Dedications: To Karen, who opened my eyes to Connor's potential. Go read her series, starting with " Camp Killalot." Seriously, go!

Notes: OK, so technically, in canon, Spike never saw Xander acting like an idiot about Dracula. Literary license is now in effect.

"Charver" is a British slang term for "boy" and "mate," which is why Spike nicknames Connor that.

"What do you mean you lost him?" Angel snarled into the phone. Agitated, he paced up and down his office, waiting for the answer on the other end.

"Yes, Gunn, I realize that LA is a large city, but you are the head of Special Projects. You have sources far beyond the normal and paranormal norms. Finding one vampire should be no problem.

"Damn it, Gunn, just find him!" Angel growled and slammed the phone into its base, cracking the handset.

"I want you to know I did save you. Not when it counted, of course, but... After that. Every night after that. I'd see it all again... Do something different. Faster or more clever, you know? Dozens of times, lots of different ways... Every night I save you."

He looked across at her, eyes gleaming at the words uttered. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't cry.

"I wanted them to do a spell. Any spell that would bring you back to me. Any spell that would make me stop counting the days. I didn't though. You've earned your rest."

She was standing in the bright sunshine, the light radiating off her hair. She was beautiful. So alive, so golden.

She turned to him. "I miss you. Are you happy?"

He silently tucked her head under his chin. "Not exactly a clam, love. I deal."

"Where are you?"

"Around. You'll find me when the time's right. Not our time yet, love. Not our time. Gotta follow the plan."

She pulled back far enough to look him in the eyes. "Whose plan? It's not mine."

"Mine neither, love. But we still have miles to go."

"This is just a dream," she stated, burrowing back into his chest.

"Is it yours or mine?"

"Mine, I think. Unless there's something you want to tell me?"

"Cand think of anything."

"Where are you?"

"With you. Always with you. You can't get rid of me, not really. This, now, is just a glitch. I'll find you soon. Or you'll find me."

"Don't go," she said, feeling him pulling away.

"I have to, it's time." Spike kissed her forehead.

"Every night I save you," she repeated in a whisper as he faded.

On opposite coasts, two blondes woke up from their slumber, gasping.

The next few weeks passed quickly for Spike. He spent his time patrolling with Greg, slowly gathering a nice little nest egg from the "death tax" they charged the demons they killed. He didn't put it in the bank, years of a transient life coming into play. He rented several different lockers at various places: the airport, a bus station, even a bowling alley and a self-storage place, putting several thousand at each location. He kept the keys on him at all times, each carried on a separate ring with the address of the location. Life as a vampire had made him a little paranoid.

He knew, given a chance, that many of the denizens of the underworld and human world would love to get their hands on him. Either revenge or experimentation would be the main reason. He figured it didn't matter. Dead was dead. He had done dead; he liked being alive.

He sent off a few more e-mails to Willow, telling her that he was fine and still in LA. He shared amusing anecdotes about his patrolling adventures. He came close to begging her to reply, to tell him that Buffy and Dawn had made it. He explained that he wanted to find them, was looking for them even as he typed, but that if Buffy told him he was not wanted, he would disappear. Until that moment occurred, he promised to continue to write, to search. And assured her that none of them should be surprised if they opened the door one day to find him standing on the porch, begging to be let in.

Every once in awhile he caught sight of burly men in suits, men who looked like they could do some damage, even to someone with supernatural speed and strength. He instinctively avoided these men, sensing that they were trouble. Maybe they were members of the Council's Retrieval Team. They had the look of the blokes that had gone after Buffy when Faith was driving.

He knew, he remembered, that the Council had been destroyed by the First. But societies like that never stayed gone for long. Someone would, or had, revitalized it. Possibly even now stuffy English chaps were brainwashing little girls into becoming mindless killing machines. It was too much to hope for that Giles, or a man like him, had resurrected the society.

He considered renting an apartment, someplace nice. But he figured having to explain away blood stains when it came time for him to be refunded his security deposit was too much trouble. Instead, he changed motels every couple of weeks, leaving randomly in the week, ignoring the fact that he had paid up until the weekend.

He lived, if you could call it living, the only way he knew how. He patrolled, he slept, he missed his girls.

"We found another motel," Fred said without preamble, following Gunn into Angel's office.

"He'd paid up through the week, but had obviously been gone for a couple of days. The key was sitting on the table in the locked room, just waiting for the manager to figure out it was unoccupied."

"We've tried to find a pattern to the motels, seeing if he's making his way through town or something like that. But, unless he's operating using a…"

"Wave-form quadratic equation," Fred supplied.

"We got nothing, boss."

Angel sighed and propped his elbows on the desk. "And the rest of it?"

"No increase in neck wounds to the local hospitals. If anything, demon activity drops off when he's in the area."

Angel was silent for a moment. "Is there any evidence that he's hunting in a particular area? Not soiling his own home?"

"No," Fred assured him. "There are no districts that show a marked increase in attacks."

"Any that show a decrease?"

"Only the Hemery Heights area," Gunn explained. "Suburb to the north of the city."

" Hemery Heights," Angel murmured. "Yes, I remember Hemery Heights. Buffy lived there before moving to Sunnydale. Start posting men there, see what's happening. It could be a coincidence that Buffy's old territory has suddenly become a safe place. I want to be sure, though."

Gunn nodded and exited, leaving Fred alone with Angel.

"So, are ya ready to talk about what Lorne told ya?" she asked. She had gotten tired of the brooding Angel had fallen into after his disclosure about Spike and his subsequent reading with Lorne. She figured since Cordy was out of commission, it was up to her to chivy him out of the dumps.

Angel regarded his young friend for a moment before nodding.

"I'm still on the path the Powers set before me. My redemption could be close at hand or a hundred years from now. Either way, I have to keep working for it."

Fred smiled. "That's good, right?"

"Yes," he said, smiling back. "That's good."

While Gunn's men staked out Hemery Heights, Spike and Greg decided to widen their patrolling area. That was the reason they were exploring the UCLA area that particular night. Little did they know, at the time, that fate has a hand in everything, even the decision on where to patrol.

They heard the screams first, two voices raised in terror. Not even bothering to check if the other backed him up, both men ran towards the sound, weapons held defensively.

Spike smelled the blood next. It no longer drew him as if were an aphrodisiac, instead making his stomach clench with unnamed fears. He could follow the smell, though. A boon when the screams died.

They rounded the corner of an alley to find five vampires swarming around two kids. The men launched themselves into the mass of moving beasts, dusting without pity or remorse.

The masses pared down, Spike faced off with the remaining vamp while Greg checked on the kids. A few moments later it was over and Spike's pocket was a little heavier.

He joined Greg at the side of the two huddled forms. They couldn't have been much older than Dawn, too young to be introduced to this life. The girl of the pair would have no chance to grow up, he saw at a glance. The unnatural angle of her head told its own tale.

The boy was in bad shape. His hands were raw from where he had fought his captures, possibly to get to his friend. His short brown hair was matted with blood, a matching stain graced one wall of the alley. The puncture wounds on his neck were angry and red. Spike could only hope that they had gotten to him in time.

He pushed aside the fact that the boy felt familiar somehow. Smelt familiar. As if he had met him a long time ago and had since forgotten the smell.

Pulling out his cell phone, Greg made a quick call to 911 as Spike stood guard. The ex-demon silently cursed himself for not being that little bit faster, that little bit smarter. Maybe if he was faster, smarter, the girl would still be alive.

The ambulance arrived in quick order. The men stayed until the boy was placed in its confines, IVs of red and clear dripping into his arms, before silently melting away. The police in the area were savvy enough to know the cause of the wounds and to identify the piles of dust scattered in the alley. The detective had simply stared at them for a moment, her blue eyes considering, before thanking them for their help.

They patrolled UCLA more often after that night, dusting five or six vamps a night. It was high numbers for such a small area in distance. The demons loved to prey on the students who frequented the area, knowing that many would not be missed if they didn't show up for the next day's classes. The sheer amount of alcohol available to the students, both of age and under, made the demons' hunt all that easier.

Every once in awhile they would catch sight of the detective they had talked to. Her hair shone brightly in the night, much like Buffy's had. Often, when they saw her, she was covered in a fine layour of dust. They talked about approaching her, seeing if she wanted or needed help. Spike knew better than to patronize a strong woman, though. Especially one who knew how to use weapons. He assured Greg that if she needed help, she'd be able to find them.

It was about a week after that first patrol that the kid found him. He looked none the worse for wear; even his bite had faded to nothing more than a small pink scar.

"Kid," Greg greeted. "Feeling better?"

The boy nodded his head amiably. "Been worse." He stood in front of the warriors, regarding them with interest.

"What?" Spike finally asked, tired of playing the staring game.

"What were they?"

"Something you don't have to deal with," Greg assured him before continuing walking.

The boy grabbed him by the arm. "They killed Christy. She was my friend."

"Honor her memory by not gettin' yourself killed, kid," Spike snarled. The boy's smell was niggling at the back of his mind, taunting him.

Greg pulled out of the boy's grasp and started away again.

"I can take care of myself," the boy stated, clearly believing the claim.

They ignored him, continuing on their patrol. Or, at least that was the plan, until he grabbed Spike by the arm and spun him around.

Instantly, the boy found himself against the wall, Spike's arm at his throat, constricting his breathing. Fear shone from his eyes, as did determination.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Connor. Connor Trent."

"Well, Connor, you have definitely got some cajones," Greg told him. "But this isn't a life you want. Go home, live your life."

Spike eased up on the kid's throat, only to find himself tossed against the light post behind him. He shook his head, a bit dazed from the impact, and regarded the kid, Connor, who was breathing heavily. Greg took a threatening step forwards, but Spike waved him off.

"I'm alright, mate." He turned to Connor, straightening his shoulders to appear more opposing. He was a bit impressed that he had managed to throw him off. It was only then that he noticed that the "kid" was the same height as he was. Maybe he wasn't so much a kid as a young man.

"Alright, then. You think you can take care of yourself, previous evidence not withstanding? Show me what ya got." He motioned for Connor to take the first move, leaning negligently against the post. The relaxed pose drew the boy in, making him over confident.

Spike dodged the wild swing to his head, whirling out of the way with the grace inherent among his former brethren. Connor quickly recovered and regarded him with eyes a little wiser than they had been a moment before. His second attack was more cautious, but not so cautious as to be slow.

Spike was again impressed by the kid's speed. Given the chance, he could most likely take care of himself, against humans, at least. Spike was holding back, using a level of speed and strength associated with normal humans, using his past sparing sessions with the Potentials to be his guide on how hard to hit, how fast to move.

Connor caught a glancing blow to his chin which whipped his head around and caused the blood to fly. A light seemed to go on in the depths of his eyes, and after wiping the blood from his lip, he launched himself at Spike once again.

Spike smiled at the move. Anger was the key to this boy. Make him angry and he lost control. The fight would be over soon.

Spike stepped out of the way, whirling around to face where the boy should have landed flat on his face, only to be kicked in the chest before he could completely shift his attention.

Spike dodged the next punch, confused as to why the boy wasn't kissing asphalt. He knew vampires who couldn't recover from a lunge like that.

He backed away from the spinning kick the boy had aimed at him and decided that he'd had enough screwing around. He caught Connor's next punch, pulling him off balance and towards the wall of the closed shop in front of him.

Connor went with the momentum of the pull, hitting the wall with his feet, pushing off and flipping over Spike's head. The ex-demon watched him with narrowed eyes, anger and excitement seething below the surface of his thoughts. The boy was good, impossibly good. Even if he had been trained his whole life in martial arts, he was performing feats that normal humans could not do. So what was he? Half breed? Spell enhanced?

Connor recovered from the flip, wobbling slightly, as if he were out of practice. He kicked out, almost too fast for the eye to see, catching Spike on the shoulder, the force knocking him slightly off balance. While he recovered his balance, Connor launched into a new series of attacks.

Serious now, Spike countered every move, using his demon-enhanced abilities to their fullest. Neither got the upper hand for several minutes, trading blow for blow quicker than any normal human would be able to.

Finally, when Connor came a little too close to him, Spike saw his chance. With speed born of frustration, he barreled his upper body into the boy's, sweeping his leg out from under him at the same time. Unbalanced, Connor whirled his arms widely and braced for the impact he never felt.

Spike held him up by his lightweight jacket, mere inches from where the fall had started. "Lesson the first," he said, giving the hanging boy a little shake to insure that the lesson stuck. "You lose your balance-"

"You lose," Connor finished, pulling the phrase out of some distant part of his memory.

Spike set the boy, no, the young man, back on his feet, a courtesy Angelus had never offered when he taught Spike the same lesson. Silently, he regarded the young man, deciding how to phrase the question.

"What are you?" he finally asked, deciding to forgo tact.

"What do you mean?" Connor replied, looking confused and slightly nauseas at the question.

"I mean, no regular human could ever move like that. So unless we suddenly got stuck in The Matrix, you're hiding something."

"You were moving the same way," the younger pointed out.

Spike smirked. "Noticed that, did ya?"

Connor gave a short nod. "What are you?"

Spike shrugged, grinning unrepentantly. "No idea, really."

Greg coughed, drawing their attention to him. "Having fun?" He waited a beat, giving them a chance to answer the mostly rhetorical question. "How about we go to that café just down the street? We can sit, drink coffee, maybe get some ice cream…"

"Ice cream?" Spike perked up. He had discovered that his human taste buds adored the frozen goodness that was ice cream. He was systematically working his way through all the flavors available, trying to decide which his favorite was. So far, it was a tie between Butter Pecan and Double Chocolate.

He turned towards the café, never seeing the amused glances his companions exchanged.

Fifteen minutes later, Spike decided that he was in love. Or that he had died and gone to heaven, he wasn't sure. If Joyce's hot chocolate and itty bitty marshmallows could be frozen, it would look and taste like Rocky Road. OK, so hot chocolate didn't have nuts, but that only made Spike adore the confection that much more.

"So," he said around a mouthful of ecstasy. "What are 'ou?"

"Human," Connor said with a shrug, trailing his spoon through his own bowl of vanilla. "Far as I know, at least."

"You ever do anything like tonight before?" Greg asked, smirking at the closed-eyed expression on Spike's face.

"No. I mean, I've taken martial arts classes for years and always did OK in them, but nothing like tonight. Do you think it could have just been some type of endorphin rush?"

Spike shook his head in denial. "Nah, it was too smooth. Just watching you, I would have guessed you had been fightin' all your life. Even vampires have to be taught how to fight. He might be faster and stronger, but that means bugger all if he can't throw a punch."

"How is that possible though?" Connor asked, confused.

"Dunno," Spike confessed. "Maybe a spell that made you forget who you were. Possibly you've been infected by some demon, one that enhanced your natural abilities. I just don't know."

"Hold up," Connor said. "Demon?"

Spike nodded and turned his attention away from his empty bowl, suppressing a pout at the vanishing of the ice cream. What on Earth happened to it? He surely hadn't eaten all three scoops that quickly.

"Not all demons are evil. Some are productive members of society even. Some demons can imbue a person with some of their characteristics. Mind readin,' scales, the usual. Some mages can force an aspect of a demon on people, making them stronger and faster. That's how the first slayer came about."

"Slayer?" Conner asked, confused.

"'One girl in all the world with the strength and speed to kill vampires,'" Spike said by rote. "Only it's not true now. The world is full of slayers."

"So, where's this slayer, or any slayer, now?"

"Dunno," Spike shrugged, earning a vaguely sympathetic look from Greg. The other man made sure to keep it circumspect as to not notify the world that he was really a softy under all his bluster. "Like I said, they're scattered all over the world now."

"So," Connor said, bringing the conversation back around. "You're saying that I could be a slayer?"

Greg shook his head. "Slayers are always female. That's just the way it works."

"So, unless you got somethin' you want to share with the class, that's not an option."

Connor was silent, trying to determine if his manhood had just been insulted or not.

"Thought not," Spike stated with a grin. "Could be that something similar happened to you, though. Have you been bitten, scratched, or stabbed by anything unusual lately?"

"Just the vampire the other night."

"Did one of them give you their blood?" Greg asked, taking a shot in the dark.

Spike shook his head. "The only one I've ever heard that type of thing working for 'em is the Count."

"The Count?" Greg asked.

Spike rolled his eyes, exasperated at the memory. "Count 'I Vant to Suck your Blud' Dracula, his self. And he can only make mindless slaves with the trick, not warriors."

"You know Dracula?" Connor asked in awe.

"Pfft. He's a poofter, all lace and flowin' hair. Bints seem to like him. He owes me money. Though," he laughed. "Harris wanderin' around trying to keep the slayer and the rest from figurin' out that he was the servant was bloody hilarious. He was going around saying things like 'the Dark Master…bator' to try to cover his own ass. Well worth the eleven pounds he owes me."

Connor looked at him oddly, obviously wanting to question him about how he knew Dracula, but knowing that he needed answers to his own dilemma first.

"I'd guess a spell of some kind. I couldn't even guess how to reverse it. Never was much one for magic. Seen all kinds of things go wrong. It can lead to badness and excessive cookie making."

Spike waved off the confused looks. "Story for another day. The point is: we don't know if the spell, if it was a spell, took away your memories or gave you that something extra. And unless Fish here knows a trustworthy empathy demon, you're kinda stuck."

Greg shook his head. "I tend to avoid the underground. I make them nervous for some reason. Last empathy demon I heard about disappeared a few years ago. His nightclub got blown up and he pretty much dropped off the face of the Earth. I think he's still around, but it'd be hard to find him."

Spike regarded Connor for a few minutes. "Put some feelers out; see if he's still taking clients. I think our boy Connor here would appreciate knowing what's the what."

"You have the strangest vocabulary I have ever heard," Connor observed. "One minute you're talking like a professor, the next you're a teen. Who are you?"

"Just Spike," the man in question stated, leaning back in the booth and running his hand through his hair. "I suppose that's my cue to tell you a little about myself?" At Connor's nod, Spike shook his head. "Sorry, mate. No offence to you, but I don't trust you at the moment. I'll train with you, I'll patrol with you, but until I'm sure, you'll just have to be left wanting."

Connor frowned but nodded. "Does that mean you'll let me help you?"

Greg and Spike exchanged glances, each understand the other's decision.

"Yep," Greg supplied. "Patrolling in a group is always safer than alone. You have the skills, so I don't see why not."

They talked for awhile longer, exchanging information without getting too far out of Spike's comfort zone. He wanted to trust the kid, everything in him said to trust him, but until he knew for sure, he wasn't about to take the chance.

Patrolling with Connor was more fun than Spike would have expected. For the first few nights he was stiff, hesitant. Soon, he moved like a predator: swift and graceful.

Slowly, surely, they learned more about Connor's gifts. If it hadn't of been for the fact that Spike saw him regularly in direct sunlight, he would think the young man was a vampire. God help the world if he was ever turned, Spike thought often.

The strength and speed manifested first, that first night proving to Spike that he was able to help. They, along with his unnatural grace, only improved as the weeks went by. They developed a series of tests to check his progress and the levels of the skills he had gained. After a month, when he had been jumping three stories high, pacing Spike in a short race, and bending three lengths of rebar for several days in a row with no improvement, they declared those skills at their highest natural point. Spike thought if he worked with weights and distance running, the bending and racing would get even better.

It was a week into their companionship that he noticed his acute sense of smell. Spike had always been the one to sniff out demons and blood trails until one night when Connor caught a whiff of blood. He called to Spike, who had been at the other end of the alley, looking at the spatter of demon goo that had once been a creature.

"You're right," Spike said, closing his eyes and tilting his head slightly to the side, taking in the smells of the alley. "How did you know?"

"I-I could smell it."

Spike looked at him oddly for a moment before nodding and indicating that the younger man lead the way. Greg trailed silently behind, watching their backs as they focused on the trail.

"Whoever it is, he's not hurt bad," Connor concluded, looking to Spike for confirmation.

"That's right," he praised. Working with Connor often reminded him of working with Dawn. He remembered the lessons the Nibblet had taught him well. Constant praise, reassurance, and the occasional scold were all that were needed to keep her in line when she was under his protection. Connor was much the same, but without the need to ask a guy's opinion on clothes and boys.

Both Greg and Spike looked on their companion as a younger brother. A younger brother that could kick their asses, yes, but still loved and praised.

"Do you think whoever it is was injured by that demon?" Connor whispered, nose still searching for the elusive scent of blood.

"Most likely. And a bloke who can go up against an Arnath demon with only a scratch is a bloke I'd appreciate knowing."

"What are they like?" he asked, trusting Spike's superior knowledge of the demon world.

"You ever seen a jello mold that didn't come out the way it was supposed to? Pretty much like that. Knew a bloke who kept one as a pet. Used to like feedin' it people and watching them get digested. That's the cool thing about Arnath's: they're see through."

Connor shot him a disbelieving look, unsure if Spike was pulling his leg or not. Spike gave an innocent smile and nodded to indicate that Connor should continue tracking.

They found her several blocks later, huddled against the corner of two buildings, her back protected and her gun in plain view. Spike could smell the fear rolling off of Detective Lockley in waves. Making sure he made a bit of noise, as to not startle her any more than necessary, he approached her, hands out to show that he was unarmed.

"Detective? Are you OK?"

Eyes wide, she leveled her gun at him. Only his vampire enhanced sight allowed him to see the slight tremor of the pistol and the wince as she brought her arm up.

"Detective, pet? It's William Rochdale, Spike. You remember me? We met a couple of weeks ago? We see each other every so often, just around and about the neighborhood, you know?"

She backed further into the corner and whimpered, her gun never wavering from the angle that would send a bullet through his chest. Even vampires couldn't dodge bullets, and Spike had no desire to see if a great big buggering hole in his chest would kill him. Odds were against him in that scenario.

"You're one of them," she whispered. "I can see your true face: a monster. They thought I was crazy, you know? Showing up at all the weird cases, even the ones I wasn't assigned to. They started calling me Scully as a joke. But I knew, I knew."

Spike silently cursed, running through everything he knew about Arnaths. He didn't think that they were poisonous, but he could find no other explanation for her rambles and apparent hallucinations.

"Pet, I want you to think carefully, OK? Did anythin' bite you? Or sting you, maybe?"

She shook her head, her hair wildly swinging in her face. "No. No stings, no bites. Fell when the thing attacked me. The jello mold. The stars are whispering to me, Spike," she said in a wavering voice. "They're singing of blood and death."

Spike smiled, memories of Dru flitting through his head. "Alright, pet. No bites, no stings. What were you doing earlier tonight? Before the jello?"

She looked confused, her vacant eyes staring at the street light on the corner. "He was a nice man. Didn't get stuck in my teeth at all," she tittered.

"What nice man?"

"He gave me a drink. At the bar. The bar in the sand. Sand bar!"

Spike turned to his companions. "I think she's bloody tripping. Maybe this bloke she's mumbling about slipped her a mickey. We need to get her to hospital."

Greg nodded and pulled out his trusty cell phone, dialing 911.

"They fired me, you know," Lockley was saying from her crouched position. "They called it a suspension, but I knew what it was. They thought I was crazy."

"But you aren't, pet," Spike assured her, stepping a little closer, wondering if he could talk her out of the gun.

"No, I wasn't. Proved it to them all. The lights around your head are so pretty, did you know that? They sparkle and snap with life. And the handprint on your chest… Why is there a handprint on your chest? Did it hurt, the hand reaching in and putting it back?"

Spike frowned at her, a bit alarmed by what she was saying. He knew that she was bug-ass crazy, out of her head with whatever drug had been given her, but a few of her comments struck too close to the mark to be coincidence.

"So pretty. Glowing. No, not glowing. Nothing rhymes, you see. Effulgent, yes, that's a good word. Effulgent."

He drew a deep breath in through his nose, shocked at her words. If there had been any doubt in his mind that this was more than an LSD induced episode, her words disallowed that doubt.

She hummed to herself, content for a moment to rock back and forth in the dirt.

Spike backed away, rejoining his friends. "She's not off her bloody rocker," he whispered, uneasiness showing through in his voice. "Th-the things she said, too correct to be hallucinations."

"She's psychic?" Connor asked, looking at the detective with interest.

Spike nodded, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know if whatever drug she was given has let it out or what." He turned to Greg, about to tell him to redial the ambulance, when he noticed Connor step closer to the humming woman. He was in her sight range before Spike could reach him.

"Detective Lockley?" the boy called softly. Spike decided then and there that once this was over the child, since he was too stupid to be a man, would be taken over his knee and beaten to within an inch of his life. "Do you remember me, Detective? My name is Connor Trent. You helped me a few weeks ago."

The detective turned her blue gaze to the boy. "No… Not Trent. You don't exist. Sparks fly in the sky and birds sing. The stars sing to me tonight."

"What do you mean I don't exist?" the boy prodded.

"Too hard in the world. Brave new world for you. Gift of love. Gift of family." She focused on the sky and started singing a lullaby under her breath.

"Who gave me the gift?" When she didn't respond, he sighed and tried a different tack. "Can you tell me your first name?"

"Kate. I am my father's daughter. You are your father's son."

"My father is a good man."

"No!" she screamed, clutching her head. In doing so, she dropped the gun which allowed Spike to rush in and grab it. She never noticed. "He couldn't save my father. He didn't try hard enough. Not hard enough."

"My father is Harold Trent, Kate. Harold Trent, do you know him?"

"No, not father. Not father. Vampire. Vampire. Put them in a bowl and stir them together," she sang, her eyes flitting to the side where Spike could hear sirens. "What do you get when you stir them together? A little boy who kills his mother. Mother, lover, daughter. All the same, end of game."

Connor was prevented from making another comment by the arrival of the ambulance. They watched them pack the tripping Kate Lockley into the back of the white vehicle, an IV firmly in place in her strapped-down arm before giving statements to the accompanying officers. Spike handed over the gun, saying that she had thrown it from herself in one of her more delusional moments and that he had picked it up only in the interest in insuring that she didn't hurt anyone.

As they left the dark alley, Spike thought about everything Kate Lockley had said. Especially the cryptic remarks about Connor. To most it would have sounded like nonsense. Living with Dru for over a hundred years had taught Spike a thing or two about deciphering the jumble of words that could come out of a prophet's mouth. Connor was, impossibly, the son of two vampires. Spike wasn't positive who either the dead mother or the presumably alive father were, but he had a pretty good idea. All he needed was a trip to the Hyperion to make sure.

"' Noon, pet," Spike greeted a much more comprehensible Kate the next afternoon.

"Mr. Rochdale," she said, looking faintly embarrassed by his presence. "Um, thank you. For last night, I mean."

"No problem, Copper. Just glad you're feeling to rights again. What do you remember from last night?"

Kate blushed. "Not much. I was having a drink before…my nightly stroll. There was this man, pretty nice, his blue eyes reflected very nicely in the mirror behind the bar. He bought me a drink. I started to feel a little sick, so I left. Green jello? Is that right? I'm not sure what happened to make me seriously dislike green jello, but something did. And you and another man. Younger than you. Then… here," she said, gesturing around the room.

"Do you happen to remember what happened after we found you? What you said?"

Kate looked confused. "Did I insult you or something?"

Spike smiled at her. "Nah, Copper. It wasn't anything bad. Mind if I ask you a personal question?" Off her shrug, he spoke again. "Why were you drinking before takin' your walk? You should know better 'n that, pet."

Kate sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. "I have to, in order to go out there every night."

"Why go out at all?"

"My father… He wasn't the best father, but he was mine, ya know? Vampires killed him, and I couldn't do a thing about it."

"So, it's a revenge kick? Not the best reason to be doing this, Copper."

"Why do you keep calling me that?" she asked in an obvious ploy to change the subject.

"You're a cop. Would you rather I call you Bobby?"

She groaned and glared at him. "Can't you think of something a little more flattering?"

"Beagle, bird dog, hound, flatfoot, bull, eye, fed, ferret, fink… I think Copper's probably the best you're gonna get."

She looked at him in amazement. "How did you pull all of those out of your head?"

He shrugged, looking faintly embarrassed. "I'll tell you, but only if you promise to tell me why you drink." The detective looked mutinous for a moment before tightening her mouth and giving a short nod. "When I was younger, oh, about a hundred years ago it feels now, I wanted to be a poet. I was bloody awful, tell the truth, but I loved it. It's just been a long habit of mine to know words." He shrugged uncomfortably. "Deal's a deal, Copper."

She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck again. "After finding out about them, I just couldn't sit back, ya know? I had to do something. So, I go out, night after night, doing my best to make the world a little safer. It's my contribution."

Spike nodded, understanding the woman's motivations. They were the same that the Scoobies used every time they risked their lives.

"Listen," he said, bringing up the subject he had discussed with both Greg and Connor. "Going it alone, it's killin' ya, pet. It's slowly eating at ya until you're going to go bat shit. That is if some nasty doesn't get to ya first. One already got a piece of ya," he said, indicating the bite scar on her neck. "Patrol with us. Me, Fish, Charver, we'll watch your back."

"What is up with you calling people by nicknames?"

Spike shrugged. "Dunno, pet. I think, maybe, it's a way for me to make them my own, you know? Done it for as long as I can remember. Give you a little tip, pet: when I use your real name, it means I'm absolutely serious. And I'm serious now, Kate. You need help."

Looking a bit lost, Kate nodded, tears slowly leaking out of her eyes.