Chapter 4: 

THE UNINVITED GUEST

I'm the face you hoped you'd never see

But always knew you would

I'm the one thing you knew you shouldn't do

But did because you could.

Marillion, The Uninvited Guest

Spike stared up at the building in front of him.  It was a brownstone, sturdy and unlovely, though some effort had been put into the carved corner pieces for each floor and the huge double doors were mounted into fluted, cream colored rock.  A little thing like the overthrow of the old world would mean little to it; it had been built to withstand the centuries.  Seven chipped steps lead up to those heavy wooden doors and Spike made his slow way up each of them.  On the stoop he hesitated, hand almost touching the brass doorpull but it was a common entryway and nothing blocked him from going inside except his own fear. 

Squaring his shoulders, Spike flicked his cigarette down onto the pitted sidewalk.  With a muttered, "Right, then," he pushed open the door and entered the foyer.

It was cool inside and dim lights cast murky shadows over the tiled floor.  Doors ran along either wall, ending some space before a lurking staircase.  Beyond the closed doors, he could hear faint sounds, people or demons trying to live their lives.  He didn't really care.  He was here for one reason.  Making his way to the steps, Spike wished for lifts.  There were other things he missed; telly, Manchester United.  There was still dog racing, wasn't too hard to find if one knew where to look.  But right now, he missed a lift to take him to the fourth floor. 

Instead, he climbed the stairs.  On his way up, Spike rehearsed what he'd say.  The rage he'd felt after the Troubles still festered.  Sometimes, it surprised him with its intensity.  The fact that the Slayer would walk away after that battle, leave behind all she had left in the world tore his entrails and ripped his heart.  He hated her for the little vanishing act she'd pulled.  He hated her for going with Angel.  He hated her for taking Little Bit with them, for the three of them not trying to work something out in bleeding Los Angeles instead of running. 

Still, when it came down to it, Spike would rather stick up for the Slayer and her decisions, no matter how much they'd hurt him, than let Chase badmouth Buffy when she wasn't around to defend herself.  Obviously, Chase wasn't about to forgive nor forget the Slayer's role in the final battle.  She could be jealous; there were noises around Angelus' little band of merry men that he was in love with Chase before the battle.  Spike had seen his bloody grandsire and hadn't thought anything about the poufter being in love; more that Angel was furious and not just by the invasion of L.A. by the Scoobs or even Hell, for that matter.  But let Chase and her friends have their little fantasies.  He smoothed the scowl off his face.  The Slayer and Angelus had pulled their little double-cross that no one knew about and when it failed, they just vanished, taking Dawn with them.  No word of warning, nothing. 

Spike paused on the landing, clenching his shaking hands into fists.  Who knew he would still be this mad?  Tamping down that anger, he walked along the hallway, his boots echoing hollowly off the walls.  Most doors still bore brass numbers and Spike soon found the one he was looking for.  Taking a deep breath, he shook his arms to loosen them and rapped on the door three times. 

A fierce voice, barely muffled by the wood, rang out.  "Who is it?"

A thrill ran down his spine, like electricity lodging near his gut.  Spike swallowed convulsively, the words falling out of his mouth without his prior thought.  "The Big Bad, baby."

Nothing came from the opposite side of the door then finally, just as he was raising his fist to pound on it; he caught the faint thumps of locks being shot back.  The clicks were rapid fire and the door suddenly swung open, revealing at first glance a large set of southerly windows, showing the twilight sky; a tattered couch covered by brightly-colored though somewhat faded blankets; books and weapons, side by side along the wall and a black and white dog, coiled tight to the floor, its ears flat against its head and its teeth showing ivory against its black, furled lips.

Before he could really process it all, a tiny woman stepped into view, wearing pastel clothes that clashed badly with her snowfall and oceanwave mane.  Her feet were bare and her hands held a crossbow, pointed at his chest.  "Spike," she said, her voice crisp and clear, not at all welcoming.  She calmly thumbed the trigger guard on the stock and tilted her head to one side, motioning to him.  "Come inside.  Carefully."

He sidled in, glancing from her eyes to the bow and back again.  Moistening his lips, he said, "Is this how you greet your guests?"

The corner of her mouth jerked up in something that didn't resemble a smile.  "You're not a guest."  With a twitch of the bow, she ushered him deeper into the room. 

Shrugging insolently, Spike walked towards the dog.  "Hello, pet," he said cheerfully to the dog.  It flared its lips to show ivory teeth.

"Don't." 

"Don't what?"  He spun back around, facing her, taking a good look at the woman he'd been chasing for the past four years.  A part of him noticed she'd put on weight, looked good, not like that scrawny bit she'd been before the battle.  The hair coloring was strange but her eyes still glittered, unmistakable, those pretty gems.  And the way she held herself, still all tough and predatory.  He flicked his gaze past her, around the room.  It didn't look too lived in, more like a camp.  Made sense.  Move often; don't stay in one place too long.  Angelus had drilled it into his head when they ran together. 

"She bites."

Spike gave her a cocky smile.  "You think I don't, Slayer?"

Her eyes narrowed sharply and her finger tightened on that trigger.  "Don't call me that."

"Why not?  It's who you are, right?"  Spike walked deeper into the apartment.  

"I haven't been that girl for a very long time," she said flatly, decisively.

"Psht."  Spike glanced back at her and rolled his eyes.  "Yeah, you and Soul-Boy didn't cut a swath through those demons in Mexico, trying to raise that snake god.  And who stopped the infant sacrifices at Mount Saint Helen?  Might as well have left a billboard, pet, saying, 'Buffy and Angel were here'.  Still pretty hard to track you down, though.  Angelus hasn't lost his touch at all."  He pushed open a door, seeing a bedroom and walking into it.  Dropping onto the mattress, he bounced.  "Nice.  Firm."

"Get off my bed, Spike," Buffy snarled. 

"What?  It's not like it's gotten much use," he said, watching her expression freeze just that much more.  "Come here, Slayer."

"I'm not playing any games, Spike." 

"Neither am I."  He flopped back onto the bed.  "Comfy."  Rolling onto his side, he grinned and patted the coverlet.  "You know you want to.  Been lonely, hasn't it?  He can't give you what you need."

Whatever that thing was on her face, it definitely wasn't a smile.  The dog, now at her knee, wore the same expression.  "Get.  Off.  My bed."  

"All right, all right," Spike said with a sigh.  He slouched towards the door, glancing around.  "Don't see a place for Little Bit.  She share this with you?"  He opened the closet to see two sizes of clothes, tiny and enormous.

"Dawn's dead, Spike." 

He blinked, turning around, his hand still on the doorknob of the closet.  "Say again, pet?"

"I'm not your pet," Buffy snarled.  "Get out of my room, Spike, or I swear I'll sweep you out of it."

Her eyes were crazy as Dru's and still sane.  The electricity humming in his spine changed to ice water.  Spike wondered if she'd actually shoot him.  He hadn't expected a warm welcome but this, this was beyond what he'd ever imagined.  "Dawn's dead?" he whispered through a dry mouth.  "We didn't find her body."

"You wouldn't have."  Buffy tossed her head, her hair settling around her shoulders again. 

"She can't be dead," Spike said, almost to himself.

"She's dead, Spike," Buffy snapped, "as dead as you."

He flicked his eyes to her.  She didn't know?  "Slayer," he began.

She swarmed forward, forcing him back against the wall, the bolt pricking through his shirt and digging into his chest.  "Do not call me that again."  The words were hissed through her teeth, the dog snarling right at her side. 

Funny, Spike realized, he remembered the feel of her mouth under his, even while she was threatening to kill him.  His hand and foot swept at the same time, knocking the bow nearly into the dog.  The string twanged, sending the arrow into the wall at his ribs.  His foot swept her knees, throwing her to the floor.  Spike followed her down, knocking the air out of her when he landed on top.  The bloody dog lunged in, grabbing his jacket and yanking.  It let go to lunge back then started to leap in again.  Spike awkwardly punched it in the nose, sending it flying.  The Slayer drew her knee up between his legs hard. 

Stars exploded in Spike's head.  He let out a keening moan, not even quite realizing it when Buffy threw him off.  She ripped the arrow out of the wall, plaster raining down on him and landed on top of him, her knee in his ribs, one hand forcing him flat on the floor, the other pressing the arrow against his chest. 

"Think you've bloody killed me," Spike panted out with effort.

"That's next," Buffy said grimly.  "Cafell.  Down." 

"Damn it, Sla – Buffy."

"That's another name I don't answer to anymore."  She dug the head of the arrow into his skin.  "Now tell me, Spike, what exactly did you do with him?"

"Him who?" he coughed. 

"Angel."  The name came out like a bullet from a gun.   

Spike blinked tears out of his eyes.  "What in hell are you talking about? – Ow!  Careful with that arrow."

"You're gonna be dust in about three seconds if you don't tell me where he is.  One."

"I don't know.  I was looking for you, not him."  He squirmed and stopped at the dog's growl, too close to his ear for comfort.

"Two."  Her fingers tightened around the arrow shaft, her long hair cascading down around them both, making it both more intimate and more frightening.  He couldn't see anything through that mane, just her face hovering above him, cast in a rictus of fury.

"Believe me!  I could bloody care less where Angelus is.  I know Chase still wants him but I don't."  Spike felt the skin break beneath the arrow point and the maddening tickle of blood as it started trickling beneath his bunched shirt. 

Her teeth bared as she stabbed down.  "Thre – "

He grabbed Buffy's hand with both of his, gritting his teeth as he warred with the Slayer.  "I don't know where he is.  You gotta believe me.  We need his help, too."

"Help?"  Buffy still kept a close grip on the arrow but stopped trying to shove it through his chest. 

Spike let out a long, relieved sigh.  "It's like this, pet." When she glared, he glared back.  "I can't call you by name," he said.  "What else have I got?"

"Tori." 

He nearly choked.  "Tori?"

"That's my name."  Her voice was cold again and her expression glacial.   

"Tori?"  He tried it out on his mouth.  Still sounded stupid.  

"I can still slay you right now," Buffy warned, the pressure of the arrow point a constant reminder. 

"You don't wanna do that, pe – Tori."  Spike gave her an exasperated look when she pressed the arrow down.  "I'm not joking.  We need you.  The other Slay – Faith – needs help.  Red an' Watcher-boy sent me to find you."

"Willow."

"Yeah.  Chase had some sort of vision, doesn't look good."  He wished she'd take some pressure off his ribs.  She may've filled out some but her knee was still sharp and bony. 

Her expression, softened by the name of her friend, hardened again at the name of the seer. "Tell me something new."

"This is it, Buffy," Spike said, realizing he'd already forgotten the new, stupid name.  "This is the really big one." 

"We've already done that," she said.  "Try again."

"I'm not joking."  What did it take to get through her thick skull?  "We need both of you back in L.A., yesterday."

"I'm not joking either, Spike.  We're not going back to Los Angeles.  The world could end -"      

"Funny you should mention it, pet," he said. 

Her hand tensed on his shoulder, nails digging in through even his jacket.  "What are you saying?"

"That battle we had?  The Troubles?  It was just the appetizer."  Spike let his head thump back against the wooden floor.  "The next war is about to start."

* * *

The bar was quiet; dimly lit for the more sensitive eyes of those who walked the night, the soft clinks of glass striking together and the gurgle of liquids being poured providing the background for the rise and fall of the noise of the patrons.  Nondescript, known mostly to those in the neighborhood, it held no secrets nor no promises, only that it was a place to buy your poison.  The bartender had the look of one who had seen the end of the world, but so did most everyone else, but maybe his end had come long before the rest.  Thin, greasy-haired, eyes like a fish's and hands nearly as clammy, he asked no questions, just filled orders as he should.  Sometimes it was harder to get what his patrons asked for; sometimes easier.  Depended on who had the juice, how much they wanted for it.  He couldn't compete with the vampire bars with their smorgasbord of fresh young things willing to bare veins to make their bread but he could supply other things, information, for one, because who didn't tell a bartender everything, once the booze hit? 

He scrubbed at the pitted bar top with a rag, whistling under his breath.  He missed the days when there was a TV in the corner, so he could see what was happening in the world but since the Troubles, there weren't any broadcasts.  He'd made do with unlikely bands, wishing he had the name to bring in the high class acts, those who were actual troubadours, like in the old King Arthur stories, but he had to settle for what he could scrounge up, the dregs, the drunks.  Like Stan, that shiftless boy he had working for him. Kid stepped out for a cigarette break, what, thirty minutes ago?    

"Willie!  Another round!"

Turning, he nodded to show he'd heard and also to check out who was actually asking for a refill.  "You got payment?" he asked, noticing the trio of Fiach demons sprawled around a wobbly table.

The biggest left the table to weave to the bar, fishing in its pouch to find something.  He, it, Willie couldn't tell the difference, pulled out something to drop on the counter.  "There you go," it slurred.

Willie raised an eyebrow at the marble-sized pearl.  "What am I supposed to do with that?" he asked, thinking he could think of a few wizards who wouldn't mind having it in their possession. 

"It's good," the Fiach snarled, showing three rows of sharp teeth in its slashed crescent of a mouth.

"For what?"  Willie snatched the pearl off the counter and held it towards the light.  It was a lustrous grey, dark as gunmetal and nearly perfectly round.  Yeah, there were a couple of people who'd like this thing.  "You've already had two rounds.  This might cover part of that for the three of you but if you want more, you need to cough up."  He dropped the pearl carefully onto the scarred wood, fixing the black, dead-looking gaze of the Fiach with his own. 

The Fiach squeaked something at the other two at the table, the sound making the hair on the back of Willie's neck stand up.  The demons at the other end of the bar voiced their displeasure and Willie waved at them in irritation, hoping they'd settle down.  All he'd need would be for someone to make cutlets out of the Fiach and he'd be in a stew. 

"All right," the Fiach said, sliding its webby fingers back in its pouch and pulling out another pearl.  "This should do it, right?"

"Hmm," Willie said, studying the second pearl, white and not nearly so fine as the first.  "Yeah, I guess," he said, thinking it might do for trade. 

The next largest Fiach rose to its feet, grabbing hold of the table to gather its balance before it lurched out of the back door, probably to relieve whatever passed for a bladder in its body.  Willie scooped up the two pearls, secreting them both in a pocket before pouring new drinks for the trio.  The first Fiach took the glasses back to the table and the bartender made a face at the glasses that needed cleaning.  He really had to find some good help.  That kid dared show his face again, Willie was firing him.   

Back in Sunnydale, things ran pretty easily.  You knew where you stood, with the Slayer in town keeping most of the demons in check and the rest of them hitting him up for drinks of one sort or another.  Willie didn't know what brought him to Los Angeles before the Troubles struck; maybe it was that last encounter with the Slayer or that threat from the loan sharks.  He sucked on his lower lip.  Yeah, probably the latter.  Loan sharks were nasty; distant relations to the Fiach over at the table though the Fiach wouldn't dirty their fingers with kittens.  Whatever it was, he'd been here when Henny-Penny's predictions came true and the sky started falling. 

The Fiach pair were whistling again, shooting glances towards the back of the bar.  The lone human patron at the far end of the bar winced and ducked his head, glaring over his shoulder.  Willie wished he could do the same thing but he fixed a smile on his face and kept cleaning.  Damn that kid.  He needed to take a break himself and the boy still wasn't back. 

When the two Fiach lunged from their seats, sending the chairs sprawling, Willie nearly ducked out of reflex.  They flung themselves towards the door in the back, where their companion had disappeared.  The human at the end of the bar threw himself out of the path of their rush, the other demonic customers staring placidly at this display.  Willie glanced at the table, seeing the booze left behind. 

Fiach never left before finishing their hooch.

Willie hated to get involved, it was one of those things he prided himself on.  Besides, if he left the bar, someone might mess with his till.  Or steal his booze.  But if the high-pitched shrieks were any indication, something was going on outside he needed to take a look at.  Grabbing a tire iron he'd appropriated in a bar fight so long ago he could barely remember it, he closed and locked the till, shoving the key in a pocket and started out from behind the bar. 

His customers, curious, fell in behind him, making him feel like the point man for a ridiculous army.  Willie squelched the thought that he was leading them into some sort of danger, that maybe he should be at the back of this group, made up of mostly muscle and little brains but that didn't stop him from being the first out the door. 

He froze on the stoop, a demon plowing right into him and sending him sprawling.  Willie managed somehow to keep his balance, practically walking on air to keep from coming in contact with what lay in the alley in front of him. 

The Fiach was filleted out like a fishing trophy and Stan, the barback, had his guts ripped open in the same manner.

Willie pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to keep from losing what little supper he'd eaten.  The lone human customer didn't have such luck, spewing almost right on the stoop.  The other patrons all made motions of disgust and picked their way towards the bodies.  One of them, a scrawny little gargoyle, pulled his wings tight around itself, his big eyes showing white at the rims as his nostrils closed in to keep out the smell of blood and other fluids.

"Hey," Willie said, grabbing the gargoyle's shoulder. 

He flinched, hunching as if he expected to be beaten.  Willie knew exactly how he felt.  "Listen, Randy," he said, "you gotta do me a favor."

"What?" the gargoyle asked in a worried whine.

"You're the fastest," Willie said, ignoring that tremor of fear that passed through Randy's wings.  "Go to the Hyperion Hotel.  Send someone here." 

"The Hyperion?"  The gargoyle's eyes got somehow wider. 

"Who do you think's gonna do something about this, Lilah in her gilded tower?"  He shook Randy's shoulder.  "You need to go.  Quick like."

"But it's out," Randy moaned, pressing his twiggy fingers to his mouth.  His head swept from side to side, bat ears cupped and listening.  "It's out there, Willie."  

"Yeah and we don't think it can fly," Willie said sharply.  "Get over there now.  They might be able to track it, as fresh as these kills are."  He glanced over at the other customers, discounting them immediately.  None of them had left the bar since Stan went outside except the Fiach and it was dead, too.  "What are you doing still standing around?  Get out of here!"

With a whine, Randy unfurled his wings from his body, nearly knocking Willie over in his desire to be gone.  Willie caught hold of the long wing spar before the gargoyle could take off.  "The Hyperion, right?  Get the witch.  Or the Watcher.  Hell, any of 'em will do.  Just do it!"

Bobbing his round head, Randy pulled his wing free and took a few mincing steps, clearing the bodies.  Once past those, he ran full out, cupping his wings like sails to catch the air.  Suddenly, he leaped from the ground, beating his wings twice and clearing the tops of a building by only a few inches.  Willie squinted, trying to make out that dark form against the sky. 

"It's the mark," the man said, gasping. 

Everyone turned towards him, following his pointing finger to a glistening patch on the building wall.  A bloody handprint had been slapped there, huge and clawed, far larger than a human's print, a weird, pointed thing, like a crown, drawn in blood above it.   Willie swallowed convulsively, glancing back towards the bodies as the other human said, "The Red Baron." 

They used to dance in the garden in the Middle of the night

They used to dance in the garden in the

 middle of the night

They were naked as the day they were

 Born skin all bone-china white…

Concrete Blond – Bloodletting (the Vampire song)