Past Imperfect
Their routine investigation had turned out to be anything but routine. The night manager who had discovered the bodies had been more than a little terrified when Spike and Gage had questioned him and finding a double set of books with large sums of money changing hands hadn't helped the poor man's temperament. To make matters worse, a group of kids had taken hold of the rumors surrounding the warehouse murders and had started throwing bottles through the windows and screaming about vampires. The whole south of Boston had gone insane in a matter of days and a modern day witch-hunt was on for the underground crowd of undead wannabes. There weren't many and by the time the Mayor got through decrying the moral black hole of today's youth, they had gone into hiding.
The phone calls kept coming in, however, and they were bound to investigate each tip to its inevitably ridiculous conclusion. So and so had a vampire for a downstairs neighbor and one lady hadn't ever seen the guy across the hall in the daylight. It turned out that he worked night shift on the docks and was just a normal guy trying to make a living. He lost count of the number of times he told someone that vampires weren't real. Even if they had populated his dream world for the past several weeks and at least part of him believed that it was possible.
At least the dreams had changed. He was no longer killing people. Now he was running through empty hallways, following the strange voice that haunted his every sleeping and waking moment. She was always ahead of him, taunting, cajoling, seducing him. In some dreams she would turn on him, moods shifting like quicksilver as she became irrational and frighteningly angry. He never saw her but somehow he knew that when he finally did, he would know her. Her every word, every whim, every fanciful description of stars and pixies, was as familiar to him as his own mother.
He brushed off Dr. Coleman by telling her he'd been dreaming about his cases. It wasn't uncommon for police officers to get nightmares and she prescribed him a sedative to help him sleep, with strict orders not to take them more than fourteen days and to try to relax. She was under pressure from Lieutenant Merritt to keep Spike on the case now that it had come under the media's scrutinizing eye. Spike and Gage were the best and the Mayor had demanded that the best be working around the clock to find the monster who had stricken the city's heart with fear. He knew that Gage and the rest of the force were picking up some of the slack he was leaving and he was eternally grateful for their support. Some of them even hoped that he did have some sort of psychic connection to the killer, but they kept it to themselves, unwilling to add more fodder to the daily headlines. The newspapers christened the murderer The Dollhouse Killer, sensationalizing and speculating about motives and suspects. Spike wasn't sure who he wanted to get his hands on more, the killer or the press corps.
Following the doctor's orders, Spike was sitting at home in his apartment listening to the rain pound on his windows and slowly going insane from boredom. The television and radio were glaringly silent because he couldn't find a station that wasn't screaming about the killings. It was probably the first time in his career that he couldn't wait for his six a.m. wake up call when the sanctions would end and Gage would let him get back to work. The hours from eleven at night to six in the morning had become a no-fly zone for anything police related. Spike knew he should be grateful but as he tossed and turned, blinking at the ceiling in the darkness, he wished he had something to take his mind off of his increasingly bizarre life.
The finishing touch was that his king-sized bed now felt horribly empty. He lay awake for hours, one hand on the space beside him, feeling lost and confused. He was nowhere near finding someone to fill that space even if he had wanted to look for a woman. It was inescapably empty and profoundly disheartening. Sometime in the past week, he'd begun to wonder if this was even his life or if he'd just been thrown randomly into someone else's world and expected to make the best of it. More crazy talk from the increasingly unreliable and soon to be ex member of the Boston police department if he didn't get his act together. At Gage's insistence, he'd put in for some time off but it wouldn't come until the Dollhouse Killer's reign of terror had ended. It couldn't come soon enough.
Finally unable to stand the blank sheets beside him, he rolled out of bed and hurriedly dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He wouldn't be working, just going for a walk. In the middle of the night. In the rain. Just a quick walk to let off steam and focus his thoughts. Get them away from the things that went bump in the night and his unexplainable laundry list of psychological problems. Pulling the collar of his jacket up and around his neck, he locked his apartment behind him, almost running in his eagerness to get away from four walls and a ceiling. Fat, heavy raindrops pelted his head and face, soaking his hair in moments and sending rivulets of tepid water down his neck and jacket. He ignored the intrusion and the chill that began to creep into his body. Cold had never really bothered him.
The city was always different in the dead of night. Adding the storm created a feeling of surrealism, a city lost in fog and rain somewhere beside the ocean, as though it was the only remaining bastion of life. Lights blazed defiantly into the dark, raising wavering fists in a gesture indicative of man's survival instinct and exhorting all mankind - do not go gentle into that dark night. Once the rain abated, it would become a glassy paradise of rain-washed freshness and quivering puddles waiting to be splashed and dashed by eager feet or tires. Whether furious or peaceful, the city was alive at night and Spike reveled in the darkness. Breathed it in and expected to fill it infuse every cell of his body until the roots of his bone blond hair turned dark once again and he became one with the night. It was a paradox his mother had never understood. How could the same boy who gave the sun gods a run for their money be the night owl who moved like an alley cat through the shadows? How could he belong in both worlds with ease?
Sidestepping one of the deeper puddles, he pushed deeper into the heart of the city, grateful that the storm had driven the usual hordes of people into the safety of their homes. The truth was that he belonged in both day and night because he belonged to neither of them. He took the darkness into the sun and the light into the darkness. Neither summer nor winter, trapped in the springs and falls of life, he was forever stuck in the waning daylight of evening and the rising sun of dawn. The precious few hours where day and night bled together and became one, where light met dark, and lines were crossed. It was about balance. A balance in nature that had to be maintained at all costs, regardless of the casualties that fell by the wayside. There could be no light without the dark.
Shaking away the too serious train of thought, he stepped into a protective alcove to shake the excess water from his hair and brush at the rivers coursing through the creases in his jacket. It was a beautiful night. Full of wind and passion and life. He could smell it, feel it, breathe it in. Sanctions and house arrest be damned. There was no way he could have stayed indoors on a night like this, not even for his own sanity. Besides, who was he to say that wasn't exactly the medicine he needed. Balm for the soul.
The rain was letting up. Just enough to extend his field of vision a few more feet and turn the heavy drumming above him to a lighthearted patter. In response, the wind was picking up momentum, sweeping in the smell of salt from the Atlantic and the chill of the endless deep that always seemed to accompany the fog. He was tired of Boston, of the hustle and bustle of east coast living. He was tired of seeing death at every turn. What he wanted more than anything, standing just beyond the reach of the rain, was something light and good. Something gleaming.
Effulgent.
A memory stirred, vague and transparent as he sought to dig it out of the depths of his mind where it whispered to him. He had forgotten something important and all of the nightmares, all of the strange happenings, were meant to drag that single memory up and remind him. Of something. Somewhere. But it slunk away into the void before he could grab hold of it and once more, it was lost. He pushed off, back into the night and the rain, hoping that something else would jog the memories loose and finally bring his ghosts to rest. Lay out the simple and logical explanation for his life tumbling head over heels into Bedlam. A moment, a voice, a name that would bring it all into focus and give him the reasons for what he was doing, what he was looking for.
He'd gone a mile, maybe more, passing nightclubs pulsing with music and bars rounding up for closing time. People were beginning to come out into the streets now that the rain had stopped, shaking their umbrellas and finding their way home. Taxis splashed through the puddles as they pulled up the curbs, rounded corners, drove away with their new fare. Off toward families, lovers. He watched them, feeling the loneliness return as a pair of lovers flagged down a cab. They were teasing, touching, obviously anticipating returning home to a waiting bed. It stung just a little, so far out of reach and seemingly impossible. Would he ever have that? Had he ever had that? Past relationships seemed hollow, empty. He'd always known they hadn't been the one but now they seemed utterly meaningless. Almost illusions in their superficiality, like constructs of his own imagination. Maybe he had imagined them. Add another mark to the insanity column.
"Hey there, handsome." A woman sidled out of the shadows, her raincoat barely hiding her provocative outfit. Great. All he needed to make his day complete was a hooker. Her dark hair fell in waves around her face and for a second she seemed familiar.
"Not interested." He tried to move past her.
"Give a girl a chance. Just a taste." She cut him off, still eyeing him suggestively. Her words sounded strange in his ears and set off warning bells in his head. She took a step toward him and to the left, as if she was trying to push him into the alley to his right.
"Not exactly an ideal spot." He raised one eyebrow but let her maneuver him into the darkened corridor. "Can't say I'm much of an up against the wall kind of guy."
"You will be." She purred, reaching out to run her hands over his chest. "This will only hurt for a second."
Her face blurred and he blinked as brown eyes turned amber, ridges appearing over her forehead and the bridge of her nose. Fangs glistened in the dim light as she smiled hungrily. His brain had frozen. Vampire. Vampires were real. Oh God. They were real and he'd been dreaming about them, about being a vampire. If they were real, his dreams could be real. He'd been able to brush away the possibility that he had killed those people because it was impossible, vampires weren't real. But she was moving toward him, reaching for his neck and she was going to kill him.
"You could struggle a little bit. It turns me on," she whispered. Her hands were cold against his skin.
His hand moved of its own accord, coming up and wrapping around her neck. Surprise flashed across her features as he pushed her away deliberately and lifted her up off the ground with strength he didn't know he had. Instinct had taken over, numbing his thoughts and leaving him at the mercy of automatic pilot.
"What the fuck?" she gasped, struggling in his grip.
He tossed her away, watching her crumple against the wall. Wood. He needed a stake. Kicking apart an empty packing crate, he grabbed the largest sliver and advanced on the confused vampire. She lashed out at him, catching him in the stomach and sending him stumbling back. He recovered, grabbing her hair as she tried to twist away and slamming her back against the wall.
"Who are you?" she growled.
"Name's Spike."
She blinked once, glancing furtively around for an escape route. "Fuck that. He's dead. And he certainly didn't have a heartbeat."
"What are you talking about?" Spike demanded, raising the makeshift stake threatening. He wasn't surprised. Why wasn't he surprised?
She made a break for it, stopped short by his fist against her jaw and fell back, sliding down the wall with a dazed expression. "I don't know who you are, Hell, I don't know what you are. Just let me go."
"Who's Spike?"
"The vampire. With the chip."
"Vampire. Like you." He wasn't a vampire. That much was certain. Chip?
"Like me. You mental or something?" She was glaring up at him. "Tell you what. We'll forget about me trying to bite you and you let me go."
"You'll kill people," Spike answered, his mind still trying to fit all the pieces together. There was a vampire named Spike. A dead vampire. It had to be a coincidence. Somehow he knew it wasn't.
She rolled her eyes, shifting back to her human face. "Kinda the whole point of being a vampire."
"Raison d'etre," he whispered to no one in particular.
"Whatever. Is that Spanish or something?" Her hand was inching toward a chunk of brick.
She didn't have time to grab hold of the stone before he drove the stake home and she was dissolving into dust before his eyes. Staring at the empty space where she had been, Spike felt numb and hollow. Something was wrong. What if he wasn't crazy? What if they weren't dreams? If they were memories. And if vampires were real, the whole nine yards could be real as well. Witches, werewolves, Slayers. Slayers?
What the hell was a Slayer?
The InBetweens wasn't the type of place Anya wanted to be forever. Most of the spirits wandering around were still bemoaning what they had or hadn't done and peering through the unnumbered scrying pools to watch their friends and relatives. It reminded her of a gigantic waiting room decorated with white fluffy clouds and annoying people. The purpose of the InBetweens was to find closure, to come to peace with the living before moving on to the other dimensions. Some of the souls had been there longer than Anya had been a vengeance demon and she was so sick of their whining that she was wishing for her old powers back. If they hadn't gotten over it in thousands of years, they weren't going to and she wanted to drop kick their self-pitying asses into the next available portal to a particularly nasty hell dimension. Then again, she was still there.
But she had a job to do and, thankfully, it had just gotten easier. Bridging the gap between life and the InBetweens had been impossible in the old world. Limited to those with abnormal susceptibility to the supernatural and only marginally effective even then. In fact, Anya had resorted to using a small, green-eyed tabby named Bugsy as her go between until she could actually do some damage herself. The problem, as always, was that Xander Harris wasn't cooperating. When had he ever? And he was so hopeless with women that he was doomed unless she stepped in to help.
Taking a deep breath, she wondered if she still needed to breathe now that she was a disembodied spirit, but decided not to test it out just in case, and pushed her way through the mountains of fluffiness to the familiar pool where her fellow conspirators would be waiting. Unlike Anya, they were truly dedicated and never left the side of the pool, always watching over those below them. Anya found constant surveillance not only creepy but entirely boring. The two heads rose briefly and she noted the familiar expressions of exasperated concern. William looked particularly upset and Tara was patting his hand comfortingly.
"Has Xander slept with her yet?" Anya's priority was Xander. Prophecy and destiny be damned. She was going to get him down the aisle with a good woman if it took the rest of eternity.
"We've been watching Spike," Tara answered softly, a little apologetically.
"If he gets himself turned again, I will personally see that he is staked," William fumed, waving at the pool.
"He had to learn about vampires sometime." Anya glanced down to see Spike sitting on the edge of his bed, a sliver of wood in his hand and a blank expression on his face. "He's still breathing."
"And he needed to realize that he still has all the strengths of a vampire. With his mortal memories, he hasn't even thought to try," Tara added, always finding the positive in every situation. "After all, he isn't actually human."
"He's impossible." With a frustrated sigh, William cleared the pool. "I didn't realize it would be this difficult to give him back his memories."
Anya changed the scene to Sunnydale. "You forgot how stubborn he is."
"You have to keep in mind that he's not supposed to be remembering at all." Tara smiled gently. "And with Drusilla's interference, it's got to be hard for him. To know what's real. What isn't. He's learning."
"What if he doesn't find her again? What about Faith?" he asked fretfully, motioning to the image of Sunnydale. "I've been concentrating on Spike and I've neglected her."
"She'll get by. She's tough," Tara assured him.
"Damn." Anya frowned at the pool, seeing Xander sleeping peacefully in his own bed. Alone. "That man is completely hopeless with women."
"I'm sure he just wants to take his time."
"They don't have much time. Now is not a good time to be alone."
"They have enough time." With a gentle brush of Tara's hand, the pool cleared once more.
It was both exciting and terrifying that those she called friends had shown themselves worthy to bear the weight of the world, to carry the future of the Slayers in their hands. The next evolution. A new world meant new power and new strength, it also meant new evil and new enemies. There was nothing as stabilizing as love and those left behind in the mortal world would need all the stability they could find. All said and done, it was more than a little frightening that the fates of billions rested on the Scooby gang's rather precarious love lives.
"I like Jane. She's very nice," William offered. "I think she was a wise choice."
"He needs someone who enjoys life. Who still sees the goodness in the world. I was much too cynical."
"It has been dark for them all." Always diplomatic, William deftly sidestepped another one of Anya's rants.
"And it's going to get darker. That's why we're doing this."
"What of the third Slayer?" William changed the scene to Los Angeles. "Who's watching over her?"
Tara bit her lip nervously. "She's taken care of. I'm not sure how far he'll let her fall before he steps in but we have to believe that he knows what he's doing."
"You can't make an omelet without breaking the eggs." Anya frowned at the image, watching the Slayer brutally snap a vampire's arm, blood spraying over her face as the bone broke through the skin. "Although I'm sure the analogy he would use would be something with weapons and forges. All that fire and pounding makes them stronger or whatever."
"But how is he supposed to find a suitable mate for her?" Wincing at the blatant reference to a sexual relationship, William was grateful that he could no longer blush. "It is difficult to believe that War himself knows the slightest thing about romance and love."
"That's not our problem." Anya shrugged, punching the cloud she was sitting on into a better cushion.
"Who would you put her with, Anya?" Tara asked.
"It has to be someone strong. As strong as she is. A warrior."
"A Champion," William added.
"There aren't many of those left." Tara sighed, gazing sadly at the lost Slayer.
"Especially Champions who can actually have children." Anya cleared the pool. "But Cara is the least of our worries. Have you forgotten that we still have to find someone for Buffy? Considering that her track record is even less fertile than Xander's, we've got our work cut out for us."
"Actually, I do have one suggestion." William glanced away bashfully. "If you would care to hear it."
"As long as he's got live swimmers, we're all ears."
It sickened Wesley to tie her down. Like clipping an eagle's wings or hobbling a racehorse. Her eyes were still closed, silent tears leaking from the corners as she cried. The phone was heavy in his hands. Heavy with the lies he'd told Iverson. They would be there. Late but there. No, Cara was fine. Just wounded in a fight and needed time to recover. It was half true. Some of the blood that covered her clothes and skin was hers. Some belonged to the vampires she had maimed and a little was Angel's. Fred had cleaned her up as best as she could, working around the restraints, afraid to get anywhere near the Slayer lest she wake up and decide to go for another round of blood sport.
He'd known that Justine was still out with her ragtag band of street fighters, trying to make the world a little safer for people like them, killing demons and vampires the old fashioned way. It no longer stung to see her. No longer produced a tingling sensation in his throat and the self-conscious urge to cover the scar on his neck. Through the years, he had learned the hard way that she was capable of anything and nothing seemed to surprise her. But Cara had. Cara had left Justine's face twisted into an expression of shock and pain. She had seen the face of the one woman she wanted to be and it had horrified her. In a way, it was the most fitting revenge Wesley could have asked for.
Feeling lost and helpless, he sat beside the bed, watching the tears slip down Cara's face, her long fingers resting lightly in his. Life hadn't been easy and it hadn't been pretty since he left England for Sunnydale so many years before. He'd seen darkness and he'd seen pain. He thought he'd seen just how far a Slayer could fall when Faith had tied him to a chair and tortured him. Wrong about that as well. Nothing compared to the brutality he'd witnessed that night. Not trying to kill, just break and mangle and cause as much pain as possible. Eyes burning with rage and blood covering her skin. His heart had ached as his stomach turned. Even Angel was shaken, retreating to his office to nurse his wounds and brood. They had tried to help her and they had nearly killed her. It was possible they'd lost her to insanity forever. His thumb rubbed gentle circles over the back of her hand, trying to comfort her as she lay crying.
"Now we know." Angel's voice was more of a sigh. "What Lilah would be like as a Slayer."
"She was always ruthless," Wesley pointed out, remembering all too well the images of her fighting vampires in the training room that first night. Shooting a vampire point blank in the skull instead of the heart and blowing out the kneecaps of another. She could have dusted them instantly but had opted for immobilization instead. He had hoped it was merely the way they had trained her to use the firearms. No such luck. He couldn't believe she was even human. Not anymore.
"There might not be another option."
"No." Wesley shook his head, refusing to even discuss what he knew Angel was referring to. Cara was still a Slayer and he wouldn't stand by, watching as she was put down like a rabid dog.
"Would you rather have her locked away for life?" Angel took a seat at the bottom of the bed, fresh bruises fading over his cheekbones. "She may never recover and she's dangerous."
With a bitter chuckle, Wesley took her hand, tangling their fingers together. "All Slayers are dangerous, Angel. Part of the job description."
"What she did. What we saw." He paused, looking down at Cara. "I've lived a long time and I've seen a lot of cruelty, I've caused my fair share. She has a taste for it. She enjoys it."
"I can't believe that."
"I saw it in her eyes. It wasn't about being a Slayer or protecting those people. It was because she wanted it. Wanted to cause pain."
"There has to be a way." Not just because he didn't want to fail another Slayer, not just because he didn't want to leave her tied up or lock her away. Everything about her saddened him. Losing her family, what the Council had done, what Lilah had tried to do. The girl hadn't had a chance and he was the one who had sent her into the lion's den. There had to be another way.
"And if Lilah's right?" If they had no choice but to let her finish, let Lilah take over Cara's body. It still meant death, still meant that Wesley would lose her.
"She's not." He knew Lilah was a gambler and he'd called her bluffs enough times to know that she always skirted the edge of what she could actually pull off. She couldn't be right, he wouldn't let her be right.
"Get some sleep, Wes. It's been a long couple of days." Angel's hand rested briefly on his shoulder before he left the room soundlessly.
"We'll find a way, Cara. I promise." He brushed away her tears carefully, noting the slight fluttering of her eyelashes. For a moment he hoped that she would awaken but her breathing stayed slow and even and her eyes stayed shut. He picked up the book he had brought up and opened it tiredly. It might help to hear someone's voice. He was willing to try.
"To see a world in a grain of sand,
and a heaven in a wildflower,
hold infinity in the palm of your hand
and eternity in an hour.
The bat that flits at close of eve
has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl calls upon the night
speaks the unbeliever's fright."
It was a beautiful poem. Wesley had always loved the works of William Blake; he had no one at Angel Investigations to share them with. Anything without equations couldn't hold Fred's attention and Lilah had been too practical for poetry. Angel read the classics but had never favored Blake. Gunn? That was a laugh. Lorne would try to put the words to music, probably a salsa beat, and add some percussion. The only option left was reading aloud to an unconscious Slayer.
"Joy and woe are woven fine,
a clothing for the soul divine;
under every grief and pine
runs a joy with silken twine.
Every tear from every eye
becomes a babe in Eternity."
On the plus side, if he really searched for any positive results of the entire debacle, Lilah's memories would undoubtedly provide all the information Cara would need about sex. Taking Wesley off the hook for the birds and the bees talk when Iverson tried to explain that Cara needed to think about having children. To save the Slayer line, to save the world. He smiled a little, involuntarily, at the sheer audacity of the Council asking the Slayers to bear children. They were unbelievably lucky to even have three Slayers old enough to handle the responsibility of motherhood. If Cara had been fifteen rather than eighteen or if Buffy and Faith were still in their late teens, it would have been a disaster.
"The bleat, bark, bellow, and roar
are waves that beat on Heaven's shore.
He who doubts from what he sees
will ne'er believe, do what you please.
If the Sun and Moon should doubt,
they'd immediately go out.
God appears, and God is light,
to those poor souls who dwell in Night;
but does a Human Form display
to those who dwell in realms of Day."
Her tears had stopped, her breathing still even and deep. Dark bruises blossomed over tanned skin along her jaw and circling her neck where Angel had choked her. Pausing his reading to stare and wonder, was there anything he could have done? Could do now to help her? To fix the nightmare she was living. Perhaps Angel was right about the bloodlust, the sadism he thought he'd seen in her eyes. Wesley didn't want to believe it. She was a Slayer and a certain amount of bloodlust was expected. He had to believe that the unchecked cruelty came from being subjected to Lilah's memories. From Wolfram and Hart and years of being subservient, helpless, trapped in a world where she didn't belong with people she hated. That had to be the root of the problem. Lilah. Never had he regretted his tryst with her as much as he did that moment, sitting beside his Slayer and praying to whoever was listening that he would be able to save her.
Rubbing his weary eyes, he dimmed the lamp and moved to stand up. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his and he froze, waiting, not breathing, for any sign that she was aware of his presence. Nothing. Gently, he tried to disentangle his hand from hers. Her grip tightened again, holding him there. Smiling sadly, he reached down to stroke the back of her hand, setting his book aside.
"I'll be right back," he whispered. This time, she let him pull free.
Closing the door quietly, he moved around to the other side of the bed and sat down. Angel's words were ringing in his ears as he unlaced his boots and set them neatly on the floor, leaning back slowly to jar her as little as possible. In the faint light of the lamp, her bruises seemed darker and he noticed heavy circles under her eyes. Stretching out beside her, he brushed her hair away from her forehead, really noticing for the first time that it fell past her shoulders. He wasn't surprised. Of course Lilah would have fixed whatever she felt were cosmetic flaws. Trailing his fingers lightly down her right arm, he tried to recall where her scars had been. He remembered his horror when he had first seen them, almost every inch of her skin marred with scars, bruises, healing cuts. Five feet ten inches of walking battle wounds, shoulders proudly set and the look of war in her eyes. Tall, powerfully built, every movement giving the impression of premeditation and coiled tension. Fred looked emaciated and frail beside the Slayer while Gwen's femininity provided a striking contrast to Cara's carved muscles.
She wasn't beautiful in the traditional sense. Large brown eyes were too alert and too sharp, distracting and unnerving as she was constantly watching and assessing the threat level. There was a smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, tapering out to her cheekbones. Asleep, the angular planes of her face seemed to soften and she didn't look as fierce. Taken one by one, her features were attractive. Good eyes, full lips, elegant lines through her jaw and shoulders. Put together, she was a warrior maiden, hard and severe. Lightly dragging his fingers through her hair, he fanned the thick waves over the pillow. Longer hair eased the sharpness of her chiseled features, made them more feminine.
Laying his head down on the pillow, he took a deep breath and tried to relax. If she felt more secure with him beside her then he would stay at her side. She had trusted him, he had trusted Lilah, and Cara had paid for the mistake. He wasn't about to abandon her now and he would find a way to help her even if he had to tears down the very pillars of heaven to do it. So young, so innocent. She was the most innocent thing he had seen in years, her blind devotion to duty had kept her from the ugliest moments of mankind. Until now. In a way, he agreed with what the Council had done because it meant that she would never have known disillusionment, never realized the flaws of the people she was protecting. Now she would. Now she would know in excruciating detail the horror human beings were capable of. It was enough to make even the strongest lose their minds.
"It has been so dark," he whispered, more to himself than Cara, and reached out to stroke her hand lightly. "I can only imagine what you've seen. What you've lived." He didn't even know if she realized how hard, how tragic her short life had been. To her it was just life. It was the way things were. She didn't know any other way to live.
Tracing the bruises on her neck lightly, he found himself wishing they had found another way. That they had remembered to bring a tranquilizer gun, that she hadn't attacked Angel, forcing him to fight back and immobilize her. Watching the vampire's hand close around her throat had been one of the most terrifying moments of Wesley's life, trusting Angel but still afraid that he wouldn't pull away in time, afraid of losing her. Absently, he smoothed a tear in the fabric of her t-shirt and made a mental note to find a replacement. He didn't know how long they would be in Sunnydale and he doubted that any of Buffy's clothing would fit Cara.
Stifling a yawn, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep despite his fatigue. Too worried. Too tired to sleep. Listening to the soft whisper of her breath as she exhaled. Turning his head to the side, he watched her chest rise and fall rhythmically. He knew what Lilah had tried to do, understood that it was more than just her desire for a new body, more than just wanting to be alive again. Her questions about Cara had confirmed his suspicions. He looked away.
Of course he had noticed. A man would have to be blind not to notice. Full breasts, narrow waist, and legs worthy of a pin up calendar. If she had a flaw, it was the too sharp definition of her muscles from endless days of fighting. He was a man; flesh, blood, and certainly not blind. But Cara was his Slayer and that was a line never to be crossed regardless of his physical reaction to her curves. The utter lack of femininity helped, her behavior and attitude more conducive to respect than lust.
Watchers were doomed to remain alone. He'd known that when he had agreed to take charge of Cara, had told Mariata as much when they had gone their separate ways. As long as Cara was alive, she was his one and only priority. To aid and train his Slayer, to keep her breathing and fighting as long as possible. He wished Giles could be there to help him, to tell him how to keep his wits about him. How had Giles managed all those years alone? How had he managed to earn Buffy's trust and respect? How was he supposed to fix this?
"It will be all right." He was lying but he didn't know what else to say. He didn't know how to give her hope, to tell her how to hold on and fight back. He was completely unprepared for this and didn't have the faintest idea what she needed. What he could possibly to do help her. There weren't books he could search for the answers or passages he could read for ideas or solutions. Just a young girl facing a Cruciamentum of Lilah's making rather than the Council's. At least the new Council had put a stop to that barbaric practice. Small miracles.
His breath stopped in his throat when he saw her eyelashes flutter and open. Slowly, her head turned and her dark eyes found him. He searched them for any sign of the violence Angel had seen. Any hint that she was about to attack and possibly try to kill him. There was nothing but sadness and confusion. He tried to smile encouragingly.
"Did I hurt him?" Her voice was harsh from the bruising on her throat.
"He'll mend." His heart broke a little, filling with pain for her and anger at Lilah. She had been violated, mentally and emotionally raped, and her first concern was if she'd hurt Angel.
"Who am I?" She sounded lost and afraid.
"Cara Sewell. You're a Vampire Slayer from York, England."
"England." Barely a whisper, she blinked slowly and the corners of her lips turned upwards. "I remember England."
"Do you know who I am?"
She watched him intently for a moment. "Watcher."
"Yes. I'm your Watcher." He couldn't begin to imagine what she was seeing, what memories came to mind as she looked at him. For all he knew, she could be reliving Lilah's memories of having sex with him. It was a fairly daunting possibility. She shivered, wrists jerking against the restraints before she realized she was tied down. Sitting up swiftly, he pulled the blanket from the end of the bed and unfolded it over her.
"Thank you."
"Let me know if you need anything." She flinched as his fingers touched her shoulder. Moving away from her, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling foolish for wanting to stay beside her instead of in the chair.
"Please. Stay." Her voice was hollow, empty; her eyes blank, vacantly staring up at him as though she had nothing left inside of her. No life, no soul. Just blood, muscles, bones. A shell made of skin and nerves. He wondered if she would collapse under the weight of his fingers, fall to pieces if he laid his palm lightly against her stomach or chest. Would she break if he touched her?
Nodding faintly, he laid down beside her, tucking the blanket gently around her shoulders and feeling strangely awkward. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to kiss her forehead and tell her goodnight or just lie down and sleep. Should he ask her about what she remembered? Would it be best to get her talking about what had happened in the alley? In the end, unable to decide on a course of action, he remained silent. She was still shivering despite the blanket and he reached up, testing her forehead for a fever. Her skin was cool against his fingertips.
"Are you cold?"
"I don't know." Came her toneless answer. Did she remember what it felt like to be warm?
"I won't hurt you." He wasn't sure why he felt compelled to reassure her but decided it had been the right thing to do as he moved closer, feeling her tense as his chest touched her side. Soothingly, he rubbed her arm and slowly fit his body against hers, pulling the blanket over both of them.
Several tense minutes later he was beginning to think he'd made another mistake when he noticed that her breathing had evened and her muscles had relaxed. Slipping his arm around her waist, he closed his eyes wearily. At least she had stopped shivering, his body heat finally warming her enough to lull her to sleep. Briefly he wondered how he would explain it if one of the gang opened the door in the morning to find him in the bed, Cara in his arms. Too tired to care; he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. All that mattered now was that she felt safe. She was protected.
The trap was set, ready and waiting to snap its jaws and bring Adrian Pascal closer to his dream of the perfect soldier. The perfect army. There was only so much you could do with a man, so far you could push until the mind snapped and left only a mess to be cleaned up. All this time, the answer had lay hidden in a gene sequence carried by three little girls. Three women now. If only he had been able to get some of the carriers before they were killed. It wasn't that he hadn't tried. Several bodies of people known to carry the Slayer genes had been brought into the labs, enough to start the sequence comparisons against normal DNA to determine which pairs were responsible for strength and speed beyond human abilities. All they needed was a way to activate the genes on command and he could build himself an army of Slayers.
It would take years, perhaps more than he had left. He was willing to wait. What he wasn't willing to do was let three females stay in control of his future and his dreams. Women weren't reliable. They were emotional, irresponsible, and tended to be overprotective when it came to children. Riley Finn's wife was all the proof he needed. She had come in, eyes flashing and temper flaring, talking about motherhood and raising children. It was all nonsense.
He had played along with the Council, realizing at once that Iverson was merely a figurehead. The Slayers had the power and as soon as Pascal had the Slayers, he would have the power. The deals had been drafted and he would present them with the briefs that afternoon. According to the clock next to his bed, it was just past dawn now. Due to unforeseen complications in Los Angeles, the third Slayer would not arrive in Sunnydale until later in the day, pushing the meeting back several hours. More proof that dealing with women was impossible. They were incapable of punctuality. But he had smiled and rearranged his plans without complaint.
They had to enter the compound willingly, unsuspecting and unprepared, for his plan to work. Once inside, he had the men and the chemicals necessary to render a Slayer helpless. By the time the outside world began to miss them, he would have what he wanted and there would be no turning back. He would take his chances with Faith, still unsure about her stability. In this race, that fact that she wasn't a prize brood mare didn't matter. Eggs were eggs and genetics were genetics. By the time he got done with the offspring, his dreams would be coming true.
If science was in the ballpark and each Slayer had near a million eggs locked away inside her body, then he had a nearly unlimited supply of genetic material to shape to his purposes. Trigger the Slayer genes, tamper with a few more. His scientists were waiting, deep in the hollow of the earth, to begin the ultimate challenge. Create the perfect being. They had been working on it for years using recombinant DNA, trying to insert reptile, avian, feline, bits and pieces of half a dozen other species. Always running into the limits of the human body. That obstacle would be torn away with the single strand of twisted nucleic acids that made these women different. Accelerated healing capabilities, strength. Power.
The research possibilities were endless. No one had ever studied a Slayer. Were they immune to diseases that cut down normal human beings? Poisons? Did they have higher pain tolerances? Just how much could they endure? It was unexplored territory and Pascal was determined to plumb its depths. The most likely candidate for experimentation was the third Slayer, already stripped of anything that might get in the way of testing. No ties to the world, no friends, no family. No one to wonder what had happened to her with she was swallowed up by his world.
Of course, he expected them to be angry when they realized what had happened. He didn't care. Once they left the compound, he would have the only thing that made them valuable. Pat their heads and tell them the third Slayer was getting the reconditioning she needed. Play nice. If they were typical women, they wouldn't even notice the laser incisions until he, the Slayer, and the eggs were long gone. Money could smooth over whatever bumps arose and silence their complaints. There was always adoption if they really wanted children. He doubted they'd live long enough to make it through the red tape.
Finn had warned him that they were difficult to work with, Iverson had concurred, citing instances of Buffy Summers' insubordination. Pascal wasn't worried. He had several dozen fully armed men waiting for them and tranquilizers strong enough to fell an elephant in one shot. The Slayers wouldn't harm the men. Iverson had assured him that they would be in no danger. They had a noble, if misguided, conviction that harming their fellow man was to be avoided at all costs. Even the rogue Slayer, Faith, was reformed from her wild days. Such a pity. He might have been able to use her talents. It didn't matter now. Everything was going according to plan. Within twenty-four hours he would be across the country with his precious cargo and the two remaining Slayers would be well paid to do exactly what they were doing. In his mind, it was a perfectly fair trade.
And it was the only way he would be able to rid the earth of the undead vermin once and for all. One Slayer? Even three couldn't be expected to put a dent in the wave of evil washing over the civilized world. With a few hundred thousand Slayers, he'd be able to wipe them out and reclaim the night. Make it safe for human beings once more. For his grandchildren.
He'd seen his first vampire when he was a raw recruit, barely shaving and voice still cracking from puberty. Of course, it had taken years for him to reconcile what he knew he'd seen with what he refused to believe. By then he'd managed to move up in the ranks and found himself in one of the hunting squads where he was let in on the secret. Vampires were real. There were more than just vampires too. Evil wore a million masks but it could never truly hide. He'd made it his life's ambition to finally squash it out, destroy and strip the world of every unclean thing. And then, he might just move on to better and bigger things. Maybe eradicate crime, wash the slate clean of hate and prejudice. With an army of Slayers, the world would be at his fingertips.