The stick smacked the cue ball dead center, driving it across the table to graze the left side of the eight ball. The black sphere tumbled into the right corner, and Spike took another pull on his beer as he listened to the satisfying thump of it landing in the pocket.

          "That's four in a row, Peaches. Care to make it five? Or will you not be able to afford that hair gel you love so much?"

          Angel tossed two twenties into the center of the table. "Always hated that game."

          "Aw, come off it. You used to love to play. Remember that gasthaus in Munich with the midget accordion player? We took six months pay off those blokes in two hours."

          "I don't think about that stuff anymore, Spike."

          "Sure ya do," the blonde vampire said. "Jus' don't think it was fun."

          Angel glared at him.

          "Okay, I admit, snackin' on 'em afterwards might not be funny to ya anymore. Me neither, really, 'cause I got the worst hangover from it, but the billiards was good fun. Ya know it was."

          "Alright," Angel conceded, "the billiards was good fun. I didn't play much in the twentieth century."

          "An' it shows." He lit a cigarette. "So if we're done playin', when's this guy gonna put in an appearance?"

          "I don't know, Spike. This is his favorite bar. He's here every night, sitting in the back there. He'll show."

          'The back' consisted of a row of worn booths with wooden tables and red vinyl benches. The countertops were all marred by years of carved initials. The bar itself had the small, dingy feel of a neighborhood pub gone to seed; the patrons were a mix of demons and adventurous humans and the atmosphere reminded Spike of Willy's.

          "An' the others are off making contacts, right?"

          "Yeah. Gunn's checking in with his old crew, they do a lot of vampire business and keep good tabs on the big ones. Faith is with Wesley's guys doing the same. Lorne, Fred, and Cordy are working the phones with friends and clients."

          "Sounds like you're all over town."

          "We know how to do this, Spike." Neither of them commented on Angel's massive effort on his behalf, mostly because they knew the effort was really on Buffy's behalf. Spike appreciated it nonetheless.

          "But do ya know how to do it faster?"

          "Haven't you heard?" Angel picked his cue up from the table and started to rack the balls again. "Slow is much more satisfying."

          The last of the gang had the usual forehead ridges and wore a long-sleeved green t-shirt over his parachute pants. He obviously had some training from back when he had been alive. He and Faith had been trading blows for thirty seconds when his right fist snapped out and caught her on the chin with a glancing blow. She ducked under the follow-up left and rolled a barrage of punches into his soft midsection. The vampire grunted and folded over with pain; in one swift motion she pulled a stake and pierced its heart.

          A halo of dust drifted down over her shoulders as she popped up to a standing position. Around her, Wesley's crew finished off the last of the nest, none of which had the first clue about the Don.

          "Nine vamps, no info. This sucks."

          "I really don't think we'll find him. None of these demons are high enough on the food chain to know someone like the Don," Wesley told her as he sheathed a stake at his wrist.

          "I can't believe the guy calls himself the Don. How lame is that?"

          "Angel said it's not an organized crime reference. Apparently, this particular vampire is Spanish in origin and was once a true Don."

          "Which is what? Somebody who doesn't know where Jimmy Hoffa's buried?"

          "It's rather complicated, but essentially that's correct."

          He started to walk off, as he had every time she tried to engage him in a conversation. This time she grabbed his arm, "Hey, Wes, wait."

          When he faced her again, his rough beard hid everything but his eyes in shadow. The 007 face she remembered had disappeared, replaced by a look that was at once dark, hostile, and imposing.

          Faith knew all about dark, hostile, and imposing. She also knew why her former Watcher refused to hold a conversation with her, and she hoped she could somehow make it right.

          Starting now.

          "What is it, Faith?"

          "I can't … there's nothing that I can say to you that's gonna make the stuff I did to you not be true. Nothing. I thought about it in prison a lot. We're not talkin' happy thoughts here, either. What I did … I can't even blame it on faulty mojo or mind control or even some sorta brain freeze, y'know? I did it. Me. On purpose."

          "As I'm well aware." Her sudden confession knocked him off-kilter.

          "I have to tell you, though, that I'm wicked sorry. I'd take it back if I could, but I can't. I know you won't forgive me or nothin'. How could you? I won't ask for that. But I want you to know that I'm sorry."

          Wesley's pale eyes were suddenly unreadable. He had wondered when, or even if, Faith might apologize, and how he might respond. She had occupied his thoughts ever since she had walked through Angel's door a month before, and he had virtually disappeared from the place rather than face her. His thinking had been long, intense, and introspective to a point he rarely bothered with any longer.

          What could he say to her? Could he try and explain that he bore as much of the blame for what happened to her as she did? That he had been an idiot, completely out of touch with the reality he had plunged into, and that he desperately wished he could reverse what he had done?

          That he had gone on to do misguided things nearly as bad as her own?

          He idly fingered the faded scar under his beard, past wrongs flashing through his mind. "Faith … we make mistakes, people do. I heard Giles say that to Buffy once, though I was too much the fool to listen at the time. He's a wise man, you know, and always saw great potential in you."

          She wrinkled her nose. "Really? G-man?"

          "Yes, quite. What I am trying to say, however, is … I doubt that I can ever forgive you for what you did to me. By the same token, I've done things I can never forgive myself for, and some of them were done to you. I don't know that I can carry a grudge against you; I do know that I no longer want to. In other words … perhaps it might be best to leave the past in the past."

          It was one of the few times in her life that Faith had nothing to say. All she could do was nod and turn away, hoping to hide her nascent tears from him. When she felt his hand on her shoulder, it sparked something she never thought she would feel again.

          Hope.

          "Faith …"

She turned back, her sharp features marred with pain. "Wes …"

          He gave her an understated grin. "Dons were basically Spanish aristocrats. I don't know about this one in particular."

          "Oh." Her face relaxed. "Well, glad we got that out in the open, huh?"

          "Six in a row, Angelus. Bloody fantastic."

          "Next round's on you," Angel said distractedly, his gaze fixed on the entrance. Four Klopek demons had just walked through the bar doors at that moment, including the one they had been looking for. Spike saw them and picked his cue stick back up, twirling it idly as he waited for his sire to make a move.

          The demon wasted no time marching up to Angel. Though they stood about the same height, the squat Klopek resembled a thick tree trunk with rough, bark-like blue skin. All three of its little piggy eyes sat in the middle of its face, above two slit-like nostrils and a mouthful of wide, flat teeth. Each of the demons wore a leather vest with a silver zipper and nothing else.

          "You me are seeking?"

          "I am," Angel said, eyeing the other three demons warily, "but it isn't about the money."

          "No?"

          "No."

          The demon raised a stumpy arm, dismissing the three foot soldiers with a wave.

          "Cor, they must weigh fifty stone apiece," Spike whispered. Angel nodded.

          "Why you me are seeking then?"

          "We're looking for a guy, a vampire that rolled into town a few months ago. Probably set up shop and started organizing things."

          "It is the Don you want, yes? You should know your friend his club the Don is at on Fridays."

          "It is the Don, and we know he's at Caritas every week. We want to brace him somewhere a little more private."

          "Help you with that I will not," the Klopek said, shaking its head. "Not here, not now, no help for you. The Don his home not a place I go. Not a good man is he to make anger with."

          "We could make you help us, mate," Spike said, brandishing the pool cue as he stepped up to the demon. "We're not so good to make anger with, either."

          Behind him the other three growled. So did Angel.

          "Back off, Spike. We're not going to threaten him."

          "What?"

          "If he won't help us, then he won't. Let's go."

          "Are you stupid, Angelus? We've been here all bleedin' night, an' now we're just gonna leave this ponce without getting' anything?"

          "Yes," his sire growled. "Now pay the bill."

          "Fuckin' poof," Spike muttered, shrugging on his duster.

          Out in the street, Spike was livid.

          "What the hell is wrong with you? He knew where the Don is, I know he did."

          "Yes. He did. But this is my town, and we do this my way, got it?"

          He had known Angel for a long time, and heard the quirk in his voice. Spike followed the elder vampire around the back of the bar before he spoke again.

          "Somethin' else is going on here, innit?"

          "You don't miss a trick, do you, Spike?"

          "Well? Care to let us in on your little Private Eye game with the Yoda-talkin' bastard?"

          "He owes me money for some work I did. I saved his life in the bargain. Klopeks are a race that always pays their debts. He said he wouldn't help us then. We'll see what happens when he gets out here."

          Sure enough, fifteen minutes later the Klopek appeared in the alley behind the bar.

          "Angel? I here am."

          Angel emerged from the shadows, his dark coat still shielding him from most of the light on the street. "So, Lathe, What's going on?"

          "This bar, it the Don's is, yeah? The bartender his man is. Crossing the Don? No one does."

          "But you know where he lives?"

          "I do." He held up a cocktail napkin between two slab-like fingers. "Dangerous, though, for me if I tell you."

          "Name the price."

          "Your services, they paid for are by this."

          "Done."

          Lathe handed across the paper; scrawled in pencil on one side was a Beverly Hills address. Without another word, he disappeared back into the bar.

          "How much'd he owe ya?"

          "A thousand."

          "Fair price. I'll pay ya back."

          "Sure you will," Angel said dismissively. He had known Spike for a long time, too. "Let's gather the others and figure out what to do."

          As they disappeared back into the street traffic, neither of them saw an enormous pair of eyes watching them from behind the cloak of an invisibility spell.