was a good deal weaker than Dru's undead fists, but he'd still made a significant dent. The wood had buckled completely and the plaster beneath was gouged. So were his hands—the fingers had deep tears and were bleeding freely, skin actually hanging off in parts. Still, it wasn't the worst wound he'd had in a fight, since he'd been fighting vampires since he was twelve. He shook his hands and hissed in pain, but that was all. Dru looked the hands over and offered a tsk-tsk at how he'd gotten hurt for her. She then smiled at him and said, "Watch this."
Drusilla put her hands on Connor's shoulder to balance herself, then lifted a large bare foot and slammed it into the exposed plaster beneath her. The flooring cracked but did not break. She stomped it forcefully three more times with her right foot and the floor opened up for them. Drusilla laughed out loud and dropped through the hole, Connor right after her.

The kitchen staff were plugging the exit from the kitchen, all of them trying to hear the talk that was going on between Spike and René, but Drusilla didn't hesitate as she rushed toward them. She grabbed the living and the undead by their shirts or legs or necks and tossed them aside like mannequins. She then rushed into the hallway beside the stairs, heading for Wesley in the foyer. Connor followed in her wake, desperately wanting to see the happy ending that would surely accompany the couple's reunion.

Connor was able to hear René say, "We'll have to move fast. Angelus won't stay in one place for long," then he saw Jean Claude leap to block the hallway and call out, "Papa!"

Connor had the utmost respect for his Uncle Jean as a fighter, having tested those skills a half-hour before, but he'd never seen any member of the family go up against Drusilla in combat before. He now understood why. Jean was fast as a snake, and it was only his heightened abilities that allowed him to see the vampire move. But Drusilla was even faster—she was a blur, a white-robed, dark-haired whirlwind that latched onto Jean and threw him across the room like he was a child. Jean hit the wall with more force than had broken through the floors, and Connor didn't wonder at the fact that Jean wasn't getting up anytime soon.

Wesley Wyndham-Pryce was wrapped in thick ropes and leaning against the front door like a forgotten mummy, his mouth still taped and his expressive eyes shooting dirty glares at everyone around him, even at Drusilla as she approached her husband. Drusilla didn't speak—she just glided toward him, caressed his face, and removed the tape over his mouth. The mage didn't look particularly grateful.

With a blur of motion that Connor was seeing from his uncle for the first time, Spike was suddenly upon Drusilla. He had one arm around her waist to keep her off the floor, and the other around her torso to lock her arms in place. He'd spent a century learning how to hold her in place without hurting her, despite her tantrums.

As Drusilla's childe and ex-lover pulled her away from her current lover, she began to wail. It was a sound never heard in that house by the childer or the living and undead members of the family. If Angelus had been there, or Baby, they would have recognized it immediately, though. It was the ragged, frightening sound of a soulless being in utter despair. Both Spike and René understood it as the vast, lonely howl of a beast's heart breaking, and were familiar with it. Connor couldn't bear it—he put his bloody hands over his ears and squatted against the hallway wall, whimpering.

Spike was drawing her back and whispering into her ear, but Drusilla was not hearing it, whipping her head back and forth, straining against his arms and kicking her legs about. She filled her lungs again and again, howling with all the power and volume given to a master vampire her age. Spike had not handled her like this in some time and was finding it more difficult than he remembered. Also, his heart had just been newly awakened by finding only minutes before that it was possible to get his wife back. To be causing Dru so much distress, even though necessary, was the last thing he wanted to do.

From his position on the floor, Connor was the only one who was watching Wesley. He saw the mage glaring when the tape had first been removed from his mouth, but as soon as Drusilla was grabbed up and began to wail, there was a sudden spark in Wesley's eye that hadn't been there before. As she flailed about in Spike's arms, emotion moved across Wes's face in a wave. Drusilla moved like a whipcord in her childe's arms, shrieking and straining to escape—and without warning, a light flashed in Wesley's eyes and his lips curled back in fury.

"Let her go!" Wesley ordered, but no one was listening. "Release!" he ordered the ropes binding him, and they flew away to scatter on the floor around him. He got his footing, and Connor saw that a faint yellow glow was now surrounding him. He switched to game face, which always fascinated Connor, since his ridges were very small and hardly changed his face at all, and his fangs were far longer than in most vampires. With a growling vampire voice, he yelled, "Spike! Let her go!"

Spike paid attention to Wesley for the first time, noting that his bonds were gone, that he was standing by the door in game-face, and that he was shaking with a restrained rage that was expressing itself in magical energy starting to flow around the mage without his knowledge. Wesley stood straight, with fists clenched and attitude flaming, and said, "You may be my grandfather, but I'll still kick your arse if you don't let her go this instant! Now. Let. Her. Go!" Each of his last four words were punctuated by the nimbus of energy around him flaring with power.

Spike grinned and released his sire. Drusilla flew into Wesley's open arms, and the power around him winked out. In the silence that followed the end of Drusilla's wailing, everyone was able to hear him whisper, "Shh, my love, my precious. It's all right. I'm here. It's all right." He stroked her long dark hair as he spoke, holding her close with his other arm. She was holding Wesley as tightly as she could, nuzzling his neck and nipping at the flesh slightly, not speaking but obviously sending him a mountain of emotion through the mental link they shared. Connor watched in silent awe as Wesley's yellow eyes teared up in joyful appreciation at holding Dru once more, only the second time he'd seen a vampire cry.

René leaned against the parlor entrance with his arms crossed, watching the couple, as did Spike and all the minions on the staircase and in the hallway. Jean Claude, still on the floor, was looking only at René. No one wanted to interrupt the silence, but finally Spike spoke up, addressing Wesley: "About time you sorted yourself out."
Wesley looked over his beloved wife's head and grinned back at the Master, his face looking human once more. "And past time we sorted Angelus out." Connor felt a sudden lump in his throat. His father, they were talking about his father, and he had a sinking feeling about what that phrase "sorted out" meant in respect to Angelus.

Wesley next looked over to René, who'd brought him there from Angelus' camp. "Thank you," he said simply.

René merely shrugged in response. "You're welcome. But I didn't do it for you. I did it for Maman," he said, absently rubbing his lip where Spike's punch had cut him.

Connor watched the arrogant, vain vampire leaning against a wall and decided that he didn't like René much at all. He noticed, of course, that the Cajun had still not said hello to Jean or even acknowledged the presence of his older brother. He used to see René as a beautiful rebel in the family, someone to look up to. But in the time he'd spent with Jean Claude he got to see what a real hero looked like, a proud and honest member of the family he could trust and model himself after. Like so much else in the last year, René had disappointed him in the end and gave him no reason why he should renew his childish hopes about the man.

Wesley's only response to René was to nod. "I know." He turned to Spike. "René's correct, Spike. Angelus is killing Baby a bit at a time. He is under the impression that he loves her and perhaps in his way, he does, but it's a twisted,
destructive sort of love. He intends to break her."

Spike nodded grimly, knowing the touch of Angelus' twisted needs himself. "So give Angel back his bleeding soul right now."

"I wish I could," Wesley replied. "Unfortunately, I have to be in the same room with him to do it." He then leaned toward Dru's ear and whispered something that no one, despite their vampire hearing, could make out. Drusilla looked into his eyes and silently acknowledged his words.

Jean Claude's voice interrupted their moment as he stood and strode over to the couple. "So, what just happened? How come you're back all of a sudden?"

Wesley pulled Dru close again so that she buried her face in his chest and moaned happily. He smiled down at her dark hair. "It was Dru," he said, one hand running through her dark brown locks. "Seeing her like that. So hurt, so desperate. I couldn't stand it. I was so angry that she was hurting. It gave me the strength to fight and overpower the demon part of me." He kissed the crown of her head. "When I saw Spike manhandling her like that, something just snapped."

Spike pushed Jean aside and stepped to the couple, holding his hand out to Wesley. "I'm glad you're back," he said, taking the mage's hand in his. "I've missed you. Dru . . . she needs you more than I can even explain."

Drusilla had looked up to Wesley, and he was lost in her flawless blue eyes for a moment before he looked up to Spike again. He gave his fellow Englishman a sympathetic look. "Baby needs you the same way."

Spike nodded and squeezed his friend's hand, receiving an answering grip. "Then let's go get her," he said.

The two were so concentrated on each other that Drusilla could take a moment to look away from her beautiful Wesley and cast her mind toward Connor. The young man felt her familiar, warm voice in his head: Shelley. She's still unconscious upstairs, luv. Can you go take care of her?

Connor nodded once and started up the stairs, not noticing that the minions were gathering on the ground floor for some ceremony where René was bowing before Spike once again. He was on the second floor when Drusilla's voice touched his mind once again: The happy ending is always possible, Connor. You were right. You have to believe that, even when all evidence points to the contrary.

I do, Auntie Dru, he sent back to her. I believe. Yet in the darkest corner of his mind, where he'd learned to hide his deepest feelings from Drusilla, he had other thoughts entirely. Yes, there had been a happy ending for Wesley and Dru . . . but it had been so close to being otherwise. And even worse heartbreak was still in the wind. What if Baby was lost to them? What if his father was finally killed by Spike and the Pride? He swore to himself with each step he took up to the third floor that he would never risk his heart the way his family did. Never never never. It was harsh, but he pushed it aside to get on with his duty to Shelley, his neverending responsibility to the family. The family would always be there when everything else disappointed him. And he would always be there for them.

THE END