Chapter 9: Blood Lines
Winifred Burkle smiled fondly at the sight of the blond vampire struggling at the keyboard of his computer. Amused, she had to resist the temptation to take over and retrieve his emails for him, if only to stop the stream of abuse he was hurling at the monitor. She glanced over at Connor curled up on the sofa bed opposite the window. Still asleep. One less thing to worry about for the moment then.
"Stupid bloody thing!" Spike, flicked the mouse across the desk in disgust. "Why is 'Spike' an incorrect username? My name's Spike and I'm using this gismo." He turned to Fred for support, a frown of frustration creasing his forehead, which was still streaked with blood from the earlier battle. "You're the expert, help me out here."
"Well," Fred chose her words carefully, knowing how battered Spike was feeling from his latest encounter with Angel. "You're right. Computers are stupid. This one can't think and has the intelligence of an earthworm. Did Harmony tell you anything about your logon details?"
"No, she didn't. Just gave a vague threat about me needing to read my emails." Spike paused, frowning again. "But Wes mentioned something about computer controls when he gave me the tour. Said he'd write things down..." Spike rummaged through a pile of post-it notes, muttering "DVD, telly, Teasmade – right – computer. Okay, . Username WtB, password Blondiebear."
Spike went back to his task and Fred marvelled, not for the first time, at his ability to switch persona in the blink of an eye. He'd appeared in the medical wing after her phone call to Angel's penthouse, seething with resentment and barely concealed anger. Although Fred had her own worries, she couldn't fail to notice Spike's concern for Connor. Nonetheless, Spike was hiding something from her, but all he would say was that Angel blamed him for what had happened.
"'There are 25 unread messages in your inbox'. 25! I don't know 25 people with email."
"It doesn't mean . . . " Fred began.
Spike cut her off. "Welcome to WRH dot com mail service . . . . blah blah blah. That's not important. Special offer on all PowerDVD upgrades. Nope. Your PhotoShop Pro 8 trial licence has expired. Really? Should I care? Special offer. Bumper packs. Viagra at low, low prices. Hah! P'raps I should forward that to His Holier-than-Thou-ness? A spot of satisfactory nookie might loosen him up a bit." Finally, he turned back to her. "Junk mail?" he asked incredulously.
"It's one of the downsides, If you check who each one is from, you can just delete the Spam without reading it."
"Spam?" He raised an eyebrow. "The stuff posing as meat - in cans?"
"It's actually a term coined from a Monty Python sketch."
"Never figured geeks going for Python – not that I'm accusing you of being a geek," he added hastily, "'cos you're not." Spike's voice softened, as he smiled gently up at her from under his lashes. "Not like any geek I've ever met, at any rate – 'cept Willow perhaps – without the threatening mojo."
Fred blushed and dropped her gaze from his. She wished Spike wouldn't do that, make her remember she was a woman, just when she needed all her powers of deduction to work out what was going on. She cleared her throat and scanned the monitor.
"You can delete all these," she said, pointing at the files, "But these last five are from Harmony."
Spike sighed and turned his attention back to reading, grumbling softly to himself as he did so. As Spike seemed occupied for the moment, Fred turned back to her laptop and studied the notes she'd been making before calling Angel's apartment. She added a reminder to herself to check when exactly Wolfram and Hart's mail server had changed its name, and why. She wondered just how much Spike knew about what she'd discovered about Connor. The boy's condition had puzzled her since Spike had brought him into the lab, barely conscious. The wound to his left side was deep and he'd lost a lot of blood, but by the time she'd rung the medical team and had begun cleaning him up, Connor's superficial wounds had already begun to heal and he'd begun to ask questions.
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The medics wheeled a protesting Connor into the medical centre, while Fred took details of his blood group and medical history. She'd done her best to reassure him that they would contact his parents, Lawrence and Colleen, only if it was absolutely necessary. At first, the surgeon had thought that the stab-wound to Connor's side might have ruptured his spleen. It had bled profusely and there had been some discussion about operating and the need for blood. While the Med team fussed over Connor's condition, Fred took the opportunity to check his file. As she read through it though, something didn't add up. The blood group recorded as his did not match either of his parents. Curious, and keen to look into it further, she returned to her computer to see if she could find out more'.
He could have been adopted, or a surrogate, she thought and quickly ran a search for a match in Wolfram and Hart's files, drawing up a short list, before relaying the information to the surgeon. Luckily, the list proved to be unnecessary. None of Connor's major organs had been damaged, and he had stopped bleeding, as the wound had been successfully closed with Dermabond. There was no need to operate after all.
Given the all clear, Connor was eventually released from the medical centre and into Fred's care. She'd been given a list of instructions for administering antibiotics and painkillers throughout the night. However, the name at the head of Fred's list spurred her to further research as they waited for Spike to return from his confrontation with Angel. By the time Spike appeared, Fred - with Knox's help - had run DNA checks on everyone on her short list. Two names had emerged as clear matches.
There was no doubt in Fred's mind that Connor's father was Angel and his mother was Darla.
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"Bugger it!" Spike snarled, interrupting Fred's thoughts about how to broach the subject of Connor's lineage with him. "If Harm's got something to tell me, why didn't she just tell me?" He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, snagging them in dried blood from the wound he'd sustained when the demons had attacked. Inwardly he'd breathed a sigh of relief at discovering the mysterious 'someone who really wanted to speak to him' wasn't Buffy.
"Security, probably," replied Fred. "It's possible to find your way into any files, if you know how." She gestured at the dried blood under Spike's fingernails. "Would you like to take a shower to get rid of that before you go anywhere? You can use the one in my lab. I've some really nice Tea-Tree shampoo that will help with the healing." She glanced over at Connor. "That first dose of Kadian should be beginning to wear off about now so we should make it quick."
"Good idea, love. Then we can settle the little 'un down for the night, before I go find Harm and talk to this barkeeper she's so keen for me to meet. Hope I don't owe him anything, I'm all out of reddies."
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"Do you think we should let Angel know what's going on?" Fred asked as they walked down the corridor. "I mean, he was so upset about Connor's injuries and it would set his mind at rest if he knew that he was safe in your office for the night." Fred studied Spike's face, watching for a sign that he knew anything about Angel's connection with the boy.
"S'pose we'd better, Pet. Not that it'll let me off the hook. As far as Angel's concerned, I'm an incompetent idiot who couldn't be trusted to . . ." Spike stopped and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Never mind," he sighed. "P'raps you'd call him while I shower eh? Tell him the boy's OK. It'd be better coming from you."
Fred took his hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "OK," she said quietly.
Spike looked down at his hand entwined in hers – and remembered the last time he'd held the hand of a woman about whom he cared. He gently pulled away and stuck both his hands in the pocket of his duster. This was not the time for memories – or new relationships. He had enough to worry about with the relations he already had.
The desk light was on in Wesley's office as Spike and Fred passed it. Peeking in, they could see Wesley slumped at his desk with his head on his arms, which were folded across a pile of books. The monitor was humming softly as the screen saver glided slowly across the screen.
"Looks like we're not the only ones spending the night here," whispered Spike as Fred softly closed the office door, leaving the ex-Watcher seemingly asleep on top of some of Wolfram & Hart's most ancient tomes.
As the door latch clicked quietly shut, Wesley's head snapped up and he passed a hand across his weary eyes, wiping the last of the tears off his face. He tapped the computer mouse with the tip of his index finger. The monitor cleared the swirling image and revealed a message that had appeared when he had opened the pages concerning The Old Ones. Words that had plunged him down into the darkness of his memories.
Now is not the time.
When the Old One awakes,
Then shall the son stand beside the father.
Blood will flow and thwart the enemy.
Wesley turned to the pile of notes he'd made when he'd looked into the details of Connor's scholarship. His eyes narrowed and he clenched his jaw with determination as he read again a name he'd underlined and highlighted.
"Ethan Rayne," he hissed.
He checked his shotgun to make sure it was fully loaded and headed out into the night, in search of the man who had set in motion the threat to Connor and subsequently, the attack on them all.
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Angel poured the last of the coffee from the pot he'd made for Gunn, as they went through the contents of the box he'd brought to Angel's apartment.
"Let's get this straight," said Angel, gesturing to the papers strewn across the table. "You're telling me there are two lots of files on Connor?"
"Yeah. And they're identical, right up until the night . . . "
"Spike killed the demon."
"Except we're not sure that's what happened. It's beginning to look like this whole thing was manufactured. There always was a plan to get Connor into Wolfram and Hart - just not yet. He was being kept as the insurance policy against you ever leaving or going back to fighting from the outside."
"So what happened? Why the change of plan?" Angel fidgeted in his chair, swivelling it away from Gunn towards the elevator, aching to move.
"It doesn't appear that there was a change of plan," Gunn replied. "From what I've managed to work out, there's been some interference by an outsider, hired by Jenoff. The Rayne Foundation only came into being the day Spike recorporealised..."
Angel interrupted, "That doesn't make any sense. Jenoff's own son was killed. What sort of father would go for that sort of deal?"
"He's a demon. One who'd sacrifice anyone to get what he wanted. His being father of the victim's not really the point, Angel. What we're dealing with is two different realities. The one we're in now is. . " Gunn stopped, struggling for the words to make Angel understand something with which he was having difficulty. "It's just not meant to be, OK? Reality is breaking down. I'm getting memories back about Connor and Cordy, and I'm losing the powers I got when we came here. All I know is that we need to put things back the way they should be. "
Angel looked at Gunn, saw the pain of loss in his eyes. "I know," he agreed, reluctantly. I never got to say goodbye to Cordy either, never let her know how I felt about her, never kissed her the way I should. "She just slipped away from us, Gunn. It wasn't supposed to end like that for her, I feel it."
Gunn nodded sympathetically, rose to his feet and strode towards the elevator. "I'm going to see if the White Room's still there and talk to the Big Cat if it is. Maybe that'll help."
Angel pushed aside the uneasy feeling he had any time Gunn mentioned the White Room. "We need to fill Wes in on what we've got here, see if he can make more sense of it than we can. Maybe he's turned up something in the scholarship papers." Angel reached for the phone and stopped mid-dial. "On second thoughts, a tour of the premises is called for," he said, pulling on his jacket. "Might be the last time we get the chance."
As the two men stepped into the elevator side by side, Angel turned to Gunn. " Meet me in Spike's office when you're finished, will you? I want to gather everyone together, make sure everyone knows what's going on. No more secrets, we face this together. "
Gunn dropped his eyes to the floor and, nodded his head in agreement. The two men stood in silence as the elevator descended to Angel's office. Angel stepped out of the elevator without a backward glance, and strode down the corridor towards the medical centre, planning what he was going to say to Connor when he got there.
When he doors closed behind Angel's receding back, Gunn looked up again. He'd kept his eyes firmly on the floor as the elevator dropped down from Angel's apartment. Now, as it journeyed back upwards, he gritted his teeth as he prepared to confront what he knew was waiting for him in the White Room. When he thought of the feline he knew would not be there, his eyes turned yellow and narrowed. The elevator stopped and the doors opened, silently, allowing the chill of cold air to rush into his lungs as he took a deep, calming breath. "Let's see how things go down this time, Charles," he growled, stepping out towards the man he'd come to fear more than any other since Cordelia's death -, the person he was becoming and from whom there was no escape.
Himself.