Accord

by Xenon

Set during S5. What Wes was up to during the Wes-less episode "Destiny".

2. 2

Drusilla left her dolls and her flowers behind and went for a long walk through London. She had had a lot to think about after her little conference. So much advice, so many suggestions, so many pictures in her head. The quiet streets, with the sounds of partying in the distance, helped her to sort through it all, and to work out what she needed to do and when. A cool wind stirred her dark hair, and brought with it the scent of people, of late night curry houses, and alcohol spilt in the road. The pubs, those places where she liked to prowl and capture late night stragglers, were closed now, their windows dark. She headed for the night clubs instead, and listened to dizzying music with pounding beats, pouring through closed doors. Strobe lights burst from high up windows, and painted the pavements with electric blue patterns, all pulsing to the same overpowering rhythms as the music. She felt it inside her like the beating of her long-stilled heart, and pressed her head against the cold brick outside, but at each place there were no victims. Nobody outside, everybody inside, and no way to get in herself. So she wandered on again, and on again, and on again. To ever more run down areas, where only the night clubs themselves seemed alive, to more sophisticated places, where the streets were cleaner, but the clubs were just the same. And, at last, her perseverance got its reward. Outside a big, white building with a giant plastic alien on the roof, and silver flying saucers painted on the walls, a young woman was crouched on a metal fire escape, attempting to touch up her make up in the flashing light that shone out of the windows in its inevitable pulsing patterns. Drusilla wandered up to her, wearing her human face, and smiling shyly all the while. The girl looked up.

"Hello." She seemed cheerful, though tired. Welcoming another temporary refugee, probably, assuming that Drusilla too had come out for some air. Dru smiled back at her, though more with seduction than greeting. She didn't speak.

"Gets awfully crowded in there, doesn't it." The girl spoke like the gentlewomen of Drusilla's memory; the ones with the prettiest dresses and the nicest carriages. She was no older than twenty, and her eyes were bluer than the flashing blue lights. Her skin looked blue in each of those flashes too, and her hair. The effect was unearthly, to match the painted UFOs, and the alien on the roof.

"Awfully crowded," she agreed. She knew what the night clubs were like inside. She had been into them before; the people inside were easy pickings. Often she could kill inside, and nobody would notice, though it paid to pick a victim with care. Once she had drunk a youngster dry only to find that she had been popping pills all night, and the combination of alcohol and ecstasy tablets had left Drusilla spinning joyfully on the dance floor with her head lost on its own flight of fancy. Spike had liked to tell the tale of his exploits at Woodstock, with its drug-soaked crowds causing interesting after-effects, but she had never before experienced something quite so intense herself. By the first light of dawn she had been curled up under a parked van in a back street, consumed by dreams of snakes and searing sunshine. She had had to force her way up through the floor in the end, to avoid the creeping rays, and spent the day nursing an unpleasant hangover and unexpected echoes of her hallucinations. This time, though, she saw no sign of glassiness in the eyes of her intended victim. No suggestion of taints in the blood.

"You alone?" the girl asked. Drusilla sat down beside her.

"Not anymore," she said. She could smell so many people; the heat of so many people. It made the hunger stir within her. The girl laughed.

"Lonely? The name's Rachel. I'm a student."

"We're all students." The girl was hot from her dancing and the crowds, and the inevitably high temperature in the club. It made her pulse beat faster, and the artery in her neck pulsed deliciously. "The world is full of learning."

"I suppose you're right. 'All the world's a university'. My father always used to say that." She laughed. "If all the world really was a university, we might stand a chance of the fees being brought down. I don't think I'm ever going to pay off my debts."

"I shouldn't worry about it." Drusilla couldn't hold herself in any longer, and her vampire fangs slid out. "You won't have to think about fees for much longer."

"Yeah? You a politician or something?!" The girl turned back to look at her, and a frown quivered its way across her face. "Hey, what's wrong with your face? Your forehead wasn't like that before. And those teeth..." For a moment she hesitated, as though assuming that it was a joke, then slowly began to rise to her feet. "Look, I've got friends waiting for me. I should go now."

"By all means." Drusilla stood up as well, apparently just being polite, her newly pointed smile growing more feral, more predatory by the second. "Run home to mummy."

"You're weird. You've been doing something weird." The girl shook her head, and edged away down the steps. Her shoes, ridiculous for fast retreats, clanged on the metal fire escape. "What was it? E? GBH?"

"Maybe." Drusilla smiled on. "You're funny, aren't you. You see, but you don't believe." She reached out, and her hand brushed the girl's hair before she could duck aside. "What colour is your hair? When the lights aren't turning it blue? I don't suppose it matters. Hair colour doesn't change the taste, after all." She frowned. "Although sometimes people dye their hair funny colours, and the taste gets into them. Bleach and chemicals. I can't tell if you smell natural. You smell of too many other people, and sweat and excitement and drinks with funny names."

"Whatever you say." The girl took another step away, but Drusilla, unable to wait any longer, was upon her in a second. She smiled, her yellow eyes glinting blue-green in a sudden flash from the strobe lights. "What the hell are you doing?" The girl fought back, but Drusilla's inhuman strength was too much for any ordinary person to combat. She forced the girl's head to one side, watching the artery pulse delightfully. Some nights it was wonderful to be a vampire. But when she bit in, and tasted the rich red blood, she found herself seeing Angel and Beatrice. She scowled into the cooling neck. Vampires weren't supposed to have consciences. Why was she feeling guilty that she was doing nothing to further her cause? As she sucked out the last few drops, she scowled sulkily, then stood up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Confound the sense of duty, wherever it had come from. It wasn't as if she had ever forgotten Beatrice's plans; she had just wanted to get something to eat before doing anything. All the same, she supposed that she had spent rather longer upon the hunt than she had intended, wandering the streets looking for somebody to bite. It was nearly two in the morning, and her plan was not yet set in action. Staring down at the body of her victim, artistically sprawled on the pavement, she waggled her fingers in farewell. Poor Rachel, with her debts and her disbelief. Still, she had tasted nice. A vegetarian, Drusilla thought, and her blood sparkling with the added frisson of spices from a recent Thai meal. It all added to the signature of originality that made every victim something new and exciting. But Angel still danced in front of her brain. Turning away, she broke into a run. Things to do. People to see.

She knew exactly where to go. She had been there some days before, delivering stolen books and scrolls to the people that she knew were holed up inside. Everybody in London's underground world knew the three Watcher assassins. Most feared them, for their skill and their ruthlessness, but such things mattered little to Drusilla. She just wanted assistance. Angel was marked for death, so Drusilla had taken the information to three people who might stand a chance of doing what she had failed to do, and kill Beatrice before she could kill Angel. She had watched through the windows as the threesome had sat around their table and argued over what they should do; argued over the meaning of the strange words in the writings; argued over how to proceed. She had seen them returning after long trips to gather more information; watched them gathering their library from sources all over the city and beyond. Smelt the blood on them when they had brought back the books stolen from people unwilling to give them up. And still they had done nothing, done nothing, done nothing. Each day and then the next, nothing. She had heard them speak, though, and she knew what they intended. Death for Angel, to protect the world at his expense. The world she cared nothing for. Nothing at all. Let every human be sucked dry by Beatrice, it mattered little to Dru. But Angel - Angel was different. And Angel must be saved.

So she went there now, as she had planned to do, thinking of the three Watchers. Wondering how she might be able to convince them to bend to her will. Wondering at the identity of the man she had heard them say was on his way to England, and was supposedly a friend of Angel's. Angel seemed to like to associate himself with humans these days. Buffy - curse her - and all her friends; his new friends in Los Angeles. Humans, humans everywhere, and none of them to drink. The same was true of her poor Spike, only in Angel's case there was no cruel chip to make him behave so strangely. The thought of it made her shudder. Poor, poor Angel. All tortured by gypsy spells. She cried for him sometimes during the day, when she was curled up in one bed or another, trying to sleep. She couldn't help him though - couldn't free him from his soul. But she could free him from his imminent death; in that at least she was resolved. So she crept up to the building where she knew the Watchers were hidden, and peered in through a darkened window. An empty room lay beyond. A room filled with furniture covered in dust sheets, and cardboard boxes with curled corners, all standing in irregular piles. It was easy to pull open the window and slip inside; the building was alarmed, but she had long since rigged this one window to be immune to the tug of electricity. Old carpet greeted her silent feet, and she went swiftly across it. She could hear voices; men's voices, arguing. One of the three assassins, and somebody she didn't know. Angel's name came into the conversation. They were talking about killing him, she realised, and she growled throatily. They still wanted to do that. The new voice though; the new voice was arguing against it. The new voice wanted to kill Beatrice instead, and Drusilla almost purred in happy agreement. That was more like it. This one had sense. Kill Beatrice. She had always been annoying. Kill Beatrice, and leave Angel alone. It was a one-sided argument so far as she could hear, though, and she headed for the library to listen more closely. Her initial plan was adapting itself all the time, and she sang the song of the flowers under her breath. This could work, she told herself. This was going to save Angel's life. For all that it was worth saving.

"I'm not saying that I don't want to help you!" The new voice. "I have no intention of letting this creature complete her ceremony. Why would I want that?"

"I don't know." The lean, cold one. The one called Weatherby. "You tell us, Wes. You're the one who likes to hang out with vampires."

"And you're the brainless idiot who fails to accept that Angel has a soul. He's not an ordinary vampire." Drusilla peered through the door and saw the new arrival shaking his head in frustration. "Why can't you understand this? He's a good man."

"He's not a man!" Weatherby advanced upon the newcomer, clearly with violence on his mind. "He's a vampire. Why can't you understand that?"

"Oh, I understand it." The newcomer caught the hand that had intended to strike, and gave it a sharp twist. A fast move, thought Dru, with approval. If his head moved as fast as his hand, he might be of some use. Weatherby broke his hold easily enough though. The new boy had speed, then, but not strength.

"Oh, you understand it." Weatherby didn't lash out again, but his eyes showed that he wanted to, and Drusilla could smell his rage. His disgust. "You know how dangerous he is. You know about all the people he's killed. But still you protect him. It's sick, and I'm sick of talking about it. You heard the deal, Wes. Help us, or we'll kill them all. Every single one of them. The black guy, the girl, that green thing you spend so much time with."

"Yeah." Smith now. Drusilla rarely heard him speak, and thought of him with some contempt. Collins was the brain of the operation, she knew. The boss. Weatherby was the muscle. Smith seemed to have no particular function. "There's another one too, isn't there Wes? Some girl in a hospital? In a coma?"

"You leave Cordelia out of this." There was white hot rage in the newcomer's voice. Such emotion always made Drusilla feel hungry. Watchers tasted nice anyway; she had learned that a long time ago. It was almost enough to make her mouth water. "You can't claim to kill her by accident. She's not even in the same building as the others."

"Maybe." Weatherby shrugged. "But I don't know. Maybe we should make a clean sweep. Get rid of the vampire and all the people he's tainted. Even girls in comas."

"Now you listen here." Drusilla watched the new boy - Wes, he seemed to be called - take a swift, furious step forward. Collins' voice rang out though, loud and sharp with authority.

"Enough. This is stupid. We're not going to kill some girl in a coma, and we're not going to kill any other humans. Not if we don't have to. Now sit down and shut the hell up. Wesley, what's the best way into the Wolfram & Hart building?"

"Bloody well find out for yourself." Wesley turned away, sitting down on the nearest chair, arms folded. Weatherby towered above him.

"We didn't bring you here for decoration, Wes. You're going to tell us what we want to know, or so help me I'll break every bone in your body. I can make you tell us."

"I doubt that." The newcomer was smiling, coldly and without humour. "I very much doubt there's anything you can do to me that Faith didn't already attempt. Remember? And she didn't break me. You're not worth a fraction of her."

"Yes, of course. It's not just vampires you like, is it. It's psychotic murderers as well. You really do have peculiar loyalties, Wesley." Collins strode over to stand beside Weatherby. "Well never mind any of that right now. We'll talk about it all when we're in California. All I care about for the moment is getting over there before we lose any more time." He looked over at Smith. "I'm going to load up the car. You stand guard in the meantime. And don't let him out of your sight."

"Sure." Smith hopped off the windowsill where he had been sitting. "Give a shout if you want a hand."

"Yeah." Collins nodded his head and made for the door, thinking wishful thoughts of the beds awaiting upstairs. He was halfway across the room when the lights went out, but his instincts didn't warn him of trouble. They didn't warn him of anything until a sudden weight crashed into his chest, and the floor came up to meet him. After that everything was too blurred to mean a very great deal. He heard a voice cry out, and recognised it as Weatherby's, then a sudden light blazed blue and gold in the middle of the room. He couldn't be sure of the details; everything was still artistically blurred. He thought that he saw Wesley, holding a ball of light in the palm of his hand, but that didn't seem to make much sense. He passed out after that. Nothing else seemed a logical course of action.

Conjuring the ball of light was simple magic. Wesley let it hover in the air in front of him, and scrabbled for the bullets that Collins had taken from his gun. He could see that the other man was down, but as far as he could see the chest still rose and fell, so there seemed little point in wasting time by checking on him. Combating the unknown threat was far more important. Weatherby was yelling at him to bring the light closer, or make it brighter, and Smith was recoiling from it as though it were something evil. To him it probably was. Magic had its place in the Council of course, but it was governed carefully, and was not supposed to be for the likes of them.

"Can you see anything?" yelled Wesley, ignoring Weatherby's demands for more light.

"I can't see a bloody thing! Something crashed past me, but I don't know where the hell it's gone." Weatherby was coming closer, and Wesley straightened up, gun reloaded. He snapped the magazine closed, and looked around the room. A dark shadow moved close to Smith and he shouted out a warning, but Collins had already noticed that something was amiss. He hurled himself to one side, and vanished behind the table. Wesley saw their attacker then, although he couldn't make out real detail. A human shape, female if the dark dress was anything to go by. He thought that he saw long hair, flowing about the head. Thought that his blue-gold light was shining upon yellow eyes. Cursed.

"Is this a public building?"

"Of course it bloody isn't. We're not--" Weatherby scowled at him. "Hell, I don't know. Maybe. I guess it could have been a conference centre once."

"You set up in a public building. And you didn't even cast spells to guard the entrances? Weatherby, half of London knows who the three of you are. You don't think that it might at least have been an idea to make sure that vampires couldn't get in to the place where you sleep?!"

"Yeah, because you always think of everything." Weatherby was angry enough to start fighting with a potential ally rather than with the flitting vampire now moving around them. "Just shoot her, damn it. Or give me the gun if you don't want to hurt one of them."

"Guns aren't the best thing to use against vampires. Not small calibre ones like this, anyway." He fired nonetheless, but the creature was too fast. He thought that he saw her wagging a finger admonishingly. Weatherby swore, wrestling Wesley for the gun.

"Oh, that's constructive." He let him take it; why fight? There were more important things to worry about. Nearby he thought that he heard Smith moving, and wondered what the other man was doing. Nothing particularly helpful, if his previous record was anything to go by. Smith might be a lethal killer and an efficient Watcher, but he still managed to be quite astonishingly useless at times. Something crashed past, and he reached out to make a grab at it, only to realise, as his fingers snagged on something heavy, that it was Smith. The man's solid shape fell unchecked to the floor, and Weatherby dropped to his knees beside it.

"Alive," he hissed. "It's not feeding."

"Yet." Wesley raised a sardonic eyebrow. "It's probably far more convenient to feed when there's nobody about to stake you from behind."

"Good point." Weatherby raised the gun and fired blindly at the last place in which he had seen the shadowy form of their attacker. "So we get picked off one by one and then drained. Charming. And you honestly want to dedicate your life to serving these things."

"Shut the hell up, Weatherby." Wesley snatched the gun away with a twist of which he felt secretly proud, and moved away from his fellow Watcher. Or fellow former Watcher, for he was never entirely sure how right it was to consider himself still a member of that elite. But then were any of them Watchers any more, now that the Council was dead and gone, and so many of them put to the sword across the globe?

"Pryce! Pryce, damn it." Weatherby was scrabbling after him, but the glowing ball of light followed its creator, and was soon beyond his reach. He stumbled over a fallen chair, cursing all the while. "Pryce! I can't see a thing. I don't have any weapons."

"You don't have a stake?" Wesley was beside him again, although the other man didn't have a clue how. "I thought you three were the elite?!"

"We are." A hand caught his arm, but for once there didn't seem to be any malice in Weatherby's actions. He genuinely was just looking for help. "Call it complacency. Call it whatever the hell you like. Nobody attacks us. Nobody."

"There's a vampire somewhere in here that holds a different view." Wesley pulled a cross from inside his jacket, and pressed it into Weatherby's hand. "Try to keep her at arm's length. Maybe I can work around behind her, and--" He broke off, his voice abruptly ending with a sound suspiciously like a faint grunt. Weatherby spun around, but he could see nothing. The ball of light had vanished.

"Pryce?" He fumbled for his cigarette lighter, managing to create a tiny flame that flickered precariously. Damn. He needed more lighter fuel. He was always forgetting to refill the blasted thing. "Pryce? Where did that light go?" He reached out with both hands, feeling with one, stretching out the lighter in the other. There was Smith, sprawled nearby, ungainly and apparently shapeless. There was Wesley's gun. Weatherby grabbed for it, and pointed it up into the darkness. His lighter was showing him other things now, and his eyes darted left and right. Another sprawled form. Wesley. He was lying face down, the back of his head turned slightly to Weatherby, a mess of scrumpled clothing and much awry hair. Weatherby shook him, dropped the lighter, and snatched for it again. This time when its tiny flame bounced into life it showed him something else. Something both expected and unexpected, which made his mouth go dry. A woman was looking down at him, smiling gently. She had long black hair and a remarkably sweet face, warmed by a smile that turned, as he stared at it, into a look of such coldly unimaginable evil that he felt his blood turn as though to ice. The lighter fell from his hand, and he held up the cross. So small, so powerful - so useless. A booted foot knocked it aside, and a hand came down from far overhead, seized him by the throat, and dragged him to his feet. He struggled. He was a fighter. A warrior. The Council's elite. He had fought vampires a hundred times. He had bested sorcerers, demons and witches. Killed a thousand creatures that his fellow humans would never have believed had been alive to kill. For some reason all he could do now was struggle pathetically in the grip of a woman who was not a woman at all.

"Hello dearie." She spoke like a Cockney, with the forced vowels of somebody who had probably long since lost her original accent, and spoke instead in the way she had chosen for her own. He aimed a kick at her leg, but she didn't flinch.

"What the hell do you want?" Wesley had suggested that she was planning merely to knock them all out, and then feed in peace, but he didn't believe it. Part of that was just wanting to contradict Wesley, but a part of it was sensible reasoning. She knew that they were here, she probably knew who they were. Instinct told him that this wasn't any random attack. She laughed at him strangely endearingly.

"Want want want. Who wants anything, really?"

"What?" She didn't make any sense, and he lifted the gun rather shakily. Wesley had been right of course, in that matter at least; it wasn't nearly of a big enough calibre to do any damage to a vampire. Still, perhaps at such close range... She knocked the weapon from his hand before he could even make the attempt.

"Naughty naughty." Her face was pressed close to his own, and he felt her skin change. He couldn't see it; couldn't see her anymore; but he knew that the soft, beautiful face he had seen in the tiny glow of his cigarette lighter had changed back into the yellow-eyed creature he had glimpsed before. He fought then. Fought with all the tricks he knew, and all the strength that he possessed. She only laughed at him. Laughed and bit, and drank. But only a little. He was still conscious when she dropped him to the floor, then bent over him and stroked gently at his hair.

"Bad human. Miss Elizabeth was right about you. She said that you wouldn't help Angel."

"Angel?" He wasn't sure if he was speaking aloud. He felt so light-headed, so unreal. Everything wavered inside and outside his head. Angel. That was the only part of any of this that made sense. But what the hell did Angelus have to do with anything?

"Angel." She was confirming it for him, and he knew then that he had spoken aloud. "Sleep now, little soldier. Maybe tomorrow I'll come back. Maybe tomorrow we'll need your help." He heard the sweet smile in her voice, and his body recoiled from it. "Always seek help from a friend. Daddy told me that, but I'd rather kill you and suck out all your shiny juices. Like a blood orange, my sweet." The hand fell away from his hair, and he heard her straightening up, and taking a step back. "But sometimes there are times for killing, and sometimes there are times for planning, so I won't kill you tonight. Just sleep now. Just sleep." A heavy boot crashed against his skull, and without any say in the matter, he obeyed her whispered order. She scowled down at him then, for she had meant exactly what she had said. She did want to kill him. The famous Watcher assassins, with their rich, tasty blood. It was a meal the like of which she might never see again. All waiting, all helpless, all unconscious. But they might be useful, yet.

So she left them. She had other priorities tonight.

xxxxxxxxxx

Wesley awoke to the feeling that really he ought to be dead. Then to the worry that he was dead. Then to the terror that he had been dead, and now wasn't any more. There had definitely been a vampire. She had definitely attacked him. He remembered inhuman strength and a blow that had made his world collapse, and he remembered thinking that this was very likely the end of everything. This was the point when somebody sucked out his blood, and he died, and then Angel died because there was nobody left to save him, and then so many other people died because there was nobody left to save them... and so on down into darkness. He had never expected to wake up. At the thought that he might have been drained and then awakened, turned into one of the creatures he despised, his breath came quickly and the pulse beat soundly in his neck. He frowned then. Should he have a pulse, if he was a vampire? Should he feel himself breathing with quite such force? Should, indeed, he really be worrying about whether or not he actually was a vampire? He had to conclude that that wouldn't really make much sense. He stretched, or tried to, and came up against the unarguable barrier of hard, biting rope. Relief filled him. Thank heaven - tied up. He almost smiled than. To feel relief at the sudden discovery that his hands were bound behind him, uncomfortably tightly, and that his feet seemed to be tied to the legs of a hard wooden chair was bizarre to say the least. There were many, many ways in which he would rather have woken up. But if he was tied up then surely that at least was incontrovertible proof that he hadn't been turned? Probably depends on who's tied you up, his subconscious told him. He agreed, somewhat unwillingly, and experimentally opened his eyes.

He was in a room. Not the room he had been in before - that had been old and dusty, and piled with books that had no shelves or proper filing system. This was different. A newer, bigger, airier space lined with shelves that teemed with books old and new. Mostly old; big and heavy and covered in leather and gilt. There was a thick rug on the floor at his feet; a whole series of them, that lay about the floor to hide the shiny new tiles. A table nearby, with several books lying on it. A lamp burning on the table. Blinds that covered the windows at the edges of the lamp's reach, with just a few cracks of daylight showing through here and there. Daylight kept out, then, and darkness kept within. It screamed vampire with a suddenness that made his heart pound again and his senses dance into life just seconds before a shape registered at the limits of his vision. He turned his head, and his throat seemed to catch and contract. She was coming at him, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. She was dark and lithe and he was bound so tightly, and she was coming so very, very fast, laughing so low, so richly, so teasingly. Images of Faith raced into his mind, and he flinched back involuntarily. Flinched back as she loomed up in his vision, and leaned in close, and sat herself down on his lap. Faith again, like years before. He began to struggle then, furiously, and with all the strength that he possessed. A woman's voice laughed delightedly, and a hand reached out to capture a handful of his hair, and hold his head still. God but she was strong. Inhumanly so, like any vampire of course - but it was always a surprise to encounter it. That something so human looking, so delicate looking, could be so strong that he would be helpless even if he weren't tied - it was wrong and obvious and terrifying and inescapable, and he wanted to get away from it. He couldn't even move.

"Now now." The voice was gently scolding, and he looked up into eyes that showed no malice, no evil. They were nice eyes, set in the midst of a nice face; and one that he recognised. He blinked.

"Drusilla."

"Yes." Her voice was almost a croon, the harsh accent all that stopped her from sounding like the mothers of his youth. She tilted his head slightly, watching his neck with such blatant hunger that he got the horrible impression he was being stored in some kind of larder. "You're a clever boy. Angel's boy. That's why I brought you here. Not like the others, are you. They wanted to kill him. Wanted to turn my poor Angel to dust and ashes and ashes and dust." She let go of his hair, and he turned, slowly, to watch her again. "But you don't want to kill Angel. You don't want him dead."

"No." He kept his voice level. Wesley hadn't experienced true fear in a long time; he seemed to have left such things behind, in the half confused memories of his time with Lilah. He didn't feel it now; not so intensely as he would once have done. What he did feel was a dreadful sense of unease. "No, I don't want him dead."

"There, see." She drew back, smiling down at him like some benevolent aunt. Or somebody else's benevolent aunt, anyway. "I knew you were a good boy. Miss Elizabeth always knows who's good and who's bad." She turned away, wandering back out of the limits of the lamp's glow. Wesley heard her feet scratching and scraping alternately upon the rugs and the tiles. He hated not being able to see her.

"So, er..." Speaking to her was very likely pointless; this was Drusilla, a vampire, and impossible to negotiate with. It wasn't as if he could establish a relationship with her, get her to identify with him, any of those other things that prisoners were supposed to do to ease contact with their captors. "What exactly is it that you want?"

"Want?" She came back into the light, this time holding a doll; a large one, probably three feet in height, dressed in neatly pressed red and green, and sporting hair just like Drusilla's own. The vampire sat it down on the table, then sat down next to it. She had extraordinary body language, thought Wesley. A mixture of the childish, the threatening, the blatantly sexual. She was smiling at him all the while, never once losing eye contact. "Your friend asked me that, but I didn't want to tell him. He had unfriendly eyes."

"My... friend?" He thought suddenly of the other three humans, and was angry with himself for not thinking of them sooner. "Collins, Weatherby, Smith. Where are they? What did you do to them?"

"Bad." Her tone of voice was suddenly admonishing, her eyes like flint. "Mustn't demand. Not without pleases and thankyous. Isn't that right, Miss Elizabeth?"

"Please, then." He could humour the insane vampire. It was a matter of simple practicalities; of doing what was right for the moment. That had always been one of his talents. "What happened to them?"

"They're not important." Her tone was entirely dismissive. "You're not here to talk about them. You're here to save Angel. Stop Beatrice from killing him. Find a way to kill Beatrice." She beamed at him suddenly, like an extraordinarily happy child. "That's why you're here."

"That's what I was doing anyway." He felt a burst of quite irrational anger. "I want to help Angel. I was helping Angel. All of this is just a little unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?" She swooped in on him in that second, her eyes right before his, gleaming yellow for a split second before they returned to normal. "They were taking you to America. What were you going to do in America? Books give answers. Books don't win wars."

"What?" He shook his head. So she wanted him for his research skills. It was an improvement, he supposed, on wanting him to betray Angel; and in all honesty, he had been just as much a prisoner in the hands of Collins and the others. The only reason they hadn't tied him to a chair had been because they hadn't thought of it yet. All the same - at least they were human. Humans who completely failed to agree with his point of view; with his set of priorities; but human nonetheless. Drusilla settled herself on his lap again, and he felt himself freeze beneath her. It was like having a wild panther suddenly start behaving like a house cat.

"Miss Elizabeth said you would help." The voice was sing-song, gentle, and entirely off-putting. "Help us. You will, won't you?" She was all but nuzzling his neck now, and he had no way of knowing whether it was through some bizarre display of affection, false or otherwise, or whether she was just mulling over the pros and cons of taking a bite. "Help to save Angel." Her voice was a purr, and one hand stroked his hair so gently that for a moment he almost relaxed. He tried to pull back, thrown by her unexpected attitude, and in that instant it all changed. Her eyes flashed yellow, her demon teeth burst into view, and the stroking hand upon his hair took a fierce grip just as before. He winced, trapped hair stinging, neck protesting to the hard wrench as she bared it once again.

"Ow!" He didn't know why, but he reacted with open anger, as though she were something more ordinary, less powerful. Trying to jerk his head away, like somebody playing a game that had got unexpectedly rough.

"Naughty boy." She stroked his cheek, and through the teeth and the yellow glare, she smiled at him. He had seen vampires smile many times, but it was usually with mockery or anticipation. This was nothing like that. There was something in her smile that was almost warm, almost gentle, in spite of the fangs. She let go of his head, and ruffled his hair playfully. "Must behave. Bad things happen when you don't behave. Didn't your father ever tell you that?" He didn't answer, but held her gaze in the sort of angry, mute stare that answered her question more clearly than any words. Most vampires wouldn't have noticed but, like Spike, Drusilla was unusually perceptive. The grotesque shapes carved into her mind by Angelus gave her a different perspective to her fellows; gave her an element of humanity that they lacked. She smiled more softly than before, and the fangs and the brow ridge disappeared. "Poor baby. All torn up inside. All torn up and twisted, and lost." She settled herself on his lap once again, and stroked his forehead. "So tangled up. There are holes inside your mind, that turn everything inside out. Miss Elizabeth sees, but she can't see why. She says it has to do with grandmother, but grandmother never was one for minds."

"There are... holes?" He didn't understand her, but he didn't think for a moment that he was alone in having felt that way when faced with her. She wasn't one for making a great deal of sense, at least to the casual observer. Not interested in his questions she looked sharply at him, and her eyes glittered darkly.

"Hardly important. Not any of it. Angel. Angel's important. Don't go trying to get out of that, or I shall have to get cross. You don't want me to get cross."

"Very likely not, no." He certainly wasn't in any hurry to see what she was like if she was really annoyed. "So, er... Angel?"

"Angel." She nodded and jumped off him, childlike in her enthusiasm. "We have to find a way of stopping Beatrice. Poor unsuspecting Beatrice. You know that she's indestructible until the ceremony is complete?" He shook his head, alarmed, and her expressive face twitched in disapproval. "Well she is. And you, my little dear, have to find us a way past that. Most of the books you'll need are here. I tried to read them myself, but the languages are confusing. All wiggly, wriggly little lines and funny pictures. I needed a Watcher." Her eyes were sharp again, and for the first time he felt his anger dissipating into real fear. She was so changeable; so mercurial. It was impossible to predict which mood would fly next across her face. Impossible to know what she was likely to do next. "So I went out and got one, didn't I, dearie. My very own little Watcher." Talon-like fingernails pressed into his chin, forcing his head up so that he had no choice but to look into her weird, deep eyes. There was real evil in them now; no more of the teasing and the warmth and the gentility. Harsh, hard, cold evil that made his blood run cold. "And you'll do this for me, or I'll kill everybody in London before I get around to doing the same to you. Don't think that I can't."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Without question he believed at least in her readiness to attempt such a threat. With all the power she exuded, and the strength she had already displayed, it was impossible not to. It would be a very great fool indeed who underestimated this stormy, ferocious woman; a very great fool; and whatever his father might say, Wesley didn't believe that he was that. Despite his lingering interest in all of this, he wanted to be out of here. The research might be vital, the chance to save Angel unmatched - but he didn't want to be here any longer with this deceptively crazed and manic woman. She was smiling down at him now though, a child again, and she brushed at his hair as though to tidy it.

"You will help?"

"I'll help." Right now he just wanted to run; to put as much distance as he could between himself and his turbulent tormentor, but he knew that he meant what he had said. He would help. He would give all that he was to the challenge, because that was what was needed. That was what he always did for Angel. The mockery and insinuations of Collins and his companions echoed in his head, and he heard again their disgust at his willingness to work for a vampire. What would they think of him now, offering to assist Drusilla - one of the worst vampires currently known to the Watchers? Her cruelty and brutality were legendary; her deeds chronicled in books that were not for the fainthearted. His sworn duty was clear; to escape from her or die trying; to kill her or die trying. To return to the assassins and lead them here to do the work they had been specially trained to do. It was hardly the first time, though, that his sworn duty lay in sharp contrast to the duty fate's second roll of the dice had chosen for him. He watched dispassionately as she drew a short, clearly antique dagger from within her clothing, and was careful not to flinch when she pressed it against his neck. Instead he met her eyes, holding her sultry, wild gaze with his own unemotional one.

"Hold still," she told him, and turned behind him to cut the ropes that bound his hands. It was wonderful to be free to move them again, but he didn't revel in it as much as he would have liked. He didn't stretched his arms as they wanted to be stretched, or rub his wrists. Instead he moved slowly, keeping his eyes upon Drusilla. She handed him the knife so that he could free his own ankles, and he stiffened slightly at that. Was it an insult; a demonstration of his inability to present a threat? Did she believe him so harmless that there was nothing to fear in giving him a weapon? He took it, still holding her gaze. There was little that he could do with it, especially with his feet still tied; little that he could have done anyway, with so small a blade. He could hardly behead her with it. Could barely incapacitate her with it, and even then only if she was obliging enough to stand still and let him do it. Slowly he cut the ropes around his ankles, then hesitated, weighing the knife in his hand. He was fast. He was good with a blade, and there were one or two magical tricks that he had up his sleeves. Maybe he could take her out after all. She flashed him a smile, briefly, then turned and walked away around the large table that dominated the centre of the room. So dismissive. So unconcerned by whatever he might do. With good reason, very likely.

"The books are all here," she was saying. Her voice, resonant and musical, managed to leap between friendly and unfriendly in the space of each syllable. "All the books any little Watcher could ever want, and more besides. New books. Old books. Books my family read to me when I was a child, before the demons awoke inside my head." She made a strange keening sound, and held her ears as though to keep out the voices she had heard so many times. "So many books." She looked back at him with a devilish smile, and beckoned with one long white finger. "Read them, Watcher. Before I remember how good your kind taste, and let my control slip."

"I..." He looked around at all the books; so many of them, and him without a clue where to start. "This could take days, Drusilla. Months even. We only have until the full moon."

"Then read." She looked pointedly at the knife in his hand, and he tossed it onto the table. It was no real use to him; he had held onto it merely as a source of comfort, but throwing it away still felt like he was willingly stepping into the impregnable fortress of his enemy. Like a dog bearing its throat to the pack leader, which was a decidedly unsettling analogy here. Drusilla smiled at him again. He rather wished that she would stop doing that.

"Do you have any idea where to start?" Fighting the urge to run, he moved closer to her, running his eyes over the many, many books. It was a struggle to turn his back on her, but he forced himself to do so, the better to examine the library. She moved in close, encircling him with her disproportionately strong arms, and resting her head on his shoulder.

"Start at the beginning," she told him, and her coldness against his neck made him itch to pull away. He didn't try it; to make the attempt, so uselessly against her strength, would be worse than not to attempt it at all.

"The beginning." The first shelf contained Mordant's A History Of All Things Evil, as well as Graham Greene's Monsignor Quixote and Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Oh good; an eclectic filing system; such things were always a great help. He sighed. "Where exactly is the beginning?"

"At the start of it all." She let go of him, to his unending relief, and wandered off to the other side of the table, where there was a shelf of books with apparently no two matching spines amongst them. Mammoth tomes; tiny paperbacks; glossy, mass-market hardbacks. She peered at them all for several seconds, then reached out and drew out one book from amongst all the rest. It was gigantic. At least two feet in height, black as night and bound in leather, with gilded pages and a mammoth bookmark like a tail of scarlet silk fixed into the spine. She lifted it so easily, despite its size, displaying her inhuman strength with the sort of easy familiarity of long use. The title of the book was written across the front in silver lettering, but not in English. One of the Torax strain of demon languages, said Wesley's brain, dutifully slipping into reference mode. Not a book from this dimension then; very likely his theory about the origins of Beatrice's ceremony had been right. He took the book from Drusilla, and put it down on the table.

"This is the book Beatrice likes to look at." Drusilla watched over his shoulder as he turned the first few pages. Hand-written in shining black ink; a work of art, the text illuminated like the old books of mediaeval Earth. He was quite breath-taken, but something made him glance up from the beguiling pages.

"Beatrice likes to come in here? You mean she's nearby?"

"This is her house, silly." She stroked his hair again, and his neck, apparently enjoying his unease. "But don't worry. She won't hurt you."

"I'm a human, in a vampire's house, brought here to find a way to kill her. And she won't be a little pissed off about that?"

"She won't mind much. Besides, we won't tell her why you're here." She giggled throatily, and her fingernails ran their way up and down his arms. "Not the truth, anyway." Abruptly the nails were digging into his shoulders, and forcing him, with sudden brutal pressure, to sit down on the nearest chair. "Now read. No more talking, dearie, or I'll forget my manners. And so will my teeth. Understand?"

"Perfectly." He pulled the book towards him, and looked down at the beautiful, alien script. It would take some work; he was familiar with the language, but far from fluent in it. So much work, and so little time. Bending his head, trying to forget that there was a blood-thirsty killer looming over his left shoulder, he turned to this new task. The challenge interested him, despite the circumstances, and the scholar in him was enthusiastic even if the warrior wasn't. Soon enough he was absorbed, and the mysteries of the book began to reveal themselves to him. The next time Drusilla stroked his head, he didn't even notice. Her cold touch meant nothing at all.

xxxxxxxxxx

Collins awoke rather as Wesley had done; to worry, surprise and fear. He had no idea that it had been a vampire who had attacked his little enclave, but the worries were there nonetheless. Not knowing what had happened, or for how long he had been unconscious, he stirred slowly, and watched the world about him through half-closed lids. He could hear nothing, see nothing, sense nothing. The room was still dark, but not so dark as before. Daylight, or a rough approximation of it, filtered faintly through the drawn curtains, and he thought that he heard the sounds of daytime to accompany it. Increased traffic, urban songbirds, the distant tinny sound of the radio from the building site down the road. He let out a long sigh. The dangers of the night went away with the sun, and he immediately felt he had less to fear. He opened his eyes, rubbed his protesting head, then sat up. He looked around.

Pryce was gone. He saw that straight away without really seeing it at all. He could be on the other side of the room of course; behind the table perhaps, or just in one of the dark places that still lingered. But he wasn't. Collins knew that. He stood up, rather shakily, and went over to the curtains, tugging them wide open and letting the daylight flood in. It was still early, he thought. The world was still coloured pale grey, the way it was before the sun had risen all that much. He tried to guess how long he had been unconscious, but he had no idea what time it had been when he had been attacked. Giving up the attempt, he turned his attentions instead to his two colleagues.

"Smith! Weatherby!" Using a tone of voice that suggested anger; as though they alone had been defeated by the unseen opponent, he nudged the sprawled pair with an imperious foot. "Wake the hell up."

"What?" Smith sat up slowly, blinking uncertainly about. "What happened?" He rubbed his head, and winced. "Ow. Bloody hell, I think my skull's snapped in half."

"I shouldn't worry about it. It can't diminish your looks or your brainpower." Collins hauled him to his feet. "Pryce has gone."

"Gone?" Weatherby was clambering to his feet, clinging tightly to the table edge as he did so. He rubbed his neck, wincing at the pain from the holes left by Drusilla's fangs. "She took him?"

"She? You saw who attacked us?" Collins turned on him in an instant. "It was a woman?"

"You could call her that I suppose. I wouldn't." He dabbed at his neck with a handkerchief, although the blood had long since dried, then sat gingerly down on one of the chairs set around the table. "It was Drusilla. I didn't get a very good look at her, but I know her face when I see it."

"Drusilla." Collins' voice was like ice, and the word cracked out of his mouth. "That godless bitch. What would she want with us, if she wasn't feeding?"

"Pryce." Smith sat down near to Weatherby. "Well he's gone, isn't he? Unless he went after her when she left, he must have been what she came for."

"He can't have gone after her." Weatherby ceased worrying over his neck, finally having to accept that he hadn't been dramatically wounded. "He was out like a light. I saw him. Right before she grabbed me, she knocked him down. He didn't look like he was going anywhere under his own steam."

"Must have hit him by accident then, mustn't she." Smith's eyes glinted vindictively. "She'd have no reason to take him. Vampires kill, they don't kidnap."

"You think they're working together?" Collins sounded interested by the proposition. Smith just shrugged.

"Make sense, wouldn't it. We know the connection between Drusilla and Angelus. He made her what she is, and you think they don't still work together?"

"Fair point," admitted Weatherby. "Look at Sunnydale a few years ago; Giles was still filing reports back then, and they were still the proper little family group. Angelus, Drusilla, Spike. And we all know where Wesley stands on Angelus. And, apparently, on Spike."

"I don't know." Collins was ready to believe just about anything of the colleague he held in such low regard; but this? "Drusilla is a little different to Angelus. Pryce might be a twisted bastard, but he's right about one thing. Angelus does have a soul. Drusilla doesn't."

"True. Maybe. For all we know Angelus and this soul crap is all a load of nonsense, and frankly I don't care about it anyway." Weatherby had a headache, and as far as he was concerned that was entirely the fault of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. He was quite positive that none of this would have happened if Pryce hadn't been with them, and he was more than ready to blame him for everything from the holes in his neck to the destruction of the entire Watchers' Council. Pure spite made him spit out the charges now. "Think about it. He'd do anything for Angelus, and you know it. Why not for Angelus' daughter too? For all we know they're working together. We grabbed Pryce, so she came here to get him back."

"No." Collins shook his head. "It doesn't make sense. She must have taken him for some other reason. If they were working together, chances are she'd have taken the time to do this properly, and killed at least one of us. Leaving us alive suggests she was in a hurry to get out of here. Like maybe she wanted to get Pryce somewhere before he woke up." He scowled. "Oh, what the hell. It really doesn't matter either way. We've still got to get the son of a bitch back."

"We do?" Smith didn't look convinced. Collins glared at him.

"If she took him because they're working together, then it's our duty to get him back. We need to find out what's going on and put a stop to it. If she took him for some other reason, we've still got to get him back. I hate him as much as you do, but we can't leave him in the hands of a vampire. He is one of us." A trace of clear disgust crept into his voice. "In a manner of speaking, anyway. Besides, he's still our best shot of getting close enough to Angelus to dust him. We need him. For all I care the pair of you can play safe, and stake him right after we do the same to his boss; but until then we need him." He stood up, still simmering from the rage and hurt pride caused by the ease with which his stronghold had been taken by the enemy. And one enemy at that.

"Right." Accepting the word of his nominal leader, and recognising the sense in all of it, Weatherby stood up and stuffed his disappointingly un-bloodstained handkerchief back into his pocket. "Smith, get on the computer. Look for police reports of any crimes attributable to vampires. You know the drill. Try to look for any attacks centred in clusters. Maybe Drusilla has been around long enough to have taken a few victims. That might help narrow our search. I'll break out the maps, and have a look for likely buildings. If we're going by her usual modus operandi, we want somewhere big and grandiose. It needn't necessarily be empty."

"Not until she rings the doorbell, anyway." Collins nodded. "Good. I'm going out. Now we know there's something going on, I can really lean on our informants. This time I'm not coming back without finding something out." He picked up Wesley's gun and checked the load, then stuck it into his pocket. "Get to work. By the time I come back I want to have some idea of wherever Drusilla is holed up. We go in, we get Pryce, and we get back out again, and I don't care who we have to go through in the process."

"And if it turns out Pryce really is working with Drusilla?" asked Weatherby, a hopeful tone in his voice. He had been wanting to take action against the other Watcher ever since they had last crossed swords, in Los Angeles back in 2000. Four years of harboured grudges led to a certain sense of satisfaction, now, with the idea that there might soon be a chance of revenge. Collins allowed himself the smallest and most sardonic of smiles.

"Then we deal with him," he said simply. "The way the Council should have done back in '99. I always said you shouldn't sack Watchers. If we find out Pryce is helping Drusilla, in whatever the hell she's up to, he's a dead man." His eyes hardened, and the still lingering smile twisted up at the ends. "Screw it. Even if he's not working with her, sooner or later one of us is going to take him out. Might as well be sooner."

"That sounds like a plan I can approve." Weatherby was already trying to think of the most fitting way to bring a permanent end to Wesley's notoriously chequered career. Several pleasantly poetic options sprang to mind almost immediately. "Shame we have to deal with the Angel business first."

"It'll be worth the wait." Smith was already on his way to the door, heading for the room where they had set up their various pieces of computer equipment, stolen, like everything else in their headquarters, from other buildings in London. "That ponce has been asking for it for years."

"Yeah, well neither of you forget; he doesn't die until I say so. We've got better things than revenge to worry about." Collins pushed past Smith on his way to the door. "Now get moving. We're on limited time, and I want this wrapped up. We've had enough cock ups already on this job. Any more, and I'll stake one of you as well as Pryce and Angel. And don't think I don't mean that." He left with a bang of the door. Smith whistled.

"I think he's serious," he commented, with a lightness that he didn't really feel. Weatherby nodded.

"I think you're right. Just be glad you're not Pryce. If you think Collins is angry with us, you wait until you see what he does with that aggravating sod." He smirked slightly. "I'm rather looking forward to it, myself."

xxxxxxxxxx

The books in Drusilla's library were amongst the most fascinating that Wesley had ever read, and in many ways he was sorry that time was so limited. Before many hours had passed there was a towering pile of volumes on the table, and many other books spread out around him, open to pages of differing languages and typically graphic illustrations. Drusilla had found him a sizeable pad of paper and a biro that wrote in purple ink, and he scribbled notes in his own idiosyncratic shorthand. It might almost have been fun, were it not for his ever present companion. She moved restlessly about the room, sometimes gliding on silent feet, mumbling to herself or making strange noises; sometimes dancing, slowly and almost beautifully, to music inside her own head. She sang, she talked to Miss Elizabeth who herself sat mutely in the centre of the table, staring at Wesley as though keeping guard. Sometimes, energy seeming to desert her, Drusilla would wander back to Wesley and sit beside him, or stand over him and stroke his hair, mumbling peculiar sweet nothings. On the whole he preferred the doll; her glassy-eyed stare was strangely oppressive at times, but at least she sat still and didn't stroke him, or sing in that soft, throaty voice. Everything about Drusilla was sinister, from the peculiar flirtation in her eyes, and her grotesquely sexual body language, to the soft songs she whispered to herself as she danced in dreamy circles. He watched her with one eye as he worked; watched her whirl about with her arms outstretched, or sometimes with her hands clasped to her head. She sang old folksongs that must have been ancient even when she had sung them for the first time, in the days when she had been human. He watched her pace restlessly when the music was no longer with her; heard her quote Shakespeare and Byron; tried not to flinch when she came up behind him and rubbed at his shoulders with her long-nailed, horribly strong hands. She was wearing perfume of some kind; something earthy and subtle and old fashioned that didn't want to be ignored. It fitted her image of darkness personified, and lingered in the air every time she moved. She knew the effect that it all had, too, even if there was so much of the child in her. The child, after all, only went so deep.

"Did you find anything yet?" Her tone was whining, insistent. He made a point of not lifting his eyes from the pages of the books.

"Bits. Here and there. Maybe."

"The forces are gathering, Watcher." She leaned over him, staring at his notes and the incomprehensible tangle of language in the books. "She puts things in such disarray. Everything spins."

"No doubt." He rubbed his eyes, wishing for some natural light. It would have been wonderful to pull back the curtain and allow the sun to illuminate his work instead of the lamp that stood on the table. It wasn't nearly strong enough, and its hot yellow glare was decidedly unfriendly. "Maybe you should have kidnapped all four of us. We might have got this done a little more quickly then."

"The others wouldn't have helped. They wanted to kill Angel." She turned away, running her fingers over the spines of all the other books, pulling out one or two to look at their covers. "Poor daddy."

"I didn't think you cared that much for him." Ceasing his frantic scribbling for a moment, Wesley looked up. "I was under the impression you were ready to kill him yourself at least once. There was some ritual to replenish your strength back in Sunnydale?"

"Sunnydale." She sounded sad, and made her little keening noises again. "With Spike. Poor Spike." Heaving a huge theatrical sigh, she threw the nearest book at the table, narrowly missing Wesley's head. Alice In Wonderland, he saw, as it flew close by him. Great. Nice to see the theme of insanity being kept up, anyway.

"That was different." Her moment of anger past, she was speaking once more in a dreamy voice that spoke of a thousand sorrows. "This is different. I don't know why, little Watcher boy. I just know that it is."

"Fine." He didn't give a fig for her reasoning. "But if you want speed, maybe you ought to lend a hand. I'm going as fast as I can."

"Are you?" She pulled a chair out from under the table, and sat down beside him, pulling his pad over for a closer look. "Pretty squiggles. Are they poetry?"

"Drop the mad act, Drusilla." He pulled the pad back. Odd that he felt almost comfortable about chiding her. He had never really met her before, although his studies of the life of Angelus had made her an extremely familiar figure to him. He knew every recorded detail of the torment inflicted upon her by Angelus, and it seemed as if he knew each and every facet of her madness. Enough to be sure that she wasn't truly insane, anyway; enough to know that her character was far more complex than that. She put her hand over his, in a gesture that seemed friendly until he was reminded again of her strength. She might just as well have nailed his hand to the table.

"Poor Drusilla," she said gently. "Always misunderstood."

"I'm not misunderstanding anything. But don't misunderstand me." He made a point of trying to remove his hand, even though he knew that it was hopeless. "You need me."

"You're a bright little Watcher boy, aren't you." She released him, then climbed up to sit on the table instead, picking up Miss Elizabeth. "Bright little Watcher boys have to be careful that they don't get their fingers bitten off. And their ears, and their toes..." She smiled wickedly, busying herself by arranging the doll's extravagant skirts and petticoats. "All kinds of bits and pieces get bitten off. It can be quite messy. Messy and painful. And tasty."

"Yes, but I work so much better with all my bits intact." He turned back to the books. "What time is it?"

"Daytime." Apparently nothing more precise was going to be offered. He scowled. Even a research junkie started to tire of his work now and again, and it might be nice to know how long he had been busy. "Don't worry, dearie. Beatrice will sleep for a while yet."

Beatrice. His heart gave a jolt at that. Of course - she was here somewhere, and he had allowed himself almost to forget it. She could be anywhere in the building; even in the room next door to where he now worked. At any moment she could awaken, and come in here. And then what? Would she kill him outright? Would Drusilla try to protect him? He wasn't sure that the sensation he felt was entirely that of fear, but it was certainly unnerving to be alone in a vampire stronghold. Alone and unarmed, save for the magicks he possessed. And even they could not necessarily be counted upon, for Beatrice clearly had some knowledge and ability in that field herself. Drusilla caught the look in his eyes, and stroked his hair with a lazy, gentle hand.

"Relax, dearie. She won't hurt you. We'll look after him, won't we Miss Elizabeth. Have to keep the little Watcher safe, so that we can keep daddy safe."

"Well let's hope that Beatrice doesn't fancy Watcher for breakfast." He pulled his head away, irritated by her constant touching, as well as with himself for letting it get to him. She unsettled him greatly, and her low, throaty chuckle told him that she knew it.

"She'll get Watcher for breakfast if you don't find something worthwhile." For a second the voice was cold and sharp, like the snap of brittle ice under pressure, then she was leaning close again, her body language blatantly sexual, and her fingernails toying with his neck. He was suddenly acutely aware of the pulse beating there, and knew all too well that she was even more so. One pointed nail traced the path of the live-giving artery, and for a second every muscle in his body seemed to freeze. She laughed at him, very, very faintly.

"It's alright, my dear." She spoke to him as though he were a tiny child cowering beneath the covers of his bed. It wasn't a tone of voice he was used to. "Auntie Dru will take care of you." He couldn't miss the glint in those deceptive, deep eyes. "Very good care."

"That's what worries me." He turned his eyes back to the book in front of him, taking refuge in ancient pages and beautiful lettering. Miss Elizabeth stared at the back of his head with her glassy blue eyes, even though Drusilla had already lost interest. The vampire was looking at the book, trying to guess its secrets. The doll cared more for the Watcher. If Wesley had been more of one for popular culture, he might have thought of other dolls, with sharp snapping teeth and mocking eyes, drawing blood with their serrated fangs. Instead he saw only the illuminated text, and the words even he had to struggle to read.

"How close are you?" asked Drusilla, all trace of play gone. He didn't look up.

"When I know what I'm looking for, I might be able to estimate how close I am to finding it." He rubbed his eyes, almost wishing for his glasses. Supposedly he no longer needed them, but there were times, when he was studying hard, that he wondered just how far behind him he had really left those old inconveniences. He sighed. "Make yourself useful, would you? See if you can find a book called Magicarum Cœlestium. I can't believe you don't have a copy here, given what else you've got. It should be black."

"Here." She found it almost immediately, her quick, predator's eyes scanning the spines of the books far more quickly than any human could manage. She handed it over without enthusiasm, however. "It doesn't look very helpful. Latin. Latin means this dimension. Too ordinary."

"Perhaps." He flicked through the pages though, trying not to waste time by stopping to admire the edition. It was in almost perfect condition, despite being nearly five hundred years old. His own copy was ragged in comparison, the leather cracked and the hand-cut pages crumpled. This one seemed barely to have been read. Drusilla hung around by his shoulder, and he knew that she was reading the words as well. She knew Latin then. Not a surprise, perhaps, given when she had been born; but not all women had been fortunate enough to receive a full education back then. He heard the scowl in her sigh when she failed to see anything of immediate use.

"What next?" she asked. She was bored, clearly. Wesley liked the idea of being incarcerated with a bored vampire marginally less than he liked the idea of being incarcerated with an angry one.

"Next I read some more." He found a particular passage and studied it carefully. It wasn't that he needed to see the text to read it; he had been familiar with this book for most of his life, and knew fully half of it by heart. The Magicarum Cœlestium, however, was more than it appeared to be. On the surface it was a simple history of certain branches of sorcery, listing a variety of spells. To those who were aware of its abilities, though, it was rather more complicated than that. In the hands of a practitioner of magic, it was potentially a more potent spell ingredient than any of the usual herbs and potions. Wesley ran his hand across his chosen passage, and muttered the words in rhythmic Latin. The ink glowed softly, and Drusilla, drawn to it like a moth to a flame, whispered rhythmic words of her own. Hers were also in Latin, but they were not part of a spell. For some reason she was singing an old nursery rhyme. Wesley ignored her. Responding to his own chanting, however, before his eyes the pages of the Cœlestium began to turn. Drusilla's soft singing broke off.

"Naughty Watcher," she said quietly. "Not supposed to be a magician."

"Ssh." He held up a hand for silence. The pages had ceased to turn now, and the book lay open on a page featuring hundreds of tiny demons, expertly drawn by some long dead scholar so that they appeared to be scrambling all over the text. It was tempting to admire the work without studying the words themselves, especially when the eyes of the little demons began to glow, and they began to climb about the letters for real. Drusilla was enchanted by them, and leaned closer, eyes wide, to watch them scamper and play.

"Have you found something?" she asked. Wesley flipped through the pages of his notebook.

"I don't know. But with the work I've done already, and the things that I'm being shown now, I might be able to work out where to go next." He read through the page, then turned back to the huge book he had been studying before, rifling hurriedly through the leaves. It took him a moment for his brain to switch between the Latin of the Cœlestium, the shorthand of his notes and the unfamiliar language of the huge book, but languages were his business, and it wasn't too difficult a task. Drusilla was no help, getting in the way as she watched the scrambling demons, and doing her usual trick of sprawling across his lap. He shut her out, the way he had long ago learned to shut out distractions. His father shouting at him, Cordelia talking incessantly, the loving interplay between Gunn and Fred that he had had no wish to witness. Admittedly none of that was quite as distracting as a sinister and beautiful vampire rubbing herself up against him, but the books were all that mattered. They were all that could matter. He made sure of that.

And thus it was that Beatrice found them, when she wandered into the library some twenty minutes later. Amidst a pile of books that almost hid them from her eyes - though not from her other senses - they were huddled together, busy about their respective tasks. Drusilla was still sitting on Wesley's lap, one arm curled around his neck, the other making playful snatches at the frolicking, painted demons. Beatrice cleared her throat loudly, and rather enjoyed the effect that her sudden presence had upon the young, clearly human, male. She heard his heart beating faster and more loudly, and licked her lips with unconscious relish. Adrenalin improved flavour, in her opinion.

"Are we keeping fresh food in the larder now, Drusilla?" she asked. "If so there's some ropes in the other room. I prefer to keep my snacks tethered so they can't run off."

"He's not for eating." Drusilla rolled off Wesley's lap, amused by the rigidity in his muscles. He was trying to stay focused on his reading, and feign a lack of interest in what was going on between the two vampires, but his heart rate couldn't keep itself secret from a vampire. She trailed one hand across his neck, just to toy with him. "He's my pet."

"He's human." For Beatrice such things were simple. "That makes him food. What's he doing with the books?"

"Studying. He's quite the scholar." Drusilla was playing her wide-eyed child rôle again, the best to make Beatrice either trust her or dismiss her. "It seemed a shame not to make use of all the books. He's finding out all kinds of things, aren't you dearie." Wesley didn't answer, and her fingernails dug sharply into his shoulders. Not enough to truly hurt; just enough to remind him who was boss. "Aren't you dearie," she repeated. He glowered, but nodded. Her smile fluttered into being again. "He's not for eating, Beatrice. I was lonely, and I haven't had a playmate in years. I want somebody to replace Spike, and my little pet here is going to be that. I just didn't want to turn him until he'd looked through the books. He might not appreciate them afterwards." This time Wesley really did go rigid beneath her hands. Turning him? She couldn't be serious? Beatrice seemed almost as incredulous, though not nearly so shocked.

"You're not here to find new playmates, Drusilla. You're here to help me with my work. There's no room in that for humans who would be so much better dead." She came closer. "And this one has blue eyes. You know they're my favourite."

"Eye colour doesn't make any difference to the taste." Dru ran a ghosting hand over Wesley's cheek, as though he really were the pet she had claimed him to be. "It's what they eat that counts. Anyway, I have time enough for whatever you want, and to play with him as well."

"I'm not a toy." He spoke quietly, although he knew well enough the hearing abilities of vampires. Drusilla stroked the back of his neck.

"Quiet, pet. I told you she won't eat you, and she won't. She'll have to get through me first."

"Not all that difficult." Beatrice came closer, though she was still wearing her human face, and her movements were easy and unhurried. There was no tenseness in her limbs; no suggestion that she might be preparing to spring. Not that she needed to prepare - a vampire could leap great distances from a standstill, often with no apparent sign of effort. Her eyes were on the books, though. She knew that she could take Wesley easily enough, and she wasn't bothering to watch him. She just wanted to see which books he was reading. He made a concerted effort to keep reading, keep writing, keep his eyes fixed on the work in front of him, whilst Drusilla's hand stayed on the back of his neck.

"Why is he reading this?" Beatrice lifted the huge book that made up the lion's share of Wesley's research, and weighed it in one hand. It wasn't an especially large hand, and it seemed unfair to Wesley that it should be such a strong one. Drusilla giggled softly.

"We thought it looked the most interesting. Why? Is it important?"

"Never mind." She tossed it back onto the table, sending several other books flying. "It's evening, Drusilla. I don't know about you, but I'm hungry; and I eat people. I don't keep them as pets."

"We can go hunting." Clearly the idea pleased Drusilla no end. The hidden vampire features ghosted across Beatrice's face, the brief flash of yellow eyes emphasising her scowl.

"We don't need to hunt." A powerful hand closed on Wesley's shoulder. "We've got a little human snack right here."

"Him?" Drusilla looked disparaging. "He's barely a mouthful, skinny little thing. We'll find a night-club, and get a couple of tender little birdies. All tasty from the cocktails and the heat."

"Hmm." With just the one hand still on Wesley's shoulder, Beatrice hauled the Watcher to his feet. Wesley had been manhandled by vampires many times, but it still seemed rather disconcerting to be jerked about with so very little effort by somebody of no great size. "I suppose he does look a little pale. Not as skinny as he looks, though." She licked her lips, her movements that same mixture of the dangerous and the sensual that Wesley had seen before, both in Darla and more recently in Drusilla. "Appetiser?"

"I told you." Drusilla broke the strong hold with ease, and pushed Wesley back into his chair. He crashed back from the force of the push, the chair almost upsetting itself. Anger flashed across his face; anger and deep concern. He was close to death now, and he knew it. "No eating my pets. You ate that ticket collector on the train down from Birmingham, and you knew I wanted to play with him a while. And you ate that stagecoach driver all those years ago. I was going to teach him to sing."

"Oh, I can't be bothered to argue with you." Beatrice just looked disgusted; as far as she was concerned, humans were for eating, and nothing else. "Just come on if you're coming. If we go now we should meet the early crowd before they get too drunk. They taste better when they're still only tipsy."

"True." Drusilla giggled lightly, and ruffled Wesley's hair. "Be good and we might bring you back a doggy bag, my pet. How do you fancy a little teenager, all trembly and wobbly-kneed?"

"Drusilla..." He knew what she was, of course; knew exactly what sort of things she was famed for doing; but after declaring a truce of sorts with him, surely she wasn't going to go out and kill humans? But of course she was, and he was a fool for thinking that she might hold back. She laughed at him, though warmly and without rancour.

"Just a bite, my pretty boy. Carry on reading your little tales. We'll be back before you've missed us."

"Drusilla!" He managed to sound authoritative, even if he was scared. Standing up, he squared his shoulders, and tried to pretend that she wasn't ten times stronger than him. "You can't go out eating people. I won't let you."

"You're very sweet." She stroked his cheek, and he jerked his head away, annoyed. He had had just about enough of her and her touchy-feely approach.

"I mean it. If you kill anybody, I won't help you with this."

"Oh you'll help." Her eyes were suddenly hard and inhuman, even though she was still wearing her human face. Beatrice pushed past her, expression more irritated even than before.

"If you're not going to eat him, Drusilla, at least shut him up." With one small swipe she backhanded Wesley so hard that he crashed over the table and fell to the ground on the other side. Stars exploded, and for several seconds he found it impossible to breathe. He coughed, very hard, and tried to decide if his head was still attached to his body.

"Poor baby." Drusilla hauled him to his feet by one shoulder, with no gentility whatsoever. His feet lost contact with the ground almost as soon as they had regained it, and he realised in a sudden, dizzying moment that he was being held suspended, his toes swinging several millimetres above the floor. Still struggling to catch his breath, he fought her briefly, without any hope for his success. Very gently she lowered him into the nearest chair, then twisted his hands behind his back with a sudden shock of brutality that caught him entirely by surprise. It was several seconds before he realised that his hands were tied there, trapped against the hard slatted back of the chair. Breath returned, and with it the ability to speak - not that he used it for anything particularly meaningful. He merely swore, in a rough, hoarse voice more like a growl. Drusilla laughed delightedly.

"I should wash your mouth out. But your mouth is full of blood, isn't it." So that was what was running down his chin. He should have guessed. Drusilla trailed a finger through the trails, then licked it experimentally. He saw her eyes widen and spark, and saw the flash of the vampire that rushed momentarily across her features. Instinctively he flinched back. She merely laughed though.

"Got to go, little pet. You'll keep." She leaned closer though, kissing him full on the mouth in a move that was half genuine, and half merely an excuse to fill her own mouth with his blood. When she pulled away it was with a smile that was entirely feral. "Night night."

"Come on, Drusilla." Beatrice was already at the door. "Or I'll forget my manners and eat him now."

"Coming." Straightening up, the dark-eyed demon flashed Wesley one last smile, then disappeared after her 'sister'. Wesley watched after them for a moment, then very, very slowly allowed himself to relax. Drusilla had tied him tightly, but she had left a loop of rope in his hands which he discovered when he tested the bonds. So that had all been an act for Beatrice? If so he hated to think how she might behave were it all for real. Tugging on the loop, he caused the bindings to fall away, and he rubbed his wrists tenderly. He felt dreadful. Bits of him still hurt from the abduction earlier, the ropes he had just removed had rubbed painfully on burns from the ropes Drusilla had used on him before, and his head spun from Beatrice's attack. Why was life always so damned painful? Dismissing the thought, he dragged himself to his feet and tested his balance. Not too bad. He could walk without collapsing, and he knew from long experience that his body could take a good deal more battering than this before it gave in under the strain. He was left with three options then, he realised. Get the hell out of here before his tormentors returned; head off after them and possibly prevent them killing anything upward of two innocent civilians; or get back to work and keep looking for a way to help Angel. Despite the dangers of the second option, it was the third that seemed the most insane; sitting down, missing out on a good chance of escape, and awaiting the return of a pair who would, very likely, kill him in the end. Muttering under his breath, he walked painfully back around the table to the chair he had been sitting on before, and sat down on it again. The books awaited him with a patience he lacked; his notes still lay there, with their unique shorthand written in Drusilla's purple biro. It only took him a moment to regain his equilibrium, and then he started back to work. The stars still danced in front of his eyes, he could still taste blood and Drusilla in his mouth, his wrists and his back still ached. You're a fool, Wesley, the lingering facets of his old self were telling him. Get out whilst you still can. He didn't listen to them. He never did anymore. He listened to new voices now.

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