Author's Note: And now we're getting to a plot point I have wanted to write FOREVER - y'all have no idea. This fic has already been a blast to write, now it's about to get even better. I can't wait to unfold it all for you. Thanks for the support! Reviews are love.

Manhattan…

One of Amtrak's lines ran along the Hudson River up through Manhattan, giving travelers a great view of the water as they went by, regardless of whether they were traveling north or south. But as crime scenes went, the train tracks were one of the worst places one could find a body. The area surrounding the tracks was dirty, rust was all over the place, and even without a corpse lying in wait, the smell was unmistakable and foul.

But as a native New Yorker, Kate Beckett was used to all of these things. So when she got the call about a body drop and found out where it was, she brushed it off while some who weren't native might've bristled.

What she wasn't prepared for, though, was the body itself. Kate was used to her share of badly-disfigured or dismembered bodies, gaping wounds and body parts bending in ways they shouldn't bend. It came with the territory of her job – both as a homicide cop and as a Slayer. But as Kate ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and snapped on her latex gloves, she was glad she hadn't yet had breakfast.

That self-gratitude faded into annoyance as a roaring engine pierced the morning air, and Kate turned just in time to see a candy apple red Ferrari storming onto the scene before screeching to a halt. With the car in park, Kate quirked a brow when she saw Richard Castle emerging from the passenger's seat, two cups of coffee in-hand as Faith leaped out of the driver's seat and stuffed the keys down the front of her shirt.

As entrances went, that was…something.

"How nice of you two to join us so early," the detective snarked with a roll of the eyes. "Hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"Trust me, Detective," Castle said as he strode by, handing her one of the cups and removing his sunglasses, "we wouldn't be here if you did."

Kate mimed a sip, still not trusting her stomach in light of the gruesome scene before her. A blood trail went at least a good fifteen feet to the edge of the tracks, and an ID through facial recognition would be impossible due to the damage done to the victim's head. Kate and Faith exchanged a glance and a smirk before all three of them approached the body.

Lanie Parish was already on-scene, in her traditional crouch as she studied the victim's body. She'd been at this for so long that she could tell when Kate was by her side without even looking up. Tucking her pen behind her ear, Lanie shook her head. "You're gonna love this one, Kate. All kinds of messy and gross and weird."

"Ooh," Castle said, "I like weird."

Lanie and Kate rolled their eyes in unison, before the ME looked up to see Faith standing behind Castle. Lanie quirked a brow at her friend. "Girl, what the hell? You collecting civilians or something?"

"Don't mind her," Kate said. "Or him, for that matter. Find anything?"

"You mean other than the giant railroad spike sticking out of the guy's head?" Lanie shook her head and rose to her feet. "Girl, you know I won't have anything more for you until I get him back to the lab."

Kate quirked a brow. "And you know I have to ask."

Castle joined the detective in front of the mangled corpse, cocking his head to the side and furrowing his brow. It was easily one of the most disgusting bodies he'd seen in his short time shadowing Kate, and he was thankful that he had a strong stomach.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he offered, "but I doubt I am – aren't railroad spikes heavy?" He shrugged when Kate tossed him a glare over her shoulder. "Railroad workers can't just jam them into the proper holes. It requires hammers, a lot of force, sometimes more than one person."

Lanie quirked a brow. "What are you getting at?"

"Jamming a railroad spike into someone's head? So hard that it comes clear out the other side? Either we're looking for the Incredible Hulk, or we may be looking at more than one person."

As much as Kate hated to admit it, Castle had a point. Her reluctance had nothing to do with his level of helpfulness – he'd actually proven to be quite resourceful in his own way. Just last week, he had provided insight that led to the team solving the murder of a self-professed psychic (much to Castle's chagrin, she had not actually seen her death coming).

Kate's reluctance stemmed from the fact that if Castle's theory was correct – that someone of enhanced strength was responsible for this – that meant she probably wasn't looking for a suspect who could be charged and tried like normal. Kate hated murders that wound up like this, because the last thing she wanted to do as a cop was slide a file into the archive room marked "Unsolved."

She knew what that felt like. She knew what that meant. Chances were, this victim's family would never know what happened to them. Officially, the NYPD would probably be able to do little more than shrug its shoulders and offer condolences.

Sure, Kate herself might track down the monster and hack it to bits, which would be just and cathartic in the short term, but for those grieving the loss of the victim? Unless they also lived their lives in the day-to-day of the supernatural underbelly, it wouldn't be enough for them.

Rolling her eyes, Kate shook her head. "Dust the spike for prints when you get a chance."

Lanie shook her head as she shed her gloves and returned to the navy blue van in which she had come to the crime scene. "You know I will."

Wolfram & Hart…

Staying in his office overnight was such a common occurrence for Lindsey McDonald that he didn't even blink an eye anymore when it happened. In fact, as he left his 11:45 p.m. meeting with the Director of Special Projects, Lindsey smirked to himself at the thought that he hadn't seen his SoHo loft in three full days.

Then again, forever being on Wolfram & Hart's leash despite his unceremonious death – being double-tapped in a rundown bar by a Pylean empath demon – meant that not going home after work was among the least of Lindsey's worries.

The fact that he was yet again paired up with Lilah Morgan, his rival-slash-colleague from the Los Angeles branch, was yet another rotten cherry on top of this left-out-in-the-sun-too-long sundae.

Lindsey locked the door to his office behind him, enveloping himself in total darkness since the blinds to the window overlooking the Manhattan skyline were closed. He preferred the dark, because it reminded him of the briefs moments where he could truly savor death – before the Senior Partners plucked him out of wherever he was and turned him into the eternal example of what it meant to cross them.

Loosening his tie and tossing it across his office, Lindsey sank into his leather chair with a sigh. As much as he craved the darkness, Lindsey couldn't finish preparing for the next morning's deposition in pitch black. He was representing a woman accused of killing a psychic, and he had to be on top of his game because the detective who investigated the case was the one he hated going up against the most.

Picking apart a Kate Beckett case in court was akin to torture. He much preferred being stuck in a hell dimension, letting a demon rip his heart out day after day.

The lawyer flipped the switch on his lamp, bathing himself in harsh light.

"You should know better than that," he spoke into the darkness. "Hiding in the darkness? That's such an Angel move."

Silently, Spike emerged from the black, wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, his face contorted into the visage of the vampire. He stood in silence, hands balled into fists as he studied the lawyer. The light played with the shadows created by the creases and ridges on his forehead, and after several moments of silence, Spike snarled.

"You ever been resurrected?" he hissed. "Bloody well hurts."

"Yeah," Lindsey reclined in his chair. "I'm aware."

"Dying hurts," the vampire mused. "It burns you, inside and out. Twists your sodding gut until you scream yourself hoarse. But being brought back?" Spike sucked in a needless breath, anger flaring in his feral eyes. "I didn't ask for that amulet, and I bloody well didn't ask for this!"

"It's not about you, Spike," Lindsey countered.

Spike shook his head and snarled, approaching the lawyer's desk. His movements were stiff and jerky, as if he were getting used to using his body again. Pale and aged, it was nevertheless chiseled from supernatural prowess. Spike uncurled his fists to stare at his hands, his mouth opening to expose his fangs.

The memory of his final moments were vivid in Spike's mind. That climactic battle in the rain, alongside people he considered allies, maybe even friends. Another battle roughly a year before that, in the bowels of the Hellmouth, his body incinerating as he took out hoards of ancient vampires with him.

The flashes sickened him, and Spike slammed his hand into Lindsey's desk with a growl, splinters digging into his palm.

"You brought me back, and for what?!" he pleaded. "And you…you monkey around in my head, give me memories that aren't real?"

The lawyer sat up with a frown. "What?"

"This is your work, innit?" Spike asked, poking himself in the temple. "Nice work, really. A soul, being a bloody hero…falling in love with a Slayer? You lot should be writers."

"What are you talking about?"

"Why would you make me think I ever fell in love with the Slayer?" Spike asked through gritted teeth, reaching across the desk to grab Lindsey by the lapels of his suit. "Why would I fall in love with a bint I wanted to kill?"

"William the Bloody."

The third voice announced itself in the commotion, and as Spike glanced over his shoulder in confusion, he loosened his grip on Lindsey. The vampire straightened his posture, quirking a brow when another man in a fine-tailored suit emerged from the shadows. This man sported an American flag pin on his lapel and closely-cropped hair.

"That's one thing you and I have in common," the man spoke, hands in his pockets. "There are those on Capitol Hill who call me William the Bloody. For different reasons, of course, but still…if the name fits."

The man extended his right hand and Spike stared at it.

"William Bracken," the man introduced himself. "United States Senator."

"Fantastic," Spike scoffed. "What, you want my vote or something?"

"Or something," Senator Bracken said, leaning against Lindsey's desk. "Your reputation precedes you, William, and fact of the matter is, you're exactly what I need."

"First off," Spike closed the distance between himself and the Senator, snarling when he caught a whiff of something less than human off of Bracken, "call me Spike. Secondly, why don't we skip the chit chat and get to the part where I tell you to sod off?"

"Because you're not going to," Bracken countered. "You've killed two Slayers in your day, correct?"

Spike shrugged before fishing a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, lighting one and taking that luscious first drag before his Zippo clacked shut. "Should be three."

Bracken shrugged. "Could still be."

Spike exchanged a glance with Lindsey before taking his own seat on the surface of the desk. "All ears, mate."

"Right now, there are two Slayers in New York City," Bracken explained. "Frankly, I don't give a damn about one of them, but the other? Oh, she has the potential to be quite the thorn in my side, and I can't have that."

Spike shook his head, cigarette clutched between his lips. "What would a Slayer want to do with you?"

"Long story," Bracken waved off the vampire's concern. "But, and this should be of particular interest to you, the Slayer in question is quite cozy with someone from your past. A certain…vampire with a soul, I believe?"

Anger and disbelief weighed down on Spike as his hands again balled into fists and he puffed even harder on his cigarette. "Angel…"

"So here's my proposal," Bracken continued, "you take out this Slayer, up your kill count, maybe get yourself a little revenge on your vampire Judas…and we all walk away very, very happy."

"What's in it for me?"

Bracken shrugged. "What do you want?"

Pushing himself off the edge of Lindsey's desk, Spike got in Bracken's face, smirking when he saw the Senator flinch at the invasion of his personal space – and the unmistakable stench of death that Spike carried.

"Angel in a dustpan," he answered. "And Buffy Summers' head on a silver platter."

A dark smile crept onto Senator Bracken's face. "Then all you have to do is kill Kate Beckett."