Chapter 3 - Lost in L.A.

Spike's knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel of the rented Ford Taurus. Inhaling deeply, he attempted to keep his cool as he navigated through heavy traffic. It was six o'clock on the L.A. freeway. Rush hour.

Their flight from Sunnydale had been delayed for several hours. What bloody awful luck! While waiting to board the plane, he'd fidgeted in his seat like a schoolboy with attention deficit disorder. This had made Buffy and other nearby travelers nervous.

"What's going on?" the Slayer had asked.

He'd growled a response. Emily had been strangely cryptic. Annoyingly so. She was supposed to fill him in when he got there.

And now they were moving at a slug-like pace, surrounded by thousands of angry motorists who were rushing home to eat their frozen dinners and watch the evening news. Spike gritted his teeth. Of course they'd only hear about the latest mass murderer terrorizing the suburbs, or corrupt CEO who'd cooked his company's books, leaving its stock worthless.

The former vampire was feeling a tiny bit cynical at the moment.

Sitting next to him, Buffy squinted as she tried to read the road map they'd gotten from the car rental place. It was badly crumpled around the edges from her gripping it too tightly-a sign of her agitation. Her furrowed brow and extended lower lip were further evidence of her troubled state of mind. She turned the map around several times before finally giving up.

"Hope you know where you're going," she muttered. "Don't think I'm gonna be much help in the navigation department." Sighing, she folded the map into a crude square and stuck it on the dash. "You may want to think about adding map reading to my Slayer training," she added.

Breaking his concentration from the freeway ahead of him, Spike glanced over at the Slayer. She reminded him of an inflatable beach toy that had leaked out most of its air. One side of his mouth tugged upwards into a half-smile.

"Don't worry, pet," he said. "Emily told me that there'd be signs. Laid them out somehow-you know, using some of that black mojo of hers."

Buffy looked impressed. "She can do that?"

"Apparently," he replied, returning his attention to the seemingly endless line of cars in front of them.

"Hmm." A look of skepticism crossed the Slayer's face. "If she's such a powerful wiccan and can do all kinds of magic."

"Yeah?"

"Well," Buffy paused again, "why does she need us?"

"Good question." He'd wondered the same thing ever since his sister's call, playing out many different scenarios. She'd mentioned the Council, but had failed to elaborate. Had those grumpy old men found her? And if so, how?

Surely, they couldn't have traced her through him? He'd been very careful whenever he contacted her. They'd spoken in code and he'd never referred to her by name.

But if the Council had found Emily.

Spike knew that the old wankers had witches working for them; covens at their disposal. If they'd tracked Emily down, caught her by surprise, would she have been able to escape?

She was a powerful witch, having practiced magic for over a century, but she did have her vulnerabilities: sunlight, holy water, and of course, a stake through the heart.

Though she was able to compensate somewhat for these weaknesses through magic, she wasn't invincible.

Her real weakness though, in Spike's opinion, was her humanity. What little she had left. She clung to it as an Alzheimer's patient did to his memories, slowly slipping away into fog.

But with humanity came weakness, and feelings one couldn't suppress.

Loneliness, for example.

Up ahead, an exit sign appeared to glow like a Chinese lantern, rousing Spike from his thoughts.

"Ah, here's the exit."

Buffy looked at the sign and frowned. "How do you know?"

Spike turned to the Slayer, eyes narrowed. "Don't you see.?"

Buffy shook her head, confused.

"Emily," he replied softly, "she's leading the way."

Spike then cut across several lanes, nearly colliding with a silver Mercedes and red Cabriolet. Both drivers shot their middle fingers up at him and cursed profusely. Oblivious to the road rage he'd caused, Spike concentrated on the off ramp in front of him. The street sign to the right lit up with neon-like brightness. He turned right and continued going straight, heading for the rolling California hills, which were partly obscured in brownish tinged wisps of smog. To Spike, the smog seemed to glow as if it were radioactive. The soft pulsing light was a beacon, guiding him to their destination.

* * *

The road ahead of them wound up and around the gracefully curving hills. They were getting closer. The surrounding trees appeared fluorescent green and the road shone like polished stone. The signs, trees and street were getting progressively brighter. Soon they would be almost blinding.

Spike squinted as he focused on the road ahead of them. His eyes hurt as if he'd stared at the sun too long. They were now in a very exclusive L.A. suburb. The estates were large, with long driveways, and grounds that reminded him of national parks. The houses themselves were barely visible from the road: huge mansions tucked away behind stately trees and carefully planted shrubbery, peeking through the lacy green foliage.

To his right, a signpost and mailbox shone like a spotlight. The surrounding trees and bushes lit up at full wattage. Spike turned into the long, winding concrete driveway that seemed to gleam almost like gold.

"The yellow brick road," Spike commented with a quick, bitter laugh. "We're off to see Dorothy." He turned to the Slayer, noting the puzzled look on her face.

"The driveway-it's." he started to explain. But his mouth fell open as he looked up at a large, Mediterranean style mansion with white stucco walls and a rust colored roof and trim.

It almost blinded him.

"We're here." He turned off the engine and as it died, the glare from the home quickly faded. He took a deep breath, hoping that they weren't too late.

* * *

Their footsteps echoed through the house. The tentative clip of their shoes on the white and gray marble floors bounced up to the high wood- beamed ceilings, sounding hollow and strangely spectral.

No one appeared to be home. The door had been left wide open. When they had reached it, Buffy had called out from the entryway, but the only response had been her own voice echoing back to them.

Spike had then stepped over the threshold and cautiously looked around. The house was almost entirely white. Its walls and many of its furnishings were devoid of color-only the bright splashes of red on the Asian rug in the foyer and the deep mahogany of the entry table deviated from the color scheme. A vase filled with flowers caught his eye.

Calla lilies. Emily's favorite.

They scoured the first floor, room by room, without coming across anyone. The house was immaculate. Furniture tastefully chosen from all over the world-most in hues of white, cream, and ivory. But in every room, there'd also been dark woods and splashes of red. Spike was reminded of spilt blood on white satin.

They'd headed up the graceful marble staircase, which led up to the second floor. A large crystal chandelier swayed above them, tinkling like a wind chime. Spike gripped the banister, his head craning up to the chandelier.

Strange.

A whisper of wind blew past him, tickling his cheek, as he hurried up the stairs. At the top, he scanned the long banister-lined, corridor overlooking the foyer. At the west end was an open door. Instinctively, Spike knew it would be Emily's. She'd want to enjoy sunset upon awakening.

He strode down the corridor, stopping short at the doorway. Peering in, his eyes told him that the room was empty-devoid of life. Buffy brushed past him and started to look around.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone he-" Already on the other side of the room, she stopped suddenly and looked down. "Wha-"

"What is it?" Spike rushed to her side. His eyes turned down to the spot on the floor that had caught the Slayer's attention. He dropped to his knees, as if forced down.

With shaking fingers, he combed through the pile of gray powder that blended in with the marble floor. He stared at his hand covered in the pale dust, then looked up at Buffy, eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

* * *

Spike sat hunched forward on a king-sized, four-poster bed that seemed almost dwarf-like in the large sleeping chamber. He brushed his hand against the cream-colored chenille bedspread, leaving five brushstrokes of soot.

Buffy sat down and put a comforting arm around his shoulders.

After five minutes of painful silence, she finally spoke.

"We can't be sure she's dead," she said. "Those ashes."

"She's dead," Spike replied. His voice was firm as if he knew what he was saying was true.

"You don't know-"

"No." He inhaled deeply and shrugged off the Slayer's arm. "I do know. She's gone. I can feel it."

"But-"

"Something's happened. Those bleeding Council wankers! They're responsible!" He turned to Buffy, the look on his face showing pure venom- a throwback to his days as a vampire.

Buffy drew back slightly, eyes widening. "Spike, let's not jump to conclusions here. Maybe Giles knows something."

Spike scoffed. "A clueless nit if I ever knew one. I doubt if old Rupert would have even the faintest idea-"

"Maybe," Buffy said softly, then paused, biting her lip.

Spike arched an eyebrow. "Maybe what?"

"Maybe we need to stop for moment. Take a deep breath and get calm."

"I bloody well am ca-"

"We need to calm down, so we can think straight and figure out what happened here."

"I already kno-"

"No you don't, Spike. You're crazy mad-a...and sad right now. I don't blame you. If anything ever happened to Dawn, I don't know what I'd do. But we have to keep our heads. Let's search the house, see if there's anything that can help us figure out what happened here."

"We've already been through the house. There's nothing here."

"Let's go through it again-thoroughly this time. There's got to be something here."

Spike exhaled with frustration. "So you're saying you want to play detective. Look for clues. Is that it?"

Buffy nodded.

"Sorry, luv. Detective work just isn't up my alley. I've already got a pretty good idea of who's responsible here. I say we nail-"

"No. No nailing. Not yet, anyway. We need to look for clues-and if detective work isn't your thing."

"Yeah?"

"Well, then I can think of one person who might be able to help us."

Spike's brow furrowed. "Someone?" He paused and scratched his chin. A look of understanding crept over his face and he scowled at the Slayer. "No bleeding way!"

But Buffy was already reaching for her cell phone.

"I'm calling Angel."